Chapter III: Part 3

Betweene Dinner and Supper, we had a fine Skirmish in the Straits of Thermopylæ. Mr. _Gunnel_ headed the Persians, and _Will_ was _Leonidas_, with a swashing Buckler, and a Helmet a Yard high; but Mr. _Gunnel_ gave him such a Rap on the Crest that it went over the Wall; soe then _William_ thought there was Nothing left for him but to die. Howbeit, as he had beene layd low sooner than he had reckoned on, he prolonged his last Agonies a goode deal, and gave one of the Persians a tremendous Kick just as they were aboute to rifle his Pouch. They therefore thoughte there must be Somewhat in it they shoulde like to see; soe, helde him down in spite of his hitting righte and lefte, and pulled therefrom, among sundrie lesser Matters, a carnation Knot of mine. Poor Varlet, I wish he would not be so stupid.

After Supper, _Mother_ proposed a Concert; and we were alle singing a Rounde, when, looking up, I saw _Father_ standing in the Door-way, with such a happy Smile on his Face! He was close behind _Rupert_ and _Daisy_, who were singing from the same Book, and advertised them of his Coming by gentlie knocking theire Heads together; but I had the firste Kiss, even before _Mother_, because of my Birthdaye.

_July 11th._

It turns out that _Father's_ Lateness Yester-even was caused by Press of Businesse; a forayn Mission having beene proposed to him, which he resisted as long as he could, but was at length reluctantlie induced to accept. Lengthe of his Stay uncertayn, which casts a Gloom on alle; but there is soe much to doe as to leave little Time to think, and _Father_ is busiest of alle; yet hath founde Leisure to concert with Mother for us a Journey into the Country, which will occupy some of the Weeks of his Absence. I am fulle of carefulle Thoughts and Forebodings, being naturallie of too anxious a Disposition. Oh, let me caste alle my Cares on another! _Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te._

_May 27th, 1523._

'Tis soe manie Months agone since that I made an Entry in my _Libellus_, as that my Motto, "_Nulla Dies sine Linea_," hath somewhat of Sarcasm in it. How manie Things doe I beginne and leave unfinisht! and yet, less from Caprice than Lack of Strength; like him of whom the Scripture was writ,--"This Man beganne to build and was not able to finish." My _Opus_, for instance; the which my _Father's_ prolonged Absence in the Autumn, and my Winter Visitt to Aunt _Nan_ and Aunt _Fan_ gave me such Leisure to carrie forward. But alack! Leisure was less to seeke than Learninge; and when I came back to mine olde Taskes, Leisure was awanting too; and then, by reason of my sleeping in a separate Chamber, I was enabled to steale Hours from the earlie Morn and Hours from the Night, and, like unto _Solomon's_ virtuous Woman, my Candle went not out. But 'twas not to Purpose that I worked, like the virtuous Woman, for I was following a Jack-o-Lantern; having forsooke the straight Path laid downe by _Erasmus_ for a foolish Path of mine owne; and soe I toyled, and blundered, and puzzled, and was mazed; and then came on that Payn in my Head. _Father_ sayd, "What makes _Meg_ soe pale?" and I sayd not: and, at the last, I tolde _Mother_ there was somewhat throbbing and twisting in the Back of mine Head, like unto a little Worm that woulde not die; and she made Answer, "Ah, a Maggot," and soe by her Scoff I was shamed. Then I gave over mine _Opus_, but the Payn did not yet goe; soe then I was longing for the deare Pleasure, and fondlie turning over the Leaves, and wondering woulde _Father_ be surprised and pleased with it some Daye, when _Father_ himself came in or ever I was aware. He sayth, "What hast thou, _Meg_?" I faltered and woulde sett it aside. He sayth, "Nay, let me see;" and soe takes it from me; and after the firste Glance throws himself into a Seat, his Back to me, and firste runs it hastilie through, then beginnes with Methode and such Silence and Gravitie as that I trembled at his Side, and felt what it must be to stand a Prisoner at the Bar, and he the Judge. Sometimes I thought he must be pleased, at others not: at lengthe, alle my fond Hopes were ended by his crying, "This will never doe. Poor Wretch, hath this then beene thy Toyl? How couldst find Time for soe much Labour? for here hath beene Trouble enow and to spare. Thou must have stolen it, sweet _Meg_, from the Night, and prevented the Morning Watch. Most dear'st! thy _Father's_ owne loved Child;" and soe, caressing me till I gave over my Shame and Disappointment.

"I neede not to tell thee, _Meg_," _Father_ sayth, "of the unprofitable Labour of _Sisyphus_, nor of drawing Water in a Sieve. There are some Things, most deare one, that a Woman, if she trieth, may doe as well as a Man; and some she cannot, and some she had better not. Now, I tell thee firmlie, since the firste Payn is the leaste sharpe, that, despite the Spiritt and Genius herein shewn, I am avised 'tis Work thou canst not and Work thou hadst better not doe. But judge for thyselfe; if thou wilt persist, thou shalt have Leisure and Quiet, and a Chamber in my new Building, and alle the Help my Gallery of Books may afford. But thy Father says, Forbear."

Soe, what coulde I say, but "My Father shall never speak to me in vayn."

Then he gathered the Papers up and sayd, "Then I shall take Temptation out of your Way;" and pressing 'em to his Heart as he did soe, sayth, "They are as deare to me as they can be to you;" and soe left me, looking out as though I noted (but I noted not) the cleare-shining _Thames_. 'Twas Twilighte, and I stoode there I know not how long, alone and lonely; with Tears coming, I knew not why, into mine Eyes. There was a Weight in the Ayr, as of coming Thunder; the Screaming, ever and anon, of _Juno_ and _Argus_, inclined me to Mellancholie, as it alwaies does: and at length I beganne to note the Moon rising, and the deepening Clearnesse of the Water, and the lazy Motion of the Barges, and the Flashes of Light whene'er the Rowers dipt theire Oars. And then I beganne to attend to the Cries and different Sounds from acrosse the Water, and the Tolling of a distant Bell; and I felle back on mine olde heart-sighinge, "_Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te_."

