CHAPTER FIVE

ONCE THOMAS MORE was certain that the way of the Carthusians was not for him, he not only applied himself to his profession but also turned his attention to public affairs. In the beginning of the year 1504 he was elected to the House of Commons "for many had now taken notice of his sufficiency." He was only twenty-four, but immediately he won celebrity by raising an eloquent voice against the wishes of the King. It was risky business, this opposition to a cunning ruler whose avarice and greed matched his dynastic ambitions.

Henry VII had convened this parliament to extort money in the form of "reasonable aids, on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter and the knighting of his son." The royal request was in accord with feudal practice, but the subsidy demanded was preposterously high, one hundred and thirteen thousand pounds. This at a time when: "a fat ox sold for twenty-six shillings, and a chicken bought for a penny." The son, Prince Arthur, was already dead, and it was certain that even if Parliament did accede to Henry's wishes, his daughter would not carry a too extravagant dowry to her Scottish spouse. Nevertheless, a docile Commons probably would have submitted if young Thomas More had not rallied and strengthened the opposition. He spoke with the audacity of youth, the brilliance of a natural orator, and the logic of an adept practitioner of the law.

His words stirred the hearts of his older colleagues. Their courage mounted. They rejected the King's exorbitant demands, and though a grant was finally voted, it was less than one third of the original request. A Mr. Tyler, one of the King's Privy Chamber, did what was expected of him and rushed to Henry with the information that "a beardless boy had disappointed all his purpose. Whereupon the King, conceiving great indignation towards him, could not be satisfied until he had some way revenged it."[1]

Tudor revenge was notoriously prompt and fierce, but on this occasion, for some reason, the irascible monarch bided his time. Perhaps the knowledge of law that his young antagonist had displayed before Parliament made the wily prince seek some form of legality. He gave a long and thorough look at the Mores, father and son, and on a trumped-up charge had the father arrested and imprisoned in the Tower until a fine of a hundred pounds was levied and paid.

More and his friends were alarmed. He thought of fleeing the country, and with exile in mind, he began to study French and to withdraw from his practice at the bar. That he had good cause for fear is shown in his son-in-law's account of the following incident. According to Roper, More brought a suit to Dr. Fox, Bishop of Winchester, a member oœ the King's Privy Counsel. The Bishop called him aside, "and pretending great favour towards him, promised him that, if he would be ruled by him he would not fail into the King's favour again to restore him-meaning (as it was after conjectured), to cause him thereby to confess his offenses against the King, whereby His Highness might with the better colour have occasion to revenge his displeasure against him. But when he came from the Bishop, he fell into communication with one Master Whitford, his familiar friend, then chaplain to that Bishop . . . and showed him what the Bishop had said unto him, desiring to have his advice, therein; who for the passion of God, prayed him in no wise to follow his counsel: 'For my Lord, my master,' quoth he, 'to serve the King's turn, will not stick to agree to his own father's death.' [2]

More did not return to the Bishop again, nor did he make any confessions to the King. How wise was this friendly counsel may be deduced from the legendary account of the two notorious unfortunates, Dudley and Empson. Upon being led to their execution, Dudley spied More and cried: "Oh, More, Morel God was your good friend that you did not ask the King forgiveness, as many would have had you do, for if you had done so, perhaps you should have been in the like case with us now."[3]

During the year that preceded the death of Henry VII, More crossed the Channel, ostensibly to transact legal affairs on behalf of a group of merchants, but, in the interests of prudence, he probably was also seeking a suitable refuge in case he had to flee. While on the Continent he visited the universities of Louvain and Paris. Seven years later he described that visit in a letter to Martin Dorp: "I was in both those universities and though not for a very long time, yet I took pains to ascertain what was taught there and what methods were followed. Though I respect both of them, yet neither from what I saw then, nor from what I have since heard, have I found any reason why, even in dialectics, I should wish any sons of mine (for whom I desire the very best education) to be taught there rather than at Oxford or Cambridge."[4]

The projected exile did not materialize, for the Kmg died and the hostilities of his reign were pushed to the past even while the candles of his requiem still burned. His son took the throne. "dive le Royl" cried the chief herald, and all England, released from the strain of the old King, joyfully acclaimed the name of Henry the Eighth.

