THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THOS MORE (continued 2)

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.

"She cometh hither from Hever Castle."

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.

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.

"and sayth, low bowing as he spoke, 'Madam, my Lord is gone.'"

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.

The Stairs.

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.

"his fearlesse passage through the Traitor's Gate"

At length we stayed rowing: Will lifted me out, kissed me, heartened me up; and, indeede, I was in better Heart then, having been quietlie in Prayer a good While. After some few Forms, we were led through sundrie Turns and Passages; and, or ever I was aware, I founde myself quit of my Companions and in Father's Arms.

We both cried a little at first; I wonder I wept noe more, but Strength was given me in that Hour. As soone as I coulde, I lookt him in the Face, and he lookt at me, and I was beginning to note his hollow Cheeks, when he sayd, "Why, Meg, you are getting freckled;" soe that made us bothe laugh. He sayd, "You shoulde get some Freckle-water of the Lady that sent me here; depend on it, she hath Washes and Tinctures in Plenty; and after all, Meg, she'll come to the same End at last, and be as the Lady all Bone and Skin, whose ghastlie Legend used to scare thee soe when thou wert a Child. Don't tell that Story to thy Children; 'twill hamper 'em with unsavoury Images of Death. Tell them of heavenlie Hosts a-waiting to carry off good Men's Souls in fire-bright Chariots, with Horses of the Sun, to a Land where they shall never more be surbated and weary, but walk on cool, springy Turf and among Myrtle Trees, and eat Fruits that shall heal while they delight them, and drink the coldest of cold Water, fresh from the River of Life, and have Space to stretch themselves, and bathe, and leap, and run, and, whichever Way they look, meet Christ's Eyes smiling on them. Sure, Meg, who would live, that coulde die? One mighte as lief be an Angel shut up in a Nutshell as bide here. Fancy how gladsome the sweet Spirit woulde be to have the Shell cracked! no matter by whom; the King, or King's Mistress.... Let her dainty Foot but set him free, he'd say, 'For this Release, much Thanks.' ... And how goes the Court, Meg?"

"In Faith, Father, never better.... There is Nothing else there, I hear, but Dancing and Disporting."

"Never better, Child, sayst thou? Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to consider what Misery, poor Soul, she will shortlie come to. These Dances of hers will prove such Dances that she will spurn our Heads off like Footballs; but 'twill not be long ere her Head will dance the like Dance. Mark you, Meg, a Man that restraineth not his Passions, hath always Something cruel in his Nature, and if there be a Woman toward, she is sure to suffer heaviest for it, first or last.... Seek Scripture Precedent for't ... you'll find it as I say. Stony as Death, cruel as the Grave. Those Pharisees that were, to a Man, convicted of Sin, yet haled a sinning Woman before the Lord, and woulde fain have seene the Dogs lick up her Blood. When they lick up mine, deare Meg, let not your Heart be troubled, even though they shoulde hale thee to London Bridge, to see my Head stuck on a Pole. Think, most dear'st, I shall then have more Reason to weep for thee than thou for me. But there's noe weeping in Heaven; and bear in Mind, Meg, distinctlie, that if they send me thither, 'twill be for obeying the Law of God rather than of Men. And after alle, we live not in the bloody, barbarous old Times of Crucifyings and Flayings, and immersing in Cauldrons of boiling Oil. One Stroke, and the Affair's done. A clumsy Chirurgeon would be longer extracting a Tooth. We have oft agreed that the little Birds struck down by the Kite and Hawk suffer less than if they were reserved to a naturall Death. There is one sensible Difference, indeed, between us. In our Cases, Preparation is a-wanting."

Hereon, I minded me to slip off the Haircloth and Rope, and give the same to him, along with the Books and Suckets, all which he hid away privatelie, making merry at the last.

"'Twoulde tell well before the Council," quoth he, "that on searching the Prison-cell of Sir Thomas More, there was founde, flagitiouslie and mysteriouslie laid up ... a piece of Barley-sugar!"