Or ever the Week was gone, my Father had contrived for me another Journey to _New Hall_, to abide with the Lay Nuns, as he calleth them, Aunt _Nan_ and Aunt _Fan_, whom my Step-mother loveth not, but whom I love and whom _Father_ loveth. Indeede, 'tis sayd in _Essex_ that at first he inclined to Aunt _Nan_ rather than to my Mother; but that, perceiving my Mother affected his Companie and Aunt _Nan_ affected it not, he diverted his hesitating Affections unto her and took her to wife. Howbeit, Aunt _Nan_ loveth him dearlie as a Sister ought: indeed, she loveth alle, except, methinketh, herself, to whom, alone, she is rigid and severe. How holie are my Aunts' Lives! Cloistered Nuns could not be more pure, and could scarce be as usefulle. Though wise, they can be gay; though noe longer young, they love the Young. And theire Reward is, the Young love them; and I am fulle sure in this World they seek noe better.

Returned to _Chelsea_, I spake much in Prayse of mine Aunts, and of single Life. On a certayn Evening, we Maids were sett at our Needles and Samplers on the Pavilion Steps; and, as Follie will out, 'gan talk of what we would fayn have to our Lots, shoulde a good Fairie starte up and grant eache a Wish. _Daisy_ was for a Countess's Degree, with Hawks and Hounds. _Bess_ was for founding a College, _Mercy_ a Hospital, and she spake soe experimentallie of its Conditions that I was fayn to goe Partners with her in the same. _Cecy_ commenced, "Supposing I were married; if once that I were married"--on which, _Father_, who had come up unperceived, burst out laughing and sayth, "Well, Dame _Cecily_, and what State would you keep?" Howbeit, as he and I afterwards paced together, _juxta Fluvium_, he did say, "_Mercy_ hath well propounded the Conditions of an Hospital or Alms-house for aged and sick Folk, and 'tis a Fantasie of mine to sett even such an one afoot, and give you the Conduct of the same."

From this careless Speech, dropped as 'twere by the Way, hath sprung mine House of Refuge! and oh, what Pleasure have I derived from it! How good is my Father! how the Poor bless him! and how kind is he, through them, to me! Laying his Hand kindly on my Shoulder, this Morning, he sayd, "_Meg_, how fares it with thee now? Have I cured the Payn in thy Head?" Then, putting the House-key into mine Hand, he laughingly added, "'Tis now yours, my Joy, by _Livery_ and _Seisin_."

_Aug. 6th._

I wish _William_ would give me back my Testament. 'Tis one thing to steal a Knot or a Posie, and another to borrow the most valuable Book in the House, and keep it Week after Week. He soughte it with a kind of Mysterie, soe as that I forbeare to ask it of him in Companie, lest I should doe him an ill Turn; and yet I have none other Occasion.

Alle Parties are striving which shall have _Erasmus_, and alle in vayn. E'en thus it was with him when he was here last,--the _Queen_ would have had him for her Preceptor, the _King_ and _Cardinall_ prest on him a royall Apartment and Salarie, _Oxford_ and _Cambridge_ contended for him, but his Saying was, "Alle these I value less than my Libertie, my Studdies, and my literarie Toyls." How much greater is he than those who woulde confer on him Greatnesse! Noe Man of Letters hath equall Reputation, or is soe much courted.

_Aug. 7th._

Yester-even, after overlooking the Men playing at Loggats, _Father_ and I strayed away along _Thermopylæ_ into the Home-field; and as we sauntered together under the Elms, he sayth with a Sigh, "_Jack_ is _Jack_, and no _More_ ... he will never be anything. An' 'twere not for my beloved Wenches, I should be an unhappy Father. But what though!--My _Meg_ is better unto me than ten Sons; and it maketh no Difference at Harvest-time whether our Corn were put into the Ground by a Man or a Woman."

While I was turning in my Mind what Excuse I might make for _John_, _Father_ taketh me at unawares by a sudden Change of Subject; saying, "Come, tell me, _Meg_, why canst not affect _Will Roper_?"

I was a good while silent, at length made Answer, "He is so unlike alle I esteem and admire ... so unlike alle I have been taught to esteem and admire by you."--

"Have at you," he returned laughing, "I wist not I had been sharpening Weapons agaynst myself. True, he is neither _Achilles_ nor _Hector_, nor even _Paris_, but yet well enough, meseems, as Times go--smarter and comelier than either _Heron_ or _Dancey_."

I, faltering, made Answer, "Good Looks affect me but little--'tis in his better Part I feel the Want. He cannot ... discourse, for instance, to one's Mind and Soul, like unto you, dear _Father_, or _Erasmus_."

"I should marvel if he could," returned _Father_ gravelie, "thou art mad, my Daughter, to look, in a Youth of _Will's_ Years, for the Mind of a Man of fifty. What were _Erasmus_ and I, dost thou suppose, at _Will's_ age? Alas, _Meg_, I should not like you to know what I was! Men called me the Boy-sage, and I know not what, but in my Heart and Head was a World of Sin and Folly. Thou mightst as well expect _Will_ to have my Hair, Eyes, and Teeth, alle getting the worse for Wear, as to have the Fruits of my life-long Experience, in some Cases full dearly bought. Take him for what he is, match him by the young Minds of his owne standing: consider how long and closelie we have known him. His Parts are, surelie, not amiss: he hath more Book-lore than _Dancey_, more mother Wit than _Allington_."

"But why need I to concern myself about him?" I exclaymed; "_Will_ is very well in his way: why should we cross each other's Paths? I am young, I have much to learn, I love my Studdies,--why interrupt them with other and less wise Thoughts?"

