Chapter IV: Part 4

Events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. Firste, _Father's_ Embassade to _Cambray_, which I shoulde have grieved at more on our owne Accounts, had it not broken off alle further Collision with _Will_. Thoroughlie homesick, while abroad, poor _Father_ was; then, on his Return, he noe sooner sett his Foot a-land, than the King summoned him to _Woodstock_. 'Twas a Couple o' Nights after he left us, that _Will_ and I were roused by _Patteson's_ shouting beneath our Window, "Fire, Fire, quoth _Jeremiah_!" and the House was a-fire, sure enow. Greate Part of the Men's Quarter, together with alle the Out-houses and Barns, consumed without Remedie, and alle through the Carelessnesse of _John Holt_. Howbeit, noe Lives were lost, nor any one much hurt; and we thankfullie obeyed deare _Father's_ Behest, soe soone as we received the same, that we woulde get us to Church, and there, upon our Knees, return humble and harty Thanks to ALMIGHTY GOD for our late Deliverance from a fearfulle Death. Alsoe, at _Father's_ Desire, we made up to the poor People on our Premises theire various Losses, which he bade us doe, even if it left him without soe much as a Spoon.

But then came an equallie unlookt-for, and more appalling Event: the Fall of my _Lord Cardinall_, whereby my Father was shortlie raised to the highest Pinnacle of professional Greatnesse; being made _Lord Chancellor_, to the Content, in some Sort, of _Wolsey_ himself, who sayd he was the onlie Man fit to be his Successor.

The unheard-of Splendour of his Installation dazzled the Vulgar; while the Wisdom that marked the admirable Discharge of his daylie Duties, won the Respect of alle thinking Men, but surprized none who alreadie knew _Father_. On the Day succeeding his being sworn in, _Patteson_ marched hither, and thither, bearing a huge Placard, inscribed, "Partnership Dissolved;" and apparelled himself in an old Suit, on which he had bestowed a Coating of black Paint, with Weepers of white Paper; assigning for't that "his Brother was dead." "For now," quoth he, "that they've made him _Lord Chancellor_, we shall ne'er see Sir _Thomas_ more."

Now, although the poor _Cardinall_ was commonlie helde to shew much Judgment in his Decisions, owing to the naturall Soundness of his Understanding, yet, being noe Lawyer, Abuses had multiplied during his Chancellorship, more especiallie in the Way of enormous Fees and Gratuities. _Father_, not content with shunning base Lucre in his proper Person, will not let anie one under him, to his Knowledge, touch a Bribe; whereat _Dancey_, after his funny Fashion, complains, saying,--

"The Fingers of my _Lord Cardinall's_ veriest Door-keepers were tipt with Gold, but I, since I married your Daughter, have got noe Pickings; which in your Case may be commendable, but in mine is nothing profitable."

_Father_, laughing, makes Answer,--

"Your Case is hard, Son _Dancey_, but I can onlie say for your Comfort, that, soe far as Honesty and Justice are concerned, if mine owne Father, whom I reverence dearly, stoode before me on the one Hand, and the Devil, whom I hate extremely, on the other, yet, the Cause of the latter being just, I shoulde give the Devil his Due."

_Giles Heron_ hath found this to his Cost. Presuming on his near Connexion with my Father, he refused an equitable Accommodation of a Suit, which, thereon, coming into Court, _Father's_ Decision was given flat agaynst him.

His Decision agaynst _Mother_ was equallie impartiall, and had Something comique in it. Thus it befelle.--A Beggar-woman's little Dog, which had beene stolen from her, was offered my _Mother_ for Sale, and she bought it for a Jewel of no greate Value. After a Week or soe, the Owner finds where her Dog is, and cometh to make Complaynt of the Theft to _Father_, then sitting in his Hall. Sayth _Father_, "Let's have a faire Hearing in open Court; thou, Mistress, stand there where you be, to have impartial Justice; and thou, Dame _Alice_, come up hither, because thou art of the higher Degree. Now then, call each of you the Puppy, and see which he will follow." Soe _Sweetheart_, in spite of _Mother_, springs off to the old Beggar-woman, who, unable to keep from laughing, and yet moved at Mother's Losse, sayth,--

"Tell 'ee what, Mistress ... thee shalt have 'un for a Groat."

"Nay," sayth _Mother_, "I won't mind giving thee a Piece of Gold;" soe the Bargain was satisfactorily concluded.

_Father's_ Despatch of Businesse is such, that, one Morning before the End of Term, he was tolde there was noe other Cause nor Petition to be sett before him; the which, being a Case unparalleled, he desired mighte be formally recorded.

He ne'er commences Businesse in his owne Court without first stepping into the Court of King's Bench, and there kneeling down to receive my Grandfather's Blessing. _Will_ sayth 'tis worth a World to see the Unction with which the deare old Man bestows it on him.