A new era was promised in the splendid person of this magnificent boy. Tall and handsome, rich in intellect, rich in power, rich in purse, eager for learning, eager for justice, the eighteen-year-old prince embodied the hopes of an entire nation. The most discerning eye could yet not detect in the broad-shouldered, spectacularly beautiful youth any trace of the besotted tyrant, the cruel butcher, the lustful libertine.

At his side was Wolsey, already splendid, already rich, already chaplain to the young monarch, soon to be Almoner, planning the first of his great mansions, lifting his eyes to the scarlet, happy in his dreams of power.

Happy too was sombre-eyed little Catherine of Aragon. It was nearly seven long years since the Spanish Princess had landed at Plymouth amidst the gaudy flutter of Spanish standards and the welcome of English bells. It had not been easy for her in this strange land. Her Spanish ways and her Spanish retinue were often regarded with suspicion. Even More wrote of her court: "You would have burst with laughing if you had seen them. They looked like devils out of Hell." But in the same letter he gave voice to a loyalty to Catherine which was never to wane. "There is nothing wanting in her, that the most beautiful girl should have . . . May this famous marriage be fortunate and of good omen to England."[5]

The young Princess, puppet of dynasts and courts, had obediently accepted her betrothed, Arthur, the King's first son. He was younger than she, and a sickly creature. Upon her marriage to the frail boy her escort to the altar had been his younger brother Henry, then a sturdy ten-year-old youngster, intended by his penurious father for the Church and the revenues of Canterbury. But the royal union had never been consummated. Within a few months Arthur was dead, and again the fate of the Princess became the shuttlecock of dynasts. One hundred thousand crowns, half of her dowry, had been paid into the coffers of Henry VII, and he had no intention of returning it. Many decisions, not helped by the slow communication with the Spanish court, had to be made. The tacticians maneuvered with exasperating procrastination, and the young girl, tremulous with the aches of homesickness and uncertainty, bowed to their discipline. At length a dispensation had been procured from Pope Julius II to allow her to marry her husband's brother. The betrothal was solemnly made official, but the English King had demurred and postponed the wedding, intently scanning the shifting and complicated course of the Toledo court, carefully weighing the advantages against the disadvantages of a Spanish alliance.

The negotiation with Rome had also been slow. The watchful ladies of Catherine's little court, so close to her in person and thoughts, were fiercely willing to swear that the marriage had never been consummated, that the nuptial bed of the sick boy and innocent girl had meant nothing. Nevertheless, the proceedings, delayed by the deaths of two Popes, had dragged on until the urgent appeals of Queen Isabella resulted in a Brief which was privately dispatched to Spain. Later a Bull of a more public character was promulgated. During these happenings, so important to her destiny, her father-in-law kept Catherine and her retinue in a seclusion marked by parsimonious restrictions and in an atmosphere of uncertainty and rumour. He also kept a firm grip on that portion of her dowry which had already been paid. The death of his wife Elizabeth of York, following the delivery of the* eighth child, created a new situation. Five of the children were already dead. There remained two daughters and but one son. The entire fortunes of the Tudor dynasty depended upon the life of this boy prince. Henry was forty-six, and not unreasonably he thought of another marriage and more sons to ensure the succession. His eyes for a short time turned upon Catherine, but from Spain came indignant objections and a suggestion instead that he choose a more fitting spouse in the person of the widowed Queen of Naples. With fairly good grace he then abandoned the somewhat unsavory plan of uniting himself with Catherine and agreed she should marry his remaining son.

Henry VII died on April 21, lS09, and in the clement days of May was lowered to his grave in kingly splendour. Not so regal was the wedding which followed nine weeks later, for, while Catherine worried and waited, a council had deliberated on her worth in the game of politics. There were those who favoured alliance with Spain and there were those who would rather seek friendship with France. One of the latter was the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he was willing to protest the papal dispensation and thus invoke the Levitical law. During the preceding intrigue the young Henry had secretly been taken before a bishop and instructed to protest his betrothal. But in the shadows of his father's deathbed, he had also solemnly vowed to follow the parental wish. He kept that promise, and soon, at the oratory of the Franciscan Observants in Greenwich, Catherine finally became England's Queen, joined to Henry by the very prelate who had wished to question the validity of the dispensation.