"Because nothing can be wise that is not practical," returned _Father_, "and I teach my Children Philosophie to fitt them for living in the World, not above it. One may spend a Life in dreaming over _Plato_, and yet goe out of it without leaving the World a whit the better for our having made Part of it. 'Tis to little Purpose we studdy, if it onlie makes us exact Perfections in others which they may in vayn seek for in ourselves. It is not even necessary or goode for us to live entirelie with congeniall Spiritts. The vigourous tempers the inert, the passionate is evened by the cool-tempered, the prosaic balances the visionarie. Woulde thy Mother suit me better, dost thou suppose, if she coulde discuss Polemicks like _Luther_ or _Melancthon_? E'en thine owne sweet Mother, _Meg_, was less affected to Studdy than thou art,--she learnt to love it for my Sake, but I made her what she was."

And, with a suddain Burste of fond Recollection, he hid his Eyes on my Shoulder, and for a Moment or soe, cried bitterlie. As for me, I shed, oh! such salt Teares!...

_Aug. 17th._

Entering, o' the suddain, into _Mercy's_ Chamber, I founde her all be-wept and waped, poring over an old Kirtle of Mother's she had bidden her re-line with Buckram. Coulde not make out whether she were sick of her Task, had had Words with Mother, or had some secret Inquietation of her owne; but, as she is a Girl of few Words, I found I had best leave her alone after a Caress and kind Saying or two. We alle have our Troubles.

_Wednesday, 19th._

Trulie may I say soe. Here have they ta'en a Fever of some low Sorte in my House of Refuge, and _Mother_, fearing it may be the Sicknesse, will not have me goe neare it, lest I should bring it home. _Mercy_, howbeit, hath besought her soe earnestlie to let her goe and nurse the Sick, that _Mother_ hath granted her Prayer, on Condition she returneth not till the Fever bates ... thus setting her Life at lower Value than our owne. Deare _Mercy_! I would fayn be her Mate.

_21st._

We are alle mightie glad that _Rupert Allington_ hath at lengthe zealouslie embraced the Studdy of the Law. 'Twas much to be feared at the Firste there was noe Application in him, and though we alle pitied him when _Father_ first broughte him Home, a pillaged, portionlesse Client, with none other to espouse his Rightes, yet 'twas a Pitie soone allied with Contempt when we founde how emptie he was, caring for nought but Archerie and Skittles and the Popinjaye out o' the House, and Dicing and Tables within, which _Father_ would on noe Excuse permitt. Soe he had to conform, ruefullie enow, and hung piteouslie on Hand for awhile. I mind me of _Bess's_ saying, about _Christmasse_, "Heaven send us open Weather while _Allington_ is here; I don't believe he is one that will bear shutting up." Howbeit, he seemed to incline towards _Daisy_, who is handsome enow, and cannot be hindered of Two-hundred Pounds, and soe he kept within Bounds, and when _Father_ got him his Cause he was mightilie thankfulle, and woulde have left us out of Hand, but _Father_ persuaded him to let his Estate recover itself, and turn the mean Time to Profitt, and, in short, soe wrought on him, that he hath now become a Student in righte earneste.

_22nd._

Soe we are going to lose not only Mr. _Clement_, but Mr. _Gunnel_! How sorrie we alle are! It seemeth he hath long been debating for and agaynst the Church, and at length finds his Mind soe stronglie set towards it, as he can keep out of it noe longer. Well! we shall lose a good Master, and the Church will gayn a good Servant. _Drew_ will supplie his Place, that is, according to his beste, but our worthy Welshman careth soe little for young People, and is soe abstract from the World about him, that we shall oft feel our Loss. _Father_ hath promised _Gonellus_ his Interest with the _Cardinall_.

I fell into Disgrace for holding Speech with _Mercy_ over the Pales, but she is confident there is noe Danger; the Sick are doing well, and none of the Whole have fallen sick. She sayth _Gammer Gurney_ is as tender of her as if she were her Daughter, and will let her doe noe vile or paynfull Office, soe as she hath little to doe but read and pray for the poor Souls, and feed 'em with savourie Messes, and they are alle so harmonious and full of Cheer, as to be like Birds in a Nest. _Mercy_ deserves theire Blessings more than I. Were I a free Agent, she should not be alone now, and I hope ne'er to be withheld therefrom agayn.

_30th._

Busied with my Flowers the chief o' the Forenoon, I was fayn to rest in the Pavilion, when, entering therein, whom shoulde I stumble upon but _William_, layd at length on the Floor, with his Arms under his Head, and his Book on the Ground. I was withdrawing brisklie enow, when he called out, "Don't goe away, since you _are_ here," in a Tone soe rough, soe unlike his usuall Key, as that I paused in a Maze, and then saw that his Eyes were red. He sprung to his Feet and sayd, "_Meg_, come and talk to me;" and, taking my Hand in his, stepped quicklie forthe without another Word sayd, till we reached the Elm-tree Walk. I marvelled to see him soe moven, and expected to hear Somewhat that shoulde displease me, scarce knowing what; however, I might have guest at it from then till now, without ever nearing the Truth. His first Words were, "I wish _Erasmus_ had ne'er crost the Thresholde; he has made me very unhappie;" then, seeing me stare, "Be not his Council just now, deare _Meg_, but bind up, if thou canst, the Wounds he has made.... There be some Wounds, thou knowest, though but of a cut Finger or the like, that we cannot well bind up for ourselves."

I made Answer, "I am a young and unskilled Leech."

He replyed, "But you have a quick Wit, and Patience, and Kindnesse, and for a Woman, are not scant of Learning."

"Nay," I sayd, "but Mr. _Gunnel_--"

"_Gunnel_ would be the Last to help me," interrupts _Will_, "nor can I speak to your Father. He is alwaies too busie now ... besides,--"

"Father _Francis_?" I put in.

"Father _Francis_?" repeats _Will_, with a Shake o' the Head and a ruefulle Smile; "dost thou think, _Meg_, he coulde answer me if I put to him _Pilate's_ Question, 'What is Truth?'"

"We know alreadie," quoth I.

Sayth _Will_, "What do we know?"

I paused, then made Answer reverentlie, "That _Jesus_ is the Way, the Truth, and the Life."