Then we talked over sundrie Home-matters; and anon, having now both of us attayned unto an equable and chastened Serenitie of Mind, which needed not any false Shows of Mirth to hide the naturall Complexion of, he sayth, "I believe, Meg, they that have put me here ween they have done me a high Displeasure; but I assure thee on my Faith, mine owne good Daughter, that if it had not beene for my Wife, and for you, my dear good Children, I woulde faine have beene closed up, long ere this, in as strait a Room, and straiter too."

Thereon, he shewed me how illegal was his Imprisonment, there being noe Statute to authorize the Imposition of the Oath, and he delivered himself, with some Displeasure, agaynst the King's ill Counsellors.

"And surelie, Meg," quoth he, "'tis pitie that anie Christian Prince shoulde, by a flexible Council readie to follow his Affections, and by a weak Clergy lacking Grace to stand constantly to the Truth as they have learned it, be with Flattery so constantly abused. The Lotus Fruit fabled by the Ancients, which made them that ate it lose all Relish for the daylie Bread of their own Homes, was Flattery, Meg, as I take it, and Nothing else. And what less was the Song of the Syrens, agaynst which Ulysses made his Sailors stop their Ears, and which he, with all his Wisdom, coulde not listen to without struggling to be unbound from the Mast? Even Praise, Meg, which, moderately given, may animate and cheer forward the noblest Minds, yet too lavishly bestowed, will decrease and palsy their Strength, e'en as an Over-dose of the most generous and sprightlie Medicine may prove mortiferous. But Flattery is noe Medicine, but a rank Poison, which hath slayn Kings, yea, and mighty Kings; and they who love it, the Lord knoweth afar off; knoweth distantlie, has no care to know intimatelie, for they are none of his."

Thus we went on, from one Theme to another, till methinketh a heavenlie Light seemed to shine alle about us, like as when the Angel entered the Prison of Peter. I hung upon everie Word and Thought that issued from his Lips, and drank them in as thirsty Land sucks up the tender Rain.... Had the Angel of Death at that Hour come in to fetch both of us away, I woulde not have sayd him nay, I was soe passively, soe intenselie happy. At length, as Time wore on, and I knew I shoulde soone be fetcht forthe, I coulde not but wish I had the Clew to some secret Passage or Subterraneal, of the which there were doubtless Plenty in the thick Walls, whereby we might steal off together. Father made Answer, "Wishes never filled a Sack. I make it my Businesse, Meg, to wish as little as I can, except that I were better and wiser. You fancy these four Walls lonesome; how oft, dost thou suppose, I here receive Plato and Socrates, and this and that holy Saint and Martyr? My Gaolers can noe more keep them out than they can exclude the Sunbeams. Thou knowest, Jesus stood among his Disciples when the Doors were shut. I am not more lonely than St. Anthony in his Cave, and I have a divine Light e'en here, whereby to con the Lesson, 'God is Love.' The Futility of our Enemies' Efforts to make us miserable was never more stronglie proven to me than when I was a mere Boy in Cardinall Morton's Service. Having unwittinglie angered one of his Chaplains, a choleric and even malignant-spirited Man, he did, of his owne Authoritie, shut me up for some Hours in a certayn damp Vault, which, to a Lad afeard of Ghosts and devilish Apparitions, would have beene fearsome enow. Howbeit, I there cast myself on the Ground with my Back sett agaynst the Wall, and mine Arm behind my Head, this Fashion ... and did then and there, by reason of a young Heart, quiet Conscience, and quick Phansy, conjure up such a lively Picture of the Queen o' the Fairies' Court, and alle the Sayings and Doings therein, that never was I more sorry than when my Gaoler let me goe free, and bade me rise up and be doing. In place, therefore, my Daughter, of thinking of me in thy Night Watches as beating my Wings agaynst my Cage Bars, trust that God comes to look in upon me without Knocking or Bell-ringing. Often in Spiritt I am with you alle; in the Chapel, in the Hall, in the Garden; now in the Hayfield, with my Head on thy Lap, now on the River, with Will and Rupert at the Oar. You see me not about your Path, you won't see my disembodied Spiritt beside you hereafter, but it may be close upon you once and agayn for alle that: maybe, at Times when you have prayed with most Passion, or suffered with most Patience, or performed my Hests with most Exactness, or remembered my Care of you with most Affection. And now, good Speed, good Meg, I hear the Key turn in the Door.... This Kiss for thy Mother, this for Bess, this for Cecil, ... this and this for my whole School. Keep dry Eyes and a hopefull Heart; and reflect that Nought but unpardoned Sin shoulde make us weep for ever."

