CHAPTER SIX

DESPITE MORE'S LAMENTATIONS that he had scant opportunity for literary activity, his pen was constantly engaged. In his thirty-fifth year we have seen that he was a busy man at law, yet this is the year he produced The History of King Richard III, the last of the House of York, and like everything of his invention it was composed with care. He wrote both in Latin and English, yet curiously enough The History was never finished. It could scarcely have been because he thought it was without merit. It was too good for that. The spirit which drives an author and buoys his dream could not have deserted him with such abruptness. Either he lacked the leisure to complete this excellent work, or, perhaps, he felt the need of caution in dealing with matters that might offend his young sovereign.

More's style in the Latin version has been likened to that of Tacitus, and it is generally acknowledged that in the vernacular it was the first and best history of its kind for many generations. He planned that it should be a history of his age. It was both a criticism of the structure of government and attack against the evils of tyrants. The eloquent prose was to give Shakespeare inspiration and material for his Richard 111, and the mood of its theme was to provide its own author with the spirit that was responsible for Utopia.

The pitiable state of the common man, and the dire need for a new system of society, had long been the subject uppermost in the thoughts of More and his Humanist friends. The promise and person of the young Henry provided a bright hope, but in the fifth year of his reign there were already signs of the dark and brutal route that lay ahead.

This year of 1513 was the year of Flodden and of the invasion of France. Aided, and indeed prompted, by Wolsey, the young king was giving way to his martial dreams and grandiose schemes. The genius of Wolsey had brought forth the organization of a great army, the formation of a new fleet. The delights that Henry had found in philosophy and religion receded before the more active thrills of drum and cannon. The tramp of his soldiery, the booming salutes of his ships, intoxicated the young prince. Wearing his scarlet and gold, he paraded his warriors and lived in gleeful anticipation of conquest and victory. While the tattle group of Humanists frowned and worried, Henry played with his fleet as a child with his toys. He had his portrait painted on the deck of a ship of war. He delighted in his title of Supreme Head of the King's Navy Royal, and, as such, trumpeted on a large gold whistle. His ships answered in reverberating salute. He gave these gaily painted, well-bannered craft pretty and brave names. There were the Dragon, the Lion, the Mary Rose, the Mary George, the Mary John, the George of Falmouth, the Anne of Greenwich, the Peter Pomegranate. With a side glance at the scholars, one little vessel was named Erasmus.

The pretext for war was accompanied with an easy conscience that was soon to become familiar to England's King. Henry named some of his cannon after the Apostles, for this quarrel with France was, according to him, a Holy War. In crossing the Channel he actually was defending the Church and freeing it, so he proclaimed, "from the savage King of the French, who is the common enemy of all Christian princes."

The war with the Scots was also, according to his thinking, "a just, holy and somewhat necessary war," for the Scottish king in addition to his friendship with the French, had spoken against "the sovereign pontiff, the head of our religion."

Giving support to these pious exclamations, always giving encouragement to the King's every whim, bowing, twisting, manipulating, entrenching himself in favour and power, wearing the cloth but prompting the sword, was the priest Wolsey, already rich in benefices and hungry for more, the patient and able architect of the new reign. His dreams now had dazzling scope. With this impetuous prince as instrument, England could become master of Europe, and on that grand scale England's destiny seemed to be his own fate. In his thoughts the cardinalitial splendour was a certainty, the tiara even not improbable.

More's good friend, Dean Colet, did not hesitate to voice open disapproval of the martial policies when he preached before Henry on Good Friday of 1513. His sermon was a bold attack on the evils of war and the wickedness of those who waged war. The King sent for him that very afternoon, and with some trepidation the Dean answered the summons. But the young monarch was all humility. He professed great piety and said he was in accord with Colet's sermon. Most wars were born of man's hatred and ambition, he agreed, but surely on occasion there was need for good men to defend that which was right. The Dean could not gainsay this logic, and then Henry in the same pious and humble vein, and with all his charm, explained that the French were definitely schismatics and enemies of the Church. This war was in truth a just war, and surely the good Dean would so mention in his next sermon. Colet murmured his surrender and received a royal embrace. The King called for wine and proposed Colet's health, "Let every one have his own doctor," he said, "and let every one favour his own; this man is the doctor for me.''[l]

Back on the Continent, the disillusioned Erasmus voiced his disgust. "I often wonder," he wrote, "what thing it is that drives, I will not say Christians, but men, to such a degree of madness as to rush with so much pains, so much cost, so much risk, to the destruction of one another! . . . For us, who glory in the name of Christ . . . can anything in the world be of so great concern as to provoke us to war, a thing so calamitous and so hateful, that even when it is most righteous, no truly good man can approve it."[2]