"Yes," he exclaymed, clapping his Hands together in a strange Sort of Passion; "that we _doe_ know, blessed be GOD, and other Foundation can or ought noe Man to lay than that is layd, which is JESUS CHRIST. But, _Meg_, is this the Principle of our Church?"

"Yea, verily," I steadfastlie replied.

"Then, how has it beene overlayd," he hurriedlie went on, "with Men's Inventions! St. _Paul_ speaks of a Sacrifice once offered: we holde the Host to be a continuall Sacrifice. Holy Writ telleth us, where a Tree falls it must lie; we are taughte that our Prayers may free Souls from Purgatorie. The Word sayth, 'By Faith ye are saved;' the Church sayth, we may be saved by our Works. It is written, 'The Idols he shall utterly abolish;' we worship Figures of Gold and Silver...." "Hold, hold," I sayd, "I dare not listen to this.... You are wrong, you know you are wrong."

"How and where?" he sayth; "onlie tell me. I long to be put righte."

"Our Images are but Symbols of our Saints," I made Answer; "'tis onlie the Ignorant and Unlearned that worship the mere Wood and Stone."

"But why worship Saints at alle?" persisted _Will_; "where's your Warrant for it?"

I sayd, "Heaven has warranted it by sundrie and speciall Miracles at divers Times and Places. I may say to you, _Will_, as _Socrates_ to _Agathon_, 'You may easilie argue agaynst me, but you cannot argue agaynst the Truth.'"

"Oh, put me not off with _Plato_," he impatientlie replyed, "refer me but to Holie Writ."

"How can I," quoth I, "when you have ta'en away my Testament ere I had half gone through it? 'Tis this Book, I fear me, poor _Will_, hath unsettled thee. Our Church, indeed, sayth the Unlearned wrest it to theire Destruction."

"And yet the Apostle sayth," rejoyned _Will_, "that it contayns alle Things necessarie to our Salvation."

"Doubtlesse it doth, if we knew but where to find them," I replied.

"And how find, unlesse we seeke?" he pursued, "and how know which Road to take, when we find the Scripture and the Church at Issue?"

"Get some wiser Head to advise us," I rejoyned.

"But an' if the Obstacle remains the same?"

"I cannot suppose that," I somewhat impatientlie returned, "GOD'S Word and GOD'S Church must agree; 'tis only we that make them at Issue."

"Ah, _Meg_, that is just such an Answer as Father _Francis_ mighte give--it solves noe Difficultie. If, to alle human Reason, they pull opposite Ways, by which shall we abide? I know; I am certain. '_Tu, Domine Jesu, es Justicia mea!_'"

He looked soe rapt, with claspt Hands and upraysed Eyes, as that I coulde not but look on him and hear him with Solemnitie. At length I sayd, "If you know and are certayn, you have noe longer anie Doubts for me to lay, and with your Will, we will holde this Discourse noe longer, for however moving and however considerable its Subject Matter may be, it approaches forbidden Ground too nearlie for me to feel it safe, and I question whether it savoureth not of Heresie. However, _Will_, I most heartilie pitie you, and will pray for you."

"Do, _Meg_, do," he replyed, "and say nought to any one of this Matter."

"Indeede I shall not, for I think 'twoulde bring you if not me into Trouble; but, since thou haste soughte my Council, _Will_, receive it now and take it...."

He sayth, "What is it?"

"To read less, pray more, fast, and use such Discipline as our Church recommends, and I question not this Temptation will depart. Make a fayr Triall."

And soe, away from him, though he woulde fain have sayd more; and I have kept mine own Worde of praying for him full earnestlie, for it pitieth me to see him in such Case.

_Sept. 2nd._

Poor _Will_, I never see him look grave now, nor heare him sighe, without thinking I know the Cause of his secret Discontentation. He hath, I believe, followed my Council to the Letter, for though the Men's Quarter of the House is soe far aparte from ours, it hath come rounde to me through _Barbara_, who had it from her Brother, that Mr. _Roper_ hath of late lien on the Ground, and used a knotted Cord. As 'tis one of the Acts of Mercy to relieve others, when we can, from Satanic Doubts and Inquietations, I have been at some Payns to make an Abstracte of such Passages from the Fathers, and such Narratives of noted and undeniable Miracles as cannot, I think, but carry Conviction with them, and I hope they may minister to his Soul's Comfort.

_Tuesday, 4th._

Supped with my Lord _Sands_. _Mother_ played Mumchance with my Lady, but _Father_, who saith he woulde rather feast a hundred poor Men than eat at one rich Man's Table, came not in till late, on Plea of Businesse. My Lord tolde him the King had visitted him not long agone, and was soe well content with his Manor as to wish it were his owne, for the singular fine Ayr and pleasant growth of Wood. In fine, wound up the Evening with Musick. My Lady hath a Pair of fine-toned Clavichords, and a Mandoline that stands five Feet high; the largest in _England_, except that of the Lady _Mary Dudley_. The Sound, indeed, is powerfull, but methinketh the Instrument ungaynlie for a Woman. Lord _Sands_ sang us a new Ballad, "_The King's Hunt's up_," which _Father_ affected hugelie. I lacked Spiritt to sue my Lord for the Words, he being soe free-spoken as alwaies to dash me; howbeit, I mind they ran somewhat thus....

"_The Hunt is up, the Hunt is up,
And it is well nigh Daye,
Harry our King has gone hunting
To bring his Deere to baye.
The East is bright with Morning Lighte,
And Darkness it is fled,
And the merrie Horn wakes up the Morn
To leave his idle Bed.
Beholde the Skies with golden Dyes,
Are...._"

--The Rest hath escaped me, albeit I know there was some Burden of Hey-tantara, where my Lord did stamp and snap his Fingers. He is a merry Heart.

_1524, October._

Sayth Lord _Rutland_ to my Father, in his acute sneering Way, "Ah, ah, Sir _Thomas_, _Honores mutant Mores_."