In Rogation-week, following the Rood as usuall round the Parish, _Heron_ counselled him to go a Horseback for the greater Seemlinesse, but he made Answer that 'twoulde be unseemlie indeede for the Servant to ride after his Master going afoot.

His Grace of _Norfolk_, coming yesterday to dine with him, finds him in the Church-choir, singing, with a Surplice on.

"What?" cries the _Duke_, as they walk Home together, "my _Lord Chancellor_ playing the Parish-clerk? Sure, you dishonour the King and his Office."

"Nay," says _Father_, smiling, "your Grace must not deem that the King, your Master and mine, will be offended at my honouring _his_ Master."

Sure, 'tis pleasant to heare _Father_ taking the upper Hand of these great Folks: and to have 'em coming and going, and waiting his Pleasure, because he is the Man whom the King delighteth to honour.

True, indeed, with _Wolsey_ 'twas once the same; but _Father_ neede not feare the same Ruin; because he hath HIM for his Friend, whom _Wolsey_ said woulde not have forsaken him had he served HIM as he served his earthly Master. 'Twas a misproud Priest; and there's the Truth on't. And _Father_ is not misproud; and I don't believe we are; though proud of him we cannot fail to be.

And I know not why we may not be pleased with Prosperitie, as well as patient under Adversitie; as long as we say, "Thou, LORD, hast made our Hill soe strong." 'Tis more difficult to bear with Comelinesse, doubtlesse; and envious Folks there will be; and we know alle Things have an End, and everie Sweet hath its Sour, and everie Fountain its Fall; but ... 'tis very pleasant for all that.

_Tuesday, 31st, 1532._

Who coulde have thoughte that those ripe Grapes whereof dear _Gaffer_ ate soe plentifullie, should have ended his Dayes? This Event hath filled the House with Mourning. He had us all about his Bed to receive his Blessing; and 'twas piteous to see _Father_ fall upon his Face, as _Joseph_ on the Face of _Jacob_, and weep upon him and kiss him. Like _Jacob_, my Grandsire lived to see his duteous Son attain to the Height of earthlie Glory, his Heart unspoyled and untouched.

_July, 1532._

The Days of Mourning for my Grandsire are at an end; yet _Father_ still goeth heavilie. This Forenoon, looking forthe of my Lattice, I saw him walking along the River Side, his Arm cast about _Will's_ Neck; and 'twas a dearer Sight to my Soul than to see the _King_ walking there with his Arm around _Father's_ Neck. They seemed in such earnest Converse, that I was avised to ask _Will_, afterwards, what they had been saying. He told me that, after much friendly Chat together on this and that, _Father_ fell into a Muse, and presently, fetching a deep Sigh, says,--

"Would to GOD, Son _Roper_, on Condition three Things were well established in Christendom, I were put into a Sack, and cast presently into the _Thames_." _Will_ sayth,--

"What three soe great Things can they be, _Father_, as to move you to such a Wish?"

"In Faith, _Will_," answers he, "they be these.--First, that whereas the most Part of Christian Princes be at War, they were at universal Peace. Next, that whereas the Church of CHRIST is at present sore afflicted with divers Errors and Heresies, it were well settled in a godly Uniformity. Last, that this Matter of the _King's_ Marriage were, to the Glory of GOD, and the Quietness of alle Parties, brought to a good Conclusion."

Indeed, this last Matter preys on my Father's Soul. He hath even knelt to the King, to refrain from exacting Compliance with his Grace's Will concerning it; movingly reminding him, even with Tears, of his Grace's own Words to him on delivering the Great Seal, "First look unto GOD, and, after GOD, unto me." But the King is heady in this Matter; stubborn as a Mule or wild Ass's Colt, whose Mouths must be held with Bit and Bridle if they be to be governed at alle; and the King hath taken the Bit between his Teeth, and there is none dare ride him. Alle for Love of a brown Girl, with a Wen on her Throat, and an extra Finger.

_July 18th._

How short a Time agone it seemeth, that in my Prosperity I sayd, "We shall never be moved; Thou, LORD, of Thy goodness hast made our Hill soe strong! ... Thou didst turn away thy Face, and I was troubled!"

_28th._

Thus sayth _Plato_: of Him whom he soughte, but hardly found: "Truth is his Body, and Light his Shadow." A marvellous Saying for a Heathen.

Hear also what St. _John_ sayth: "GOD is Light; and in him is no Darkness at all." "And the Light was the Life of Men: and the Light shineth in Darkness, and the Darkness comprehended it not."

Hear also what St. _Augustine_ sayth: "They are the most uncharitable towards Error who have never experienced how hard a Matter it is to come at the Truth."

