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The Camelot Series.
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS.
SIR THOMAS MORE.
THE “UTOPIA” AND THE
L HISTORY OF EDWARD V.,
BY SIR THOMAS MORE, WITH
ROPER'S LIFE. EDITED, WITH
INTRODUCTION, BY MAURICE
ADAMS.
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
CONTENTS.
PAGE,
vii
INTRODUCTION
,
,
,
,
,
,
...
UTOPIA.
EDITOR'S NOTE . . . . . . ... xxxiii
LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE . . . . . I
UTOPIA. . . . . . . . . . 63
THE FIRST BOOK . . . . . . 77
THE SECOND BOOK. . . . . 117
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF KING EDWARD THE FIFTII . - 203
Rsebags. Eriti
170393
Framfer to
A.S. Stocks
Pinto
INTRODUCTION.
SIR THOMAS MORE.
"THE keen, irregular face, the grey restless eye, the thin mobile
lips, the tumbled brown hair, the careless gait and dress, as
they remain stamped on the canvas of Holbein, picture the
inner soul of the man, his vivacity, his restless, all-devouring
intellect, his keen and even reckless wit, the kindly, half-sad
humour that drew its strange veil of laughter and tears over the
deep, tender reverence of the soul within." By these rapid
strokes has the historian of the English people sketched for
us Sir Thomas More, in whorn, in early boyhood, the most
sagacious English statesman of his age, Cardinal Morton, had
detected the promise of a marvellous man; in whom, at the
age of twenty, Colet found "the one genius which Britain
possesses." Sir Thomas More is, in truth, one of the most
striking and original, as well as one of the most attractive
figures of his age and country. He exhibits such a rare union
of light wit and sober sense, of ascetic piety and sceptical free-
thought, of conservative feeling and radical opinion, that
his life has seemed a great enigma. The man who was
one of the foremost champions of the New Learning; who
could jest with Erasmus over the dogmatic absurdities of the
schoolmer, the folly of princes, and the ignorance and super-
stition of the people; who wrote of the happy republic where
religion rested on no authority but that of reason; who taught
that “God's design was the happiness of man, and the ascetic
viii . SIR THOMAS MORE
rejection of human delight save for the common good was
thanklessness to the Giver;"--this man, in his youth, scourged
himself on Fridays; was hardly persuaded to abandon his
intention of becoming a monk; wore for many years a hair
shirt next his skin; wrote bitterly against Tyndall and the
Protestant Reformation; and ended his life on the scaffold
rather than renounce the supremacy of the Pope!
To understand this strange union of contraries in the same
personality, it is necessary, not alone to study the man himself,
but to take a survey of the age in which he lived, and become
acquainted with that small group of distinguished men, of
which he was, perhaps, the central figure.
More's nature, sensitive and many-sided, was responsive to
the most varied and profound influences of his time. Nor was
he merely receptive. He reacted upon his environment in a
manner which gave evidence of the depth and intensity of his
nature and the innate nobility of his character. To the good
cause of justice and freedom, of culture and a noble life, he
devoted freely the rare powers with which nature had endowed
him.
The many-sidedness of his nature enabled him to reflect the
more fully, and sympathise the more deeply with the opposing
tendencies of the age of transition, in which his lot was cast.
For he was born on the very border of the Mediæval and the
Modern World; and in him and his fellow-workers the impulses
and ideas of the New Age were slowly and painfully taking shape
and coming to self-consciousness. The century which gave
him birth witnessed the break up of Feudalism, and the
beginning of that process of individual development and social
disintegration which reached its climax in the Revolution of
1792. The edifice of Mediæval Society, so well organised and
so fair, which might have seemed destined for the final
SIR THOMAS MORE. , ix
abode of the human spirit, had grown to be cramping to the
energies of man, and repressive of his reason. It was rapidly
being destroyed by the intellectual and economic development
of the time; and the Feudal organisation, all the members of
which were interdependent, was succeeded by a social state in
which the unorganised poor became the prey of landowners and
traders. Then arose, for the first time in England, a true
proletariat, divorced from the soil and dependent entirely on
wages, with no resource against old age, sickness, or lack of
employment. But though the misery of the masses was
perhaps never greater, though the social and economic changes
were increasingly to their disadvantage, though the student of
English History gets weary of the ever-increasing despotism of
the Tudors, the intellectual progress of the age was wonderful.
The barriers which had confined men's minds for ages were
falling or crumbling away, and the world was widening to their
view. Within More's lifetime the New World had been dis-
covered, and before his death the globe had been circumnavi-
gated by a ship of Magellan's. The Foreworld of Classical
Antiquity was now to be added to the realms of the scholar.
We must, indeed, go back to the days of Petrarch and
Boccaccio, if we would trace the first beginning of the revival
of Greek learning in Western Europe, just as the knowledge
of other lands began with the Crusades, and was increased by
the travels of Sir John Mandeville and Marco Polo. It remains
true, nevertheless, that it was the exiled Greeks, driven into
Italy by the growth of the Turkish Power, and the Fall of
Constantinople, who first thoroughly aroused the enthusiasm of
philosophy of Greece.
For some time after the revival of learning in Italy, the
rest of Europe continued in intellectual darkness. The light
SIR THOMAS MORE.
of the New Learning, however, reached Paris in 1458; and
though Oxford waited longer for its advent, it was there that
it was destined to shine forth with its clearest ray. Linacre
and Grocyn, fired with zeal, visited Italy in 1485, where Linacre
studied with the sons of Lorenzo de Medici under Chalcon-
dylas and the renowned Poliziano. On their return to Oxford
they began teaching Greek, and opened up to the body of
younger men who gradually assembled round them, wearied
with the barren study of Aristotle and the Schoolmen, a whole
new world of thought and emotion. Six years later Colet
also journeyed in Italy, and felt the influence not alone of
classic culture, but of the purer religious spirit which animated
Savonarola and Pico della Mirandola, and of the disgust
inspired by the enormities of the Pope, Alexander VI., and his
nephew, Cæsar Borgia. He returned to England, not only a
disciple of the New Learning, but with the spirit of a reformer
in Church and State, and his first work on his arrival was to
lecture at Oxford on the Epistle to the Romans. These lectures
formed a new departure. That a layman should lecture on sub-
jects allowed only to the clergy was a great innovation, but his
mode of treating his subjects was still more novel. Instead
of expounding the Epistle in the scholastic manner, which
found an allegory or profundity in every sentence, nay, in
every word, he dealt with it as an historical document, refusing
to consider a text apart from its context, interpreting the
passages in a plain and common-sense way, and endeavouring to
carry his hearers back with him to the times of the writer and
make them feel and think with the apostle. Among these
hearers was a poor scholar of whom he heard during his stay
in Paris, and who had lately come over to England in the
company of one of his pupils, Lord Mountjoy. This was the
man whose name was soon destined to be famous throughout
SIR THOMAS MORE.
Europe, the brilliant and unfortunate Erasmus. He came
to Oxford for the advantages which it offered for the study
of Greek, was moved by Colet's lectures, and in frequent
meetings and conversations with him laid the foundation of
á lifelong friendship. More was at Oxford when Colet had
set out for Italy in 1493 ; but his father fearing that Greek
studies might divert his mind from the law, to which he had
destined him, and perchance also lead him into heresy, had
removed him from the University and entered him at New
Inn. Yet he kept up his friendship with Colet (whose father,
Sir Henry Colet, seems to have been intimate with More's
father) and with his other University friends. It was, perhaps,
at Sir Henry Colet's table that he first met Erasmus, and
the famous encounter of wit took place between them. More
applied himself with great diligence to his legal studies, and
was at length admitted as a barrister. About this time he
lectured in Grocyn's Church, St. Laurence, Jewry, on the
philosophy and historical contents of St. Augustine's City of
God. Though away from the University, he resumed his
study of Greek, and found a competent teacher in his close
friend William Lilly, who had lately returned from the East,
whither he had gone to perfect his knowledge of Hellenic
language and literature. Though More had been called to the
Bar, and a brilliant future seemed to offer itself to his youth-
ful ambition, he felt a distaste for the world for what reason
we are not told--and being now completely dominated by
that ascetic spirit which never quite deserted him, he lived
for some time in the Charterhouse with Lilly, both of them
submitting to the severest discipline, intending to become
monks. Fortunately, More, either through disgust with the
monkish life on a closer acquaintance, or through the per-
suasion of his friends, Colet and Erasmus, finally renounced
xii
SIR THOMAS MORE.
the cloister, and threw himself into the life of his time. He
became Under-Sheriff of London, and was elected a member
of the Parliament called together by Henry VII. in 1504, in
order to extort money from the Commons in the form of
“reasonable aids," on the occasion of the marriage of his
daughter and the knighting of his son.
More carried with him into active life the principles which
he at first thought could only be realised in a cloister. In
defence of the oppressed and overtaxed subjects of Henry
VII., he alone arose in a servile House of Commons to
oppose the subsidy of three-fifteenths (or £113,000), which
Henry had claimed, instead of the feudal aids; and “made
such arguments and reasons there against that the King's
demands were thereby overthrown," and but £30,000 granted
him, Henry was greatly enraged when he learned that he
had been foiled in his purposes by a "beardless boy," and
imprisoned More's father in the Tower. For the next few
years More dwelt in retirement from public life, married,
and settled with his young wife in the house in Bucklersbury,
where his children were born, and where Erasmus was
afterwards his guest, and wrote the Praise of Folly.
Thus in the early years of the sixteenth century, the little
fellowship of scholars, henceforth devoted to the New Learning
and to Progress was already formed, but they were not yet
fully equipped for their work, nor were the times ripe for their
teaching. Colet, indeed, was made Dean of St. Paul's in 1505,
and began the preaching of those famous sermons which con-
tributed so much to the overthrow of the old orthodoxy; but
Erasmus had yet scarcely freed himself from the fetters of
Scholasticism, and More was in disgrace and retirement.
Yet their principles and aims were gradually becoming clear
to them, and they were ready to turn to advantage the change
SIR THOMAS MORE,
xiii
of affairs which must follow on the death of Henry VII. It will
be well to pause and consider what they were really contending
for. First and foremost they were Apostles of Culture. They
felt that the superstition of the time, and the evils which beset
Church and State, could never be effectually removed whilst
the masses of the people were in dense ignorance, and the Old
Learning, with its cumbrous weight of useless subtlety, reigned
in the schools and colleges of the land.
It is hard for us now to realise the difficulties which in those
days the scholar was forced to encounter from the beginning to
the end of his training, and the mass of useless lumber with
which his mind was overladen at the end of his painful course.
The unfortunate child was sent to a school-described by
Erasmus as a prison or a dungeon-in which a barbarous Latin
was taught in a still more barbarous manner, and where he was
mercilessly beaten, because, forsooth, "boys' spirits must be
subdued.” Leaving the school, and entering the university, the
young man learned nothing “except Alexander, the Parva
Logicalia (as they call them), with the old-established Readings
on Aristotle, and the Questions of Scotus." Of these, Alexander
was a ponderous rhymed grammar, and of the Parva Logicalia
More jestingly remarked that it was called the Little Logicals
from the little logic it contained.
Colet therefore initiated a great reforming movement when
he devoted the fortune left him by his father to the establish-
ment of a school in which children should be treated with
fect literature, and come at last to be great clerks." In 1512 St.
Paul's school was opened, with Lilly for head-master, who drew
up for the use of his pupils a greatly simplified Latin grammar,
which afterwards formed the basis of that used at Eton.
xiv
SIR THOMAS MORE.
More was right when he compared the school to the “wooden
horse in which were concealed armed Greeks for the destruction
of barbarous Troy;" for Colet's example was gradually followed
throughout the country, and thus arose the numerous grammar
schools which have, ever since formed the backbone of middle-
class education in England. The “ Trojans," as the partisans
of the Old Learning were called, were not inclined to yield
without a struggle, and many sermons were preached against
the New Studies, and noisy bands of students insulted and
ill-treated the “Greeks." To such a height was the opposition
carried that Henry VIII. at last interfered, openly espoused the
cause of Culture, and by his orders imposed silence upon the
“brawlers" at Oxford. One of these, who had vigorously con-
demned the new teaching, chanced to preach before the King,
and took occasion to denounce Erasmus and his heresies.
After the sermon he was ordered to wait upon the King, before
whom More replied to all his arguments. Not being able to
answer More, he fell upon his knees, begging the King's for-
giveness, and pleading that he had been carried away by the
spirit.” “But,” said Henry, "that spirit was not the spirit of
Christ, but of foolishness !" In reply to the King, he acknow-
ledged that he had never read any of the works of Erasmus
which he had been bitterly condemning. “Then you prove
yourself to be a fool, for you condemn what you have never
read !” said Henry. This sapient divine brought the conver-
sation to a close by the remark, “ After all, I am not so very
hostile to Greek letters, because they were derived from the
Hebrew !"
The devotion of the men of the New Learning to culture
involved as its necessary consequence a freedom from dogmatic
fetters, and, in 'men of earnest moral nature, a revolt against the
superstition and immorality of the Church. Their attitude
SIR THOMAS MORE.
XV
towards the degrading superstitions of the time is well shown
by More's letter to a monk, who had tried to persuade him to
give up the new ideas, and points out that the teaching of
Erasmus was heretical, inasmuch as he had allowed that the
Fathers were often in error, had denied the accuracy of the
Vulgate, repudiated the doctrines of Augustine, and condemned
and derided the monks.
More ably defends the position of Erasmus, shows the
absurdity of the opposite opinion, and says of the monks—
“There are multitudes enough who would be afraid that the
devil would come upon them, and take them alive to hell, if,
forsooth, they were to set aside their usual garb, whom nothing
can move when they are grasping at money. Are there only a
few, think you, who would deem it to be a crime to be expiated
with many tears, if they were to omit a line in their hourly
prayers, and yet have no fearful scruple at all when they profane
themselves by the worst and most infamous lives." He then
relates an anecdote of the head of a convent, who had hired
assassins to commit some crime, for which they were all at
length brought to justice. “I heard," writes More, “from these
wicked assassins that when they came to that religious man in
his chamber, they had not spoken of the crime ; but being
introduced into his private chapel, they appeased the sacred
Virgin by a salutation on their bent knees, according to the
angelical custom. This being properly accomplished, they at
length arose purely and piously to perpetrate the crime."
The same feeling is shown in all the writings of Erasmus,
especially in the Praise of Folly and the famous Colloquies. In
the second edition of his New Testament he wrote :-“Read
the New Testament through, you will not find in it any precept
which pertains to ceremonies. Where is there a single word
of meat or vestments? Where is there any mention of feasts or
xvi
SIR THOMAS MORE.
the like? Love alone he calls his precept. Ceremonies give
rise to differences, but from love flows peace."
This zeal for science and culture, and for a pure religion
based on reason and not on authority, which found expression
in the foundation of the College of Physicians by Linacre, in
Colet's school and sermons, and in the literary labours of
Erasmus, was accompanied by a profound insight into the
evils which were preying upon society, and a wide view of the
reforms which were so urgently required.
What these men contended for was a complete regeneration
of life on the basis of a rational view of the world, which would
admit of no rigid dogmatism in any sphere, but regarding
everything from the standpoint of historical evolution, thrust
aside any system of thought or belief which claimed finality for
itself, in favour of a free unshackled development of human
thought and human life. Well may Mark Pattison say that
“the principle that reason is the only guide of life, and the
supreme arbiter of all questions, politics and religion included,
has its earliest and most complete exemplar in Erasmus."
But it was in More that the various reforming tendencies,
which found partial expression in a Linacre and a Colet, and
were diffused throughout Europe by an Erasmus, were gathered
together in their greatest force and intensity. The whole spirit
of the New Learning breathes through the Utopia. This work
of genius under the form of an interesting narrative, full of
subtle irony, tender humour, and brilliant flashes of wit, gives
full expression to the deepest insight of the scholarly fellowship
and their aspirations for a New Order alike in trade, in politics,
in social life, and in religion. Here, long before Locke, we find
a plea for perfect toleration in matters of religion. King
Utopus, we are told, made a decree in his country, "that it
should be lawful for every man to favour 'and follow what
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xvii
.
religion he would." This was based on the ground that it was
both foolish and presumptuous to “compel all other by violence
and threatenings to agree to the same that thou believest true;"
and the hope that with freedom of controversy “the truth of
its own power would at last issue and come to light.” When
we review the century and a half which followed the writing of
the Utopia, and think of the fierce persecutions of the Protestants
by the Catholics, and of the intolerance of one Protestant sect for
another, we are amazed at the breadth of mind of the author,
who could conceive of a noble worship which should unite
instead of dividing men, and gather up their discordant tones
into a grand and impressive harmony.
Three centuries before Bentham, More's Utopian philosophers
had worked out the principles of Utilitarianism, pronouncing
“no man to be so foolish, which would not do all his diligence
and endeavour to obtain pleasure . . . only avoiding this
inconvenience that the less pleasure should not be a let
or hindrance to the bigger ; or that he laboured not for that
pleasure which should bring after it displeasure, grief, or
sorrow." More even seems to have anticipated the step
taken by John Stuart Mill--viz., the distinction between higher
and lower, worthy and unworthy pleasures, which has been
held by many to involve a denial of Utilitarian principles.
The Utopians thought that some "things men by vain imagina-
tion do fain against nature to be pleasant," and so may
“possess a false opinion of pleasure." Thus fine dress, vain
applause, reputed nobility, the pleasure of the miser, gambler,
and sportsman, “and all such like which be innumerable,
though the common sort of people doth take them for plea-
sures, yet they, seeing there is no natural pleasantness in them,
do plainly determine them to have no affinity with true and
right pleasure."
xviii
SIR THOMAS MORE.
The reforms in the criminal law, pressed upon Parliament
by Sir Samuel Romilly in the early part of the present century,
had been advocated by More in the beginning of the sixteenth.
To-day the unskilled labourers in our great cities are agitating
for some approach to the short hours of Utopia, where men
are not "wearied from early in the morning to late in the
evening with continual work, like labouring and toiling beasts,"
but the working day is of six hours only. Our modern demand
for free and universal education was likewise anticipated by
More. In Utopia every child is thoroughly educated, and
ignorance, the great cause of crime and misery, banished.
No modern reformer has uttered a more scathing condemna-
tion of the existing economic system, or emphasised more
strongly the right of the labourer. to the products of his
industry, and the absolute dependence of the rich upon the
poor, than this Lord Chancellor of England. After speaking of
the Utopian state as “that which alone of good right may
claim and take upon it the name of commonwealth," he
continues—“Here now would I see, if any man dare be so bold
as to compare with this equity, the justice of other nations;
among whom, I forsake God, if I can find any sign or token of
equity and justice. For what justice is this, that a rich gold-
smith, or an usurer, or to be short any of them which either do
nothing at all, or else that which they do is such that it is not
very necessary to the Commonwealth, should have a pleasant and
a wealthy living, either by idleness or by unnecessary business,
when in the meantime poor labourers, carters, ironsmiths,
carpenters, and ploughmen, by so great and continual toil,
as drawing and bearing beasts be scant able to sustain, and
again so necessary toil, that without it no commonwealth were
and poor a living, and live so wretched and miserable a life,
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xix
that the state and condition of the labouring beasts may seem
much better and wealthier. . . . And yet besides this the rich
men not only by private fraud but also by common laws do
every day pluck and snatch away from the poor some part
of their daily living. . . . They invent and devise all means-
and manner of crafts, first how to keep safely without fear
of losing that they have unjustly gathered together, and next
how to hire and abuse the work and labour of the poor
for as little money as may be. These devices, when the rich
men have decreed to be kept and observed under colour of
the commonalty, that is to say, also of the poor people, then
they be made laws. . . . Therefore when I consider and
weigh in my mind all these commonwealths which nowadays
anywhere do flourish, so God help me, I can perceive nothing
but a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own
commodities under the name and title of the Commonwealth."
The accession of the young Prince Henry VIII. in 1509
seemed a very auspicious event for the New Movement. Under
a king who combined generous sympathies with a taste for
learning, and who was the personal friend of More, Colet, and
Erasmus, things could hardly fail to go on well.
More returned to active life and the duties of his profession,
and speedily became a prosperous man. Henry, however, was
showy and extravagant, jealous of the neighbouring princes,
and burning to distinguish himself on the field of battle. By
the sixth year of his reign he had involved the country in
a useless and ignominious war, squandered the vast treasure
left him by his father, and much that had been granted by
Parliament besides. The Parliament of 1515 declared it
impossible to collect the taxes necessary to replenish the
exhausted exchequer. Of the £160,000 voted in the previous
year, it had only been possible to collect £50,000, and even this
XX
SIR THOMAS MORE.
had only been raised by an income tax of sixpence in the
pound, descending even to the wages of the wretched agricul-
tural labourer. The balance was now made up by twice
repeating the tax in a single year. Harsh statutes were
re-enacted against the labourer, and wages fixed at a low rate
by a rigid scale. Evictions were constantly taking place, and
the people, thus reduced to homelessness and beggary, were
being hanged in rows of twenty for theft! Parliament, though
to the last degree obsequious and servile, was brow-beaten by
the monarch, steadily growing more and more absolute, and
intent only on personal aggrandizement, pleasure, and show.
In order to damage the trade of the Netherlands (with whose
prince Henry was at variance), the exportation of wool from
Norfolk to the Low Countries was prohibited. The merchants
of London, anxious to get rid of this ruinous restriction upon
their trade, contrived to have More added to the embassy
which was sent over to the Low Countries in May 1515, to
settle the dispute between Henry VIII. and Prince Charles.
Having at length brought his part of the negotiations to a
successful issue, More returned to England at the beginning of
the new year. Whilst in Flanders he had written the second
book of the Utopia, which contains an account of that country
and its inhabitants.
It takes but little ingenuity to see that Utopia (making
allowance for the wit and humour of the writer) is a picture of
England as it should be, and a satire upon England as it
actually was. The situation of Amaurot, the capital, is
strangely like that of London, but what a contrast between its
broad and handsome streets, its well-built and lofty houses,
with their beautiful gardens, and the narrow, tortuous, ill-paved
and ill-lighted streets; the low, dirty, and filthy houses of the
horribly unsanitary London, with which More was familiar !
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xxi
In Utopia there are no avaricious or wasteful tyrants like the
Tudors of More's acquaintance, nor any wretched and over-
worked labourers, whose scanty earnings were taxed at the rate
of sixpence in the pound twice in a single year. These, by a
wise arrangement, all have enough, and yet leisure is granted
to all for recreation and culture. How fine a satire on the
splendour of Henry VIII, do we find in the description of
the visit of the Anemolian ambassadors to Utopia! These,
knowing that the Utopians dressed with great plainness, and
ascribing it to their poverty, thought to make an impression
upon them by the splendour of their clothing and jewellery.
But the Utopians, with whom gold was a badge of infamy, and
applied to the meanest uses, and gems playthings for children,
treated them with derision. The very children, who had out-
grown their delight in their toys, “when they saw the like
sticking upon the ambassadors' caps, dig and push their
mothers under the sides, saying thus to them, “Look, mother,
how great a lubber doth yet wear pearls and precious stones as
though he were a little child still. But the mother, yea and
that also in good earnest, 'Peace, son,' saith she, ' I think he
be one of the ambassador's fools.'”
Utopia, More's eye was always fixed on the England of his day,
and his keen mind employed in detecting and satirising with
light wit and biting irony the evils which were preying upon its
vitals. Though the second book was written in Flanders, it
was not published till after More's return to England.
He then wrote the first book, which was called forth by
the peculiar situation in which he was placed. The King,
with whom he had always been a favourite, and who
thought very highly of his abilities, was endeavouring to
induce him to enter his service, give up his City appointment,
xxii
.
SIR THOMAS MORE.
and accept a pension in lieu of the revenue he acquired by the
practice of his profession. He resisted as 'long as he could,
and was finally, as Erasmus said, dragged into the King's
service.
Before consenting to undertake the responsibilities which
the King was anxious to force upon him, he thought it his duty
to point out to him, with great plainness, the evils under which
the kingdom was groaning, and suggest such remedies as
appeared -possible. He was also anxious to reveal to Henry
the real views and aims of the man he was summoning to his
councils. With these purposes in view, he wrote the first book
of Utopia, in which his own opinions are put into the mouth of
an ancient mariner, who had sailed from Europe with Vespucci.
Being left behind, on the latter's return, he had travelled
beyond the Equator into many strange and far countries,
and at length had visited the island of Utopia. This man,
Raphael Hythloday, is represented as being introduced to
More by his friend, Peter Giles, of Antwerp, who arranges a
meeting in a pleasant garden, where the two friends question
Raphael about his adventures. They desire him to relate
to them at length such things as he may have met with in the
lands beyond the sea “as shall be profitable to be known.”
“But of monsters," says More, “because they be no news, of
them were we nothing inquisitive. For nothing is more easy to
Læstrygonians devourers of people, and such like great and
incredible monsters. But to find citizens ruled by good and
Raphael relates his experiences and makes such wise reflections
upon them, that he is pressed by both his hearers to enter the
service of some Prince whom he might aid with his counsels
and experience. He replies that, like More himself, he has
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xxiii
no wish to give himself in “bondage unto kings." Upon them
still urging him that he owes it to mankind to give their rulers
the benefit of his knowledge and wisdom, he shows that the
attempt would be useless, since kings are set on conquest
rather than good government. Furthermore, they are sur-
rounded by flatterers, and those who lay such store by the
wisdom of their ancestors, “as who should say it were a
dangerous thing, if a man in any point should be found wiser
than his forefathers were." More, still insisting that they
might be rendered wiser by the presence of philosophers at
court, Raphael, taking the French king as an example, asks of
what use it would be to try and dissuade him from attempting
the conquest of Italy or Flanders, or to recommend him to
follow the example of a people whom he had met with in his
travels, and voluntarily give up a useless conquest.
Instancing many other examples of wise laws and customs
which he had observed in the lands he had visited, and which
it was vain to expect that the princes of Europe would copy, he
is led to speak of the country in which more than anywhere
else he had found just laws and a flourishing commonwealth,
the happy island of Utopia. Being eagerly requested by his
hearers to give them a full account of its polity, he promises to
content them after dinner, and then delivers the discourse
forming the second book.
No political writer has ever shown a profounder insight into
the evils under which society groans than has More in this
masterly introduction. It remains a monument to his political
acuteness and his practical sagacity, as well as to his high sense
of duty and noble fearlessness in the cause of right and justice.
It is to-day our great authority for the social and economic
condition of the England of the Tudor kings. With unerring
skill he places his finger on the wounds of the body politic,
xxiv
SIR THOMAS MORE.
and points out with clearness the true causes of its sufferings.
He sketches in a powerful way the rapid economic changes
which were in progress, and which were so fruitful in misery
and crime.
Thus, clearly and without the least flattery, but with taste and
wit, does the man whom the King is taking to his councils
expose the real evils under which his realm is suffering, and the
folly and wrong of which he himself is guilty. Henry, however,
took it all in good part, and More was a greater favourite with
him than ever. He even seems, for a time, to have taken some
of Raphael's counsel to heart, for it is noteworthy that one of
More's first duties as a royal servant was the negotiation of a
treaty with France, by which Henry voluntarily surrendered his
conquests in that country. It was also by More's advice that
Wolsey made some retrenchment in the national expenditure.
The influence of the little group of scholars was now at its
height. The very yēar in which More published the Utopia,
Erasmus published his New Testament (dedicated to Pope
Leo X.), and wrote his Christian Prince for the instruction of
Charles V. With More the trusted friend of Henry VIII.;
Erasmus the instructor of the future Emperor, and the friend of
the Pope; Colet, Dean of St. Paul's, and his patron, Warham,
Archbishop of Canterbury, it might seem as if the New
Movement were certain of success. But clouds were slowly
gathering in many directions. The writings of More and
Erasmus had indeed aroused the mind of Europe, and
awakened aspiration for a pure religion and a righteous polity;
but elements of reaction were already beginning to show them-
selves, and a new dogmatism in religion, and a policy of cynical
statescraft and unscrupulous tyranny were being advocated by
men of great power and ability.
Macchiavelli was writing his Principe whilst More was
SIR THOMAS MORE.
XXV
tion of the latter work Luther was nailing his Theses on the
church door at Wittenberg.
Cromwell was soon to take the place of More in the favour of
the King, and the progressive policy of the author of the Utopia
to be succeeded by the arbitrary despotism of the monarch,
under the direction of this unscrupulous pupil of Macchiavelli.
The new religious dogmatism was fast invading the land.
Men who had escaped the fetters of the schoolmen, hastened to
fling themselves at the feet of Augustine, and the rigid and
terrible doctrines of Calvin were looming in the future. The
New Movement for culture and progressive reform in Church
either joined the Protestant Movement, or fell back into the
ranks of an intolerânt Catholicism. Latimer may be taken as a
type of the first class, More unfortunately is an instance of the
second. With all the advantages which it possessed, we are
tempted to wonder that the movement initiated by More and
Erasmus apparently accomplished so little, and that dogmatism
and tyranny took the place of their rational religious and
political reforms. How did it come about that the political
text-book of Europe was not More's Utopia, but the Prince of
Macchiavelli, and the new religious leaders a Luther and a
Calvin rather than a Colet and an Erasmus? One reason
seems clear, they were too far in advance of their age. The
ideas which roused the enthusiasm of these men of insight and
genius were powerless to attract their ignorant or narrow-minded
contemporaries. They failed from lack of an educated and en-
lightened public to whom they might appeal. Scholars and
thinkers here and there throughout Europe might be moved
by their teaching, but the masses of the people, though
profoundly dissatisfied with the state of the church, and
xxvi
SIR THOMAS MORE.
groaning under the oppression of the princes, were still grossly
ignorant, still in bondage to superstition.
But if the movement failed because it was too radical, it may
with equal justice be maintained that it failed also because it
was too aristocratic and conservative. The reformers had
access to the ears of kings and princes. Their treatises, written
in Latin, were eagerly read by scholars throughout Europe.
If reform could be effected by paternal legislation, and be
initiated by scholars without requiring the sympathy and
co-operation of the people, theirs had the fairest chance. If it
were possible to pour new wine into old bottles with success, to
infuse a new life into effete social structures, their movement
surely ought to have won the field.
The hopelessness of this course was shown by the persecu-
tion of Colet by his bishop, and the ever-increasing despotism
of the King- in spite of the counsel of More. It would seem
that reform to be effective must be democratic, and not
paternal; it must be the outcome of the national aspirations,
and lie in the course of economic development. And though
such reform must ever be partial and unsatisfactory when
compared with the ideal in the mind of the scholar, yet it is
realised in the actual world ; it is the property of the whole
people, who rejoice in their handiwork, and it may form the
stepping-stone for a further advance.
The chief object of the men of the New Learning, that on
which their heart was set before aught else, was however not
destined to failure. Their noble battle for culture has never
ceased. Never, as Ibsen has taught us, will democracy be
satisfactory till we have learned" to make every man in the land
a nobleman." To this great work of educating and ennobling the
people, More, Erasmus, and the rest devoted their lives. To
· this they gave an impetus which has never died away, but has
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xxvii
gone on gathering strength and volume as the years have
rolled by, and century has succeeded century. Fundamentally,
therefore, the New Movement could not fail, and has not failed.
We are feeling its power to-day, when the influence of the
more popular and apparently successful movement seems fast
ebbing away.
More continued in high favour with the King, who took
such pleasure in his society that he had to feign stupidity
in order to get time to be other than “a stranger in his own
house." Having been knighted by the King, he successively
filled the offices of Treasurer of the Exchequer and Speaker
of the House of Commons. In this latter capacity he fear-
lessly faced the wrath of the all-powerful Wolsey in defence
of the oppressed, and in opposition to the imposition of
fresh taxes on the already impoverished people, even as
in the same cause. Though Wolsey was greatly annoyed,
More succeeded both in defeating the grant which he had
demanded and in retaining the favour of the King; by
whom he was advanced to the Chancellorship of the Duchy
of Lancaster, and at length, at the age of fifty-one,
created Lord Chancellor of England. This post he held
for less than three years, resigning it rather than consent to
the divorce of Queen Catherine. He left this high post a poor
man, a rare thing in those days, when the taking of bribes
was common. Though his income was now but £100 a year,
he magnanimously refused the gift of £5000 offered him by
violence of the Protestants, who were for sweeping away the
old order in the church entirely, destroying, as More thought,
the good along with the bad, and leading to lawlessness and
'anarchy, alarmed the conservative instincts which formed so
xxviii
SIR THOMAS MORE.
marked a feature in his character. This, added to the disgust
which, as a broad-minded thinker, he conceived for the new
dogmatism, drove him into the arms of reaction, and we now
find him a persecutor of heretics and a writer of bitter
pamphlets against Tyndall and the other reformers. He lived
in retirement for some time, till in 1534 the Act of Supremacy
was passed and the oath tendered.
In spite of entreaties and threats, More steadfastly refused to
take it, and, as a consequence, soon ended his life on the
scaffold. Roper draws a touching picture of his last days, his
brave resistance to the King's will, his inward conflict, and
ultimate victory. “Son Roper," he exclaimed as the boat
floated down the river to Lambeth Palace, where the oath was
to be tendered him, "I thank our Lord the field is won." He
withstood all temptations to do violence to his conscience like a
saint, and met his doom like a hero. Yet with all our admira-
tion we are but half satisfied. That the foremost champion of
the New Learning, the author of the Utopia, the man who
could dream of the tolerant religion and enlightened philosophy
of its inhabitants, should fall in his later years into the arms of
a reactionary Catholicism and fear to follow the voice of his
earlier convictions, is very saddening.
But if More, disgusted with the partial yet violent reforma-
tion of the Protestants, which, in the interest of a new dog-
matism, seemed to him to sweep away in one fierce and
undistinguishing flood the good and evil of the old religion,
became reactionary in his religious views, there is no evidence
to show that his views on political and social questions under-
went any change. His public life throughout was inspired by a
love of justice and a spirit of resistance to oppression in every
form. Though he could effect but little for the cause of
freedom, he was ever ready to speak, act, or suffer for her sake. "
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xxix
It was in his private life, which he was in a greater degree
able to order in accordance with his convictions, that the true
nature of the man was revealed. This was singularly pure,
tender, and noble, and free from that Puritanic gloom and
moroseness which threw its dark pall over the lives of so many
of England's worthies of a later day. He was tenderly attached
to his children, to whom he wrote most affectionately in his
absence from home, and who received from him “more kisses
than stripes." Utopia was but the author's home writ large.
His beautiful house, on the river-side at Chelsea, was, through
his delight in social life and music, and through the wit and
merriment of his nature, a dwelling of joy and mirth as well
as of study and thought. It often rang with song, and was
cheery with the laughter of children and grandchildren, he
himself, in his own words, “being merry, jocund, and pleasant
among them.” Erasmus, who was often his guest, has given us
many delightful glimpses of his family life, of his children and
their tasks, and the monkey and rabbits which amused their'
leisure. To the solitary and ever-wandering Erasmus, More's
house was a haven of refuge from the discomforts and vexations
of his bachelor existence. In one of his epistles he writes :-
“More has built near London, upon the Thames, a modest yet
commodious mansion. There he lives, surrounded by his
numerous family, including his wife, his son, and his son's wife,
his three daughters and their husbands, with eleven grand-
children. There is not any man living so affectionate to his
children as he, and he loveth his old wife as if she were a girl
of fifteen. Such is the excellence of his disposition that what-
ever happeneth that could not be helped, he is as cheerful and
as well pleased as though the best thing possible had been
done. In More's house you would say that Plato's academy
was revived again, only, whereas in the academy the discussion
XXX
SIR THOMAS MORE.
turned upon geometry and the power of numbers, the house at
Chelsea is a veritable school of Christian religion. In it is
none, man or woman, but readeth or studieth the liberal arts,
yet is their chief care of piety. There is never any seen idle;
the head of the house governs it, not by a lofty carriage and oft
rebukes, but by gentleness and amiable manners. Every
member is busy in his place, performing his duty with alacrity;
nor is sober mirth wanting."
More's book and his life alike give evidence of the beauty
and depth of his nature. He penetrates beneath the surface
of things, and with the quick insight of genius detects the
evils which are concealed from the superficial observer by
the crust of convention and custom, and the outward pomp
and splendour of society. With a fine sagacity, he indicates
the remedies which alone can cure them, and give health and
vigour to the body politic. With deep moral earnestness
he endeavours to shape his own private and family life in
accordance with insight and conscience, so that, though he
may perchance fail in accomplishing the reforms he desired in
the larger world, he may, at least, order the life of his house-
hold by the law of reason and love.. More found, indeed, the
true commonwealth Nowhere. But in so far the social order
he advocated is based on reason and justice, the nowhere
must at length become somewhere--nay, everywhere. Some
of the reforms which he perceived to be necessary have, as we
have seen, already been realised, others are being striven for
to-day. May we not hope that many more will at length be
attained ? Surely never before was there such a wide-spread
revolt against social wrong and injustice; such a firm resolve to
remove the preventable evils of life; or such a world-wide
aspiration for a reorganisation of society on a juster basis. It
cannot be that the promise of better things is for ever to
SIR THOMAS MORE.
xxxi
remain unfulfilled! From the summit of the hills of thought
may we not catch the first faint streaks of the dawn of a nobler
day? Can we not trace the dim outlines of a real Society
slowly forming amongst us, in which none shall be disinherited
or trodden under foot in a senseless and reckless race for
wealth, but where all shall be truly free to develop the full
capacity of their nature, in co-operation with their fellows
for a Common Good? Be this as it may, those cannot be
wrong who, like More, strive for justice in all social relation-
ships, and carry the spirit of brotherhood into the details of
their everyday life, for though the Ideal Commonwealth does
not exist on earth, yet will not the true-hearted man say with
More's great master of a former age, “In heaven there is
laid up a pattern of it methinks, which he who desires may
behold, and beholding may set his own house in order. But
whether such an one exists, or ever will exist in fact, is no
matter, for he will live after the manner of that city, having
nothing to do with any other,"
MAURICE ADAMS.
EDITOR'S NOTE.
MORE's Utopia was written in Latin, and passed through
several editions in that language. It was first translated into
English by Ralph Robinson. The text made use of in this
volume is the second and revised edition of his translation
published in 1556.
The Life of Sir Thomas More, by Roper, was written during the
Catholic reaction in Mary's reign, and for a long time existed only
in MS. It was first printed in Paris in 1626, and reprinted by
Hearne in 1716. His edition is the one chosen for the present
volume. It is the chief authority for the events of More's life,
though additional facts may be gleaned from Stapleton's life.
The life written by More's great-grandson, Creasacre More,
is chiefly derived from the above mentioned. Where it differs
from them it is unreliable.
The “Life of Edward V." is a part of the larger historical
work, the “History of Richard III.," which More left unfinished,
and is specially interesting as being, as Green points out, the .
first History ever written by an Englishman, its predecessors
being mere chronicles.
All these works being in archaic spelling, they have been
modernised for the present text, a modern equivalent being
occasionally substituted for some quite obsolete word.
M. A.
LIFE OF SIR THOMAS MORE.
THE LIFE OF SR THOMAS MORE.
In hoc
X
signo vinces.
FORASMUCH as Sir Thomas More, Knight sometime Lord
Chancellor of England, a man of singular virtue and of a
clear unspotted conscience, (as witnesseth Erasmus,) more
pure and white than the whitest snow, and of such an angelical-
wit, as England, he saith, never had the like before, nor never
shall again, universally, as well in the laws of our Realm (a
study in effect able to occupy the whole life of a man) as in
all other sciences, right well studied, was in his days accounted
a man worthy famous memory; I William Roper (though most
unworthy) his son-in-law by marriage of his eldest daughter,
knowing no one man that of him and of his doings understood
so much as myself for that I was continually resident in his
house by the space of sixteen years and more, thought it there-
fore my part to set forth such matters touching his life as I
could at this present call to remembrance. Among which very
many notable things not meet to have been forgotten, through
negligence and long continuance of time, are slipped out of
my mind. Yet to the intent the same shall not all utterly
perish, I have at the desire of divers worshipful friends of mine,
though very far from the grace and worthiness of them, never-
theless as far forth as my mean wit, memory and learning
would serve me, declared so much thereof as in my poor
judgment seemed worthy to be remembered.
LIFE OF
This Sir Thomas More after he had been brought up in
the Latin tongue at St. Anthony's in London, he was, by his
father's procurement received into the house of the right
reverend, wise and learned prelate Cardinal Morton, where
(though he was young of years, yet) would he at Christmas-
tide suddenly sometimes step in among the players, and never
studying for the matter, make a part of his own there presently
among them, which made the lookers-on more sport than all
the players beside. In whose wit and towardness the Cardinal
much delighting, would often say of him unto the nobles that
divers times dined with him, “This child here waiting at the
table, whosoever shall live to see it, will prove a marvellous
man." Whereupon for his learning he placed him at Oxford,
where when he was both in the Greek and Latin tongue
sufficiently instructed, he was then for the study of the law
of the Realm put to an Inn of the Chancery, called New Inn,
where for his time, he very well prospered. And from thence
was committed to Lincoln's Inn, with very small allowance,
continuing there his study until he was made and accounted
a worthy utter barrister. After this, to his great commenda-
tion, he read for a good space a public lecture of St. Augustine
de Civitate Dei in the church of St. Laurence in the Old
Jewry, whereunto there resorted Doctor Grocyn, an excellent
cunning man, and all the chief learned of the city of London.
Then was he made Reader of Furnival's Inn, so remaining
by the space of three years and more. After which time he
gave himself to devotion and prayer in the Charterhouse of
London, religiously living there without vow about four years,
until he resorted to the house of one Mr. Colt, a gentleman
of Essex that had oft invited him thither, having three
daughters whose honest conversation and virtuous education
provoked him there especially to set his affection. And albeit
SIR THOMAS MORE.
his mind most served him to the second daughter, for that
he thought her the fairest and best favoured, yet when he
considered that it would be both great grief and some shame
also to the eldest to see her younger sister in marriage pre-
ferred before her, he then of a certain pity framed his fancy
towards her, and soon after married her, nevertheless not dis-
continuing his study of the law at Lincoln's Inn, but applying
still the same until he was called to the Bench, and had
read twice, which is as often as any judge of the law doth
read.
Before which time he had placed himself and his wife at
Bucklesbury in London, where he had by her three daughters,
in virtue and learning brought up from their youth, whom he
would often exhort to take virtue and learning for their meat,
and play but for their sauce.
Who ere ever he had been reader in Court was in the
latter time of King Henry the Seventh made a Burgess in
the Parliament, wherein there were by the King demanded
(as I have heard it reported) about three-fifteenths for the
marriage of his eldest daughter, that then should be the
Scottish Queen. At the last debating whereof he made such
arguments and reasons there against, that the King's demands
were thereby overthrown. So that one of the King's privy
chamber, named Mr. Tyler, being present thereat, brought
word to the King out of the Parliament house, that a beardless
boy had disappointed all his purposes. Whereupon the King
conceiving great indignation towards him could not be satisfied
until he had some way revenged it. And forasmuch as he
nothing having, nothing could lose, his grace devised a cause-
less quarrel against his Father, keeping him in the Tower
until he had paid him an hundred pounds fine. Shortly here-
upon it fortuned that this Sir Thomas More coming in a
LIFE OF
suit to Dr. Fox, Bishop of Winchester, one of the King's
privy council, they called him aside, and pretending great
favour towards him, promised him that if he would be ruled
by him, he would not fail but into the King's favour again
to restore him, meaning, as it was after conjectured, to cause
him thereby to confess his offence against the King, whereby
his Highness might with better colour have occasion to revenge
his displeasure against him. But when he came from the
Bishop, he fell in communication with one Mr. Whitford, his
familiar friend, then chaplain to that Bishop and after a Father
of Sion, 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.” So Sir Thomas More
returned to the Bishop no more. And had not the King
soon after died, he was determined to have gone over the
sea, thinking that being in the King's indignation he could
not live in England without great danger. After he was
made one of the under-sheriffs of London, by which office
and his learning together as I have heard hiin say, he gained
without grief not so little as four hundred pounds by the
year; since there was at that time in none of the Prince's
courts of the laws of this realm any matter of importance
in controversy wherein he was not with the one party of
counsel. Of whom, for his learning, wisdom, and knowledge
and experience, men had him in such estimation, that before
he was come to the service of King Henry the Eighth, at
the suit and instance of the English Merchants, he was, by
the King's consent, made twice Ambassador in certain great
causes between them and the Merchants of the Stilliard,
whose wise and discreet dealing therein to his high
SIR THOMAS MORE.
commendation, coming to the King's understanding, provoking
his Highness to cause Cardinal Wolsey (then Lord Chancellor)
to procure him to his service. And albeit the Cardinal accord-
ing to the King's request earnestly travailed with him therefore,
among many other his persuasions alleging unto him, how
dear his service must needs be unto his Majesty, which could
not of his honour with less than he should yearly lose thereby
seem to recompense him, yet he, loath to change his estate,
made such means to the King by the Cardinal to the con-
trary, that his Grace for that time was well satisfied. Now
happened there after this a great ship of his that then was
Pope to arrive at Southampton, which the King claiming for
a forfeiture, the Pope's Ambassador by suit unto his Grace
obtained, that he might for his Master the Pope have counsel
learned in the Laws of this realm, and the matter in his own
presence (being himself a singular civilian) in some public
place to be openly heard and discussed. At which time
there could none of our law be found so meet to be of
counsel with this Ambassador as Sir Thomas More, who
could report to the Ambassador in Latin all the reasons and
arguments by the learned counsel on both sides alleged.
Upon this the Councillors on either party in presence of the
Lord Chancellor, and other the judges in the Star Chamber,
had audience accordingly. Where Sir Thomas More not only
declared to the Ambassador the whole effect of all their
opinions, but also in defence on the Pope's side argued so
learnedly himself, that both was the foresaid forfeiture to the
Pope restored, and himself among all the hearers, for his up-
right and commendable demeanour therein, so greatly renowned,
that for no entreaty would the King from henceforth be in-
duced any longer to forbear his service. At whose first entry
thereunto he made him Master of the Requests, having then
LIFE OF
no better room void, and within a month after, knight and
one of his Privy Council, and so from time to time was by
the Prince advanced, continuing in his singular favour and
trusty service twenty years and above, a good part whereof used
the King upon holidays, when he had done his own devotions
to send for him into his private room, and there some time
in matters of Astronomy, Geometry, Divinity, and such other
Faculties, and some time in his worldly affairs, to sit and
confer with him, and other whiles would he in the night have
him up into the leads, there to consider with him the diver-
sities, courses, motions, and operations of the stars and
holinto his private roo Divinity, and
pleased the King and Queen, after the Council had supped,
at the time of their supper for their pleasure commonly to
call for him, and to be merry with them. When he perceived
so much in his talk to delight, that he could not once in a
company he most desired) and to be absent from the Court
two days together, but that he should be thither sent for again,
he much misliking this restraint of liberty, began thereupon
somewhat to dissemble his nature, and so by little and little
from his former mirth to disuse himself, that he was of them
from thenceforth no more so ordinarily sent for. Then died one
Mr. Weston, Treasurer of the Exchequer, whose office after his
death the King of his own offer, without any asking, freely
gave unto Sir Thomas More. In the fourteenth year of his
Grace's Reign was there a Parliament holden, whereof Sir
Thomas More was chosen Speaker, who being very loath to
take that Room upon him, made an oration, not now extant, to
the King's Highness for his discharge thereof. Whereunto
when the King would not consent, he spake unto his Grace in
form following: “Since I perceive (most redoubted sovereign)
SIR THOMAS MORE.
that it standeth not with your Highness' pleasure to reform
this election, and -cause it to be changed, but have, by the
mouth of the Right Reverend Father in God the Legate your
Highness' Chancellor, thereunto given your most royal con-
sent, and have of your benignity determined, far above that
I may bear, to enable me, and for this office to repute me
meet, rather than ye should seem to impute unto your Com-
mons that they had unmeetly chosen, I am therefore, and
always shall be, ready obediently to conform myself to the
accomplishment of your high commandment. In my most
humble wise beseeching your most noble Majesty, that I may,
with your Grace's favour, before I farther enter thereunto,
make mine humble intercession unto your Highness for two
lowly petitions, the one privately concerning myself, the other
the whole assembly of your Common House. And for myself
(Gracious Sovereign) that if it mishap me in anything here-
after, that is in the behalf of your Commons in your high
presence to be declared, to mistake my message, and for
lack of good utterance by me misrehearsed, to pervert or
impair the prudent instructions, that it may then like your
most noble Majesty of your abundant grace, with the eye
of your accustomed pity, to pardon my simplicity, giving me
leave again to repair to the Common House, and there to
confer with them, and to take their substantial advice, what
thing, and in what wise I shall on their behalf utter and
speak before your noble Grace: to the intent their prudent
advices and affairs be not by my simpleness and ſolly hindered
or impaired. Which thing if it should so hap, as it were
well likely to mishap in me (if your Grace's benignity relieved
not my oversight) it could not fail to be, during my life, a
perpetual grudge and heaviness to my heart. The help and
remedy whereof in manner aforesaid remembered, is (most
IO
LIFE OF
Gracious Sovereign) my first lowly suit and humble petition
unto your most noble Grace. Mine other humble request,
most excellent Prince, is this. Forasmuch as there be of your
Commons here, by your high commandment assembled for
your Parliament, a great number which are after the accustomed
manner appointed in the Common House to treat and advise of
the common affairs among themselves apart: and albeit (my
liege Lord) that, according to your prudent advice, by your
honourable writs everywhere declared, there hath been as
due diligence used in sending up to your Highness' Court of
Parliament the most discreet persons out of every quarter,
that men could esteem meet thereto, whereby it is not to be
doubted but that there is a very substantial assembly of right
wise and politic persons: yet (most victorious Prince) since
among so many wise men, neither is every man wise alike,
nor among so many men like well witted, every man like well
spoken; and it ofteneth happeneth, that likewise as much folly
is uttered with painted polished speeches, so many boisterous
and rude in language see deep indeed, and give right substan-
tial counsel: and since also in matters of great importance
the mind is often so occupied in the matter, that a man rather
studieth what to say, than how; by what reason whereof the
wisest man and best spoken in a country fortuneth among,
while his mind is fervent on the matter, somewhat to speak in
such wise, as he would afterward wish to have been uttered
otherwise, and yet no worse will had when he spake it, than
he hath when he would so gladly change it: Therefore (most
Gracious Sovereign) considering that in all your high Courts
of Parliament is nothing entreated but of matters of weight and
importance concerning your Realm, and your own Royal
estate, it could not fail to let and put to silence from the
giving of their advice and counsel many of your discreet
SIR THOMAS MORE..
II
Commons [except they] were utterly discharged of all doubt and
fear how anything that should happen them to speak, should
happen of your Highness to be taken: and in this point your
well-known benignity putteth every man in right good hope.
Yet such is the weight of the matter, such is the reverend dread
that the timorous hearts of your natural subjects conceive
towards your high Majesty (our most redoubted King and
undoubted Sovereign) that they cannot in this point find
themselves satisfied, except your gracious bounty herein de-
clared put away the scruple of their timorous minds, and
animate and encourage them out of doubt. It may therefore
like your most abundant Grace (our most gracious King) to
give to all your Commons here assembled your most gracious-
licence and pardon freely, without doubt of your dreadful dis-
pleasure, every man to discharge his conscience, and boldly
in 'everything incident among, declare his advice, and what-
soever happeneth any man to say, it may like your noble
Majesty of your inestimable goodness to take all in good part,
interpreting every man's words, how uncunningly soever
they be couched, to proceed yet of a good zeal towards the
profit of your Realm and honour of your Royal person, the
prosperous estate and preservation whereof (most excellent
Sovereign) is the thing which we all your most humble loving
subjects, according to the most bounden duty of our natural
allegiance, most highly desire and pray for." At this Parlia-
ment Cardinal Wolsey found himself much grieved with the
Burgesses thereof, for that nothing was so soon done or
spoken therein, but that it was immediately blown abroad in
every alehouse. It fortuned at that Parliament a very great
subsidy to be demanded, which the Cardinal fearing it would
not pass the Common House, determined for the furtherance.
thereof, to be there present himself; before whose coming
1 2
LIFE OF
after long debating there, whether it were better but with a
few of his Lords (as the most opinion of the house was) or
with a whole train royally to receive him there amongst
them, “Masters," quoth Sir Thomas More, “forasmuch as .
my Lord Cardinal lately, you note' well, laid to our charge
the lightness of our tongues for things uttered out of this house,
it shall not be amiss in my mind to receive him with all his
pomp, with his maces, his pillars,' his pollaxes, his crosses, his
hat, and great seal too; to the intent that if he find the like
fault with us hereafter, we may be the bolder from ourselves
to lay the blame upon those that his Grace bringeth with
him.” Whereunto the House wholly agreeing, he was received
accordingly. Where after he had in a solemn oration by many
reasons proved how necessary it was the demands there
moved to be granted, and further said that less would not
serve the King's purpose; he seeing the company still silent,
and thereunto nothing answering, and contrary to his expec-
tation showing in themselves towards his requests no toward-
ness of inclination, said unto them: “Masters, ye have many
wise and learned men among you, and seeing I am from the
King's own person sent hither unto you for the preservation
of yourselves and all the Realm, I think it meet you give me
a reasonable answer.” Whereat every man holding his peace,
then þegan he to speak to one Mr. Marney, who making him
no answer neither, he severally asked the same question of
divers others accounted the wisest of the company. To whom
when none of them all would give so much as one word, being
before agreed, as the custom was, by their speaker to make
answer: "Masters," quoth the Cardinal, “unless it be the
manner of your house (as of likelihood it is) in such causes to
utter your minds by the mouth of your speaker, whom ye
have chosen for trusty and wise (as indeed he is) here is
SIR THOMAS MORE.
13
without doubt a marvellous obstinate silence;" and thereupon
required the answer of Mr. Speaker, who reverently upon his
knees excusing the silence of the house, abashed at the
presence of so noble a personage, able to amaze the wisest
and best learned in a realm, and after by many reasons
proving, that for them to make answer was it neither expedient,
nor agreeable with the ancient liberty of the House; in con-
clusion for himself showed, that though they had all with
their voices trusted him, yet except every of them could put
into his own head all their several wits, he alone in so weighty
a matter was unmeet to make his Grace answer. Whereupon
the Cardinal displeased with Sir Thomas More, that had
not in this Parliament in all things satisfied his desire,
suddenly arose and departed : and after the Parliament
ended, uttered unto him all his griefs, saying, “Would to
God you had been at Rome, Mr. More, when I made you
Speaker.” “Your Grace not offended, so would I too, my
Lord," quoth he, and to wind such quarrels out of the
Cardinal's head, he began to talk of that gallery at Hampton
Court, wherewith so wisely brake he off the Cardinal's dis-
pleasant talk, the Cardinal at that present, as it seemed, wist
not what more to say to him, but for revengement of his
displeasure counselled the King to send him Ambassador into
Spain, commending unto his Highness his wisdom, learning,
and meetness for that voyage, and the difficulty of the cause
considered, none was there so well able, he said, to serve his
Grace therein. Which when the King had broken to Sir
Thomas More, and that he had declared unto his Grace, how
unfit a journey it was for him, the nature of the country and
disposition of his complexion so disagreeing together, that he
should never be likely to do his Grace acceptable service
therein, knowing right well that if his Grace sent him thither,
LIFE OF
-
he should send him to his grave; but showing himself never-
theless ready according to his duty, albeit with the loss of
his life, to fulfil his Grace's pleasure therein, the King
allowing well his answer, said unto him, “It is not our
meaning, Mr. More, to do you hurt, but to do you good we
would be glad. We therefore for this purpose will devise
upon some other, and employ your service otherwise." And
such entire favour did the King bear him, that he made him
Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, upon the death of
Sir Richard Winfield, who had that office before. And for
the pleasure he took in his company, would his Grace suddenly
sometimes come home to his house at Chelsea to be merry
with him, whither on a time unlooked for he came to dinner,
and after dinner in a fair garden of his walked with him by
the space of an hour holding his arm about his neck.
As soon as his Grace was gone, I rejoicing, told Sir
Thomas More, how happy he was, whom the King had
so familiarly entertained, as I had never seen him do to any
before, except Cardinal Wolsey, whom I saw his Grace once
walk with arm in arm. “I thank our Lord, son," quoth he,
"I find his Grace my very good lord indeed, and I do
believe he doth as singularly favour me as any subject within
this Realm. Howbeit (son Roper) I may tell thee, I have
no cause to be proud thereof. For if my head would win
him a castle in France (for then there was wars between us)
it should not fail to go." This Sir Thomas More, among
all other his virtues, was of such meekness, that if it had
fortuned him with any learned man resorting to him from
Oxford, Cambridge, or elsewhere, as there did divers, some for
the desire of his acquaintance, some for the famous report
of his learning and wisdom, and some for suits of the
Universities, to have entered into argument, wherein few were
SIR THOMAS MORE.
.
15
comparable to him, and so far to have discoursed with them
therein, that he might perceive they could not, without some
inconvenience, hold out much further disputation against him:
then, least he should discomfort them, as he that sought not
his own glory, but rather would seem conquered than to
discourage students in their studies, ever showing himself
more desirous to learn than to teach, would he by some
witty device courteously break off into some other matters
and give over. Of whom for his wisdom and learning had
the King such an opinion, that at such time as he attended
upon his Highness, taking his progress either to Oxford
or Cambridge, where he was received with very eloquent
orations, his Grace would always assign him (as one that
was most prompt, and ready therein) ex tempore to make
answer thereunto ; whose manner was, whensoever he had any
occasion, either here or beyond the sea to be in any Univer-
sity, not only to be present at the reading and disputations
there commonly used, but also learnedly to dispute among
them himself. Who being Chancellor of the Duchy, was
made ambassador twice; joined in commission with Cardinal
Wolsey once to the Emperor Charles into Flanders, the other
time to the French King into France. Not long after this
the Water Bailiff of London (sometime his servant) hearing,
where he had been at dinner, certain merchants liberally
to rail against his old master, waxed so discontented there-
with, that he hastily came to him, and told him what he
had heard : "and were I, Sir” (quoth he) “in such favour
and authority with my Prince as you are, such men surely
should not be suffered so villainously and falsely to mis-report
and slander me. Wherefore I would wish you to call them
before you, and, to their shame, for their lewd malice to
punish them.” Who smiling upon him said, “Mr. Water
LIFE OF
Bailiff, would you have me punish them by whom I receive
more benefit than by you all that be my friends ? Let them
a God's name speak as lewdly as they list of me, and shoot
never so many arrows at me, so long as they do not hit
me, what am I the worse? But if they should once hit me,
then would it a little trouble me: howbeit, I trust, by God's
help, there shall none of them all be able once to touch mé.
I have more cause, Mr. Water Bailiff (I assure thee) to pity
them, than to be angry with them.” Such fruitful communi-
cation had he oftentimes with his familiar friends. So on
a time walking along the Thames side with me at Chelsea,
in talking of other things, he said to me, “Now would to
God, son Roper, upon condition three things were well
established in Christendom, I were put in a sack, and here
presently cast into the Thames.” “What great things be
these, Sir," quoth I, “that should move you so to wish ?”