"Not so, in Faith, my Lord," returns _Father_, "but have a care lest we translate the Proverb, and say Honours change _Manners_."

It served him right, and the Jest is worth preserving, because 'twas not premeditate, as my Lord's very likely was, but retorted at once and in Self-defence. I don't believe Honours _have_ changed the _Mores_. As _Father_ told _Mother_, there's the same Face under the Hood. 'Tis comique, too, the Fulfilment of _Erasmus_ his Prophecy. _Plato's_ Year has not come rounde, but they have got _Father_ to Court, and the King seems minded never to let him goe. For us, we have the same untamed Spiritts and unconstrayned Course of Life as ever, neither lett nor hindered in our daylie Studdies, though we dress somewhat braver, and see more Companie. _Mother's_ Head was a little turned, at first, by the Change and Enlargement of the Householde ... the Acquisition of Clerk of the Kitchen, Surveyor of the Dresser, Yeoman of the Pastrie, etc., but, as _Father_ laughinglie tolde her, the Increase of her Cares soon steddied her Witts, for she found she had twenty Unthrifts to look after insteade of half-a-dozen. And the same with himself. His Responsibilities are soe increast, that he grutches at everie Hour the Court steals from his Family, and vows, now and then, he will leave off joking, that the King may the sooner wearie of him. But this is onlie in Jest, for he feels it is a _Power_ given him over lighter Minds, which he may exert to usefull and high Purpose. Onlie it keepeth him from needing _Damocles_ his Sword; he trusts not in the Favour of Princes nor in the Voyce of the People, and keeps his Soul as a weaned Child. 'Tis much for us now to get an Hour's Leisure with him, and makes us feel what our olde Privilleges were when we knew 'em not. Still, I'm pleased without being over elated, at his having risen to his proper Level.

The _King_ tooke us by Surprise this Morning: _Mother_ had scarce time to slip on her Scarlett Gown and Coif, ere he was in the House. His Grace was mighty pleasant to all, and, at going, saluted all round, which _Bessy_ took humourously, _Daisy_ immoveablie, _Mercy_ humblie, I distastefullie, and _Mother_ delightedlie. She calls him a fine Man; he is indeede big enough, and like to become too big; with long slits of Eyes that gaze freelie on all, as who shoulde say, "Who dare let or hinder us?" His Brow betokens Sense and Franknesse, his Eyebrows are supercilious, and his Cheeks puffy. A rolling, straddling Gait, and abrupt Speech.

T'other Evening, as _Father_ and I were, unwontedly, strolling together down the Lane, there accosts us a shabby poor Fellow, with something unsettled in his Eye....

"Master, Sir Knight, and may it please your Judgeship, my name is _Patteson_."

"Very likely," says Father, "and my Name is _More_, but what is that to the Purpose?"

"And that is _more_ to the Purpose, you mighte have said," returned the other.

"Why, soe I mighte," says _Father_, "but how shoulde I have proved it?"

"You who are a Lawyer shoulde know best about that," rejoyned the poor Knave; "'tis too hard for poor _Patteson_."

"Well, but who are you?" says _Father_, "and what do you want of me?"

"Don't you mind me?" says _Patteson_; "I played Hold-your-tongue, last _Christmasse_ Revel was five Years, and they called me a smart Chap then, but last _Martinmasse_ I fell from the Church Steeple, and shook my Brain-pan, I think, for its Contents have seemed addled ever since; soe what I want now is to be made a Fool."

"Then you are not one already?" says _Father_.

"If I were," says _Patteson_, "I shoulde not have come to _you_."

"Why, Like cleaves to Like, you know they say," says _Father_.

"Aye," says t'other, "but I've Reason and Feeling enow, too, to know you are no Fool, though I thoughte you might want one. Great People like 'em at their Tables, I've hearde say, though I am sure I can't guesse why, for it makes me sad to see Fools laughed at; ne'erthelesse, as I get laughed at alreadie, methinketh I may as well get paid for the Job if I can, being unable, now, to doe a Stroke of Work in hot Weather. And I'm the onlie Son of my Mother, and she is a Widow. But perhaps I'm not bad enough."

"I know not that, poor Knave," says _Father_, touched with quick Pity, "and, for those that laugh at Fools, my Opinion, _Patteson_, is that they are the greater Fools who laugh. To tell you the Truth, I had had noe Mind to take a Fool into mine Establishment, having alwaies had a Fancy to be prime Fooler in it myselfe; however, you incline me to change my Purpose, for as I said anon, Like cleaves to Like, soe, I'll tell you what we will doe--divide the Businesse and goe Halves--I continuing the Fooling, and thou receiving the Salary; that is, if I find, on Inquiry, thou art given to noe Vice, including that of Scurrillitie."

"May it like your Goodness," says poor _Patteson_, "I've been the Subject, oft, of Scurrillitie, and affect it too little to offend that Way myself. I ever keep a civil Tongue in my Head, 'specially among young Ladies."

"That minds me," says _Father_, "of a Butler who sayd he always was sober, especially when he only had Water to drink. Can you read and write?"

"Well, and what if I cannot?" returns _Patteson_, "there ne'er was but one, I ever heard of, that knew Letters, never having learnt, and well he might, for he made them that made them."

"_Meg_, there is Sense in this poor Fellow," says _Father_, "we will have him Home and be kind to him."

And, sure enow, we have done so and been so ever since.

_Tuesday, 25th._

A glance at the anteceding Pages of this _Libellus_ me-sheweth poor _Will Roper_ at the Season his Love-fitt for me was at its Height. He troubleth me with it noe longer, nor with his religious Disquietations. Hard Studdy of the Law hath filled his Head with other Matters, and made him infinitely more rationall, and by Consequents, more agreeable. 'Twas one of those Preferences young People sometimes manifest, themselves know neither why nor wherefore, and are shamed, afterwards, to be reminded of. I'm sure I shall ne'er remind him. There was nothing in me to fix a rational or passionate Regard. I have neither _Bess's_ Witt nor white Teeth, nor _Daisy's_ dark Eyes, nor _Mercy's_ Dimple. A plain-favoured Girl, with changefulle Spiritts,--that's alle.