Hard, indeed. Here's _Father_ agaynst _Will_, and agaynst _Erasmus_, of whom he once could not speak well enough; and now he says that if he upholds such and such Opinions his dear _Erasmus_ may be the Devil's _Erasmus_ for what he cares. And here's _Father_ at Issue with half the learned Heads in Christendom concerning the King's Marriage. And yet, for alle that, I think _Father_ is in the Right.

He taketh Matters soe to Heart that e'en his Appetite fails. Yesterday he put aside his old favourite Dish of Brewis, saying, "I know not how 'tis, good _Alice_; I've lost my Stomach, I think, for my old Relishes" ... and this, e'en with a Tear in his Eye. But 'twas not the Brewis, I know, that made it start.

_Aug._

He hath resigned the Great Seal! And none of us knew of his having done soe, nor e'en of his meditating it, till after Morning Prayers to-day, when, insteade of one of his Gentlemen stepping up to my Mother in her Pew with the Words, "Madam, my Lord is gone," he cometh up to her himself, with a Smile on's Face, and sayth, low bowing as he spoke, "Madam, my Lord is gone." She takes it for one of the manie Jests whereof she misses the Point; and 'tis not till we are out of Church, in the open Air, that she fully comprehends my _Lord Chancellor_ is indeed gone, and she hath onlie her Sir _Thomas More_.

A Burst of Tears was no more than was to be lookt for from poor Mother; and, in Sooth, we alle felt aggrieved and mortyfide enough; but 'twas a short Sorrow; for _Father_ declared that he had cast _Pelion_ and _Ossa_ off his Back into the bottomless Pit; and fell into such funny Antics that we were soon as merry as ever we were in our Lives. _Patteson_, so soon as he hears it, comes leaping and skipping across the Garden, crying, "A fatted Calf! let a fatted Calf be killed, Masters and Mistresses, for this my Brother who was dead is alive again!" and falls a kissing his Hand. But poor _Patteson's_ Note will soon change; for _Father's_ diminished State will necessitate the Dismissal of all extra Hands; and there is manie a Servant under his Roof whom he can worse spare than the poor Fool.

In the Evening he gathers us alle about him in the Pavilion, where he throws himself into his old accustomed Seat, casts his Arm about _Mother_, and cries, "How glad must _Cincinnatus_ have been to spy out his Cottage again, with _Racilia_ standing at the Gate!" Then, called for Curds and Cream; sayd how sweet the soft Summer Air was coming over the River, and bade _Cecil_ sing "The King's Hunt's up." After this, one Ballad after another was called for, till alle had sung their Lay, ill or well, he listing the While with closed Eyes, and a composed Smile about his Mouth; the two Furrows between his Brows relaxing graduallie till at length they could no more be seene. At last he says,--

"Who was that old Prophet that could not or would not prophesy for a King of _Judah_ till a Minstrel came and played unto him? Sure, he must have loved, as I do, the very lovely Song of one that playeth well upon an Instrument, yclept the Human Heart; and have felt, as I do now, the Spirit given him to speak of Matters foreign to his Mind. 'Tis of _res angusta domi_, dear Brats, I must speak; soe, the sooner begun, the sooner over. Here am I, with a dear Wife and eight loved Children ... for my Daughters' Husbands and my Son's Wife are my Children as much as any; and _Mercy Giggs_ is a Daughter too ... nine Children, then, and eleven Grandchildren, and a Swarm of Servants to boot, all of whom have as yet eaten what it pleased them, and drunken what it suited them at my Board, without its being any one's Businesse to say them nay. 'Twas the dearest Privilege of my _Lord Chancellor_; but now he's dead and gone, how shall we contract the Charges of Sir _Thomas More_?"

We looked from one to another, and were silent.

"I'll tell ye, dear ones," he went on. "I have been brought up at _Oxford_, at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, and at the King's Court; from the lowest Degree, that is, to the highest; and yet have I in yearly Revenues at this Present, little above one Hundred Pounds a-year; but then, as _Chilo_ sayth, 'honest Loss is preferable to dishonest Gain: by the first, a Man suffers once; by the second for ever;' and I may take up my Parable with _Samuel_, and say: 'Whose Ox have I taken? whose Ass have I taken? whom have I defrauded? whom have I oppressed? of whose Hand have I received any Bribe to blinde mine Eyes therewith?' No, my worst Enemies cannot lay to my Charge any of these Things; and my Trust in you is, that, rather than regret I should not have made a Purse by any such base Methods, you will all cheerfully contribute your Proportions to the common Fund, and share and share alike with me in this my diminished State."

We all gat about him, and by our Words and Kisses gave Warrant that we would.