“Wouldest thou know, son Roper, what they be?” quoth he.
“Yea marry, Sir, with a good will if it please you," quoth I.
“I faith, they be these, son," quoth he. “The first is, that
whereas the most part of Christian princes be at mortal wars,
they were at universal peace. The second, that where the
Church of Christ is at this present sore afflicted with many
heresies and errors, it were well settled in an uniformity of
religion. The third, that where the King's matter of his
marriage is now come into question, it were to the glory of
God and quietness of all parties brought to a good con-
clusion:" whereby, as I could gather, he judged, that otherwise
it would be a disturbance to a great part of Christendom.
Thus did it by his doings throughout the whole course of
his life appear, that all his travails and pains, without respect
of earthly commodities, either to himself or any of his, were
only upon the service of God, the Prince and the Realm,
SIR THOMAS MORE.
there upon hinten, and hously, before he way
wholly bestowed and employed; whom in his latter time I
heard to say, that he never asked of the King himself the
value of one penny. As Sir Thomas More's custom was
daily, if he were at home, besides his private prayers with
his children, to say the seven psalms, litany, and suffrages
following, was his guise nightly, before he went to bed, with.
his wife, children, and household to go to his chapel, and
there upon his knees ordinarily to say certain psalms and
collects with them: and because he was desirous for godly
purposes some time to be solitary, and sequester himself from
worldly company; a good distance from his mansion house
builded he a place, called the new building, wherein was a
chapel, a library, and a gallery, in which as his use was
upon other days to occupy himself in prayer and study
together, so on the Fridays there usually continued he from
morning unto evening, spending his time duly in devout
prayers, and spiritual exercises; and to provoke his wife and
children to the desire of heavenly things, he would sometimes
use these words unto them. “It is now no mastery for you
children to go to heaven. For everybody giveth you good
counsel, everybody giveth you good example. You see virtue
rewarded, and vice punished, so that you are carried up to
heaven even by the chins. But if you live in the time, that
no man will give you good counsel, nor no man will give you
good example, when you shall see virtue punished, and vice
rewarded, if you will then stand fast, and firmly stick to God
upon pain of life, if you be but half good, God will allow
you for whole good.” If his wife or any of his children had
been diseased, or troubled, he would say to them, “We may
not look at our pleasure to go to heaven in feather beds, it is
not the way. For our Lord himself went thither with great
pain, and by many tribulations, which is the path wherein le
726
18
LIFE OF
walked thither, and the servant may not look to be in better
case than his Master.” And as he would in this sort persuade
them to take their troubles patiently, so would he in like case
teach them to withstand the devil and his temptations,
valiantly saying, “Whosoever will mark the devil and his
temptations shall find him therein much like to an ape. For
as an ape not well looked to will be busy and bold to do
shrewd turns, and contrariwise being spied will suddenly
leap back and adventure no farther : so the devil, seeing
a man idle, slothful, and without resistance ready to receive
his temptations, waxeth so hardy that he will not fail still to
continue with him, until to his purpose he hath brought him:
but on the other side, if he see a man with diligence present
devil by disposition is a spirit of nature so envious, that he
feareth any more to assault him, lest that he should thereby not
only catch a foul fall himself, but also minister to the man more
matter of merit.” Thus delighted he evermore not only in
virtuous exercises to be occupied himself, but also to exhort
his wife, and children, and household to embrace and follow
the same. To whom for his notable virtue and godliness God
special favour towards him, at such time as my wife (as many
others that year were) was sick of the sweating sickness, who,
lying in so great extremity of that disease, as by no invention
or devices, that physicians in such case commonly use (of.
whom she had divers, both expert, wise, and well learned, then
continually attendant upon her) she could be kept from sleep:
so that both physicians, and all others despaired her health and
recovery, and gave her over: her father (as he that most
entirely tendered her) being in no small heaviness for her, by
SIR THOMAS MORE.
19
prayer at God his hands sought to get remedy, whereupon after
his usual manner going up into his new lodging, there in his
chapel upon his knees with tears · most devoutly besought
Almighty God, that it would be like his goodness, unto whom
nothing was impossible, if it were his blessed will, at his media-
tion to vouchsafe graciously to hear his petition ; where incon-
tinent came into his mind, that a glister should be the only way
to help her, which when he had told the physicians, they by-and-
by confessed, that if there were any hope of health, that it was
the very best help indeed, much marvelling of themselves,
that they had not afore remembered it. Then it was imme-
diately ministered unto her sleeping, which she could by no
means have been brought unto waking, and albeit after she
was thereby thoroughly awaked, God's marks, evident undoubted
token of death, plainly appeared upon her, yet she (contrary to
all their expectation) was (as it was thought) by her father's
fervent prayer miraculously recovered, and at length again to
perfect health restored, whom if it had pleased God at that
time to have taken to his mercy, her father said he would never
have meddled with worldly matters after. Now while Sir
Thomas More was Chancellor of the Duchy, the See of Rome
chanced to be void, which was cause of much trouble. For
Cardinal Wolsey, a man very ambitious, and desirous (as good
hope, and likelihood he had) to aspire unto that dignity, per-
ceiving himself of his expectation disappointed by means of the
Emperor Charles, so highly commending one Cardinal Adrian,
sometime his schoolmaster, to the Cardinals of Rome, in the
time of their election for his virtue and worthiness, that there-
upon was he chosen Pope, who from Spain (where he was then
resident) coming on foot to Rome, before his entry into that
city did put off his hose and shoes, barefooted and barelegged
passing through the streets towards his palace with such
20
LIFE OF
humbleness, that all the people had him in great reverence.
Cardinal Wolsey waxed so woe therewith, that he studied to
invent all ways of revengement of his grief against the
Emperor, which as it was the beginning of a lamentable
tragedy, so some part thereof not impertinent to my present
purpose I reckoned requisite here to put in remembrance.
This Cardinal therefore, not ignorant of the King's unconstant
and mutable disposition, soon inclined to withdraw his devotion
from his own most noble and virtuous wife Queen Katherine,
aunt to the Emperor, upon every light occasion; and upon
other, to her in nobility, wisdom, virtue, favour, and beauty far
incomparable, to fix his affection, meaning to make his so light
disposition an instrument to bring about this his ungodly intent,
devised to allure the King (then already contrary to his mind
nothing less looking for than falling in love with the Lady Anne
Bullen) to cast fancy to one of the French Sisters, which thing,
because of enmity and war was at that time between the
French King and the Emperor (whom, for the cause afore
remembered, he mortally maligned) he was desirous to procure,
and for the better achieving thereof requested Langland, Bishop
of Lincoln, and ghostly father to the King, to put a scruple into
the King's head, that it was not 'lawful for him to marry his
brother's wife; which the King not sorry to hear of, opened it
first to Sir Thomas More, whose counsel he required therein,
showing him certain places of Scripture, that somewhat seemed
to serve his appetite, which when he had perused, and there-
upon, as one that never had professed the study of Divinity
himself, excused to be unmeet many ways to meddle with such
matters ; the King, not satisfied with this answer, so sore still
pressed upon him, therefore, in conclusion, he condescended
to his Grace his motion, and further, that the matter was of
such importance as needed. good advice and deliberation, he
SIR THOMAS MORE.
21 :
besought his Grace of sufficient respect advisedly to consider
of it; wherewith the King well contented said unto him;
Tunstall and Clarke, Bishops of Durham and Bath, with other
learned of his Privy Council should also be dealers therein.
So Sir Thomas More departing, conferred those places of
Scripture with the exposition of divers of the old holy doctors,
and at his coming to the Court, in talking with his Grace of
the foresaid matter, he said, “To be plain with your Grace,
neither my Lord of Durham, nor my Lord of Bath, though I
know them both to be wise, virtuous, and learned, and honour-
able prelates, nor myself with the rest of your Council, being
all your Grace's own servants, for your manifold benefits daily
bestowed on us, so most bounden unto you, be in my judgment
meet counsellors for your Grace herein ; but if your Grace
minds to understand the truth, such counsellors may you have
devised, as neither for respect of their own worldly commodity,
nor for fear of your princely authority, will be inclined to
deceive you."
To whom he named St. Jerome, St. Augustine, and divers
other holy doctors, both Greeks and Latins : and moreover
showed him what authority he had gathered out of them, which
although the King did not very well like of (as disagreeable to
his Grace's desire), yet were they by Sir Thomas More (who in
all his communication with the King in that matter had always
most wisely behaved himself) so wisely tempered, that he both
presently took them in good part, and oftentimes had thereof
conference with him again. After this were there certain
questions proposed among his Council, whether the King
needed, in this case, to have any scruple at all, and if he had,
what way were best to deliver him of it? the most part of whom
were of the opinion, that there was good cause, and that, for
discharging of it, suit were meet to be made to the See of
22
LIFE OF
Rome, where the King hoping by liberality to obtain his
purpose, wherein (as after it appeared) he was far
deceived, then was there, for the trial and examination of this
matrimony, procured from Rome a Commission, in which
Cardinal Campegines and Cardinal Wolsey were joined Com-
missioners, who, for the determination thereof, sat at the
Blackfriars in London. Where a libel was put in for the
admitting of the said matrimony, alleging the said marriage
between the King and the Queen to be unlawful, and, for proof
of the marriage to be lawful, was there brought in a dispensa-
tion; in which, after divers disputations thereupon holden,
there appeared an imperfection, which - by an instrument or
brief, upon search found in the treasury of Spain, and sent to
the Commissioners into England, was supplied, and so should
judgment have been given by the Pope accordingly, had not
the King, upon intelligence thereof, before the same judgment
appealed to the next general Council. After whose appellation
the Cardinal upon that matter sat no longer. It fortuned before
the matter of the said matrimony brought in question, when I,
in talk with Sir Thomas More, of a certain joy commended
unto him the happy estate of this realm, that had so catholic
a Prince, that no heretic durst show his face, so virtuous and
learned a clergy, so grave and sound a nobility, so loving and
obedient subjects, all in one faith agreeing together: “True it
is indeed (son Roper)," quoth he, and in commending all
degrees and estates of the same went far beyond me, "and yet
(son Roper) I pray God," said he," that some of us, as high as
we seem to sit upon the mountains, treading heretics under our
feet like ants, live not the day, that we gladly would wish to
be at league and composition with them, to let them have their
churches quietly to themselves; so that they would be content
to let us have ours quietly to ourselves." After that I had told
SIR THOMAS MORE.
23
him many considerations, why he had no cause to say so,
“Well, well,” said he, “ I pray God (son Roper) some of us live
not till that day," showing me no reason why I should put any
doubt therein. To whom I said, “By my troth, Sir, it is very
desperately spoken,” that vile term (I cry God mercy) did I
give him, who by these words perceiving me in a fume, said
merrily unto me, "Well, son Roper, it shall not be so, it shall
not be so." Whom in sixteen years and more, being in his
house conversant with him, I could never perceive him so much
as once to fume. But now to return again where I left : After
supplying of imperfections of the dispensation sent (as before
is rehearsed) to the Commissioners into England, the King
taking the matter for ended, and then meaning no further to
proceed in that matter, assigned the Bishop of Durham, and Sir
Thomas More to go ambassadors to Cambray, a place neither
Imperial nor French, to treat a peace between the French
King, the Emperor, and him, in the concluding whereof
Sir Thomas More so worthily handled himself (procuring
in our league far more benefits unto his realm, than at
that time by the King and Council was possible to be
compassed), that for his good service in that voyage, the
King, when he after made him Lord Chancellor, caused the
Duke of Norfolk openly to declare unto the people (as you
shall hear hereafter more at large) how much all England was
bound unto him. Now, upon the coming home of the Bishop
of Durham and Sir Thomas More from Cambray, the King
was as earnest in persuading Sir Thomas More to agree unto
the matter of his marriage as before, by many and divers ways
provoking him thereunto. For which cause (as it was thought)
he the rather soon after made him Lord Chancellor, and
further declared unto him, that though at his going over the
sea to Cambray, he was in utter despair thereof, yet he had
24
LIFE OF
conceived since some good hope to compass it. For albeit
his marriage, being against the positive law of the Church,
and the written law of God, was holden by the dispensation,
yet was there another thing found out of late, he said,
whereby his marriage appeared to be so directly against the
laws of nature, that it could in no wise by the Church be dis-
pensable, as Dr. Stoksely (whom he had then newly preferred
to be Bishop of London, and in that case chiefly credited) was
able to instruct him, with whom he prayed him in that point to
confer. But for all his conference with him, he saw nothing of
such force, as could induce him to change his opinion therein;
which notwithstanding the bishop showed himself in his report
of him to the King's highness so good and favourable, that he
said, he found him in his Grace's cause very toward, and
desirous to find some good matter wherewith he might truly
serve his Grace to his contentation. This Bishop Stoksely
being by the Cardinal not long before in the Star Chamber
openly put to rebuke, and awarded to the Fleet, not brooking
his contumelious usage, and thinking, that forasmuch as the
Cardinal, for lack of such forwardness in setting first the
King's divorce as his Grace looked for, was out of his High-
ness' favour, he had now a good occasion offered him to
revenge his quarrel against him-further to incense the King's
displeasure towards him, busily travailed to invent some
colourable device for the King's furtherance in that behalf.
Which (as before is mentioned) he to his Grace revealed,
hoping thereby to bring the King to the better liking of him-
self, and the more misliking of the Cardinal. His Highness
therefore was soon after of his office displaced, and to Sir
Thomas More (the rather to move him to incline to his side)
the same in his stead committed. Who between Dukes of
Norfolk and Suffolk being brought through Westminster Hall
SIR THOMAS MORE.
25
to his place in the Chancery, the Duke of Norfolk, in audience
of all the people there assembled, showed, that he was from the
King himself straightly charged by special commission there
openly, in the presence of all, to make declaration, how much
all England was beholden to Sir Thomas More for his good
service, and how worthy he was to have the highest room in
the Realm, and how dearly his Grace loved and trusted him;
for which, said the Duke, he had great cause to rejoice.
Whereunto Sir Thomas More, among many other his humble
and wise sayings (not now in my memory) answered, “That
although he had good cause to rejoice of his Highness' singular
favour towards him, that he had far above his deserts so
highly commended him, yet nevertheless he must for his own
part needs confess, that in all things by his Grace alleged
he had done no more than was his duty. And further disabled
himself as unmeet for that room, wherein, considering how
wise and honourable a prelate had lately before taken so great
a fall, he had," he said, “thereof no cause to rejoice." And
as they on the King's behalf charged him uprightly to minister
indifferent justice to the people without corruption or affection,
so did he likewise charge them again, that if they saw him
at any time in anything digress from any part of his duty,
in that honourable office, then, as they would discharge their
own duty and fidelity to God and the King, so should they
not fail to disclose it to his Grace, who otherwise might have
just occasion to lay his fault wholly to their charge. While he
was Lord Chancellor (being at leisure, as seldom he was)
one of his sons-in-law on a time said merrily unto him,
“When Cardinal Wolsey was Lord Chancellor, not only
divers of his privy chamber, but such also as were his door
keepers got great gain, and since he had married one of his
daughters, and gave still attendance upon him, he thought he
LIFE OF
might of reason look for somewhat, where he indeed, because
he was ready himself to hear every man, poor and rich, and
keep no doors shut from them, could find none, which was
to him a great discouragement. And whereas else some for
friendship, some for kindred, and some for profit, would gladly
have his furtherance in bringing them to his presence, if he
should now take anything of them he knew" (he said), “he
should do them great wrong, for that they might do as much
for themselves, as he could do for them: which condition
although he thought in Sir Thomas More very commendable,
yet to him” (said he) “ being his son he found it nothing
profitable.” When he had told him this tale, “You say
well, son" (quoth he), “I do not mislike that you are of con-
science so scrupulous, but many other ways be there (son),
that I may do both yourself good, and pleasure your friend
also. For sometimes may I in words stand your friend in stead,
and sometime may I by my letter help you and him,
or if he have a cause depending before me, at your request
I may hear him before another, or if his cause be not all the
best, yet may I move the parties to fall to some reasonable
end by arbitrament; howbeit, this one thing I assure thee on
my faith, that if the parties will at my hand call for justice,
then were it my father stood on the one side and the devil on
the other side (his cause being good) the devil should have
right. So offered he his son (as he thought" he said) “as
much favour as with reason he could require.” And that he
would for no respect digress from justice well appeared by
a plain example of another of his sons-in-law, Mr. Heron.
For when he, having a matter before him in the Chancery,
presuming too much of his favour, would by him in no wise be
persuaded to agree to any indifferent order, then made he in
conclusion a flat decree against him. This Lord Chancellor
SIR THOMAS MORE.
used commonly every afternoon to sit in his open hall, to the
intent, if any person had any suit unto him, they might the
more boldly come to his presence, and there open complaints
before him. Whose manner was also to read every bill him-
self, ere he would award any subpoena, which bearing matter
sufficient worthy a subpæna, would he set his hand unto, or else
cancel it. Whensoever he passed through Westminster Hall
to his place in the Chancery by the Court of the King's Bench,
if his father, one of the judges there, had been sat ere he
came he would go into the same court, and there reverently
kneeling down in the sight of them all duly ask his father's
blessing. And if it fortuned that his father and he at read-
ings in Lincoln's Inn met together (as they sometime did)
notwithstanding his high office he would offer in argument
the pre-eminence to his father, though he for his office sake
would refuse to take it. And for the better declaration of his
natural affection towards his father, he not only (when he lay
on his death-bed) according to his duty ofttimes with com-
fortable words most kindly came to visit him; but also at his
departure out of this world, with tears taking him about the
neck, most lovingly kissed and embraced him, commending
into the merciful hands of Almighty God, and so departed
from him. And as few injunctions as he granted while he was
Lord Chancellor, yet were they by some of the judges of the
law misliked, which I understanding, declared the same unto
Sir Thomas More, who answered me, that they have little cause
to find fault with him therefore. And thereupon caused he one
Mr. Crooke, chief of the six clerks, to make a docket, con-
taining the whole number and causes of all such injunctions,
as either in his time had already passed, or at that present
time depended in any of the King's Courts at Westminster
before him. Which done he invited all the judges to dinner
28
LIFE OF
with him in the Council Chamber at Westminster, where after
dinner when he had broken with them what complaints he had
heard of his injunctions, and moreover showed them both the
number and causes of every of them in order so plainly,
that, upon full debating of those matters, they were all enforced
to confess, that they, in like case, could have done no otherwise
themselves, then offered he this unto them, that if the justices
of every court, unto whom the reformation of rigour of the
law, by reason of their office, most specially appertained,
would, upon reasonable considerations, by their own discre-
tions (as they were, as he thought, in conscience bound) miti-
gate and reform the rigour of the law themselves, there should
from thenceforth by him no more injunctions be granted.
Whereupon when they refused to condescend, then said he unto
them: “Forasmuch as yourselves, my lords, drive me to that
necessity for awarding our injunctions to relieve the people's
injury, you cannot hereafter any more justly blame me;" after
that he had said secretly unto me: “I perceive, son, why
they like not so to do. For they see, that they may, by the
verdict of the jury, cast off all quarrels from themselves upon
them, which they account their chief defence, and therefore
am I compelled to abide the adventure of all such reports."
And as little leisure as he had to be occupied in the study of
Holy Scripture, and controversies upon religion, and such other
like virtuous exercises, being in manner continually busied
about the affairs of the King and the Realm, yet such watch
and pain in setting forth of divers profitable works in defence
of the true Catholic religion against heresies, secretly sown
abroad in the Realm, assuredly sustained he, that the bishops,
to whose pastoral cure the reformation thereof principally
appertained, thinking themselves by his travail (wherein, by
their own confession, with him they were not able to make
,
SIR THOMAS MORE.
29
comparison) of their duty discharged, and considering that, for
all his pains, and prince's favour, he was no rich man, nor in
yearly revenues advanced as his worthiness deserved, therefore
at a convocation among themselves and other of the clergy,
they agreed together, and concluded upon a sum of four or five
thousand pounds at the least (to my remembrance) for his
pains to recompense him. To the payment whereof every
bishop, abbot, and the rest of the clergy were after the rate
of their abilities liberal contributaries, hoping this portion
should be to his contentation. Whereupon Tunstall bishop of
Durham, Clarke bishop of Bath, and (as far as I can call to
mind) Vaysie bishop of Exeter, repaired unto him, declaring
how thankfully for his travails to their discharge in God's
cause bestowed, they reckoned themselves bound to consider
him. And that albeit they could not according to his deserts
so worthily as they gladly would requite him therefore, but
reserve that only to the goodness of God, yet for a small part
of recompense, in respect of his estate, so unequal to his
worthiness, in the name of their whole Convocation, they
presented unto him that sum, which they desired him to take
in good part, who-forsaking it, said, “That like as it were no
small comfort unto him, that so wise and learned men so well
accepted his simple doing, for which he intended never to
receive reward but at the hands of God only, to whom alone
was thanks thereof chiefly to be ascribed : so gave he most
humble thanks unto their honours all for their bountiful con-
sideration." When they for all their importune pressing upon
him, that few would have went he could have refused it, could
by no means make him to take it, then they besought him be
content, yet that they might bestow it upon his wife and
children; “Not so, my Lords” (quoth he), “I had liever see it
all cast into the Thames, than I, or any of mine should have
LIFE OF
thereof the worth of one penny. For though your offer, my
Lords, be indeed very friendly and honourable, yet set I so
much by my pleasure, and so little by my profit, that I would
not (in good faith) for so much, and much more to have lost the
rest of so many a night's sleep, as was spent upon the same.
And yet wish I would, for all that, upon conditions that all
heresies were suppressed, that all my books were burned, and
my labour utterly lost.” Thus departing, were they fain to
restore to every man his own again. This Lord Chancellor
albeit he' was to God and the world well known of notable
virtue, though not so of every man considered, yet for the
avoidance of singularity would he appear no otherwise than
other men in his apparel and other outward behaviour. And
albeit he appeared honourable outwardly, and like one of his
calling, yet inwardly he no such vanities esteeming, secretly
next his body wore a shirt of hair, which my sister More,
a young gentlewoman in the summer, as he sat at supper
singly in his doublet and hose, wearing thereupon a plain
shirt without ruff or collar, chancing to espy, began to laugh
at it. My wife not ignorant of his manner, perceiving the
same privily told him of it, and he being sorry that she saw
it, presently amended it. He used also sometimes to punish
his body with whips, the cords knotted, which was known only
to my wife his eldest daughter, whom for her secrecy above all
other he specially trusted, caused her, as need required, to wash
the same shirt of hair. Now shortly upon his entry into the
high office of the Chancellorship, the King oftsoons again moved
him to weigh and consider his greatest matter, who falling
down upon his knees, humbly besought his Highness to stand
his gracious Sovereign, as ever since his entry into his gracious
service he had found him, saying, “There was nothing in the
world had been so grievous to his heart, as to remember he was
SIR THOMAS MORE.
21
not able, as he willingly would with the loss of one of his limbs,
for that matter to find anything whereby he could serve his
Grace's contentment, as he that always bare in mind the most
godly words, that his Highness spake unto him at his first
coming into his noble service, the most virtuous lesson that
ever prince taught his servant, willing him first to look unto
God, and after God to him, as in good faith,” he said, “he did,
or else might his Grace well account him his most unworthy
servant.” To this the King answered, "that if he could not with
his conscience serve him, he was content to accept his service
otherwise, and use the advice of other his learned Council,
whose consciences could well enough agree thereto, he would
nevertheless continue his gracious favour towards him, and
never with that matter molest his conscience after.” But Sir
Thomas More in process of time, seeing the King fully deter-
mined to proceed forth in the marriage of Queen Anne, and
when he with the bishops and nobles of the Higher House of
Parliament, were, for the furtherance of that marriage, com-
manded by the King to go down to the Common House to show
to them both what the Universities as well of other parts beyond
the seas, as at Oxford and Cambridge had done in that behalf,
and their seals also testifying the same : all which matters, at
the King's request (not showing of what mind himself was
therein), he opened to the Lower House of the Parliament:
nevertheless doubting lest further attempts should after follow,
which, contrary to his conscience, by reason of his office he was
likely to be put unto, he made suit to the Duke of Norfolk, his
singular dear friend, to be a mean to the King, that he might,
with his Grace's favour, be discharged of that chargeable room
of Chancellorship, wherein for certain infirmities of his body, he
pretended himself unable any longer to serve This Duke
coming on a time to Chelsea to dine with him, fortuned to find
32
LIFE OF
him at church singing in the choir with a surplice on his back;
to whom after service, as they went home together arm in arm,
the Duke said, “ God body, God body (my Lord Chancellor) a
parish clerk, a parish clerk, you dishonour the King and his
office.” “Nay," quoth Sir Thomas More, smiling upon the
Duke, "your Grace may not think, that the King, your master
and mine, will with me for serving God his Master be offended,
or thereby count his office dishonoured.” . When the Duke,
being thereunto solicited by importunate suit, had at length
obtained for Sir Thomas More a clear discharge of his office,
then at a time convenient, by his Highness' appointment,
repaired he to his Grace, to yield up unto him the great seal,
which, as his Grace with thanks and praise for his worthy
service in that office courteously at his hands received, so pleased
it his Highness to say more unto him, that for the good service
he before had done him in any suit which he should after have
unto him, that either should concern his honour (for that word
it liked his Highness to use unto him) or that should appertain
unto his profit, he would find his Highness a good and gracious
lord unto him. After he had thus given over his Chancellorship,
and placed all his gentlemen and yeomen with bishops and
noblemen, and his eight watermen with the Lord Audley,
that after in the same 'office succeeded him to whom also he
gave his great barge, then calling us that were his children
unto him, and asking our advice, how we might now, in
this decay of his ability, by the surrender of his office so
impaired, that he could not, as he was wont, and gladly
would bear out the whole charges of them all himself, from
henceforth be able to live and continue together, as he wished
we should, when he saw us all silent, and in that case not ready
to show our opinions unto him, “Then will I” (said he) “show
my poor mind unto you. I have been brought up at Oxford,
SIR THOMAS MORE.
33
at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, and in the King's
Court, so forth from the lowest degree to the highest, and yet
have I in yearly revenues little more than one hundred pounds
by the year at this present left me. So that we must hereafter,
if we like to live together. But by my counsel it shall not
be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not
therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn,
but we will begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, where many right
worshipful and of good years do live full well, which if we
find not ourselves the first year able to maintain, then will
we the next year after go one step down to New Inn fare,
wherewith many an honest man is well contented. If that
exceed our ability too, then will we the next year after descend
to Oxford fare, where many grave, ancient, and learned Fathers
be conversant continually, which if our ability stretch not to
maintain neither, then may we yet with bags and wallets
go a-begging together, and hoping that for pity some good
folks will give their charity at every man's door to sing
salve Regina, and so still keep company merrily together.”
And whereas you have heard before he was by the King from
a very worshipful living taken unto his Grace's service, with
whom all the great and weighty causes that concerned his
Highness, or the Realm, he consumed and spent with painful
cares, travail, and trouble as well beyond the seas, as within
the Realm, in effect the whole substance of his life, yet with
all the gain he got thereby (being never no wasteful spender
thereof) was he not able, after the resignation of his office of
the Lord Chancellor, for the maintenance of himself, and such
as necessarily belonged unto him, sufficiently to find meat,
drink, fuel, apparel, and such other necessary charges. All
the land that ever he purchased before he was Lord Chan-
cellor, was not, I am well assured, above the value of twenty
727
34
LIFE OF
marks by the year, and after his debts paid he had not I
of one hundred pounds. And whereas upon the holidays,
during High Chancellorship, one of his gentlemen, when
service at the church was down, ordinarily used to come to
my Lady, his wife's pew, and say, “Madam, my Lord is gone,"
the next holiday after the surrender of his office, and departure
of his gentlemen he came unto my Lady, his wife's pew, him-
self, and making a low curtsey, said unto her, “Madam, my
Lord is gone." In the time somewhat before his trouble, he
would talk with his wife and children of the joys of heaven
and the pains of hell, of the lives of holy martyrs, and of their
grievous martyrdom, of their marvellous patience, and of
their passions and deaths, that they suffered rather than they
would offend God, and what an happy and a blessed thing it
was for the love of God to suffer loss of goods, imprisonment,
that upon his faith if he might perceive his wife and children
would encourage him to die in a good cause, it should so comfort
to death. He showed them afore what trouble might fall unto
him, wherewith, and the like virtuous talk he had so long
before his trouble encouraged them, that when he after fell in
the trouble indeed, his trouble to him was a great deal the
less, quia spicula prævisa minus lædunt. Now upon this
resignment of his office came Sir Thomas Cromwell (then in the
King's high favour) to Chelsea to him on a message from the
King, wherein when they had throughly communed together,
“Mr. Cromwell” (quoth he), "you are now entered into the
service of a most noble, wise, and liberal prince; if you will
follow my poor advice, you shall, in counsel giving unto his
Grace, ever tell him what he ought to do, but never tell him
SIR THOMAS MORE.
35
what he is able to do, so shall you show yourself a true
faithful servant, and a right worthy Councillor. For if the
lion knew his own strength, hard were it for any man to rule
him." Shortly thereupon was there a commission directed
to Cranmer, then Archbishop of Canterbury to determine the
matter of the matrimony between the King and Queen
Katherine at St. Alban's, where according to the King's mind
that was throughly finished, who pretending that he had no
justice at the Pope's hands, from thenceforth sequestered
himself from the See of Rome, and so married the Lady Anne
Bullen, which Sir Thomas More understanding, said unto
me, “ God give grace, son, that these matters within a while
be not confirmed with oaths." I at that time seeing no
likelihood thereof, yet fearing lest for his forespeaking that
would the sooner come to pass, waxed therefore for his saying
much offended with him. It fortuned not long before the
coming of the Queen Anne through the streets of London
from the Tower to Westminster to her Coronation, that he
received a letter from the Bishops of Durham, Bath, and
Winchester, requesting him to bear them company from the
Tower to the Coronation, and also to take £20 that by the
bearer thereof they had sent him to buy him a gown with,
which he thankfully received, and at home still tarrying, at
their next meeting said merrily unto them, "My Lords, in the
letters which you lately sent me, you required two things of
me, the one whereof since I was so well contented to grant
you, the other therefore I thought I might be the bolder to
deny you."
In continuance when the King saw that he could by no
manner of benefits win him to his side, then went he about
by terrors and threats to drive him thereunto, the beginning
of which trouble grew by occasion of a certain nun dwelling
36
LIFE OF
in Canterbury, for her virtue and holiness among the people
not a little esteemed, unto whom for that cause many religious
persons, Doctors of Divinity, and divers other of good wor-
ship of the laity used to resort, who affirming that she had
revelations from God to give the King warning of his wicked
life, and of the abuses of the sword and authority committed
to him by God, and understanding my Lord of Rochester,
Bishop Fisher, to be a man of notable virtuous living and
learning, repaired to Rochester, and there disclosed unto him
all her revelations, desiring his advice and counsel therein,
which the Bishop perceiving might well stand with the laws
of God and his Church advised her (as she before had
warning and intended) to go to the King herself, and to let
him understand the whole circumstance thereof, whereupon
she went unto the King, and told him all her revelations,
and returned home again. And in short space after, she
making a voyage-to the Nun of Sion by the means of one
Mr. Reynolds a father of that house there fortuned concern-
ing such secrets as she had revealed unto her, some part
whereof seemed to touch the matter of the King's supremacy
and marriage (which shortly thereupon followed) to enter
into talk with Sir Thomas More; who notwithstanding he
might well at that time without danger of any law (though
after, as himself had prognosticated before, those matters
were established by statutes and confirmed by oaths) freely
and safely have talked with her therein; nevertheless, in all
the communication between them (as in process of time it
appeared) had always so discreetly demeaned himself, that
he deserved not to be blamed, but contrariwise to be com-
mended and praised. And had he not been one that in all
his great office, and doings for the King and Realm together,
had from all corruption of wrong doing, or bribes taking, kept
SIR THOMAS MORE.
37
himself so clear, that no man was able therewith to blemish
him, it would without doubt (in this troublesome time of the
King's wrath and indignation towards him) have been deeply
laid to his charge, and of the King's Highness favourably
accepted, as in the case of one Parnell that most manifestly
appeared : against whom Sir Thomas More while he was Lord
Chancellor, at the suit of one Vaughan his adversary had
made a decree. This Parnell to the King's Highness had
grievously complained that Sir Thomas More, for making the
decree, had of the same Vaughan (unable for the gout to
travel abroad himself) by the hands of his wife taken a fair
great gilt cup for a bribe, who thereupon by the King's appoint-
ment being called before the Council, where that matter was
heinously laid to his charge, forthwith confessed, that foras-
much as that cup was long after the aforesaid decree brought
unto him for a new year's gift, he upon her importunate
pressing upon him, therefore of courtesy refused not to take it.
Then the Lord of Wiltshire (for hatred of his religion preferrer
of this suit) with much rejoicing said unto the Lords, “ Lo my
Lords, lo, did I not tell you that you should find this matter
true?” Whereupon Sir Thomas More desired their worships,
that as they had courteously heard him tell the one part of his
tale, so they would vouchsafe of their honours indifferently to
hear the other, after which obtained, he further declared unto
them, that albeit indeed he had with much work received that
cup, yet immediately thereupon he caused his butler to fill that
with wine, and of that cup drank to her, and that when she
had pledged him, then as freely as her husband had given it
unto him, even so freely gave he the same unto her again, to
give unto her husband for his new year's gift, which at his
instant request, though much against her will, yet at length she
was fain to receive, as herself and certain other there presently
38
LIFE OF
deposed before them. Thus was the great mountain turned
scarce unto a mole-hill. So I remember that another time on
a new year's day there came unto him one Mrs. Crocker, a rich
widow (for whom with no small pains he had made a decree in
the Chancery against the Lord of Arundel) to present him with
a pair of gloves and £40 in angels in them for a new year's
gift, of whom he thankfully received the gloves, but refusing the
money said unto her, “ Mistress, since that were against good
manners to forsake a gentlewoman's new year's gift, I am
content to receive your gloves, but as for your money I utterly
refuse:" so much against her mind enforced he her to take her
gold again. And one Mr. Gresham likewise having a cause
depending in the Chancery against him, sent him for a new
year's gift a fair gilt cup, the fashion whereof he very well liking
caused one of his own (though not in his fantasy of so good a
fashion) yet better in value, to be brought out of his chamber,
which he willed the messenger to deliver to his mistress in
recompense, and under other conditions would he in no wise
receive it. Many things more of like effect for the declaration
of his innocence and clearness from corruption, or evil affection,
could I here rehearse besides, which for tediousness omitting,
I refer to the readers by these few fore-remembered examples
with their own judgments wisely to consider. At this Parlia-
ment was there put into the Lords' House a bill to attaint the nun,
and divers other religious persons of high treason; and the
Bishop of Rochester, Sir Thomas More, and certain others of
misprision of treason: the King presupposing of likelihood this
bill would be to Sir Thomas More so troublous and terrible, that
that would force him to relent and condescend to his request,
wherein his Grace was much deceived. To which bill Sir
Thomas More was a suitor personally to be received in his own
defence to make answer, but the King not liking that, assigned
SIR THOMAS MORE.
39
the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, the Duke
of Norfolk, and Mr. Cromwell, at a day and place appointed to
call Sir Thomas More before them, at which time I thinking I
had good opportunity, earnestly advised him to labour unto
these Lords for the help of his discharge out of the Parliament
Bill; who answered me, he would: and at his coming before
them according to their appointment, they entertained him very
friendly, willing him to sit down with them, which in no wise
he would. Then began the Lord Chancellor to declare unto
him how many ways the King had showed his love and favour
towards him, how fain he would have had him continue in his
office, how glad he would have been to have heaped more bene-
fits upon him, and finally, how he could ask no worldly honour, or
profit at his Highness' hands, that were likely to be denied him ;
hoping by the declaration of the King's kindness and favour
towards him to provoke him to recompense his Grace with the
like again, and unto those things that the Parliament, the
Bishops, and Universities had already passed to yield his
consent. To thïs Sir Thomas More mildly answered saying,
“No man living is there (my Lords) that would with better
will do the thing that should be acceptable to the King's
Highness than I, which must needs confess his manifold
benefits, and bountiful goodness most benignly bestowed
on me. Howbeit I verily hoped that I should never
have heard of this matter more, considering that I have
from time to time always from the beginning so plainly and
truly declared my mind unto his Grace, which his Highness
to me ever seemed, like a most gracious prince, very well to
accept, never minding, as he said, to molest me more there-
with. Since which time any further thing that was able to
move me to any change could I never find, and if I could, there
is none in all the world that could have been gladder of it than
Po
LIFE OF
.
I.” Many things more were there of like sort on both sides
uttered. But in the end when they saw they could by no
means of persuasions remove him from his former determina-
tions, then began they more terribly to touch him, telling him
that the King's Highness had given them in commandment (if
they could by no gentleness win him) in his name with his
great ingratitude to charge him, that never was there servant to
his master so villainous, nor subject to his prince so traitorous
as he. For he by his subtle sinister sleights, most unnaturally
procuring and provoking him to set forth a book of the asser-
tion of Seven Sacraments, and in maintenance of the Pope's
authority, had caused him to his dishonour throughout all
Christendom to put a sword in the Pope's hands to fight
against himself. When they had thus laid forth all the terrors
they could imagine against him: “My Lords” (quoth he)
“These terrors be the arguments for children, and not for me. ,
But to answer that wherewith you do chiefly burden me, I
believe the King's Highness of his honour will never lay that
to my charge. For none is there that in that point can say
more in mine excuse than his Highness himself, who right
well knoweth that I was never procurer or councillor of his
Majesty thereunto, but after that it was finished, by his Grace's
appointment, and consent of the makers of the same, only a
sorter out, and placer of the principal matters therein con-
tained; wherein when I found the Pope's authority highly
advanced, and with strong arguments mightily defended, I said
unto his Grace, I must put your Grace in remembrance of one
thing, and that is this, The Pope (as your Grace knoweth) is a
Prince as you are, and in league with all other Christian
Princes, that may hereafter so fall out, that your Grace and he
may vary upon some points of the league, whereupon may
grow some breach of amily and war between you both; I think
SIR THOMAS MORE.
41
it best therefore that that place be amended, and his authority
more slenderly touched. Nay (quoth his Grace) that it shall
not, we are so much bounden unto the See of Rome, that
we cannot do too much honour unto it. Then did I put him
further in remembrance of the statute of Praemunire, whereby
a good part of the Pope's pastoral cure here was paid away.
To that answered his Highness, whatsoever impediment be
to the contrary, we will set forth that authority to the uttermost.
For we received from that See our Crown Imperial; which
till his Grace with his own mouth told me I never heard of
before. So that I trust when his Grace shall be truly informed
of this, and call to his gracious remembrance my doings in
that behalf, his Highness will never speak of it more, but clear
me throughly therein himself.” And thus displeasantly de-
parted they. Then took Sir Thomas More his boat towards
his house at Chelsea, wherein by the way he was very merry,
and for that was I nothing sorry, hoping that he had gotten
himself discharged out of the Parliament Bill. When he was
come home, then walked we two alone into his garden together,
where I desirous to know how he had sped, said, “Sir, I trust
all is well, because you are so merry.” “That is so, indeed
(son Roper) I thank God” (quoth he). "Are you put out
of the Parliament Bill then ?” said I. “By my troth (son
Roper)," quoth he, “I never remembered it.” “Never remem-
bered it, Sir ?" quoth I. “A case that toucheth yourself so
near, and us all for your sake. I am sorry to hear it. For
I verily trusted when I saw you so merry, that all had been
well." Then said he, “Wilt thou know, son Roper, why I
was so merry ?” “That would I gladly, Sir," quoth'I. “In
good faith I rejoice, son," (quoth he), “that I had given
the devil so foul a fall, and that with those Lords I had
gone so far, as, without great shame, I could never go back
42
LIFE OF
again." At which words waxed I very sad. For though
himself liked it well, yet liked it me but a little. Now
upon the report made by the Lord Chancellor, and the
other Lords unto the King of all their whole discourse
had with Sir Thomas More, the King was so highly offended
with him, that he plainly told them he was fully determined the
said Parliament Bill should undoubtedly proceed forth against
him. To whom my Lord Chancellor and the rest of the Lords
said, that they perceived the Lords of the Upper House so
precisely bent to hear him, in his own case, make answer for
himself, that if he were not put out of the Parliament Bill, it
would without fail be utterly an overthrow of all. But for all
this needs would the King have his own will therein, or else he
said that at the passing thereof he would be personally present
himself. Then the Lord Audley and the rest, seeing him
so vehemently set thereupon, on their knees most humbly
besought his Majesty to forbear the same, considering, that if
he should in his own presence receive an overthrow, it would
not only encourage his subjects ever after to contemn him, but
also throughout all Christendom, redound to his dishonour for
ever, adding thereunto, that they mistrusted not in time to find
some meet matter to serve his Grace's turn better. For in this
case of the nun he was accounted so innocent and clear, that
for his dealing therein men reckoned him worthier of praise
than reproof. Whereupon at length through their earnest
persuasion, he was content to condescend to their petition.
And on the morrow after, Mr. Cromwell meeting me in the
Parliament House willed me to tell my father, that he was put
out of the Parliament Bill. But because I had appointed to
dine that day in London, I sent the message by my servant to
my wife at Chelsea, whereof when she informed her father,
"in faith Meg” (quoth he) “Quod defertur, non aufertur."
SIR THOMAS MORE.
43
After this as the Duke of Norfolk and Sir Thomas More
chanced to fall in familiar talk together, the Duke said unto
him, “By the Mass (Mr. More) it is perilous striving with
Princes, and therefore I would wish you somewhat to incline
to the King's pleasure. For by God's' body (Mr. More)
Indignatio principis mors est." "Is that all, my Lord ?" (quoth
he). “Is there (in good faith) no more difference between
your Grace and me, but that I shall die to-day and you to-
morrow?" So fell it out within a month or thereabout after
the making of the Statute for the oath of Supremacy and
Matrimony, that all the priests of London and Westminster,
and no temporal men but he were sent to appear at Lambeth
before the Bishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, and
Secretary Cromwell, Commissioners, there, to tender the oath
unto them. Then Sir Thomas More, as his accustomed manner
was always ere he entered into any matter of importance (as
when he was first chosen of the King's Privy Council, when he
was sent Ambassador, appointed Speaker of the Parliament,
made Lord Chancellor, or when he took any like weighty matter
upon him) to go to the church, and to be confessed, to hear
mass, and be housled; so did he likewise in the morning early
the selfsame day that he was summoned to appear before the
Lords at Lambeth. And whereas he used evermore before, at
his departure from his house and children (whom he loved
tenderly) to have them bring him to his boat, and there to kiss
them all, and bid them farewell, then would he suffer none of
them forth of the gate to follow him, but pulled the wicket after
him, and shut them all from him, and with an heavy heart (as
by his countenance it appeared) with me, and our four servants,
there took his boat towards Lambeth. Wherein sitting still
sadly awhile, at the last he rounded me in the ear and said,
“Son Roper, I thank our Lord, the field is won." What he
44
LIFE OF
meant thereby, then, I wist not. Yet loath to seem ignorant I
answered, “Sir, I am thereof very glad." But as I conjectured
afterwards it was for that the love he had to God wrought in
him so effectually, that it conquered in him all his carnal
affectations utterly. At his coming to Lambeth, how wisely
he behaved himself before the Commissioners, at the minis-
tration of the oath unto him, may be found in certain letters
of his (sent to my wife) remaining in a great book of his
works: where by the space of four days, he was betaken
to the custody of the Abbot of Westminster, during which
time the King consulted with his Council what order were
meet to be taken with him. And albeit in the beginning they
were resolved, that with an oath not to be known whether he
had to the supremacy been sworn, or what he thought thereof,
he should be discharged, yet did Queen Anne, by her impor-
tunate clamour, so sore exasperate the King against him, that,
contrary to his former resolution, he caused the oath of the
supremacy to be ministered unto him, who, albeit he made
a discreet qualified answer, nevertheless was forth with com-
mitted to the Tower, who as he was going thitherward, wear-
ing, as he commonly did, a chain of gold about his neck,
Sir Richard Cromwell (that had the charge of his conveyance
thither) advised him to send home his chain to his wife, or
some of his children, “Nay, Sir (quoth he), that will I not. For
if I were taken in the field by my enemies, I would they should
somewhat fare the better by me." At whose landing Mr.
Lieutenant at the Tower gate was ready to receive him, where
the porter demanded of him his upper garment. “Mr. Porter”
(quoth he) "here it is," and took off his cap and delivered him,
saying, "I am very sorry it is no better for you.” “Nay, Sir”
(quoth the Porter), "I must have your gown," and so was he by
Mr. Lieutenant conveyed into his lodging, where he called unto.
SİR THOMAS MORE.
45
him one John Awood his own servant there appointed to attend
upon him, who could neither write nor read, and swore him
before the Lieutenant that if he should hear, or see him at any
time, speak or write any manner of thing against the King, the
Council, or the state of the Realm, he should open it to the Lieu-
tenant, that the Lieutenant might incontinent reveal it to the
Council. Now when Sir Thomas More had remained in the
Tower a little more than a month, my wife, longing to see her
father, by her earnest suit at length gat leave to go to him. At
whose coming (after the seven psalms and litany said, which
whensoever she came to him, ere he fell in talk of any worldly
matters, he used accustomably to say with her) among other
communication he said unto her, “I believe (Meg) that they
that have put me here, ween they have done me a high dis-
pleasure. But I assure you on my faith, mine own dear
daughter, if it had not been for my wife and you that be my
children, whom I account the chief part of my charge, I would
not have failed, long ere this, to have closed myself in as
strait a room and straiter too. But since I come hither
without mine own desert, I trust that God of his goodness will
discharge me of my care, and with his gracious help supply my
want among you. I find no cause (I thank God, Meg) to
reckon myself in worse case here, than in mine own house.
For methinketh God maketh me a wanton, and setteth me on
his lap and dandleth me." Thus by his gracious demeanour
in tribulations appeared it, that all the troubles that ever
chanced unto him by his patient sufferance thereof were to
him no painful punishments, but of his patience profitable
exercises. And at another time, when he had first questioned
with my wife a while of the order of his wife and children, and
state of his house in his absence, he asked her how Queen Anne
did: “In faith, father" (quoth she), “never better.” “Never
46
LIFE OF
better, Meg?" quoth he. “Alas (Meg) alas, it pitieth me
to remember, in what misery she (poor soul) shortly shall
come.” After this Mr. Lieutenant coming into his chamber
to visit him, rehearsed the benefits and friendships that he
had many times received at his hands, and how much bounden
he was therefore friendly to entertain him and make him good
cheer, which since (the case standing as it did) he could not
do without the King's indignation, he trusted (he said) he
would accept his good will, and such poor cheer as he had.
“Mr. Lieutenant" (quoth he again), " I verily believe, as you
may, so are you my good friend indeed, and would (as you say)
with your best cheer entertain me, for the which I most
heartily thank you. And assure yourself (Mr. Lieutenant),"
quoth he, “I do not mislike my cheer, but whensoever I so
do, then thrust me out of your doors." Whereas the oath
confirming the supremacy and matrimony was by the first
statute comprised in few words, the Lord Chancellor and Mr.
Secretary did of their own heads add more words unto it, to
make it appear to the King's ears more pleasant and plausible.
And that oath so amplified caused they to be ministered to
Sir Thomas More and to all other throughout the Realm,
which Sir Thomas perceiving said unto my wife: “I may tell
thee (Meg) they that have committed me hither for refusing
of the oath, not agreeable with the statute, are not able by their
own law to justify my imprisonment. And surely (daughter) it
is a great pity that a Christian prince should (by a flexible
council ready to follow his affections, and by a weak clergy
lacking grace constantly to stand to their learning) with flattery
so shameful to be abused." But at length the Lord Chancellor
and Mr. Secretary, espying their oversight in that behalf,
were fain afterwards to find the means that another statute
should be made for the confirmation of the oath so amplified
SIR THOMAS MORE.
47
his office and all other worldly doings therewith, to the intent
he might from thenceforth the more quietly set himself to the
service of God, then made he a conveyance for the disposition
of his lands, reserving for himself an estate thereof only for the
term of his life, and after his decease assuring some part of
the same to his wife, some to his son's wife for a jointure, in
consideration that she was an inheritrix in possession of more
than an hundred pounds land by the year, and some to me
and my wife in recompense of our marriage money with divers
remainders over, all which conveyance and assurance was
perfectly finished long before that matter, whereupon she was
attainted, was made an offence, and yet after by statute clearly
voided ; and so were all his lands, that he had to his wife and
children by the said conveyance in such sort assured, contrary
to the order of law, taken away from them, and brought into
the King's hands, saving that portion that he had appointed to
my wife and me, which although he had in the foresaid con-
veyance reserved, as he did the rest, for term of his life unto
himself, nevertheless, upon further consideration, after by
another conveyance he gave that same immediately to me,
and my wife in possession. And so because the statute had
undone only the first conveyance, giving no more to the King
but so much as passed by that, the second conveyance, whereby
it was given unto my wife and me, being dated two days after
was without the compass of the statute, and so was our portion
the Tower chanced on a time looking out of his window to
behold one Mr. Reynolds, a religious, learned and virtuous
father of Sion, and three monks of the Charterhouse for the
matter of the supremacy going out of the Tower to execution,
he, as one longing in that journey to have accompanied them,
48
LIFE OF
said unto my wife, then standing there beside him, "Lo, dosi
thou not see (Meg) that these blessed fathers be now as
cheerful going to their deaths, as bridegrooms to their mar-
riages ? Wherefore thereby mayest thou see (mine own good
daughter) what a difference there is between such as have in
effect spent all their days in a strait, hard, penitential, and
painful life religiously, and such as have in the world, like
worldly wretches, as thy poor father hath done, consumed all
the time in pleasure and ease licentiously. For God, con-
sidering their long-continued life in most sore and grievous
penance, will not longer suffer them to remain here in this vale
of misery and iniquity, but speedily hence take them to the
fruition of his everlasting deity: whereas thy silly father
(Meg) that, like a most wicked caitiff, hath passed forth the
whole course of his miserable life most pitifully, God, thinking
him not worthy so soon to come to that eternal felicity, leaveth
him here yet, still in the world further to be plunged and
turmoiled with misery." Within a while after Mr. Secretary
(coming to him into the Tower from the King) pretended
much friendship towards him, and for his comfort told him,
that the King's Highness was his good and gracious
lord and minded not with any matter, wherein he should
have any cause of scruple, from henceforth to trouble his
conscience. As soon as Mr. Secretary was gone, to express
what comfort he conceived of his words, he wrote with
a coal (for ink then he had none) these verses following :-
" Ay flattering fortune look you never so fair,
Nor never so pleasantly begin to smile,
As though thou wouldst my ruins all repair
During my life thou shalt not me beguile,
Trust I shall, God, to enter in a while
SIR THOMAS MORE.
49
Thy haven of heaven sure and uniform,
Ever after thy calm look I for no storm."
Tower, my lady his wife obtained licence to see him, who
at her first coming like a simple woman, and somewhat worldly
too, with this manner of salutations bluntly saluted him, “What
the good year, Mr. More," quoth she, “I marvel that you, that
have been always hitherunto taken for so wise a man, will now
so play the fool to lie here in this close filthy prison, and be
content to be shut up among mice and rats, when you might be
abroad at your liberty, and with the favour and good will both
of the King and his Council, if you would but do as all the
bishops and best learned of this Realm have done. And seeing
you have at Chelsea a right fair house, your library, your
books, your gallery, your garden, your orchards, and all other
necessaries so handsomely about you, where you might, in the
company of me your wife, your children, and household be
merry, I muse what a God's name you mean here still thus
fondly to tarry.” After he had a while quietly heard her, with a
cheerful countenance he said unto her, “I pray thee good Mrs.
she). “Is not this house as nigh heaven as mine own ?" To
whom she, after her accustomed fashion, not liking such talk,
answered, “ Tille valle, tille valle.” “How say you, Mrs.
Alice, is it not so?” quoth he. “Bone Deus, bone Deus, man,
will this gear never be left ?" quoth she. “Well then, Mrs.
Alice, if it be so, it is very well. For I see no great cause why
I should much joy of my gay house, or of anything belonging
thereunto, when, if I should but seven years lie buried under
the ground, and then arise and come thither again, I should not
fail to find some therein that would bid me get me out of the
728
50
LIFE OF
doors, and tell me that were none of mine. What cause have I
then to like such an house as would so soon forget his master ?"
So her persuasions moved him but a little. Not long after
came there to him the Lord Chancellor, the Dukes of Norfolk
and Suffolk, with Mr. Secretary, and certain others of the
Privy Council at two separate times, by all policies possible
procuring him either precisely to conſess the supremacy, or
precisely to deny it. Whereunto (as appeareth by his examina-
tion in the said great book) they could never bring him.
Shortly hereupon Mr. Rich (afterwards Lord Rich) then newly
the King's Solicitor, Sir Richard Southwell, and Mr. Palmer,
servant to the Secretary, were sent to Sir Thomas More into
the Tower, to fetch away his books from him. And while Sir
of his books, Mr. Rich, pretending friendly talk with him,
him : “Forasmuch as it is well known (Mr. More) that you
are a man both wise and well learned, as well in the laws of the
Realm, as otherwise, I pray you therefore, Sir, let me be so bold
as of good will to put unto you this case. Admit there were,
Sir," quoth he, “an Act of Parliament, that all the Realm
should take me for the King, would not you (Mr. More) take
me for the King ?” “Yes, Sir," quoth Sir Thomas More, "that
would I." "I put the case further" (quoth Mr. Rich) “that
there were an Act of Parliament that all the Realm should take
me for the Pope ; would then not you, Mr. More, take me for
the Pope?” “For answer," quoth Sir Thomas More, “to your
first case, the Parliament may well (Mr. Rich) meddle with the
state of temporal princes; but to make answer to your second
case, I will put you this case, Suppose the Parliament would
make a law, that God should not be God, would you then, Mr.
Rich, say God were not God?” “No, Sir," quoth he, “that
SIR THOMAS MORE.
51
would I not, since no Parliament may make any such law.” “No
more” (said Sir Thomas More, as Mr. Rich reported of him)
“could the Parliament make the King supreme head of the
Church.” Upon whose only report was Sir Thomas More
indicted of treason upon the Statute in which it was made
treason to deny the King to be supreme head of the Church,
into which indictinent were put these words, maliciously, traitor-
ously, and diabolically. When Sir Thomas More was brought
from the Tower to Westminster Hall to answer the indictment,
and at the King's Bench bar before the judges thereupon
arraigned, he openly told them that he would upon that indict-
ment have abiden in law, but he thereby should have been
driven to confess of himself the matter indeed, which was the
denial of the King's supremacy, which he protested was untrue,
wherefore thereto he pleaded not guilty, and so reserved unto
himself advantage to be taken of the body of the matter after
verdict, to avoid that indictment. And moreover added, “if
those only odious terms, maliciously, traitorously, and diaboli-
cally were put out of the indictment, he saw nothing therein
justly to charge him." And for proof to the jury that Sir
Thomas More was guilty to this treason, Mr. Rich was called
by them to give evidence unto them, as he did ; against whom
Sir Thomas More began in this wise to say: "If I were a man
(my Lords) that did not regard an oath, I need not (as it is well
known) in this place, at this time, nor in this case to stand as
an accused person. And if this oath of yours (Mr. Rich) be
true, then pray I that I may never see God in the face, which I .
would not say, were it otherwise, to win the whole world."
Then recited he unto the discourse of all their communication
in the Tower according to the truth, and said, " In faith, Mr.
Rich, I am sorrier for your perjury than for mine own peril, and
you shall understand that neither I, nor no man else to my
52
LIFE OF
knowledge ever took you to be a man of such credit as in any
matter of importance I, or any other would at any time vouch-
safe to communicate with you. And (as you know) of no small
while I have been acquainted with you and your conversation,
who have known you from your youth hitherto. For we long
dwelled both in one parish together, where, as yourself can tell
(I am sorry you compel me so to say) you were esteemed very
light of your tongue, a great dicer, and of not commendable
fame. And so in your house at the Temple (where hath been
your chief bringing up) were you likewise accounted. Can it
therefore seem likely unto your honourable Lordships, that I
would, in so weighty a cause, so far overshoot myself, as to
trust Mr. Rich (a man of me always reputed for one of so little
truth, as your Lordships have heard) so far above my sovereign
Lord the King, or any of his noble councillors, that I would unto
him utter the secrets of my conscience touching the King's
supremacy, the special point and only mark at my hands so
long sought for? A thing which I never did, nor never would,
after the Statute thereof made, reveal it, either to the King's
Highness himself, or to any of his honourable councillors, as it is
not unknown unto your house, at sundry times, and several,
sent from his Grace's own person unto the Tower to me for none
other purpose. Can this in your judgments (my Lords) seem
Mr. Rich hath sworn, seeing it was spoke but in familiar secret
talk, nothing affirming, and only in putting of cases, without
other displeasant circumstances, it cannot justly be taken to be
spoken maliciously. And where there is no malice there can
be no offence. And over this I can never think (my Lords) that
so many worthy bishops, so many honourable personages, and
many other worshipful, virtuous, wise, and well-learned men, as
at the making of that law were in the Parliament assembled, ever
SIR THOMAS MORE.
53
meant to have any man punished by death, in whom there
could be found no malice, taking malitia pro malevolentia. For
can thereof excuse himself. Quia si dixerimus quod peccatum
non habemus, nosmetipsos seducimus, et veritas in nobis non est.
And only this word maliciously is in the Statute material, as
this term forcible is in the statute of forcible entries ; by which
statute if a man enter peaceably, and put not his adversary
out forcibly, it is no offence, but if he put him out forcibly,
then by that statute it is an offence. And so shall he be
goodness of my sovereign Lord the King's Highness himself,
that hath been so many ways my singular good Lord and
Gracious Sovereign, that hath so dearly loved me, and trusted
me even at my first coming into his noble service with
the dignity of his honourable Privy Council, vouchsafing to
admit me to offices of great credit, and worship most liberally
advanced me, and finally with that weighty room of his
Grace's high Chancellorship (the like whereof he never did
to temporal man before) next to his own royal person the
highest officer in this noble realm, so far above my merits
or qualities able and meet therefore, of his incomparable
benignity honoured and exalted me by the space of twenty
years and more, showing his continual favour towards me;
and (until, at mine own poor suit, it pleased his Highness,
giving me licence, with his Majesty's favour, to bestow the
residue of my life wholly for the provision of my soul in the
service of God, of his special goodness thereof to discharge
and unburden me) most benignly heaped honours more and
more upon me; all this his Highness' goodness, I say, so
long continued towards me, were, in my mind (my Lords),
matter sufficient to convince this slanderous surmise (by this
54
LIFE OF
man so wrongfully imagined against me.” Mr. Rich seeing,
himself so disproved, and his credit so foully defaced, caused
Sir Richard Southwell and Mr. Palmer, that at that time of
their communication were in the chamber, to be sworn what
words had passed betwixt them. Whereupon Mr. Palmer on
his deposition said, that he was so busy about the trussing
up Sir Thomas More's books in a sack, that he took no
heed to their talk. Sir Richard Southwell likewise upon his
deposition said, that because he was appointed only to look
to the conveyance of his books, he gave no ear unto them.