September.

Seeing the Woodman fell a noble Tree, which, as it went to the Ground, did uptear severall small Plants by the Roots, methoughte such woulde be the Fall of dear Father, herein more sad than that of the Abbot of Sion and the Charterhouse Monks, inasmuch as, being celibate, they involve noe others in theire Ruin. Brave, holie Martyrs! how cheerfully they went to theire Death. I'm glad to have seene how pious Men may turn e'en an ignominious Sentence into a kind of Euthanasy. Dear Father bade me note how they bore themselves as Bridegrooms going to theire Marriage, and converted what mighte have beene a Shock to my surcharged Spiritts, into a Lesson of deepe and high Comfort.

One Thing hath grieved me sorelie. He mistooke Somewhat I sayd at parting for an Implication of my Wish that he shoulde yield up his Conscience. Oh no, dearest Father, that be far from me! It seems to have cut him to the Heart, for he hath writ that "none of the terrible Things that may befall him touch him soe nearlie as that his dearly beloved Child, whose Opinion he soe much values, shoulde desire him to overrule his Conscience." That be far from me, Father! I have writ to explayn the Matter, but his Reproach, undeserved though it be, hath troubled my Heart.

November.

Parliament will meet to-morrow. 'Tis expected Father and the good Bishop of Rochester will be attainted for Misprision of Treason by the slavish Members thereof; and though not given hithertoe unto much Heede of Omens and Bodements while our Hearts were light and our Courage high, yet now the coming Evill seemeth foreshadowed unto alle by I know not how many melancholick Presages, sent, for aught we know, in Mercy. Now that the days are dark and short, and the Nights stormy, we shun to linger much after Dusk in lone Chambers and Passages, and what was sayd of the Enemies of Israel may be nigh sayd of us, "that a falling Leaf shall chase them." I'm sure "a going in the Tops of the Mulberry Trees" on a blusterous Evening, is enow to draw us alle, Men, Mothers, and Maids, together in an Heap.... We goe aboute the House in Twos and Threes, and care not much to leave the Fireside. Last Sunday we had closed about the Hearth, and little Bill was a reading by the Fire-light how Herodias' Daughter danced off the Head of St. John the Baptist, when down comes an emptie Swallow's Nest tumbling adown the Chimnie, bringing with it enow of Soot, Smoke, and Rubbish to half smother us alle; but the Dust was nothing to the Dismay thereby occasioned, and I noted one or two of our bravest turn as pale as Death. Then, the Rats have skirmished and gallopped behind the Wainscoat more like a Troop of Horse than a Herd of such small Deer, to the infinite Annoyance of Mother, who coulde not be more firmly persuaded they were about to leave a falling House, if, like the scared Priests in the Temple of Jerusalem, she had heard a Voyce utter, "Let us depart hence." The round upper Half of the Cob-loaf rolled off the Table this Morning; and Rupert, as he picked it up, gave a Kind of Shudder, and muttered somewhat about a Head rolling from the Scaffold. Worse than this was o' Tuesday Night.... 'Twas Bed-time, and yet none were liking to goe, when, o' suddain, we hearde a Screech that made every Body's Heart thrill, followed by one or two hollow Groans. Will snatches up the Lamp and runs forth, I close following, and alle the others at our Heels; and after looking into sundrie deserted Cup-boards and Corners, we descend the broad Stone Steps of the Cellars, half way down which Will, stumbling over something he sees not, takes a flying Leap to clear himself down to the Bottom, luckily without extinguishing the Lamp. We find Gillian on the Steps in a Swoon; on bringing her to, she exclayms about a Ghost without a Head, wrapped in a Winding-sheet, that confronted her and then sank to the Ground as she entered the Vaults. We cast a fearfulle Look about, and descry a tall white Sack of Flour, recently overturned by the Rats, which clears up the Mystery, and procures Gillian a little Jeering; but we alle return to the Hall with fluttered Spiritts. Another Time I, going up to the Nurserie in the Dark, on hearing Baby cry, am passed on the Stairs by I know not what, breathing heavilie. I reache forthe my Arm, but pass cleare through the spirituall Nature, whatever it is, yet distinctlie feel my Cheek and Neck fanned by its Breath. I turn very faint, and get Nurse to goe with me when I return, bearing a Light, yet think it as well to say nought to distress the rest.