"Well, then," quoth he, "my Mind is, that since we are all of a Will to walk down-hill together, we will do soe at a breathing Pace, and not drop down like a Plummet. Let all Things be done decently and in order: we won't descend to _Oxford_ Fare first, nor yet to the Fare of _New Inn_. We'll begin with _Lincoln's Inn_ Diet, whereon many good and wise Men thrive well; if we find this draw too heavily on the Common-Purse, we will, next Year, come down to _Oxford_ Fare, with which many great and learned Doctors have been conversant; and, if our Purse stretch not to cover e'en this, why, in Heaven's Name! we'll go begging together, with Staff and Wallet, and sing a _Salve Regina_ at every good Man's Door, whereby we shall still keep Company, and be merry together!"

_Sept. 22d._

Now that the first Surprise and Grief, and the first Fervour of Fidelity and Self-devotion have passed off, we have subsided into how deep and holy a Quiet!

We read of the Desertion of the World, as a Matter of Course; but, when our own Turn comes, it does seem strange, to find ourselves let fall down the Stream without a single Hand outstretched to help us; forgotten, in a Moment, as though we had never been, by those who lately ate and laughed at our Table. And this, without any Fault or Offence of ours, but merely from our having lost the Light of the _King's_ Countenance. I say, it does seem strange; but how fortunate, how blessed are those to whom such a Course of Events _only_ seems strange, unaccompanied by Self-reproach and Bitterness! I could not help feeling this, in reading an affectionate Letter deare _Father_ writ this Forenoon to _Erasmus_, wherein he sayd, "I have now obtained what, from a Child, I have continually wished! that, being entirely quit of Businesse and all publick Affairs, I might live for a Time only to GOD and myself."

Having no Hankering after the old Round he soe long hath run, he now, in Fact, looks younger every Day; and yet, not with the same Kind of Youth he had before his Back was bowed under the Chancellorship. 'Tis a more composed, chastised Sort of Rejuvenescence: rather the soft Warmth of Autumn, which sometimes seems like May, than May itself: the enkindling, within this mortal Tabernacle, of a heavenly Light that never grows dim, because it is immortal; and burns the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever: a Youthfulness of Soul and Mind characterised by Growth; Something with which this World and its fleeting Fancies has nothing to do: Something that the _King_ can neither impart nor take away.

... We have had a tearfull Morning ... poor _Patteson_ has gone. My Father hath obtained good Quarters for him with my _Lord Mayor_, with a Stipulation that he shall retain his Office with the _Lord Mayor_ for the Time being, as long as he can fill it at all. This suits _Patteson_, who says he will sooner shift Masters year by year, than grow too fond of any Man again, as he hath of _Father_; but there has been sad blubbering and blowing of Noses.

_Sept. 24th._

This Afternoon, coming upon _Mercy_ seated in the Alcove, like unto the Image of some Saint in a Niche, her Hands folded on her Lap, and her Eyes steadfastly agaze on the setting Sun, I could not but mark how Years were silentlie at work upon her, as doubtless upon us alle; the tender, fearfulle Girl having thus graduallie changed into the sober, high-minded Woman. She is so seldom seene in Repose, so constantly astir and afoot in this or that kind Office, mostly about the Children, that I had never thought upon it before; but now I was alle at once avised to marvel that she who had so long seemed fitter for Heaven than Earth, shoulde never literallie have vowed herself the Spouse of _Christ_; more in especiall as all Expectation of being the Spouse of anie else must long since have died within her.

I sayd, "_Mercy_, thou lookst like a Nun: how is't thou hast ne'er become one in Earnest?"

She started; then sayd, "Could I be more usefull? more harmless? less exposed to Temptation? or half so happy as I am now? In sooth, _Meg_, the Time has been when methought, how sweet the living Death of the Cloister! How good that must needs be which had the Suffrages of _Chrysostom_ the golden-mouthed, and holy _Ambrose_, and our own _Anselm_! How peacefull, to take Wing like the Dove, and fly away from a naughty World, and be at Rest! How brave, to live alone, like St. _Antony_, in the Desert! only I would have had some Books with me in my Cave, and 'tis uncertayn whether St. _Antony_ had Knowledge of Letters, beyond the heaven-taught Lesson, 'GOD is Love,' ... for methought so much Reflection and no Action would be too much for a Woman's Mind to bear--I might goe mad: and I remembered me how the Dove that gladly flew away from the Ark, gladly flew back, and abode in the Ark till such Time as a new Home was ready for her. And methought, cannot I live apart from Sin here, and now; and as to Sorrow, where can we live apart from that? Sure, we may live on the Skirts of the World in a Spiritt as truly unworldlie, as though we were altogether out of it: and here I may come and go, and range in the fresh Air, and love other Folks' Children, and read my Psalter, and pore over the Sayings of the wise Men of old, and look on the Faces I love, and sit at the Feet of Sir _Thomas More_. Soe there, _Meg_, are my poor Reasons for not caring to be a Nun. Our deare Lord is in himself all that our highest, holiest Affections can seek or comprehend; for he made these our Hearts; he gave us these our Affections; and through them the Spirit speaks. Aspiring to their Source, they rise up like the white Smoke and bright Flame; while, on Earth, if left unmastered, they burn, suffocate, and destroy. Yet they have their natural and innocent Outlets even here; and a Woman may warm herself by them without Scorching, and yet be neither a Wife nor a Nun."