After this, were there many other reasons (not now in my
remembrance) by Sir Thomas More in his own defence
alleged, to the discredit of Mr. Rich his foresaid evidence,
and proof of the clearness of his own conscience. All which
notwithstanding the jury found him guilty, and incontinent
upon the verdict the Lord Chancellor (for that matter chief
commissioner) beginning in judgment against him, Sir Thomas
More said to him, “My Lord, when I was towards the law,
the manner in such case was to ask the prisoner before
judgment, why judgment should not be given against him?"
Whereupon the Lord Chancellor staying his judgment,
wherein he had partly proceeded, demanded of him what he
was able to say to the contrary? Who then in this sort
mildly made answer : "Forasmuch as, my Lord” (quoth he),
“this indictment is grounded upon an Act of Parliament,
directly oppugnant to the laws of God and his holy Church,
the supreme government of which, or of any part thereof,
may no temporal prince presume by any law to take upon
him as rightfully belonging to the See of Rome, a spiritual
pre-eminence by the mouth of our Saviour himself, personally
present upon the earth, to St. Peter and his successors,
bishops of the same see, by special prerogative, granted, it ,
SIR THOMAS MORE.
55
is therefore in law amongst Christian men insufficient to
charge any Christian." And for proof thereof like as amongst
divers other reasons and authorities he declared That this
Realm, being but one member and small part of the Church,
might not make a particular law dischargeable with the
general law of Christ's holy Catholic Church, no more than
the City of London, being but one poor member in respect
of the whole Realm, might make a law against an Act of
Parliament to bind the whole Realm unto : so further showed
he, that it was contrary both to the laws and statutes of
this land, yet unrepealed, as they might evidently perceive
in Magna charta, Quod Ecclesia Anglicana libera sit et
habeat omnia jura sua integra, et libertates suas illæsas, -
and contrary to that sacred oath which the King's High-
ness himself, and every other Christian prince always at
their coronations received, alleging moreover, that no more
' might this Realm of England refuse obedience to the See
of Rome, than might the child refuse obedience to his
natural father. For as St. Paul said of the Corinthians, “I
have regenerated you my children in Christ," so might St.
Gregory Pope of Rome (of whom by St. Augustine his
messenger we first received the Christian faith) of us English
men truly say, “You are my children, because I have given
to you everlasting salvation, a far better inheritance than
any carnal father can leave unto his child, and by spiritual
generation have made you my spiritual children in Christ."
Then was it thereunto by the Lord Chancellor answered, that
seeing all the bishops, universities, and best learned men of
the Realm had to this Act agreed, it was much marvelled that
he alone against them all would so stiffly stick and vehemently
argue there against. To that Sir Thomas More replied saying,
“ If the number of bishops and universities be so material, as
56
LIFE OF
your Lordships seemeth to take it, then see I little cause (my
Lords) why that thing in my conscience should make any
change. For I nothing doubt, but that though not in this
Realm, yet in Christendom about they be not the least part, that
be of my mind therein. But if I should speak of those that
be already dead (of whom many be now saints in heaven) I
am very sure it is the far greater part of them, that all the
while they lived, thought in this case that way that I think
now. And therefore am I not bound (my Lords) to conform
my conscience to the council of one realm against the
General Council of Christendom.” Now when Sir Thomas
More, for the avoiding of the indictment, had taken as many
exceptions as he thought meet and more reasons than I
can now remember alleged, the Lord Chancellor, loath to
have the burden of the judgment wholly to depend upon
himself, then openly asked the advice of the Lord Fitz-
James, then the Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench,
and joined in commission with him, whether this indictment
were sufficient or not? Who like a wise man answered,
“My Lords all, by St. Julian” (that was ever his oath) “I
must needs confess, that if the Act of Parliament be not
unlawful, then is not the indictment in my conscience in-
sufficient." Whereupon the Lord Chancellor said to the rest
of the Lords, “Lo, my Lords, lo, you hear what my Lord
Chief Justice saith," and so immediately gave the judgment
against him. After which ended, the commissioners yet
courteously offered him, if he had anything else to allege for
his defence to grant him favourable audience, who answered,
“More have I not to say (my Lords) but like as the blessed
Apostle St. Paul, as we read in the Acts of the Apostles,
was present, and consented to the death of St. Stephen, and
kept their clothes that stoned him to death, and yet be they
SIR THOMAS MORE.
57
now both twain holy saints in heaven, and shall continue
there friends for ever, so I verily trust and shall therefore
right heartily pray, that though your Lordships have now in
earth been judges to my condemnation, we may yet here-
after in heaven merrily all meet together to our everlasting
salvation.” Thus much touching Sir Thomas More's arraign-
ment, being not thereat present myself, have I by the
credible report of Sir Anthony Sumtleger Knight, and partly
of Sir Richard Heywood, and John Webb Gentleman, with
others of good credit, at the hearing thereof present them-
selves, as far forth as my poor wit and memory would serve
me, here truly rehearsed unto you. Now after this arraign-
ment departed he from the bar to the Tower again, led by
Sir William Kingston, a tall, strong, and comely knight,
Constable of the Tower, his very dear friend, who when he
had brought him from Westminster to the Old Swan towards
down his cheeks, bade him farewell. Sir Thomas More
seeing him so sorrowful, comforted him with as good words
as he could, saying, “Good Mr. Kingston, trouble not
yourself, but be of good cheer. For I will pray for you,
and my good Lady, your wife, that we may meet in heaven
together, where we shall be merry for ever and ever." Soon
after Sir William Kingston talking with me of Sir Thomas
More, said, “In faith Mr. Roper I was ashamed of myself, that
at my departure from your father, I found my heart so feeble,
and his so strong, that he was fain to comfort me which
should rather have comforted him.” When Sir Thomas
More came from Westminster to the Towerward again, his
daughter my wife, desirous to see her father, whom she
thought she should never see in this world after, and also to
have his final blessing, gave attendance about the Tower
LIFE OF
wharf, where she knew he should pass by, ere he could
enter into the Tower. There tarrying for his coming home,
as soon as she saw him, after his blessings on her knees
reverently received, she, hasting towards, without considera-
tion of care of herself, pressing in amongst the midst of the
throng and the Company of the Guard, that with halbards
and bills were round about him, hastily ran to him, and
there openly in the sight of all them embraced and took him
about the neck and kissed him, who well liking her most
daughterly love and affection towards him, gave her his
fatherly blessing, and many godly words of comfort besides,
from whom after she was departed, she not satisfied with the
former sight of her dear father, having respect neither to her-
self, nor to the press of the people and multitude that were
about him, suddenly turned back again, and ran- to him as
before, took him about the neck, and divers times together
most lovingly kissed him, and at last with a full heavy heart
was fain to depart from him; the beholding whereof was
to many of them that were present thereat so lamentable,
that it made them for very sorrow to mourn and weep. So
remained Sir Thomas More in the Tower more than a seven-
night after his judgment. From whence the day before he
suffered he sent his shirt of hair, not willing to have it seen,
to my wife, his dearly beloved daughter, and a letter, written
with a coal, contained in the foresaid book of his works,
plainly expressing the fervent desire he had to suffer on the
morrow in these words: “I cumber you, good Margaret, much,
but I would be sorry if it should be any longer than to-morrow.
For to-morrow is St. Thomas' even, and the Octave of St.
Peter, and therefore to-morrow long I to go to God, that
were a day very meet and convenient for me. And I never
liked your manners better, than when you kissed me last.
SIR THOMAS MORE.
59
For I like when daughterly love, and dear charity hath no
leisure to look to worldly courtesy." And so upon the next
morning, being Tuesday, St. Thomas' even, and the Octave
of St. Peter in the year of our Lord God 1537, according as
he in his letter the day before had wished, early in the morning
came to him Sir Thomas Pope, his singular friend, on message
from the King and his Council, that he should before nine
of the clock in the same morning suffer death, and that
therefore forthwith he should prepare himself thereto. “Mr.
Pope," saith he, "for your good tidings I most heartily thank
you. I have been always bounden much to the King's High-
ness for the benefits and honours which he hath still from
time to time most bountifully heaped upon me, and yet more
bounded I am to his Grace for putting me into this place,
where I have had convenient time and space to have remem-
brance of my end, and so help me God most of all, Mr. Pope,
am I bound to his Highness, that it pleased him so shortly
to rid me of the miseries of this wretched world. And
therefore will I not fail most earnestly to pray for his Grace
both here, and also in another world.” “The King's pleasure
is further," quoth Mr. Pope, “that at your execution you
shall not use many words." "Mr. Pope" (quoth he), "you do
well that you give me warning of his Grace's pleasure. For
otherwise had I purposed at that time somewhat to have
spoken, but of no matter wherewith his Grace, or any other
should have had cause to be offended. Nevertheless whatso-
ever I intend I am ready obediently to conform myself to his
Grace's commandment. And I beseech you, good Mr. Pope, to
be a mean unto his Highness, that my daughter Margaret may
be present at my burial." "The King is well contented
already" (quoth Mr. Pope) " that your wife, children, and other
friends shall have free liberty to be present thereat." "O how
60
LIFE OF
much beholden," then said Sir Thomas More, "am I to his
Grace, that unto my poor burial vouchsafeth to have so gracious
consideration.” Wherewithal Mr. Pope taking his leave of
him could not refrain from weeping, which Sir Thomas More
perceiving, comforted him in this wise, “Quiet yourself, good
Mr. Pope, and be not discomforted. For I trust that we shall
once in heaven see each other full merrily, where we shall
be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally."
Upon whose departure Sir Thomas More, as one that had
been invited to a solemn feast, changed himself into his
best apparel; which Mr. Lieutenant espying, advised him to
put it off, saying, That he that should have it was but a worth-
less fellow. “What Mr. Lieutenant” (quoth he), “shall I
account him a worthless fellow, that will do me this day so
singular a benefit? Nay, I assure you, were it cloth of gold I
would account it well bestowed on him, as St. Cyprian did,
who gave his executioner thirty pieces of gold.” And albeit at
length, through Mr. Lieutenant's persuasions, he altered his
apparel, yet, after the example of that holy martyr St. Cyprian,
did he of that little money that was left him, send one angel of
gold to his executioner. And so was he brought by Mr.
Lieutenant out of the Tower, and from thence led towards the
place of execution, where going up the scaffold, which was so
weak that it was ready to fall, he said to Mr. Lieutenant, “I
pray you, I pray you, Mr. Lieutenant, see me safe up, and for
my coming down let me shift for myself.” Then desired he all
the people thereabouts to pray for him, and to bear witness with
him, that he should then suffer death in and for the faith of the
holy Catholic Church, which done he kneeled down, and after
his prayers said, he turned to the executioner, and with a
cheerful countenance spake unto him, “ Pluck up thy spirits,
man, and be not afraid to do thine office, my neck is very short.
SIR THOMAS MORE.
бI
Take heed therefore thou shoot not awry for saving thine
honesty.” So passed Sir Thomas More out of this world to God
upon the very same day in which himself had most desired.
Soon after whose death came intelligence thereof to the Emperor
Charles, whereupon he sent for Sir Thomas Eliott, our English
Ambassador, and said unto him, “ My Lord Ambassador, we
understand that the King your master hath put his faithful
servant and grave wise councillor Sir Thomas More to death."
Whereunto Sir Thomas Eliott answered, that he understood
nothing thereof. “Well," said the Emperor, “it is very true,
and this will we say, that if we had been master of such a
servant, of whose doings ourselves have had these many years
no small experience, we would rather have lost the best city
of our dominions, than have lost such a worthy councillor."
Which matter was by Sir Thomas Eliott to myself, to my wife,
to Mr. Clement and his wife, to Mr. John Haywood and his
wife, and divers others of his friends accordingly reported.
UTOPIA.
A fruitful, pleasant, and witty work, of the best state of
a public weal, and of the new isle, called Utopia :
written in Latin, by the right worthy and famous
Sir Thomas More, Knight, and translated into English
by Ralph Robinson, sometime Fellow of Corpus
Christi College in Oxford, and now by him at this
second edition newly perused and corrected. Im-
printed at London, by Abraham Vele, dwelling in
Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the Lamb.
729
UTOPIA.
To the right honourable, and his very singular good master,
Master William Cecil esquire, one of the two principal
secretaries to the King his most excellent Majesty,
Ralph Robinson wisheth continuance of health, with
daily increase of virtue, and honour.
UPON a time, when tidings came to the city of Corinth that
King Philip father to Alexander surnamed the Great, was
coming thitherward with an army royal to lay siege to the
city: The Corinthians being forth with stricken with great
fear, began busily, and earnestly to look about them, and
to fall to work of all hands. Some to scour and trim up
harness, some to carry stones, some to amend and build higher
the walls, some to rampier and fortify the bulwarks, and
fortresses, some one thing, and some another for the defending,
and strengthening of the city. The which busy labour, and
toil of theirs when Diogenes the philosopher saw, having no
profitable business whereupon to set himself on work (neither
any man required his labour, and help as expedient for the
commonwealth in that necessity) immediately girded about
him his philosophical cloak, and began to roll, and tumble
up and down hither and thither upon the hill-side, that lieth
adjoining to the city, his great barrel or tun, wherein he
dwelled : for other dwelling-place would he have none. This
seeing one of his friends, and not a little musing thereat,
came to him: And I pray thee Diogenes (quoth he) why
dost thou thus, or what meanest thou hereby ? Forsooth I
am tumbling my tub too (quoth he) because it were no reason
that I only should be idle, where so many be working. In
similar manner, right honourable sir, though I be, as I am
66
THE EPISTLE.
indeed, of much less ability than Diogenes was to do anything,
that shall or may be for the advancement and commodity of
the public wealth of my native country : yet I seeing every
sort, and kind of people in their vocation, and degree busily
occupied about the commonwealth's affairs : and especially
learned men daily putting forth in writing new inventions,
and devices to the furtherance of the same: thought it my
bounden duty to God, and to my country so to tumble my
tub, I mean so to occupy, and exercise myself in bestowing
such spare hours, as I being at the beck, and commandment
of others, could conveniently win to myself: that though no
commodity of that my labour, and travail to the public
weal should arise, yet it might by this appear, that mine
endeavour, and good-will hereunto was not lacking. To the
accomplishment therefore, and fulfilling of this my mind, and
purpose: I took upon me to turn, and translate out of Latin
into our English tongue the fruitful, and profitable book,
which Sir Thomas More knight compiled, and made of the
new isle Utopia, containing and setting forth the best state,
and form of a public weal: A work (as it appeareth) written
almost forty years ago by the said Sir Thomas More the author
thereof. The which man, forasmuch as he was a man of
late time, yea almost of these our days : and for the excellent
qualities, wherewith the great goodness of God had plenti-
fully endowed him, and for the high place, and room, whereunto
his prince had most graciously called him, notably well known,
not only among us his countrymen, but also in foreign countries
and nations: therefore I have not much to speak of him.
This only I say: that it is much to be lamented of all, and
not only of us Englishmen, that a man of so incomparable
wit, of so profound knowledge, of so absolute learning, and
of so fine eloquence was yet nevertheless so much blinded,
rather with obstinacy, than with ignorance that he could not
or rather would not see the shining light of God's holy truth
in certain principal points of Christian religion : but did rather
choose to persevere, and continue in his wilful and stubborn
obstinacy even to the very death. This I say is a thing much
THE EPISTLE.
67
to be lamented. But letting this matter pass, I return again
to Utopia. Which (as I said before) is a work not only for
the matter that it containeth fruitful and profitable, but also
for the writer's eloquent Latin style pleasant and delectable. V
Which he that readeth in Latin, as the author himself wrote
it, perſectly understanding the same, doubtless he shall take
great pleasure, and delight both in the sweet eloquence of the
writer, and also in the witty invention, and fine conveyance,
or disposition of the matter : but most of all in the good,
and wholesome lessons, which be there in great plenty, and
abundance. But now I fear greatly that in this my simple
translation through my rudeness and ignorance in our English
tongue all the grace and pleasure of the eloquence, where with
the matter in Latin is finely set forth may seem to be utterly
excluded, and lost: and therefore the fruitfulness of the matter
itself much peradventure diminished, and impaired. For
who knoweth not which knoweth anything, that an eloquent
style setteth' forth and highly commendeth a mean matter?
Whereas on the other side rude, and unlearned speech
defaceth and disgraceth a very good matter. According as
I heard once a wise .man say: A good tale evil told were
better untold, and an evil tale well told needeth none
other solicitor. This thing I well pondering and weighing
with myself, and also knowing, and acknowledging the bar-
barous rudeness of my translation was fully determined never
to have put it forth in print had it not been for certain
friends of mine, and especially one, whom above all other I
regarded, a man of sage, and discreet wit, and in worldly
matters by long use well experienced, whose name is George
Tadlow: an honest citizen of London, and in the same
city well accepted, and of good reputation: at whose
request, and instance I first took upon my weak and feeble.
shoulders the heavy and weighty burden of this great
enterprise. This man with divers other, but this man
chiefly (for he was able to do more with me, than many
other) after that I had once rudely brought the work to an
end, ceased not by all means possible continually to
68
THE EPISTLE.
assault me, until he had at the last, what by the force of
his pithy arguments and strong reasons, and what by his
authority so persuaded me, that he caused me to agree and
consent to the imprinting hereof. He therefore, as the
chief persuader, must take upon him the danger, which
upon this bold and rash enterprise shall ensue. I, as I
suppose, am herein clearly acquit and discharged of all
blame. Yet, honourable sir, for the better avoiding of
envious and malicious tongues, I (knowing you to be a
man, not only profoundly learned and well affected towards
all such, as either can or will take pains in the well
bestowing of that poor talent, which God hath endued
them with: but also for your godly disposition and
virtuous qualities not unworthily now placed in authority
and called to honour) am the bolder humbly to offer
and dedicate unto your good mastership this my simple
work. Partly that under the safe conduct of your protection
it may the better be defended from the obloquy of them,
which can say well by nothing that pleaseth not their fond
and corrupt judgments, though it be else both fruitful and
godly: and partly that by the means of this homely present
I may the better renew and revive (which of late, as you know,
I have already begun to do) that old acquaintance, that was
between you and me in the time of our childhood, being then
schoolfellows together. Not doubting that you for your native
goodness, and gentleness will accept in good part this poor gift,
as an argument, or token, that mine old good-will, and hearty
affection towards you is not, by reason of long tract of time
and separation of our bodies, anything at all quailed and
diminished, but rather (I assure you) much augmented and
increased. This verily is the chief cause, that hath encouraged
me to be so bold with your mastership. Else truly this my
poor present is of such simple and mean sort, that it is neither
able to recompense the least portion of your great gentleness to
me, of my part undeserved, both in the time of our old acquaint-
ance, and also now lately again bountifully showed: neither yet
fit and meet for the very baseness of it to be offered to one
THE EPISTLE.
so worthy as you be. But Almighty God (who therefore
ever be thanked) hath advanced you to such fortune and
dignity, that you be of ability to accept thankfully as well
a man's good-will as his gift. The same God grant you and
all yours long, and joyfully to continue in all godliness and
prosperity.
THE TRANSLATOR TO THE GENTLE READER.
THOU shalt understand gentle reader that though this work of
Utopia in English, come now the second time forth in print, yet
was it never my mind nor intent, that it should ever have been
imprinted at all, as who for no such purpose took upon me at
the first the translation thereof, but did it only at the request of
a friend, for his own private use, upon hope that he would have
kept it secret to himself alone. Whom though I knew to be a
man indeed, both very witty, and also skilful, yet was I certain,
that in the knowledge of the Latin tongue, he was not so well
seen, as to be able to judge of the fineness or coarseness of my
translation. Wherefore I went the more slightly through with
it, propounding to myself therein, rather to please my said
friend's judgment than mine own. To the meanness of whose
learning I thought it my part to submit and attemper my style,
Lightly therefore I overran the whole work, and in short time,
with more haste than good speed, I brought it to an end. But
as the Latin proverb saith: The hasty bitch bringeth forth
blind whelps. For when this my work was finished, the
rudeness thereof showed it to be done in post haste. Howbeit,
rude and base though it were, yet fortune so ruled the matter
that to imprinting it came, and that partly against my will.
Howbeit not being able in this behalf to resist the pithy
persuasions of my friends, and perceiving therefore none other
remedy, but that forth it should : I comforted myself for the
time, only with this notable saying of Terence
" Ita vita est hominum, quasi quum luidas tesseris.
Si illud, quod est maxume opus iactu neon cadit :
Illud, quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas."
TO THE READER.
71
In which verses the poet likeneth or compareth the life of man
to a dice playing or a game at the tables : meaning therein, if
that chance rise not, which is most for the player's advantage,
that then the chance, which fortune hath sent, ought so
cunningly to be played, as may be to the player least damage.
By the which worthy similitude surely the witty poet giveth us
to understand, that though in any of our acts and doings (as it
oft chanceth) we happen to fail and miss of our good intended
purpose, so that the success and our intent prove things far
odd: yet so we ought with witty circumspection to handle the
matter, that no evil or incommodity, as far forth as may be, and
as in us lieth, do thereof ensue. According to the which
counsel, though I am indeed in comparison of an expert
gamester and a cunning player, but a very bungler, yet have I
in this by chance, that on my side unawares hath fallen, so (I
suppose) behaved myself, that, as doubtless it might have been
of me much more cunningly handled, had I forethought so
much, or doubted any such sequel at the beginning of my play:
so I am sure it had been much worse than it is, if I had not in
the end looked somewhat earnestly to my game. For though
this work came not from me so fine, so perfect, and so exact at
the first, as surely for my small learning it should have done,
if I had then meant the publishing thereof ini print: yet I trust
I have now in this second edition taken about it such pains,
that very few great faults and notable errors are in it to be
found. Now therefore, most gentle reader, the meanness of
this simple translation, and the faults that be therein (as I fear
sideration of the premises, gently and favourably wink at them.
So doing thou shalt minister unto me good cause to think my
labour and pains herein not altogether bestowed in vain.
Vale!
THOMAS MORE TO PETER GILES,
SENDETH GREETING.
I AM almost ashamed, right well-beloved Peter Giles, to send
unto you this book of the Utopian Commonwealth, well-nigh after
a year's space, which I am sure you looked for within a month
and a half, And no marvel. For you knew well enough that I
was already disburdened of all the labour and study belonging
to the invention in this work, and that I had no need at all to
trouble my brains about the disposition or conveyance of the
matter : and therefore had herein nothing else to do, but only
to rehearse those things, which you and I together heard Master
Raphael tell and declare. Wherefore there was no cause why I
should study to set forth the matter with eloquence: for as
much as his talk could not be fine and eloquent, being first not
studied for, but sudden and unpremeditate, and then, as you
know, of a man better seen in the Greek language, than in the
Latin tongue. And my writing, the nigher it should approach
to his homely plain, and simple speech, so much the nigher
should it go to the truth : which is the only mark, whereunto I
do and ought to direct all my travail and study herein. I grant
and confess, friend Peter, myself discharged of so much labour,
having all these things ready done to my hand, that almost
there was nothing left for me to do. Else either the invention,
or the disposition of this matter might have required of a wit
neither base, neither at all unlearned, both some time and leisure
and also some study. But if it were requisite and necessary,
that the matter should also have been written eloquently, and
not alone truly : of a surety that thing could I have performed
by no time nor study. But now seeing all these cares, stays
and lets were taken away, wherein else so much labour and
study should have been employed, and that there remained no
other thing for me to do, but only to write plainly the matter as
THE EPISTLE.
73
I heard it spoken : that indeed was a thing light and easy to be
done. Howbeit to the dispatching of this so little business, my
other cares and troubles did leave almost less than no leisure.
Whiles I do daily bestow my time about law matters : some to
plead, some to hear, some as an arbitrator with mine award to
determine, some as an umpire or a judge, with my sentence
to discuss. Whiles I go one way to see and visit my friend :
another way about mine own private affairs. Whiles I spend
almost all the day abroad among others, and the residue at
home among mine own; I leave to myself, I mean to my book,
no time. For when I am come home, I must commune with my
wife, chat with my children, and talk with my servants. All the
which things I reckon and account among business, forasmuch
as they must of necessity be done; and done must they needs
be, unless a man will be stranger in his own house. And in
any wise a man must so fashion and order his conditions, and
so appoint and dispose himself, that he be merry, jocund, and
pleasant among then, whom either nature hath provided, or
chance hath made, or he himself hath chosen to be the fellows
and companions of his life: so that with too much gentle
behaviour and familiarity, he do not mar them, and by too
much sufferance of his servants maketh them his masters.
Among these things now rehearsed, stealeth away the day, the
month, the year. When do I write then ? And all this while
have I spoken no word of sleep, neither yet of meat, which
among a great number doth waste no less time than doth sleep,
wherein almost half the lifetime of man creepeth away. I
therefore do win and get only that time, which I steal from
sleep and meat. Which time because it is very little, and yet
somewhat it is, therefore have I once at the last, though it be
long first, finished Utopia ; and have sent it to you, friend
Peter, to read and peruse : to the intent that if anything have
escaped me, you might put me in remembrance of it. For though
in this behalf I do not greatly mistrust myself (which would
God I were somewhat in wit and learning, as I am not all of the
worst and dullest memory), yet have I not so great trust and
confidence in it, that I think nothing could fall out of my mind.
74
THE EPISTLE.
For John Clement my boy, who as you know was there present
with us, whom I suffer to be away from no talk, wherein may be
any profit or goodness (for out of this young bladed and new
shot-up corn, which hath already begun to spring up both in
Latin and Greek learning, I look for plentiful increase at length
of goodly ripe grain) he, I say, hath brought me into a great
doubt. For whereas Hythloday (unless my memory fail me)
said that the bridge of Amaurote, which goeth over the river of
Anyder, is five hundred paces, that is to say, half a mile in
length : my John saith that two hundred of those paces must
be plucked away, for that the river containeth there not above
three hundred paces in breadth, I pray you heartily call the
matter to your remembrance. For if you agree with him, I
also will say as you say, and confess myself deceived. But if
you cannot remember the thing, then surely I will write as I
have done and as mine own remembrance serveth me. For as I
will take good heed, that there be in my book nothing false,
so if there be anything doubtful, I will rather tell a lie, than
make a lie: because I had rather be good, than wily. Howbeit
this matter may easily be remedied, if you will take the pains
to ask the question of Raphael himself by word of mouth, if he
be now with you, or else by your letters. Which you must
needs do for another doubt also, that hath chanced, through
whose fault I cannot tell : whether through mine, or yours, or
Raphael's. For neither we remembered to inquire of him, nor
he to tell us in what part of the new world Utopia is situate.
The which thing, I had rather have spent no small sum of
money, than that it should thus have escaped us : as well for
that I am ashamed to be ignorant in what sea that island
standeth, whereof I write so long a treatise, as also because
there be with us certain men, and especially one virtuous and
godly man, and a professor of divinity, who is exceeding
desirous to go unto Utopia : not for a vain and curious desire to
see news, but to the intent he may further and increase our
religion, which is there already luckily begun. And that he
may the better accomplish and perform this his good intent, he
is minded to procure that he may be sent thither by the high
THE EPISTLE.
75
bishop: yea, and that he himself may be made bishop of
Utopia, being nothing scrupulous herein, that he must obtain
this bishopric with sweat. For he counteth that a godly sweat,
which proceedeth not of the desire of honour or lucre, but only
of a godly zeal. Wherefore I most earnestly desire you, friend
Peter, to talk with Hythloday, if you can, face to face, or else to
write your letters to him, and so to work in this matter, that in
this my book there may neither anything be found, which is
untrue, neither anything be lacking, which is true. And I
think verily it shall be well done, that you show unto him the
book itself. For if I have missed or failed in any point, or if
any fault have escaped me, no man can so well correct and
amend it, as he can: and yet that can he not do, unless he
peruse and read over my book written. Moreover by this
means shall you perceive, whether he be well willing and con-
tent, that I should undertake to put this work in writing. For
if he be minded to publish, and put forth his own labours, and
travels himself, perchance he would be loath, and so would I
also, that in publishing the Utopian weal public, I should
prevent him, and take from him the flower and grace of the
novelty of this his history. Howbeit, to say the very truth, I
am not yet fully determined with myself, whether I will put
forth my book or no. For the natures of men be so diverse,
the fantasies of some so wayward, their minds so unkind, their
judgments SO corrupt, that they which lead a merry and a
jocund life, following their own sensual pleasures and carnal
lusts, may seem to be in a much better state or case, than they
that vex and disquiet themselves with cares and study for the
putting forth and publishing of some thing, that may be either
profit or pleasure to others: which others nevertheless will
disdainfully, scornfully, and unkindly accept the same. The
most part of all be unlearned. And a great number hath
learning in contempt. The rude and barbarous alloweth
nothing, but that which is very barbarous indeed. If it be one
that hath a little smack of learning, he rejecteth as homely gear
and common ware, whatsoever is not stuffed full of old moth-
eaten terms, and that be worn out of use. Some there be that
THE EPISTLE.
have pleasure only in old rusty antiquities. And some only
in their own doings. One is so sour, so crabbed, and so
unpleasant, that he can away with no mirth nor sport. Another
is so narrow between the shoulders, that he can bear no
jests nor taunts. Some silly poor souls be so afraid that at
every snappish word their nose shall be bitten off, that they
stand in no less dread of every quick and sharp word, than he
that is bitten of a mad dog feareth water. Some be so mutable
and wavering, that every hour they be in a new mind, saying
one thing sitting and another thing standing. Another sort
sitteth upon their ale-benches, and there among their cups they
give judgment of the wits of writers, and with great authority
they condemn, even as pleaseth them, every writer according
to his writing, in most spiteful manner mocking, louting, and
flouting them; being themselves in the mean season safe and,
as saith the proverb, out of all danger of gunshot. For why,
they be so smug and smooth, that they have not so much as
one hair of an honest man, whereby one may take hold of them.
There be moreover some so unkind and ungentle, that though
they take great pleasure, and delectation in the work, yet for all
that, they cannot find in their hearts to love the author thereof,
nor to afford him a good word: being much like uncourteous,
unthankful, and churlish guests. Which when they have with
good and dainty meats well filled their bellies, depart home,
giving no thanks to the feast-maker. Go your ways now and
make a costly feast at your own charges for guests so dainty
mouthed, so diverse in taste, and besides that of so unkind and
unthankful natures. But nevertheless (friend Peter) do, I pray
you, with Hythloday, as I willed you before. And as for this
matter I shall be at my liberty, afterwards to take new advise-
ment. Howbeit, seeing I have taken great pains and labour in
writing the matter, if it may stand with his mind and pleasure,
I will as touching the edition or publishing of the book, follow
the counsel and advice of my friends, and specially yours.
Thus fare you well right heartily beloved friend Peter, with
your gentle wife: and love me as you have ever done, for I
love you better than ever I did.
THE FIRST BOOK.
THE First Book of the Communication of Raphael Hyth-
loday, concerning the best state of a Commonwealth.
THE most victorious and triumphant King of England, Henry
the Eighth of that name, in all royal virtues, a prince most
peerless, had of late in controversy with Charles, the right
high and mighty King of Castile, weighty matters and of great
importance. For the debatement and final determination
whereof, the King's Majesty sent me ambassador into Flanders,
joined in commission with Cuthbert Tunstall, a man doubt-
less out of comparison, and whom the King's Majesty of late,
to the great rejoicing of all men, did prefer to the office of
Master of the Rolls.
But of this man's praises I will say nothing, not because
I do fear that small credence shall be given to the testimony
that cometh out of a friend's mouth : but because his virtue
and learning be greater, and of more excellence, than that
I am able to praise them: and also in all places so famous
and so perfectly well known, that they need not, nor ought
not of me to be praised, unless I would seem to show and
set forth the brightness of the sun with a candle, as the proverb
saith. There met us at Bruges (for thus it was before agreed)
they whom their Prince had for that matter appointed com-
missioners : excellent men all. The chief and the head of
them was the Margrave (as they call him) of Bruges, a right
honourable man : but the wisest and the best spoken of them
was George Temsice, provost of Cassel, a man, not only by
learning, but also by nature of singular eloquence, and in
the laws profoundly learned: but in reasoning and debating
of matters, what by his natural wit, and what by daily exercise,
surely he had few fellows. After that we had once or twice
forth there met us at en el for
77
730
THE FIRST BOOK
met, and upon certain points or articles could not fully and
throughly agree, they for a certain space took their leave of
us, and departed to Brussels, there to know their Prince's
pleasure. I in the meantime (for so my business lay) went
straight thence to Antwerp. Whiles I was there abiding,
oftentimes among other, but which to me was more welcome
than any other, did visit me one Peter Giles, a citizen of
Antwerp, a man there in his country of honest reputation,
and also preferred to high promotions, worthy truly of the
highest. For it is hard to say, whether the young man be in
learning, or in honesty more excellent. For he is both of
wonderful virtuous conditions, and also singularly well learned,
and towards all sorts of people exceeding gentle :(but towards
his friends so kind-hearted, so loving, so faithful, so trusty,
and of so earnest affection, that it were very hard in any place
to find a man, that with him in all points of friendship may
be compared. No man can be more lowly or courteous. No
inan useth less simulation or dissimulation, in no man is more
prudent simplicity.) Besides this, he is in his talk and com-
munication so merry and pleasant, yea and that without harm,
that through his gentle entertainment, and his sweet and
delectable communication, in me was greatly abated and
diminished the fervent desire, that I had to see my native
country, my wife and my children, whom then I did much
long and covet to see, because that at that time I had been
more than four months from them. Upon a certain day when
I had heard the divine service in our Lady's church, which
is the fairest, the most gorgeous and curious church of building
in all the city and also most frequented of people, and, the
service being done, was ready to go home to my lodging,
I chanced to espy this foresaid 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. But the said Peter seeing me, came 'unto me and
saluted me.
And as I was about to answer him : see you this man, saith
OF UTOPIÁ.
79
he (and therewith he pointed to the man, that I saw him
talking with before); I was minded, quoth he, to bring him
straight home to you.
He should have been very welcome to me, said I, for your
sake.
Nay (quoth he) for his own sake, if you knew him : for
there is no man this day living, that can tell you of so many
strange and unknown peoples, and countries, as this man
can. And I know well that you be very desirous to hear of
such news.
Then I conjectured not far amiss (quoth I) for even at the
first sight I judged him to be a mariner.
Nay (quoth he) there ye were greatly deceived: he hath
sailed indeed, not as the mariner Palinure, but as the expert
and prudent prince Ulysses : yea, rather as the ancient and
sage philosopher Plato. For this same Raphael Hythloday
(for this is his name) is very well learned in the Latin tongue :
but profound and excellent in the Greek language. Wherein
he ever bestowed more study than in the Latin, because he
had given himself wholly to the study of philosophy. Whereof
he knew that there is nothing extant in Latin, that is to any
purpose, saving a few of Seneca's, and Cicero's doings. His
patrimony that he was born unto, he left to his brethren (for
he is a Portugal born) and for the desire that he had to see,
and know the far countries of the world, he joined himself in
company with Amerigo Vespucci, and in the three last voyages
of those four that be now in print and abroad in every man's
hands, he continued still in his company, saving that in the
last voyage he cane not home again with him. For he made
such means and shift, what by entreatance, and what by im-
portune suit, that he got licence of master Amerigo (though
it were sore against his will) to be one of the twenty-four
which in the end of the last voyage were left in the country
of Gulike. He was therefore left behind for his mind sake,
as one that took more thought and care for travelling than
dying : . having customably in his mouth these sayings : he
that hath no grave, is covered with the sky : and, the way to
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THE FIRST BOOK
heaven out of all places is of like length and distance. Which
fantasy of his (if God had not been his better friend) he had
surely bought full dear. But after the departing of master
Vespucci, when he had travelled through and about many
countries with five of his companions Gulikians, at the
last by marvellous chance he arrived in Taprobane, from
whence he went to Caliquit, where he chanced to find certain
of his country ships, wherein he returned again into his country,
nothing less than looked for.
All this when Peter had told me, I thanked him for his
gentle kindness, that he had vouchsafed to bring me to the
speech of that man, whose communication he thought should
be to me pleasant and acceptable. And therewith I turned me
to Raphael. And when we had saluted each other, and had
spoken these common words, that be customably spoken at the
first meeting and acquaintance of strangers, we went thence to
my house, and there in my garden upon a bench covered with
green turf we sat down talking together. There he told us,
how that after the departing of Vespucci, he and his fellows,
that tarried behind in Gulike, began by little and little, through
fair and gentle speech, to win the love and favour of the people
of that country, insomuch that within short space, they did
dwell amongst them, not only harmless, but also occupying with
them very familiarly. He told us also, that they were in high
reputation and favour with a certain great man (whose name
mere liberality did bear the costs and charges of him and his
five companions. And besides that gave them a trusty guide to
conduct them in their journey (which by water was in boats,
and by land in waggons) and to bring them to other princes,
with very friendly commendations. Thus after many days'
journeys, he said, they found towns and cities and weal publics,
full of people, governed by good and wholesome laws. For
under the line equinoctial, and on both sides of the same, as far
as the sun doth extend his course, lieth (quoth he) great and
wide deserts and wildernesses, parched, burned, and dried up
with continual and intolerable heat. All things be hideous,
OF UTOPIA.
81
terrible, loathsome, and unpleasant to behold: all things out
of fashion and comeliness, inhabited with wild beasts and
serpents, or at the least wise, with people, that be no less
savage, wild and noisome, than the very beasts themselves be.
But a little farther beyond that, all things begin by little and
little to wax pleasant; the air soft, temperate, and gentle; the
ground covered with green grass; less wildness in the beasts.
At the last shall ye come again to people, cities, and towns
wherein is continual intercourse and occupying of merchandise
and trade, not only among themselves and with their borderers,
but also with merchants of far countries, both by land and
water. There I had occasion (said he) to go to many countries
on every side. For there was no ship ready to any voyage
or journey, but I and my fellows were into it very gladly
received. The ships that they found first were made plain,
flat and broad in the bottom, trough-wise. The sails were made
of great rushes, or of wickers, and in some places of leather.
Afterward they found ships with ridged keels, and sails of
canvas, yea, and shortly after, having all things like ours.
The shipmen also very expert and cunning, both in the sea and
in the weather. But he said that he found great favour and
friendship among them, for teaching them the feat and the use
of the load-stone, which to them before that time was unknown.
And therefore they were wont to be very timorous and fearful
upon the sea; nor to venture upon it, but only in the summer
time. But now they have such a confidence in that stone, that
they fear not stormy winter: in so doing farther from care than
danger; insomuch, that it is greatly to be doubted, lest that
thing, through their own foolish hardiness, shall turn them to
evil and harm, which at the first was supposed should be to
them good and commodious.
But what he told us that he saw in every country where he
came, it were very long to declare; neither is it my purpose at
this time to make rehearsal thereof. But peradventure in
another place I will speak of it, chiefly such things as shall be
profitable to be known, as in special be those decrees and
ordinances, that he marked to be well and wittily provided and
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THE FIRST BOOK
MAY
"
+
enacted among such peoples, as do live together in a civil policy
and good order. For of such things did we busily inquire and
demand of him, and he likewise very willingly told us of the
same. But as for monsters, because they be no news, of them
we were nothing inquisitive. For nothing is more easy to
be found, then be barking Scyllas, ravening Celenos, and
Læstrygonians devourers of people, and such like great, and
incredible monsters. But to find citizens ruled by good and
wholesome laws, that is an exceeding rare, and hard thing. But
as he marked many fond, and foolish laws in those new found
lands, so he rehearsed divers acts, and constitutions, whereby
these our cities, nations, countries, and kingdoms may take
example to amend their faults, enormities, and errors. Whereof
in another place (as I said) I will treat.
_ Now at this time I am determined to rehearse only that
he told us of the manners, customs, laws, and ordinances of the
Utopians. But first I will repeat our former communication by
the occasion, and (as I might say) the drift whereof, he was
brought into the mention of that weal public.
For, when Raphael had very prudently touched divers things
that be amiss, some here and some there, yea, very many on
both parts; and again had spoken of such wise laws and
prudent decrees, as be established and used, both here among
us and also there among them, as a man so perfect, and expert
in the laws, and customs of every several country, as though
into what place soever he came guestwise, there he had led
all his life: then Peter much marvelling at the man: Surely
Master Raphael (quoth he) 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. And
thus doing, you shall bring yourself in a very good case, and
also be of ability to help all your friends and kinsfolk.
As concerning my friends and kinsfolk (quoth he) I pass
not greatly for them. For I think I have sufficiently done
OF UTOPIA.
83
my part towards them already. For these things, that other
men do not depart from, until they be old and sick, yea, which
they be then very loath to leave, when they can no longer keep,
those very same things did I being not only lusty and in good
health, but also in the flower of my youth, divide among my
friends and kinsfolk. Which I think with this my liberality
ought to hold them contented, and not to require nor to look
that besides this, I should for their sakes give myself in
bondage unto kings.
Nay, God forbid that (quoth Peter), it is not my mind
that you should be in bondage to kings, but as a retainer to
them at your pleasure. Which surely I think is the nighest
way that you can devise how to bestow your time fruitfully, not
only for the private commodity of your friends and for the
general profit of all sorts of people, but also for the advance-
ment of yourself to a much wealthier state and condition, than
you be now in.
To a wealthier condition (quoth Raphael) by that means,
that my mind standeth clean against ? Now I live at liberty
aſter my own mind and pleasure, which I think very few of
these great states and peers of realms can say. Yea, and there
be enough of them that sue for great men's friendships : and
therefore think it no great hurt, if they have not me, nor three
or four such other as I am.
Well, I perceive plainly friend Raphael (quoth I) that you
be desirous neither of riches nor of power. And truly I
have in no less reverence and estimation a man of your
mind, than any of them all that be so high in power and
authority. But you shall do as it becometh you : yea, and
according to this wisdom, to this high and free courage of
yours, if you can find in your heart so to appoint and dispose
yourself, that you may apply your wit and diligence to the
profit of the weal public, though it be somewhat to your own
pain and hindrance. And this shall you never so well do,
nor with so great profit perform, as if you be of some great
prince's council, and put into his head (as I doubt not but you
will) honest opinions and virtuous persuasions. For from the
84 :
THE FIRST BOOK
I.
'
***
*
prince, as from a perpetual well spring, cometh among the
people the flood of all that is good or evil. But in you is
so perfect learning, that without any experience, and again
so great experience, that without any learning you may well
be any king's councillor.
You be twice deceived, Master More (quoth he), first in me,
and again in the thing itself. For neither is in me the ability
that you force upon me, and if it were never so much, yet
in disquieting mine own quietness I should nothing further
the weal public. 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
by wrong to enlarge their dominions, than how well and peace-
ably to rule and govern that they have already. Moreover,
they that be councillors to kings, every one of them either
is of himself so 'wise indeed, that he needeth not, or else he
thinketh himself so wise, that he will not allow another man's
counsel, saving that they do shamefully and flatteringly give
assent to the fond and foolish sayings of certain great men,
Whose favours, because they be in high authority with their
prince, by assentation and flattery they labour to obtain.
And verily it is naturally given to all men to esteem their own
inventions best. So both the raven and the ape think their
own young ones fairest. Then if a man in such a company,
where some disdain and have despite at other men's inventions,
and some count their own best, if among such men (I say)
a man should bring forth anything, that he hath read done in
times past, or that he hath seen done in other places: there
the hearers fare as though the whole existimation of their
wisdom were in jeopardy to be overthrown, and that ever
after they should be counted for very fools, unless they could in
other men's inventions pick out matter to reprehend, and find
fault at. If all other poor helps fail, then this is their extreme
refuge. These things (say they) pleased our forefathers and
ancestors ; would God we could be so wise as they were : and
as though they had wittily concluded the matter, and with this

OF UTOPIA.
answer stopped every man's mouth, they sit down again. As
who should say, it were a very dangerous matter, if a man in
any point should be found wiser than his forefathers were.
And yet be we content to suffer the best and wittiest-of their
decrees to lie unexecuted: but if in anything a better order
might have been taken, than by them was, there we take fast
hold, finding therein many faults. Many times have I chanced
upon such proud, lewd, overthwart and wayward judgments,
yea, and once in England.
I pray you sir (quoth I) have you been in our country?
Yea forsooth (quoth he) and there I tarried for the space of
four or five months together, not long after the insurrection,
that the western Englishmen made against their king, which
by their own miserable and pitiful slaughter was suppressed
and ended. In the mean season I was much bound and
beholding to the right reverend father, John Morton, Arch-
bishop and Cardinal of Canterbury, and at that time also Lord
Chancellor of England : a man, Master Peter (for Master
More knoweth already that I will say), not more honourable for
his authority, than for his prudence and virtue. He was of a
mean stature, and though stricken in age, yet bare he his body
upright. In his face did shine such an amiable reverence, as
was pleasant to behold, gentle in communication, yet earnest,
and sage. He had great delight many times with rough speech
to his suitors, to prove, but without harm, what prompt wit and
what bold spirit were in every man. In the which, as in a virtue
much agreeing with his nature, so that therewith were not
joined impudence, he took great delectation. And the same
person, as apt and meet to have an administration in the weal
publiczo he did lovingly embrace. In his speech he was fine,
eloquent, and pithy. In the law he had profound knowledge,
in wit he was incomparable, and in memory wonderful excel-
lent. These qualities, which in him were by nature singular,
he by learning and use had made perfect. The king put much
trust in his counsel, the weal public also in a manner leaned
unto him, when I was there. For even in the chief of his
youth he was taken from school into the court, and there
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THE FIRST BOOK
passed all his time in much trouble and business, being con-
tinually tumbled and tossed in the waves of divers misfortunes
and adversities. And so by many and great dangers he
learned the experience of the world, which so being learned can
not easily be forgotten. It chanced on a certain day, when I
sat at his table, there was also a certain layman cunning in the
laws of your realm. Who, I cannot tell whereof taking
occasion, began diligently and earnestly to praise that strait
and rigorous justice, which at that time was there executed
upon felons, who, as he said, were for the most part twenty
hanged together upon one gallows. And, seeing so few escaped
punishment, he said he could not choose, but greatly wonder
and marvel, how and by what evil luck it should so come to
pass, that thieves nevertheless were in every place so rife
and so rank. Nay, sir, quoth I (for 1 durst boldly speak my
mind before the Cardinal), marvel nothing hereat : for this
punishinent of thieves passeth the limits of justice, and is
also very hurtful to the weal public. For it is too extreme and
cruel a punishment for theft, and yet not sufficient to refrain
and withhold men from theft. For simple theſt is not so great
an offence, that it ought to be punished with death. * Neither
there is any punishment so horrible, that it can keep them from
stealing, which have no other craft, whereby to get their living.
Therefore in this point, not you only, but also the most part
of the world, be like evil schoolmasters, which be readier to
beat, than to teach their scholars. For great and horrible
punishments be appointed for thieves, whereas much rather
| provision should have been made, that there were some means,
whereby they might get their living, so that no man should be
driven to this extreme necessity, first to steal, and then to die.
Yes (quoth he) this matter is well enough provided for already.
There be handicrafts, there is husbandry to get their living by,
if they would not willingly be nought. Nay, quoth I, you shall
not 'scape so: for first of all, I will speak nothing of them, that
come home out of the wars, maimed and lame, as not long ago,
out of Blackheath field, and a little before that, out of the wars
in France : such, I say, as put their lives in jeopardy for the
• OF UTOPIA..
87
weal public's or the king's sake, and by reason of weakness and
lameness be not able to occupy their old crafts, and be too aged
to learn new : of them I will speak nothing, forasmuch aś wars
have their ordinary recourse. But let us consider those things
that chance daily before our eyes. First there is a great :
number of gentlemen, which cannot be content to live idle
themselves, like drones, of that which other have laboured for :
their tenants I mean, whom they poll and shave to the quick
**by raising their rents (for this only point of frugality do they
use, men else through their lavish and prodigal spending, able
to bring themselves to very beggary).these gentlemen, I say, do
not only live in idleness themselves, but also carry about with
them at their tails a great flock or train of idle and loitering
serving-men, which never learned any craft whereby to get their
livings. These men as soon as their master is dead, or be sick
themselves, be incontinent thrust out of doors. For gentlemen
had rather keep idle persons, than sick men, and many times
the dead man's heir is not able to maintain so great a house,
and keep so many serving-men as his father did. Then in the
mean season they that be thus destitute of service, either starve
for hunger, or manfully play the thieves. For what would you
have them to do?' When they have wandered abroad so long,
until they have worn threadbare their apparel, and also impaired
their health, then gentlemen because of their pale and sickly
faces, and patched coats, will not take them into service. And
husbandmen dare not set them a work, knowing well enough
that he is nothing meet to do true and faithful service to a poor
man with a spade and a mattock for small wages and hard fare,
which being daintily and tenderly pampered up in idleness and
pleasure, was wont with a sword and a buckler by his side to
strut through the street with a bragging look, and to think him-
,self too good to be any man's mate. Nay, by Saint Mary, sir
(quoth the lawyer) not so. For this kind of men must we make
most of. For in them as men of stouter stomachs, bolder spirits,
and manlier courages than handicraftsmen and ploughmen
be, doth consist the whole power, strength, and puissance of our
army, when we must fight in battle. Forsooth, sir, as well you
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THE FIRST BOOK
might say (quoth I) that for war's sake you must cherish thieves.
| For surely you shall never lack thieves, whiles you have them.
No, nor thieves be not the most false and faint-hearted soldiers,
nor soldiers be not the cowardliest thieves : so well these two
crafts agree together. But this fault, though it be much used
among you, yet is it not peculiar to you only, but common also
almost to all nations. Yet France besides this is troubled and
infected with a much sorer plague. The whole realm is filled
and besieged with hired soldiers in peace time (if that be peace)
which be brought in under the same colour and pretence that
hath persuaded you to keep these idle serving-men. . For these
wise fools and very archdolts thought the wealth of the whole
country herein to consist, if there were ever in a readiness a
strong and sure garrison, specially of old practiced soldiers, for
they put no trust at all in men unexercised. : And therefore they
must be forced to seek for war, to the end they may ever have
practiced soldiers and cunning manslayers, lest that (as it is
prettily said of Sallust) their hands and their minds through
idleness or lack of exercise, should wax dull. But how
pernicious and pestilent a thing it is to maintain such beasts,
the Frenchmen, by their own harms have learned, and the
examples of the Romans, Carthaginians, Syrians, and of many
other countries do manifestly declare. For not only the empire
but also the fields and cities of all these, by divers occasions
have been overrun and destroyed of their own armies before-
hand had in a readiness. Now how unnecessary a thing this
is, hereby it may appear: that the French soldiers, which from
their youth have been practiced and inured in feats of arms,
do not crack nor advance themselves to have very often got the
upper hand and mastery of your new-made and unpracticed
soldiers. But in this point I will not use many words, lest
perchance I may seem to flatter you. : No, nor those same
handicraftsmen of yours in cities, not yet the rude and uplandish
ploughmen of the country, are not supposed to be greatly
afraid of your gentlemen's idle serving-men, unless it be such
as be not of body or stature correspondent to their strength
and courage, or else whose bold stomachs be discouraged
OF UTOPIA.
89
through poverty. Thus you may see, that it is not to be feared
lest they should be effeminated, if they were brought up in good
crafts and laboursome works, whereby to get their livings,
whose stout and sturdy bodies (for gentlemen vouchsafe to
corrupt and spoil none but picked and chosen men) now either
by reason of rest and idleness be brought to weakness: or else
by easy and womanly exercises be made feeble and unable
to endure hardness. Truly howsoever the case standeth, this
methinketh is nothing available to the weal public, for war's
sake, which you never have, but when you will yourselves, to
-keep and maintain an innumerable flock of that sort of men,
that be so troublesome and annoyous in peace, whereof you ought
to have a thousand times more regard than of war. But yet
this is not only the necessary cause of stealing. There is
another, which, as I suppose, is proper and peculiar to you
Englishmen alone. What is that, quoth the Cardinal ? forsooth
my lord (quoth I) your sheep that were wont to be so meek and
tame, and so small eaters, now, as I hear say, be become so
great devourers and so wild, that they eat up, and swallow
down the very men themselves. They consume, destroy, and
devour whole fields, houses, and cities. For look in what parts
of the realm doth grow the finest and therefore dearest wool,
there noblemen and gentlemen, yea and certain abbots, holy
men no doubt, not contenting themselves with the yearly
revenues and profits, that were wont to grow to their forefathers
and predecessors of their lands, nor being content that they
live in rest and pleasure nothing profiting, yea much annoying
the weal public, leave no ground for tillage, they inclose all into
pastures; they throw down houses; they pluck down towns,
and leave nothing standing, but only the church to be made
a sheep-house. And as though you lost no small quantity of
ground by forests, chases, lawns, and parks, those good holy
men turn all dwelling-places and all glebeland into desolation
and wilderness. Therefore that one covetous and insatiable
cormorant and very plague of his native country may compass
about and inclose many thousand acres of ground together
within one pale or hedge, the husbandmen be thrust out of
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THE FIRST BOOK
0
their own, or else either by cunning and fraud, or by violent
oppression they be put besides it, or by wrongs and injuries
they be so wearied, that they be compelled to sell all: by one
means therefore or by other, either by hook or crook they must
needs depart away, poor, silly, wretched souls, men, women,
husbands, wives; fatherless children, widows, woeful mothers,
with their young babes, and their whole household small in
substance and much in number, as husbandry requireth many
hands. Away they trudge, I say, out of their known and
accustomed houses, finding no place to rest in. All their house-
hold stuff, which is very little worth, though it might well abide-
the sale: yet being suddenly thrust out, they be constrained to sell
it for a thing of nought. And when they have wandered abroad
till that be spent, what can they then else do but steal, and
then justly pardy be hanged, or else go about a begging. And
yet then also they be cast in prison as vagabonds, because they
go about and work not: whom no man will set a work, though
they never so willingly proffer themselves thereto. For one
shepherd or herdsman is enough to eat up that ground with
cattle, to the occupying whereof about husbandry many hands
were requisite. And this is also the cause why victuals be
now in many places dearer. Yea, besides this the price of wool
is so risen, that poor folks, which were wont to work it and!
make cloth thereof, be now able to buy none at all. And by
this means very many be forced to forsake work, and to give
themselves to idleness. For after that so much ground was
inclosed for pasture, an infinite multitude of sheep died of the
rot, such vengeance God took of their inordinate and insati-
able covetousness, sending among the sheep that pestiferous
murrain, which much more justly should have fallen on the
sheepmasters' own heads. And though the number of sheep
increase never so fast, yet the price falleth not one mite,
because there be so few sellers. For they be almost all
come into a few rich men's hands, whom no need forceth to
sell before they lust, and they lust not before they may sell
as. dear as they lust. Now the same cause bringeth in like
dearth of the other kinds of cattle, yea and that so much the
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more, because that after farms plucked down and husbandry
decayed, there is no man that passeth for the breeding of
young store. For these rich men bring not up the
young ones of great cattle as they do lambs. But first they
buy them abroad very cheap and afterward, when they be
fatted in their pastures, they sell them again exceeding dear.
not yet felt. For yet they make dearth only in those places
where they sell. But when they shall fetch them away from
thence where they be bred faster than they can be brought
up: then shall there also be felt great dearth, store
beginning there to fail, where the ware is bought. Thus
the unreasonable covetousness of a few hath turned that
thing to the utter undoing of your island, in the which thing
the chief felicity of your realm did consist. For this great
dearth of victuals causeth men to keep as little houses and as
small hospitality as they possible may, and to put away their
servants: whether, I pray you, but a begging: or else (which
these gentle bloods and stout stomachs will sooner set their
minds unto) a stealing ? Now to amend the matter, to this
wretched beggary and miserable poverty is joined great
wantonness, importunate superfluity, and excessive riot. For
'not only gentlemen's servants, but also handicraftsmen: yea --
and almost the ploughmen of the country, with all other sorts of
people, use much strange and proud newfangleness in their
apparel, and too much prodigal riot and sumptuous fare at their
table. Now bawds, queans, whores, harlots, strumpets, brothel-
houses, stews, and yet another stews, winetaverns, ale houses
games, as dice, cards, tables, tennis, bowls, quoits, do not all
these send the haunters of them straight a stealing when their
money is gone? Cast out these pernicious abominations, make
a law, that they, which plucked down farms and towns of
husbandry, shall reedify them, or else yield and uprender the
possession thereof to such as will go to the cost of building
them anew. Suffer not these rich men to buy up all, to engross
and forestall, and with their monopoly to keep the market alone
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as please them. Let not so many be brought up in idleness, let
husbandry and tillage be restored, let clothworking be renewed,
that there may be honest labours for this idle sort to pass their
time in profitably, which hitherto either poverty hath caused to
be thieves, or else now be either vagabonds, or idle serving
men, and shortly will be thieves. Doubtless unless you find a
remedy for these enormities, you shall in vain advance your-
selves of executing justice upon felons. For this justice is more
beautiful in appearance, and more flourishing to the show, than
either just or profitable. For by suffering your youth wantonly
and viciously to be brought up, and to be infected, even from
their tender age, by little and little with vice: then a Godis
name to be punished, when they commit the same faults after
being come to man's state, which from their youth they were
ever like to do: In this point, I pray you, what other thing do
you, than make thieves and then punish them? Now as I was
thus speaking, the lawyer began to make himself ready to
answer, and was determined with himself to use the common
fashion and trade of disputers, which be more diligent in
RE
--
the chief praise. Indeed, sir, quoth he, you have said well,
being but a stranger and one that might rather hear something
of these matters, than have any exact or perfect knowledge of
the same, as I will incontinent by open proof make manifest
and plain. For first I will rehearse in order all that you have
said: then I will declare wherein you be deceived, through lack
of knowledge, in all our fashions, manners and customs: and
last of all I will answer your arguments and confute them every
one. First therefore I will begin where I promised. Four
dinal: for it appeareth that you will make no short answer,
which make such a beginning.' Wherefore at this time you
shall not take the pains to make your answer, but keep it to your
next meeting, which I would be right glad, that it might be
even to-morrow next, unless either you or Master Raphael have
any earnest let. But now, Master Raphael, I'would very gladly
hear of you, why you think theft not worthy to be punished
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N
with death, or what other punishment you can devise more
expedient to the weal public. For I am sure you are not of
that mind, that you would have theft escape unpunished. For
if now the extreme punishment of death cannot cause them to
leave stealing, then if ruffians and robbers should be sure of
their lives; what violence, what fear were able to hold their
hands from robbing, which would take the mitigation of the
punishment, as a very provocation to the mischief? Surely
my lord, quoth I, I think it not right nor justice, that the loss of
money should cause the loss of inan's life. For mine opinion is,
that all the goods in the world are not able to countervail man's
life. But if they would thus say: that the breaking of justice,
and the transgression of the laws is recompensed with this
punishment, and not the loss of the money, then why may not
this extreme and rigorous justice well be called plain injury ?