_26th._

_Patteson's_ latest Jest was taking Precedence of _Father_ yesterday with the Saying, "Give place, Brother; you are but Jester to King _Harry_, and I'm Jester to Sir _Thomas More_; I'll leave you to decide which is the greater Man of the two."

"Why, Gossip," cries _Father_, "his Grace woulde make two of me."

"Not a Bit of it," returns _Patteson_, "he's big enow for two such as you are, I grant ye, but the King can't make two of you. No! Lords and Commons may make a King, but a King can't make a Sir _Thomas More_."

"Yes, he can," rejoyns _Father_, "he can make me Lord Chancellor, and then he will make me more than I am already; _ergo_, he will make Sir _Thomas_ more."

"But what I mean is," persists the Fool, "that the King can't make such another as you are, any more than all the King's Horses and all the King's Men can put _Humpty-dumpty_ together again, which is an ancient Riddle, and full of Marrow. And soe he'll find, if ever he lifts thy Head off from thy Shoulders, which GOD forbid!"

_Father_ delighteth in sparring with _Patteson_ far more than in jesting with the King, whom he alwaies looks on as a Lion that may, any Minute, fall on him and rend him. Whereas, with t'other, he ungirds his Mind. Their Banter commonly exceeds not Pleasantrie, but _Patteson_ is ne'er without an Answer; and although, maybe, each amuses himselfe now and then with thinking, "I'll put him up with such a Question," yet, once begun, the Skein runs off the Reel without a Knot, and shews the excellent Nature of both, soe free are they alike from Malice and Over-license. Sometimes theire Cuts are neater than common Listeners apprehend. I've seene _Rupert_ and _Will_, in fencing, make theire Swords flash in the Sun at every Parry and Thrust; agayn, owing to some Change in mine owne Position, or the Decline of the Sun, the Scintillations have escaped me, though I've known their Rays must have been emitted in some Quarter alle the same.

_Patteson_, with one of _Argus's_ cast Feathers in his Hand, is at this Moment beneath my Lattice, astride on a Stone Balustrade; while _Bessy_, whom he much affects, is sitting on the Steps, feeding her Peacocks. Sayth _Patteson_, "Canst tell me, Mistress, why Peacocks have soe manie Eyes in theire Tails, and yet can onlie see with two in theire Heads?"

"Because those two make them soe vain alreadie, Fool," says _Bess_, "that were they always beholding theire owne Glory, they woulde be intolerable."

"And besides that," says _Patteson_, "the less we see or heare, either, of what passes behind our Backs, the better for us, since Knaves will make Mouths at us then, for as glorious as we may be. Canst tell me, Mistress, why the Peacock was the last Bird that went into the Ark?"

"First tell me, Fool," returns _Bess_, "how thou knowest that it was soe?"

"Nay, a Fool may ask a Question would puzzle a Wiseard to answer," rejoyns _Patteson_; "I mighte ask you, for example, where they got theire fresh Kitchen-stuff in the Ark, or whether the Birds ate other than Grains, or the wild Beasts other than Flesh. It needs must have been a Granary."

"We ne'er shew ourselves such Fools," says _Bess_, "as in seeking to know more than is written. They had enough, if none to spare, and we scarce can tell how little is enough for bare Sustenance in a State of perfect Inaction. If the Creatures were kept low, they were all the less fierce."

"Well answered, Mistress," says _Patteson_, "but tell me, why do you wear two Crosses?"

"Nay, Fool," returns _Bess_, "I wear but one."

"Oh, but I say you wear two," says _Patteson_, "one at your Girdle, and one that nobody sees. We alle wear the unseen one, you know. Some have theirs of Gold, alle carven and shaped, soe as you hardlie tell it for a Cross ... like my Lord Cardinall, for Instance ... but it is one, for alle that. And others, of Iron, that eateth into their Hearts ... methinketh Master _Roper's_ must be one of 'em. For me, I'm content with one of Wood, like that our deare LORD bore; what was goode enow for him is goode enow for me, and I've noe Temptation to shew it, as it isn't fine, nor yet to chafe at it for being rougher than my Neighbour's, nor yet to make myself a second because it is not hard enow. Doe you take me, Mistress?"

"I take you for what you are," says _Bess_, "a poor Fool."

"Nay, Niece," says _Patteson_, "my Brother your Father hath made me rich."

"I mean," says _Bess_, "you have more Wisdom than Witt, and a real Fool has neither, therefore you are only a make-believe Fool."

"Well, there are many make-believe Sages," says _Patteson_; "for mine owne Part, I never aim to be thoughte a _Hiccius Doccius_."

"A _hic est doctus_, Fool, you mean," interrupts _Bess_.

"Perhaps I do," rejoins _Patteson_, "since other Folks soe oft know better what we mean than we know ourselves. Alle I woulde say is, I ne'er set up for a Conjuror. One can see as far into a Millstone as other People, without being that. For Example, when a Man is overta'en with Qualms of Conscience for having married his Brother's Widow, when she is noe longer soe young and fair as she was a Score of Years ago, we know what that's a Sign of. And when an _Ipswich_ Butcher's Son takes on him the State of my Lord _Pope_, we know what that's a Sign of. Nay, if a young Gentlewoman become dainty at her Sizes, and sluttish in her Apparel, we ... as I live, here comes _Giles Heron_, with a Fish in's Mouth."

Poor Bess involuntarilie turned her Head quicklie towards the Watergate; on which, _Patteson_, laughing as he lay on his Back, points upward with his Peacock's Feather, and cries, "Overhead, Mistress! see, there he goes. Sure, you lookt not to see Master _Heron_ making towards us between the Posts and Flower-pots, eating a dried Ling?" laughing as wildly as though he were verily a Natural.