While More was sharing with Colet and Erasmus this deep hatred of war and passion for peace, his fine legal training and his personal charm were attracting the attention of Wolsey, whose great schemes needed able men. More's talents were too pronounced to escape the attention of so alert a prelate. There were difficulties between the merchants of London and those of Flanders, and More was appointed to an embassy which was to represent the English interest. In the early summer of 1515 the envoys made their departure from England, and it was with heavy heart that the homeloving More said farewell to his family. Accompanying him as a fellow envoy was his friend, Cuthbert Tunstall, later to be Bishop of London. In addition to their royal credentials they carried a letter of introduction from Erasmus addressed to Peter Giles, the Town Clerk of Antwerp. He described More and Tunstall as being "the two most learned men of all England . . . both great friends of mine. If you should have an opportunity of offering them any civility, your services will be well bestowed."[3]

Another to travel with them was Richard Sampson, who represented Wolsey. Henry's armies had taken the town of Tournay from the French, and promptly Wolsey had acquired the bishopric of that region. Sampson was appointed his Vicar General, despite the resentment and objections of both Flemings and French, and he was instructed to impose his claims with vigorous authority, while at the same time wearing the cloak of diplomatic immunity. "Handle the matter boldly," he was ordered by his acquisitive master, "and fulminate the censures, not fearing for any excommunication of any man."

In More's mind the ambassadorial honour was poor compensation for leaving his family. There was also the question of expense. His lucrative legal practice naturally suffered during his absence, and he had no other revenues. "When I am away, I have two households to maintain, one in England and another abroad. I received a liberal allowance from the King for the persons I took with me, but no account is taken of those whom I leave at home." More's typical humour shows in this same letter. "Although you know what a kind husband, what an indulgent father, what a considerate master I am, yet I have never been able to induce my family to go without food during my absence. . ."[4]

He expected his stay abroad would not be more than sixty days, but because of the Tournay troubles the negotiations dragged, and he was gone for six months. His own finances reached a critical state. Tunstall reported to Wolsey: "Master More at this time, as being at a low ebb, desires by Your Grace to be set on float again."[5] Most of his time abroad was spent in the cities of Bruges, Brussels, and Antwerp, and it was during this period that the imaginary island of Utopia was given design.

The seed that Erasmus had planted with his letter of introduction to Peter Giles flowered into a companionship which was rich in intellectual productivity. The Englishman and his new friend utilized the long waits necessary to official duties by constantly discussing and analyzing the problems that agitated them. These talks and an appreciation of the wide attention given Erasmus' The Praise of Folly certainly did much to provide More with the inspiration to employ his pen in tracing his own conception of the reforms and philosophy necessary to an ideal commonwealth.

Utopia is divided into two books. The first book, which was written last and in more haste, was completed in 1516, the year of publication. It consists of a thinly disguised account of the wrongs that existed in the England of More's day. The second book, completed a year before, is a brilliant jeu d'esprit. For the amusement of his friends More took an idea-the idea of a society ruled by reason without Revelation-and followed where the idea led him. The Utopians are without Revelation, and for More, Revelation is essential to the conduct of life. With only reason to guide them-and not Reason in the abstract but their own fallible reason-they can but do their best: let us see what their best is, says More. He keeps a straight face, but amusement is the point. Every so often seriousness breaks in mainly where indignation at contemporary contrasts is too strong for him. The moment over, he resumes the straight face and the brilliant fantasy. One imagines how the humourless learned have misread the book ever since. No one can be certain where this powerful, humorous mind is merely enjoying itself, where it is wholly serious. The natural tendency is to assume that More meant it, whenever he describes the Utopians doing something the reader agrees with. It is a highly unsafe rule, and has led to results as funny as anything in Utopia.

More began Utopia in an apparently realistic vein. He describes how his official duties took him to Antwerp, where he met Peter Giles, "a man of . . . honest reputation . . . Upon a certain day when I had heard the divine service in our Ladies Church I chanced to espy this . . . Peter talking with a certain stranger, a man well stricken in age, with a black sunburned face, a long beard, and a cloak cast homely about his shoulders, whom, by his favour and apparel forthwith I judged to be a mariner."[6] But More meets the stranger and finds him to be no mariner but a Portuguese philosopher with a liking for travel. He is Raphael Hythlodaye, the admiring observer of Utopia. The traveller tells his attentive listeners that he had accompanied the famous Amerigo Vespucci on his last three voyages. He had not returned with the explorer on the final voyage but had elected to stay with some companions on the coast of Brazil, and from that distant region he had slowly journeyed to Ceylon and Calicut and from thence home. He had seen many strange things and odd people. More invites him to a garden seat and the fabulous account begins.