_Sept. 28th._

Ever since _Father's_ Speech to us in the Pavilion, we have beene of one Heart and one Soul; neither have any of us said that aught of the Things we possessed were our own, but we have had all Things in Common. And we have eaten our Meat with Gladness and Singleness of Heart.

This Afternoon, expressing to _Father_ my gratefull Sense of our present Happiness ... "Yes, _Meg_," returns he, "I too, am deeply thankful for this breathing Space."

"Do you look on it as no more, then?" I sayd.

"As no more, _Meg_: we shall have a Thunder-clap by-and-by. Look out on the _Thames_. See how unwontedlie clear it is, and how low the Swallows fly.... How distinctlie we see the green Sedges on _Battersea_ Bank, and their reflected Images in the Water. We can almost discern the Features of those poor Knaves digging in the Cabbage Gardens, and hear 'em talk, so still is the Air. Have you ne'er before noted these Signs?"

"A Storm is brewing," I sayd.

"Aye, we shall have a Lightning-flash anon. So still, _Meg_, is also our moral Atmosphere just now. GOD is giving us a breathing Space, as he did to the Egyptians before the Plague of Hail, that they might gather their live Stock within Doors. Let us take for Example them that believed and obeyed him; and improve this holy Pause."

Just at this Moment, a few heavie Drops fell agaynst the Window Pane, and were seene by both. Our Eyes met; and I felt a silent Pang.

"Five Days before the _Passover_," resumed _Father_, "all seemed as still and quiet as we are now; but JESUS knew his Hour was at hand. E'en while he yet spake familiarly among the People, there came a Sound from Heaven, and they that stood by said it thundered; but _he_ knew it for the Voice of his dear Father. Let us, in like Manner, when the Clap cometh, recognise in it the Voice of GOD, and not be afraid with any Amazement."

_Nov. 2d._

_Gammer Gurney_ is dead, and I must say I am glad of it. The Change, to her, must be blessed, and there seemed some Danger lest, after having escaped being ducked for a Witch, she shoulde have been burnt for a Heretic. _Father_ looked on her as an obstinate old Woman; _Will_ counted her little short of a Saint and Prophetess, and kept her well supplied with alle she could need. Latterly she was stone deaf; so 'tis a happy Release.

The settled Purpose of _Father's_ Soul, just now, is to make up a Marriage between _Mercy_ and Dr. _Clement_. 'Tis high Advancement for her, and there seems to have been some old Liking between 'em we never knew of.

_1533, April 1._

Though some Months have passed since my Father uttered his warning Voice, and all continues to go quiet, I cannot forbear, now and then, to call his Monition to Mind, and look about for the Cloud that is to bring the Thunder-clap; but the Expectation sobers rather than saddens me.

This Morning, leaning over the River Wall, I was startled by the cold, damp Hand of some one from behind being laid on mine. At the same Time a familiar Voice exclaimed, "Canst tell us, Mistress, why Fools have hot Heads and Hands icy cold?"

I made Answer, "Canst tell me, _Patteson_, why Fools should stray out of Bounds?"

"Why, that's what Fools do every Day," he readily replied; "but this is _All Fools' Day_, mine own special Holiday; and I told my _Lord Mayor_ overnight, that if he lookt for a Fool this Morning, he must look in the Glass. In sooth, Mistress _Meg_, I should by Rights wear the Gold Chain and he the Motley; for a proper Fool he is, and I shall be glad when his Year's Service to me is out. The worst o' these Lord Mayors is, that we can't part with 'em till their Time's up. Why now, this present one hath not so much Understanding as would foot an old Stocking; 'twas but yesterday when, in Quality of my Taster, he civilly enough makes over to me a half-eaten Plate of Gurnet, which I wave aside, thus, saying, I eat no Fish of which I cannot affirm, '_rari sunt Boni_,' few are the Bones ... and I protest to you he knew it not for Fool's Latin. Thus I'm driven, from mere Discouragement, to leave prating for listening, which thou knowest, Mistress, is no Fool's Office; and among the sundrie Matters I hear at my Lord's Table ... for he minds not what he says before his Servants, thereby giving new Proof 'tis he shoulde wear the Motley ... I note his saying that the _King's_ private Marriage will assuredlie be made publick this coming Easter, and my Lady _Anne_ will be crowned ... more by token, he knows the Merchant that will supply the _Genoa_ Velvet and Cloth of Gold, and the Masquers that are to enact the Pageant. For the Love o' Safety, then, Mistress _Meg_, bid thy good _Father_ e'en take a Fool's Advice, and eat humble Pie betimes, for doubt not this proud Madam to be as vindictive as _Herodias_, and one that, unless he appease her full early, will have his Head set before her in a Charger. I've said my Say."