For so cruel governance, so strait rules, and unmerciful laws be
not allowable, that if a small offence be committed, by-and-by
the sword should be drawn: nor so stoical ordinances are to
be borne withal, as to count all offences of such equality that
the killing of a man, or the taking of his money from him were
both a matter, and the one no more heinous offence than the
other: between the which two, if we have any respect to equity,
no similitude or equality consisteth, God commandeth us that
we shall not kill. And be we then so hasty to kill a man for
taking a little money? And if any man would understand
killing by this commandment of God to be forbidden after no
larger wise, than -man's constitutions define killing to be
lawful, then why may it not likewise by man's constitutions
be determined after what sort whoredom, fornication and
perjury may be lawful? For whereas, by the permission of
God, no man hath power to kill neither himself, nor yet any
other man: then if a law made by the consent of men, con-
cerning slaughter of men, ought to be of such strength, force
and virtue, that they which contrary to the commandment
of God have killed those, whom this constitution of man
commanded to be killed, be clean quit and exempt out of
the bonds and danger of God's commandment: shall it not
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then by this reason follow, that the power of God's command-
ment shall extend no further than man's law doth define, and
permit? And so shall it come to pass, that in like manner
man's constitutions in all things shall determine how far the
observation of all God's commandments shall extend. To
be short, Moses' law, though it were ungentle and sharp, as
a law that was given to bondmen; yea, and them very
obstinate, stubborn, and stiff-necked; yet it punished theft by
the purse, and not with death. And let us not think that God in
the new law of clemency and mercy, under the which he ruleth
us with fatherly gentleness, as his dear children, hath given us
greater scope and licence to the execution of cruelty, one upon
another. Now ye have heard the reasons whereby I am per-
suaded that this punishment is unlawful. Furthermore I think
there is nobody that knoweth not how unreasonable, yea, how |
pernicious a thing it is to the weal public, that a thief and an
| homicide or murderer, should suffer equal and like punishment.
For the thief seeing that man, that is condemned for theft in
no less jeopardy, nor judged to no less punishment, than him
that is convict of manslaughter; through this cogitation only
he is strongly and forcibly provoked, and in a manner con-
strained-to-kill him whom else he would have but robbed.
For the murder being once--done, he is in less fear, and in
more hope that the deed shall not be betrayed or known,
seeing the party is now dead and rid out of the way, which
only might have uttered and disclosed it. But if he chance
to be taken and discrived, yet he is in no more danger and
jeopardy, than if he had committed but single felony. There-
fore whiles we go about with such cruelty to make thieves
afraid, we provoke them to kill good men. Now as touching
this question, what punishment were more commodious and
better; that truly in my judgment is easier to be found, than
what punishment might be worse. For why should we doubt
that to be a good and a profitable way for the punishment
of offenders, which we know did in times past so long please
the Romans, men in the administration of a weal public most
expert, politic, and cunning? Such as among them were
-...
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95
convict of great and heinous trespasses, them they condemned
into stone quarries, and into mines to dig metal, there to be
kept in chains all the days of their life. But as concerning
this matter, I allow the ordinance of no nation so well as
that which I saw, whiles I travelled abroad about the world,
used in Persia among the people that commonly be called
the Polylerites. Whose land is both large and ample, and
also well and wittily governed : and the people in all, condi-
tions free and ruled by their own laws, saving that they pay
a yearly tribute to the great king of Persia. But because
they be far from the sea, compassed and inclosed almost
round about with high mountains, and do content themselves
with the fruits of their own land, which is of itself very fertile
and fruitful : for this cause neither they go to other countries,
nor other come to them. And according to the old custom
of the land, they desire not to enlarge the bounds of their
dominions: and those that they have by reason of the high
hills be easily defended : and the tribute which they pay to
their chief lord and king setteth them quit and free from
warfare. Thus their life is commodious rather than gallant,
and may better be called happy or wealthy, than notable or
famous. For they be not known as much as by name, I
suppose saving only to their next neighbours and borderers.
They that in this land be attainted and convict of felony, make
restitution of that which they stole, to the right owner, and
not (as they do in other lands) to the king : whom they think
to have no more right to the thief-stolen thing, than the thief
himself hath. But if the thing be lost or made away, then
the value of it is paid of the goods of such offenders, which
else remaineth all whole to their wives and children. And
they themselves be condemned to be common labourers, and,
unless the theft be very heinous, they be neither locked in
prison, nor fettered in gyves, but be untied and go at large,
labouring in the common works. They that refuse labour, or
: go slowly and slackly to their work, be not only tied in chains,
but also pricked forward with stripes. But being diligent
about their work they live without check or rebuke. Every
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Sto
11
1
night they be called in by name, and be locked in their
chambers. Beside their daily labour, their life is nothing
hard or incommodious. Their fare is indifferent good, borne
at the charges of the weal public, because they be common
servants to the commonwealth. But their charges in all places
of the land is not borne alike. For in some parts that which
is bestowed upon them is gathered of alms. And though that
way be uncertain, yet the people be so full of mercy, and pity,
that none is found more profitable or plentiful. In some
places certain lands be appointed hereunto, of the revenues
whereof they be maintained. And in some places every man
giveth a certain tribute for the same use and purpose. Again
in some parts of the land these serving-men (for so be these
condemned persons called) do no common work, but as every
private man needeth labourers, so he cometh into the market
place, and there hireth some of them for meat and drink,
and a certain limited wages by the day, somewhat cheaper
than he should hire a free man. It is also lawful for them
to chastise the sloth of these serving-men with stripes. By
this means they never lack work, and besides the gaining
of their meat and drink, every one of them bringeth daily
something into the common treasury. All and every one of
them be apparelled in one colour. Their heads be not polled
or shaven, but rounded a little above the ears. And the tip
of the one ear is cut off. Every one of them may take meat
and drink of their friends, and also a coat of their own colour :
but to receive money is death, as well to the giver, as to the
receiver. And no less jeopardy it is for a free man to receive
money of a serving-man for any manner of cause : and like- :
wise for serving-men to touch weapons. The serving-men
of every several shire be distinct and known from other by
their several and distinct badges: which to cast away is
death: as it is also to be seen out of the precincts of their
own shire, or to talk with a serving-man of another shire.
And it is no less danger to them, for to intend to run away,
than to do it indeed. Yea and to conceal such an enterprise
in á serving-man it is death, in a free man servitude. Of the
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contrary part, to him that openeth and uttereth such counsels,
be decreed large gifts : to a free man a great sum of money,
to a serving-man freedom: and to them both forgiveness and
pardon of that they were of counsel in that pretence. So that
it can never be so good for them to go forward in their evil
purpose, as by repentance to turn back. This is the law
and order in this behalf, as I have showed you. Wherein
what humanity is used, how far it is from cruelty, and how
commodious it is, you do plainly perceive : forasmuch as the
end of their wrath and punishment intendeth nothing else,
but the destruction of vices, and saving of men: with so
using and ordering them, that they cannot choose but be
good, and what harm soever they did before, in the residue
of their life to make amends for the same. Moreover it is
so little feared, that they should turn again to their vicious
conditions, that wayfaring men will for their safeguard
choose them to their guides before any other, in every
shire changing and taking new. For if they would com-
mit robbery, they have nothing about them meet for that
purpose. They may touch no weapons: money found about
them should betray the robbery. They should be no sooner
taken with the manner, but forth with they should be punished.
Neither they can have any hope at all to 'scape away by flying.
For how should a man, that in no part of his apparel is like
other men, fly privily and- unknown, unless he would run away
naked ? Howbeit so also flying he should be discrived by the
rounding of his head, and his ear-mark. But it is a thing to
be doubted, that they will lay their heads together, and con-
spire against the weal public. No, no, I warrant you. For the
serving-men of one shire alone could never hope to bring
to pass such an enterprise, without soliciting, enticing, and
alluring the serving-men of many other shires to take their
parts. Which thing is to them so impossible, that they may
not as much as speak or talk together, or salute one another.
No, it is not to be thought that they would make their own
countrymen and companions of their counsel in such a matter
which they know well should be jeopardy to the concealer
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thereof, and great commodity and goodness to the opener and
detector of the same. Whereas on the other part, there is none
of them all hopeless or in despair to recover again his former
estate of freedom, by humble obedience, by patient suffering
and by giving good tokens and likelihood of himself, that he will,
ever after that, live like a true and an honest man. For every
year divers of them be restored to their freedom : through the
commendation of their patience. When I had thus spoken,
saying moreover that I could see no cause why this order might
not be had in England with much more profit, than the justice
which the lawyer so highly praised : Nay, quoth the lawyer,
this could never be so stablished in England, but that it must
needs bring the weal public into great jeopardy and hazard.
And as he was thus saying, he shaked his head, and made a
wry mouth, and so he held his peace. And all that were there
present, with one assent agreed to his saying. Well, quoth the
Cardinal, yet it were hard to judge without a proof, whether
this order would do well here or no. But when the sentence of
death is given, if then the king should command execution to
be deferred and spared, and would prove this order and
fashion : taking away the privileges of all sanctuaries : if then
the proof should declare the thing to be good and profitable,
then it were well done that it were established ; else the con-
demned and reprieved persons may as well and as justly be put
.to death after this proof, as when they were first cast. Neither
any jeopardy can in the mean space grow hereof. Yea, and
methinketh that these vagabonds may very well be ordered
after the same fashion, against whom we have hitherto made so
many laws, and so little prevailed. When the Cardinal had
thus said, then every man gave great praise to my sayings,
which a little before they had disallowed. But most of all was
esteemed that which was spoken of vagabonds, because it was
the Cardinal's own addition. I cannot tell whether it were
best to rehearse the communication that followed, for it was not
very sad. But yet you shall hear it, for there was no evil in
it, and partly it pertained to the matter beforesaid. There
chanced to stand by a certain jesting parasite, or scoffer, which
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99
would seem to resemble and counterfeit the fool. But he did in
such wise counterfeit, that he was almost the very same indeed
that he laboured to represent: he so studied with words and
sayings brought forth so out of time and place to make sport
and move laughter, that he himself was oftener laughed at than
his jests were. Yet the foolish fellow brought out now and
then such indifferent and reasonable stuff, that he made the
proverb true, which saith : he that shooteth oft at the last shall
hit the mark. So that when one of the company said, that
through my communication a good order was found for thieves,
and that the Cardinal also had well provided for vagabonds, so
that only remained some good provision to be made for them
that through sickness and age were fallen into poverty, and
were become so impotent and unwieldy, that they were not able
to work for their living : Tush (quoth he) let me. alone with
them : you shall see me do well enough with them. For I had
rather than any good, that this kind of people were driven
somewhere out of my sight, they have so sore troubled me
many times and oft, when they have with their lamentable
tears begged money of me: and yet they could never to my
mind so tune their song, that thereby they ever got of me one
farthing. For evermore the one of these two chanced : either
that I would not, or else that I could not, because I had it not.
Therefore now they be waxed wise. For when they see me go
by, because they will not lose their labour, they let me pass and
say not one word to me. So they look for nothing of me, no in
good sooth no more, than if I were a priest, or a monk. But I
will make a law, that all these beggars shall be distributed, and
bestowed into houses of religion. The men shall be made lay
brethren, as they call them, and the women nuns. Hereat the
Cardinat smiled, and allowed it in jest, yea and all the residue-
in good earnest. But a certain friar, graduate in divinity, took
such pleasure and delight in this jest of priests and monks, that
he also being else a man of grisly and stern gravity, began
merrily and wantonly to jest and taunt. Nay, quoth he, you
shall not so be rid and despatched of beggars, unless you make
some provision also for us friars. Why, quoth the jester, that
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is done already, for my lord himself set a very good order for
you, when he decreed that vagabonds should be kept strait and
set to work : for you be the greatest and veriest vagabonds that
be. This jest also, when they saw the Cardinal not disprove it,
every man took it gladly, saving only the friar. For he (and
that no marvel) being thus touched on the quick, and hit on the
gall, so fret, so ſumed, and chafed at it, and was in such a rage,
that he could not refrain himself from chiding, scolding, railing
and reviling. He called the fellow ribald, villain, javel, back-
biter, slanderer, and the child of perdition : citing therewith
terrible threatenings out of holy scripture. Then the jesting
scoffer began to play the scoffer indeed, and verily he was good
at it, for he could play a part in that play no man better.
Patient yourself, good master friar, quoth he, and be not angry,
for scripture saith : in' your patience you shall save your souls.
Then the friar (for I will rehearse his own very words) No,
gallows wretch, I am not angry (quoth he) or at the leastwise, I
do not sin: for the Psalmist saith, be you angry, and sin not. ,
Then the Cardinal spake gently to the friar, and desired him to
quiet himself. No my lord, quoth he, I speak not but of a good
zeal as I ought : for holy men had a good zeal. Wherefore it is
said : the zeal of thy house hath eaten me. And it is sung in the
church, the scorners of Helizeus, whiles he went up into the house
of God, felt the zeal of the bald, as peradventure this scorning
villain ribald shall feel. 'You do it (quoth the Cardinal) per-
chance of a good mind and affection : but methinketh you
should do, I cannot tell whether more holily, certes more
wisely, if you would not set your wit to a fool's wit, and with
a fool take in hand a foolish contention. No forsooth, my
lord (quoth he) I should not do more wisely. For Solomon
the wise saith : Answer a fool according to his folly, like as
I do now, and do show him the pit that he shall fall into, if
he take not heed. For if many scorners of Helizeus, which
was but one bald man, felt the zeal of the bald, how much
more shall one scorner of many friars feel, among whom be many
bald men ? And we have also the pope's bulls, whereby all
that mock and scorn us be excommunicate, suspended and
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IOI
accursed. The Cardinal, seeing that none end would be made,
sent away the jester by a privy beck, and turned the communi-
cation to another matter. Shortly after, when he was risen
from the table, he went to hear his suitors, and so dismissed
us, Look, Master More, with how long and tedious a tale I
have kept you, which surely I would have been ashamed to
have done, but that you so earnestly desired mè, and did
after such a sort give ear unto it, as though you would not
that any parcel of that communication should be left out.
Which though I have done somewhat briefly, yet could I not
choose but rehearse it, for the judgment of them, which when
they had improved and disallowed my sayings, yet incontinent,
hearing the Cardinal allow them, did themselves also approve
the same: so impudently flattering him, that they were nothing
ashamed to admit, yea almost in good earnest, his jester's
foolish inventions : because that he himself by smiling at them
did seem not to disprove them. So that hereby you may
right well perceive how little the courtiers would regard and
esteem me and my sayings. w
I ensure you, Master Raphael, quoth I, I took great delec-
tation in hearing you : all things that you said were spoken
so wittily and so pleasantly. And me thought myself to be
in the meantime, not only at home in my country, but also
through the pleasant remembrance of the Cardinal, in whose
house I was brought up of a child, to wax a child again. And,
friend Raphael, though I did bear very great love towards
you before, yet seeing you do so earnestly favour this man,
you will not believe how much my love towards you is now
increased. But yet, all this notwithstanding, I can by no
means change my mind, but that I must needs believe, that
you, if you be disposed, and can find in your heart to follow
some prince's court, shall with your good counsels greatly
help and further the commonwealth, Wherefore there is
nothing more appertaining to your duty, that is to say, to the
duty of a good man. For whereas your Plato judgeth that
weal publics shall by this means attain perfect felicity, either
if philosophers be kings, or else if kings give themselves to
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the study of philosophy, how far I pray you, shall common-
wealths then be from this felicity, if philosophers will vouchsafe
to instruct kings with their good counsel ?
They be not so unkind (quoth he) but they would gladly
do it, yea, many have done it already in books that they have
put forth, if kings and princes would be willing and ready to
follow good counsel. But Plato doubtless did well foresee,
unless kings themselves would apply their minds to the study
of Philosophy, that else they would never thoroughly allow
the counsel of philosophers, being themselves before even
from their tender age infected, and corrupt with perverse and
evil opinions. Which thing Plato himself proved true in King
Dionysius. If I should propose to any king wholesome
decrees, doing my endeavour to pluck out of his mind the
pernicious original causes of vice and naughtiness, think you
not that I should forthwith either be driven away, or else
made a laughing stock? Well suppose I were with the French
king, and there sitting in his council, whiles in that most secret
consultation, the king himself there being present in his own
person, they beat their brains and search the very bottoms of
their wits to discuss by what craft and means the king may
still keep Milan, and draw to him again fugitive Naples, and
then how to conquer the Venetians, and how to bring under
his jurisdiction all Italy, then how to win the dominion of
Flanders, Brabant, and of all Burgundy: with divers other
lands, whose kingdoms he hath long ago in mind and purpose
invaded. Here whiles one counselleth to conclude a league
of peace with the Venetians, so long to endure, as shall be
thought meet and expedient for their purpose, and to make
them also of their counsel, yea, and besides that to give them
part of the prey, which afterward, when they have brought
their purpose about after their own minds, they may require
and claim again. Another thinketh best to hire the Germans,
Another would have the favour of the Swiss won with money.
Another advice is to appease the puissant power of the
Emperor's majesty with gold, as with a most pleasant and
acceptable sacrifice. Whiles another giveth counsel to make
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103
peace with the King of Arragon, and to restore unto him
his own kingdom of Navarre, as a full assurance of peace.
Another cometh in with his five eggs, and adviseth to hook
in the King of Castile with some hope of affinity or alliance,
and to bring to their part certain peers of his court for great
pensions. Whiles they all stay at the chiefest doubt of all,
what to do in the meantime with England, and yet agree all
in this to make peace with the Englishmen, and with most
sure and strong bands to bind that weak and feeble friendship,
so that they must be called friends, and had in suspicion
as enemies. And that therefore the Scots must be had in a
readiness, as it were in a standing, ready at all occasions, if
peradventure the Englishmen should stir never so little, in-
continent to set upon them. And moreover privily and secretly
(for openly, it may not be done by the truce that is taken)
privily therefore I say to make much of some peer of England
that is banished his country, which must claim title to the
crown of the realm, and affirm himself just inheritor thereof,
that by this subtle means they may hold to them the king,
in' whom else they have but small trust and affiance. Here
I say, where so great and high matters be in consultation,
where so many noble and wise men counsel their king only
to war, here if I silly man should rise up and will them to
turn over the leaf, and learn a new lesson, saying that my
counsel is not to meddle with Italy, but to tarry still at home,
and that the kingdom of France alone is almost greater,
than that it may well be governed of one man: so that the
king should not need to study how to get more ; and then
should propose unto them the decrees of the people that
be called the Achoriens, which be situate over against the
island of Utopia on the south-east side. These Achoriens
once made war in their king's quarrel for to get him another
kingdom, which he laid claim unto, and advanced himself right
inheritor to the crown thereof, by the title of an old alliance.
At the last when they had gotten it, and saw that they had even
as much vexation and trouble in keeping it, as they had in
getting it, and that either their new conquered subjects by
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THE FIRST BOOK
sundry occasions were making daily insurrections to rebel
against them, or else that other countries were continually with
divers inroads and foragings invading them : so that they were
ever fighting either for them, or against them, and never could
break up their camps : seeing themselves in the mean season
pilled and impoverished: their money carried out of the realm :
their own men killed to maintain the glory of another nation :
when they had no war, peace nothing better than war, by
reason that their people in war had so inured themselves to
corrupt and wicked manners, that they had taken a delight and
pleasure in robbing and stealing : that through manslaughter
they had gathered boldness to mischief : that their laws were
had in contempt, and nothing set by or regarded : that their
king being troubled with the charge and governance of two
kingdoms, could not nor was not able perfectly to discharge his
office towards them both : seeing again that all these evils and
troubles were endless : at the last laid their heads together, and
like faithful and loving subjects gave to their king free choice
and liberty to keep still the one of these two kingdoms whether
he would : alleging that he was not able to keep both, and that
they were more than might well be governed of half a king :
forasmuch as no man would be content to take him for his
muleteer, that keepeth another man's mules besides his. So
this good prince was constrained to be content with his old
kingdom and to give over the new to one of his friends. Who
shortly after was violently driven out. Furthermore if I should
declare unto them, that all this busy preparance to war, whereby
so many nations for his sake should be brought into a trouble-
some hurly-burly, when all his coffers were emptied, his
treasures wasted and his people destroyed, should at the length
through some mischance be in vain and to none effect : and
that therefore it were best for him to content himself with his
own kingdom of France, as his forefathers and predecessors did
before him; to make much of it, to enrich it, and to make it as
flourishing as he could, to endeavour himself to love his subjects,
and again to be beloved of them, willingly to live with them,
peaceably to govern them, and with other kingdoms not to
OF UTOPIA.
105
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meddle, seeing that which he hath already is even enough for
him, yea, and more than he can well turn him to: this mine
advice, Master More, how think you it would be heard and
taken?
· So God help me not very thankfully, quoth I. :
Well let us proceed then, quoth he. Suppose that some king
and his council were together whetting their wits, and devising
Awhat subtle craft they might invent to enrich the king with
great treasures of money. First one counselleth to raise and
Jenhance the valuation of money when the king must pay any :
Sand again to call down the value of coin to less than it is worth,
when he must receive : or gather any. For thus great sums
shall be paid with a little money, and where little is due
much shall be received. Another counselleth to feign war,
that when under this colour and pretence the king bath
gathered great abundance of money, he may, when it shall
please him, make peace with great solemnity and holy
ceremonies, to blind the eyes of the poor commonalty, as
taking pity and compassion forsooth, upon man's blood, like a
loving and a merciful prince. Another putteth the king in
remembrance of certain old and moth-eaten laws, that of long
time have not been put in execution, which because no man can
remember that they were made, every man hath transgressed.
The fines of these laws he counselleth the king to require :
for there is no way so profitable nor more honourable, as the
which hath a show and colour of justice. Another adviseth him
to forbid many things under great penalties and fines, specially
such things as is for the people's profit not to be used, and
afterward to dispense for money with them, which by this
prohibition sustain loss and damage. For by this means the
favour of the people is won, and profit riseth two ways. First
by taking forfeits of them whom covetousness of gains hath *
"brought in danger of this statute, and also by selling privileges---
and licences, which the better that the prince is, forsooth the
dearer he selleth them-:- as one that is loath-to grant to any
private person anything that is against the profit of his people.
And therefore may sell none. but at an exceeding dear price.

y
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THE FIRST BOOK
Another giveth the king counsel to endanger unto his grace
the judges of the realm, that he may have them ever on
his side, and that they may in every matter dispute and
reason for the king's right. Yea and further to call them
Xinto his palace and to require them there to argue and
discuss his matters in his own presence. So there shall be
no matter of his so openly wrong and unjust, wherein one
or other of them, either because he will have something to
allege and object, or that he is ashamed to say that which is
said already, or else to pick a thank with his prince, will not find
some hole open to set a snare in, wherewith to take the contrary
part in a trip. Thus whiles the judges cannot agree among
themselves, reasoning and arguing of that which is plain
enough, and bringing the manifest truth in doubt: in the mean
season the king may take a fit occasion to understand the law
shame, or for fear will agree. Then the judges may be bold to
pronounce on the king's side. For he that giveth sentence for
the king, cannot be without a good excuse. For it shall be
sufficient for him to have equity on his part, or the bare 'words
of the law, or a writhed and wrested understanding of the same,
or else (which with good and just judges is of greater force than
all laws be) the king's indisputable prerogative. To conclude,
all the councillors agree and consent together with the rich
Crassus, that no abundance of gold can be sufficient for a
prince, which must keep and maintain an army : furthermore
that a king, though he would, can do nothing unjustly, For all
that all men have, yea also the men themselves be all his. And
that every man hath so much of his own, as the king's gentle-
ness hath not taken from him. And that it shall be most for
the king's advantage, that his subjects have very little or
nothing in their possession, as whose safeguard doth herein
consist, that his people do not wax wanton and wealthy through
riches and liberty, because where these things be, there men be
not wont patiently to obey hard, unjust, and unlawful command-
ments; whereas on the other part need and poverty doth hold
down and keep under stout courages, and maketh them patient
OF UTOPIA.
109
magro
perforce, taking from them bold and rebelling stomachs. Here
again if I should rise up, and boldly affirm that all these
counsels be to the king dishonour and reproach, whose honour
and safety is more and rather supported and upholden by the
wealth and riches of his people, than by his own treasures: and
if I should declare that the commonalty chooseth their king for
their own sake and not for his sake: to the intent, that through
his labour and study they might all live wealthily safe from
wrongs and injuries: and that therefore the king ought to take
more care for the wealth of his people, than for his own wealth,
even as the office and duty of a shepherd is in that he is a
shepherd, to feed his sheep rather than himself. For as touch-
ing this, that they think the defence and maintenance of peace
to consist in the poverty of the people, the thing itself showeth
that they be far out of the way. For where shall a man find
more wrangling, quarrelling, brawling, and chiding, than among
beggars ? Who be more desirous of new mutations and altera-
tions, than they that be not content with the present state of
their life? Or finally who be bolder stomached to bring all in
a hurly-burly (thereby trusting to get some windfall) than they
that have now nothing to lose? And if any king were so small
regarded and so lightly esteemed, yea so behated of his subjects,
that other ways he could not keep them in awe, but only by
open wrongs, by polling and shaving, and by bringing them to
beggary, surely it were better for him to forsake his kingdom,
than to hold it by this means: whereby though the name of a
king be kept, yet the majesty is lost. For it is against the
dignity of a king to have rule over beggars, but rather over rich
and wealthy men. Of this mind was the hardy and courageous
Fabricius, when he said, that he had rather be a ruler of rich men,
than be rich himself. And verily one man to live in pleasure
and wealth, whiles all other weep and smart for it, that is the
part, not of a king, but of a jailor. To be short, as he is a
foolish physician, that cannot cure his patient's disease, unless
he cast him in another sickness, so he that cannot amend the
lives of his subjects, but by taking from them the wealth and
commodity of life, he must needs grant that lie knoweth not the
108
THE FIRST BOOK
:
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.
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feat how to govern men. But let him rather amend his own
Tife, renounce unhonest pleasures, and forsake pride. For these
be the chief vices that cause him to run in the contempt or
hatred of his people. Let him live of his own, hurting no man.
Let him do cost not above his power. Let him restrain wicked-
ness. Let him prevent vices, and take away the occasions of
offences by well ordering his subjects, and not by suffering
wickedness to increase afterward to be punished. Let him not
be too hasty in calling again laws, which a custom hath
abrogated: specially such as hath been long forgotten, and
never lacked nor needed. And let him never under the cloak
and pretence of transgression take such fines and forfeits, as no
judge will suffer a private person to take, as unjust and full of
guile. Here if I should bring forth before them the law of the
Macariens, which be not far distant from Utopia: whose
king the day of his coronation is bound by a solemn
oath, that he shall never at any time have in his treasure
above a thousand pounds of gold or silver. They say a
very good king, which took more care for the wealth and
commodity of his country, than for the enriching of him-
self, made this law to be a stop and a bar to kings from
heaping and hoarding up so much money as might impoverish.
their people. For he foresaw that this sum of treasure would
suffice to support the king in battle against his own people, if
they should chance to rebel: and also to maintain his wars
against the invasions of his foreign enemies. Again he
perceived the same stock of money to be too little and
insufficient to encourage and enable him wrongfully to take
away other men's goods: which was the chief cause why the
law was made. Another cause was this. He thought that by
this provision his people should not lack money, wherewith to
maintain their daily occupying and chaffer. `And seeing the
king could not choose but lay out and bestow all that came in
above the prescript sum of his stock, he thought he would seek
no occasions to do his subjects injury. Such a king shall be
feared of evil men, and loved of good men. These, and such
other informations, if I should use among men wholly inclined
OF UTOPIA
109
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--
and given to the contrary part, how deaf hearers think you
should I have ?
Deaf hearers doubtless (quoth I) and in good faith no marvel.
And to be plain with you, truly I cannot allow that such
communication shall be used, or such counsel given, as you be
sure shall never be regarded nor received. For how can so
strange informations, be profitable, or how can they be beaten
into their heads, whose minds be already prevented with
clean contrary persuasions ? This school philosophy is not
unpleasant among friends in familiar communication, but in the
councils of kings, where great matters be debated and reasoned
with great authority, these things have no place.
That is it which I meant (quoth he) when I said philosophy
had no place among kings.
Indeed (quoth 1) this school philosophy hath not, which
thinketh all things meet for every place. But there is another
philosophy more civil, which knoweth, as ye would say, her
own stage, and thereafter ordering and behaving herself in the
play that she hath in hand, playeth her part accordingly with
comeliness, uttering nothing out of due order and fashion. And
this is the philosophy that you must use. Or else whiles a
comedy of Plautus is playing, and the vile bondmen scoffing
and trifling among themselves, if you should suddenly come
upon the stage in a. philosopher's apparel, and rehearse out of
Octavia the place wherein Seneca disputeth with Nero: had it
not been better for you to have played the dumb person, than
by rehearsing that, which served neither for the time nor place,
to have made such a tragical comedy or gallimaufry ? For by
bringing in other stuff that nothing appertaineth to the present
matter, you must needs mar and pervert the play that is in hand,
though the stuff that you bring be much better. What part
soever you have taken upon you, play that as well as you can and
make the best of it: And do not therefore disturb and bring out of
order the whole matter, because that another, which is merrier,
and better, cometh to your remembrance. So the case standeth
in a commonwealth, and so it is in the consultations of kings
and princes. If evil opinions and naughty persuasions cannot
732
IIO
THE FIRST BOOK
CA
be utterly and quite plucked out of their hearts, if you cannot,
even as you would, remedy vices, which use and custom hath
confirmed: yet for this cause you must not leave and forsake the
I commonwealth: you must not forsake the ship in a tempest,
1 because you cannot rule, and keep down the winds. No, nor
you must not labour to drive into their heads new and strange
informations, which you know well shall be nothing regarded
with them that be of clean contrary minds. But you must
with a crafty wile and a subtle train study and endeavour
yourself, as much as in you lieth, to handle the matter wittily
and handsomely for the purpose, and that which you cannot
turn to good, so to order it that it be not very bad. For it is
not possible for all things to be well, unless all men were good.
Which I think will not be yet these good many years.
By this, means (quoth he) nothing else will be brought to
pass, but while that I go about to remedy the madness of
others, I should be even as mad as they. For if I would
speak such things that be true I must needs speak such things;
but as for to speak false things, whether that be a philosopher's
part or no I cannot tell, truly it is not my part. Howbeit this
communication of mine, though peradventure it may seem
unpleasant to them, yet can I not see why it should seem
strange, or foolishly newfangled. If so be that I should
speak those things that Plato feigneth in his weal public: or
that the Utopians do in theirs, these things though they were
(as they be indeed) better, yet they might seem spoken out
of place. Forasmuch as here amongst us, every man hath
his possessions several to himself, and there all things be
common. But what was in my communication contained,
that might not, and ought not in any place to be spoken?
Saving that to them which have thoroughly decreed and
determined with themselves to run headlong the contrary
way it cannot be acceptable and pleasant, because it calleth
them back, and showeth them the jeopardies. Verily if all
things that evil and vicious manners have caused to seem
inconvenient and nought should be refused, as things unmeet
and reproachful, then we must among Christian people wink
OF UTOPIA.
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ay to
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at the most part of all those things, which Christ taught us, and
so strictly forbade them to be winked at, that those things also
which he whispered in the ears of his disciples he commanded
to be proclaimed in open houses. And yet the most part of them
is more dissident from the manners of the world nowadays,
than my communication was. But preachers, sly and wily
men, following your counsel (as I suppose) because they saw
men evil willing to frame their manners to Christ's rule, they
have wrested and perverted his doctrine, and like a rule of
lead have applied it to men's manners : that by some means
at the leastways, they might agree together. Whereby I.
cannot see what good they have done : but that men may
more sickerly. be evil. And I truly should prevail even as
little in king's councils. For either I must say otherways than
they say, and then I were as good to say nothing, or else I must
say the same that they say, and (as Mitio saith in Terence)
help to further their madness. For that crafty wile, and subtle
train of yours, I cannot perceive to what purpose it serveth,
wherewith you would have me to study and endeavour myself,
if all things cannot be made good, yet to handle them wittily
and handsomely for the purpose, that as far forth as is possible
they may not be very evil. For there is no place to dissemble
in, nor to wink in. Naughty counsels must be openly
allowed and very pestilent decrees must be approved. He
shall be counted worse than a spy, yea almost as evil as a
traitor, that with a faint heart doth praise evil and noisome
decrees. Moreover a man can have no occasion to do good
chancing into the company of them which will sooner per-
vert a good man, than be made good themselves : through
whose evil company he shall be marred, or else if he remain
good and innocent, yet the wickedness and folly of others
shall be imputed to him, and laid in his neck. So that it is
impossible with that crafty wile and subtle train to turn any.
thing to better. Wherefore Plato by a goodly similitude
declareth, why wise men refrain to meddle in the common-
wealth. For when they see the people swarm into the streets,
and daily wet to the skin with rain, and yet cannot persuade
II2
THE FIRST BOOK
-
them to go out of the rain and to take their houses, knowing
well, that if they should go out to them, they should nothing
prevail, nor win ought by it, but with them be wet also in the
rain, they do keep themselves within their houses, being content
that they be safe themselves, seeing they cannot remedy the
folly of the people. Howbeit doubtless, Master More (to speak
truly as my mind giveth me) where possessions be private,
where money beareth all the stroke, it is hard and almost
impossible that there the weal public may justly be governed,
and prosperously flourish. Unless you think thus: that justice
is there executed, where all things come into the hands of evil
men; or that prosperity there flourisheth, where all is divided
among a few ; which few nevertheless do not lead their lives
very wealthily, and the residue live miserably, wretchedly and
beggarly. Wherefore when I consider with myself and weigh
in my mind the wise and godly ordinances of the Utopians,
among whom with very few laws all things be so well and
wealthily ordered, that virtue it had in price and estimation,
and yet, all things being there common, every man hath abund-
ance of everything. Again on the other part, when I compare
with them so many nations ever making new laws, yet none of
them all well and sufficiently furnished with laws; where every
man calleth that he hath gotten, his own proper and private
goods; where so many new laws daily made be not sufficient
for every man to enjoy, defend, and know from another man's
that which he calleth his own; which thing the infinite con-
troversies in the law, daily rising, never to be ended, plainly
declare to be true. These things (I say) when I consider with
myself, I hold well with Plato, and do nothing marvel, that he
would make no laws for them, that refused those laws, whereby
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 stablished.
Which I think is not possible to be observed, where every
man's goods' be proper and peculiar to himself. For where
every man under certain titles and pretences draweth and
OF UTOPIA.
113
plucketh to himself as much as he can, so that a few divide
among themselves all the whole riches, be there never so much
abundance and store, there to the residue is left lack and
poverty. And for the most part it chanceth, that this latter
sort is more worthy to enjoy that state of wealth, than the other
be: because the rich men be covetous, crafty and unprofitable. ?
On the other part the poor be lowly, simple, and by their daily
labour more profitable to the commonwealth than to them-
selves. Thus I do fully persuade 'myself, that no equal and
just distribution of things can be made, nor that perfect
wealth shall ever be among men, unless this propriety be exiled
and banished. But so long as it shall continue, so long shall
remain among the most and best part of men the heavy and
inevitable burden of poverty and wretchedness. Which, as I
grant that it may be somewhat eased, so I utterly deny that it -
can wholly be taken away. For if there were a statute made,
that no man should possess above a certain measure of ground, --
and that no man should have in his stock above a prescript and
appointed sum of money: if it were by certain laws decreed,
· that neither the king should be of too great power, neither the
people too haughty and wealthy, and that offices should not be
--obtained by inordinate suit, or by bribes and gifts: that they
should neither be bought nor sold, nor that it should be needful
for the officers, to be at any cost or charge in their offices : for
so occasion is given to them by fraud and ravin to gather up
their money again, and by reason of gifts and bribes the offices
. be given to rich men, which should rather have been executed
of wise men: by such laws I say, like as sick bodies that be
desperate and past cure, be wont with continual good cherishing
to be kept and botched up for a time: so these evils also might
be lightened and mitigated. But that they may be perfectly
cured, and brought to a good and upright state, it is not to be
hoped for, whiles every man is master of his own to himself,
Yea, and while you go about to do your cure of one part, you
shall make bigger the sore of another part, so the help of one
causeth another's harm: forasmuch as nothing can be given to
any one, unless it be taken from another.
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THE FIRST BOOK
But I am of a contrary opinion (quoth I) for methinketh that
men shall never there live wealthily, where all things be common.
For how can therë 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 travails maketh him slothful. Then
when they be pricked with poverty, and yet no man can by any
law or right defend that for his own, which he hath gotten with
the labour of his own hands, shall not there of necessity be
continual sedition and bloodshed ? Specially the authority and
reverence of magistrates being taken away, which, what place it
may have with such men among whom is no difference, I cannot
devise.
I marvel not (quoth he) that you be of this opinion. For you
conceive in your mind either none at all, or else a very false
image and similitude of this thing. But if you had been with
me in Utopia and had presently seen their fashions and laws,
as I did, which lived there five years and more, and would never
have come thence, but only to make that new land known here:
then doubtless you would grant, that you never saw people well
ordered, but only there.
Surely (quoth Master Peter) it shall be hard for you to make
me believe, that there is better order in that new land, than
is here in these countries, that we know. For good wits be as
well here as there: and I think our commonwealth be ancienter
than theirs; wherein long use and experience hath found out
many things commodious for man's life, besides that many
things here among us have been found by chance, which no
wit could ever have devised.
As touching the ancientness (quoth he) of common-
wealths, then you might better judge, if you had read the
histories and chronicles of that land, which if we may believe,
cities were there, before men were here. Now what thing
soever hitherto by wit hath been devised, or found by
chance, that might be as well there as here. But I think
verily, though it were so that we did pass them in wit :
yet in study, in travail, and in laboursome endeavour they
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.
far pass us. For (as their chronicles testify) before our arrival
there, they never heard anything of us, whom they call the .
ultra-equinoctials : saving that once about 1200 years ago, a
certain ship was lost by the isle of Utopia, which was driven
thither by tempest. Certain Romans and Egyptians were
cast on land. Which after that never went thence. Mark
now what profit they took of this one occasion through
diligence and earnest travail. There was no craft nor science
within the empire of Rome, whereof any profit could rise,
but they either learned it of these strangers, or else of them
taking occasion to search for it, found it out. So great profit
was it to them that ever any went thither from hence. But
if any like chance before this hath brought any man from
thence hither, that is as quite out of remembrance, as this
also perchance in time to come shall be forgotten, that ever
I was there. And like as they quickly, almost at the first
meeting; made their own whatsoever is among us wealthily
devised : so I suppose it would be long before we would receive
anything that among them is better instituted than among
us. And this I suppose is the chief cause why their common-
wealths be wiselier governed, and do flourish in more wealth
than ours, though we neither in wit nor riches be their
inferiors.
Therefore gentle Master Raphael (quoth I) I pray you and
beseech :you 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. And you shall think us desirous to know
whatsoever we know not yet.
There is nothing (quoth he) that I will do gladlier. For
all these things I have fresh in mind. But the matter requireth
leisure.
Let us go in therefore (quoth I) to dinner, afterward we will
bestow the time at our pleasure.
Content (quoth he) be it.
So we went in and dined. When dinner was done, we came
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THE FIRST BOOK OF UTOPIA.
into the same place again, and sat us down upon the same
bench, commanding our servants that no man should trouble
us. Then I and Master Peter Giles desired Master Raphael
to perform his promise. He therefore seeing us desirous and
willing to hearken to him, when he had sat still and paused a
little while, musing and bethinking himself, thus he began
to speak.
THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
THE SECOND BOOK.
The Second Book of the Communication of Raphael.
wealth, containing the description of Utopia, with a
large declaration of the politic government, and of
all the good laws and orders of the same Island.
THE island of Utopia containeth in breadth in the middle part
of it (for there it is broadest) two hundred miles. Which
breadth continueth through the most part of the land, saving
that by little and little it cometh in, and waxeth narrower
compass of five hundred miles, do fashion the whole island like
to the new moon. Between these two corners the sea runneth
in, dividing them asunder by the distance of nine miles or there-
abouts, and there surmounteth into a large and wide sea, which
by reason that the land on every side compasseth it about, and
sheltereth it from the winds, is not rough, nor mounteth not
with great waves, but almost floweth quietly, not much unlike
a great standing pool : and maketh well-nigh all the space
within the belly of the land in manner of a haven : and to the
great commodity of the inhabitants receiveth in ships towards
every part of the land. The forefronts or frontiers of the two
corners, what with fords and shelves, and what with rocks
be very jeopardous and dangerous. In the middle distance
between them both standeth up above the water a great rock,
which therefore is nothing perilous because it is in sight.
Upon the top of this rock is a fair and a strong tower builded,
which they hold with a garrison of men. Other rocks there be
lying hid under the water, which therefore be dangerous. The
channels be known only to theinselves. And therefore it seldom
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THE SECOND BOOK
Frye
chanceth that any stranger unless he be guided by an Utopian
can come into this haven. Insomuch that they themselves
could scarcely enter without jeopardy, but that their way is:
directed and ruled by certain landmarks standing on the shore.
By turning, translating, and removing these marks into other
places they may destroy their enemies' navies, be they never so
many. The outside or utter circuit of the land is also full of
havens, but the landing is so surely fenced, what by nature, and
what by workmanship of man's hand, that a few defenders may
drive back many armies. Howbeit as they say, and as the
fashion of the place itself doth partly show, it was not ever
compassed about with the sea. But King Utopus, whose name,
as conqueror the island beareth (for before his time it was
called Abraxa) which also brought the rude and wild people to
that excellent perfection in all good fashions, humanity, and
civil gentleness, wherein they now go beyond all the people of
the world : even at his first arriving and entering upon the
land, forthwith obtaining the victory, caused fifteen miles space
of uplandish ground, where the sea had no passage, to be cut
and digged up.
And so brought the sea round about the land. He set to this
work not only the inhabitants of the island (because they should
not think it done in contumely and despite) but also all his own
soldiers. Thus the work being divided into so great a number
of workmen, was with exceeding marvellous speed despatched.
Insomuch that the borderers, which at the first began to mock,
and to jest at this vain enterprise, then turned their derision to
marvel at the success, and to fear. There be in the island fifty-
four large and fair cities, or shire towns, agreeing all together in
one tongue, in like manners, institutions and laws. They be all
set and situate alike, and in all points fashioned alike, as far
forth as the place or plot suffereth.
Of these cities they that be nighest together be twenty-four
miles asunder. Again there is none of them distant from the
next above one day's journey afoot. There come yearly to
Amaurote out of every city three old men wise and well
experienced, there to entreat and debate, of the common
OF UTOPIA.
119
matters of the land. For this city (because it standeth just in
the midst of the island, and is therefore most meet for the
ambassadors of all parts of the realın) is taken for the chief
and head city. The precincts and bounds of the shires be so
commodiously appointed out, and set forth for the cities, that
none of them all hath of any side less than twenty miles of
ground, and of some side also much more, as of that part where
the cities be of farther distance asunder. None of the cities
desire to enlarge the bounds and limits of their shires. For
they count themselves rather the good husbandmen than the
owners of their lands. They have in the country in all parts of
the shire houses or farms builded, well appointed and furnished
with all sorts of instruments and tools belonging to husbandry.
These houses be inhabited of the citizens, which come thither
to dwell by course. No household or farm in the country hath
fewer than forty persons men and women, besides two bond-
men, which be all under the rule and order of the good man,
and the good wife of the house, being both very sage, discreet
and ancient persons. And every thirty farms or families have
one head ruler, which is called a philarch, being as it were a
head bailiff. Out of every one of these families or farms cometh nomor
every year into the city twenty persons which have continued
two years before in the country. In their place so many fresh
be sent thither out of the city, who, of them that have been
there a year already, and be therefore expert and cunning in
husbandry, shall be instructed and taught. And they the next
year shåll teach other. This order is used for fear that either
scarceness of victuals, or some other like incommodity should
chance, through lack of knowledge, if they should be altogether
new, and fresh, and unexpert in husbandry. This manner and
fashion of yearly changing and renewing the occupiers of
husbandry, though it be solemn and customably used, to the
intent that no man shall be constrained against his will to
continue long in that hard and sharp kind of life, yet many
of them have such a pleasure and delight in husbandry,
that they obtain a longer space of years. These husband-
men plough and till the ground, and breed up cattle, and
**.
*
****
***
..
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::-.
-.
120
THE SECOND BOOK.
PURE inculata!
provide and make ready wood, which they carry to the city
either by land, or by water, as they may most conveniently.
They bring up a great multitude of poultry, and that by a dream
marvellous policy. For the hens do not sit upon the eggs: but
by keeping them in a certain equal heat they bring life into
them, and hatch them. The chickens, as soon as they be come
out of the shell, follow men and women instead of the hens.
They bring up very few horses: nor none, but very fierce ones:
and that for none other use or purpose, but only to exercise
their youth in riding and feats of arms. For oxen be put to all
the labour of ploughing and drawing. Which they grant to be
not so good as horses at a sudden brunt, and (as we say) at a
dead lift, but yet they hold opinion that oxen will abide and
suffer much more labour, pain and hardness, than horses will,
And they think that oxen be not in danger and subject unto so
many diseases, and that they be kept and maintained with
much less cost and charge: and finally that they be good for
meat, when they be past labour. They sow corn only for
bread. For their drink is either wine made of grapes, or else dining
of apples, or pears, or else it is clear water. And many times de
mead made of honey or liquorice sodden in water, for thereof
they have great store. And though they know certainly (for
they know it perfectly indeed) how much victuals the city with
the whole country or shire round about it doth spend: yet they
sow much more corn, and breed up much more cattle, than
serveth for their own use, parting the overplus among their
borderers. Whatsoever necessary things be lacking in the
country, all such stuff they fetch out of the city: where without
any exchange they easily obtain it of the magistrates of the
city. For every month many of them go into the city on the
holy day. When their harvest day draweth near and is at
hand, then the philarchs, which be the head officers and bailiffs
of husbandry, send word to the magistrates of the city what
number of harvest men is needful to be sent to them out of the
city. The which company of harvest men being ready at the
day appointed, almost in one fair day despatcheth all the
harvest work.
"Did people
diwiderne
ny
den
OF UTOPIA.
I21
Of the Cities, and namely of Amaurote.
nd of most din Amaurote? Of them or greatly whic
As for their cities, who so knoweth one of them, knoweth
them all: they be all so like one to another, as farforth as the
nature of the place permitteth. I will describe therefore to you
one or other of them, for it skilleth not greatly which: but
which rather than Amaurote? Of them all this is the worthiest
and of most dignity. For the residue acknowledge it for
the head city, because there is the council house. Nor to me
any of them all is better beloved, as wherein I lived five whole
years together. The city of Amaurote standeth upon the
side of a low hill in fashion almost four square. For the
breadth of it beginneth a little beneath the top of the hill,
and still continueth by the space of two miles, until it
come to the river of Anyder. The length of it, which lieth by
the river's side, is somewhat more. The river of Anyder riseth
four and twenty miles above Amaurote out of a little spring.
But being increased by other small rivers and brooks that run
into it, and among other two somewhat big ones, before the city
it is half a mile broad, and farther broader. And forty miles
beyond the city it falleth into the Ocean sea. By all that space
that lieth between the sea and the city, and certain miles also
above the city, the water ebbeth and floweth six hours together
with a swift tide. When the sea floweth in, for the length of
thirty miles it filleth all the Anyder with salt water, and driveth
back the fresh water of the river. And somewhat further it
changeth the sweetness of the fresh water with saltness. But a
little beyond that the river waxeth sweet, and runneth forby
the city fresh and pleasant. And when the sea ebbeth, and
goeth back again, the fresh water followeth it almost even to
the very fall into the sea. There goeth a bridge over the river
made not of piles or of timber, but of stonework with gorgeous
and substantial arches at that part of the city that is farthest
from the sea : to the intent that ships may pass along forby all
the side of the city without let. They have also another river
which indeed is not very great. But it runneth gently and
pleasantly. For it riseth even out of the same hill that the city
I22
THE SECOND BOOK
standeth upon, and runneth down a slope through the midst of
the city into Anyder. And because it riseth a little without the
city, the Amaurotians have inclosed the head spring of it with
strong fences and bulwarks, and so have joined it to the city.
This is done to the intent that the water should not be stopped
nor turned away, or poisoned, if their enemies should chance
to come upon them. From thence the water is derived and
conveyed down in canals of brick divers ways into the lower
parts of the city. Where that cannot be done, by reason that
the place will not suffer it, there they gather the rain water in
great cisterns, which doth them as good service. The city is
compassed about with a high and thick stone wall full of
turrets and bulwarks. A dry ditch, but deep, and broad, and
overgrown with bushes, briers and thorns, goeth about three
sides or quarters of the city. To the fourth side thé river itself
serveth for a ditch. The streets be appointed and set forth
very commodious and handsome, both for carriage, and also
against the winds. The houses be of fair and gorgeous building,
and on the street side they stand joined together in a long row
through the whole street without any partition or separation.
The streets be twenty feet broad. On the back side of the
houses through the whole length of the street, lie large gardens
inclosed round about with the back part of the streets. Every
house hath two doors, one into the street, and a postern door
on the back side into the garden. These doors be made with
two leaves, never locked nor bolted, so easy to be opened, that
they will follow the least drawing of a finger, and shut again
alone. Whoso will, may go in, for there is nothing within
the houses that is private, or any man's own. And every
tenth year they change their houses by lot. They set
great store by their gardens. In them they have vineyards,
all manner of fruit, herbs, and flowers, so pleasant, so well
furnished and so finely kept, that I never saw thing more
fruitful, nor better trimmed in any place. Their study and
diligence herein cometh not only of pleasure, but also of a
certain strife and contention that is between street and street,
concerning the trimming, husbanding, and furnishing of their
OF UTOPIA.
123
gardens : every man for his own part. And verily you shall
not lightly find in all the city anything, that is more commodi-
ous, either for the profit of the citizens, or for pleasure. And
therefore it may seem that the first founder of the city minded
nothing so much as these gardens. For they say that King
Utopus himself, even at the first beginning appointed and drew
forth the platform of the city into this fashion and figure that it
hath now, but the gallant garnishing, and the beautiſul setting
forth of it, whereunto he saw that one man's age would not
suffice : that he left to his posterity. For their chronicles,
containing the history of 1760 years, even from the first
conquest of the island, record and witness that the houses in
the beginning were very low, and like homely cottages or poor
timber, that came first to hand, with mud walls and ridged
roofs, thatched over with straw. But now the houses be
curiously builded after a gorgeous and gallant sort, with three
storeys one over another. The outsides of the walls be made
either of hard flint, or of plaster, or else of brick, and the inner
sides be well strengthened with timber work. The roofs be
plain and flat, covered with a certain kind of plaster that is of
no cost, and yet so tempered that no fire can hurt or perish it,
and withstandeth the violence of the weather better than any
lead. They keep the wind out of their windows with glass, for
it is there much used, and sometimes also with fine linen cloth
dipped in oil or amber, and that for two commodities. For by
this means more light cometh in, and the wind is better kept
out.
Of the Magistrates.
Every thirty families or farms, choose them yearly an officer,
new name, the philarch. Every ten syphogrants, with all their
thirty families be under an officer which was called the trani-
bore, now the chief philarch. Moreover as concerning the
733
124.c.com
THE SECOND BOOK
election of the prince, all the syphogrants, which be in number
200; first be sworn to choose him whom they think most meet
and expedient. Then by a secret election, they name prince
one of those four whom the people before named unto theni.
For out of the four quarters of the city there be four chosen, out
of every quarter one, to stand for the election : which be put up to
the council. The prince's office continueth all his lifetime, unless
he be deposed or put down for suspicion of tyranny. They
choose the tranibores yearly, but lightly they change them not.
All the other officers be but for one year. The tranibores every
third day, and sometimes, if need be, oftener come into the
council house with the prince. Their council is concerning the
commonwealth. If there be any controversies among the
commoners, which be very few, they despatch and end them by-
and-by. They take ever two syphogrants to them in counsel,
and every day a new couple. And it is provided, that nothing
touching the commonwealth shall be confirmed and ratified
unless it have been reasoned of and debated three days in the
council, before it be decreed. It is death to have any con-
sultation for the commonwealth out of the council, or the
place of the common election. This statute, they say, was
made to the intent that the prince and tranibores might not
easily conspire together to.oppress the people by tyranny, and
to change the state of the weal public. Therefore matters of
great weight and importance be brought to the election house
of the syphogrants, which open the matter to their families.
And afterward, when they have consulted among themselves,
they show their device to the council. Sometimes the matter
is brought before the council of the whole island. Furthermore
this custom also the council useth, to dispute or reason of no
matter the same day that it is first proposed or put forth, but to
defer it to the next sitting of the council. Because that no man
when he hath rashly there spoken that cometh to his tongue's
end, shall then afterward rather study for reasons wherewith to
defend and maintain his first foolish sentence, than for the
commodity of the commonwealth : as one rather willing
the harm or hindrance of the weal public than any loss or
OF UTOPIA.
125
diminution of his own existimation. And as one that would be
ashamed (which is a very foolish shame) to be counted any-
thing at the first overseen in the matter. Who at the first
ought to have spoken rather wisely, than hastily, or rashly.
Of Sciences, Crafts, and Occupations.
Husbandry is a science common to them all in general, both
men and women, wherein they be all expërt-and-cunning. In
this they be all instruct even from their youth : partly in their
schools with-traditions and precepts, and partly in the country
nigh the city, brought up as it were in playing, not only
beholding the use of it, but by occasion of exercising their
bodies practising it also. Besides husbandry, which (as I
said) is common to them all, every one of them learneth one
or other several and particular science, as his own proper
craft. That is most commonly either clothworking in wool
or flax, or masonry, or the smith's craft, or the carpenter's
science. For there is none other occupation that any
number to speak of doth use there. - For their garments,
which throughout all the island bę of one fashion (saving
that there is a difference between the man's garment and
the woman's, between the married and the unmarried)
and this one continueth for evermore unchanged, seemly
and comely to the eye, no let to the moving and wielding
of the body, also fit both for winter and summer: as for
these garments (I say) every family maketh their own. But of
the other foresaid crafts every man learneth one. And not
only the men, but also the women. But the women, as the
weaker sort, be put to the easier crafts: as to work wool and
flax. The more laboursome sciences be committed to the
men. For the most part every man is brought up in his father's
craft. For most commonly they be naturally thereto bent and
inclined. But if a man's mind stand to any other, he is by
adoption put into a family of that occupation, which he doth
most fantasy. Whom not only his father, but also the
magistrates do diligently look to, that he be put to a discreet
126
THE SECOND BOOK
and an honest householder. Yea, and if any person, when he
hath learned one craft, be desirous to learn also another, he is
likewise suffered and permitted. .
When he hath learned both, he occupieth whether he will:
unless the city have more need of the one, than of the other.
The chief and almost the only office of the syphogrants is, to
see and take heed that no man sit idle : but that every one
apply his own craft with earnest diligence. And yet for all that,
not to be wearied from early in the morning, to late in the
evening, with continual work, like labouring and toiling beasts.
For this is worse thän the miserable and wretched condition
of bondmen. Which nevertheless is almost everywhere the
life of workmen and artificers, saving in Utopia. For they
dividing the day and the night into twenty-four just
hours, appoint and assign only six of these hours to work
before noon, upon the which they go straight to dinner:
and after dinner, when they have rested two hours, then they
work three hours and upon that they go to supper. About
eight of the clock in the evening (counting one of the clock at
the first hour after noon) they go to bed : eight hours they give
to sleep. All the void time, that is between the hours of work,
sleep, and meat, that they be suffered to bestow, every man as he
liketh best himself. Not to the intent that they should misspend
this time in riot or slothſulness: but being then licensed from
the labour of their own occupations, to bestow the time well-
and thriftly upon some other science, as shall please them.
For it is a solemn custom there, to have lectures daily early in
the morning, where to be present they only be constrained that
be namely chosen and appointed to learning. Howbeit a great
- multitude of every sort of people, both men and women go to
hear lectures, some one and some another, as every man's
nature is inclined. Yet, this notwithstanding, if any man had
rather bestow this time upon his own occupation (as it
chanceth in many, whose minds rise not in the contemplation
of any science liberal) he is not let, nor prohibited, but is also
praised and commended, as profitable to the common-
wealth. After supper they bestow one hour in play:
.
OF UTOPIA.
127
in summer in their gardens : in winter in their common
halls: where they dine and sup. There they exercise
themselves in music, or else in honest and wholesome
communication. Diceplay, and such other foolish and perni-
cious games they know not. But they use two games not much
unlike the chess. The one is the battle of numbers, wherein
one number stealeth away another. The other is wherein
vices fight with virtues, as it were in battle array, or a set field.
In the which game is very properly showed, both the strife
and discord that vices have among themselves, and again their
unity and concord against virtues. And also what vices be
repugnant to what virtues : with what power and strength
they assail them openly: by what wiles and subtlety they
assault them secretly: with what help and aid the virtues resist
and overcome the puissance of the vices : by what craft they
frustrate their purposes : and finally by what sleight or means
ihe one getteth the victory. But here lest you be deceived,
one thing you must look more narrowly upon. For seeing they
bestow but six hours in work, perchance you may think that the
lack of some necessary things hereof may ensue. But this is
nothing so. For that small time is not only enough but also
too much for the store and abundance of all things that be
requisite, either for the necessity, or commodity of life. The
which thing you also shall perceive, if you weigh and consider
with yourselves how great a part of the people in other
countries liveth idle. First almost all women, which be the
half of the whole number: or else if the women be somewhere
occupied, there most commonly in their stead the men be idle.
Besides this how great, and how idle a company is there of
priests, and religious men, as they call them ? put thereto all
rich men, especially all landed men, which commonly be called
gentlemen, and noblemen. Take into this number also their
servants : I mean all that flock of stout bragging rush bucklers.
Join to them also sturdy and valiant beggars, cloaking their idle
life under the colour of some disease or sičkness.And truly you
shall find them much fewer than you thought, by whose labour
all these things are wrought, that in men's affairs are now daily
128
THE SECOND BOOK
used and frequented. Now consider with yourself, of these few
that do work, how few be occupied, in necessary works. For
where money beareth all the swing, there many vain and super-
fluous occupations must needs be used, to serve only for riotous
superfluity and unhonest pleasure. For the same multitude
that now is occupied in work, if they were divided into so few
occupations as the necessary use of nature requireth; in so
great plenty of things as then of necessity would ensue, doubt-
less the prices would be too little for the artificers to main:ain
their livings. But if all these, that be now busied about unpro-
fitable occupations, with all the whole flock of them that live idly
and slothfully, which consume and waste every one of them more
of these things that come by other men's labour, than two of the
workmen themselves do : if all these (I say) were set to profit-
enough, yea and too much to store us with all things that may
be requisite either for necessity, or for commodity, yea or for.
pleasure, so that the same pleasure be true and natural. And
this in Utopia the thing itself maketh manifest and plain. For
there in all the city, with the whole country, or shire adjoining
to it scarcely 500 persons of all the whole number of men
and women, that be neither too old, nor too weak to work, be
licensed and discharged from labour. Among them be the sypho-
grants (who though they be by the laws exempt and privileged
from labour) yet they exempt not themselves : to the intent
that they may the rather by their example provoke other to
work. The same vacation from labour do they also enjoy, to
whom the people persuaded by the commendation of the
priests, and secret election of the syphogrants, have given a
perpetual licence from labour to learning. But if any one of
them prove not according to the expectation and hope of him
conceived, he is forth with plucked back to the company of
artificers. And contrariwise, often it chanceth that a handi-
craftsman doth so earnestly bestow his vacant and spare hours
in learning, and through diligence so profiteth therein, that he
is taken from his handy occupation, and promoted to the com-
pany of the learned. Out of this order of the learned be chosen
OF UTOPIA.
