But to all this there was a supplement. He was asked whether he would obey the king's highness as supreme head on earth, immediately under Christ, of the church of England, and him so repute, take, accept, and recognise according to the statute. To this he said that he could make no answer. He was next asked whether he would consent and approve the king's highness's marriage with the most noble queen Anne to be good and lawful, and affirm that the marriage with the lady Catherine, Princess Dowager, was, and is, unjust and unlawful. He replied, that he did never speak ror meddle against the same, but that he would make no further answer. Finally, they demanded whether he, being one of the king's subjects, was not bound to recognise the supremacy as all other subjects were bound thereto by the statute. He replied again that he could make no answer. Before this he had said, in an affecting letter, "I am the king's true faithful subject and daily beadsman. I pray for his highness, and all his, and all the realm. I do nothing harm; I say no harm; I think none harm; and wish everybody good; and if this be not enough to keep a man alive, in good faith I long not to live. I am dying already; and, since I came here, have been divers times in the case that I thought to die within one hour. And, I thank our Lord, I was never sorry for it, but rather sorry when I saw the pang past; and, therefore, my poor body is at the king's pleasure. Would to God my death might do him good!" But this mixture of an almost heavenly meekness with an heroic firmness made no impression on the king, who was now drunk and mad with the heady spirit of absolutism. By his orders they had deprived that glorious wit and scholar of the sweet solace of his books-Rich, the king's solicitor, having been sent to the Tower to take them all from him. Nay, they had even deprived him of pen, and ink, and paper. Some commiserating soul, however,-probably poor George-put some scraps of paper in his way; and on such materials, and with a piece of charcoal, he wrote his last letter to his beloved child. At length, after a year's most trying imprisonment, he was brought out of the Tower, led on foot through the crowded streets to Westminster Hall, and there arraigned of high treason. He appeared in that court where he had once presided as an upright judge, in a coarse woollen gown, bearing about him frightful evidences of a rigorous confinement. His hair had become white, his face was pallid and emaciated, and he was obliged to support himself on a staff. But the mind was much less bowed and bent, and some of his old wit and vivacity soon lighted up his sunken eye; and his vile judgesthe slavish instruments of a despot-dreaded his eloquence, and the sympathy which the mere sight of him excited. They attempted to overpower and confound him with the length and wordiness of the indictment. But after declining an offer of pardon, upon condition of doing the king's will, he entered upon a clear and eloquent defence, stripping the clauses of their false coverings, and exposing them in their nakedness and nothingness. He maintained that neither by word nor deed had he done any thing against the king's marriage with Anne Boleyn: he had, indeed, disapproved of that business, but he had never expressed this disapprobation to any other person than the king, who had commanded him, on his allegiance, to give his real opinion. As to his having sought to deprive the king of his new title of supreme head of the church, he said that all that he had done was to be silent thereon, and that silence was not treason. But his doom was fixed by those who had put themselves above all law or scruples of conscience. The infamous Rich, the solicitor-general, who was afterwards created Lord Rich, deposed that, in a private conversation he had had with the prisoner in the Tower, More said, "the parliament cannot make the king the head of the church, because it is a civil tribunal without authority in spiritual matters." More denied that he had spoken these words; and he remarked upon the character which Rich had borne in the