_April 4th._

Three Bishops have been here this Forenoon, to bid _Father_ to the Coronation, and offer him twenty Pounds to provide his Dress; but _Father_ hath, with Courtesie, declined to be present. After much friendly pressing, they parted, seemingly on good Terms; but I have Misgivings of the Issue.

_April 9th._

A ridiculous Charge hath beene got up 'gainst dear _Father_; no less than of Bribery and Corruption. One _Parnell_ complaineth of a Decree given agaynst him in favour of one _Vaughan_, whose Wife, he deponeth, gave _Father_ a gilt Flaggon. To the noe small Surprise of the Council, _Father_ admitted that she had done soe: "But, my Lords," proceeded he, when they had uttered a few Sentences of Reprehension somewhat too exultantlie, "will ye list the Conclusion of the Tale? I bade my Butler fill the Cup with Wine, and having drunk her Health, I made her pledge me, and then restored her Gift, and would not take it again."

As innocent a Matter, touching the offering him a Pair of Gloves containing Forty Pounds, and his taking the first and returning the last, saying he preferred his Gloves without Lining, hath been made publick with like Triumph to his own good Fame; but alack! these Feathers show which way sets the Wind.

_April 13th._

A heavier Charge than either of the above hath been got up, concerning the wicked Woman of _Kent_, with whom they accuse him of having tampered, that, in her pretended Revelations and Rhapsodies, she might utter Words against the _King's_ Divorce. His Name hath, indeed, been put in the Bill of Attainder; but, out of Favour, he hath been granted a private Hearing, his Judges being, the new Archbishop, the new Chancellor, his Grace of _Norfolk_, and Master _Cromwell_.

He tells us that they stuck not to the Matter in Hand, but began cunningly enow to sound him on the _King's_ Matters; and finding they could not shake him, did proceed to Threats, which, he told 'em, might well enow scare Children, but not him; and as to his having provoked his Grace the _King_ to sett forth in his Book aught to dishonour and fetter a good Christian, his Grace himself well knew the Book was never shewn him save for verbal Criticism when the Subject-matter was completed _by the Makers of the same_, and that he had warned his Grace not to express soe much Submission to the Pope. Whereupon they with great Displeasure dismissed him, and he took Boat for _Chelsea_ with mine Husband in such gay Spiritts, that _Will_, not having been privy to what had passed, concluded his Name to have beene struck out of the Bill of Attainder, and congratulated him thereupon soe soone as they came aland, saying, "I guess, _Father_, all is well, seeing you thus merry."

"It is, indeed, son _Roper_," returns _Father_ steadilie; repeating thereupon, once or twice, this Phrase, "All is well."

_Will_, somehow mistrusting him, puts the Matter to him agayn.

"You are then, _Father_, put out of the Bill?"

"Out of the Bill, good Fellow?" repeats _Father_, stopping short in his Walk, and regarding him with a Smile that _Will_ sayth was like to break his Heart.... "Wouldst thou know, dear Son, why I am so joyful? In good Faith, I have given the Devil a foul Fall; for I have with those Lords gone so far, as that without great Shame I can ne'er go back. The first Step, _Will_, is the worst, and that's taken."

And so, to the House, with never another Word, _Will_ being smote at the Heart.

But, this Forenoon, deare _Will_ comes running in to me, with Joy all bright, and tells me he hath just heard from _Cromwell_ that _Father's_ Name is in sooth struck out. Thereupon, we go together to him with the News. He taketh it thankfully, yet composedly, saying, as he lays his Hand on my Shoulder, "In faith, _Meg_, _quod differtur non aufertur_." Seeing me somewhat stricken and overborne, he sayth, "Come, let's leave good _Will_ awhile to the Company of his own select and profitable Thoughts, and take a Turn together by the Water Side."