129
ambassadors, priests, tranibores, and finally the prince himself.
Whom they in their old tongue call Barzanes, and by a newer
name, Adamus. The residue of the people being neither idle,
nor yet occupied about unprofitable exercises, it may be easily
judged in how few hours how much good work by them may be
done and despatched, towards those things that I have spoken
of. This commodity they have also above other, that in the
most part of necessary occupations they need not so much
work, as other nations do. For first of all the building or
repairing of houses asketh everywhere so many men's con-
tinual labour, because that the unthrifty heir suffereth the
houses that his father builded in continuance of time to fall in
decay. So that which he might have upholden with little cost,
his successor is constrained to build it again anew, to his great
charge. Yea many times also the house that stood one man in
much money, another is of so nice and so delicate a mind, that
he setteth nothing by it. And it being neglected, and there-
fore shortly falling into ruin, he buildeth up another in another
place with no less cost and charge. But among the Utopians,
where all things be set in good order, and the commonwealth
in a good stay, it very seldom chanceth, that they choose a new
plot to build an house upon. And they do not only find speedy
and quick remedies for present faults : but also prevent them
that be like to fall. And by this means their houses continue
and last very long with little labour and small reparations:
insomuch that this kind of workmen sometimes have almost
nothing to do. But that they be commanded to hew timber at
home, and to square and trim up stones, to the intent that if
any work chance, it may the speedier rise. Now, sir, in their
apparel, mark (I pray you) how few workmen they need.
First of all, whilst they be at work, they be covered homely
with leather or skins, that will last seven years. When they
go forth they cast upon them a cloak, which hideth the other
homely apparel. These cloaks throughout the whole island
be all of one colour, and that is the natural colour of the wool.
They therefore do not only spend much less woollen cloth
than is spent in other countries, but also the same standeth
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THE SECOND BOOK
them in much less cost. But linen cloth is made with less
labour, and is therefore had more in use. But in linen cloth
only whiteness, in woollen only cleanliness is regarded. As for
the smallness or fineness of the thread, that is nothing passed
for. And this is the cause wherefore in other places four or
five cloth gowns of divers colours, and as many silk coats
be not enough for one man. Yea and if he be of the delicate
and nice sort ten be too few: whereas there one garment will
serve a man most commonly two years. For why should he
desire more? Seeing if he had them, he should not be the
better wrapped or covered from cold, neither in his apparel any
whit the comelier. Wherefore, seeing they be all exercised in
profitable occupations, and that few artificers in the same crafts
be sufficient, this is the cause that plenty of all things being
among them, they, do sometimes bring forth an innumerable
company of people to amend the highways, if any be broken.
Many times also, when they have no such work to be occupied
-about, an open proclamation is made, that they shall bestow
fewer hours in work. For the magistrates do not exercise their
citizens against their wills in unneedful labours. For why in
the institution of that weal public, this end is only and chiefly
pretended and minded, that what time may possibly be spared
from the necessary occupations and affairs of the common-
wealth, all that the citizens should withdraw from the bodily
service to the free liberty of the mind, and garnishing of the
same. For herein they suppose the felicity of this life to
consist.
Of their living and mutual conversation together.
But now will I declare how the citizens use themselves one
towards another : what familiar occupying and entertainment
there is among the people, and what fashion they use in the
distribution of every thing. First the city consisteth of families,
the families most commonly be made of kindreds. For the
women, when they be married at a lawful age, they go into
their husbands' houses. But the male children with all the
OF UTOPIA.
131,
.
.
whole male offspring continue still in their own family and be
governed of the eldest and ancientest father, unless he dote for
age: for then the next to him in age is placed in his room.
But to the intent the prescript number of the citizens should
neither decrease, nor above measure increase, it is ordained
that no family which in every city be sixthousand in the
whole, besides them of the country, shall at once have fewer
children of the age of fourteen years or thereabout than ten or
more than sixteen, for of children under this age no number
can be prescribed or appointed. This measure or number is
easily observed and kept, by putting them that in fuller
families be above the number into families of smaller increase.
But if chance be that in the whole city the--store increase
above the just number, therewith they fill up the lack of
other cities. But if so be that the multitude throughout the
whole island pass and exceed the due number, then they
choose out of every city certain citizens, and build up a
town under their own laws in the next land where the in-
habitants have much waste and unoccupied ground, receiving
also of the same country people to them, if they will join and
dwell with them. They thus joining and dwelling together do
easily agree in one fashion of living, and that to the great wealth
of both the peoples. For they so bring the matter about by
their laws, that the ground which before was neither good nor
profitable for the one nor for the other, is now sufficient and
fruitful enough for them both. But if the inhabitants of that
land will not dwell with them to be ordered by their laws, then
they drive them out of those bounds which they have limited,
and appointed out for themselves. And if they resist and rebel,
then they make war against them. For they count this the
most just cause of war, when any people holdeth a piece of
ground void and vacant to no good nor profitable use, keeping
other from the use and possession of it, which notwithstanding
by the law of nature ought thereof to be nourished and relieved.
If any chance do so much diminish the number of any of their
cities, that it cannot be filled up again, without the diminishing
of the just number of the other cities (which they say chanced
132
THE SECOND BOOK
but twice since the beginning of the land through a great
pestilent plague) then they fulfil and make up the number with
citizens fetched out of their own foreign towns, for they had
rather suffer their foreign towns to decay and perish, than any
city of their own island to be diminished. But now again
to the conversation of the citizens among themselves. The
eldest (as I said) ruleth the family. The wives be ministers to
their husbands, the children to their parents, and to be short
the younger to their elders. Every city is divided into four
equal parts or quarters. In the midst of every quarter there is
a market place of all manner of things. Thither the works of
every family be brought into certain houses. And every kind
of thing is laid up several in barns or storehouses. From hence
the father of every family, or every householder fetcheth what-
soever he and his have need of, and carrieth it away with him
without money, without exchange, without gage, pawn, or
pledge. For why should any thing be denied unto him ?
Seeing there is abundance of all things, and that it is not to be
feared, lest any man will ask more than he needeth. For why
should it be thought that that man would ask more than enough,
which is sure never to lack? Certainly in all kinds of living
creatures either fear of lack doth cause covetousness and ravin,
or in man only pride, which counteth it a glorious thing to pass
and excel other in the superfluous and vain ostentation of
things. The which kind of vice among the Utopians can have
no place. Next to the market places that I spake of, stand
meat markets : whither be brought not only all sorts of herbs,
and the fruits of trees, with bread, but also fish, and all manner
of four-footed beasts, and wild fowl that be man's meat. But
first the filthiness and odour thereof is clean washed away in
the running river without the city in places appointed meet for
the same purpose. From thence the beasts be brought in
killed, and clean washed by the hands of their bondmen. For
they permit not their free citizens to accustom themselves to
the killing of beasts, through the use whereof they think
clemency, the gentlest affection of our nature, by little
and little to decay and perish. Neither they suffer any
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133
icertanah accordingin to the
thing that is filthy, loathsome, or uncleanly, to be brought
into the city, lest the air by the stench thereof infected and
corrupt, should cause pestilent diseases. Moreover every
street hath certain great large halls set in equal distance
one from another, every one known by a several name. In
these halls dwell the syphogrants. And to every one of the
same halls be appointed thirty families, on either side fifteen.
The stewards of every hall at a certain hour come into the
meat markets, where they receive meat according to the
number of their halls. But first and chiefly of all, respect is
had to the sick, that be cured in the hospitals. For in the
circuit of the city, a little without the walls, they have four
hospitals, so big, so wide, so ample, and so large, that they
may seem four whittle-towns, which were devised of that bigness
partly to the intent the sick, be they never so many in number,
should not lie too throng or strait, and therefore uneasily and
incommodiously: and partly that they which were taken and
holden with contagious diseases, such as be wont by infection
to creep from one to another, might be laid apart far from
the company of the residue. These hospitals be so well
appointed, and with all things necessary to health so furnished,
and moreover so diligent attendance through the continual
presence of cunning physicians is given, that though no man
be sent thither against his will, yet notwithstanding there is
no sick person in all the city, that had not rather lie there,
than at home in his own house. When the steward of the
sick hath received such meats as the physicians have pre-
scribed, then the best is equally divided among the halls,
according to the company of every one, saving that there
is had a respect to the prince, the bishop, the tranibores, and
to ambassadors and all strangers, if there be any, which be
very few and seldom. But they also when they be there, have
certain several houses appointed and prepared for them.
To these halls at the set hours of dinner and supper cometh
all the whole syphogranty or ward, warned by the noise of a
brazen trumpet : except such as be sick in the hospitals, or
else in their own houses. Howbeit no man is prohibited or
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forbid, after the halls be served, to fetch home meat out of
the market to his own house, for they know that no man will
do it without a cause reasonable. For though no man be
prohibited to dine at home, yet no man doth it willingly :
because it is counted a point of small honesty. And also
it were a folly to take the pain to dress a bad dinner at home,
when they may be welcome to good and fine fare so nigh hand
at the hall. In this hall all vile service, all slavery, and
drudgery, with all laboursome toil, and base business is done
by bondmen. But the women of every family by course have
the office and charge of cookery for seething and dressing
the meat, and ordering all things thereto belonging. They
sit at three tables or more, according to the number of their
company. The men sit upon the bench next the wall, and
the women against them on the other, side of the 'table,
that if any sudden evil should chance to them, as many times
happeneth to women with child, they may rise without
trouble or disturbance of anybody, and go thence into the
nursery.) The nurses sit several alone with their young
sucklings in a certain parlour appointed and deputed to
the same purpose, never without fire and clean water, nor
yet without cradles, that when they will they may lay
down the young infants, and at their pleasure take them
out of their swathing clothes, and hold them to the fire, and
refresh them with play. Every mother is nurse to her own
child, unless either death, or sickness be the let. When that
chanceth, the wives of the syphogrants quickly provide a
nurse. And that is not hard to be done. For they that can
do it, proffer themselves to no service so gladly as to that.
Because that there this kind of pity is much praised: and the
child that is nourished, ever after taketh his nurse for his own
natural mother. Also among the nurses sit all the children
that be under the age of five years. All the other children of
both kinds, as well boys as girls, that be under the age of
marriage, do either serve at the tables, or else if they be too
young thereto, yet they stand by with marvellous silence. That
which is given to them from the table they eat, and other
OF UTOPIA
135
several dinner-time they have none. The syphogrant and his
wife sit in the midst of the high table, forasmuch as that is
counted the honourablest place, and because from thence all
the whole company is in their sight. For that table standeth
overthwart the over end of the hall. To them be joined two of
the ancientest and eldest. For at every table they sit four at a
mess. But if there be a church standing in that syphogrant or
ward, then the priest and his wife sitteth with the syphogranty,
as chief in the company. On both sides of them sit young
men, and next unto them again old men. And thus throughout
all the house equal of age be set together, and yet be mixed and
matched with unequal ages. This, they say, was ordained, to
the intent that the sage gravity and reverence of the elders
should keep the younger from wanton licence of words and
behaviour. Forasmuch as nothing can be so secretly spoken or
done at the table, but either they that sit on the one side or on
the other must needs perceive it. The dishes be not set down
in order from the first place, but all the old men (whose places
be marked with some special token to be known) be first served
of their meat, and then the residue equally. The old men
divide their dainties as they think best to the younger on each
side of them.
* Thus the elders be not defrauded of their due honour, and
nevertheless equal commodity cometh to every one. They begin
every dinner and supper of reading something that pertaineth
to good manners and virtue. But it is short, because no man
shall be grieved therewith. Hereof the elders take occasion of
honest communication, but neither sad nor unpleasant. How-
beit they do not spend all the whole dinner-time themselves
with long and tedious talks: but they gladly hear also the
young men: yea, and purposely provoke them to talk, to the
intent that they may have a proof of every man's wit, and
towardness, or disposition to virtue, which commonly in the
liberty of feasting doth show and utter itself. Their dinners be
very short: but their suppers be somewhat longer, because
that after dinner followeth labour, after supper sleep and natural
rest, which they think to be of more strength and efficacy to
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THE SECOND BOOK
wholesome and healthful digestion. No supper is passed with-
out music. Nor their banquets lack no conceits nor junkets.
They burn sweet gums and spices or perfumes, and pleasant
smells, and sprinkle about sweet ointments and waters, yea,
they leave nothing undone that maketh for the cheering of the
company. For they be much inclined to this opinion: to think
no kind of pleasure forbidden, whereof cometh no harm. Thus
therefore and after this sort they live together in the city, but in
the country they that dwell alone far from any neighbours, do
dine and sup at home in their own houses. For no family
there lacketh any kind of victuals, as from whom cometh all
that the citizens eat and live by.
Of their journeying or travelling abroad, with divers other
matters cunningly reasoned, and wittily discussed.
But if any be desirous to visit either their friends dwelling
in another city, or to see the place itself: they easily obtain
licence of their syphogrants and tranibores, unless there be some
profitable let. No man goeth out alone but a company is sent
forth together with their prince's letters, which do testify that
they have licence to go that journey, and prescribeth also the
day of their return. They have a waggon given them, with a
common bondman, which driveth the oxen, and taketh charge
of them. But unless they have women in their company, they
send home the waggon again, as an impediment and a let. And
though they carry nothing forth with them, yet in all their
journey they lack nothing. For wheresoever they come, they be
at home. If they tarry in a place longer than one day, then
there every one of them falleth to his own occupation, and be
very gently entertained of the work men and companies of the
same crafts. If any man of his own head and without leave,
walk out of his precinct and bounds, taken without the prince's
letters, he is brought again for a fugitive or a runaway with
great shame and rebuke, and is sharply punished. If he be
taken in that fault again, he is punished with bondage. If any
OF UTOPIA.
137
be desirous to walk abroad into the fields, or into the country
that belongeth to the same city that he dwelleth in, obtaining
the goodwill of his father, and the consent of his wife, he is not
prohibited. But into what part of the country soever he cometh
he hath no meat given him until he have wrought out his fore-
noon's task, or despatched so much work, as there is wont to
be wrought before supper. Observing this law and condition,
he may go whither he will within the bounds of his own city.
For he shall be no less profitable to the city, than if he were
within it. Now you see how little liberty they have to loiter :
how they can have no cloak or pretence to idleness. There
be neither wine taverns, nor ale-houses, nor stews, nor any
occasion of vice or wickedness, no lurking corners, no places of
wicked counsels or unlawful assemblies. But they be in the
present sight, and under the eyes of every man. So that of.
necessity they must either apply their accustomed labours, or
else recreate themselves with honest and laudable pastimes.
This fashion and trade of life, being used among the
people, it cannot be chosen, but that they must of necessity
have store and plenty of all things. And seeing they be
all thereof partners equally, therefore can no man there be
poor or needy. In the council of Amaurote, whither, as I said,
every city sendeth three men apiece yearly, as soon as it is
perfectly known of what things there is in every place plenty,
and again what things be scant in any place : incontinent
the lack of the one is performed and filled up with the abund-
ance of the other. And this they do freely without any benefit,
taking nothing again of them, to whom the thing is given,
but those cities that have given of their store to any other
city that lacketh, requiring nothing again of the same city,
do take such things as they lack of another city, to the which
they gave nothing. So the whole island is as it were one
family, or household. But when they have made sufficient
provision of store for themselves (which they think not done,
until they have provided for two years following, because of the
uncertainty of the next year's proof) then of those things,
whereof they have abundance, they carry forth into other
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THE SECOND BOOK
countries great plenty: as grain, honey, wool, flax, wood,
madder, purple dyed fells, wax, tallow, leather, and living
beasts. And the seventh part of all these things they give
frankly and freely to the poor of that country. The residue
they sell at a reasonable and mean price. By this trade of
traffic or merchandise, they bring into their own country, not
only great plenty of gold and silver, but also all such things
as they lack at home, which is almost nothing but iron. And
by reason they have long used this trade, now they have more
abundance of these things, than any man will believe. Now
therefore they care not whether they sell for ready money,
or else upon trust to be paid at a day, and to have the most
part in debts. But in so doing they never follow the credence
of private men : but the assurance or warranty of the whole
city, by instruments and writings made in that behalf accord-
ingly. When the day of payment is come and expired, the
city gathereth up the debt of the private debtors, and putteth
it into the common box, and so long hath the use and profit of
it, until the Utopians their creditors demand it. The most
part of it they never ask. For that thing which is to them
no profit to take it from other, to whom it is profitable : they
think it no right nor conscience. But if the case so stand, that
they must lend part of that money to another people, then they
require their debt : or when they have war. For the which
purpose only they keep at home all the treasure which they
have, to be holpen and succoured by it either in extreme
jeopardies, or in sudden dangers. But especially and chiefly
to hire therewith, and that for unreasonable great wages,
strange soldiers. For they had rather put strangers in jeopardy,
than their own countrymen: knowing that for money enough,
their enemies, themselves many times may be bought or sold,
or else through treason be set together by the ears among
themselves. For this cause they keep an inestimable treasure.
But yet not as ā treasure : but so they have it, and use it, as in
good faith I am ashamed to show: fearing that my words
shall not be believed. And this I have more cause to fear, for
that I know how difficultly and hardly I myself would have
OF UTOPIA.
139
believed another man telling the same, if I had not presently
seen it with mine own eyes.
For it must needs be, that how far a thing is dissonant and
disagreeing from the guise and trade of the hearers, so far
shall it be out of their belief. Howbeit, a wise and indifferent
esteemer of things will not greatly marvel perchance, seeing
all their other laws and customs do so much differ from ours,
if the use also of gold and silver among them be applied,
rather to their own fashions than to ours. I mean in that they
occupy not money themselves, but keep it for that chance,
which as it may happen, so it may be that it shall never come
to pass. In the meantime gold and silver, whereof money is
made, they do so use, as none of them doth more esteem it,
than the very nature of the thing deserveth. And then who
doth not plainly see how far it is under iron : as without the
which men can no better live than without fire and water.
Whereas to gold and silver nature hath given nọ .use, that we
may not well lack : if that the folly of men had not set it in
higher estimation for the rareness sake. But of the contrary
part, nature as a most tender and loving mother, hath placed.
the best and most-necessary things open abroad: as the air,-
the water and the earth itself. And hath removed and hid
--farthest--from US vain and unprofitable things. Therefore if
these metals among them should be fast locked up in some
tower, it might be suspected, that the prince and the council
(as the people is ever foolishly imagining) intended by some
subtilty to deceive the commons, and to take some profit of
it to themselves. Furthermore if they should make thereof
plate and such other finely and cunningly wrought stuff: if at
any time they should have occasion to break it, and melt it
again, therewith to pay their soldiers' wages, they see and
perceive very well, that men would be loath to part from those
things, that they once began to have pleasure and delight in.
To remedy all this they have found out a means, which, as it is
agreeable to all their other laws and customs, so it is from
ours, where gold is so much set by and so diligently kept, very
far discrepant and repugnant ; and therefore incredible, but
XXRP TV
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734
140
THE SECOND BOOK
only to them that be wise. For whereas they eat and drink
in earthen and glass vessels, which indeed be curiously and
properly made, and yet be of very small value : of gold and
silver they make commonly chamber pots, and other vessels,
that serve for most vile uses, not only in their common halls,
but in every man's private house. Furthermore of the same
metals they make great chains, fetters, and gyves wherein
they tie their bondmen. Finally whosoever for any offence
be infamed, by their ears hang rings of gold, upon their fingers
they wear rings of gold, and about their necks chains of gold,
and in conclusion their heads be tied about with gold. Thus
by all means possible they procure to have gold and silver
among them in reproach and infamy. And these metals, which
other nations do as grievously and sorrowfully forego, as in a
manner their own lives : if they should altogether at once be
taken from the Utopians, no man there would think that he
had lost the worth of one farthing. They gather also pearls by
the sea-side, and diamonds and carbuncles upon certain rocks,
and yet they seek not for them: but by chance finding them,
they cut and polish them. And therewith they deck their
young infants. Which like as in the first years of their child-
hood, they make much and be fond and proud of such
ornaments, so when they be a little more grown in years and
discretion, perceiving that none but children do wear such
toys and trifles: they lay them away even of their own
shamefacedness, without any bidding of their parents : even as
our children, when they wax big, do cast away nuts, brooches,
and puppets. Therefore these laws and customs, which be so
far different from all other nations, how divers fantasies also
and minds they do cause, did I never so plainly perceive, as in
the ambassadors of the Anemolians.
These ambassadors came to Amaurote whiles I was there.
And because they came to entreat of great and weighty matters,
those three citizens apiece out of every city were come thither
before them. But all the ambassadors of the next countries,
which had been there before, and knew the fashions and
manners of the Utopians, among whom they perceived no
OF UTOPIA.
141
,
honour given to sumptuous apparel, silks to be contemned,
gold also to be infamed and reproachful, were wont to come
thither in very homely and simple array. But the Anemolians,
because they dwell far thence and had very little acquaintance
with them, hearing that they were all apparelled alike, and that
very rudely and homely : thinking them not to have the things
which they did not wear: being therefore more proud, than
wise : determined in the gorgeousness of their apparel to repre-
sent very gods, and with the bright shining and glistering of
their gay clothing to c'azzle the eyes of the silly poor Utopians.
So there came in three ambassadors with one hundred servants
all apparelled in changeable colours : the most of them in silks :
the ambassadors themselves (for at home in their own country
they were noblemen) in cloth of gold, with great chains of gold,
with gold hanging at their ears, with gold rings upon their
fingers, with brooches and aglets of gold upon their caps, which
glistered full of pearls and precious stones: to be short, trimmed
and adorned with all those things, which among the Utopians
were either the punishment of bondmen, or the reproach of
infamed persons, or else trifles for young children to play withal,
Therefore it would have done a man good at his heart to have
seen how proudly they displayed their peacock's feathers, how
much they made of their painted sheaths, and how loftily they
set forth and advanced themselves, when they compared their
gallant apparel with the poor raiment of the Utopians. For all
the people were swarmed forth into the streets. And on the
other side it was no less pleasure to consider how much they
were deceived, and how far they missed of their purpose, being
contrariwise taken than they thought they should have been.
For to the eyes of all the Utopians, except very few, which had
been in other countries for some reasonable cause, all that
gorgeousness of apparel seemed shameful and reproachful. In-
somuch that they most reverently saluted the vilest and most
abject of them for lords: passing over the ambassadors them-
selves without any honour: judging them by their wearing of
golden chains to be bondmen. Yea you should have seen
children also, that had cast away their pearls and precious
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stones, when they saw the like sticking upon the ambassadors'
caps, dig and push their mothers under the sides, saying thus to
them. Look, mother, how great a lubber doth yet wear pearls
and precious stones, as though he were a little child still. But
the mother, yea, and that also in good earnest : peace, son, saith
she: I think he be some of the ambassadors' fools. Some found
fault at their golden chains, as to no use nor purpose, being so
small and weak, that a bondman might easily break them, and
again so wide and large, that when it pleased him, he might cast
them off, and run away at liberty whither he would. But when
the ambassadors had been there a day or two and saw so great
abundance of gold so lightly esteemed, yea in no less reproach,
than it was with them in honour : and besides that more gold
in the chains and gyves of one fugitive bondman, than all the
costly ornaments of them three was worth : they began to abate
their courage, and for very shame laid away all that gorgeous
array, whereof they were so proud. And specially when they
had talked familiarly with the Utopians, and had learned all
their fashions and opinions.
For they marvel that any men- be so foolish, as to have
delight and pleasure in the doubtful glistering of a little trifling
stone, which may behold any of the stars, or else the sun itself.
Or that any man is so made, as to count himself the nobler for
the smaller or finer thread of wool, which selfsame wool (be it
now in never so fine a spun thread) a sheep did once wear: and
yet was she all that time no other thing than a sheep. They
marvel also that gold, which of the own nature is a thing so
unprofitable, is now among all people in so high estimation,
that man himself, by whom, yea and for the use of whom
it is so much set by, is in much less estimation than the
and which hath no more wit than an ass, yea and as full
of naughtiness as of folly, shall have nevertheless many
wise and good men in subjection and bondage, only for
this, because he hath a great heap of gold. Which if it
should be taken from him by any fortune, or by some
subtle wile and quibble of the law (which no less than
OF UTOPIA.
143
fortune doth both raise up the low and pluck down the high),
and be given to the most vile slave and abject drudge of all his
household, then shortly after he shall go into the service of his
servant, as an augmentation or overplus beside his money. But
they much more marvel at and detest the madness of them
which to those rich men, in whose debt and danger they be not,
do give almost divine honours, for none other consideration,
but because they be rich : and yet knowing them to be such
niggardly penny-fathers, that they be sure as long as they live,
· not the worth of one farthing of that heap of gold shall come
to them.
These and such like opinions have they conceived, partly by
education, being brought up in that commonwealth, whose laws
and customs be far different from these kinds of folly, and
partly by good literature and learning. For though there be
not many in every city, which be exempt and discharged
of all other labours, and appointed only to learning ; that
is to say, such in whom even from their very childhood
they have perceived a singular towardness, a fine wit, and
a mind apt to good learning: yet all in their childhood be
instruct in learning. And the better part of the people,
both men and women throughout all their whole life do
bestow in learning those spare hours, which we said they
have vacant from bodily labours. They be taught learning
in their own native tongue. For it is both copious-in-words;
and also pleasant to the ear, and for the utterance of a man's
mind very perfect and sure. The most part of all that side of
the world useth the same language, saving that among the
Utopians it is finest and purest, and according to the diversity
of the countries it is diversely altered. Of all these philosophers,
whose names be here famous in this part of the world to us
known, before our coming thither not as much as the fame of
any of them was come among them. And yet in music, logic,
arithmetic, and geometry they have found out in a manner all
that our ancient philosophers have taught. But as they in all
things be almost equal to our old ancient clerks, so our new
logicians in subtle inventions have far passed and gone beyond
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THE SECOND BOOK
them. For they have not devised one of all those rules
of restrictions, amplifications and suppositions, very, wittily
invented in the small logicals, which here our children in every
place do learn. Furthermore they were never yet able to find
out the second intentions: insomuch that none of them all
could ever see man himself in common, as they call him,
though he be (as you know) bigger than ever was any giant, yea
and pointed to of us even with our finger. But they be in the
course of the stars, and the movings of the heavenly spheres
very expert and cunning. They have also wittily excogitated
and devised instruments of divers fashions: wherein is exactly
comprehended and contained the movings and situations of
the sun, the moon, and of all the other stars, which appear in
their horizon. But as for the amities and dissensions of the
planets, and all that deceitful divination by the stars, they never
as much as dreamed thereof. Rains, winds, and other courses
of tempests they know before by certain tokens, which they
have learned by long use and observation. But of the causes
of all these things and of the ebbing, flowing and saltness of the
sea, and finally of the original beginning and nature of heaven
and of the world, they hold partly the same opinions that
our old philosophers hold, and partly, as our philosophers
vary among themselves, so they also, whiles they bring new
reasons of things, do disagree from all them, and yet among
themselves in all points they do not accord. In that part of
philosophy, which treateth of manners and virtue, their reasons
and opinions agree with ours. They dispute of the good
qualities of the soul, of the body and of fortune. And whether
the name of goodness may be applied to all these, or only to
the endowments and gifts of the soul.
They reason of virtue and pleasure. But the chief and
principal question is in what thing, be it one or more, the
mfelicity of man.consisteth. But in this point they seem almost
too much given and inclined to the opinion of them which
defend pleasure, wherein they determine either all or the
chiefest part of man's felicity to rest. And (which is more
to be marvelled at) the defence of this so dainty and delicate
OF UTOPIA.
145
an opinion they fetch even from their grave, sharp, bitter,
and rigorous religion. For they never dispute of felicity or
blessedness, but they join unto the reasons of philosophy
certain principles taken out of religion : withoût the which-to-
the investigation of true felicity they think reason of itself weak
and imperfect. Those principles bë these-and-such-like That
the soul is immortal, and by the bountiful goodness of God
ordained to felicity. That to our virtues and good deeds
rewards be appointed after this life, and to our evil deeds
punishments. Though these be pertaining to religion, yet they
think it meet that they should be believed and granted by
proofs of reason. But if these principles were condemned and
disannulled, then without any delay they pronounce no man
to be so foolish, which would not do all his diligence and
endeavour to obtain pleasure by right or wrong, only avoiding
this inconvenience, that the less pleasure should not be a let or
hindrance to the bigger: or that he laboured not for that
pleasure, which would bring after it displeasure, grief, and
sorrow. For they judge it extreme madness to follow sharp
and painful virtue, and not only to banish the pleasure of life,
but also willingly to suffer grief, without any hope of profit
thereof ensuing. For what profit can there be, if a man, when he
hath-passed-over all his life unpleasantly, that is to say,
miserably, shall have no reward after his death? But now, sir,
they think not felicity to rest in all pleasure, but only in that:-
pleasure that is good and honest, and that hereto, as to perfect
blessedness our nature is allured and drawn even of virtue,
whereto only they that be of the contrary opinion do attribute
felicity. For they define virtue to be life ordered according to
nature, and that we be hereunto ordained of God. And that he
doth follow the course of nature, which in desiring and refusing
things is ruled by reason. Furthermore that reason doth chiefly
and principally kindle in men the love and veneration of the divine
majesty. Of whose goodness it is that we be, and that we be in
possibility to attain felicity. And that secondly it both stirreth
and provoketh us to lead our life out of care in joy and mirth,
and also moveth us to help and further all other in respect of
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THE SECOND BOOK
the society of nature to obtain and enjoy the same. For there
was never man so earnest and painful a follower of virtue and
hater of pleasure, that would so enjoin you labours, watchings
and fastings, but he would also exhort you to ease, lighten and
relieve, to your power, the lack and misery of others, praising
the same as a deed of humanity and pity. Then if it be a point
of humanity for man to bring health and comfort to man, and .
specially (which is a virtue most peculiarly belonging to man)
to mitigate and assuage the grief of others, and by taking
from them the sorrow and heaviness of life, to restore them to'
joy, that is to say, to pleasure : why may it not then be said,
that nature doth provoke every man to do the same to himself?
For a joyful life, that is to say, a pleasant life is either evil, and
if it be so, then thou shouldest not only help no man thereto,
but rather, as much as in thee lieth, withdraw all men from it,
as noisome and hurtful, or else if thou not only mayst, but
also of duty art bound to procure it to others, why not
chiefly to thyself? To whom thou art bound to show as
much favour and gentleness as to other. For when nature
biddeth thee to be good and gentle to other she commandeth
thee not to be cruel and ungentle to thyself. Therefore even
very nature (say they) prescribeth to us a joyful life, that is to
say, pleasure as the end of all our operations. And they define
virtue to be life ordered according to the prescript of nature.
But in that that nature doth allure and provoke men one to help
another to live merrily (which surely she doth not without a
good cause, for no man is so far above the lot of man's state
or condition, that nature doth cark and care for him only,
which equally favoureth all that be comprehended under the
communion of one shape, form and fashion) verily she com-
mandeth thee to use diligent circumspection, that thou do
not so seek for thine own commodities, that thou procure
others incommodities. Wherefore their opinion is, that not
only covenants and bargains made among private men ought
to be well and faithfully fulfilled, observed, and kept, but also
common laws, which either a good prince hath justly published,
or else the people neither oppressed with tyranny, neither
OF UTOPIA.
147
non
aver com a inn
+
.
.
deceived by fraud and guile, hath by their common consent
constituted and ratified, concerning the partition of the com-
modities of life, that is to say, the matter of pleasure. These
laws not offended, it is wisdom, that thou look to thine own
wealth. And to do the same for the commonwealth is no less
than thy duty, if thou bearest any reverent love, or any natural
zeal and affection to thy native country. But to go about
to let another man of his pleasure, whilst thou procurest thine
own, that is open wrong. Contrariwise to withdraw some-
thing from thyself to give to other, that is a point of humanity
and gentleness : which never taketh away so much commodity,
as it bringeth again. For it is recompensed with the return
of benefits; and the conscience of the good deed, with the
remembrance of the thankful love and benevolence of them
to whom thou hast done it, doth bring more pleasure to thy
mind, than that which thou hast withholden from thyself could
have brought to thy body. Finally (which to a godly disposed
and a religious mind is easy to be persuaded) God recom-
penseth the gift of a short and small pleasure with great and
everlasting joy. Therefore the matter diligently weighed and
considered, thus they think, that all our actions, and in them
the virtues themselves, be referred at the last to pleasure, as
their end and felicity. Pleasure they call every motion and
state of the body or mind wherein man hath naturally-delec-**
tation. Appetite they join to nature, and that not without a
good cause. For-like as, not only the senses, but also right
reason coveteth whatsoever is naturally pleasant, so that it may
be gotten without wrong or injury, not letting or debarring a
greater pleasure, nor causing painful labour, even so those
things that men by vain imagination do fain against nature to
be pleasant (as though it lay in their power to change the '
things, as they do the names of things) all such pleasures
they believe to be of so small help and furtherance to felicity,
that they count them a great let and hindrance. Because that
in whom they have once taken place, all his mind they possess
with a false opinion of pleasure. So that there is no place
left for true and natural delectations. For there be many
A
..
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things, which of their own nature contain no pleasantness : yea
the most part of them much grief and sorrow. And yet
through the perverse and malicious flickering enticements
of lewd and dishonest desires, be taken not only for special
and sovereign pleasures, but also be counted among the chief
causes of life. In this counterfeit kind of pleasure they put .
them that I spake of before; which the better gowns they have
on, the better men they think themselves. In the which thing
they do twice err. For they be no less deceived in that they
think their gown the better, than they be, in that they think
themselves the better. For if you consider the profitable use of
the garment, why should wool of a finer spun thread be thought
better, than the wool of a coarse spun thread? Yet they, as
though the one did pass the other by nature, and not by their
mistaking, advance themselves, and think the price of their
own persons thereby greatly increased. And therefore the
honour, which in a coarse gown they durst not have looked for,
they require, as it were of duty, for their finer gown's sake.
And if they be passed by without reverence, they take it dis-
pleasantly and disdainfully. And again is it not like madness
to take a pride in vain and unprofitable honours ? For what
natural or true pleasure dost thou take of another man's bare
head, or bowed knees? Will this ease the pain of thy knees, or
remedy the frenzy of thy head? In this image of counterfeit
pleasure, they be of a marvellous madness, which for the opinion
of nobility, rejoice much in their own conceit. Because it was
their fortune to come of such ancestors, whose stock of long
time hath been counted rich (for now nobility is nothing else)
specially rich in lands. And though their ancestors left them
not one foot of land, yet they think themselves not the less
noble therefore of one hair. In this number also they count
them that take pleasure and delight (as I said) in gems and
precious stones, and think themselves almost gods, if they
chance to get an excellent one, specially of that kind, which in
that time of their own countrymen is had in highest estimation.
For one kind of stone keepeth not his price still in all countries
and at all times. Nor they buy them not, but taken out of the
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gold and bare: no nor so neither, until they have made the
seller to swear, that he will warrant and assure it to be a true
stone, and no counterfeit gem. Such care they take lest a
counterfeit stone should deceive their eyes instead of a right
in beholding a counterfeit stone, which thine eye cannot discern
from a right stone? They should both be of like value to thee;
even as to the blind man. What shall I say of them, that keep
superfluous riches, to take delectation only in the beholding,
and not in the use or occupying thereof? Do they take true
pleasure, or else be they deceived with false pleasure? Or of
them that be in a contrary vice, hiding the gold which they
shall never occupy, nor peradventure never see more ? And
whiles they take care lest they shall lose it, do lose it indeed.
For what is it else, when they hide it in the ground, taking it
both from their own use, and perchance from all other men's
also ? And yet thou, when thou hast hid thy treasure, as one
out of all care, hoppest for joy. The which treasure, if it should
chance to be stolen, and thou ignorant of the theft shouldst
die ten years after : all that ten years' space that thou livedst
after thy money was stolen, what matter was it to thee,
whether it had been taken away or else safe as thou leftest
it? Truly both ways like profit came to thee. To these so
foolish pleasures they join dicers, whose madness they know
by hearsay and not by use. Hunters also, and hawkers. For
what pleasure is there (say they) in casting the dice upon a
table. Which thou hast done so often, that if there were any
pleasure in it, yet the oft use might make thee weary thereof?
Or what delight can there be, and not rather displeasure in
pleasure is there to be felt when a dog followeth an hare, than
when a dog followeth a dog ? for one thing is done in both,
that is to say, running, if thou hast pleasure therein. But if the
hope of slaughter and the expectation of tearing in pieces the
pity to see a silly innocent hære murdered of a dog, the weak
of the stronger, the fearful of the fierce, the innocent of the
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cruel and unmerciful. Therefore all this exercise of hunt-
ing, as a thing unworthy to be used of free men, the Utopians
have rejected to their butchers, to the which craft (as we said
before) they appoint their bondmen. For they count hunting
the lowest, the vilest, and most abject part of butchery, and the
other parts of it more profitable and more honest, as bringing
much more commodity, in that they kill beasts only for neces-
sity. Whereas the hunter seeketh nothing but pleasure of the
silly and woful beasts' slaughter and murder. The which
pleasure, in beholding death, they think doth rise in the very
beasts, either of a cruel affection of mind, or else to be changed
in continuance of time into cruelty, by long use of so cruel a
pleasure. These therefore and all such like, which be innu-
merable, though the common sort of people doth take them for
pleasures, yet they, seeing there is no natural pleasantness in
them, do plainly determine them to have no affinity with true
and right pleasure. For as touching that they do commonly
move the sense with delectation (which seemeth to be a work
of pleasure) this doth nothing diminish their opinion. For not
the nature of the thing, but their perverse and lewd custom is
the cause hereof, which causeth them to accept bitter or sour
things for sweet things. Even as women with child in their
viciated and corrupt taste, think pitch and tallow sweeter than
any honey. Howbeit no man's judgment depraved and corrupt,
either by sickness, or by custom, can change the nature of
pleasure, more than it can do the nature of other things. —
They make divers kinds of pleasures. For some they attri-
bute to the soul, and some to the body. To the soul they give
intelligence and that delectation that cometh of the contempla-
tion of truth. Hereunto is joined the pleasant remembrance of
the good life past. The pleasure of the body they divide into
two parts. The first is when delectation is sensibly felt and
perceived. The second part of bodily pleasure, they say, is
that which consisteth and resteth in the quiet and upright state
of the body. And that truly is every man's own proper
health intermingled and disturbed with no grief. For this,
if it be not let nor assaulted with no grief, is delectable of
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151
itself, though it be moved with no external or outward pleasure.
For though it be not so plain and manifest to the sense, as
the greedy lust of eating and drinking, yet nevertheless
many take it for the chiefest pleasure. All the Utopians
grant it to be a right sovereign pleasure, and as you would
say, the foundation and ground of all pleasures, as which even
alone is able to make the state and condition of life delect-
able and pleasant. And it being once taken away, there is
no place left for any pleasure. For to be without grief not
having health, that they call insensibility, and not pleasure.
The Utopians have long ago rejected and condemned the
opinion of them which said that steadfast and quiet health (for
this question also hath been diligently debated among them)
ought not therefore to be counted a pleasure, because they say
it cannot be presently and sensibly perceived and felt by some
outward motion. But of the contrary part now they agree
almost all in this, that health is a most sovereign pleasure.
For seeing that in sickness (say they) is grief, which is a mortal
enemy to pleasure, even as sickness is to health, why should not
then pleasure be in the quietness of health? For they say it
maketh nothing to this matter, whether you say that sickness is
a grief, or that in sickness is grief, for all cometh to one
purpose. For whether health be a pleasure itself, or a necessary
cause of pleasure, as fire is of heat, truly both ways it followeth
that they cannot be without pleasure that be in perfect health.
Furthermore whiles we eat (say they) then health, which
began to be impaired, fighteth by the help of food against
hunger. In the which fight, whiles health by little and little
getteth the upper hand, that same proceeding, and (as ye
would say) that onwardness to the wonted strength ministreth
that pleasure, whereby we be so refreshed. Health therefore,
which in the conflict is joyful, shall it not be merry, when it
hath gotten the victory? But as soon as it hath recovered the
pristinate strength, which thing only in all the fight it coveted,
shall it incontinent be astonished ? Nor shall it not know nor
embrace the own wealth and goodness ? For where it is said,
health cannot be felt: this, they think, is nothing true. For
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what man waking, say they, feeleth not himself in health, but
he that is not? Is there any man so possessed with stonish
insensibility, or with lethargy, that is to say, the sleeping
sickness, that he will not grant health to be acceptable to him,
and delectable ? But what other thing is delectation, than that
which by another name is called pleasure? They embrace
chiefly the pleasures of the mind. For them they count the
chieſest and most principal of all. The chief part of them they
think doth come of the exercise of virtue, and conscience of
good life. Of these pleasures that the body ministreth, they
give the pre-eminence to health. For the delight of eating and
drinking, and whatsoever hath any like pleasantness, they
determine to be pleasures much to be desired, but no other
ways than for health's sake. For such things of their own
proper nature be not so pleasant, but in that they resist sickness
privily stealing on. Therefore like as it is a wise man's part,
rather to avoid sickness, than to wish for medicines, and rather
to drive away and put to flight careful griefs, than to call for
comfort: so it is much better not to need this kind of pleasure,
than thereby to be eased of the contrary grief. The which kind
of pleasure, if any man take for his felicity, that man must
needs grant, that then he shall be in most felicity, if he live that
life, which is led in continual hunger, thirst, itching, eating,
drinking, scratching and rubbing. The which life how not
only foul, and unhonest, but also how miserable and wretched
it is, who perceiveth not? These doubtless be the basest
pleasures of all, as impure and imperfect. For they never come,
but accompanied with their contrary griefs. As with the pleasure
of eating is joined hunger, and that after no very equal sort.
For of these two the grief is both the more vehement, and also
of longer continuance. For it beginneth before the pleasure, and
endeth not until the pleasure die with it. Wherefore such plea-
sures they think not greatly to be set by, but in that they be neces-
sary. Howbeit they have delight also in these, and thankfully
acknowledge the tender love of mother nature, which with
most pleasant delectation allureth her children to that, to the
necessary use whereof they must from time to time continually
OF UTOPIA.
153
be forced and driven. For how wretched and miserable should
our life be, if these daily griefs of hunger and thirst could not
be driven away, but with bitter potions and sour medicines, as
the other diseases be, wherewith we be seldomer troubled ?
But beauty, strength, nimbleness, these as peculiar and
pleasant gifts of nature they make much of. But those
pleasures that be received by the ears, the eyes and the nose,
which nature willeth to be proper and peculiar to man (for no
other living creature doth behold the fairness and the beauty of
the world, or is moved with any respect of savours, but only
for the diversity of meats, neither perceiveth the concordant
and discordant distances of sounds and tunes) these pleasures,
I say, they accept and allow as certain pleasant rejoicings of
life. But in all things this precaution they use, that a less
pleasure hinder not a bigger, and that the pleasure be no cause
of displeasure, which they think to follow of necessity, if the
pleasure be dishonest. But yet to despise the comeliness of
beauty, to waste the bodily strength, to turn nimbleness into
sluggishness, to consume and make feeble the body with
fasting, to do injury to health, and to reject the pleasant
motions of nature; unless a man neglect these commodities,
whiles he doth with a fervent zeal procure the wealth of others,
or the common profit, for the which pleasure forborn, he is in
hope of a greater pleasure at God's hand; else for a vain
shadow of virtue, for the wealth and profit of no man, to punish
himself, or to the intent he may be able courageously to suffer
adversity, which perchance shall never come to him; this to do
they think it a point of extreme madness, and a token of a
man cruelly minded towards himself, and unkind towards
nature, as one so disdaining to be in her danger, that he
renounceth and refuseth all her benefits.
This is their sentence and opinion of virtue and pleasure.
And they believe that by man's reason none can be found truer
than this, unless any godlier be inspired into man from heaven.
Wherein whether they believe well or no, neither the time doth
suffer us to discuss, neither it is now necessary. For we have
taken upon us to show and declare their lores and ordinances,
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and not to defend them. But this thing I believe verily, how-
soever these decrees be, that there is in no place of the world,
neither a more excellent people, neither a more flourishing
commonwealth. They be light and quick of body, full of
activity and nimbleness, and of more strength than a man
would judge them by their stature, which for all that is not too
low. And though their soil be not very fruitful, nor their air
very wholesome, yet against the air they so defend them with
temperate diet, and so order and husband their ground with
diligent travail, that in no country is greater increase, and
plenty of corn and cattle, nor men's bodies of longer life, and
subject or apt to fewer diseases. There therefore a man may
see well and diligently exploited and furnished, not only those
things which husbandmen do commonly in other countries,
as by craft and cunning to remedy the barrenness of the
ground; but also a whole wood by the hands of the
people plucked up by the roots in one place, and set again
in another place. Wherein was had regard and considera-
tion, not of plenty, but of commodious carriage, that wood
and timber might be nigher to the sea, or the rivers, or
the cities. For it is less labour and business to carry grain far
by land, than wood. The people be gentle, merry, quick, and
fine witted, delighting in quietness, and when need requireth,
able to abide and suffer much bodily labour. Else they be not
greatly desirous and fond of it; but in the exercise and study
of the mind they be never weary. When they had heard me
speak of the Greek literature or learning (for in Latin there was
nothing that I thought they would greatly allow, besides
historians and poets) they made wonderful earnest and im-
portunate suit unto me that I would teach and instruct them in
that tongue and learning. I began therefore to read unto them,
at the first truly more because I would not seem to refuse the
labour, than that I hoped that they would anything profit
therein. But when I had gone forward a little, I perceived
incontinent by their diligence, that my labour should not be
bestowed in vain. For they began so easily to fashion their
letters, so plainly to pronounce the words, so quickly to learn
OF UTOPIA
155
by heart, and so surely to rehearse the same, that I marvelled
at it, saving that the most part of them were fine and chosen
wits and of ripe age, picked out of the company of the learned
men, which not only of their own free and voluntary will, but
also by the commandment of the council, undertook to learn
this language. Therefore in less than three years' space there
was nothing in the Greek tongue that they lacked. They were
able to read good authors without any stay, if the book were not
false. This kind of learning, as I suppose, they took so much
the sooner, because, it is somewhat allied to them. For I
think that this nation took their beginning of the Greeks,
because their speech, which in all other points is not much
unlike the Persian tongue, keepeth divers signs and tokens of
the Greek language in the names of their cities and of their
magistrates. They have of me (for when I was determined to
enter into my fourth voyage, I cast into the ship in the stead of
merchandise a pretty fardel of books, because I intended to
come again rather never, than shortly) they have, I say, of
me the most part of Plato's works, more of Aristotle's, also
Theophrastus of plants, but in divers places (which I am sorry
for) imperfect. For whilst we were a shipboard, a marmoset
chanced upon the book, as it was negligently laid by, which
wantonly playing therewith plucked out certain leaves, and tore
them in pieces. Of them that have written the grammar, they
have only Lascaris. For Theodorus I carried not with me, nor
never a dictionary but Hesychius, and Dioscorides. They set
great store by Plutarch's books. And they be delighted with
Lucian's merry conceits and jests. Of the poets they have
Aristophanes, Homer, Euripides, and Sophocles in Aldus small
print. Of the historians they have Thucydides, Herodotus,
and Herodian. Also my companion, Tricius Apinatus, carried
with him physic books, certain small works of Hippocrates and
Galen's Microtechne. The which book they have in great
estimation. For though there be almost no nation under
heaven that hath less need of physic than they, yet this notwith-
standing, physic is nowhere in greater honour. Because they
count the knowledge of it among the goodliest and most
735
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profitable parts of philosophy. For whiles they by the help of
this philosophy search out the secret mysteries of nature, they
think themselves to receive thereby not only wonderful great
pleasure, but also to obtain great thanks and favour of the
author and maker thereof. Whom they think, according to the
fashion of other artificers, to have set forth the marvellous and
gorgeous frame of the world for man with great affection
attentively to behold. Whom only he hath made of wit and
capacity to consider and understand the excellence of so great
a work. And therefore he beareth (say they) more goodwill
and love to the curious and diligent beholder and viewer of his
work and marveller at the same, than he doth to him, which
like a very brute beast without wit and reason, or as one
without sense or moving, hath no regard to so great and so
wonderful a spectacle. The wits therefore of the Utopians,
inured and exercised in learning, be marvellous quick in the
invention of feats helping anything to the advantage and
wealth of life. Howbeit two feats they may thank us for.
That is, the science of imprinting, and the craft of making
paper. And yet not only us but chiefly and principally
themselves.
For when we showed to them Aldus his print in books of
paper, and told them of the stuff whereof paper is made, and
of the feat of graving letters, speaking somewhat more, than
we could plainly declare (for there was none of us, that knew
perfectly either the one or the other) they forth with very wittily
conjectured the thing. And whereas before they wrote only in
skins, in barks of trees, and in reeds, now they have attempted
to make paper, and to imprint letters. And though at the first
it proved not all of the best, yet by often assaying the same
they shortly got the feat of both. And have so brought the
matter about that if they had copies of Greek authors, they
could lack no books. But now they have no more than I
rehearsed before, saving that by printing of books they have
multiplied and increased the same into many thousands of
copies. Whosoever cometh thither to see the land, being
excellent in any gift of wit, or through much and long journey-
OF UTOPIA.
157
ing well experienced and seen in the knowledge of many
countries (for the which cause we were very welcome to them)
him they receive and entertain wonders gently and lovingly.
For they have delight to hear what is done in every land,
howbeit very few merchantmen come thither. For what should
they bring thither, unless it were iron, or else gold and silver,
which they had rather carry home again ? Also such things as
are to be carried out of their land, they think it more wisdom
to carry that gear forth themselves, than that other should
come thither to fetch it, to the intent they may the better know
the outlands on every side of them, and keep in use the feat
and knowledge of sailing.
Of Bondmen, Sick Persons, Wedlock, and divers other matters.
They neither make bondmen of prisoners taken in battle,
unless it be in battle that they fought themselves, nor of bond-
men's children, nor to be short, of any such as they can get
out of foreign countries, though he were there a bondman. But
either such as among themselves for heinous offences be
punished with bondage, or else such as in the cities of other
lands for great trespasses be condemned to death. And of
this sort of bondmen they have most store.
For many of them they bring home sometimes paying
very little for them, yea most commonly getting them gratis.
These sorts of bondmen they keep not only in continual work
and labour, but also in bands. But their own men they handle
hardest, whom they judge more desperate, and to have
deserved greater punishment, because they being so godly
brought up to virtue in so excellent a commonwealth, could
not for all that be refrained from misdoing. Another kind of
bondmen they have, when a vile-drudge being a poor-labourer--
in another country doth_choose of his own free will to be-a -
bondman among them. These they treat and order honestly,
and entertain almost as gently as their own free citizens, saving
that they put them to a little more labour, as thereto
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accustomed. If any such be disposed to depart thence (which
seldom is seen) they neither hold him against his will, neither
send him away with empty hands. The sick (as I said) they
see to with great affection, and let nothing at all pass concerning
either physic or good diet whereby they may be restored
again to their health. Such as be sick of incurable diseases they
comfort with sitting by them, with talking with them, and to be
short, with all manner of helps that may be. But if the disease
be not only incurable, but also full of continual pain and
anguish ; then the priests and the magistrates exhort the man,
seeing he is not able to do any duty of life, and by overliving
his own death is noisome and irksome to other, and grievous
to himself, that he will determine with himself no longer to
cherish that pestilent and painful disease. And seeing his life
is to him but a torment, that he will not be unwilling to die,
but rather take a good hope to him, and either despatch
himself out of that painful life, as out of a prison, or a rack of
torment, or else suffer himself willingly to be rid out of it by
other. And in so doing they tell him he shall do wisely,
seeing by his death he shall lose no commodity, but end his
pain. And because in that act he shall follow the counsel of
the priests, that is to say, of the interpreters of God's will and
pleasure, they show him that he shall do like a godly and a
virtuous man. They that be thus persuaded, finish their lives
willingly, either with hunger, or else die in their sleep without
any feeling of death. But they cause none such to die against
his will, nor they use no less diligence and attendance about him,
believing this to be an honourable death. Else he that killeth
himself before that the priests and the council have allowed the
cause of his death, him as unworthy either to be buried, or
with fire to be consumed, they cast unburied into some stink-
ing marsh. The woman is not married before she be eighteen
years old. The man is four years older before he marry.
If either the man or the woman be proved to have actually
offended before their marriage with another, the party that
so hath trespassed is sharply punished. And both the offenders
be forbidden ever after in all their life to marry : unless the
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159
fault be forgiven by the prince's pardon. But both the good-
man and the goodwife of the house where that offence
was committed, as being slack and negligent in looking to
their charge, be in danger of great reproach and infamy. That
offence is so sharply punished, because they perceive, that
unless they be diligently kept from the liberty of this vice, few
will join together in the love of marriage, wherein all the life
must be led with one, and also all the griefs and displeasures
coming therewith patiently be taken and borne. Furthermore
in choosing wives and husbands they observe earnestly and
straitly a custom, which seemed to us very fond and foolish.
For a sad and an honest matron showeth the woman, be she
maid or widow, naked to the wooer. And likewise a sage and
discreet man exhibiteth the wooer naked to the woman. At
this custom we laughed and disallowed it as foolish. But they
on the other part do greatly wonder at the folly of all other
nations, which in buying a colt, whereas a little money is
in hazard, be so chary and circumspect, that though he be
almost all bare, yet they will not buy him, unless the saddle
and all the harness be taken off, lest under those coverings
be hid some gall or sore. And yet in choosing a wife, which
shall be either pleasure, or displeasure to them all their life
after, they be so reckless, that all the residue of the woman's
body being covered with clothes, they esteem her scarcely by
one hand-breadth (for they can see no more but her face), and
so to join her to them not without great jeopardy of evil
agreeing together, if anything in her body afterward should
chance of offend and mislike them.
For all men be not so wise, as to have respect to the virtuous
conditions of the party. And the endowments of the body
cause the virtues of the mind more to be esteemed and re-
garded : yea even in the marriages of wise men. Verily so
foul deformity may be hid under those coverings, that it may
quite alienate and take away the man's mind from his wife,
when it shall not be lawful for their bodies to be separate
again. If such deformity happen by any chance after the
marriage is consummate and finished, well, there is no remedy
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but patience. Every man must take his fortune well-a-worth.
But it were well done that a law were made whereby all such
deceits might be eschewed and avoided beforehand.
And this were they constrained more earnestly to look upon,
because they only of the nations in that part of the world be
content every man with one wife apiece.
And matrimony is there never broken, but by death;
except adultery break the bond, or else the intolerable way-
ward manners of either party. For if either of them find
themselves for any such cause grieved, they may by the licence
of the council change and take another. But the other party
liveth ever after in infamy and out of wedlock. Howbeit the
husband to put away his wife for no other fault, but for that
some mishap is fallen to her body, this by no means they
will suffer. For they judge it a great point of cruelty, that
anybody in their most need of help and comfort, should be
cast off and forsaken, and that old age, which both bringeth
sickness with it, and is a sickness itself, should unkindly and
unfaithfully be dealt withal. But now and then it chanceth,
whereas the man and the woman cannot well agree between
themselves, both of them finding other, with whom they hope
to live more quietly and merrily, that they by the full consent
of them both be divorced asunder and married again to other.
But that not without the authority of the council. Which
agreeth to no divorces, before they and their wives have
diligently tried and examined the matter. Yea and then also
they be loath to consent to it, because they know this to be the
next way to break love between man and wife, to be in easy
with most grierous bondage. And if both the offenders were
married, then the parties which in that behalf have suffered
wrong, being divorced from the adulterers, be married together,
if they will or else to whom they list. But if either of them
both do still continue in love toward so unkind a bedſellow,
the use of wedlock is not to them forbidden, if the party
faultless be disposed to follow in toiling and drudgery the
person which for that offence is condemned to bondage. And
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very oft it chanceth that the repentance of the one, and the
earnest diligence of the other, doth so move the prince with
pity and compassion, that he restoreth the bond person from
servitude to liberty and freedom again. But if the same party
be taken again in that fault there is no other way but death.
To other trespassers no prescript punishment is appointed by
any law. But according to the heinousness of the offence, or
contrary, so the punishment is moderated by the discretion
of the council. The husbands chastise their wives, and the
parents their children, unless they have done any so horrible
an offence, that the open punishment thereof maketh much
for the advancement of honest manners. But most commonly
the most heinous faults be punished with the incommodity
of bondage. For that they suppose to be to the offenders no
less grief, and to the commonwealth more profit, than if
they should hastily put them to death, and so make them quite
out of the way. For there cometh more profit of their labour,
than of their death, and by their example they fear other
the longer from like offences. But if they being thus used, do
rebel and kick again, then forsooth they be slain as desperate
and wild beasts, whom neither prison nor chain could restrain
and keep under. But they which take their bondage patiently
be not left all hopeless. For after they have been broken
and tamed with long miseries, if then they show such
repentance, as thereby it may be perceived that they be
sorrier for their offence than for their punishment, sometimes
by the prince's prerogative, and sometimes by the voice and
consent of the people, their bondage either is mitigated, or else
clean released and forgiven. He that moveth to adultery is in
no less danger and jeopardy than if he had committed adultery
indeed. For in all offences they count the intent and purpose
as evil as the act or deed itself, thinking that no let ought to
excuse him that did his best to have no let. They have
singular delight and pleasure in fools. And as it is a great
reproach to do any of them hurt or injury, so they prohibit not
to take pleasure of foolishness. For that, they think, doth
much good to the fools. And if any man be so sad and stern,
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that he cannot laugh neither at their words, nor at their deeds,
none of them be committed to his tuition ; for fear lest he
would not treat them gently and favourably enough, to whom
they should bring no delectation (for other goodness in them is
none) much less any profit should they yield him. To mock a
man for his deformity, or for that he lacketh any part or limb of
his body, is counted great dishonesty and reproach, not to him
that is mocked, but to him that mocketh. Which unwisely
doth upbraid any man of that as a vice, that was not in his
power to eschew. Also as they count and reckon very little
wit to be in him, that regardeth not natural beauty and comeli-
ness, so to help the same with paintings, is taken for a vain and
a wanton pride, not without great infamy. For they know, even
by very experience, that no comeliness of beauty doth so highly
commend and advance the wives in the conceit of their
husbands, as honest conditions and lowliness. For as love is
oftentimes won with beauty, so it is not kept, preserved and
continued, but by virtue and obedience. They do not only fear
their people from doing evil by punishments, but also allure
them to virtue with rewards of honour. Therefore they set up
in the market-place the images of notable men, and of such as
have been great and bountiful benefactors to the common-
wealth, for the perpetual memory of their good acts, and also
that the glory and renown of the ancestors may stir and
provoke their posterity to virtue. He that inordinately and
ambitiously desireth promotions is leſt all hopeless for ever
attaining any promotion as long as he liveth. They live
together lovingly. For no magistrate is either haughty or
fearful. Fathers they be called, and like fathers they use
themselves. The citizens (as it is their duty) willingly exhibit
unto them due honour without any compulsion. Nor the
prince himself is not known from the other by princely apparel,
or a robe of state, nor by a crown or diadem royal, or cap of
maintenance, but by a little sheaf of corn carried before him.