_Bess_, without a Word, shook the Crumbs from her Lap, and was turning into the House, when he withholds her a Minute in a perfectly altered Fashion, saying, "There be some Works, Mistress, our Confessors tell us be Works of Supererogation ... is not that the Word? I learn a long one now and then ... such as be setting Food before a full Man, or singing to a deaf one, or buying for one's Pigs a Silver Trough, or, for the Matter of that, casting Pearls before a Dunghill Cock, or fishing for a Heron, which is well able to fish for itself, and is an ill-natured Bird after all, that pecks the Hand of his Mistress, and, for all her Kindness to him, will not think of _Bessy More_."

How apt alle are to abuse unlimited License! Yet 'twas good Counsel.

_1525, July 2._

Soe my Fate is settled. Who knoweth at Sunrise what will chance before Sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speake of Chance and of Fate, but we must not. _Ruth's Hap_ was to light on the Field of _Boaz_: but what she thought casual, the LORD had contrived.

Firste, he gives me the Marmot. Then, the Marmot dies. Then, I, having kept the Creature soe long, and being naturallie tender, must cry a little over it. Then _Will_ must come in and find me drying mine Eyes. Then he must, most unreasonablie, suppose that I could not have loved the poor Animal for its owne Sake soe much as for his; and, thereupon, falle a love-making in such downrighte Earneste, that I, being alreadie somewhat upset, and knowing 'twoulde please _Father_ ... and hating to be perverse, ... and thinking much better of _Will_ since he hath studdied soe hard, and given soe largelie to the Poor, and left off broaching his heteroclite Opinions ... I say, I supposed it must be soe, some Time or another, soe 'twas noe Use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there's an End, and I pray GOD give us a quiet Life.

Noe one woulde suppose me reckoning on a quiet Life if they knew how I've cried alle this Forenoon, ever since I got quit of _Will_, by _Father's_ carrying him off to _Westminster_. He'll tell _Father_, I know, as they goe along in the Barge, or else coming back, which will be soone now, though I've ta'en no Heed of the Hour. I wish 'twere cold Weather, and that I had a sore Throat, or stiff Neck, or somewhat that might reasonablie send me a-bed, and keep me there till to-morrow Morning. But I'm quite well, and 'tis the Dog-days, and Cook is thumping the Rolling-pin on the Dresser, and Dinner is being served, and here comes _Father_.

_1528, Sept._

_Father_ hath had some Words with the Cardinall. 'Twas touching the Draught of some forayn Treaty which the Cardinall offered for his Criticism, or rather, for his Commendation, which _Father_ could not give. This nettled his Grace, who exclaimed,--"By the Mass, thou art the veriest Fool of all the Council." _Father_, smiling, rejoined, "GOD be thanked, that the King our Master hath but one Fool therein."

The _Cardinall_ may rage, but he can't rob him of the royal Favour. The _King_ was here yesterday, and walked for an Hour or soe about the Garden, with his Arm round _Father's_ Neck. _Will_ coulde not help felicitating _Father_ upon it afterwards; to which _Father_ made Answer, "I thank GOD I find his Grace my very good Lord indeed, and I believe he doth as singularly favour me as any Subject within this Realm. Howbeit, son _Roper_, I may tell thee between ourselves, I feel no Cause to be proud thereof, for if my Head would win him a Castle in _France_, it shoulde not fail to fly off."

--_Father_ is graver than he used to be. No Wonder. He hath much on his Mind; the Calls on his Time and Thoughts are beyond Belief; but GOD is very good to him. His Favour at home and abroad is immense: he hath good Health, soe have we alle; and his Family are established to his Mind, and settled alle about him, still under the same fostering Roof. Considering that I am the most ordinarie of his Daughters, 'tis singular I should have secured the best Husband. _Daisy_ lives peaceablie with _Rupert Allington_, and is as indifferent, me seemeth, to him as to alle the World beside. He, on his Part, loves her and theire Children with Devotion, and woulde pass half his Time in the Nurserie. _Dancey_ always had a hot Temper, and now and then plagues _Bess_; but she lets noe one know it but me. Sometimes she comes into my Chamber and cries a little, but the next kind Word brightens her up, and I verilie believe her Pleasures far exceed her Payns. _Giles Heron_ lost her through his own Fault, and might have regained her good Opinion after all, had he taken half the Pains for her Sake he now takes for her younger Sister: I cannot think how _Cecy_ can favour him; yet I suspect he will win her, sooner or later. As to mine own deare _Will_, 'tis the kindest, purest Nature, the finest Soul, the ... and yet how I was senselesse enow once to undervalue him!

Yes, I am a happy Wife; a happy Daughter; a happy Mother. When my little _Bill_ stroaked dear _Father's_ Face just now, and murmured "Pretty!" he burst out a-laughing, and cried,--

"You are like the young _Cyrus_, who exclaimed,--'Oh! Mother, how pretty is my Grandfather!' And yet, according to _Xenophon_, the old Gentleman was soe rouged and made up, as that none but a Child woulde have admired him!"

"That's not the Case," I observed, "with _Bill's_ Grandfather."

"He's a _More_ all over," says _Father_, fondly. "Make a Pun, _Meg_, if thou canst, about _Amor_, _Amore_, or _Amores_. 'Twill onlie be the thousand and first on our Name. Here, little Knave, see these Cherries: tell me who thou art, and thou shalt have one. '_More! More!_' I knew it, sweet Villain. Take them all."

I oft sitt for an Hour or more, watching _Hans Holbein_ at his Brush. He hath a rare Gift of limning; and has, besides, the Advantage of deare _Erasmus_ his Recommendation, for whom he hath alreddie painted our Likenesses, but I think he has made us very ugly. His Portraiture of my Grandfather is marvellous; ne'erthelesse, I look in vayn for the Spirituallitie which our _Lucchese_ Friend, _Antonio Bonvisi_, tells us is to be found in the Productions of the Italian Schools.