All England extravagantly welcomed the new King. All men lived in a joyful anticipation of a happy and enlightened reign. But no men were more happy than the scholars who comprised the advocates of the New Learning. They knew of the new sovereign's enlightened views and his sympathy for their speculations. It was certain that in his person they now had an ardent and enthusiastic patron. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of the jousting ground and gaming tables, the gossip of the court were not sufficient for the monarch. Mountjoy joyously reported to Erasmus that the young king had expressed his wish that he was more learned.

"That is not what we expect of your grace," answered Mountjoy, "but that you will foster and encourage learned men."

"Yea surely," came the humble reply, "for indeed without them we should scarcely exist at all."[6]

Henry's scholarship and his desire for even more knowledge was surprising. He had a working knowledge of Latin. His theology was better than that of many in orders. Astronomy fascinated him and the science of geometry did not repel him. He could discuss Aquinas with the same ease that he could compose a tune or fashion a couplet. The golden-haired youth was also a poet. In these early days of his reign (when Anne Boleyn was still in her cradle) he wrote of constancy:

Green groweth the holly, so cloth the ivy Though winter blasts blow never so high. Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green And never changeth hue, So I am, ever have been, Unto my lady true.[7]

The advent of the new regime lifted the heavy weight that had oppressed Thomas More during the latter years of the reign of Henry VII. Because of his bold action in Parliament, the hardships and uncertainty of exile had been a very active threat while the old king had lived. A new life in a new country might not have been too irksome for a bachelor, but in 1509 More was not only a husband but a father. Since his marriage to Jane Colt in 1505, four children had arrived, three girls and one son. Margaret was the eldest, then came Elizabeth and Cecilia and finally his only son, John. Inevitably parenthood widened the scope of his affections, but the broad vista of family love was clouded by responsibility The enthronement of the enlightened young King dissipated the dismal likelihood of flight abroad. Thomas More was now able to speak his mind and practice his profession. The joy in his heart inspired him to hail the youthful sovereign in the lyrical lines of a Latin poem, in which he enumerated the virtues of Henry and his ancestors; the noble heart of his grandfather, Edward IV; the piety of his grandmother, the Lady Margaret; the kindliness of his mother, Elizabeth of York; the prudence of his father, Henry VII; nor did he omit Queen Catherine, whom he compared to the faithful Greek wives, Alcestis and Penelope. In concluding his verses, More dwelt on the son whom Catherine was to bear Henry to perpetuate his dynasty, and in so doing the poet proved a poor prophet, as he himself must have ruefully confessed to himself in the sad years that terminated the royal marriage.

But in 1509 Henry's subjects rejoiced in the death of tyranny and the rebirth of liberty. Mountjoy dispatched a letter to his old teacher, Erasmus, who was then in Italy, inviting him to return to England:

"Oh, my Erasmus," he wrote, "if you could see how all the world here is rejoicing in the possession of so great a prince, how his life is all their desire, you could not contain your tears for joy. . . Avarice is expelled the country. Liberality scatters wealth with bounteous hand. Our King does not desire gold or gems or precious metals, but virtue, glory, immortality . . . Make up your mind that the last day of your wretchedness has dawned. . . You will come to a Prince who will say, 'Accept our wealth and be our greatest sage.'"[8] Erasmus had mounted far on the ladder of success since his first meeting with More. His name was held in high esteem throughout Europe and he was regarded as the foremost oracle of his time. He was welcome at the tables of rulers and high prelates, but because of the promise inherent in the reign of the young English monarch, he joyfully accepted MountJoy's invitation to return to England and share in the blessings of the new reign.

To while away the tedium of the long journey from Italy to England, most of which was made on horseback, Erasmus composed his famous panegyric, Moriae Encomium, or The Praise of Folly. In the epistle to More which served as the dedication to the work, Erasmus confessed that he was prompted to write the Moriae by the resemblance between More's family name and the Greek word for "fool." "In the next place I surmised, that this playful production of our genius would find special favour with you, disposed as you are to take pleasure in jests of this kind, jests, which, I trust, are neither ignorant nor quite insipid,--and generally in society, to play a sort of Democritus. . . You will therefore not only willingly receive this little declamation, as a memento of your comrade, but will adopt and protect it, as dedicated to you, and become not mine, but yours."[9]

The actual writing of the book was done in More's house. On his arrival, Erasmus suffered an acute attack of lumbago. Having none of his own books at hand, he occupied himself in setting his Moriae on paper.