And so a taper of wax is borne before the bishop, whereby only
he is known. They have but few laws. For to people so
instruct and institute very few do suffice. Yea this thing they
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163
chiefly reprove among other nations, that innumerable books of
laws and expositions upon the same be not sufficient. But they
think it against all right and justice that men should be bound
to those laws, which either be in number more than be able to
be read, or else blinder and darker, than that any man can well
understand them. Furthermore they utterly exclude and banish
all attorneys, proctors, and sergeants at the law; which
craftily handle'matters, and subtly dispute of the laws. For
they think it most meet, that every man should plead his own
matter, and tell the same tale before the judge that he would
tell to his man of law. So shall there be less circumstance of
words, and the truth shall sooner come to light, whiles the
judge with a discreet judgment doth weigh the words of him
whom no lawyer hath instruct with deceit, and whiles he
helpeth and beareth out simple wits against the false and
malicious circumventions of crafty children. This is hard to
be observed in other countries, in so infinite a number of blind
and intricate laws. But, in Utopia every man is a cunning
lawyer. For (as I said) they have very few laws; and the
plainer and grosser that any interpretation is, that they allow
as most just. For all laws (say they) be made and published
only to the intent that by them every man should be put in
remembrance of his duty. But the crafty and subtle interpre-
tation of them (forasmuch as few can attain thereto) can put
very few in that remembrance, whereas the simple, the plain
and gross meaning of the laws is open to every man.
Else as touching the vulgar sort of the people, which be both
most in number, and have most need to know their duties,
were it not as good for them, that no law were made at all, as
when it is made, to bring so blind an interpretation upon it,
that without great wit and long arguing no man can discuss it?
To the finding out whereof neither the gross judgment of the
people can attain, neither the whole life of them that be occu-
pied in working for their livings can suffice thereto. These
virtues of the Utopians have caused their next neighbours and
borderers, which live free and under no subjection (for the
Utopians long ago, have delivered many of them from tyranny)
.
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to take magistrates of them, some for a year, and some for five
years' space. Which when the time of their office is expired,
they bring home again with honour and praise, and take new
again with them into their country. These nations have
undoubtedly very well and wholesomely provided for their
commonwealths. For seeing that both the making and
marring of the weal public doth depend and hang upon the
manners of the rulers and magistrates, what officers could they
more wisely have chosen, than those which cannot be led from
honesty by bribes (for to them that shortly after shall depart
thence into their own country money should be unprofitable)
nor yet be moved either with favour, or malice towards any
man, as being strangers, and unacquainted with the people?
The which two vices of affection and avarice, where they take
place in judgments, incontinent they break justice, the strongest
and surest bond of a commonwealth. These peoples which
fetch their officers and rulers from them, the Utopians call their
fellows. And other to whom they have been beneficial, they
call their friends. As touching leagues, which in other places
between country and country be so oft concluded, broken
and renewed, they never make none with any nation. For
to what purpose serve leagues ? say they. As though nature
had not set sufficient love between man and man. And who
so regardeth not nature, think you that he will pass for
words? They be brought into this opinion chiefly, because
that in those parts of the world, leagues between princes be
wont to be kept and observed very slenderly. For here in
Europe, and especially in these parts where the faith and
religion of Christ reigneth, the majesty of leagues is everywhere
esteemed holy and inviolable, partly through the justice and
goodness of princes, and partly at the reverence and motion of
the head bishops. Which like as they make no promise them-
selves but they do very religiously perform the same, so they
exhort all princes in any wise to abide by their promises, and
them that refuse or deny so to do, by their pontifical power and
authority they compel thereto. And surely they think well that
it might seem a very reproachful thing, if in the leagues of them
OF UTOPIA.
165
which by a peculiar name be called faithful, faith should have
no place. But in that new found part of the world, which is
scarcely so far from us beyond the line equinoctial as our life
and mạnners be dissident from theirs, no trust nor confidence is
in leagues. But the more and holier ceremonies the league is
knit up with, the sooner it is broken by some cavillation found
in the words, which many times of purpose be so craftily put in
and placed, that the bands can never be so sure nor so strong,
but they will find somé hole open to creep out at, and to break
both league and truth. The which crafty dealing, yea the
which fraud and deceit, if they should know it to be practised
among private men in their bargains and contracts, they would
incontinent cry out at it with an open mouth and a sour
countenance, as an offence most detestable, and worthy to be
punished with a shameful death : yea even very they that
advance themselves authors of like counsel given to princes.
Wherefore it may well be thought, either that all justice is but a
base and a low virtue, and which abaseth itself far under the
high dignity of kings; or at the leastwise, that there be two
justices, the one meet for the inferior sort of the people, going
afoot and creeping low by the ground, and bound down on
every side with many bands because it shall not run at rovers ;
the other a princely virtue, which like as it is of much higher
majesty than the other poor justice, so also it is of much more
liberty, as to the which nothing is unlawful that it lusteth after.
These manners of princes (as I said) which be there so evil
keepers of leagues, cause the Utopians, as I suppose, to make
no leagues at all, which perchance would change their mind if
they lived here. Howbeit they think that though leagues be never
so faithfully observed and kept, yet the custom of making leagues
was very evil begun. For this causeth men (as though nations
which be separate asunder, by the space of a little hill or a river,
were coupled together by no society or bond of nature) to think
themselves born adversaries and enemies one to another, and
that it were lawful for the one to seek the death and destruction
of the other, if leagues were not : yea, and that after the leagues
be accorded, friendship doth not grow and increase; but the
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THE SECOND BOOK
licence of robbing and stealing doth still remain, as farforth as
for lack of foresight and advisement in writing the words of the
league, any' sentence or clause to the contrary is not therein
sufficiently comprehended. But they be of a contrary opinion.
That is, that no man ought to be counted an enemy, which hath
done no injury. And that the fellowship of nature is a strong
league; and that men be better and more surely knit together
by love and benevolence, than by covenants of leagues; by
hearty affection of mind, than by words.
Of Warfare.
War or battle as a thing very beastly, and yet to no kind of
beasts in so much use as to man, they do detest and abhor.
And contrary to the custom almost of all other nations, they
count nothing so much against glory, as glory gotten in war.
And therefore though they do daily practise and exercise them-
selves in the discipline of war, and not only the men, but also
the women upon certain appointed days, lest they should be to
seek in the feat of arms, if need should require, yet they never
go to battle, but either in the defence of their own country, or
to drive out of their friend's land the enemies that have invaded
it, or by their power to deliver from the yoke and bondage
of tyranny some people, that be therewith oppressed. Which
thing they do of mere pity and compassion. Howbeit they
send help to their friends; not ever in their defence, but some-
times also to requite and revenge injuries before to them done.
But this they do not unless their counsel and advice in the
matter be asked, whiles it is yet new and fresh. For if they
find the cause probable, and if the contrary part will not restore
again such things as be of them justly demanded, then they be
the chief authors and makers of the war. Which they do not
only as oft as by inroads and invasions of soldiers, preys and
booties be driven away, but then also much more mortally,
when their friend's merchants in any land, either under the
pretence of unjust laws, or else by the wresting and wrong
understanding of good laws, do sustain an unjust accusation
OF UTOPIA.
167
under the colour of justice. Neither the battle which the.
Utopians fought for the Nephelogetes against the Alaopolitanes
a little before our time was made for any other cause, but that
the Nephelogete merchantmen, as the Utopians thought,
suffered wrong of the Alaopolitanes, under the pretence of
right. But whether it were right or wrong, it was with so cruel
and mortal war revenged, the countries round about joining
their help and power to the puissance and maliče of both
parties, that most flourishing and wealthy peoples, being some
of them shrewdly shaken, and some of them sharply beaten,
the mischiefs were not finished nor ended, until the Alaopoli-
tanes at the last were yielded up as bondmen into the
jurisdiction of the Nephelogetes. For the Utopians fought
not this war for themselves. And yet the Nephelogetes before
the war, when the Alaopolitanes flourished in wealth, were
nothing to be compared with them. So eagerly the Utopians ·
prosecute the injuries done to their friends, yea, in money
matters; and not their own likewise. For if they by cunning or
guile be defrauded of beside their goods, so that no violence be
done to their bodies, they wreak their anger by abstaining from
occupying with that nation, until they have made satisfaction.
Not because they set less store by their own citizens, than by
their friends ; but that they take the loss of their friends'
money more heavily than the loss of their own. Because that
their friends' merchantmen, forasmuch as that they lose is their
own private goods, sustain great damage by the loss. But
their own citizens lose nothing but of the common goods, and of
that which was at home plentiful and almost superfluous, else
had it not been sent forth. Therefore no man feeleth the loss.
And for this cause they think it too cruel an act, to revenge that
loss with the death of many, the incommodity of the which loss
no man feeleth neither in his life, nor yet in his living. But if it
chance that any of their men in any other country be maimed
or killed, whether it be done by a common or a private counsel,
knowing and trying out the truth of the matter by their ambas-
sadors, unless the offenders be rendered unto them in recom-
pense of the injury, they will not be appeased; but incontinent
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THE SECOND BOOK
they proclaim war against them. The offenders yielded, they
punish either with death or with bondage. They be not only
sorry, but also ashamed to achieve the victory with bloodshed,
counting it great folly to buy precious wares too dear. They
rejoice and avaunt themselves, if they vanquish and oppress
their enemies by craft and deceit. And for that act they make
a general triumph, and as if the matter were manfully handled,
they set up a pillar of stone in the place where they so van-
quished their enemies, in token of the victory. For then they
glory, then they boast and crack that they have played the men
indeed, when they have so overcome, as no other living creature
but only man could ; that is to say, by the might and puissance
of wit. For with bodily strength (say they) bears, lions, boars,
wolves, dogs and other wild beasts do fight. And as the most
part of them do pass us in strength and fierce courage, so in wit
and reason we be much stronger than they all. Their chief
and principal purpose in war, is to obtain that thing, which
if they had before obtained, they would not have moved battle.
But if that be not possible, they take so cruel vengeance of
them which be in the fault, that ever after they be afraid to do
the like. This is their chief and principal intent, which they
immediately and first of all prosecute, and set forward. But
yet so, that they be more circumspect in avoiding and eschew-
ing jeopardies, than they be desirous of praise and renown,
Therefore immediately after that war is once solemnly
denounced, they procure many proclamations signed with
their own common seal to be set up privily at one time in
their enemies' land, in places most frequented. In these
proclamations they promise great rewards to him that will
kill their enemies' prince, and somewhat less gifts, but them
very great also, for every head of them, whose names be in
the said proclamations contained. They be those whom they
count their chief adversaries, next unto the prince. Whatso-
ever is prescribed unto him that killeth any of the proclaimed
persons, that is doubled to him that bringeth any of the same
to them alive ; yea, and to the proclaimed persons themselves,
if they will change their minds and come into them, taking
169
their parts, they proffer the same great rewards with pardon
and surety of their lives. Therefore it quickly cometh to pass
that their enemies have all other men in suspicion, and be
living in great fear, and in no less jeopardy. For it is well
known, that divers times the most part of them (and specially
the prince himself) hath been betrayed of them, in whom they
put their most hope and trust. So that there is no manner of
act nor deeds that gifts and rewards do not enforce men unto.
And in rewards they keep no measure. But remembering and
considering into how great hazard and jeopardy they call them,
endeavour themselves to recompense the greatness of the
danger with like great benefits. And therefore they promise not
only wonderful great abundance of gold, but also lands of great
revenues lying in most safe places among their friends. And
their promises they perform faithfully without any fraud or deceit.
This custom of buying and selling adversaries among other
people is disallowed, as a cruel act of a base and a cowardish
mind. But they in this behalf think themselves much praise-
worthy, as who like wise men by this means despatch great
wars without any battle or skirmish. Yea they count it also a
deed of pity and mercy, because that by the death of a few
offenders the lives of a great number of innocents, as well of
their own men as also of their enemies, be ransomed and saved,
which in fighting should have been slain. For they do no less
pity the base and common sort of their enemies' people, than
they do their own; knowing that they be driven and enforced
to war against their wills by the furious madness of their princes
and heads. If by none of these means the matter go forward
as they would have it, then they procure occasions of debate
bringing the prince's brother, or some of the noblemen, in
hope to obtain the kingdom. If this way prevail not, then
they raise up the people that be next neighbours and borderers
to their enemies, and them they set in their necks under the
colour of some old title of right, such as kings do never lack.
To them they promise their help and aid in their war. And as
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THE SECOND BOOK
for money they give them abundance. But of their own citizens
and love so entirely, that they would not be willing to change
any of them for their adversary's prince. But their gold and
silver, because they keep it all for this only purpose, they lay it
out frankly and freely; as who should live even as wealthily,
if they had bestowed it every penny. Yea and besides their
riches, which they keep at home, they have also an infinite
treasure abroad, by reason that (as I said before) many nations
be in their debt. Therefore they hire soldiers out of all
countries and send them to battle, but chiefly of the Zapoletes.
This people is five hundred miles from Utopia eastward. They
be hideous, savage and fierce, dwelling in wild woods and high
mountains, where they were bred and brought up. They be of
an hard nature, able to abide and sustain heat, cold and labour,
abhorring from all delicate dainties, occupying no husbandry
nor tillage of the ground, homely and rude both in building of
their houses and in their apparel, given unto no goodness, but
only to the breeding and bringing up of cattle. The most part
of their living is by hunting and stealing. They be born only
to war, which they diligently and earnestly seek for. And
when they have gotten it, they be wonders glad thereof. They
go forth of their country in great companies together, and
whosoever lacketh soldiers, there they proffer their service for
small wages. This is only the craft they have to get their
living by. They maintain their life by seeking their death.
For thein with whom they be in wages they fight hardily,
fiercely, and faithfully. But they bind themselves for no certain
time. But upon this condition they enter into bonds, that
the next day they will take part with the other side for
greater wages, and the next day after that, they will be
ready to come back again for a little more money. There
be ſew wars thereaway, wherein is not a great number of
them in both parties. Therefore it daily chanceth that nigh
kinsfolk, which were hired together on one part, and
there very friendly and familiarly used themselves one
with another, shortly after being separate in contrary parts, run
OF UTOPIA.
171
one against another enviously and fiercely, and forgetting both
kindred and friendship, thrust their swords one in another.
And that for none other cause, but that they be hired of contrary
princes for a little nioney. Which they do so highly regard and
esteem, that they will easily be provoked to change parts for a
halfpenny more wages by the day. So quickly they have taken
a smack in covetousness. Which for all that is to them no
profit. For that they get by fighting, immediately they spend
unthriftily and wretchedly in riot. This people fighteth for the
Utopians against all nations, because they give them greater
wages than any other nation will. For the Utopians like as
they seek good men to use well, so they seek these evil and
vicious men to abuse. Whom, when need requireth, with
promises of great rewards they put forth into great jeopardies.
From whence the most part of them never cometh again to ask
their rewards. But to them that remain alive they pay that
which they promised faithfully, that they may be the more
willing to put themselves in like danger another time. Nor the
Utopians pass not how many of them they bring to destruction.
For they believe that they should do a very good deed for all
mankind, if they could rid out of the world all that foul stinking
den of that most wicked and cursed people. Next unto these
the help of their other friends. And last of all, they join to
their own citizens. Among whom they give to one of tried
virtue and prowess the rule, governance, and conduction of the
whole army. Under him they appoint two other, which, whiles
he is safe, be both private and out of office. But if he be taken
or slain, the one of the other two succeedeth him, as it were by
inheritance. And if the second miscarry, then the third taketh
his room, lest that (as the chance of battle is uncertain and
doubtful) the jeopardy or death of the captain should bring the
whole army in hazard. They choose soldiers, out of every city,
those which put forth themselves willingly. For they thrust no
man forth into war against his will. Because they believe, if
do no manful and hardy act himself, but also be occasion of
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THE SECOND BOOK
cowardice to his fellows. But if any battle be made against
their own country, then they put these cowards (so that they be
strong-bodied) in ships among other bold-hearted men. Or else
they dispose them upon the walls, from whence they may not
fly. Thus what for shame that their enemies be at hand, and
what for because they be without hope of running away, they
forget all fear. And many times extreme necessity turneth
cowardice into prowess and manliness. But as none of them
is thrust forth of his country into war against his will, so women
that be willing to accompany their husbands in times of war be
not prohibited or let. Yea they provoke and exhort them to it
with praises. And in set field the wives do stand every one by
their own husband's side. Also every man is compassed next
about with his own children, kinsfolks, and alliance. That
they, whom nature chiefly moveth to mutual succour, thus
standing together, may help one another. It is a great
reproach and dishonesty for the husband to come home
without his wife, or the wife without her husband, or
the son without his father. And therefore if the other part
stick so hard by it that the battle come to their hands, it
is fought with great slaughter and bloodshed, even to the
utter destruction of both parts. For as they make all the
means and shifts that may be to keep themselves from the
necessity of fighting, or that they may despatch the battle
by their hired soldiers; so when there is no remedy, but that
they must needs fight themselves, they do as courageously
fall to it, as before, whiles they might, they did wisely avoid
and refuse it. Nor they be not most fierce at the first brunt.
But in continuance by little and little their fierce courage
increaseth, with so stubborn and obstinate minds, that they will
rather die than give back an inch. For that surety of living,
which every man hath at home being joined with no careful
anxiety or remembrance how their posterity shall live after
them (for this pensiveness oftentimes breaketh and abateth
courageous stomachs) maketh them stout and hardy, and dis-
dainful to be conquered. Moreover their knowledge in chivalry
and feats of arms putteth them in a good hope. Finally
OF UTOPIA.
173
the wholesome and virtuous opinions, wherein they were
brought up even from their childhood, partly through learning,
and partly through the good ordinances and laws of their weal
public, augment and increase their manful courage. By reason
whereof they neither set so little store by their lives, that they
will rashly and unadvisedly cast them away: nor they be not so
far in lewd and fond love therewith, that they will shamefully
covet to keep them, when honesty biddeth leave them. When
the battle is hottest and in all places most fierce and fervent, a
band of chosen and picked young men, which be sworn to live
and die together, take upon them to destroy their adversary's
captain. Whom they invade, now with privy wiles, now by
open strength. At him they strike both near and far off. He
is assailed with a long and a continual assault, fresh men still
coming in the wearied men's places. And seldom it chanceth
(unless he save himself by flying) that he is not either slain, or
else taken prisoner and yielded to his enemies alive. If they
win the field, they persecute not their enemies with the violent
• rage of slaughter. For they had rather take them alive than
kill them. Neither they do so follow the chase and pursuit of
their enemies, but they leave behind them one part of their host
in battle array under their standards. Insomuch that if all
their whole army be discomforted and overcome saving the
rearward, and that they therewith achieve the victory, then
they had rather let all their enemies 'scape, than to follow
them out of array. For they remember, it hath chanced unto
themselves more than once; the whole power and strength
of their host being vanquished and put to flight, whiles their
enemies rejoicing in the victory have persecuted them flying
some one way and some another; a small company of their
men lying in an ambush, there ready at all occasions, have
suddenly risen upon them thus dispersed and scattered out of
array, and through presumption of safety unadvisedly pursuing
the chase, and have incontinent changed the fortune of the
whole battle, and spite of their teeth wresting out of
their hands the sure and undoubted victory, being a little
before conquered, have for their part conquered the con-
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THE SECOND BOOK
querors. It is hard to say whether they be craftier in
laying an ambush, or wittier in avoiding the same. You
would think they intend to fly, when they mean nothing less.
And contrariwise when they go about that purpose, you
would believe it were the least part of their thought. For if
they perceive themselves either overmatched in number, or
closed in too narrow a place, then they remove their camp
either in the night season with silence, or by some policy they
deceive their enemies, or in the daytime they retire back so
softly, that it is no less jeopardy to meddle with them when they
give back, than when they press on. They fence and fortify their
camp surely with a deep and a broad trench. The earth thereof
is cast inward. Nor they do not set drudges and slaves a work
about it. It is done by the hands of the soldiers themselves.
All the whole army worketh upon it, except them that keep
watch and ward in harness before the trench for sudden
adventures. Therefore by the labour of so many a large trench
closing in a great compass of ground is made in less time than
any man would believe. Their armour or harness, which they.
wear, is sure and strong to receive strokes, and handsome
for all movings and gestures of the body, insomuch that it is
not unwieldy to swim in. For in the discipline of their
warfare among other feats they learn to swim in harness.
Their weapons be arrows aloof, which they shoot both strongly
and surely, not only footmen, but also horsemen. At hand
strokes they use not swords but pollaxes, which be mortal, as
well in sharpness, as in weight, both for foins and down strokes.
Engines for war they devise and invent wonders wittily. Which
when they be made they keep very secret, lest if they should be
known before need require, they should be but laughed at and
serve to no purpose. But in making them, hereunto they have
chief respect, that they be both easy to be carried, and handsome
to be moved and turned about. Truce taken with their enemies
for a short time they do so firmly and faithfully keep, that they
will not break it; no, not though they be thereunto provoked.
They do not waste nor destroy their enemies' land with foragings,
nor they burn not up their corn. Yea, they save it as much as
OF UTOPIA.
175
may be from being overrun and trodden down either with men or
hurt no man that is unarmed, unless he be an espial. All cities
that be yielded unto them they defend. And such as they win
by force of assault, they neither despoil nor sack, but them that
withstood and dissuaded the yielding up of the same, they put
to death; the other soldiers they punish with bondage. All
the weak multitude they leave untouched. If they know that
they give part of the condemned men's goods. The residue
they distribute and give freely among them, whose help they
had in the same war. For none of themselves taketh any
portion of the prey. But when the battle is finished and
ended, they put their friends to never a penny cost of all the
charges that they were at, but lay it upon their necks that be
conquered. Them they burden with the whole charge of their
expenses, which they demand of them partly in money to be
kept for like use of battle, and partly in lands of great revenues
to be paid unto them yearly for ever. Such revenues they
have now in many countries. Which by little and little
rising of-divers and sundry causes be increased above seven
hundred thousand ducats by the year. Thither they send forth
some of their citizens as lieutenants, to live there sumptuously
like men of honour and renown. And yet, this notwithstanding,
much money is saved, which cometh to the common treasury;
unless it so chance that they had rather trust the country with
the money. Which many times they do so long, until they have
need to occupy it. And it seldom happeneth that they demand all.
Of these lands they assign part unto them which, at their request
and exhortation, put themselves in such jeopardies as I spake of
before. Ifany prince stir up war against them, intending to invade
their land, they meet him incontinent out of their own borders
with great power and strength. For they never lightly make war
in their own country. Nor they be never brought into so extreme
necessity as to take help out of foreign lands into their own
island.
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THE SECOND BOOK
Of the Religions in Utopia.
There be divers kinds of religion not only in sundry parts of
the island, buť also in divers places of every city. Some
worship for God, the sun; some, the moon; some, some other
of the planets. There be that give worship to a man that was
once of excellent virtue or of famous glory, not only as God, but
also as the chiefest and highest God. But the most and the
wisest part (rejecting all these) believe that there is a certain
godly power unknown, everlasting, incomprehensible, inex-
plicable, far above the capacity and reach of man's wit, dis-
and power. Him they call the father of all. To himn alone they
attribute the beginnings, the increasings, the proceedings, the
changes and the ends of all things. Neither they give any
divine honours to any other than to him. Yea all the other
also, though they be in divers opinions, yet in this point they
agree all together with the wisest sort, in believing that there is
one chief and principal God, the maker and ruler of the whole
world : whom they all commonly in their country language call
Mithra. But in this they disagree, that among some he is
them, whatsoever that is which he taketh for the chief God,
thinketh it to be the very same nature, to whose only divine
might and majesty the sum and sovereignty of all things by the
consent of all people is attributed and given. Howbeit they all
begin by little and little to forsake and fall from this variety
of superstitions, and to agree together in that religion which
seemeth by reason to pass and excel the residue. And it is
'not to be doubted, but all the other would long ago have been
abolished, but that whatsoever unprosperous thing happened to
any of them, as he was minded to change his religion, the
fearfulness of people did take it, not as a thing coming by
whose honour he was forsaking would revenge that wicked pur-
pose against him. But after they heard us speak of the name
of Christ, of his doctrine, laws, miracles, and of the no less
OF UTOPIA.
177
wonderſul constancy of so many martyrs, whose blood willingly,
shed brought a great number of nations throughout all parts of
the world into their sect; you will not believe with how.glad
minds, they agreed unto the same: whether it were by the
secret inspiration of God, or else for that they thought it
nighest unto that opinion, which among them is counted the
chiefest. Ho.wbeit I think this was no small help and further-
ance in the matter, that they heard us say, that Christ instituted
among his, all things common; and that the same community
doth yet remain amongst the rightest Christian companies.
Verily howsoever it came to pass, many of them consented-
together in our religion, and were washed in the holy water of
baptism. But because among us four (for no more of us was
left alive, two of our company being dead) there was no priest ;
which I am right sorry for; they being entered and instructed
in all other points of our religion, lack only those sacraments,
which here none but priests do minister. Howbeit they under-
stand and perceive them and be very desirous of the same.
Yea, they reason and dispute the matter earnestly among them-
selves, whether without the sending of a Christian bishop, one
chosen out of their own people may receive the order of priest-
hood. And truly they were minded to choose one. But at my
departure from them they had chosen none. They also which
do not agree to Christ's religion, fear no man from it, nor speak
ägainst any man that hath received it. Saving that one of our
company in my presence was sharply punished. He as soon as
he was baptised began against our wills, with more earnest
affection than wisdom, to reason of Christ's religion; and began
to wax so hot in his matter, that he did not only prefer our
religion before all other, but also did utterly despise and
condemn all other, calling them profane, and the followers of
them wicked and devilish and the children of everlasting
damnation. When he had thus long reasoned the matter, they
laid hold on him, accused him and condemned him into exile,
not as a despiser of religion, but as a şeditious person and a
raiser up of dissension among the people. For this is one of
the ancientest laws among them; that no man shall be blamed
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THE SECOND BOOK..
for reasoning in the maintenance of his own religion. For King
Utopus, even at the first beginning, hearing that the inhabitants
of the land were, before his coming thither, at continual
dissension and strife among themselves for their religions;
perceiving also that this common dissension (whiles every
several sect took several parts in fighting for their country) was
the only occasion of his conquest over them all, as soon as he
had gotten the victory; first of all he made a decree, that it
should be lawful for every man to favour and follow what
religion he would, and that he might do the best he could to
bring other to his opinion, so that he did it peaceably, gently,
quietly, and soberly, without haste and contentious rebuking
and inveighing against other. If he could not by fair and
gentle speech induce them unto his opinion yet he should use
no kind of violence, and refrain from displeasant and seditious
words. To him that would vehemently and fervently in this
cause strive and contend was decreed banishment or bondage.
This iaw did King Utopus make not only for the maintenance of
peace, which he saw through continual contention and mortal
hatred utterly extinguished; but also because he thought this
decree should make for the furtherance of religion. Whereof
he durst define and determine nothing unadvisedly, as doubting
whether God desiring manifold and divers sorts of honour,
would inspire sundry men with sundry kinds of religion. And
this surely he thought a very unmeet and foolish thing, and a
point of arrogant presumption, to compel all other by violence
and threatenings to agree to the same that thou believest to be
true. Furthermore though there be one religion which alone is
true, and all other vain and superstitious, yet did he well foresee
(so that the matter were handled with reason, and sober
modesty) that the truth of the own power would at the last
- issue out and come to light. But if contention and debate in
that behalf should continually be used, as the worst men be,
most obstinate and stubborn, and in their evil opinion most
constant; he perceived that then the best and holiest religion
would be trodden underfoot and destroyed by most vain super-
stitions, even as good corn is by thorns and weeds overgrown
OF UTOPIA
179
1
and choked. Therefore all this matter he left undiscussed, and
gave to every man free liberty and choice to believe what he
would. Saving that he earnestly and straightly charged them,
that no man should conceive so vile and base an opinion of
the dignity of man's nature, as to think that the souls do die
and perish with the body; or that the world runneth at all
adventures governed by no divine providence. And therefore
they believe that after this life vices be extremely punished
and virtues bountifully rewarded. Him that is of a contrary
opinion they count not in the number of men, as one that hath
abased the high nature of his soul to the vileness of brute
beasts' bodies, much less in the number of their citizens, whose
laws and ordinances, if it were not for fear, he would nothing at
all esteem. For you may be sure that he will study either with
craft privily to mock, or else violently to break the common
laws of his country, in whom remaineth no further fear than of
the laws, nor no further hope than of the body. Wherefore he
that is thus minded is deprived of all honours, excluded from
all offices and rejected from all common administrations in the
public weal. And thus he is of all sorts despised, as of an unprofit-
able and of a base and vile nature. Howbeit they put him to no
punishment, because they be persuaded that it is in no man's
power to believe what he list. No nor they constrain him not
with threatenings to dissemble his mind and show countenance
contrary to his thought. For deceit and falsehood and all
manners of lies, as next unto fiaud, they do marvellously detest
and abhor. But they suffer him not to dispute in his opinion,
and that only among the common people. For else apart
among the priests and men of gravity they do not only suffer,
but also exhort him to dispute and argue, hoping that at the
last, that madness will give place to reason. There be also
other, and of them no small number, which be not forbidden
to speak their minds, as grounding their opinion upon some
reason, being in their living neither evil nor vicious. Their
heresy is much contrary to the other. For they believe that
the souls of brute beasts be immortal and everlasting. But
nothing to be compared with ours in dignity, neither ordained
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THE SECOND BOOK
nor predestinate to like felicity. For all they believe certainly
and surely that man's bliss shall be so great, that they
do mourn and lament every man's sickness, but no man's
death, unless it be one whom they see depart from his
life carefully and against his will. For this they take for
a very evil token, as though the soul being in despair and
vexed in conscience, through some privy and secret fore-
feeling of the punishment now at hand were afraid to
depart. And they think he shall not be welcome to God,
which, when he is called, runneth not to him gladly, but is
drawn by force and sore against his will. They therefore that
see this kind of death do abhor it, and them that so die they
bury with sorrow and silence. And when they have prayed
God to be merciful to the soul and mercifully to pardon
the infirmities thereof, they cover the dead corse with earth.
Contrariwise all that depart merrily and full of good hope, for
them no man mourneth, but followeth the hearse with joyful
singing, commending the souls to God with great affection.
And at the last, not with mourning sorrow, but with a great
reverence they burn the bodies. And in the same place they
set up a pillar of stone, with the dead man's titles therein
graved. When they be come home they rehearse his virtuous
manners and his good deeds. But no part of his life is so oft
or gladly talked of as his merry death. They think that this
remembrance of the virtue and goodness of the dead doth
vehemently provoke and enforce the living to virtue. And that
nothing can be more pleasant and acceptable to the dead.
Whom they suppose to be present among them, when they
talk of them, though to the dull and feeble eyesight of mortal
men they be invisible. For it were an inconvenient thing that
the blessed should not be at liberty to go whither they would.
And it were a point of great unkindness in them to have utterly
cast away the desire of visiting and seeing their friends, to
whom they were in their lifetime joined by mutual love and
amity. Which in good men after their death they count to
be rather increased than diminished. They believe therefore
that the dead be presently conversant among the quick, as
181
beholders and witnesses of all their words and deeds. There-
fore they go more courageously to their business as having a
trust and affiance in such overseers. And this same belief of the
present conversation of their forefathers and ancestors among
them feareth them from all secret dishonesty. They utterly
despise and mock soothsayings and divinations of things to
come by the flight or voices of birds, and all other divinations
of vain superstition, which in other countries be in great
observation. But they highly esteem and worship miracles
that come by no help of nature, as works and witnesses of the
present power of God. And such they say do chance there
very often. And sometimes in great and doubtful matters,
by common intercession and prayers, they procure and
obtain them with a sure hope and confidence, and a steadfast
belief.
They think that the contemplation of nature and the praise
thereof coming, is to God a very acceptable honour. Yet there
be many so earnestly bent and affectioned to religion, that they
pass nothing for learning, nor give their minds to any know-
ledge of things. But idleness they utterly forsake and eschew,
busy labours and good exercises. Some therefore of them
attend upon the sick, some amend highways, cleanse ditches,
repair bridges, dig turfs, gravel and stones, fell and cleave wood,
bring wood, corn, and other things into the cities in carts, and
serve not only in common works, but also in private labours
as servants, yea, more than bondmen. For whatsoever unplea-
sant, hard and vile work is anywhere, from the which labour,
loathsomeness and desperation doth freight other, all that they
take upon them willingly and gladly, procuring quiet and rest
to other, remaining in continual work and labour themselves,
not upbraiding others therewith. They neither reprove other
men's lives, nor glory in their own. These men the more
serviceable they behave themselves, the more they be honoured
of all men. Yet they be divided into two sects. The one is of
them that live single and chaste, abstaining not only from the
company of women, but also from eating of flesh, and some of
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them from all manner of beasts. Which utterly rejecting the
pleasures of this present life as hurtful, be all wholly set upon
the desire of the life to come by watching and sweating, hoping
shortly to obtain it, being in the mean season merry and lusty.
The other sect is no less desirous of labour, but they embrace
matrimony, not despising the solace thereof, thinking that they
cannot be discharged of their bounden duties towards nature
without labour and toil, nor towards their native country with-
out procreation of children. They abstain from no pleasure
that doth nothing hinder them from labour. They love the
flesh of four-footed beasts, because they believe that by that
meat they be made hardier and stronger to work. The
Utopians count this sect the wiser, but the other the holier.
Which in that they prefer single life before matrimony, and
that sharp life before an easier life, if herein they grounded
upon reason they would mock them. But now forasmuch as
they say they be led to it by religion, they honour and worship
them. And these be they whom in their language by a peculiar
name, they call Buthrescas, the which word by interpretation
signifieth to us men of religion or religious men. They have
priests of exceeding holiness, and therefore very few. For
there be but thirteen in every city according to the number of
their churches, saving when they go forth to battle. For then
seven of them go forth with the army; in whose stead so many
new be made at home. But the other at their return home
again re-enter every one into his own place, they that be above
the number, until such time as they succeed into the places of
the other at their dying, be in the mean season continually in
company with the bishop. For he is the chief head of them
all. They be chosen of the people, as the other magistrates
be, by secret voices for the avoiding of strife. After their
election they be consecrate of their own company. They be
overseers of all divine matters, orderers of religions, and as it
were judges and masters of manners. And it is a great dis-
honesty and shame to be rebuked or spoken to by any of them
for dissolute and incontinent living. But as it is their office to
give good exhortations and counsel, so is it the duty of the prince
OF UTOPIA.
183
and the other magistrates to correct and punish offenders, saving
that the priests, whom they find exceeding vicious livers, them
they excommunicate from having any interest in divine matters.
And there is almost no punishment among them more feared.
For they run in very great infamy, and be inwardly tor-
mented with a secret fear of religion, and shall not iong
'scape free with their bodies. For unless they by quick
repentance approve the amendment of their lives to the
priests, they be taken and punished of the council, as
wicked and irreligious. Both childhood and youth is in-
structed and taught of them. · Nor they be not more diligent
to instruct them in learning, than in virtue and good manners.
For they use with very great endeavour and diligence to put
into the heads of their children, whiles they be yet tender and
pliant, good opinions and profitable for the conversation of
their weal public. Which when they be once rooted in children,
do remain with them all their life after, and be wonders profit-
able for the defence and maintenance of the state of the
commonwealth. Which never decayeth but through vices
rising of evil opinions. The priests, unless they be women (for
that kind is not excluded from priesthood, howbeit few be
chosen, and none but widows and old women) the men priests,
I say, take to their wives the chiefest women in all their
country. For to no office among the Utopians is more honour .
and pre-eminence given. Insomuch that if they commit any
offence, they be under no common judgment, but be left only
to God and themselves. For they think it not lawful to touch
him with man's hand, be he never so vicious, which after so
singular a sort was dedicate and consecrate to God, as a holy
offering. This manner may they easily observe, because they
have so few priests, and do choose them with such circumspec-
tion. For it scarcely ever chanceth that the most virtuous
among virtuous, which in respect only of his virtue is advanced
to so high a dignity, can fall to vice and wickedness. And if it
should chance indeed (as man's nature is mutable and frail) yet
by reason they be so few and promoted to no might nor power,
but only to honour, it were not to be feared that any great
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THE SECOND BOOK
damage by them should happen and ensue to the common-
wealth. They have so rare and few priests, lest if the honour
were communicated to many, the dignity of the order, which
among them now is so highly esteemed, should run in
contempt. Specially because they think it hard to find many
so good as to be meet for that dignity, to the execution and
virtues. Furthermore these priests be not more esteemed of
their own countrymen, than they be of foreign and strange
countries. Which thing may hereby plainly appear. And I
think also that this is the cause of it. For whiles the armies be
fighting together in open field they a little beside, not far off
kneel upon their knees in their hallowed vestments, holding up
their hands to heaven, praying first of all for peace, next for
victory of their own part, but to neither part a bloody victory.
If their host get the upper hand, they run into the main battle
and restrain their own men from slaying and cruelly pursuing
their vanquished enemies. Which enemies, if they do but see
them and speak to them, it is enough for the safeguard of their
lives. And the touching of their clothes defendeth and saveth
all their goods from ravine and spoil. This thing hath
advanced them to so great worship and true majesty among all
nations, that many times they have as well preserved their own
citizens from the cruel force of their enemies, as they have their
enemies from the furious rage of their own men. For it is well
known, that when their own army hath reculed and in despair
turned back and run away, their enemies fiercely pursuing with
slaughter and spoil, then the priests coming between have
stayed the murder, and parted both the hosts. So that peace
hath been made and concluded between both parts upon equal
and indifferent conditions. For there was never any nation, so
fierce, so cruel and rude, but they had them in such reverence,
that they counted their bodies hallowed and sanctified, and
therefore not to be violently and unreverently touched.
year, dividing the year into months, which they measure by the
course of the moon, as they do the year by the course of the
OF UTOPIA.
185
sun. The first days they call in their language Lynemernes and
the last Trapemernes, the which words may be interpreted,
primiſest and finifest, or else in our speech, first feast and last
feast. Their churches be very gorgeous and not only of fine
and curious workmanship, but also (which in the fewness of
them was necessary) very wide and large, and able to receive
a great company of people. But they be all somewhat dark.
Howbeit that was not done through ignorance in building,
but as they say, by the counsel of the priests. Because they
thought that over much light doth disperse men's cogitations,
whereas in dim and doubtful light they be gathered together,
and more earnestly fixed upon religion and devotion; which
because it is not there of one sort among all men, and yet
all the kinds and fashions of it, though they be sundry and
manifold, agree together in the honour of the divine nature,
as going divers ways to one end; therefore nothing is seen nor
heard in the churches, but that seemeth to agree indifferently
with them all. If there be a distinct kind of sacrifice peculiar
to any several sect, that they execute at home in their own
houses. The common sacrifices be so ordered, that they be
no derogation nor prejudice to any of the private sacrifices and
religions. Therefore no image of any god is seen in the
church, to the intent it may be free for every man to conceive
God by their religion after what likeness and similitude they
will. They call upon no peculiar name of God, but only
Mithra, in the which word they all agree together in one
nature of the divine majesty whatsoever it be. No prayers be
used but such as every man may boldly pronounce without
the offending of any sect. They come therefore to the church
the last day of every month and year, in the evening yet fasting,
there to give thanks to God for that they have prosperously
passed over the year or month, whereof that holy day is the
last day. The next day they come to the church early in the
morning, to pray to God that they may have good fortune
and success all the new year or month which they do begin
of that same holy day. But in the holy days that be the last
days of the months and years, before they come to the church,
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THE SECOND BOOK
the wives fall down prostrate before their husbands' feet at
home and the children before the feet of their parents, con-
fessing and acknowledging themselves offenders either by some
actual deed, or by omission of their duty, and desire pardon for
their offence. Thus if any cloud of privy displeasure was risen
at home, by this satisfaction it is overblown, that they may be
present at the sacrifices with pure and charitable minds. For
they be afraid to come there with troubled consciences,
Therefore if they know themselves to bear any hatred
or grudge towards any man, they presume not to come
to the sacrifices, before they have reconciled themselves
and purged their consciences, for fear of great vengeance
and punishment for their offence. When they come
thither, the men go into the right side of the church
and the women into the left side. There they place them-
selves in such order, that all they which be of the male
kind in every household sit before the goodman of the house,
and they of the female kind before the good wife. Thus it is
foreseen that all their gestures and behaviours be marked and
observed abroad of them by whose authority and discipline
they be governed at home. This also they diligently see unto,
that the younger evermore be coupled with his elder, lest
children being joined together, they should pass over that time
in childish wantonness, wherein they ought principally to con-
ceive a religious and devout fear towards God, which is the
chief and almost the only incitation to virtue. They kill no
living beast in sacrifice, nor they think not that the merciful
clemency of God hath delight in blood and slaughter, which
hath given life to beasts to the intent they should live. They
burn frankincense and other sweet savours, and light also a
great number of wax candles and tapers, not supposing this
gear to be anything available to the divine nature, as neither
the prayers of men. But this unhurtful and harmless kind of
worship pleased them. And by these sweet savours and lights,
and other such ceremonies men feel themselves secretly lifted
up and encouraged to devotion with more willing and fervent
hearts. The people weareth in the church white apparel. The
OF UTOPIA.
187
priest is clothed in changeable colours. Which in workman-
ship be excellent, but in stuff not very precious. For their
vestments be neither embroidered with gold, nor set with
precious stones. But they be wrought so finely and cunningly
with divers feathers of fowls, that the estimation of no costly
stuff is able to countervail the price of the work. Furthermore
in these birds' feathers, and in the due order of them, which is
observed in their setting, they say, is contained certain divine
mysteries. The interpretation whereof known, which is dili-
gently taught by the priests, they be put in remembrance of the
bountiful benefits of God toward them; and of the love and
honour which of their behalf is due to God; and also of their
duties one toward another. When the priest first cometh out of
the vestry thus apparelled, they fall down incontinent every one
reverently to the ground, with so still silence on every part,
that the very fashion of the thing striketh into them. a certain
fear of God, as though he were there personally present.
When they have lain a little space on the ground, the priest
giveth them a sign for to rise. Then they sing praises unto
God, 'which they intermix with instruments of music, for the
most part of other fashions than these that we use in this part
of the world. And like as some of ours be much sweeter than
theirs, so some of theirs do far pass ours. But in one thing
doubtless they go exceeding far beyond us. For all their
music, both that they play upon instruments, and that they
sing with man's voice doth so resemble and express natural
affections, the sound and tune is so applied and made agreeable
to the thing, that whether it be a prayer, or else a ditty of glad-
ness, of patience, of trouble, of mourning, or of anger; the
fashion of the melody doth so represent the meaning of the
thing, that it doth wonderfully move, stir, pierce and inflame
the hearers' minds. At the last the people and the priest to-
gether rehearse solemn prayers in words, expressly pronounced,
so. made that every man may privately apply to himself
that which is commonly spoken of all. In these prayers every
man recogniseth and acknowledgeth God to be his maker, his
governor and the principal cause of all other goodness, thank-
737
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THE SECOND BOOK
ing him for so many benefits received at his hand. But especially
that through the favour of God he hath chanced into that public
weal, which is most happy and wealthy, and hath chosen that
religion, which he hopeth to be most true. In the which thing
if he do anything err, or if there be any other better than either
of them is, being more acceptable to God, he desireth him that
he will of his goodness let him have knowledge thereof, as one
if this form and fashion of a commonwealth be best, and his
own religion most true and perfect, then he desireth God to.
give him a constant steadfastness in the same, and to bring all
other people to the same order of living and to the same
opinion of God, unless there be anything that in this diversity
of religions doth delight his unsearchable pleasure. To be
short, he prayeth him that after his death he may come to him.
But how soon or late that he dare not assign or determine.
Howbeit, if it might stand with his majesty's pleasure, he
would be much gladder to die a painful death and so to go to
God, than by long living in worldly prosperity to be away from
him. When this prayer is said they fall down to the ground again
and a little after they rise up and go to dinner. And the residue
of the day they pass over in plays and exercise of chivalry.
Now I have declared and described unto you, as truly as
I could the form and order of that commonwealth, which verily
in my judgment is not only the best, but also that which alone
of good right may claim and take upon it the name of a
commonwealth or public weal. For in other places they speak
still of the commonwealth, but every man procureth his own
private gain. Here where nothing is private, the common
affairs be earnestly looked upon. And truly on both parts
they have good cause so to do as they do. For in other
countries who knoweth not that he shall starve for hunger,
unless he make some several provision for himself,
though the commonwealth flourish never so much in riches ?
And therefore he is compelled even of very necessity to have
regard to himself, rather than to the people, that is to say, to!
other. Contrariwise there, where all things be common to
OF UTOPIA.
189
every man, it is not to be doubted that any man shall lack any-
thing necessary for his private uses, so that the common store-
houses and barns be sufficiently stored. For there nothing is
distributed after a niggardly sort, neither there is any poor man
or beggar. And though no man have anything, yet every man
is rich. For what can be more rich, than to live joyfully and
merrily, without all grief and pensiveness ; not caring for his
own living, nor vexed or troubled with his wife's importunate
complaints, nor dreading poverty to his son, nor sorrowing for
his daughter's dowry? Yea they take no care at all for the
living and wealth of themselves and all theirs, of their wives,
their children, their nephews, their children's children, and
all the succession that ever shall follow in their posterity. And
yet besides this there is no less provision for them that were
once labourers and be now weak and impotent, than for them
that do now labour and take pain. Here now would I see,
if any man dare be so bold as to compare with this equity,
the justice of other nations; among whom, I forsake God, if I
can find any sign or token of equity and justice. For what
justice is this, that a rich goldsmith, or an usurer, or to be
short, any of them which either do nothing at all, or else that
which they do is such that it is not very necessary to the
commonwealth, should have a pleasant and a wealthy living,
either by idleness, or by unnecessary business; when in the
ineantime poor labourers, carters, ironsmiths, carpenters and
ploughmen, by so great and continual toil, as drawing and
bearing beasts be scant able to sustain, and again so necessary
toil, that without it no commonwealth were able to continue
and endure one year, should yet get so hard and poor a living,
and live so wretched and miserable a life, that the state and
condition of the labouring beasts may seem much better and
wealthier ? For they be not put to so continual labour, nor
their living is not much worse, yea to them much pleasanter,
taking no thought in the mean season for the time to come.
But these silly poor wretches be presently tormented with
barren and unfruitful labour. And the remembrance of their
poor indigent and beggarly old age killeth them up. For their
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THE SECOND BOOK
daily wages is so little, that it will not suffice for the same day,
much less it yieldeth any overplus, that may daily be laid up
for the relief of old age. Is not this an unjust and an unkind
public weal, which giveth great fees and rewards to gentlemen,
as they call them, and to goldsmiths, and to such other, which
be either idle persons, or else only flatterers, and devisers of
vain pleasures ; and of the contrary part maketh no gentle
provision for poor ploughmen, colliers, labourers, carters, iron-
smiths, and carpenters : without whom no commonwealth can
continue ? But after it hath abused the labours of their lusty
and flowering age, at the last when they be oppressed with
old age and sickness, being needy, poor, and indigent of all
things, then forgetting their so many painful watchings, not
remembering their so many and so great benefits, recom-
penseth and acquitteth them most unkindly with miserable
death. And yet besides this the rich men not only by private
fraud, but also by common laws, do every day pluck and
snatch away from the poor some part of their daily living.
So whereas it seemed before unjust to recompense with unkind-
ness their pains that have been beneficial to the public weal,
now they have to this their wrong and unjust dealing (which
is yet a much worse point) given the name of justice, yea and
that by force of a law. Therefore when I consider and weigh
in my mind all these commonwealths, which nowadays any.
where do flourish, so God help me, I can perceive nothing but
a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own com-
modities under the name and title of the commonwealth. They
invent and devise all means and crafts, first how to keep safely,
without fear of losing, that they have unjustly gathered to-
gether, and next how to hire and abuse the work and labour
of the poor for as little money as may be. These devices,
when the rich men have decreed to be kept and observed
under colour of the commonalty, that is to say, also of the
poor people, then they be made laws. But these most wicked
and vicious men, when they have by their insatiable covetous-
ness divided among themselves all those things, which would
have sufficed all men, yet how far be they from the wealth and
OF UTOPIA.
191
felicity of the Utopian commonwealth ? Out of the which, in
that all the desire of money with the use thereof is utterly
secluded and banished, how great a heap of cares is cut away!
How great an occasion of wickedness and mischief is plucked
up by the roots ! For who knoweth not, that fraud, theft,
rapine, brawling, quarrelling, brabling, strife, chiding, conten-
tion, murder, treason, poisoning, which by daily punishments
are rather revenged than refrained, do die when money dieth ?
And also that fear, grief, care, labours and watchings do perish
even the very same moment that money perisheth ? Yea
poverty itself, which only seemed to lack money, if money were
gone, it also would decrease and vanish away. And that you
may perceive this more plainly, consider with yourselves some
barren and unfruitful year, wherein many thousands of people
have starved for hunger. I dare be bold to say, that in the end
of that penury so much corn or grain might have been found in
the rich men's barns, if they had been searched, as being
divided among them whom famine and pestilence then con-
sumed, no man at all should have felt that plague and penury,
So easily might men get their living, if that same worthy
princess, lady money, did not alone stop up the way between
us and our living, which a God's name was very excellently
devised and invented, that by her the way thereto should be
opened. I am sure the rich men perceive this, nor they be not
ignorant how much better it were to lack no necessary thing,
than to abound with overmuch superfluity; to be rid out of
innumerable cares and troubles, than to be besieged and en-
cumbered with great riches. And I doubt not that either the
respect of every man's private commodity, or else the authority
of our saviour Christ (which for his great wisdom could not but
know what were best, and for his inestimable goodness could
not but counsel to that which he knew to be best) would have
brought all the world long ago into the laws of this weal public,
if it were not that one only beast, the princess and mother of
all mischief, pride, doth withstand and let it. She measureth
not wealth and prosperity by her own commodities, but by the
misery and incommodities of other; she would not by her good
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THE SECOND BOOK
will be made a goddess, if there were no wretches left, over
whom she might, like a scornful lady, rule and triumph, over
whose miseries her felicities might shine, whose poverty she
might vex, torment and increase by gorgeously setting forth
her riches. This hell-hound creepeth into men's hearts, and
plucketh them back from entering the right path of life, and is
so deeply rooted in men's breasts, that she cannot be plucked
out. This form and fashion of a weal public, which I would
gladly wish unto all nations, I am glad yet that it hath chanced
to the Utopians, which have followed those institutions of life,
whereby they have laid such foundations of their common-
wealth, as shall continue and last not only wealthily, but also,
as far as man's wit may judge and conjecture, shall endure for
ever. For, seeing the chief causes of ambition and sedition with
other vices be plucked up by the roots and abandoned at home,
there can be no jeopardy of domestical dissension, which alone
hath cast under foot and brought to nought the well-fortified
and strongly-defenced wealth and riches of many cities. But
forasmuch as perfect concord remaineth, and wholesome laws
be executed at home, the envy of all foreign princes be not
able to shake or move the empire, though they have many
times long ago gone about to do it, being evermore driven back.
Thus when Raphael had made an end of his tale, though
many things came to my mind, which in the manner and laws
of that people seemed to be instituted and founded of no good
reason, not only in the fashion of their chivalry, and in their
sacrifices and religions, and in other of their laws, but also, yea,
and chiefly, in that which is the principal foundation of all their
ordinances, that is to say, in the community of their life and
living, without any occupying of money, by the which thing
only all nobility, magnificence, worship, honour and majesty,
the true ornaments and honours, as the common opinion is, of
a commonwealth, utterly be overthrown and destroyed; yet
because I knew that he was weary of talking, and was not sure
whether he could abide that anything should be said against
his mind ; specially remembering that he had reprehended this
fault in other, which be afraid lest they should seem not to be
-
-
.
-
OF UTOPIA.
193
wise enough, unless they could find some fault in other men's
inventions; therefore I praising both their institutions and his
communication, took him by the hand, and led him in to supper;
saying that we would choose another time to weigh and
examine the same matters, and to talk with him more at large
therein. Which would God it might once come to pass. In
the meantime, as I cannot agree and consent to all things that it
he said, being else without doubt a man singularly well
learned, and also in all worldly matters. exactly and profoundly
experienced, so must I needs confess and grant that many
things be in the Utopian weal public, which in our cities I may
rather wish for, than hope after. :
Thus endeth the afternoon's talk of Raphael Hythlóday con-
cerning the laws and institutions of the Island of Utopia.
mo
.
9
in
n
en met een
**
**
..
To the Right Honourable Hieronymus Buslidius, Provost of
Arienn, and Councillor to the Catholic King Charles,
Peter Giles, Citizen of Antwerp, wisheth health and
felicity.
To the Right Honourable Hieronymus Buslidius, Provost of
Arienn, and Councillor to the Catholic King Charles,
Peter Giles, Citizen of Antwerp, wisheth health and
felicity.
THOMAS MORE the singular ornament of this our age, as you .
yourself (right honourable Buslidius) can witness, to whom he
is perfectly well known, sent unto me this other day the Island
of Utopia, to very few as yet known, but most worthy; which,
as far excelling Plato's commonwealth, all people should be
willing to know; specially of a man most eloquent so finely set
forth, so cunningly painted out and so evidently subject to the
eye, that as oft as I read it, methinketh that I see somewhat
more, than when I heard Raphael Hythloday himself (for I was
present at that talk as well as Master More) uttering and
pronouncing his own words. Yea, though the same man,
according to his pure eloquence, did so open and declare the
matter, that he might plainly enough appear, to report not
things which he had learned of others only by hearsay, but
which he had with his own eyes presently seen and thoroughly
viewed, and wherein he had no small time been conversant and
abiding; a man truly, in mine opinion, as touching the know-
ledge of regions, . peoples, and worldly experience, much
passing, yea even the very famous and renowned traveller
Ulysses; and indeed such a one, as for the space of
these eight hundred years past I think nature into the world
brought not forth his like ; in comparison of whom Vespucci
may be thought to have seen nothing. Moreover, whereas
we be wont more effectually and pithily to declare and
express things that we have seen, than which we have but
194
UTOPIA.
195
only heard, there was besides that in this man a certain peculiar
grace, and singular dexterity to describe and set forth a matter
withal. Yet the selfsame things as oft as I behold and consider
them drawn and painted out with Master More's pencil, I am
therewith so moved, so delighted, so inflamed, and so rapt, that
sometime methink I am presently conversant, even in the island
of Utopia. And I promise you, I can.scant believe that Raphael
himself by all that five years' space that he was in Utopia
abiding, saw there so much, as here in Master More's descrip-
tion is to be seen and perceived. Which description with so
many wonders, and miraculous things is replenished, that I
stand in great doubt whereat first and chiefly to muse or
marvel; whether at the excellence of his perfect and sure
memory, which could well-nigh word by word rehearse so many
things once only heard; or else at his singular prudence, who
so well and wittily marked and bare away all the original causes
and fountains (to the vulgar people commonly most unknown)
whereof both issueth and springeth the mortal confusion and
utter decay of a commonwealth, and also the advancement and
wealthy state of the same may rise and grow; or else at the
efficacy and pith of his words, which in so fine a Latin style,
with such force of eloquence hath couched together and com-
prised so many and divers matters, specially being a man
continually encumbered with so many busy and troublesome
cares, both public and private, as he is. Howbeit all these
things cause you little to ‘marvel (right honourable Buslidius)
for that you are familiarly and thoroughly acquainted with the
notable, yea almost divine wit of the man. But now to proceed
to other matters, I surely know nothing needful or requisite to
be adjoined unto his writings, only a meter of four verses
written in the Utopian tongue, which aſter Master More's ,
departure Hythloday by chance showed me, that have I
nation. For, as touching the situation of the island, that
is to say, in what part of the world Utopia standeth, the
ignorance and lack whereof not a little troubleth and grieveth
Master More, indeed Raphael left not that unspoken of.
196
UTOPIA..
Howbeit with very few words he lightly touched it, incidently
by the way passing it over, as meaning of likelihood to keep
and reserve that to another place. And the same, I wot not
how, by a certain evil and unlucky chance escaped us both.
For when Raphael was speaking thereof, one of Master More's
servants came to him and whispered in his ear. Wherefore I
being then of purpose more earnestly addict to hear, one of the
company, by reason of cold taken, I think, a shipboard, coughed
out so loud, that he took from my hearing certain of his words.
But I will never stint nor rest, until I have got the full and exact
knowledge hereof; insomuch that I will be able perfectly to
instruct you, not only in the longitude or true meridian of the
.island, but also in the just latitude thereof, that is to say, in the
sublevation or height of the pole in that region, if our friend
Hythloday be in safety and alive. For we hear very uncertain
news of him. Some report, that he died in his journey home-
ward. Some again affirm, that he returned into his country, but
set and fixed upon Utopia, they say that he hath taken his
voyage thitherward again. Now as touching this, that the name
of this island is nowhere found among the old and ancient
cosmographers, this doubt Hythloday himself very well dis-
solved. For why it is possible enough (quoth he) that the
name, which it had in old time, was afterward changed, or
else that they never had knowledge of this island; forasmuch
as now in our time divers lands be found, which to the old
geographers were unknown. Howbeit, what needeth it in this
behalf to fortify the matter with arguments, seeing Master
More is author hereof sufficient? But whereas he doubteth
of the edition or imprinting of the book, indeed herein I both
commend, and also acknowledge the man's modesty. Howbeit
unto me it seemeth a work most unworthy to be long sup-
pressed, and most worthy to go abroad into the hands of men,
yea, and under the title of your name to be published to the
world; either because the singular endowments and qualities
of Master More be to no man better known than to you, or
UTOPIA.
197
else because no man is more fit and meet, than you with good
counsels to further and advance the commonwealth, wherein
you have many years already continued and travailed with
great glory and commendation, both of wisdom and knowledge,
and also of integrity and uprightness. Thus, o liberal
supporter of good learning, and flower of this our time, I bid
you most heartily well to fare. At Antwerp 1.516, the first day
of November.
A meter of four verses in the Utopian tongue, briefly
touching as well the strange beginning, as also the
happy and wealthy continuance of the same common-
wealth.
A meter of four verses in the Utopian tongue, briefly
happy and wealthy continuance of the same common-
wealth.
Utopos ha Boccas peula chama polta chamaan.
Bargol he maglomi Baccan foma gymnosophaon.
Agrama gymnosophon labarem bacha bodamilomin
Voluala barchin heman la lauoluala dramme pagloni.
Which verses the translator, according to his simple know-
ledge, and mean understanding in the Utopian tongue, hath
thus rudely Englished.
My king and conqueror Utopus by name,
A prince of much renown and immortal fame,
Hath made me an isle that erst no island was,
Full fraught with worldly wealth with pleasure and solace.