But worst of alle was last Night.... After I had beene in Bed awhile, I minded me that deare Will had not returned me Father's Letter. I awoke him, and asked if he had broughte it up Stairs; he sleepily replied he had not, soe I hastily arose, threw on a Cloke, took a Light, and entered the Gallery; when, half-way along it, between me and the pale Moonshine, I was scared to behold a slender Figure alle in white, with naked Feet and Arms extended. I stoode agaze, speechlesse, and to my Terror made out the Features of Bess ... her Eyes open, but vacant; then saw John Dancey softly stealing after her, and signing to me with his Finger on his Lips. She passed without noting me, on to Father's Door, there knelt as if in Prayer, making a low sort of Wail, while Dancey, with Tears running down his Cheeks, whispered, "'Tis the third Time of her thus sleep-walking ... the Token of how troubled a Mind!"

We disturbed her not, dreading that a suddain Waking might bring on Madness; soe after making Moan awhile, she kisses the senseless Door, rises up, moves towards her own Chamber, followed by Dancey and me, wrings her Hands a little, then lies down and graduallie falls into what seems a dreamlesse Sleep, we watching her in Silence till she's quiet, and then squeezing each other's Hands ere we part.

----Will was wide awake when I got back; he sayd, "Why, Meg, how long you have beene! coulde you not lighte on the Letter?" ... When I tolde him what had hindered me by the Way, he turned his Face to the Wall and wept.

Midnight.

The wild Wind is abroad, and, methinketh, nothing else. Sure, how it rages through our empty Courts! In such a Season, Men, Beasts, and Fowls cower beneath the Shelter of their rocking Walls, yet almost fear to trust them. Lord, I know that thou canst give the Tempest double Force, but do not, I beseech thee! Oh! have Mercy on the frail Dwelling and the Ship at Sea.

Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish Attack. I watch beside him whilst his Nurse sleeps. Earlie in the Night his Mind wandered, and he told me of a pretty pyebald Poney, noe bigger than a Bee, that had golden Housings and Barley-sugar Eyes; then dozed, but ever and anon kept starting up, crying, "Mammy dear!" and softlie murmured, "Oh!" when he saw I was by. At length I gave him my Forefinger to hold, which kept him ware of my Presence without speaking; but presentlie he stares hard towards the Foot of the Bed, and says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon Hatchet in the Air, with its sharp Edge turned towards us?" I rise, move the Lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?" He sayth, "No, not now," and closes his Eyes. After a good Space, during the which I hoped he slept, he says in quite an altered Tone, most like unto soft, sweet Music, "There's a pretty little Cherub there now, alle Head and noe Body, with two little Wings aneath his Chin; but, for alle he's soe pretty, he is just like dear Gaffer, and seems to know me ... and he'll have a Body agayn too, I believe, by and by.... Mother, Mother, tell Hobbinol there's such a gentle Lamb in Heaven!" And soe, slept.

17th.