In April, 1511, Erasmus, tired of waiting for favours that never came, left England for Paris, where was published his Moriae Encomium. It promptly went into seven editions. But Erasmus, like More in his panegyric to the young King, had overshot his mark. The Praise of Folly was a denunciation on the part of the Humanists of the evils of their time. It decried the dishonesty and irreverence among clericals, the methods of Biblical interpretation used by scholars, the irresponsibilities and vaingloriousness of rulers, and other blatant social evils. The object was reform, but the tone was light, and Moriae furnished heavy ammunition for those who questioned authority, and particularly the authority of Rome. Thomas More was too closely identified with the Moriae to escape criticism. On being charged with aiding irreverence, he refuted the charge and defended Erasmus, at one and the same time.

"Nor if there were any such thing in Moriae, that thing could not yet make any man see that I were myself of that mind, the book being made by another man, though he were my darling never so dear. Howbeit, that book of Moriae cloth indeed but jest upon the abuses of such things, after the manner of the jester's part in a play.''[10]

For more than two years Erasmus waited hopefully for a summons from Henry VIII to return to England. Finally, John Fisher, Chancellor of Cambridge University, persuaded him to come to the University to lecture in Greek. In September, 1513, Erasmus took refuge from the plague with his friends the Gunnells at Landbeach. In the beginning of January, 1514, he determined to leave England. He returned to the continent and settled at Basle.

More had assiduously applied himself to the business of law. Success came with remarkable quickness, and soon he was the recipient of an annual income, according to Roper, that exceeded four hundred pounds. It is difficult to judge the worth of money from one age to the next, but one may hazard the estimate that More's income, compared with modern standards, approximated one hundred thousand dollars per year. So great were the demands made upon him. ". . . there was at that time in none of the Princes' Courts of the laws of this realm," recorded his son-in-law, "any matter of importance in controversy wherein he was not with the one part of counsel. [11]

His hours were crowded, yet he found time to accept an appointment as Under-Sheriff of London, a judicial office of no small importance. More performed the duties of his offlce every Thursday morning and held it to be a high honour. He was careful but quick in his decisions, and there was a great traffic in his court. He was just, he had wide knowledge of the law, and often when the litigants were poor he remitted the fees due him. The care and skill and wisdom which More displayed as a judge did much to win him the esteem and popularity of his fellow citizens, and it also gave him a valuable and profound schooling in human nature.

Success at the bar was matched by domestic tranquillity. The little misunderstandings between the bride and groom, the scholar and the country miss, had vanished after six years of marriage. Jane had now some understanding of her husband's bent and was not afraid of his distinguished friends. She had learned to perform on the viol and she could sing prettily. Like most young parents she and her husband dreamed of, and made plans for, a larger residence.

Her husband had definite and elaborate ideas for the education of his children. They were all to be scholars. The girls were not to be exempted because of their sex for unlike most of his contemporaries, he held enlightened views on the position and education of women.

"Nor do I think that the harvest will be much affected whether it is a man or a woman who sows the field. They both have the same human nature, which reason differentiates from that of beasts; both therefore are equally suited for those studies by which reason is perfectioned, and becomes fruitful like a ploughed land on which the seed of good lessons has been sown. If it be true that the soil of woman's brain be bad, and after to bear bracken than corn, by which saying many keep women from study, I think, on the contrary that a woman's wit is on that account all the more diligently to be cultivated, that nature's defect may be redressed by industry."[l2]

With tender care his theory had been given practice with his wife. Throughout the long months of one pregnancy after another, he had moulded her young mind to an appreciation of the delights of the intellect. But it was not all sombre study. There was singing and there were games and there was much romping with the children. There was great joy in the More household, and oftentimes he was disturbed because of the long hours which his profession forced him to spend away from his hearth.

He held a particular devotion to his firstborn, Margaret, which was never to waver and which always was to be reciprocated. "Meg" was his pet name for her, and as the eldest child she was the first to undergo his carefully prepared training. She was taught Latin, Greek, Logic, Philosophy, Theology, Mathematics, and Astronomy. It was a formidable course upon which to embark a youmg girl, but its terrors were lightened by the charm and humour and genius of More's personal direction and understanding.