I one of all other without philosophy
Have shaped for man a philosophical city.
As mine I am nothing dangerous to impart,
So better to receive I am ready with all my heart.
A short meter of Utopia, written by Anemolius, poet-laureate,
and nephew to Hythloday by his sister.
Me Utopie cleped Antiquity,
Void of haunt and herborough,
Now am I like to Plato's city,
Whose fame flieth the world through.
198
UTOPIA.
199
Yea like, or rather more likely
Plato's plat to excel and pass.
For what Plato's pen hath platted briefly
In naked words, as in a glass,
The same have I performed fully,
With laws, with men, and treasure fitly,
Wherefore not Utopie, but rather rightly
- My name is Eutopie; a place of felicity.
Gerarde Nouiomage of Utopia.
Doth pleasure please ? then place thee here and well thee rest,
Most pleasant pleasures thou shalt find here.
Doth profit ease ? then here arrive, this isle is best.
For passing profits do here appear.
Doth both thee tempt, and wouldest thou gripe both gain and
pleasure ?
This isle is fraught with both bounteously.
To still thy greedy intent, reap here incomparable treasure
Both mind and tongue to garnish richly.
The hid wells and fountains both of vice and virtue
Thou hast them here subject unto thine eye.
Be thankful now, and thanks where thanks be due
Give to Thomas More London's immortal glory.
Cornelius Graphy to the Reader.
Wilt thou know what wonders strange be in the land that late
was found ?
Wilt thou learn thy life to lead by divers ways that godly be?
Wilt thou of virtue and of vice understand the very ground?
Wilt thou see this wretched world, how full it is of vanity?
Then read and mark and bear in mind for thy behoof, as thou
may best,
All things that in this present work, that worthy clerk Sir
Thomas More,
With wit divine full learnedly, unto the world hath plain exprest,
In whom London well glory may, for wisdom and for godly lore.
738
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UTOPIA.
200
The Printer to the Reader.
The Utopian alphabet, good reader, which in the above
written epistle is promised, hereunto I have not now adjoined,
because I have not as yet the true characters or forms of the
Utopian letters. And no marvel, seeing it is a tongue to us
much stranger than the Indian, the Persian, the Syrian, the
Arabic, the Egyptian, the Macedonian, the Sclavonian, the
Cyprian, the Scythian, etc. Which tongues though they be
nothing so strange among us, as the Utopian is, yet their
characters we have not. But I trust, God willing, at the next
impression hereof, to perform that which now I cannot, that
is to say, to exhibit perfectly unto thee, the Utopian alphabet.
In the meantime accept my good will. And so fare well.
Imprinted at London in Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the
Lamb, by Abraham Vele. 1556.
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF KING
EDWARD THE FIFTH.
THE eternal God calling to his mercy the noble prince King
Edward the Fourth of that name, Edward, his eldest son
(Prince of Wales) began his reign the ninth day of April, in the
year of our Lord, 1483. And in the twenty-third year of Louis
the Eleventh, then French King : Which young prince reigned
a small space and little season over this realm, either in
pleasure or liberty. For his uncle, Richard Duke of Gloucester,
within three months deprived him not only of his crown and
regality, but also unnaturally bereft him of his natural life.
And for the declaration by what crafty engine he first at-
tempted his ungracious purpose, and by what false, colourable,
and untrue allegations he set forth openly his intended enter-
prise, and finally by what shameful, cruel, and detestable act he
performed the same ; ye must first consider of whom he and
his brother descended, their natures, conditions and inclina-
tions, and then you shall easily perceive, that there could not be
a more cruel tyrant appointed to achieve a more abominable
enterprise.
Their father was Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, which
began, not by war, but by law to challenge the crown of
England, putting his claim in the Parliament, holden the
thirtieth year of King Henry the Sixth, where either for right or
for favour, his cause was so set forth and advanced, that the
blood of the said King Henry, although he had a goodly son,
was clearly abjected, and the crown of the realm (by authority
of Parliament) entailed to the Duke of York and his heirs after
the decease of the said King Henry the Sixth. But the Duke
not intending so long to tarry, but minding under the pretext of
203
204
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF
dissension grown and risen within the realm, and of covenants
made in the Parliament, not kept but broken, to prevent the
time and to take upon him the governance in King Henry's life,
was by too much hardiness slain at the battle of Wakefield,
leaving behind him three sons, Edward, George, and Richard.
All these three, as they were great estates of birth, so were
they great and stately of stomach, greedy of promotions, and
impatient partners of rule and authority. This Edward
revenged his father's death, and deposed King Henry the
Sixth, and attained the crown and sceptre of the realm.
George Duke of Clarence was a goodly and well-featured
prince, in all things fortunate, if either his own ambition had
not set him against his brother, or the envy of his enemies had
not set his brother against him : for were it by the Queen or
the nobles of her blood, which highly maligned the King's
kindred (as women commonly, not of malice, but of nature,
hate such as their husbands love), or were it a proud appetite
of the Duke himself, intending to be King, at the least-
wise, heinous treason was laid to his charge, and finally were he
in fault, or were he faultless, attainted was he by Parliament,
and judged to death; and thereupon hastily drowned in a butt
of Malmsey within the Tower of London. Whose death King
Edward (although he commanded it) when he wist it was done,
piteously he bewailed and sorrowfully repented it.
Richard Duke of Gloucester, the third son (of which I must
most entreat) was in wit and courage equal with the other, but
in beauty and lineaments of nature far underneath both, for he
was little of stature, evil featured of limbs, crook-backed, the
left shoulder much higher than the right, hard favoured of
visage, such as in estates is called a warlike visage, and among
common persons a crabbed face. He was malicious, wrathful,
and envious; and as it is reported, his mother the Duchess had
much ado in travail, that she could not be delivered of him
uncut, and that he came into the world the feet forward, as men
be born outward, and as the fame ran, not untoothed : whether
that men of hatred reported above the truth, or that nature
changed his course in his beginning, which in his life committed
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
205
many things unnaturally, this I leave to God's judgment.
He was no evil captain in war, as to the which his disposition
was more inclined, than to peace. Sundry victories he had, and
some overthrows, but never for default of his own person,
'either for lack of hardiness or politic order. Free he was of his
expenses, and somewhat above his power liberal; with large
gifts he gat him unsteadfast friendship: for which cause he was
fain to borrow, pill and extort in other places, which gat him
steadfast hatred. He was close and secret, a deep dissembler,
lowly of countenance, arrogant of heart, outwardly familiar
where he inwardly hated, not letting to kiss whom he thought
to kill, spiteful and cruel, not always for ill-will, but oftener for
ambition and to serve his purpose; friend and foe were all
indifferent ; where his advantage grew, he spared no man's
death whose life withstood his purpose. He slew in the Tower
King Henry the Sixth, saying, now is there no heir male of
King Edward the Third, but we of the house of York : which
murder was done without King Edward's assent, which would
have appointed that butcherly office to some other rather than
to his own brother.
Some wise men also think, that his design lacked not in
helping forth his own brother of Clarence to his death, which
thing in all appearance he resisted, although he inwardly
minded it. And the cause thereof was, as men noting his
doings and proceedings did mark, because that he long in
King Edward's time thought to obtain the crown, in case
that the King, his brother (whose life he looked that ill diet
would soon shorten), should happen to decease, as he did
indeed, his children being young. And then if the Duke of
Clarence had lived, his intended purpose had been far
hindered : for if the Duke of Clarence had kept himself true
to his nephew the young King, every one of these casts
had been a trump in the Duke of Gloucester's way: but when
he was sure that his brother of Clarence was dead, then he
knew that he might work without that danger. But of these
points there is no certainty, and whosoever divineth or con-
jectureth, may as well aim too far as too short ; but thiş
206
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF
conjecture afterward took place (as few do) as you shall
perceive hereafter.
But before I declare to you how this Richard Duke of
Gloucester began his mischievous imagined and intended
enterprise as apparently shall be opened, I must a little put
you in remembrance of a loving and charitable act, no less
profitable than pleasing to the whole commonalty, if it had
been so inwardly thought as it was outwardly dissembled,
which King Edward did, lying on his death-bed, not long
before he died. For in his life, although that the division
amongst his friends somewhat grieved and vexed him, yet
in his health he less regarded and took heed to it, by reason
that he thought that he was able in all things to rule both
parties, were they never so obstinate. But in his last sickness
(which continued longer than false and fantastical tales have
untruly and falsely surmised, as I myself that wrote this
pamphlet truly knew) when he perceived his natural strength
was gone, and hoped little of recovery by the arts of all his
physicians, which he perceived only to prolong his life; then
he began to consider the youth of his children, howbeit he
nothing less mistrusted than that that happened, yet he wisely
foreseeing and considering that many harns might ensue by
the debate of his nobles, while the youth of his children should
lack discretion and good counsel of their friends (for he knew
well that every part would work for their own commodity, and
rather by pleasant advice to win themselves favour, than by
profitable advertisement to do the children good): wherefore
lying on his death-bed at Westminster, he called to him such
lords as then were about him, whom he knew to be at variance,
especially the Lord Marquis Dorset, son to the Queen, and
the Lord Hastings, against whom the Queen especially grudged
for the favour that the King bare him, and also she thought
him familiar with the King in wanton company: her kin bare
him envy, as well for that the King made him captain of
Calais, which office the Lord 'Rivers, brother to the Queen,
clained of the King by his former promise, as of divers other
gifts which he received that they looked for. And when these
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH. 207
lords with divers others of both parties were come unto the
King's presence, he caused himself to be raised up with pillows,
and as I can guess, said thus or much like in sentence to
them
“My Lords, my dear kinsmen and allies, in what plight I now
lie you see, and I perfectly feel, by the which I look the less
while to live with you, therefore the more deeply I am moved
to care in what case I leave you : for such as I leave you such
are my children like to find you, which if they should find at
variance (as God forbid) they themselves might hap to fall at
war, ere their discretion would serve to set you at peace. You
see their youth, of which I reckon the only surety to rest in
your concord. For it sufficeth not all you to love them, if each
of you hate other. If they were men, your faithfulness might
hap to suffice, but childhood must be maintained by men's
authority, and slippery youth underpropped with elder counsel ;
which they can never have except you give it, nor you give it
except you agree ; for where each laboureth to break that the
other maketh and for hatred each impugneth other's counsel,
there must needs be a long tract, ere any good conclusion can
issue. And further, while each party laboureth to be chief
flatterer, adulation shall then have more place, than plain and
faithful advice, of which must needs ensue the evil bringing up
of the prince, whose mind in tender youth infected, shall
readily fall to mischief and riot, and draw down this noble
realm to ruin. But if grace turn him to wisdom (which God
send him) then they which by evil means pleased him best,
shall after fall farthest out of favour, so that at the length evil
drifts drive to naught, and good plain ways prosper and flourish.
Great variance hath been between you, not always for great
causes. Sometimes a thing right well intended and mis-
construed, hath been turned to the worst, or a small displeasure
done to you, either by your own affection, or by instigation of evil
tongues, hath been sorely aggravated. But this I know well, you
had never so great cause of hatred, as you have of love, because
we be all men, and that we be all Christian men. This I will
leave to preachers to tell you, and yet I know not whether any
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preacher's words ought more to move you, than I that am going
by-and-by to the place that they all preach of. But this shall I
desire of you to remember, that the one part of you being of my
blood, the other of my allies, and each of you with other either
of kindred or affinity, which is the very spiritual affinity and
kindred, as all partakers of the sacraments of Christ's church.
The weight of which consanguinity if we did bear, as would to
God we did, then should we more be moved to spiritual than to
fleshly consanguinity. Our Lord forbid that you love the worse
together, for the selfsame cause, that you ought to love the
better, and yet that happeneth; for nowhere find we so deadly
debate as amongst them which by nature and law most ought
to agree together. Such a serpent is ambition and desire of
vainglory and sovereignty, while amongst estates when he is once
entered he creepeth forth so far, till with division and variance
he turneth all to mischief; first longing to be next to the best,
afterward equal with the best, and at the last chief and above
the best. Of which immoderate appetite of worship, and the
debate and dissension that grew thereby, what loss, what sorrow,
what trouble hath within these few years grown within this realm,
I pray God as well to forget as we well remember; which thing
if I could as well have foreseen, as I have with my more pain
than pleasure proved, by God his blessed Lady (that was his
common oath) I would never have won the courtesies of men's
knees with the loss of so many heads. But since things passed
cannot be called again, much more ought we to beware, by
what occasion we have taken so great hurt before, that we
presently fall not into that occasion again. Now be these griefs
passed, and all is quiet, thanked be God, and likely well to
prosper in wealthful peace, under your cousins my children, if
God send them life, and you love and concord. Of which two
things, the less loss were they, by whom although God did his
pleasure, yet should this realm always find kings, and perad-
venture as good kings as they. But if you amongst yourselves
in a child's reign fall at debate, many a good man shall
innocently perish, and he and you also, ere this land find peace
and quiet again : wherefore in these last words that ever I look
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
209
to speak to you, I exhort and require you all, for the love that
you have borne to me, and for the love that I have borne to you,
and for the love that our Lord beareth to us all : From this
time forward, all griefs forgotten, each of you love other, which
I verily trust you will, if you in anything regard God or your
King's affinity or kindred, this realm, your own country, or your
own safety and wealth." And therewithal, the King for faintness
no longer enduring to sit up, laid him down on his right side,
his face toward them. And there was none present that could
forbear weeping, but the lords comforted him with as good
words as they could, and answered for the time, as they thought
should stand with his pleasure. And there in his presence (as
by their words appeared) each forgave other, and joined their
hands together, when, as it after appeared by their deeds, their
hearts were far asunder, And so within a few days, this noble
Prince deceased at Westminster, the ninth day of April, in the
year of our Lord 1483. After that he had reigned twenty-two
years, one month, and eight days, and was with great funeral
pomp conveyed to Windsor, leaving behind him two sons,
Edward the Prince (of whom this story entreateth), a child of
thirteen years of age, Richard Duke of York two years younger
than the Prince, and five daughters, Elizabeth, which by God's
grace was married to King Henry the Seventh and mother to
King Henry the Eighth, Cicely, not so fortunate as fair, first
wedded to the Viscount Wells, after to one Kyne, and lived not
in great wealth, Bridget professed herself a close nun at Sion,
Anne was married to Lord Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey and
Duke of Norfolk, Katherine the youngest daughter was married
to Lord William Courtney, son to the Earl of Devonshire,
which long time tossed in either fortune, some time in wealth
after in adversity, till the benignity of her nephew King Henry
the Eighth brought her into a sure estate, according to her
degree and progeny.
This King Edward was such a Prince of governance and
behaviour in the time of peace (for in the time of war each
must be other's enemy) that there was never any King in this
realm attaining the crown by war and battle, so heartily
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beloved with the more substance of his people, nor he himself
so specially favoured in any part of his life, as at the time of his
death; which favour and affection yet after his death, by the
cruelty, mischief, and trouble of the tempestuous world that
followed, highly towards him more increased. At such time
as he died, the displeasure of those that bare him a grudge for
King Henry the Sixth his sake (whom he deposed) was well
assuaged, and in effect quenched within the space of twenty-two
years, which is a great part of a man's life, and some were
reconciled and grown into his favour, of the which he was never
strange, when it was with true heart demanded.
He was goodly of personage and princely to behold, of heart
courageous, politic in council, and in adversity nothing abashed,
in prosperity rather joyful than proud, in peace just and
merciful, in war sharp and fierce, in the field bold and hardy,
and yet nevertheless no farther than reason and policy would
adventure, whose wars whosoever circumspectly and advisedly
considereth, he shall no less commend his wisdom and policy
where he avoided them, than his manhood where he van-
quished them. He was of visage full-faced and lovely, of body
mighty, strong and clean made; with over liberal and wanton
diet he waxed something corpulent and burly, but nevertheless
not uncomely. He was in youth greatly given to fleshly wan-
tonness, from the which health of body in great prosperity
and fortune, without an especial grace hardly refraineth. This
fault little grieved his people; for neither could any one man's
pleasure stretch or extend to the displeasure of very many, nor
a multitude be grieved by a private man's fantasy or volup-
tuousness, when it was done without violence. And in his
latter days he left all wild dalliance, and fell to gravity, so that
he brought his realm into a wealthy and prosperous estate, all
fear of outward enemies were clearly extinguished, and no war
was in his hand, nor none toward, but such as no man"looked
for. The people were toward their Prince not in a constrained
fear; but in a true, loving, and wilful obedience among them-
selves, and the Commons were in good peace. The Lords
whom he knew at variance, he on his death-bed (as he thought)
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
21Y
brought to good concord, love, and amity. And a little before
his death, he had left gathering of money of his subjects, which
is the only thing that draweth the hearts of Englishmen from
their kings and princes; nor nothing he enterprised or took in
hand, by the which he should be driven thereunto. For his
tribute out of France he had a little before recovered and
obtained. And the year before he died, he recovered again the
town of Berwick against the King of Scots. And albeit that all
the time of his reign, he was so benign, courteous, and familiar,
that no part of his virtues was esteemed more than those high
humilities. Yet that condition in the end of his last days
decayed not, in the which many princes by a long-continued
sovereignty, decline to a proud port, and behaviour from their
conditions accustomed at their beginning. Yet loveliness and
gentleness so far forth in him increased, that the summer before
he died, he being at Havering at the Bower, sent for the Mayor
of London thither, only to hunt and make pastime, where he
made them not so hearty but so familiar and friendly cheer and
sent also to their wives such plenty of venison that no one
thing in many days before gat him either more hearts or more
hearty favour amongst the common people, which oftentimes
more esteem and take for great kindness a little courtesy, than
a great profit or benefit.
And so this noble Prince deceased, as you have heard, in
that time his life was most desired, and when his people most
desired to keep him. Which love of his people, and their
entire affection toward him, had been to his noble children
(having in themselves also as many gifts of nature, as many
princely virtues, as much good towardness as their age could
receive), a marvellous fortress and a sure armour, if the division
and dissension of their friends had not unarmed them, and
left them destitute, and the execrable desire of sovereignty
provoked him to their destruction, which if either kin or
kindness had holden place, must needs have been their defence.
For Richard Gloucester, by nature their uncle, by office their
protector, to their father greatly beholden, and to them by
oath and allegiance bounden, all the bonds broken and violated
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which bind man and man together, without any respect of God
or the world, unnaturally contrived to bereave them, not only
of their dignity and pre-eminence, but also of their natural
lives and worldly felicity. And first to show you, that by con-
jecture he pretended this thing in his brother's life, ye shall
understand for a truth that the same night that King Edward
died, one called Mistelbrooke, long ere the day sprung, came
to the house of one Pottier dwelling in Redcross Street without
Cripple Gate of London, and when he was with hasty rapping
quickly let in, the said Mistelbrooke showed unto Pottier that
King Edward was that night deceased. “By my troth," quoth
Pottier, “then will my master the Duke of Gloucester be King,
and that I warrant thee." What cause he had so to think, hard
it is to say, whether he being his servant, knew any such thing
intended, or otherwise had any inkling thereof, but of all likeli-
hood he spake it not of nought.
But now to return to the true history, were it that the
Duke of Gloucester had of old ſore practised this conclu-
sion, or was beforetime moved thereunto, and put in hope
by the tender age of the young Princes his nephews as
opportunity and likelihood of speed putteth a man in courage
of that that he never intended. Certain it is, that he being
in the North parts, for the good governance of the country,
being advertised of his brother's death, contrived the de-
struction of his nephews, with the usurpation of the Royal
Dignity and Crown. And forasmuch as he well wist, and had
hope to maintain a long-continued grudge and heartburning
between the Queen's kindred and the King's blood, either part
envying others' authority, he now thought, as it was indeed,
a furtherly beginning to the pursuit of his intent, and a sure
ground and a situation of his unnatural building, if he might
under the pretence of revenging of old displeasures, abuse
the ignorance and anger of the one party, to the destruction
of the other, and then to win to his purpose as many as he
could : and such as could not be won, might be lost ere they
looked for it. But of one thing he was certain, that if his
intent were once perceived, he should have made peace between
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
213
both parties with his own blood : but all his intent he kept
secret till he knew his friends; of the which Henry the Duke of
Buckingham was the first that sent to him after his brother's
death a trusty servant of his, called Percival, to the city of
York, where the Duke of Gloucester kept the King his brothers'
funerals. This Percival came to John Ward a secret chamberer
to the Duke of Gloucester, desiring that he in close and covert
manner might speak with the Duke his master, whereupon
in the dead of the night, the Duke sent for Percival (all other
being avoided), which showed to the Duke of Gloucester that
the Duke of Buckingham, his master in this new world would
take such part as he would, and would further wait upon him
with a thousand good fellows if need were. The Duke sent back
the messenger with great thanks, and divers privy instructions
by mouth, which Percival did so much by his travel, that he
came to the Duke of Buckingham his master into the Marches
of Wales, and presently after with new instructions met with
the Duke of Gloucester at Nottingham, which was come out of
the North country with many knights and gentlemen, to the num-
ber of six hundred horse and more, in his journey towards
London. And after secret meeting and communication had
between him and the Duke of Gloucester, he returned with such
speed that he brought the Duke of Buckingham his master to
meet with the Duke of Gloucester not far from Northampton,
with three hundred horses, and so they two came together to
Northampton, where they first began their unhappy enter-
prise, and so the Duke of Buckingham continued still with the
Duke of Gloucester till he was crowned King, as ye shall
plainly perceive hereafter. The young King, at the death of
his father, kept household at Ludlow, for his father had sent
him thither for justice to be done in the Marches of Wales, to
the end, that by the authority of his presence the wild Welsh-
men and evil-disposed persons should refrain from their accus-
tomed murders and outrages. The governance of this young
Prince was committed to Lord Anthony Woodville, Earl
Rivers, and Lord Scales, brother to the Queen, a wise, hardy,
and honourable personage, as valiant of hands, as politic in
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counsel, and with him were associate others of the same party,
and in effect every one as he was near of kin unto the Queen,
so was he planted next about the Prince. That drift by the
Queen seemed to be devised, whereby her blood might of right
in tender youth be so planted in the Prince's favour, that
afterward it should hardly be eradicated out of the same.
The Duke of Gloucester turned all this to their destruction,
and upon that ground set the foundation of his unhappy build-
ing. For whomsoever he perceived to be at variance with
them, or to bear toward himself any favour, he break unto
them, some by mouth, some by writing, and secret messengers,
that it was neither reason, nor yet to be suffered, that the
young King, their master and kinsman, should be in the hands
and custody of his mother's kindred, sequested in manner from
their company and attendance, of which every one owed him
as faithful service as they, and many of them of far more
honourable part of kin than his mother's side, “whose blood,”
quoth the Duke of Gloucester, “saving the King's pleasure, was
far unmeet to be matched with his, which now to be removed
from the King, and the least noble to be left about him, is,"
quoth he, “neither honourable to his Majesty, nor to us, and
also to him less surety, to have his nobles and mightiest of his
friends from him, and to us all no little danger to suffer, and
especially our ill willers to grow into great authority with the
King in youth, namely, which is light of belief and soon
persuaded.
“Ye remember that King Edward himself, albeit he was both
of age and discretion, yet was he ruled in many things by that
faction more than stood with his honour, or our profit, or with
the commodity of any man else, except only the immoderate
advancement of themselves, which whether they thirsted sore
after their own weal or no; it were hard I think to guess. And
if some folks friendship had not holden better place with the
King, than any respect of kindred, they might, peradventure,
easily have trapped and brought to confusion some of us ere
this; and why not as easily as they have done others, or this
as near of the blood royal, but our Lord hath wrought his will,
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
215
and thanked be his grace, that peril is past : howbeit, as great
is growing, if we suffer this young King in his enemies' hands,
which without his witting might abuse the name of his com-
mandment to any of our undoing : which things, God and our
good provision forbid : of which good provision, none of us
have anything, the less need for the late atonement made, in
which the King's pleasure had more place than the parties
hearts or wills, nor none of us is so unwise, or so much over-
seen, as to trust a new friend made of an old foe, or to think
that any only kindness so suddenly contracted in an hour,
continued scantily yet a fortnight should be deeper set in our
stomachs than a long accustomed malice many years rooted.”
With these persuasions and writings, the Duke of Gloucester
set on fire them which were easy to kindle, and especially two,
Henry, Duke of Buckingham, and William, Lord Hastings, and
Lord Chamberlain, both men of honour and of great power, the
one by long succession from his ancestors, the other by his
offices and the King's favour. These two not bearing each to
other so much love, as hatred both to the Queen's blood,
accorded together with the Duke of Gloucester, that they would
remove from the King all his mother's friends, under the name
of their enemies.
Whereupon the Duke of Gloucester, being advertised that
the lords about the King intended to bring him to London, to
his coronation, accompanied with such a number of their friends,
that it should be hard for him to bring his purpose to pass, with-
out the assembling and gathering of people, and in manner of
open war, whereof the end, he knew, was doubtful, and in the
which the King being on the other side, his part should have
the name and face of rebellion.
He secretly, therefore, by divers means, caused the Queen to
be persuaded, that it was neither need, and should also be
dangerous for the King to come up so strong; for as now,
every lord loved other, and no other thing studied for, but the
triumph of his coronation, and honour of the King. And if the
lords about the King should assemble in the King's name, much
people, they should give the lords betwixt whom and them,
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there had been some time debate, an occasion to fear and
suspect, lest they should gather this people not for the King's
safeguard, whom no man impugned, but for their destruction,
having more regard to their old variance, than to their new
atonement; for the which cause, they on the other part might
assemble men also for their defence, whose powers she knew
well stretched far; and thus should all the realm fall in an
uproar, and of the mischief that thereof should ensue (which
was likely to be not a little) the most harm was like to fall
where she least would, and then all the world would put her
and her kindred in the blame; saying, that they had unwisely
and untruly broken the amity and peace, which the King her
husband had so prudently made between her kindred and his,
which amity his kin had always observed.
The Queen, being thus persuaded, sent word to the King and
to her brother, that there was no cause nor need to assemble
any people, and also the Duke of Gloucester and other lords of
his side, wrote unto the King so reverently, and to the Queen's
friends there so lovingly, that they nothing earthly mistrusting,
brought the King toward London with a sober company in
great haste (but not in good speed) till he came to North-
ampton, and from thence he removed to Stony Stratford. On
which day, the two Dukes and their train came to Northampton,
feigning that Stony Stratford could not lodge them all; where
they found the Earl Rivers, intending the next morning to have
followed the King, and to be with him early in the morning.
So that night, the Duke made to the Earl Rivers friendly cheer,
but as soon as they were departed, very familiar, with great
courtesy in open sight, and the Earl Rivers lodged, the two
Dukes with a few of their privy friends fell to council, wherein
they spent a great part of the night, and in the dawning of the
day, they sent about privily to their servants in their lodgings,
to haste to horseback, for their lords were in manner ready to
ride, whereupon all their servants were ready ere the Lord
Rivers' servants were awake. Now had the Dukes taken the
keys of the inn into their possession, so that none should issue
out without their consent. · And over this, in the highway
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
217
towards Stony Stratford, they set certain of their folks that
should cause and compel to return again, all persons that
were passing from Northampton to Stony Stratford, saying
that the Dukes themselves would be the first that should
come to the King from Northampton: thus they bare
folks on hand. But when the Earl Rivers understood
the gates closed, and the ways on every side beset, neither
his servants, neither himself suffered to go out, perceiving
so great a thing without his knowledge, not begun for naught,
comparing this present doing with the last night's cheer, in so
few hours so great a change, marvellously misliked it. Howbeit,
since he could not get away, he determined not to keep himself
close, lest he should seem to hide himself for some secret fear of
his own fault, whereof he saw no such cause in himself; where-
fore, on the surety of his own conscience he determined to go
to them and to inquire what this matter might mean. Whom
as soon as they saw, they began to quarrel with him, affirming
that he intended to set distance between the King and them, to
bring them to confusion, which should not lie in his power ;
and when he began, as he was an eloquent and well-spoken
man, in goodly wise to excuse himself, they would not hear his
answer, but took him by force and put him in ward. And then
they mounted on horseback, and came in haste to Stony
Stratford, where the King was going to on horseback, because
he would leave the lodging for them, for it was too strait for
both the companies. And when they came to his presence they
alighted and their company about them, and on their knees
saluted him, and he them gently received, nothing earthly
knowing nor mistrusting as yet. The Duke of Buckingham
said aloud, “On afore Gentlemen, and yeomen keep your
rooms," and therewith in the King's presence they picked a
quarrel to the Lord Richard Grey, the Queen's son, and brother
to the Lord Marquis, and half-brother to the King, saying, that
he, and the Marquis his brother, and the Lord Rivers, his uncle,
had compassed to rule the King and the realm, and set variance
between the estates, and to subdue and destroy the noble blood
of the realm. And toward the accomplishment of the same,
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they said the Lord Marquis had entered into the Tower of
London, and thence had taken out treasure, and sent men to
the sea, which things these Dukes knew well were done for a
good purpose, and as very necessary, appointed by the whole
council at London, but somewhat they must say. Unto the
which words the King answered, “What my brother Marquis
hath done, I cannot say, but in good faith, I dare well answer
for my uncle Rivers, and my brother here, that they be innocent
of such matters." "Yea, my Liege," quoth the Duke of
Buckingham, “they have kept the dealing of these matters far
from the knowledge of your Good Grace." And forth with they
arrested the Lord Richard and Sir Thomas Vaughan, and Sir
Richard Hawte, knights, in the King's presence, and brought
the King and all back to Northampton, where they took farther
counsel in their affairs. And there they sent from the King
whom it pleased them, and set about him such servants as
better pleased them than him. At which dealing he wept, and
was not content, but it booted not. And at dinner, the Duke of
Gloucester sent a dish from his own table to the Lord Rivers,
praying him to be of good cheer, and all should be well. He
thanked him and prayed the messenger to bear it to his nephew
the Lord Richard with like words, whom he knew to have need
of comfort, as one to whom such adversity was strange, but he
himself had been always inured therewith, and therefore could
bear it the better. But for all this message, the Duke of
Gloucester sent the Lord Rivers, the Lord Richard, and Sir
Thomas Vaughan, and Sir Richard Hawte, into the North
Parts into divers prisons, but at last, all came to Pomfret, where
they all four were beheaded without judgment.
In this manner as you have heard, the Duke of Gloucester
took on him the governance of the young king, whom with
much reverence he conveyed towards London. These tidings
came hastily to the Queen before midnight, by a very sore
report, that the King her son was taken, and that her brother
and her other son, and other of her friends were arrested and
sent, no man knew whither. With this heavy tidings the
Queen bewailed her child's ruin, her friends' mischance, and
KING 27
219
EDWARD THE FIFTH.
her own misfortune, cursing the time that ever she was per-
with a great power, but that was passed, and therefore now
she took her younger son the Duke of York, and her daughter;
and there lodged in the Abbot's place, and she, and all her
children, and company were registered for sanctuary persons.
The same night there came to Dr. Rotherham, Archbishop of
York, and Lord Chancellor, a messenger from the Lord Cham-
brought to the bishop's bedside and declared to him that the
Dukes were gone back with the young King to Northampton,
and declared further that the Lord Hastings his master
sent him word, that he should fear nothing, for all should be
well. “Well," quoth the Archbishop, "be it as well as it will,
it will never be as well, as we have seen it," and then the
messenger departed. Whereupon the bishop called up all his
servants and took with him the great seal, and came before
day to the Queen, about whom he found much heaviness,
rumble, haste, business, conveyance and carriage of her stuff
into Sanctuary ; every man was busy to carry, bear, and con-
vey stuff, chests and fardels, no man was unoccupied, and some
carried more than they were commanded to another place.
The Queen sat alone below on the rushes all desolate and
dismayed, whom the Archbishop comforted in the best manner
that he could, showing her that the matter was nothing so sure
as she took it for, and that he was put in good hope and out
of fear by the message sent to him from the Lord Hastings.
“Woe worth him," quoth the Queen, "for it is he that goeth
about to destroy me and my blood.” “Madam," quoth he, “be
of good comfort and I assure you, if they crown any other king
than your son, whom they now have, we shall on the morrow
crown his brother, whom you have here with you. And here is
the great seal, which in like wise as your noble husband de-
livered it to me, so I deliver it to you, to the use of your son,".
and therewith delivered her the great seal, and departed home
in the dawning of the day. And when he opened his windows
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and looked on the Thames, he might see the river full of boats,
of the Duke of Gloucester his servants watching, that no person
should go to Sanctuary, nor none should pass unsearched.
Then was there great rumour and commotion in the City,
and in other places, the people diversely divined upon this
dealing. And divers lords, knights and gentlemen, either for
favour of the Queen, or for fear of themselves, assembled
companies, and went flocking together in harness. And many
also for that they recounted this demeanour attempted, not so
specially against other lords, as against the King himself, in
disturbance of his coronation, therefore they assembled by-and-
by together, to commune of this matter at London. The Arch-
bishop of York, fearing that it would be ascribed (as it was
indeed) to over much lightness, that he so suddenly had yielded
up the great seal to the Queen, to whom the custody thereof
nothing appertained without especial commandment of the
King, secretly sent for the seal again, and brought it with him,
after the accustomed manner, to meet with the Lords. .
At this meeting the Lord Hastings, whose truth toward the
King no man doubted, nor needed to doubt, persuaded the
Lords to believe, that the Duke of Gloucester was faithful and
sure towards his prince, and that the Lord Rivers, the Lord
Richard, and other Knights apprehended, were for matters
attempted by them against the Dukes of Gloucester and
Buckingham, put under arrest for their surety, and not for
the King's danger, and that they were also in safeguard, there
to remain, till the matter were (not by the Dukes only) but
also by all the other Lords of the King's Council indifferently
examined, and by their discretions ordered, and either judged
or appeased. And one thing he advised them to beware of,
that they judged not the matter too far forth, ere they knew
the truth, nor turning their private grudges into the common
hurt, irritating and provoking men into anger, and disturbing
the King's coronation, toward which the Dukes were coming,
-for that they might peradventure bring the matter so far out
of joint that it should never be brought in frame again, which
if it should hap as it were likely to come to a field, though
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221
all parties were in all other things equal, yet should the
authority be on that side where the King is himself; with
these persuasions of the Lord Hastings, whereof part he
himself believed, and of part he knew well the contrary, these
commotions were somewhat appeased. But especially, because
the Dukes of Buckingham and Gloucester were so near, and
came on so shortly with the King, in no other manner, nor
no other voice or semblance than to his coronation, causing
the same to be blown about, that such persons as were appre-
hended, had contrived the destruction of the Dukes of
Gloucester and of Buckingham, and other of the noble blood
of this realm, to the intent that they alone would rule and
govern the King. And for the colour thereof, such of the
Duke's servants as rode with the carts of their stuff which
was taken, among the which stuffs, no marvel though some
were harness, which at the breaking up of such an household
must be brought away or cast away, they showed to the
people, and as they went, said, “Lo, here be the barrels of
harness that these traitors had privily conveyed in their
carriages to destroy the noble lords withal.” This device
(although it made the matter to wise men more unlikely,
well perceiving that the intenders of such a purpose, would
rather have had their harness on their backs, than to have
bound them up in barrels) yet much part of the common people
were therewith right well satisfied.
Goldsmith, then Mayor of the City, with the Aldermen and
Sheriffs in scarlet, and five hundred commoners in violet,
received his Grace, reverently at Hornsey Park, and so con-
veyed him to the City, where he entered the fourth day of
May, in the first and last year of his reign, and was lodged
in the Bishop of London's Palace; but the Duke of Gloucester
bare him in open sight so reverently, saying to all men as he
rode, “Behold your Prince and Sovereign Lord," and made
such semblance of lowliness to his Prince, that from the
great obloquy that he was in so late before, he was suddenly
fallen in so great trust, that at the council next assembled,
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he was made the only chief ruler, and thought most meet to
be Protector of the King and his realm; so that, were it
destiny, or were it folly, the lamb was betaken to the wolf
to keep. At which council the Archbishop of York was sore
blamed for delivering the great seal to the Queen, and the
seal taken from him, and delivered to Dr. John Russell,
Bishop of Lincoln, a wise man and a good, and of much
experience, and divers lords and knights were appointed to
divers rooms: the Lord Chamberlain and some other kept the
rooms that they were in before, but not many.
Now were it so that the Protector (which always you must
take for the Duke of Gloucester) sore thirsted for the achieving
of his intended enterprise, and thought every day a year
till it were performed, yet durst he no farther attempt, so long
as he had but half his prey in his hand, well witting that if he
deposed the one brother, all the realm would fall to the other,
if he remained either in sanctuary, oº should haply be shortly
conveyed to his father's liberty. Wherefore incontinent at the
next meeting of the Lords in Council, he propounded to them,
that it was an heinous thing of the Queen, and proceeding of
great malice toward the King's Councillors, that she should
keep the King's brother in sanctuary, from him whose special
pleasure and comfort were to have his brother with him, and
that to be done by her to no other intent, but to bring all the
Lords in an obloquy and murmur of the people, as though they
were not to be trusted with the King's brother, which Lords
were by the whole assent of the nobles of the realm, appointed
as the King's near friends, to the tuition of his royal person,
“the prosperity whereof” (quoth he) “standeth not alone in
keeping from enemies and evil diet, but partly also in recreation
and moderate pleasure, which he cannot take in his tender
youth in the company of old and ancient persons, but in the
familiar conversation of those that be not far under, nor far
above his age, and nevertheless, of estate convenient to
accompany his Majesty, wherefore with whom rather than with
his own brother? And if any man think this consideration
light (I think no man so thinketh that loveth the King) let him
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consider, that sometimes without small things greater cannot
stand, and verily it redoundeth greatly to the dishonour of the
King's Highness, and of all us that be about his Grace, to have
it come in any man's mouth, not in this realm only, but also in
be fain to keep the Sanctuary. For every man will judge, that no
man will so do for naught, and such opinions fastened in men's
hearts be hard wrested out, and may grow to more grief than
any man here can divine. Wherefore, methinketh it were not
the worst to send to the Queen some honourable, and trusty
personage, such as tendereth the King's weal and the honour of
his Council, and is also in credit and favour with her, for which
considerations none seeméth more meetly to me than the
reverend father my Lord Cardinal, Archbishop of Canterbury,
who may in this matter do most good of all men, if it please
him to take the pain, which I doubt not of his goodness he will.
not refuse, for the King's sake and ours, and wealth of the
young Duke himself, the King's most honourable brother, and
for the comfort of my Sovereign Lord himself, my most dearest
Nephew; considering, that thereby shall be ceased the
slanderous rumour and obloquy now going abroad, and the
hurts avoided that thereof might ensue, and then must rest and
quietness grow to all the realm. And if she perhaps be so
obstinate, and so precisely set in her own will and opinion, that
neither his wise and faithful advertisement can move her, nor
any man's reason satisfy her, then shall we, by my advice, by the
King's authority, fetch him out of that prison, and bring him to
his Noble Presence, in whose continual company he shall be so
well cherished, and so honourably entreated, that all the world
shall to our honour and her reproach, perceive that it was only
malice, frowardness, and folly, that caused her to keep him
there. This is my mind for this time, except that any of you,
my Lords, perceive to the contrary, for never shall I by God's
grace, so wed myself unto mine own will, but I shall be ready
to change it upon your better advices."
When the Protector had said, all the Council affirmed that
the motion was good and reasonable, and to the King and the
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Duke honourable, and a thing that should cease great murmur
in the realm, if the mother might by good means be induced to
deliver him; which thing the Archbishop of Canterbury, whom
they all agreed also, to be most convenient thereto, took upon
him to move her, and thereto to do his uttermost endeavour.
Howbeit if she could in no wise be entreated with her goodwill
to deliver him, then thought he, and such of the Spirituality as
were present, that it were not in any wise to be attempted, to
take him out against her will, for it would be a thing that
should turn to the grudge of all men, and high displeasure of
God, if the privilege of that place should be broken, which had
so many years been kept, which both Kings and Popes had
granted and confirmed, which ground was sanctified by St.
Peter himself more than five hundred years ago. And since
that time, was never so undevout a king, that ever enterprised
that sacred privilege to violate, nor so holy a bishop that durst
presume the church of the same to consecrate : "and there-
fore," quoth the Archbishop, “God forbid, that any man
should, for any earthly enterprise, break the immunity and
liberty of that sacred sanctuary, that hath been the safeguard
of so many a good man's life ;" “but I trust," quoth he, “we
shall not need it, but for any manner of need I would we should
not do it. I trust that she with reason shall be contented, and
all things in good manner obtained. And if it hap that I bring
it not to pass, yet shall I further it to my best power, so that
you all shall perceive my goodwill, diligence, and endeavour;
but the mother's dread and womanish fear shall be the let, if
any be."
“Nay, womanish frowardness," quoth the Duke of Bucking-
ham, "for I dare take it on my soul, that she well knoweth that
she needeth no such thing to fear, either for her son or for
herself. For as for her, here is no man that will be at war with
women, would God some men of her kin were women too, and
then should all be soon at rest. Howbeit there is none of her
kin the less loved for that they be of her kin, but for their own
evil deserving.
“And put the case that we neither loved her nor her kin, yet
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225
there were no cause why we should hate the King's noble
brother, to whose Grace we ourselves be kin, whose honour if
she desired as our dishonour, and as much regard took to his
wealth as to her own will, she could be as loath to suffer
him to be absent from the King as any of us, if she had any
wit, as would God she had as good-will as she hath froward wit.
For she thinketh herself no wiser than some that are here, of
whose faithful minds she nothing doubteth, but verily believeth
and acknowledgeth, that they would be as sorry of his harm as
her own self, and yet they would have him from her if she abide
there.
“And we all, I think, be content that both her children be
with her, if she came from thence, and abide in such a place
where they may be with their honour. Now if she refuse in the
deliverance of him, to follow the wisdom of them, whose wisdom
she knoweth, whose approbate fidelity she well trusteth; it is
easy to perceive frowardness letteth her, and not fear. But go
to, suppose that she feareth (as who may let her to fear her own
shadow) the more we ought to fear to leave him in her hands,
for if she cast such fond doubts that she fear his hurt, then will
she fear that he shall be fetched thence, for she will soon think,
that if men were set (which God forbid) on so great a mischief,
the sanctuary will little let them, which sanctuary good men
as methinketh, might without sin somewhat less regard than
they do.
“Now then if she doubt lest he might be fetched from her, is
it not likely that she will send him somewhere out of the realm?
Verily I look for none other. And I doubt not but she now as
sore mindeth it as we mind the let thereof. And if she might
hap to bring that purpose to pass, as it were no great mastery
to do, we letting her alone, all the world would say, that we
were a sort of wise councillors about a King, to let his brother
be cast away under our noses. And therefore I ensure you
faithfully, for my mind, I will rather, maugre her stomach, fetch
him away, than leave him there till her fear or fond frowardness
convey him away, and yet will I break no sanctuary, for verily
since the privilege of that place, and other of that sort, have so
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-
long continued, I would not go about to break it, but if they
were now to begin, I would not be he should make them; yet
will not I say nay, but it is a deed of pity, that such men as the
chance of the sea, or their evil debtors have brought into
poverty, should have some place of refuge to keep in their
bodies out of the danger of their cruel creditors. And if it
fortune the crown to come in question, as it hath done before
this time, while each part taketh other for traitors, I think it
necessary to have a place of refuge for both. But as for thieves
and murderers, whereof these places be full, and which never
fall from their craft after they once fall thereunto, it is pity that
every sanctuary should serve them, and especially wilful mur-
derers, whom God commandeth to be taken from the altar and
be put to death. And where it is otherwise, then in these cases
there is no need of sanctuaries, appointed by God in the old
law. For if necessity of his own defence, or misfortune drive
him to that deed, then a pardon serveth him, which either is
granted of course, or the King of pity and compassion giveth.
“Now look how few sanctuary men there be, whom necessity
or misfortune compelleth to go thither. And then see on the
other side, what a sort there be commonly therein of such,
whom wilful unthriftiness hath brought to naught. What a
rabble of thieves, murderers, and malicious, heinous traitors
there be, and that in two places especially, the one at the elbow
of the City, and the other in the very bowels, I dare well avow
it, if you weigh the good that they do, with the hurt that cometh
of them, ye shall find it much better to lose both than to have
both. And this, I say, although they were not abused (as they
now be, and so long have been) that I fear me ever they will be
while men be afraid to set their hands to the amendment, as
though God and Saint Peter were the patrons of ungracious
living. Now unthrifts riot and run in debt upon boldness of
these places ; yea, and rich men run thither with poor men's
goods, there they build, there they spend, and bid their
creditors go whistle. Men's wives run thither with their hus-
bands' plate, and say they dare not abide with their husbands
for beating; thieves bring thither stolen goods, and live thereon.
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227
There devise they new robberies nightly, and steal out and rob,
rive, and kill men, and come again into those places, as though
those places gave them not only a safeguard for the harm that
they have done, but a licence also to do more mischief: how-
beit, much of this great abusion (if wise men would set their
hands thereunto) might be amended, with great thanks of God,
and no breach of the privilege. The conclusion is, since it is so
long ago, I wot not what Pope and what Prince, more piteous
than politic, hath granted it, and other men sensible of a
religious fear have not broken it, let us take pains with it, and
let it stand a God's name in his force, as far forth as reason will,
which is not so far forth as may serve to let us of the fetching
forth of the nobleman, to his 'honour and wealth, out of that
place, in the which he neither is nor can be a sanctuary or
privileged man. A sanctuary ever seemeth to defend the body
of that man that standeth in danger abroad, not of great hurt
only, but of lawful hurt; for against unlawful hurts and harms,
no Pope nor King intended to privilege any one place, wherein
it is lawful for one man to do another man wrong. That no
man unlawfully take hurt, that liberty, the King, the law, and
very nature forbiddeth in every place, and maketh in that
regard, for every man, every place a sanctuary ; but whereas
man is by lawful means in peril, then needeth he the tuition
of some special privilege, which is the only ground of all
sanctuaries, from which necessity this noble Prince is far, whose
love to his King, nature, and kindred proveth, whose innocence
to all the world his tender youth affirmeth, and so sanctuary as
for him is not necessary, and none he can have. Men come
since no man hath cause to have it, but whose conscience of his
own fault maketh him have need to require it. What will then
hath yonder babe, which if he had discretion to require it, if ·
keep him there? And I would think without any scruple of
conscience, without any breach of privilege, to be somewhat
more homely with them that be then sanctuary men indeed, that
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if one go to the sanctuary with another man's goods, why should
not the King, leaving his body at liberty satisfy the party of his
goods even within the sanctuary; for neither King nor Pope
can give any place such a privilege, that it shall discharge a
man of his debts, being able to pay."
And with that, divers of the clergy that were there present,
whether they said it for his pleasure, or as they thought, agreed
plainly by the law of God and of the Church, that a sanctuary
man should be delivered in payment of his debts, and stolen
goods to the owner, and only liberty reserved to him to get his
living by the labour of his hands. “Verily, quoth the Duke,
“I think ye say very truth. And what if a man's wife take
sanctuary, because she list to run from her husband ? I would
think if she can allege no other cause, he may lawfully, without
any displeasure done to Saint Peter, take her out of Saint
Peter's Church by the arm. And if nobody may be taken out
of sanctuary, because he saith he will abide there, then if a
child will take sanctuary, because he feareth to go to school, his
master must let him alone. And as simple as that example is,
yet there is less reason in our case than in it, for there, though
it be a childish fear, yet there is at the least some fear, and
herein is no fear at all. And verily I have heard of sanctuary
men, but I never heard before of sanctuary children; and
therefore, as for the conclusion of my mind, whosoever may
deserve to have need of it, if they think it for their surety, let
them keep it, but he can be no sanctuary man, that hath no
other discretion to desire it, nor malice to deserve it, whose life
nor liberty can by any lawful process stand in danger. And he
that taketh one out of sanctuary to do him good, I say plainly
he breaketh no sanctuary."
When the Duke had done, the temporal men wholly and the
most part of the spiritual men also, thinking no hurt earthly
meant toward the young babe, condescend in effect that if he
were not delivered he should be fetched out. Howbeit, they
thought it best in avoiding of all manner of rumour, that the
Cardinal should first assay to get him with her goodwill. And
thereupon all the Council came to the Star Chamber at
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
Westminster, and the Cardinal, leaving the Protector and other
lords in the Star Chamber, departed into the sanctuary to the
Queen, accompanied with certain lords, were it for the respect
of his honour, or that she should by the persons of so many,
perceive that his errand was not only one man's mind; or were
it for that the Protector intended not in this matter to trust one
man alone, or else if she finally were determined to keep him,
some of the company had peradventure some secret instruction
incontinent, maugre her will, to take him, and to leave her no
respite to convey him.
When the Queen and these lords were come together in
presence, the Cardinal showed unto her, that it was thought to
the Lord Protector and the whole Council that her keeping of
the King's brother in that place highly sounded, not only to the
grudge of the people, and their obloquy, but also to the
importable grief and displeasure of the King's Royal Majesty,
to whose Grace it were a singular comfort to have his natural
brother in company, and it was both their dishonours and hers
also, to suffer him in sanctuary, as though the one brother stood
in danger and peril of the other. And he showed her further,
that the whole Council had sent him to require of her the
delivery of him, that he might be brought to the King's
presence at his liberty out of that place, which men reckoned
as a prison, and there should he be demeaned according to his
estate and degree, and she in this doing, should both do great
good to the realm, pleasure to the Council, profit to herself,
succour to her friends that were in distress, and over that,
which he knew well, she especially tendered, not only great
comfort and honour to the King, but also to the young Duke
himself, both whose great weal, it were to be together as well
for many greater causes, as also for both their disport, and
recreation, which things the Lords esteemed not light, though
it seemed light, well pondering that their youth, without recrea-
tion and play cannot endure, nor any stranger for the conveni-
ence of both their ages and estates so meet in that point for
any of them, as either of them for the other.
“My lord," quoth the Queen, “I say not nay, but that it
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were very convenient that this gentleman whom you require
were in the company of the King his brother, and in good faith,
methinketh it were as great commodity to them both, as for
yet awhile to be in the custody of their mother the tender age
considered of the elder of them both, but especially the younger,
which besides his infancy, that also needeth good looking to,
hath a while been so sore diseased with sickness, and is so
newly, rather little amended than well recovered, that I dare
put no person earthly in trust with his keeping but myself only,
considering there is, as physicians say, and as we also find,
double the peril in the relapse that was in the first sickness
with which disease Nature being sore laboured, sore wearied
and weakened waxeth the less able to bear out a new forfeit.
And albeit there might be found other that would haply do
their best unto him, yet is there none that either knoweth
better how to order him than I, that so long have kept him, or
is more tenderly like to cherish him, than his own mother that
bare him."
“No man denieth, good Madam," quoth the Cardinal, “that
your Grace of all folk were most necessary about your children,
and so would all the Council, not only be content, but also glad
that it were, if it might stand with your pleasure to be in such
place as might stand with their honour. But if you appoint
yourself to tarry here, then think they it more convenient, the
Duke of York were with the King honourably at his liberty to
the comfort of them both, than here as a sanctuary man to
both their dishonour and obloquy, since there is not always so
great necessity to have the child with the mother, but that
occasion sometime may be such that it should be more expe-
dient to keep him elsewhere, which in this well appeareth, that
at such time, that your most dearest son, then Prince and now
King should for his honour and good order of the country keep
household in Wales, far out of your keeping, your Grace was
well content therewith yourself."
“Not very well content," quoth the Queen, “and yet the case
is not like, for the one was then in health, the other is now sick,
in which case I marvel greatly why my Lord Protector is so
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
231
desirous to have him in keeping, where if the child in his sick-
ness miscarried by nature, yet might he run into slander and
suspicion of fraud.
“And they call it a thing so sore against my child's honour
and theirs also that he abideth in this place, it is all their
honours, there to suffer his abode, where no man doubteth he
shall be best kept, and that is here, while I am here, which as
yet intend not to come forth and danger myself after other my
friends, which would God, were rather here in surety with me,
than I were there in danger with them."
“Why, Madam," quoth the Lord Howard, “know you any
thing, why they should be in danger ?". "Nay, verily," quoth
she, “nor why they should be in prison neither, as they now
be, but I trow it is no great marvel, though I fear lest
those that have not letted to put them in durance without
colour, will let as little to procure their destruction without
cause." The Cardinal made a countenance to the Lord Howard,
that he should harp no more upon that string, and said he to
the Queen, that he nothing doubted, but those lords of her
kin, the which remained under arrest, should upon the matter
examined do well enough, and as toward her noble person,
neither was, nor could be any manner of danger.
"Whereby should I trust that," quoth the Queen, “in that I
am guiltless, as though they were guilty, in that I am with their
enemies better beloved than they, when they hate them for my
sake, in that I am so near to the King, and how far be they off
that would help, as God send grace they hurt not, and therefore
as yet I purpose not to depart hence. As for this gentleman,
my son, I mind he shall be where I am till I see further, for
I see some men so greedy without any substantial cause to
have him, which maketh me much more wary and scrupulous
to deliver him."
“Truly, Madam," quoth the Cardinal, “the further that ye be
to deliver him, the further be other men to suffer you to keep
him, lest your causeless fear might cause you farther to convey
him, and many think he can here have no privilege, which can
have neither will to ask it, nor yet malice nor offence to need it.
740
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And therefore, they reckon no privilege broken, although they
fetch him out of sanctuary, which if you finally refuse to deliver
him, I think verily the Council will enfranchise him, so much
dread hath my Lord his uncle, for the tender love he beareth
him, lest your Grace should send him away.”
"Ah,' quoth the Queen, “hath he so tender a zeal to him,
that he feareth nothing, but lest he should escape him ?
Thinketh he, that I would send him hence, which is neither
in the plight to send out? And in what place could I reckon
him sure, if he be not sure in this Sanctuary? Whereof was
there never tyrant yet so devilish, that durst attempt to break
the privilege, and I trust God is now as strong to withstand
his adversaries as ever he was. But mỳ son can deserve no
sanctuary, you say, and therefore he cannot have it; forsooth
the Lord Protector has sent a goodly gloss by the which that
place that may defend a thief, may not save an innocent; but
he is in no danger, nor hath no need thereof, I would God he
had not. Troweth the Protector (I pray God he may prove
a protector, rather than a destroyer, whereunto his painted
process draweth) that it is not honourable that the Duke bide
here? It were more comfortable to them both, that he were
with his brother, because the King lacketh a playfellow, yea be
sure, I pray God send him better playfellows than him that
maketh so high a matter upon such a trifling pretext, as though
there could none be found to play with the King, but that his
brother, which hath no lust to play for sickness, must come
out of sanctuary, out of his safeguard, to play with him ; as
though that Princes so young as they be, could not play without
their peers, or children could not play without their kindred,
with whom for the most part they agree much worse than with
strangers. But the child, you say, cannot require the privilege!
Who told the Protector so? Ask him, and you shall hear him
ask it, and so shall he, if he will. Howbeit this is a strange
matter; suppose he could not ask it, and think he would not
ask it, and imagine he would ask to go out, if I say he shall
not. Note, if I ask the privilege for myself, I say, that he
that against my will taketh out him, breaketh Sanctuary.
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
233
Serveth this liberty for my person only, or for my goods too ?
you may not from hence take my horse from me, if I stole
him not, nor owe you nothing: then followed it, that you may
not take my child from me, he is also my ward, for as far
as my learned counsel showeth me, he hath nothing by descent
· holden by Knight's service, but by socage: then the law
maketh me his guardian, then may no man lawfully (I suppose)
take my ward from me out of this place, without the breach
of sanctuary, and if my privilege could not serve him, nor he
ask it for himself, yet since the law committeth to me the
custody of him, I may require it for him, except the law give
the infant a guardian only for his goods, discharging him of the
care and safe-keeping of his body, for which only both goods
man's law serveth the guardian to keep the infant, and the law
of nature willeth the mother to keep the child, and God's law
privileges the sanctuary, and the sanctuary privilegeth my son;
since I fear to put him to the Protector's hands, that hath his
brother already, which is (if both failed) inheritor to the crown
as heir male, as he saith. The cause of my fear no man hath
to do to examine, and yet fear I no further than the law feareth,
which as learned men tell me, forbiddeth every man the
custody of them, by whose death he may inherit less land than
a kingdom.
"I can say no more, but whosoever he be that breaketh this
holy Sanctuary, I pray God send him shortly need of
sanctuary, when he may not come to it, for I would not that
my mortal enemy should be taken out of sanctuary."
The Cardinal perceived that the Queen, ever the longer the
farther off, and also that she began to kindle and chafe, and
speak sore biting words against the Protector, and such as he
neither believed, and also was loath to hear, he said to her, for a
final conclusion, that he would no more dispute the matter, and
if she were content to deliver the Duke to him and to the other
lords there present, he durst lay his own body and soul both in
pledge, not only for his surety, but also for his estate, and surely
he knew nor suspected any cause but he might só do (but he
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knew not all). And further, he said, if she would give him
a resolute answer to the contrary, he would therewith depart
incontinent, and shift whoso would with his business afterward,
for he never intended further to move her in the matter, in the
which she thought that he and all other also, save herself,
lacked either wit or truth. Wit, if they were so that they
nothing could perceive what the Protector intended, and truth,
if they should procure her son to be delivered into his hands,
in whom they should perceive towards the child any evil will
intended; then she might think all the Council both evil-advised,
and of little fidelity to their Prince.
The Queen with these words stood in a great study, and for-
asmuch as she saw the Lord Cardinal more ready to depart
than the remnant, and the Protector himself ready at hand, so
that she verily thought that she could not keep him there, but
he should be incontinent taken thence; and to convey him else-
where, neither had she time to serve her, nor place determined,
nor persons appointed to convey him, and so all things were
unready, when this message came so suddenly on her, nothing
less looking for, than to have him out of sanctuary, which she
knew now men to be set in all places about, that he could not
be conveyed out untaken, and partly as she thought it might
fortune her fear to be false : so well she knew it was either
needless or bootless. Wherefore if she should needs go from
him, she deemed best to deliver him, and especially of the
Cardinal's faith she nothing doubting, nor of some other lords
whom she saw there, which as she feared lest they might be
deceived, so well was she assured, that they would not be
corrupted : then thought she that it would make them the more
warily to look to him; and the more circumspectly to see his
surety, if she with her own hands betook him them by trust, and
at the last she took the young Duke by the hand, and said unto
the lords, My Lord (quoth she) and all my Lords, neither am I
so unwise to mistrust your wits, nor so suspicious to mistrust
your truths : of the which thing I purpose to make such a proof,
that if either of both lacked in you, might turn both me to great
sorrow, the realm to much harm, and you to great reproach.
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH."
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“For lo, here is," quoth she, “this gentleman, whom I doubt not,
but I could keep safe if I would, whatsoever any man say, and
I doubt not also, but there be some abroad so deadly enemies
unto my blood, that if they knew where any of it lay in their
own body, they would let it out ; we have also experience, that
the desire of a kingdom knoweth no kindred, the brother hath
been the brother's bane, and may the nephews be sure of the
uncle! Each of these children are other's defence, while they be
asunder, and each of their lives lieth in other's body, keep one
safe and both be sure, and nothing to both more perilous than
both to be in one place: for a wise merchant never adventureth
all his goods in one ship.