Then closing his Book, which I marked was _Plato's Phædon_, he steps forthe with me into the Garden, leaning on my Shoulder, and pretty heavilie too. After a Turn or two in Silence, he lightens his Pressure, and in a bland, peaceifying Tone commences _Horace_ his tenth Ode, Book second, and goes through the first fourteen or fifteen Lines in a kind of lulling Monotone; then takes another Turn or two, ever looking at the _Thames_; and in a stronger Voice begins his favourite

_"Justum, ac tenacem Propositi Virum
Non Civium Ardor," etc._

on to

"_Impavidum ferient Ruinæ_;"

--and lets go his Hold on me to extend his Hand in fine, free Action. Then, drawing me to him agayn, presentlie murmurs, "I reckon that the Sufferings of this present Time are not worthy to be compared with the Glory which shall be revealed in us.... Oh no, not worthy to be compared. I have lived; I have laboured; I have loved. I have lived in them I loved; laboured for them I loved; loved them for whom I laboured; my Labour has not been in vayn. To love and to labour is the Sum of living, and yet how manie think they live who neither labour nor love! Agayn, how manie labour and love, and yet are not loved; but I have beene loved, and my Labour has not been in vayn. Now, the Daye is far spent, and the Night is at hand, and the Time draweth nigh when Man resteth from his Labours, even from his Labours of Love; but still he shall love and he shall live where the Spiritt sayth he shall rest from his Labours, and where his Works do follow him, for he entereth into Rest through and to Him who is Life, and Light, and Love."

Then looking steadfastlie at the _Thames_, "How quietlie," sayth he, "it flows on! This River, _Meg_, hath its Origin from seven petty Springs somewhither amongst the _Gloucestershire_ Hills, where they bubble forthe unnoted save by the Herd and Hind. Belike, they murmur over the Pebbles prettily enough; but a great River, mark you, never murmurs. It murmured and babbled too, 'tis like, whilst only a Brook, and brawled away as it widened and deepened and chafed agaynst Obstacles, and here and there got a Fall, and splashed and made much Ado, but ever kept running on towards its End, still deepening and widening; and now towards the Close of its Course look you how swift and quiet it is, running mostly between Flats, and with the dear blue Heaven reflected in its Face." ...

_1534, April 12._

'Twas o' _Wednesdaye_ was a Week, we were quietly taking our Dinner, when, after a loud and violent Knocking at the outer Door, in cometh a Pursuivant, and summoneth _Father_ to appear next Daye before the Commissioners, to take the newly-coined Oath of Supremacy. _Mother_ utters a hasty Cry, _Bess_ turns white as Death, but I, urged by I know not what suddain Impulse to con the new Comer's Visage narrowly, did with Eagerness exclaim, "Here's some Jest of _Father's_; 'tis only _Dick Halliwell_!"

Whereupon, _Father_ burst out a-laughing, hugged _Mother_, called _Bess_ a silly Puss, and gave _Halliwell_ a Groat for's Payns. Now, while some were laughing, and others taking _Father_ prettie sharplie to Task for soe rough a Crank, I fell a muzing, what could be the Drift of this, and coulde only surmize it mighte be to harden us beforehand, as 'twere, to what was sure to come at last. And the Pre-apprehension of this soe belaboured my alreadie o'erburthened Spiritts, as that I was fayn to betake myself to the Nurserie, and lose all Thought and Reflection in my little _Bess's_ prettie Ways. And, this not answering, was forct to have Recourse to Prayer; then, leaving my Closett, was able to return to the Nurserie, and forget myselfe awhile in the Mirth of the Infants.

Hearing Voyces beneathe the Lattice, I lookt forthe, and behelde his Grace of _Norfolk_ (of late a strange Guest) walking beneath the Window in earnest Converse with _Father_; and, as they turned about, I hearde him say, "By the Mass, Master _More_, 'tis perilous striving with Princes. I could wish you, as a Friend, to incline to the _King's_ Pleasure; for _Indignatio Principis Mors est_."

"Is that all?" says _Father_; "why then there will be onlie this Difference between your Grace and me, that I shall die to-daye, and you to-morrow;"--which was the Sum of what I caught.

Next Morning, we were breaking our Fast with Peacefullnesse of Heart, on the Principle that sufficient for the Daye is the Evill thereof, and there had beene a wordy War between our two Factions of the _Neri_ and _Bianchi_, _Bess_ having defalked from the Mancheteers on the Ground that black Bread sweetened the Breath and settled the Teeth, to the no small Triumph of the Cob Loaf Party; while _Daisy_, persevering at her Crusts, sayd, "No, I can cleave to the Rye Bread as steddilie as anie among you, but 'tis vayn of _Father_ to maintain that it is as toothsome as a Manchet, or that I eat it to whiten my Teeth, for thereby he robs Self-deniall of its Grace."