world, and which was so bad as to render even his oath unworthy of belief. Two witnesses were produced to support the charge made by Rich; but, in their case, conscience got the better of authority, and they declared that, though they were in the room, they did not pay attention to what was said. The judges, who were assisted by the duke of Norfolk, and other great men appointed by the king, laid it down as a law that silence was treason, and the jury without any hesitation, returned a verdict of guilty. When sentence had been pronounced More rose to address the court: he was coarsely interrupted. He tried again, and was again interrupted; but on a third attempt he was allowed to proceed. He told them that what he had hitherto concealed he would now openly declare, and he boldly proclaimed that the oath of supremacy was utterly unlawful. He regretted to differ from the noble lords whom he saw on the bench, but his conscience would not permit him to do otherwise. He declared that he had no animosity against them, and that he hoped that, even as St. Paul was present and consented to the death of Stephen, and yet was afterwards a companion saint in heaven, so they and he should all meet together hereafter. "And so," he concluded, "may God preserve you all, and especially my lord the king, and send him good counsel !" As he moved from the bar his son rushed through the hall, fell upon his knees, and begged his blessing. With the axe turned towards him he walked back to the Tower, amid the great wonderment and commiseration of the citizens. On reaching the Tower-wharf his dear daughter, Margaret Roper, forced her way through the officers and halberdiers that surrounded him, clasped him round the neck, and sobbed aloud. Sir Thomas consoled her, and she collected sufficient power to bid him farewell for ever; but, as her father moved on, she again rushed through the crowd and threw herself upon his neck. Here the weakness of nature overcame him, and he wept as he repeated his blessing and his Christian consolation. The people wept too; and his guards were so much affected that they could hardly summon up resolution to separate the father and daughter. After this trial the anguish of death was past. The old man's wit flashed brightly in his last moments. When told that the king had mercifully commuted the hanging, drawing, and quartering unto simple decapitation, he said, "God preserve all my friends from such royal favours!" This happy vein accompanied him to the very scaffold. The frame-work was weak, and some fears were expressed lest the scaffold might break down. "Mr. Lieutenant," said More, " see me safe up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself." The executioner, as usual, asked forgiveness. "Friend," said More, "thou wilt render me to-day the greatest service in the power of man; but my neck is very short; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry, for the sake of the credit of thy profession." He was not permitted to address the spectators, but he ventured to declare that he died a faithful subject and a true Catholic. After prayers said, he placed his head upon the block, but he bade the headsman hold his hand until he removed his beard, saying, with a smile, "my beard has never committed any treason." Then the blow fell, and the neck was severed at once. His head was picked up, and fixed upon London Bridge.

More was executed on the 6th of July, the eve of St. Thomas, in the year 1535, fourteen days after the death of his friend Fisher. These detestable murders spread a panic through the nation; and the expression of the popular opinion, however timid and meek, went, with the workings of his own conscience, to increase the tyrant's jealousy and apprehension. In the month of August, Erasmus wrote to a friend that the English were now living in such a state of terror, that they durst not write to foreigners or receive letters from them. In fact, in all foreign countries where civilization had made progress, the fate of Fisher, and still more of that admirable wit and scholar, the author of the 'Utopia, excited universal execration;

and there, at least, men could speak their minds loudly. The lofty eloquence of Cardinal Pole, and the classical point of Erasmus, recorded the crime, and their striking accounts were afterwards circulated throughout Europe, awakening everywhere a hatred of its brutal author. It is reported of the emperor Charles, that, on being informed of the execution, he sent for sir Thomas Eliott, the English ambassador, and thus addressed him :-"My lord ambassador, we understand that your master has put to death his faithful servant, and grave and wise counsellor, sir Thomas More." Eliott replied that he had heard nothing of it. "Well," said the emperor, "it is but too true; and this will we say, that if we had been master of such a servant, of whose abilities ourself have had these many years no small experience, we would rather have lost the best city in our dominions than so worthy a counsellor." Nor did Charles's rival, the French king, feel a less lively emotion. He spoke of the executions in severe terms, and ventured to tell the English ambassador at his court, that his master should banish such offenders, rather than put to death. At this Henry was greatly incensed, and he impudently gave Francis to understand that they had suffered by due course of law-that they were well worthy to have suffered ten times a more terrible death and execution-that if they had a thousand lives they were all forfeited.

161.-SUPPRESSION OF THE MONASTERIES

HUME.