_Holbein_ loves to paint with the Lighte coming in upon his Work from above. He says a Lighte from above puts Objects in theire proper Lighte, and shews theire just Proportions; a Lighte from beneath reverses alle the naturall Shadows. Surelie, this hath some Truth if we spirituallize it.

_June 2d._

_Rupert's_ Cousin, _Rosamond Allington_, is our Guest. She is as beautiful as ... not as an Angel, for she lacks the Look of Goodness, but very beautiful indeed. She cometh hither from _Hever Castle_, her Account of the Affairs whereof I like not. Mistress _Anne_ is not there at present; indeed, she is now always hanging about Court, and followeth somewhat too literallie the scriptural Injunction to _Solomon's_ Spouse--to forget her Father's House. The _King_ likes well enow to be compared with _Solomon_, but Mistress _Anne_ is not his Spouse yet, nor ever will be, I hope. Flattery and Frenchified Habitts have spoilt her, I trow.

_Rosamond_ says there is not a good Chamber in the Castle; even the Ball-room, which is on the upper Floor of alle, being narrow and low. On a rainy Day, long ago, she and Mistress _Anne_ were playing at Shuttlecock therein, when _Rosamond's_ Foot tripped at some Unevennesse in the Floor, and Mistress _Anne_, with a Laugh, cried out, "Mind you goe not down into the Dungeon"--then pulled up a Trap-door in the Ball-room Floor, by an iron Ring, and made _Rosamond_ look down into an unknown Depth; all in the blacknesse of Darkness. 'Tis an awfulle Thing to have onlie a Step from a Ball-room to a Dungeon! I'm glad we live in a modern House; we have noe such fearsome Sights here.

_Sept. 26._

How many, many Tears have I shed! Poor, imprudent _Will_.

To think of his Escape from the _Cardinall's_ Fangs, and yet that he will probablie repeat the Offence! This Morning _Father_ and he had a long, and, I fear me, fruitless Debate in the Garden; on returning from which, _Father_ took me aside and sayd,--

"_Meg_, I have borne a long Time with thine Husband; I have reasoned and argued with him, and still given him my poor, fatherly Counsel; but I perceive none of alle this can call him Home agayn. And therefore, _Meg_, I will no longer dispute with him." ... "Oh, _Father_!" ... "Nor yet will I give him over; but I will set another Way to work, and get me to GOD and pray for him."

And have not I done so alreadie?

_27th._

I feare me they parted unfriendlie; I hearde _Father_ say, "Thus much I have a Right to bind thee to, that thou indoctrinate not her in thine owne Heresies. Thou shalt not imperill the Salvation of my Child."

Since this there has been an irresistible Gloom on our Spiritts, a Cloud between my Husband's Soul and mine, without a Word spoken. I pray, but my Prayers seem dead.

_Thursday, 28th._

Last Night, after seeking unto this Saint and that, methought, "Why not applie unto the Fountain Head? Maybe these holie Spiritts may have Limitations sett to the Power of theire Intercessions--at anie Rate, the Ears of _Mary-mother_ are open to alle."

Soe I beganne, "_Eia mater, fons amoris._" ...

Then methoughte, "But I am onlie asking _her_ to intercede--I'll mount a Step higher still." ...

Then I turned to the greate Intercessor of alle. But methought, "Still he intercedes with another, although the same. And his owne Saying was, 'In that Day ye shall ask _me nothing_. Whatsoever ye shall ask in my Name, _he_ will give it you.'" Soe I did.

I fancy I fell asleep with the Tears on my Cheek. _Will_ had not come up Stairs. Then came a heavie, heavie Sleep, not such as giveth Rest; and a dark, wild Dream. Methought I was tired of waiting for _Will_, and became alarmed. The Night seemed a Month long, and at last I grew soe weary of it, that I arose, put on some Clothing, and went in search of him whom my Soul loveth. Soon I founde him, sitting in a Muse; and said, "_Will_, deare _Will_?" but he hearde me not; and, going up to touch him, I was amazed to be broughte short up or ever I reached him, by Something invisible betwixt us, hard, and cleare, and colde, ... in short, a Wall of Ice! Soe it seemed, in my strange Dreame. I pushed at it, but could not move it; called to him, but coulde not make him hear: and all the While my Breath, I suppose, raised a Vapour on the glassy Substance, that grew thicker and thicker, soe as slowlie to hide him from me. I coulde discerne his Head and Shoulders, but not see down to his Heart. Then I shut mine Eyes in Despair, and when I opened 'em, he was hidden altogether.

Then I prayed. I put my hot Brow agaynst the Ice, and I kept a weeping hot Tears, and the warm Breath of Prayer kept issuing from my Lips; and still I was persisting, when, or ever I knew how, the Ice beganne to melt! I felt it giving Way! and, looking up, coulde in joyfulle Surprize just discerne the Lineaments of a Figure close at t'other Side; the Face turned away, but yet in the Guise of listening. And, Images being apt to seem magnified and distorted through Vapours, methought 'twas altogether bigger than _Will_, yet himself, nothingthelesse; and, the Barrier between us having sunk away to Breast-height, I layd mine Hand on's Shoulder, and he turned his Head, smiling, though in Silence; and ... oh, Heaven! 'twas not _Will_, but----.

What coulde I doe, even in my Dreame, but fall at his Feet? What coulde I doe, waking, but the same? 'Twas Grey of Morn; I was feverish and unrefreshed, but I wanted noe more lying a-bed. _Will_ had arisen and gone forthe; and I, as quicklie as I coulde make myself readie, sped after him.

I know not what I expected, nor what I meant to say. The Moment I opened the Door of his Closett, I stopt short. There he stoode, in the Centre of the Chamber; his Hand resting flat on an open Book, his Head raised somewhat up, his Eyes fixed on Something or some One, as though in speaking Communion with 'em; his whole Visage lightened up and glorifide with an unspeakable Calm and Grandeur that seemed to transfigure him before me; and, when he hearde my Step, he turned about, and 'steade of histing me away, helde out his Arms.... We parted without neede to utter a Word.

_June, 1530._