Margaret was only five years old and her young brother not yet a year when their mother, the sweet-natured Jane, suddenly died.

Before a month passed More married again. It was a deliberate action. He had four young children, three of whom were girls, in his house. Professional tasks and civic duties occupied most of his hours. No matter how scrupulously and carefully he acted the father, there still remained the necessity of a mother's care. With this thought in mind he chose a widow, seven years older than himself, Mistress Alice Middleton. Of her children by her first husband, one, Alice, was young enough to be brought up with More's children. It was a practical arrangement, this union. His second wife was a good woman and an efficient housekeeper, although she was never able to attain a full understanding of the many sides of her husband's character. Years later Father Bouge, More's parish priest, wrote of the suddenness of the second marriage: "I buried his first wife. And within a month after, he came to me on a Sunday, at night, late, and there he brought me a dispensation to be married the next Monday, without any banns asking . . . This Mr. More was my ghostly child: in his confession to be so pure, so clean, with great study, deliberation, and devotion, I never heard many such. . ."[13]

Jane, the mother of his children, was never forgotten by More. Nearly twenty years later, when he made ready for his own burial, he had her coffin transferred to the grave he thought he would occupy. He wrote his epitaph and in his graceful Latin she took her place as "dear Jane, Thomas More's little wife."

By the time he had reached his thirty-fifth birthday, Thomas More had achieved a state of living that would have satisfied the aims of most men. He was a lawyer with a wide and lucrative practice. As Under-Sheriff he had gained an envied position in the City of London. He was a popular Bencher amongst his colleagues at Lincoln's Inn. He was an acknowledged scholar with a large circle of distinguished friends. He was a fond parent and a considerate husband.

His every hour was apportioned to a duty or a task, and he was jealous of inconsequentialities that diverted or stole his time. He thought he was neglecting his literary work. In a letter to his friend Peter Giles he complained: "For while in pleading, in hearing, in deciding causes, or composing disputes as an arbitrator, in waiting on some men about business, and on others out of respect, the greatest part of the day is spent on other men's affairs, the remainder of it must be given to my family at home; so that I can reserve no part to myself, that is, to study. I must gossip with my wife and chat with my children, and find something to say to my servants; for all these things I reckon a part of my business, unless I were to become a stranger in my house; for with whomsoever either nature or choice or chance has engaged a man in any relation of life, he must endeavour to make himself as acceptable to them as he possibly can. In such Occupations as these, days, months, and years slip away. Indeed all the time which I can gain to myself is that which I steal from my sleep and my meals, and because that is not much I have made but a slow progress.''[14]

He made no mention of the long hours he gave to religious exercises. Every morning saw him at Mass. Every day this busy lawyer recited prayers and read the Psalms with his household. He made numerous pilgrimages, and m the interest of self-discipline he underwent austerities that were worthy of the monastery. He was always reticent about this phase of his life, this taming of the flesh. Even when he became Lord Chancellor of the realm he wore beneath the splendid robe of office a hair shirt that chafed and bloodied his body.

The act of penance was confided to his beloved elder daughter Margaret, and it was she who washed the penitential garment. She was capable of understanding such asceticism, unlike his wife, who strongly disapproved.

Dame Alice could not comprehend the mortification that induced More to wear the hair shirt as antidote to his material success and outward comfort. She went to his confessor and voiced her alarm. "His wife," wrote the priest, "desired me to counsel him to put off that hard and rough shirt of hair: and yet it is very long, almost a twelve-month, ere she knew of this habergeon of hair; it tamed his flesh till the blood was seen in his clothes.''[l5]

More first wore the hair shirt when he was at Oxford, and it was a penance never abandoned. Years after Dame Alice's complaint there is another incident. The heat of a summer day caused More to wear a plain shirt without ruff or collar. A hint of the hair shirt caught the alert eyes of his young daughter-in-law, Anne Cresacre. The girl was amused, but the ever attentive Margaret, according to her husband, "perceiving the same, privily told him of it; and he, being sorry that she saw it, presently amended it." More did not cease the penance until his execution was certain. Then from his cell in the Tower, the hair shirt was sent to Margaret with his last letter.

The Story of Thomas More, by John Farrow

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