There was only one particular in which Henry was quite decisive; because he was there impelled by his avarice, or, more properly speaking, his rapacity, the consequence of his profusion: this measure was, the entire destruction of the monasteries; the present opportunity seemed favourable for that great enterprise, while the suppression of the late rebellion fortified and encreased the royal authority; and as some of the abbots were suspected of having encouraged the insurrection, and of corresponding with the rebels, the king's resentment was farther incited by that motive. A new visitation was appointed of all the monasteries in England; and a pretence only being wanted for their suppression, it was easy for a prince, possessed of such unlimited power, and seconding the present humour of a great part of the nation, to find or feign one. The abbots and monks knew the danger to which they were exposed; and having learned, by the example of the lesser monasteries, that nothing could withstand the king's will, they were most of them induced, in expectation of better treatment, to make a voluntary resignation of their houses. Where promises failed of effect, menaces, and even extreme violence, were employed; and as several of the abbots since the breach with Rome had been named by the court with a view to this event, the king's intentions were the more easily effected. Some also, having secretly embraced the doctrine of the reformation, were glad to be freed from their vows; and on the whole, the design was conducted with such success, that in less than two years the king had got possession of all the monastic revenues.

In several places, particularly in the county of Oxford, great interest was made to preserve some convents of women, who, as they lived in the most irreproachable manner, justly merited, it was thought, that their houses should be saved from the general destruction. There appeared also great difference between the case of nuns and that of friars; and the one institution might be laudable, while the other was exposed to much blame. The males of all ranks, if endowed with industry, might be of service to the public; and none of them could want employment suited tc his station and capacity. But a woman of family who failed of a settlement in the

marriage state, an accident to which such persons were more liable than women of lower station, had really no rank which she properly filled; and a convent was a retreat both honourable and agreeable, from the inutility and often want which attended her situation. But the king was determined to abolish monasteries of every denomination; and probably thought that these ancient establishments would be the sooner forgotten, if no remains of them of any kind were allowed to subsist in the kingdom.

The better to reconcile the people to this great innovation, stories were propagated of the detestable lives of the friars in many of the convents; and great care was taken to defame those whom the court had determined to ruin. The reliques also, and other superstitions, which had so long been the object of the people's veneration, were exposed to their ridicule; and the religious spirit, now less bent on exterior observances and sensible objects, was encouraged in this new direction. It is needless to be prolix in an enumeration of particulars: protestant historians mention on this occasion, with great triumph, the sacred repositories of convents; the pairings of St. Edmond's toes; some of the coals that roasted St. Laurence; the girdle of the Virgin shewn in eleven several places; two or three heads of St. Ursula ; the felt of St. Thomas of Lancaster, an infallible cure for the head-ach; part of St. Thomas of Canterbury's shirt; some reliques, an excellent preventive against rain; others, a remedy to weeds in corn. But such fooleries, as they are to be found in all ages and nations, and even took place during the most refined periods of antiquity, form no particular or violent reproach to the catholic religion.

There were also discovered, or said to be discovered, in the monasteries, some impostures of a more artificial nature. At Hales in the county of Gloucester there had been shown, during several ages, the blood of Christ brought from Jerusalem; and it is easy to imagine the veneration with which such a relique was regarded. A miraculous circumstance also attended this miraculous relique; the sacred blood was not visible to any one in mortal sin, even when set before him; and till he had performed good works sufficient for his absolution, it would not deign to discover itself to him. At the dissolution of the monastery the whole contrivance was detected. Two of the monks who were let into the secret had taken the blood of a duck, which they renewed every week: they put it in a phial, one side of which consisted of thin and transparent chrystal, the other of thick and opaque. When any rich pilgrim arrived, they were sure to shew him the dark side of the phial, till masses and offerings had expiated his offences; and then finding his money, or patience, or faith, nearly exhausted, they made him happy by turning the phial.