He's gone, my pretty...! slipt through my Fingers like a Bird! upfled to his own native Skies; and yet, whenas I think on him, I cannot choose but weepe.... Such a guilelesse little Lamb!... My Billy-bird! his Mother's owne Heart!—They are alle wondrous kind to me....

27th.

How strange that a little Child shoulde be permitted to suffer soe much Payn, when of such is the Kingdom of Heaven! But 'tis onlie transient, whereas a Mother makes it permanent, by thinking it over and over agayn. One Lesson it taughte us betimes, that a naturall Death is not, necessarilie, the most easie. We must alle die.... As poor Patteson was used to say, "The greatest King that ever was made, must bed at last with Shovel and Spade," ... and I'd sooner have my Billy's Baby Deathbed than King Harry's, or Nan Boleyn's either, however manie Years they may yet carry Matters with a high Hand. Oh, you Ministers of Evill, whoever ye be, visible or invisible, you shall not build a Wall between my God and me.... I've Something within me grows stronger and stronger, as Times grow more and more Evill; some woulde call it Resolution, but methinketh 'tis Faith.

Meantime, Father's Foes ... alack that anie can shew 'emselves such! are aiming, by fayr Seemings of friendlie Conference, to draw from him Admissions they can come at after noe other Fashion. The new Solicitor Generall hath gone to the Tower to deprive him of the few Books I have taken him from Time to Time.... Ah, Master Rich, you must deprive him of his Brains afore you can rob him of their Contents!... and, while having 'em packt up, he falls into easie Dialogue with him, as thus, ... "Why now, sure, Mr. More, were there an Act of Parliament made that all the Realm shoulde take me for King, you woulde take me for such with the Rest."

"Aye, that would I, Sir," returns Father.

"Forsooth, then," pursues Rich, "we'll suppose another Act that should make me the Pope. Woulde you not take me for Pope?"

"Or suppose another Case, Mr. Rich," returns Father, "that another Act shoulde pass, that God shoulde not be God, would you say well and good?"

"No, truly," returns the other hastily, "for no Parliament coulde make such Act lawful."

"True, as you say," repeats Father, "they coulde not," ... soe eluded the Net of the Fowler; but how miserable and unhandsome a Device to lay wait for him thus!

... I stole forthe, ere 'twas Lighte, this damp chill Morning, to pray beside the little Grave, but found dear Daisy there before me. How Christians love one another!

Will's Loss is as heavie as mine, yet he bears with me tenderlie. Yesternighte, he sayth to me half reproachfullie, "Am not I better unto thee than ten Sons?"

March, 1535.

Spring comes, that brings Rejuvenescence to the Land, and Joy to the Heart, but it brings none to us, for where Hope dieth, Joy dieth. But Patience, Soul; God's yet in the Aumry!

May 7.

Father arraigned.

July 1.

By Reason of Will's minding to be present at the Triall, which, for the Concourse of Spectators, demanded his earlie Attendance, he committed the Care of me, with Bess, to Dancey, who got us Places to see Father on his Way from the Tower to Westminster Hall. We coulde not come at him for the Crowd, but clambered on a Bench to gaze our very Hearts away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, grey-haired, yet in Mien not a Whit cast down. Wrapt in a coarse woollen Gown, and leaning on a Staff; which unwonted Support when Bess markt, she hid her Eyes on my Shoulder and wept sore, but soon lookt up agayn, though her Eyes were soe blinded, I think she coulde not see him. His Face was calm, but grave, as he came up, but just as he passed he caughte the Eye of some one in the Crowd, and smiled in his old, frank Way; then glanced up towards the Windows with the bright Look he hath soe oft cast to me at my Casement, but saw us not. I coulde not help crying "Father," but he heard me not; perchance 'twas soe best.... I woulde not have had his Face cloud at the Sighte of poor Bessy's Tears.

... Will tells me the Indictment was the longest ever hearde; on four Counts. First, his Opinion on the King's Marriage. Second, his writing sundrie Letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counselling him to hold out. Third, refusing to acknowledge his Grace's Supremacy. Fourth, his positive Deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the King of his Dignity and Title.