There was ample reason to connect the story with the voyages of Amerigo Vespucci. Europe was then excited with the inviting horizons of the New World. Before More had attained his majority John Cabot had anchored off the American mainland. Before Henry VIII had ascended the throne, the chant of Sebastian Cabot's leadsmen, proclaiming their fathoms, had echoed over the cold waters of what we now call Hudson Bay. Returning navigators had strange stories to relate, and not the least of these tales was the legend of a civilized and prosperous people who held property in common and who, unlike Europeans, did not struggle for gold or gems. Even while Utopia was being written, More's brother in-law, John Rastell, with the help of the More family, was organizing a colonization venture. Eventually his ship, the Barbara, left Greenwich, but the voyage failed because of a mutiny. The ambition remained in the family, and at a later date his son, John, crossed the ocean and landed in Labrador.

More's main interest, however, centered nearer home. His opinion of the King's service is clearly expressed early in the first book. Hythlodaye's listeners are impressed by his knowledge and wisdom, and Peter Giles puts him the question: "Surely Master Raphael . . . I wonder greatly, why you get you not into some king's court. For I am sure, there is no prince living that would not be very glad of you, as a man not only able highly to delight him with your profound learning and this your knowledge of countries and peoples, but also meet to instruct him with examples, and help him with counsel."[7] Hythlodaye replied that he has no wish to give himself in "bondage to Kings," and when further pressed says: "For, first of all, the most part of all princes have more delight in warlike matters and feats of chivalry (the knowledge whereof I neither have nor desire) than in the good feats of peace, and employ much more study how by right or wrong to enlarge their dominions, than how well and peaceably to rule and govern that they have already . . ."[8] Later he remarks bitterly that philosophy has "no place amongst Kings."

The dialogue continues. Existing conditions and injustices are discussed. Hythlodaye relates of the Utopians: "Among whom with very few laws, all things be so well and wealthily ordered, that virtue is had in price and estimation, and yet, all things being there common, every man hath abundance of everything." He agrees with Plato: "and do nothing marvel that he would make no laws for them, that refused those laws, whereby all men should have and enjoy equal portions of wealth and commodities. For the wise man did easily foresee this to be the one and only way to the wealth of a commonalty, if equality of all things should be brought in and established. Which I think is not possible to be observed, where every man's goods be proper and peculiar to himself . . . Thus I do fully persuade myself, that no equal and just distribution of things can be made . . . unless this property be exiled and banished . . ."

More disagrees: "Methinketh that men shall never there live wealthily, where all things be common. For how can there be abundance of goods, or of anything, where every man withdraweth his hand from labour? Whom the regard of his own gains driveth not to work, but the hope that he hath in other men's travail maketh him slothful . . ."[9]

Hythlodaye assures him that such a system works well in Utopia, whereupon More beseeches him to "describe unto us the island. And study not to be short, but declare largely in order their grounds, their rivers, their cities, their people, their manners, their ordinances, their laws, and, to be short, all things that you shall think us desirous to know." Hythlodaye agrees, but first the three men decide to dine. They return to the quiet of the garden and More gives the order to his servants "that no man should trouble us.''[l0] The traveller then enters into that graphic narrative comprising the second book of Utopia, which reflects the author's protests against the social injustices of his own time.

There can be no doubt that Utopia was intended for a limited audience. Following the example of Plato, More utilized dialogue in the first book. As a skilled advocate, he sought to expose the weaknesses and wrongs of that which was his target by having them defended and explained by an interlocutor. He well realized that this classic pattern of presenting his thesis could be misunderstood and misinterpreted by the untutored, and for that reason Utopia was not written in English. Years after its composition, in his Confutation, he said: "I say therefore in these days in which men by their own default misconstrue and take harm of the very scripture of God, until men better amend, if any man would now translate Moriae into English, or some works either that I have myself written ere this, albeit there be none harm therein, folk yet being (as they be) given to take harm of any that is good, I would, not only my darling's [meaning Erasmus] books but mine own also, help to burn them both with mine own hands, rather than folk should (though through their own fault) take any harm of them, seeing that I see them likely in these days so to do.''[ll]

Despite his words, misinterpretation was to linger through the centuries, until, in our own time, we find the Director of the Karl Marx-Engels Institute of the Central Executive Committee of the Union of Soviet Republics writing to the Sisters of Beaufort Street Convent in London for information "about that great communist Thomas More."

The year in which Utopia was published (1516) was a memorable year for Erasmian reformers as well. In Febwary Erasmus published the greatest of his works, Novum Instrumentum, his Greek text of the New Testament, the editing of which had taken him sixteen years to write. A month later he published the Institute of the Christian Prince, dedicated to the young King, Charles of Castile and the Netherlands. It was an eloquent treatise against war and a cry for justice to the poor. In this same summer the Dutch scholar could also report that the first portion of the great edition of Jerome was finished and that he was dedicating it to Archbishop Warham of Canterbury. "Would that in all our princes were the same mind that is in you," he addressed the prelate, "then these insane and wretched wars would end, and rulers would turn their minds to making their age illustrious by the arts of peace."[l2]

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