“All this notwithstanding, here I deliver him and his brother
in him, to keep to your hands, of whom I shall ask them both
before God and the world. Faithful you be, and that I know
well, and I know you be wise, and of power and strength if you
list to keep him, for you lack no help of yourselves, nor need to
lack no help in this case, and if you cannot elsewhere, then
may you leave him here. But only one thing I beseech you,
for the trust that his father put you in ever, and for the trust I
put you in now, that as far as you think that I fear too much,
ye be well ware that you fear not too little." And therewithal
she said to the child, “Farewell mine own sweet son, God send
you good keeping, let me once kiss you ere you go, for God
knoweth when we shall kiss together again;" and therewith she
kissed him, and blessed him, and turned her back and wept,
going her way, leaving the poor innocent child weeping as fast
as the mother!
When the Cardinal and the other Lords had received the
young Duke, they brought him into the Star Chamber, where
the Protector took him into his arms, and kissed him with these
words: “Now welcome my Lord with all my very heart," and he
said in that of likelihood even as he inwardly thought, and
thereupon forth with brought him to the King his brother into
the Bishop's Palace at Paul's, and from thence through the city
honourably into the Tower, out of which after that day they
never came abroad. When the Protector had both the children
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in his possession, yea and that they were in a sure place, he
then began to thirst to see the end of his enterprise. And to
avoid all suspicion, he caused all the lords which he knew to
be faithful to the King, to assemble at Baynard's Castle, to
commune of the order of the coronation, while he and other of
his complices and of his affinity, at Crosby's Place, contrived
the contrary, and to make the Protector King: to which council
there were adhibited very few, and they very secret.
Then began here and there some muttering amongst the
people, as though all things should not long be well, though they
knew not what they feared, nor wherefore; were it that before
such great things, men's hearts (of a secret instinct of nature)
misgive them, as the south wind sometime swelleth of itself
before a tempest; or were it that some one man haply some-
what perceiving, filled many men with suspicion, though he
showed few men what he knew; howbeit, the dealing itself
made men to muse on the matter, though the council were
close, for by little and little all folk drew from the Tower where
the King was, and drew to Crosby's Place, so that the Pro-
tector had all the resort, and the King was in manner desolate.
While some made suit unto them that had the doing, some of
them were by their friends secretly warned, that it might haply
turn to no good to them, to be too much attendant on the King
without the Protector's appointment, which removed divers of
the King's old servants from him, and set new in their places
about him.
Thus many things coming together, partly by chance, and
partly by purpose, caused at length, not common people only,
which waver with the wind, but wise men also, and sume lords
to mark the matter and muse thereupon: insomuch that the
Lord Stanley, which afterward was Earl of Derby wisely mis-
trusted it, and said to the Lord Hastings, that he much mis-
liked these two several councils, “For while we," quoth he, “talk
of one matter at the one place, little know we whereof they talk in
the other.” “Peace, my Lord," quoth the Lord Hastings; "on
my life never doubt you, for while one man is there, which is
never thence, neither can there be anything once minded that
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2
should sound amiss towards me, but it should be in my ears as
soon as out of their mouths." This he meant by Catesby, which
was near of his secret council and whom he most familiarly
used in his weighty matters, putting no man in so special trust
as he, reckoning himself to be beloved of no man more than
he; knowing well that there was no man so much beholding to
him as was this Catesby, which was a man well learned in the
laws of this realm, and by the special favour of the Lord
Hastings in good authority, and bore much rule in the counties
of Leicester and Northampton, where the Lord Hastings' power
lay. But surely great pity was it that he had not more truth or
less wit. For his dissimulation only kept all that mischief up,
in whom if the Lord Hastings had not put so special trust,
the Lord Stanley and he, with divers other lords, had departed
into their counties and broken all the dance, for many evil
signs that he saw, which he now constructed all for the
best; so surely thought he that there could be no harm
intended towards him in that council where Catesby was. And
of truth the Protector and the Duke of Buckingham did seem
to show very much countenance unto the Lord Hastings, and
kept him often in their company. And undoubtedly the Pro-
tector loved him well, and loath he was to have lost him,
saving for fear lest his life should have quelled their purpose ;
for the which cause he moved Catesby to prove with some
words cast out afar off, whether he could think it possible to
win the Lord Hastings to their part. But Catesby, whether he
assayed him or assayed him not, reported unto him that he
found him so fast, and heard him speak so terrible words, that
he durst no further break unto him ; and of a truth the Lord
Hastings of very trust showed unto Catesby the mistrust that
others begun to have in the matter. And therefore he, fearing
lest their motions might with the Lord Hastings diminish his
credit, whereunto only all the matter leaned ; procured the
Protector hastily to rid him, and much the rather, for he trusted
by his death to obtain much of the rule which the Lord
Hastings bare in his country ; the only desire whereof, was the
thing that induced him to be procurer, and one of the specialist
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contrivers of all this horrible treason. Whereupon the Lord
Protector caused a council to be set at the Tower on the Friday
the thirteenth day of June, where was much communing for the
honourable solemnity of the Coronation, of the which the time
appointed approached so near, that the Pageants were amaking
day and night at Westminster, and victuals killed, which
afterwards was cast away.
These lords thus sitting, communing of this matter, the
Protector came in among them about nine of the clock,
saluting them courteously, excusing himself that he had been
from them so long, saying merrily that he had been asleep that
day. And after a little talking with them, he said to the
Bishop of Ely, “My Lord, you have very good strawberries in
your garden at Holburn, I require you let us have a mess of
them.” “Gladly, my Lord” (quoth he) “I would I had some
better thing as ready at your pleasure as that,” and with that
in all haste he sent his servant for a dish of strawberries. The
Protector set the lords fast on communing, and thereupon
prayed them to spare him a little, and so he departed and came
again between ten and eleven of the clock into the chamber, all
changed with a sour angry countenance, knitting the brows,
frowning and fretting, gnawing of his lips and so set him down
in his place. All the lords were dismayed, and sore marvelled
at this manner and sudden change, what he should ail. When
he had sitten a while, thus he began, “What were they worthy
to have, that compass and imagine the destruction of me being
so near of blood to the King, and Protector of this his royal
realm?” at which question, all the lords sat sore astonished,
musing much by whom the question should be meant, of which
every man knew himself clear.
Then the Lord Hastings, who for the familiarity that was
between them, thought he might be boldest with him, answered
and said, that they were worthy to be punished as heinous
traitors whatsoever they were, and all the other affirmed the
same.
“That is," quoth he, “yonder sorceress, my brother's wife
and others with her” (meaning the Queen). At these words
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
239
many of the lords were sore abashed which favoured her, but
the Lord Hastings was better content in his mind, that it was
moved by her, than by any other that he loved better, albeit his
heart grudged that he was not afore made of the counsel of this
matter, as well as he was of the taking of her kindred, and of
their putting to death which were by his assent before devised
to be beheaded at Pomfret, this selfsame day, in the which he
was not aware that it was by others devised, that he himself
should the same day be beheaded at London.
Then said the Protector, “See in what wise that sorceress, and
others of her counsel, as Shore's wife with her affinity, have by
their sorcery and witchcraft thus washed my body :" and there.
with plucked up his doublet sleeve to his elbow on his left arm,
where he showed a deformed withered arm, and small, as it was
never other. And therefore every man's mind misgave them,
well perceiving that this matter was but a quarrel ; for they
knew that the Queen was both too wise to go about any such
folly, and also if she would, yet she would not make Shore's
wife of her counsel, whom of all women she most hated, as that
concubine whom the King her husband most loved.
Also, there was no man there but knew that his arm was ever
such since the day of his birth. Nevertheless the Lord
Hastings, which from the death of King Edward kept Shore's
wife, on whom he somewhat doted in the King's life, saving it
is said that he forbare her for reverence towards his King, or
else of a certain kind of fidelity towards his friend ; yet now his
heart somewhat grudged to have her whom he loved so highly
accused; and as he knew well, untruly; therefore he answered
and said, “Certainly my Lord, if they have so done, they be
worthy of heinous punishment.” “What," quoth the Protector,
6thou servest me, I think, with if and with and, I tell thee they
have done it, and I will make it good on thy body, traitor."
And therewith (as in a great anger) he struck his fist on the
board a great rap; at which token given, one cried treason
without the chamber, and therewith a door clapped, and men in
arms came rushing in, as many as the chamber could hold !
And anon the Protector said to the Lord Hastings," I arrest
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thee traitor.” “What me my Lord?” quoth he. “Yes thou
traitor," quoth the Protector. And one let fly at the Lord
Stanley, who shrunk at the stroke, and fell under the table, or
else his head had been cleft to the teeth, for as suddenly as he
shrunk, yet the blood ran about his ears. Then was the
Archbishop of York, and Doctor Morton, Bishop of Ely, and
the Lord Stanley, and divers others taken, and bestowed in
several chambers, save the Lord Hastings, whom the Protector
commanded to speed and shrive him apace, “For by St. Paul”
(quoth he) “I will not dine till I see thy head off.”
It booted him not to ask why, but heavily he took a priest at
a venture, and made a short shrift, for a longer would not be
suffered, the Protector made so much haste to his dinner, who
might not go to it till this murder be done, for saving of his
ungracious oath.
So was he brought forth into the green besides the chapel
within the Tower, and his head laid down on a log of timber,
that lay there for building of the chapel, and there tyrannously
stricken off, and after his body and head were interred at
Windsor, by his master King Edward the Fourth, late
deceased.
A miraculous case it is to hear, either the warnings that he
should have avoided, or the tokens of that he could not avoid.
For the next night before his death, the Lord Stanley sent to
him a trusty messenger at midnight in all the haste, requiring
him to rise and ride away with him, for he was disposed utterly
no longer for to abide, for he had a fearful dream in the which
he thought that a boar with his tusks so razed them both by
the heads, that the blood ran about both their shoulders, and
forasmuch as the Protector gave the boar for his cognisance, he
imagined that it should be he.
This dream made such a fearful impression in his heart, that
he was determined no longer to tarry, but had his horse ready,
if the Lord Hastings would go with him. So that they would
ride so far that night, that they should be out of danger by the
next day.
“Ah, good Lord, quoth the Lord Hastings to the messenger,
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
241
"leaneth my Lord thy'master so much to such trifles, and hath
he such faith in dreams, which either his own fear fantasieth or
do rise in the night's rest, by reason of the day's thought?
“Tell him it is plain witchcraft to believe in such dreams
which if they were tokens of things to come, why thinketh he
not that we might as likely make them true by our going if we
were caught and brought back (as friends' flyers), for then had
the boar a cause likely to raze us with his tusks, as folks that
fled for some falsehood: wherefore either there is peril, but
indeed there is none, or if any be, it is rather in going than
abiding.
“And if we must needs fall into peril, one way or the other,
yet had I rather that men should see it were by other men's
falsehood than think it were either our own fault or faint
feeble heart, and therefore go to thy master and commend me
to him, and tell him I pray him to be merry and have no fear,
for I assure him, I am assured of the man he wotteth of, as
I am sure of my own hand.” “God send grace," quoth the
messenger, and so departed. Certain it is also, that in riding
towards the Tower the same morning in which he was be-
headed, his horse that he accustomed to ride on, stumbled
twice or thrice almost to the falling, which thing although it
happeneth to them daily to whom no mischance is towards, yet
hath it been as an old evil token observed as a going towards
mischief. Now this that followeth was no warning, but an
envious scorn: the same morning before he was up from his
bed, where Shore's wife lay with him all night, there came to
him Sir Thomas Howard, son to the Lord Howard (which
lord was once of the priviest of the Lord Protector's counsel
and doing) as it were of courtesy to accompany him to the
council, but of truth sent by the Lord Protector to haste him
thitherward.
This Sir Thomas, while the Lord Hastings stayed a while
communing with a priest whom he met in Tower Street, brake
the lord's tale, saying to him merrily, “What my Lord I pray
you come on, wherefore talk you so long with that priest, you
have no need of a priest yet," and laughed upon him, aş
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though he would say, you shall have need of one soon. But
little thought the other what he meant (but before night these
words were well remembered by them that heard them) so the
true Lord Hastings little mistrusted, and was never merrier,
nor thought his life in more surety in all his days, which thing
is often a sign of change, but I shall rather let anything pass
me than the vain surety of man's mind so near his death; for
upon the very Tower wharf, so near the place where his head
was off, so soon after, as a man might cast a ball, a pursuivant
of his own called Hastings met with him; and of their meeting
in that place he was put in remembrance another time, in
which it happened them to meet before together in the place,
at which time the Lord Hastings had been accused to King
Edward by the Lord Rivers, the Queen's brother, insomuch
that he was for a while, which lasted not long, highly in the
King's indignation, as he now met the same pursuivant in the
same place, the jeopardy so well passed, it gave him great
pleasure to talk with him thereof, with whom he had talked in
the same place of that matter, and therefore he said: "Ah,
Hastings, art thou remembered when I met thee here once
remember well, and thanks be to God they got no good, nor
you harm thereby.” “Thou wouldest say so," quoth he, “if
thou knewest so much as I do, which few know yet, and more
shall shortly." That meant he that the Earl Rivers, and the
Lord Richard, and Sir Thomas Vaughan, should that day be
beheaded at Pomfret, as they were indeed, which act he knew
well should be done, but thought not that the axe hung so near
his own head.
“In faith man," quoth he, “I was never so sorry, nor never
stood in so great danger of my life, as I did when thou and I
met here, and, lo, the world is turned now, now stand mine
enemies in the danger, as thou mayest hap to hear more here-
after, and I never in my life merrier, nor never in so great
surety.” “I pray God it prove so," quoth Hastings. “Prove,”
quoth he, "doubtest thou that, nay, nay, I warrant thee.” And so
in manner displeased, he entered into the Tower, where he was
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
243
not long alive, as you have heard. O Lord God the blindness
of our mortal natures, when he most feared, he was in most
surety, and when he reckoned himself most sure, he lost his life,
and that within two hours after ! Thus ended this honourable
man, a good knight and gentle, of great authority with his
Prince, of living somewhat dissolute, plain and open to his
enemy, and sure and secret to his friend, easy to beguile, as he
that of good heart and courage foresaw no perils, a loving man
and passing well beloved, very faithful, and trusty enough, but
trusting too much was his destruction, as you may perceive.
immediately after dinner (intending to set some colour upon the
matter) sent in all the haste for many substantial men out of
the City into the Tower, and at their coming, himself with the
Duke of Buckingham stood harnessed in old ill-favoured
briganders, such as no man would think that they would have
vouchsafed to have put on their backs, except some sudden
necessity had constrained them. Then the Lord Protector
showed them, that the Lord Hastings and other of his con-
spiracy, had contrived to have suddenly destroyed him and the
Duke of Buckingham, there, the same day in Council, and what
they intended further, was yet not well known, of which their
treason he had never knowledge before ten of the clock the
same forenoon, which sudden fear drave them to put on such
harness as came next to their hands for their defence, and so
God holp them, that the mischief turned upon them that would
have done it, and thus he required them to report. Every man
answered fair, as though no man mistrusted the matter, which
of truth no man believed. Yet for the further appeasing of the
people's minds, he sent immediately after dinner an herald of
arms with a proclamation through the City of London, which
was proclaimed in the King's name, that the Lord Hastings,
with divers other of his traitorous purpose, had before con-
spired, the same day, to have slain the Protector and the Duke
upon them the rule of the King and the realm at their pleasure,
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and thereby to pill and spoil whom they list uncontrolled, and
much matter was devised in the same proclamation to the
slander of the Lord Hastings, as that he was an evil counsellor
to the King's father, enticing him to many things highly
redounding to the dirninishing of his honour, and to the univer-
sal hurt of his realm, by his evil company, and sinister pro-
curing, and ungracious example, as well in many other things,
as in vicious living, and inordinate abusing of his body, both
with many other, and especially with Shore's wife, which was
one of his secret counsel in this heinous treason, with whom he
lay nightly, and namely the night passed before his death, so
that it was the less marvel, if ungracious living brought him to
an unhappy end, which he was now put to by the cominand of
the King's Highness, and of his honourable and faithful Council,
both for his demerits, being so openly taken in his false
contrived treason, and also lest the delaying of his execution
might have encouraged other mischievous persons partners of
his conspiracy to gather and assemble themselves together in
making so great commotion for his deliverance, whose hope
now being by his well-deserved death politically repressed, all
the realm by God's grace rest in good quiet and peace.
Now was this proclamation made within two hours after he
was beheaded, and it was so curiously indicted, and so fair
written in parchment in a fair, set hand, and therewith so large
a process that every child might perceive that it was prepared
and studied before, and (as some men thought) by Catesby, for
all the time between his death and the publishing of the
proclamation could scarce suffice to the bare writing of it
alone, albeit that it had been in paper, and scribbled forth in
haste at adventure.
So that upon the proclaiming thereof, one that was school-
master at Paul's standing by, and comparing the shortness of
the time with the length of the matter, said to them that stood
about him, “Here is a gay, goodly cast, foully cast away for
haste." And a merchant that stood by him said “that it was
written by inspiration and prophecy."
Now then, by-and-by, as it were for anger, and not for
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
245
covetousness the Protector sent Sir Thomas Howard to the
house of Shore's wife (for her husband dwelt not with her)
which spoiled her of all that ever she had, above the value of
two or three thousand marks, and sent her body to prison.
And the Protector had laid to her for the manner sake, that
she was of counsel with the Lord Hastings to destroy him. In
conclusion when no colour could fasten upon these matters,
then he laid heinously to her charge that thing that she could
not deny, for all the world knew that it was true, and that
notwithstanding every man laughed to hear it then so suddenly,
so highly taken, that she was nought of her body. And for
this cause, as a godly, continent prince, clean and faultless of
himself, sent out of heaven into this vicious world, for the
amendment of men's manners, he caused the Bishop of London
to put her to open penance, going before a cross one Sunday at
procession with a taper in her hand. In the which she went in
countenance and pace so womanly, and albeit she was out of
all array saving her kirtle only, yet went she so fair and lovely,
and especially when the wondering of the people cast a comely
red in her cheeks, of the which before she had most miss, that
her great shame won her much praise amongst them that were
more amorous of her body, than curious of her soul: and many
good folk that hated her living, and were glad to see sin cor-
rected, yet pitied they more her penance than rejoiced at it;
when they considered that the Protector did it more of a
corrupt mind than any virtuous affection.
This woman was born in London, well friended, honestly
brought up, and very well married, saving somewhat too soon,
her husband an honest and a young citizen, godly and of good
substance, but forasmuch as they were coupled before she was
well ripe, she not very fervently loved for whom she never
longed, which was the thing (by chance) that the more easily
made her to incline to the King's appetite, when he required
her. Howbeit the respect of his royalty, the hope of gain,
apparel, ease, pleasure, and other wanton wealth was able soon
to pierce a soft tender heart : but when the King had abused
her, anon her husband being an honest man would not
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presume to touch a King's concubine, but left her up to him
altogether.
When the King died, the Lord Hastings took her, which in
yet he forbare, either for a princely reverence, or for a certain
friendly faithfulness.
1
have changed, but if you would have wished her somewhat
higher. This say they that knew her in her youth, some said
and judged that she had been well favoured, and some judged the
contrary, whose judgment seemeth like as men guess the beauty
of one long before departed, by a shape taken out of a charnel
house, and this judgment was in the time of King Henry the
Eighth, in the eighteenth year of whose reign she died when
she had nothing but a shrivelled skin and bone. Her beauty
pleased not men so much as her pleasant behaviour, for she
had a proper wit, and could both read and write, merry in
company, ready and quick of answer, neither mute nor full
of babble, sometimes taunting without displeasure, but not
without disport. King Edward would say he had three con-
cubines, which in divers properties diversely excelled, one the
merriest, the other the wisest, the third the holiest harlot in
the realm, as one, whom no man could get out of the church
were somewhat greater personages than Mistress Shore, and
yet nevertheless of their humility were content to be nameless,
and to forbear the praise of these properties ! But the merriest
was Shore's wife, in whom the King therefore took great plea-
sure, for many he had, but her he loved, whose favour to say
the truth (for it were sin to belie the devil) she never abused
to any man's hurt, but to many men's comfort and relief. For
where the King took displeasure, she would mitigate and
appease his mind, where men were out of favour, she would
bring them into his grace, for many that had highly offended,
she obtained pardon, and of great forfeitures she got remission,
and finally in many weighty suits she stood many men in great
stead, either for none or for very small reward : and those
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
247
rather gay than rich, either that she was content with the deed
well done, or for that she delighted to be sued unto, and to show
what she was able to do with the King, or for that wanton
women and wealthy be not always covetous. I doubt not some
men will think this woman to be too slight to be written of
among grave and weighty matters, which they shall specially
think that happily saw her in her age and adversity, but we
think the chance so much more worthy to be remembered, in
how much after wealth she fell to poverty, and from riches to
beggary, unfriended, out of acquaintance, after great substance,
after so great favour with her Prince, after as great suit and
seeking to with all those which in those days had business to
speed, as many other men were in their times, which be now
famous only by the infamy of their evil deeds, her doings were
not much less, albeit they be much less remembered, because
they were not evil, for men use to write an evil turn in marble
stone, but a good turn in the dust ; which is not worst proved
by her, for after her wealth she went begging of many that
had begged themselves if she had not holp them, such was
her chance.
Now was it devised by the Protector and his Council, that
the same day that the Lord Chamberlain was beheaded in the
Tower of London, and about the same hour, should be beheaded
at Pomfret the Earl Rivers, and the Lord Richard the Queen's
son, Sir Thomas Vaughan, and Sir Richard Hawte, which as
you heard were taken at Northampton and Stony Stratford by
the consent of the Lord Hastings; which execution was done
by the order and in the presence of Sir Richard Ratcliff,
Knight, whose service the Protector specially used in the
counsel, and in the execution of such lawless enterprises, as a
man that had been long secret with him, having experience of
the world, a notable wit, short and rude in speech, rough and
boisterous of behaviour, bold in mischief, and as far from pity
as from all fear of God.
This knight brought these four persons to the scaffold at the
day appointed, and showed to all the people that they were
traitors, not suffering the lords to speak, and to declare their
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innocence, lest their words might have inclined men to pity
them, and to hate the Protector and his part, and so without
judgment and process of the law caused them to be beheaded
without other earthly guilt, but only they were good men, and
true to the King, and too nigh to the Queen; insomuch that
Sir Thomas Vaughan going to his death said: "A mischief take
them that took the prophecy that G. should destroy King
Edward's children, for George Duke of Clarence, Lord George,
which for that suspicion is now dead, but now remaineth
Richard G. Duke of Gloucester, which now I see is he that
shall and will accomplish the prophecy, and destroy King
Edward's children, and all their allies and friends, as it
appeareth by us this day; whom I appeal to the high tribunal
of God for his wrongful murder, and our true innocency." And
then Ratcliff said, “You have well appealed, lay down your
head." "Yea," quoth Sir Thomas, "I die in right, beware you
die not in wrong." And so that good knight was beheaded,
and the other three, and buried naked in the Monastery at
Pomfret.
When the Lord Hastings and those other lords and knights
were thus beheaded and rid out of the way, then the Protector
caused it to be proclaimed that the coronation for divers great
and urgent causes should be deferred till the second day of
November, for then thought he, that while men mused what the
matter meant, and while the Lords of the realm were about
him, out of their own strengths, and while no man knew what
to think, nor whom to trust, or whether they should have time
or space. to digest the matter, and make parts ; it were best
hastily to pursue his purpose, and put himself in possession of
the crown, before men could have time to devise any ways to
resist. But now was all the study, how this matter, being of
itself so heinous, might be first broken to the people in such
wise as it might be well taken. To this council they took
divers, such as they thought meet to be trusted, and likely to be
induced to that part, and able to stand them in stead, either by
power or by policy. Among whom, they made of counsel
Edmond Shaw, then Mayor of London, which upon trust of
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249
his own advancement, where he was of a proud heart, highly
desirous, took upon him to frame the City to their appetite.
Of spiritual men they took such as had wit, and were in
authority amongst the people for opinion of their learning, and
had no scrupulous conscience. Amongst these had, they took
Ralph Shaw, clerk, brother to the Mayor, and Friar Pinkie,
Provincial of the Augustine Friars, both Doctors in Divinity,
both great preachers, both of more learning than virtue, of
more fame than learning, and yet of more learning than truth.
For they were before greatly esteemed among the people, but
after that, never none of those two were regarded. Shaw made
a sermon in praise of the Protector before the coronation and
Pinkie made one after the coronation, both so full of tedious
flattery, that no good man's ears could abide them. Pinkie in
his sermon so lost his voice, that he was fain to leave off and
come down in the midst. Doctor Shaw by his sermon lost his
honesty, and soon after his life, for very shame of the world,
into the which he durst never after much come abroad; but the
Friar feared no shame, and so it harmed him the less. How-
beit, some doubt, and many think, that Pinkie was not of
counsel before the coronation, but after the common manner
fell to flattery after, namely, because his sermon was not incon-
tinent upon it, but at St. Mary Spitle the Easter after. But
certain it is, that Doctor Shaw was of council in the beginning,
insomuch that they determined that he should first break the
matter in a sermon at Paul's Cross, in which he should by the
authority of his preaching induce the people to incline to the
Protector's ghostly purpose. But now was all the labour and
study in the device of some convenient pretext, for which the
people should be content to depose the Prince, and accept the
Protector for their King. In which divers things they devised,
but the chief thing, and the weight of all that invention rested
in this; that they should allege bastardy in King Edward him.
self, or in his children, or both; so that he should seem dis-
abled to inherit the crown by the Duke of York, and the Prince
by him. To lay bastardy in King Edward sounded openly to
the rebuke of the Protector's own mother, which was mother
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to them both. For in that point could be no other colour, but
to pretend that his own mother was an adultress; but neverthe-
less he would that point should be less and more finely and
closely handled, not even fully plain and directly, but touched
upon craftily, as though men spared in that point to speak all
the truth for fear of his displeasure. But that other point con-
cerning the bastardy, they devised to surmise in King Edward
his children ; that he desired should be openly declared and
enforced to the uttermost. The colour and pretext whereof
cannot be well perceived, except we repeat some things long
before done about King Edward's marriages.
After King Edward the Fourth had deposed King Henry the
Sixth, and was in peaceable possession of the realm ; he deter-
mined with himself to marry (as was requisite) both for himself
and for the realm; he sent the Earl of Warwick and divers
other noblemen in embassage to the French King, to entreat
a marriage between the King and Bona, sister to the French
Queen, then being in France. In which thing the Earl of
Warwick found the parties so toward and willing, that he
speedily without any difficulty according to his instructions
brought the matter to a good conclusion. Now happened it
in the mean season, there came to make a suit to the King by
petition Dame Elizabeth Gray (which after was his Queen),
then a widow, born of noble blood, specially by her mother,
which was Duchess of Bedford, and she was married to Sir
Richard Woodville ; Lord Rivers, her father.
Howbeit, this Elizabeth being in service with Queen Margaret,
wife to King Henry the Sixth, was married to one John Grey,
Esquire, whom King Henry made knight at the last battle of
St. Albans, but little while he enjoyed his knighthood, for at
the same field he was slain.
After, when King Edward was King, and the Earl of War-
wick being on his embassage, this poor lady made her suit to
the King to be restored to such small lands as her husband had
given her in jointure; whom when the King beheld, and heard
her speak, as she was both fair and of good favour, moderate of
stature, well-made, and very wise; he not alone pitched on her,
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
251
but also waxed enamoured on her, and taking her secretly aside,
began to enter into talking more familiarly, whose appetite
when she perceived, she virtuously denied him, but that she
did so wisely, and that with so good manner, and words so
well set, that she rather kindled his desire than quenched it.
And finally, after many a meeting and much wooing, and many
great promises, she well perceived the King's affection towards
her so greatly increased, that she durst somewhat the more
boldly say her mind, as to him whose heart she perceived more
ſervently set than to fall off for a word. And in conclusion she
showed him plain, that as she thought herself too simple to be
his wife, so she thought herself too good to be his concubine.
The King much marvelling at her constancy, as he that had
not been before elsewhere so stiffly said nay, so much esteemed
her continence and chastity, that he set her virtue instead of
possession and riches: and thus taking counsel of his own
desire, determined in haste to marry her.
And after that he was thus appointed, and had between them
twain assured her, then asked he counsel of his secret friends,
and that in such manner, that they might easily perceive
that it booted them not to say nay. Notwithstanding, the
Duchess of York, his mother, was so sore moved therewith,
that she dissuaded that marriage as much as she possible
might; alleging that it was his honour, profit, and surety, to
marry in some noble progeny out of his realm, whereupon
depended great strength to his estate by that affinity, and
great possibility of increase of his dominions. And that he
could not well otherwise do, considering the Earl of Warwick
had so far forth entered into the matter already, which was
not like to take it well if all his voyage were in such wise
frustrate, and his appointment deluded. And she said further,
" that it was not princely to marry his own subject, no greater
occasion leading thereunto; no possessions nor other con-
modity depending thereupon, but only as a rich man would
marry his maiden only for a little wanton dotage upon her
person. In which marriage many men commend more the
maiden's fortune than the man's wisdom : and yet she said
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that there was more honesty than honour in this marriage ;
forasmuch as there is not between a merchant and his maid
so great a difference, as between a King and his subject, a
great prince and a poor widow. In whose person, although
there were nothing to be misliked, yet was there, said she,
nothing so excellent but that it might be found in divers other
that were more meet," quoth she, “for your estate, yea and
maidens also, the only widowhood of Dame Elizabeth Grey
(although she were in all other points and things convenient
for you) should suffice, as I think, to refrain you from her
marriage, since it is an unfitting thing, and a great blemish
to the sacred majesty of a prince, that ought as near to approach
priesthood in cleanness, as he doth in dignity, to be defiled
with bigamy in his first marriage." The King made his
mother an answer, part in earnest, and part in play merrily,
as he that knew himself out of her rule : and albeit he would
that she should take it well, yet was he at a point in his own
mind, took she it well or otherwise. Howbeit, somewhat to
satisfy her, he said, that albeit marriage being a spiritual thing,
ought rather to be made for the respect of God; where his
grace inclineth, the parties ought to incline to love together
(as he trusted it was in his case) rather than for the regard
of any temporal advantage; yet nevertheless he deemed this
marriage well considered not to be unprofitable, for he reckoned
the amity of no earthly nation to be so necessary for him as the
friendship of his own, which he thought likely to bear him so
much the more hearty favour, in that he disdained not to marry
with one of his own land: and yet if outward alliance were
thought so requisite, he would find the means to enter there-
unto much better by other of his kin, where all parties could be
contented, than to marry himself, wherein he should never
haply love, and for the possibility of possessions lose the
fruit and pleasure of this that he had already. For small
pleasure taketh a man of all that ever he hath beside, if he be
wived against his appetite, and "I doubt not,” quoth he, “but
there be, as you say, others that be in every point comparable
with her; and therefore I let not them that like them to
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
253
marry them, no more is it reason that it mislike any man
that I marry where it liketh me. And I am sure, that my
cousin of Warwick neither loveth me so little, to grudge at that
that I love, nor is so unreasonable, to look that I should in
choice of a wife rather be ruled by his eye than by my own, as
though I were a ward that were bound to marry by the appoint-
ment of a guardian. I would not be a King with that condition,
to forbear mine own liberty in choice of mine own marriage.
As for possibility of more inheritance by new affinity in strange
lands, is oſt the occasion of more trouble than profit. And we
have already title by that means, as sufficeth to so much, as
sufficeth to get and keep well in one man's days. That she is
a widow and hath already children. By God his blessed Lady,
I am a bachelor and have some too, and each of us hath a
proof, that neither of us is like to be barren. And therefore,
madame, I pray you be content, I trust to God she shall bring
forth a young prince that shall please you. And as for the
bigamy, let the Bishop hardly lay it to my charge when I
come to take orders, for I understand it is forbidden a priest,
but I never knew that it was forbidden a prince."
The Duchess with these words nothing appeased, and seeing
the King so set on, that she could not pluck him back, so
highly she disdained t, that, under pretence of her duty towards
God, she devised to disturb this marriage, and rather to help
that he should marry one Dame Elizabeth Lucy, whom the King
not long before had gotten with child, wherefore the King's
mother objected openly against this marriage. As it were in
discharge of her conscience, that the King was sure to Dame
Elizabeth Lucy, and her husband before God, by reason of
which words such obstacle was made in that matter, that either
the bishop durst not, or the King would not proceed to the
solemnisation of the marriage, till his fame were clearly purged,
and the truth well and openly testified. Whereupon Dame
Elizabeth Lucy was sent for, and albeit she was by the King's
mother and many others put in good comfort that she was
ensured to the King, yet when she was solemnly sworn to say the
truth, she confessed she was never ensured. Howbeit, she
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said, his Grace spake such loving words to her, that she verily
hoped that he would have married her, and if such kind words
had not been, she would never have showed such kindness to
him, to let him so kindly get her with child. This examination
solemnly taken, it was clearly proved that there was no impedi-
ment to let the King to marry; wherefore, he shortly after, at
Grafton, beside Stony Stratford, married the Lady Elizabeth
Grey, very privately, which was his enemy's wife, and had
prayed heartily for his loss, in the which God loved her better,
than to grant her her boon, for then had she not been his wife.
And after that, she was crowned Queen, and her father was
created Earl Rivers, and her son created Marquis Dorset.
But when the Earl of Warwick understood of this marriage, he
took it so highly, that thereof ensued much bloodshed, as is
declared before in the story of Edward the Fourth.
I have rehearsed this marriage somewhat the more at length,
because it might thereby the better appear upon how slippery
a ground the Protector builded his colour, by which he pre-
tended King Edward's children to be bastards; but the
invention, as simple as it was, liked them to whom it sufficeth
to have somewhat to say, while they were sure to be compelled
to no larger proof than themselves list to make.
Now to return where I left, as I began to show you, it was by
the Protector and his council concluded, that this Doctor Shaw
should in a sermon at Paul's Cross signify to the people, that
neither King Edward himself, nor the Duke of Clarence were
lawfully begotten, nor were the very children of the Duke
of York, but begotten unlawfully by other persons by adultery
of the Duchess their mother. And Dame Elizabeth Lucy
was the very wife of King Edward, and so Prince Edward
and all the children begotten on the Queen were bastards.
And according to this device, Dr. Shaw, the Sunday after
at Paul's Cross, in a great audience (as always a great
number assembled to his preaching) came into the pulpit,
taking for his theme, “Spuria vitulamina non dabunt radices
altos," Sapien 4, that is to say, “Bastard slips shall never take
deep roots." Whereupon when he had showed the great grace
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
255
that God giveth, and secretly infundeth in right generation
after the laws of matrimony, then declared he, that those
children commonly lacked that grace and for the punishment
of their parents) were for the most part unhappy, which were
illegitimate, and especially in adultery, of which though some
(by the ignorance of the world, and truth had from knowledge)
have inherited for a season other men's lands, yet God always
so provideth, that it continueth not in their blood long, but the
truth coming to light, the rightful inheritors be restored and the
bastard slips plucked up ere it can be rooted deep. And when
he had laid for the proof and confirmation of this sentence,
examples taken out of the Old and New Testaments, and other
ancient histories, then began he to descend to the praise of the
Lord Richard Duke of York, calling him father to the Protector,
and declared his title to the Crown by inheritance, and also by
entail authorised by Parliament after the death of King Henry
the Sixth. Then showed he, that the Lord Protector was only
the right heir of his body lawfully begotten. Then declared he,
that King Edward was never lawfully married to the Queen,
but his wife before God, was Dame Elizabeth Lucy, and so his
children were bastards. And besides that, that neither King
Edward himself nor the Duke of Clarence (amongst them that
were secret in the Duke of York's household) were never
reckoned surely to be the children of the noble Duke, as those
that by their favours more resembled other known men, than
him; from whose virtuous conditions, he said also, that King
Edward was far off. “But the Lord Protector (quoth he) that
very noble prince, the special patron of knightly prowess, as
well in all princely behaviour, as in lineaments and favour of
his visage, representeth the very face of the noble Duke his
father! This is (quoth he) the father's own figure, this is his
own countenance, the very print of his visage, the sure
undoubted image, the plain express likeness of that noble
Duke !"
Now was it before devised, that in the speaking of these
words, the Protector should have come in amongst the people
to the sermon, to the end that these words so meeting with his
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presence, might have been taken amongst the hearers, as
though the Holy Ghost had put them in the preacher's mouth,
and should have moved the people even there to have cried,
King Richard, that it might have been after said, that he was
specially chosen by God, and in manner by miracle: but this
device failed, either by the Protector's negligence, or the
preacher's over hasty diligence. For while the Protector found by
the way tarrying, lest he should have prevented these words, the
Doctor fearing that he should come ere his sermon could come
to those words, hasting his matter thereto, he was come to them
and past them, and entered into other matters ere the Protector
came, whom when he beheld coming, he left the matter in
hand, and out of all order, and out of all frame, began to repeat
these words again. “This is the very noble Prince, the especial
patron of knightly prowess, which as well in all princely
behaviour, as in the lineaments and form of his visage,
representeth the very face of the noble Duke of York' his
father! This is his father's own figure, this is his own counten-
ance, the very print of his visage, the sure undoubted image,
the plain express likeness of that noble Duke, whose remem-
brance can never die while he liveth !" While these words
were speaking, the Protector accompanied by the Duke of
Buckingham, went through the people up into the place
where the Doctors stand, where they heard out the sermon:
but the people were so far from crying King Richard, that they
stood as they had been turned into stones for wonder of this
shameful sermon: after which once ended, the preacher gat
him home and never after durst look out for shame, but kept
him out of sight as an owl, and when he asked any of his old
friends what the people talked of him, although that his own
conscience will show him that they talked no good, yet when
the other answered him, that there was in every man's mouth
of him much shame spoken, it so struck him to the heart, that
in few days after he withered away,
Then on the Tuesday after, next following this sermon, being
the 17th day of June, there came to Guildhall, London, the
Duke of Buckingham, and divers lords and knights, more than
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
257
happily knew the message that they brought. And at the east
end of the Hall, where the hustings be kept, the Duke, and the
Mayor, and the other lords sat down, and the Aldermen also,
all the Commons of the City being assembled and standing
before them. After silence commanded upon a great pain in
the Protector's name, the Duke stood up, and as he was well
learned and of nature marvellously well spoken, he said to the
people with a clear and a loud voice : “Friends, for the zeal
and hearty favour that we bear you, we be come to break off a
matter right great and weighty, and no less weighty than
pleasing to God, and profitable to the realm, nor to no part of
the realm more profitable than to you, the citizens of this noble
city.
“For why, the thing that you have long lacked, and as we
well know, sore longed for, that you would have gone far to
fetch; that thing we be come hither to bring you, without your
labour, pain, cost, adventure, or danger. What thing is that?
Certainly the surety of your own bodies, the quiet of your wives
and daughters, and the safeguard of your wives and daughters,
and the safeguard of your goods: of all which things in times
past you stood in doubt. For who was he of you all that could
reckon himself lord of his own goods, among so many gins and
traps as were set for them, among so much pilling and polling,
among so many taxes and talliages, of the which there was
never end, and oftentimes no need, or if any were, it grew
rather of riot, or of unreasonable waste, than any necessary
honourable charge, so that there was daily plucked and pilled
from good and honest men great substance of goods, to be
lashed out among unthrifts, so far forth, that fifteenths sufficed
not, nor any usual terms of known taxes, but under an easy
name of benevolence and good-will, the Commissioners took so
much of every man, as no man would with his good-will have
given. As though the name of benevolence had signified, that
every man should pay, not what he of himself of his good-will
list to grant, but what the King of his good-will list to take,
who never asked little, but everything was enhanced above the
measure, amercements turned into fines, fines into - treason,
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where I think that no man looketh that we shall remember you
of examples by name, as though Burdett were forgotten,
which was, for a word spoken in haste, cruelly beheaded.
This Burdett was a merchant dwelling in Cheapside, at the
sign of the Crown, which now is the sign of the Flower-de-luce,
over against Soper Lane. This man, merrily, in the ruffling
time of King Edward the Fourth's reign, said to his own son,
that he would make him inheritor of the Crown, meaning his
own house, but these words King Edward made to be miscon-
strued, and interpreted that Burdett meant the Crown of the
realm. Wherefore within less space than four hours, he was
apprehended, judged, drawn, and quartered, in Cheapside, by
the misconstruing of the laws of the realm for the Prince's
pleasure ; with no less honour to Markham, Chief Justice then,
which lost his office rather than he would assent to that
judgment.
“What need I to speak of Sir Thomas Cooke, Alderman and
Mayor of this noble city? Who is of you either for negligence
that wotteth not, or so forgetful that he remembereth not, or
so hard-hearted that he pitieth not that worshipful man's loss?
What speak I of loss, his wonderful spoil and undeserved
destruction, only because it happened him to favour them
whom the Prince favoured not. We need not rehearse of these
any more by name, since I doubt not that here be many present,
that either in themselves or their nigh friends, as well their
goods as their persons, were greatly endangered either by
feigned quarrels or small matters aggravated with heinous
names, and also there was no crime so great, of which there
could lack a pretext. For since the King preventing the time
of his inheritance, attained the crown by battle, it sufficed in
a rich man for a pretext of treason, to have been of kindred or
alliance, near of familiarity, or longer of acquaintance with any
of those that were at any time the King's enemies, which was
at one time or another more than half the realm. Thus were
neither your goods nor lands in surety, and yet they brought
your bodies in jeopardy, besides the common adventure of open
war; which albeit, that it is ever the will and occasion of much
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
259
mischief, yet it is never so mischievous, as where any people
fall in division, and at distance among themselves : and in no
realm earthly so deadly and so pestilent, as when it happeneth
amongst us. And among us never continued so long dissen-
sion, nor so many battles in any season, nor so cruel, nor so
deadly fought as were in the King's days that is dead. In
whose time and by whose occasion, what about the getting of
the garland, keeping it, losing and winning it again, it hath cost
more English blood than hath the twice winning of France. In
which inward war amongst ourselves hath been so great effusion
of the ancient noble blood of this realm, that scarcely the half
remaineth, to the great enfeebling of this noble land; besides
many a good town ransacked and spoiled by them that have
been going to the field, or returning from thence, and peace
after, not much surer than war. So that no time was there in
the which rich men for their money, and great men for their
lands, or some other for some fear or for some displeasure were
out of peril. For whom trusted he that mistrusted his own
brother? Whom spared he that killed his own brother? Could
not such manner of folk that he most favoured do somewhat
(we shall for his honour spare to speak) howbeit, this you know
well all, that whoso was best, bare ever the least rule, and more
suit in his days was to Shore's wife, a vile and abominable
strumpet, than to all the lords in England, except unto those
that made her their protector, which simple woman yet well
named and honest, till the King for his wanton lust and sinful
affection bereft her of her husband, a right honest man and
substantial amongst you. And in that point, which in good
faith I am sorry to speak of, saving that it is vain to keep in
counsel that thing that all men know, the King's greedy appetite
was insatiable, and everywhere over all the realm intolerable.
For no woman was there anywhere, young or old, poor or
rich, whom he set his eye upon, whom he anything liked, either
for person or beauty, speech, pace, or countenance, but without
any fear of God, or respect of his honour, murmur, or grudging
of the world, he would importunately pursue his appetite and
have her, to the great destruction of many a good woman, and
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great dolour to their husbands and friends, which being honest
people of themselves, so much regarded the cleanness of their
houses, the chastity of their wives and children, that they had
rather lose all that they had besides, than to have such a
villainy done to them.
"And albeit, that with this and other importable dealing, the
realm was in every place annoyed, yet specially you the citizens
of this nobility, as for that amongst you is most plenty of such
things as minister matter to such injuries, as for that you were
nearest hand, since that near hereabout was his most common
abiding. And yet be ye a people whom he had as singular a
cause well and truly to entreat, as any part of his realm : not
only for that the Prince by this Noble City, as of his special
chamber and renowned city of this realm, receiveth much
honourable fame amongst all other nations, but also for that,
you not without your great cost and sundry favours and dangers
in all his wars, bare ever your special favour to his part : which
your kind minds bare to the House of York, since he had
nothing worthily requited you, there is of the House now which
by God's grace shall make you full recompense, which thing to
show you, is the whole sum and effect of our errand. It shall
not need I hope, to rehearse unto you again that you have
already heard of him who can better tell it, and of whom I am
sure ye will better believe it (and reason is that it should be so),
I am not so proud to look therefore that you should receive my
words of so great authority as the preachers of the word of God,
namely, a man so cunning and so wise, that no man knoweth
better what he should do and say, and thereto so good and
virtuous that he would not say the thing which he ought not to
say in the pulpit, namely, unto the which no honest man
cometh to lie, which honourable preacher ye well remember,
substantially declared to you at Paul's Cross on Sunday last past,
the right and title of the most excellent Prince Richard Duke
of Gloucester, now Protector of this his realm which he
hath unto the crown of the kingdom of the same. For that
worshipful man made it perfectly and groundedly open unto
you.
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“The children of King Edward the Fourth were never lawfully
begotten, for as much as the King (leaving his very wife Dame
Elizabeth Lucy) was never lawfully married to the Queen their
mother, whose blood, saving he set his voluptuous pleasure
before his honour, was full unmeetly to be matched with his
(the mingling of which two bloods together hath been the
effusion of a great part of the noble blood of this realm)
whereby it may well be seen, that marriage was not well made,
of which there is so much mischief grown.
"For lack of which lawful copulation, and also of other things
which the said worshipful Doctor rather signified than fully
explained, and which thing shall not be spoken for me, as the
thing that every man forbeareth to say that he knoweth, in
avoiding the displeasure that my noble Lord Protector, bearing,
as nature requireth a filial reverence to the Duchess his mother.
For these causes before remembered, I say that for lack of
issue lawfully coming of the late noble Prince Richard Duke of
York, to whose royal blood, the crowns of England and of
France, are by the high authority of Parliament entailed, the
right and title of the same is by just cause of inheritance,
according to the common law of this land, devolved and
come unto the most excellent Prince the Lord Protector,
as to the very lawful begotten son of the fore remembered
noble Duke of York. Which thing well considered, and
the knightly prowess with many virtues which in his noble
person singularly do abound; the Nobles and Commons
of this realm, and specially of the North parts, not willing
any bastard blood to have the rule of the land, nor the
abuses in the same before used and exercised any longer to
continue, have fully condescended and utterly determined to
make humble petition unto the puissant Prince the Lord Pro-
tector, that it may like his Grace at our humble request, to take
upon him the guiding and government of this realm, to the
wealth and increase of the same, according to his very right and
just title ; which thing I know well, he will be loath to take upon
him, as he whose wisdom well perceiveth, the labour and study
both of mind and body that shall come therewith to him, whoso-
262
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF
ever shall occupy that room. I daresay he will, if he take it
(for I warrant you that room is no child's office) and that the
great wise man well perceived when he said, 'Væ regno cujus
Rex puer est,' Woe to that realm whose king is a child ; where-
fore so much the more cause have we toʻthank God, that this
noble personage which is so righteously entitled thereto, is of so
solid age, and thereto of so great wisdom, joined with so great
experience, which albeit he will be loath, as I have said, to take
upon him, yet shall he to our petition in that behalf the more
graciously incline if ye, the worshipful citizens of this City,
being the chief city of the realm, join with us the nobles in our
said request, which for your own weal we doubt not but that ye
will. And yet nevertheless, we pray you so to do, whereby ye
shall do great profit to all this his realm : beside that in choos-
ing them so good a King, it shall be to yourself a special
commodity, to whom his Majesty shall ever after bear so much
the more tender favour, in how much he shall perceive you the
more prone and benevolently minded towards his election :
wherein dear friends, what mind ye have we require you
plainly to show us."
When the Duke had said, and looked that the people
whom he hoped that the Mayor had framed before, should
after this flattering proposition made, have cried “King
Richard, King Richard," all was still and mute, and not one
word answered unto. Wherewith the Duke was marvellously
abashed, and taking the Mayor near to him, with other that
were about him privy to the matter, said unto them softly:
“What meaneth this that the people be so still?” “Sir,"
quoth the Mayor, “perhaps they perceive you not well."
“That shall we amend," quoth he, “if that will help.” And
therewith somewhat louder rehearsed the same matter again,
in other and other words, so well and orderly, and nevertheless
so evidently and plain, with voice, gesture, and countenance so
comely and so convenient, that every man much marvelled that
heard him, and thought that they never heard in their lives so
evil a tale so well told. But were it for fear, or that each
looked that other should speak first, not one word was there
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH. . 263
answered of all the people that stood before, but all were as
still as the midnight, not so much as whispering among them,
by which they might seem once to commune what was best to
do. When the Mayor saw this, he, with other partners of the
Council, drew about the Duke, and said, “that the people had
not been accustomed there to be spoken unto, but by the
Recorder, which is the mouth of the City, and happily to him
they will answer." With that the Recorder, called Thomas
Fitzwilliam, a solid man and an honest, which was but newly come
to the office, and never had spoken to the people before, and
loath he was with that matter to begin, notwithstanding being
thereunto commanded by the Mayor, made a rehearsal to the
Commons of that which the Duke had twice proposed him-
self; but the Recorder so tempered his tale, that he showed
everything as the Duke's words were, and no part of his
own, but all this made no change in the people, which
all as one stood as they had been amazed. Whereupon
the Duke whispered with the Mayor, and said, “this
is a marvellous obstinate silence," and therewith turned
to the people again with these words—“Dear friends, we
come to move you to that thing, which peradventure we greatly
needed not, but that the Lords of this realm, and Commons
of other parts might have sufficed, saving such love we bear
you, and so much set by you, that we would not gladly do
without you, that thing in which to be partners is your weal
and honour, which as to us seemeth, you see not or weigh
not; wherefore we require you to give us an answer, one or the
other, whether ye be minded, as all the nobles of the realm be,
to have this noble prince, now Protector, to be your King?"
And at these words the people began to whisper among
themselves secretly, that the voice was neither loud nor base,
but like a swarm of bees, till at the last, at the nether end
of the Hall, a company of the Duke's servants, and one
Nashfield, and others belonging to the Protector, with some
prentices and lads that thrusted themselves into the Hall
amongst the press, began suddenly at men's backs to cry
out as loud as they could, “King Richard, King Richard,”
742
264
THE PITIFUL LİFE OF
and then threw up their caps in token of joy, and they that
stood before cast back their heads marvelling thereat, but
nothing they said. And when the Duke and the Mayor saw
this manner they wisely turned it to their purpose, and said
it was a goodly cry and a joyful, to hear every man with one
voice, and no man saying nay. “Wherefore friends," quoth
the Duke, “since we perceive that it is all your whole minds
to have this nobleman for your King, whereof we shall make
his Grace so effectual report that we doubt not but that it
shall redound to your great wealth and commodity. We
therefore require you, that to-morrow ye go with us, and we
with you, to his noble Grace, to make our humble petition
and request to him, in manner before remembered."
And therewith the lords came down, and the company dis-
solved and departed, the most part all sad, some with glad
semblance that were not very merry, and some of them that
came with the Duke, not able to disseinble their sorrow, were
fain even at his back, to turn their face to the wall, while the
dolour of their hearts burst out of their eyes.
Then on the morrow the Mayor and Aldermen, and chief
commanders of the laity, in their best manner apparelled,
assembling them together at Paul's, resorted to Baynard's
Castle where the Protector lay, to which place also, according to
the appointment, repaired the Duke of Buckingham, and divers
nobles with him, besides many knights and gentlemen. And
thereupon, the Duke sent word to the Lord Protector, of the
being there of a great honourable company to move a great
matter to his Grace. Whereupon, the Protector made great
difficulty to come down to them, except he knew some part of
their errand, as though he doubted, and partly mistrusted the
company of such a number to him so suddenly, without any
warning or knowledge, whether they came for good or harm.
Then when the Duke had showed this to the Mayor and others,
that they might thereby see how little the Protector looked for
this matter; they sent again by the messenger such loving
message, and therewith so humbly besought him to vouchsafe
that they might resort to his presence to propose their intent,
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
265
of which they would to no other person disclose any part.. At
the last he came out of his chamber, and yet not down to them,
but in a gallery over them, with a bishop on each hand of him,
where they beneath might see him and speak to him, as though
he would not yet come near them, till he knew what they meant.
And thereupon, the Duke of Buckingham first made humble
petition to him on the behalf of them all, that his Grace would
pardon them, and licence them to show unto his Grace the
intent of their coming, without his displeasure, without which
pardon obtained, they durst not be so bold to inove him of that
matter. In which, albeit they meant as much honour to his
Grace, as wealth to all the realm besides, yet were they not sure
how his Grace would take it, whom in no wise they would offend.
Then the Protector, as he was very gentle of himself, and also
longed sore apparently to know what they meant, gave him
leave to deliver his message, verily trusting for the good mind
that he bare unto them all, none of them would intend anything
to his-hurt, wherewith he thought to be grieved.
When the Duke had this leave and pardon to speak, then
waxed he bold to show him their intent and purpose, with all
the causes moving them thereunto, as ye before have heard.
And finally to beseech his Grace, that it would like him of his
accustomed goodness and zeal unto the realm, now with his eye
of pity to behold the long-continued distress and decay of the
same, and set his gracious hand to the redress and amendment
thereof, by taking upon him the crown of the realm according
to his right and title lawfully descended unto him, and to the
laud of God, profit and surety of the land, and unto his Grace
so much the more honour and less pain, in that that never
prince reigned upon any people, that were so glad to live under
his obeisance, as the people of this realm under his.
When the Protector had heard the proposition, he looked
very strangely thereat, and made answer that albeit he knew
partly the things by them alleged to be true, yet such entire
love he bare to King Edward and his children, and much more
regarded his honour in other realms about, than the crown of
any one, of which he was never desirous, for in all other nations
266
THE PITIFUL LIFE OF
where the truth were not well known it should peradventure be
thought that it were his own ambitious mind and device to
depose the Prince, and to take the crown himself; with which
inſamy he would in no wise have his honour stained for any
crown, in which he ever had perceived much more labour and
pain, than pleasure to him, that .so would use it as he that
would not and were not worthy to have it..
Notwithstanding he not only pardoned them of the motion
they made him, but also thanked them for the love and hearty
favour they bare him, praying them for his sake to bear the
same to the Prince, under whom he was and would be content
to live, and with his labour and counsel as far as it should like
the King to use it, he would do his uttermost devoir to set the
realm in good estate which was already in the little time of his
protectorship (praised be God) well begun, in that the malice of
such as were before the occasion of the contrary, and of new
intended to be, were now, partly by good policy, partly more
by God's providence, than man's provision, repressed and put
under.
Upon this answer given, the Duke of Buckingham by the
Protector's licence, a little whispered, as well with other noble-
inen about him, as with the Mayor and Recorder of London.
And aſter that upon like pardon desired and obtained he
showed aloud unto the Protector, for a final conclusion, that
the realm was determined that King Edward's line should no
longer reign over them, both that they had so far gone, that
it was now no surety to retreat (as for that they thought it
the best way for the whole realm, although they had not yet
begun it). Wherefore if it would like his Grace to take the
crown upon him, they would humbly beseech him thereunto,
and if he would give them a resolute answer to the contrary,
(which they would be loath to hear) then must they seek, and
should not fail to find some other nobleman that would. These
words niuch moved the Protector, which as every man of small
intelligence may judge, would never have inclined thereto; but
when he saw there was no other way but that he must take it,
or else he and his both to go from it, he said to Lords
KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
267
and Commons, “Since it is, we perceive well that all the realm
is so set (whereof we be very sorry) that they will not suffer
in any wise King Edward his line to govern them, whom no
man earthly can govern against their wills. And we also
perceive that there is no man to whom the crown can by so
just title appertain as to ourself, as very right heir lawfully
begotten of the body of our most dread and dear father
Richard late Duke of York, to which title is now joined your
election, Nobles and Commons of the realm, which we of all
titles possibly take for most effectual, we' be content and agree
favourably to incline to your petition and request, and according
to the same, here we take upon us the royal estate of pre-
eminence and kingdom of the two noble realms, England and
France, the one from this day forward by us and our heirs to
rule, govern, and defend, the other, by God his grace, and your
good help to get again, subdue and establish for ever in due
obedience unto this realm of England, the advancement whereof,
we never ask of God longer to live than we intend to procure
and set forth.” With this there was a great cry and shout,
crying, “ King Richard," and so the Lords went up to the King,
and so he was after that day so called. But the people departed,
talking diversely of the matter, every man as his fantasy gave
him, but much they marvelled of this manner of delaying,
that the manner was on both parts made so strange, as
though never the one part had communed with the other
part thereof before, when they knew that there was no man
so dull that heard them, but he perceived well enough
that all the matter was made between them. Howbeit, some
excused that again, saying, all things must be done in good
order, and men must sometimes for the manner sake not be
known what they know. For at the consecration of a bishop,
every man perceiveth by payment of his bulls that he intendeth
to be one, yet when he is twice asked whether he will be a
bishop, he must twice say nay, and at the third time take it
upon him as compelled thereto by his own will. And in a
stage-play, the people know right well that he that playeth the
Soldan, is perhaps a cobbler, yet if one of his acquaintance,
268 LIFE OF KING EDWARD THE FIFTH.
perhaps of little nurture, should call him by his name while he
standeth in his majesty, one of his tormentors might fortune to
break his head for marring the play, And so they said, these
matters be Kings' games, as it were stage-plays, and for the
most part played upon scaffolds, in which the poor men be but
they that step up with them, when they cannot play their parts,
they disorder the play, and do themselves no good.
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GOLDSMITH. Ed. by W. Tirebuck. PARADISE REGAINED.
MACKAY'S LOVE LETTERS. Edited by J. Bradshaw, M.A., LL.D.
SPENSIR. Edited by Hon. R. Noel. CRABBE, Edited by E. Lamplough.
CHILDREN OF THE POETS. DORA GRLENWELL.
Edited by Eric S. Robertson.
Edited by William Dorling.
JONSON, Edited by J. A. Symonds. FAUST. Edited by E. Craigmyle.
BYRON (2 Vols.) Ed.by M. Blind
AMERICAN SONNETS.
THE SONNETS OF CUROPE.
Edited by William Sharp.
Edited by S. Waddington.
LANDOR'S POEMS.
RAMSAY. Ed by J. L. Robertson.
Selected and Edited by E. Radford,
DOBELL. Edited by Mrs. Dobell,
DAYS OF THE YEAR.
GREEK ANTHOLOGY
With Introduction by Wm. Sharp.
Edited by Graham R. Tomson.
POPE. Edited by John Hogben,
HUNT AND HOOD.
HEINE. Edited by Mrs. Kroeker.
Edited by J. Harwood Panting,
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER, HUMOROUS POEMS.
Edited by J. S. Fletcher.
Edited by Ralph H, Caine.
BOWLES, LAMB, &c.
LYTTON'S PLAYS.
Edited by William Tirebuck.
Edited by R. F. Sharp.


London : WALTER SCOTT, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row.

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UNIV, OG MICH:
NOV 29 1907

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