_Father_, strange to say, seemed taken at Vantage, and was pausing for a Retort, when _Hobson_ coming in and whispering Somewhat in his Ear, he rose suddainlie and went forthe of the Hall with him, putting his Head back agayn to say, "Rest ye alle awhile where ye be," which we did, uneasilie enow. Anon he returns, brushing his Cap, and says calmlie, "Now, let's forthe to Church," and clips _Mother's_ Arm beneathe his owne and leads the Way. We follow as soon as we can; and I, listing to him more than to the Priest, did think I never hearde him make Response more composedlie, nor sing more lustilie, by the which I founde myself in stouter Heart. After Prayers, he is shriven, after which he saunters back with us to the House; then brisklie turning on his Heel, cries to my Husband, "Now, _Will_, let's toward, Lad," and claps the Wicket after him, leaving us at t'other Side without so much as casting back a parting Look. Though he evermore had beene avised to let us companie him to the Boat, and there kiss him once and agayn or ever he went, I know not that I should have thoughte much of this, had not _Daisy_, looking after him keenly, exclaymed somewhat shortlie as she turned in Doors, "I wish I had not uttered that Quip about the Cob-loaf."

Oh, how heavilie sped the Day! The House, too big now for its Master's diminished Retinue, had yet never hitherto seemed lonesome; but now a Somewhat of drearie and dreadfull, inexpressible in Words, invisible to the Eye, but apprehended by the inner Sense, filled the blank Space alle about. For the first Time, everie one seemed idle; not only disinclined for Businesse, but as though there were Something unseemlie in addressing one's Self to it. There was nothing to cry about, nothing to talk over, and yet we alle stoode agaze at each other in Groups, like the Cattle under the Trees when a Storm is at hand. _Mercy_ was the first to start off. I held her back and said, "What is to do?" She whispered, "Pray." I let her Arm drop, but _Bess_ at that Instant comes up with Cheeks as colourless as Parchment. She sayth, "'Tis made out now. A Pursuivant _de Facto_ fetched him forthe this Morning." We gave one deep, universal Sigh; _Mercy_ broke away, and I after her, to seek the same Remedy, but alack, in vayn....

_15th._

How large a Debt we owe you, wise and holie Men of old! How ye counsel us to Patience, incite us to Self-mastery, cheer us on to high Emprize, temper in us the Heat of Youth, school our Inexperience, calm the o'erwrought Mind, allay the Anguish of Disappointment, cheat Suspense, and master Despair.... How much better and happier ye would make us, if we would but list your Teaching!

_Bess_ hath fallen Sick; no marvell. Everie one goeth heavilie. Alle Joy is darkened; the Mirthe of the House is gone.

_Will_ tells me, that as they pushed off from the Stairs, _Father_ took him about the Neck and whispered, "I thank our LORD, the Field is won!" Sure, _Regulus_ ne'er went forthe with higher Self-devotion.

Having declared his Inabilitie to take the Oath as it stoode, they bade him, _Will_ tells me, take a Turn in the Garden while they administered it to sundrie others, thus affording him Leisure for Re-consideration. But they might as well have bidden the Neap-tide turn before its Hour. When called in agayn, he was as firm as ever, so was given in Ward to the _Abbot_ of _Westminster_ till the _King's_ Grace was informed of the Matter. And now, the Fool's wise Saying of vindictive _Herodias_ came true, for 'twas the _King's_ Mind to have Mercy on his old Servant, and tender him a qualifyed Oath; but Queen _Anne_, by her importunate Clamours, did overrule his proper Will, and at four Days' End, the full Oath being agayn tendered and rejected, _Father_ was committed to the Tower. Oh, wicked Woman, how could you?... Sure, you never loved a Father....

_May 22d._

In Answer to our incessant Applications throughout this last Month past, _Mother_ hath at length obtayned Access to dear _Father_. She returned, her Eyes nigh swollen to closing with weeping.... We crowded round about, burning for her Report, but 'twas some Time ere she coulde fetch Breath or Heart to give it us. At length _Daisy_, kissing her Hand once and agayn, draws forthe a disjoynted Tale, somewhat after this Fashion.

"Come, give over weeping, dearest _Mother_, 'twill do neither him, you, nor us anie Goode.... What was your first Speech of him?"

"Oh, my first Speech, Sweetheart, was, 'What, my Goodness, Mr. _More_! I marvell how that you, who were always counted a wise Man, should now soe play the Fool as to lie here in this close, filthy Prison, shut up with Mice and Rats, when you mighte be abroade and at your Liberty, with the Favour of King and Council, and return to your righte fayr House, your Books and Gallery, and your Wife, Children, and Household, if soe be you onlie woulde but do what the Bishops and best learned of the Realm have, without Scruple, done alreadie.'"

"And what sayd he, _Mother_, to that?" ...

"Why, then, Sweetheart, he chucks me under the Chin and sayeth, 'I prithee, good Mistress _Alice_, to tell me one Thing.' ... Soe then I say, 'What Thing?' Soe then he sayeth, 'Is not this House, Sweetheart, as nigh Heaven as mine own?' Soe then I jerk my Head away and say, 'Tilly-valley! Tilly-valley!'"

Sayth _Bess_, "Sure, _Mother_, that was cold Comfort.... And what next?"

"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.

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."