A miraculous crucifix had been kept at Boxley in Kent, and bore the appellation of the Rood of Grace. The lips, and eyes, and head of the image moved on the approach of its votaries. Hilsey bishop of Rochester broke the crucifix at St. Paul's cross, and shewed to the whole people the springs and wheels by which it had been secretly moved. A great wooden idol revered in Wales, called Darvel Gatherin, was brought to London, and cut in pieces: and by a cruel refinement in vengeance it was employed as fuel to burn friar Forest, who was punished for denying the supremacy, and for some pretended heresies. A finger of St. Andrew, covered with a thin plate of silver, had been pawned by a convent for a debt of forty pounds; but as the king's commissioners refused to pay the debt, people made themselves merry with the poor creditor on account of the pledge.

But of all the instruments of ancient superstition no one was so zealously destroyed as the shrine of Thomas à Becket, commonly called St. Thomas of Canterbury. This saint owed his canonization to the zealous defence which he had made for clerical privileges: and on that account also the monks had extremely encou

raged the devotion of pilgrimages towards his tomb; and numberless were the miracles which they pretended his reliques wrought in favour of his devout votaries. They raised his body once a year; and the day on which this ceremony was performed, which was called the day of his translation, was a general holiday. Every fiftieth year there was celebrated a jubilee to his honour, which lasted fifteen days; plenary indulgences were then granted to all that visited his tomb, and a hundred thousand pilgrims have been registered at a time in Canterbury. The devotion towards him had quite effaced in that place the adoration of the Deity; nay, even that of the Virgin. At God's altar, for instance, there were offered in one year three pounds two shillings and sixpence; at the Virgin's, sixty-three pounds five shillings and sixpence; at St. Thomas's, eight hundred and thirty-two pounds twelve shillings and three pence. But next year the disproportion was still greater. There was not a penny offered at God's altar; the Virgin's gained only four pounds one shilling and eightpence; but St. Thomas had got, for his share, nine hundred and fifty-four pounds six shillings and threepence. Lewis VII. of France had made a pilgrimage to this miraculous tomb, and had bestowed on the shrine a jewel, esteemed the richest in Christendom. It is evident how obnoxious to Henry a saint of this character must appear, and how contrary to all his projects for degrading the authority of the court of Rome. He not only pillaged the rich shrine dedicated to St. Thomas, he made the saint himself be cited to appear in court, and be tried and condemned as a traitor; he ordered his name to be struck out of the calendar, the office for his festival to be expunged from all breviaries, his bones to be burned, and the ashes to be thrown in the air.

On the whole, the king at different times suppressed six hundred and forty-five monasteries, of which twenty-eight had abbots that enjoyed a seat in parliament. Ninety colleges were demolished in several counties; two thousand three hundred and seventy-four chantries and free chapels; a hundred and ten hospitals. The whole revenue of these establishments amounted to one hundred and sixty one thousand one hundred pounds. It is worthy of observation, that all the lands and possessions and revenue of England had a little before this period been rated at four million a year; so that the revenues of the monks, even comprehending the lesser monasteries, did not exceed the twentieth part of the national income, a sum vastly inferior to what is commonly apprehended. The lands belonging to the convents were usually let at very low rent; and the farmers, who regarded themselves as a species of proprietors, took always care to renew their leases before they expired.

Great murmurs were every where excited on account of these violences; and men much questioned whether priors and monks, who were only trustees or tenants for life, could, by any deed, however voluntary, transfer to the king the entire property of their estates. In order to reconcile the people to such mighty innovations, they were told that the king would never thenceforth have occasion to levy taxes, but would be able, from the abbey lands alone, to bear during war as well as peace the whole charges of government. While such topics were employed to appease the populace, Henry took an effectual method of interesting the nobility and gentry in the success of his measures: he either made a gift of the revenues of convents to his favourites and courtiers, or sold them at low prices, or exchanged them for other lands on very disadvantageous terms. He was so profuse in these liberalities, that he is said to have given a woman the whole revenue of a convent, as a reward for making a pudding which happened to gratify his palate. He also settled pensions on the abbots and priors, proportioned to their former revenues or to their merits; and gave each monk a yearly pension of eight marks. He erected six new bishoprics, Westminster, Oxford, Peterborow, Bristol, Chester, and Gloucester; of