Cutljolir jltemories of tljf Comer of foit&oit 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
 I. BISHOP FISHER. II. SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 BEING TIIE SUBSTANCE OF TWO LECTURES 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE TEMPORARY CHURCH OF THE ENGLISH 
 MARTYRS, TOWER HILL, 
 
 BY 
 
 Yery Rev. ROBERT COOKE, 
 
 PROV. O.M.I, 
 
 Uitjj aw 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 BISHOP FISHER’S SPIRITUAL CONSOLATION TO HIS SISTER WRITTEN IN 
 THE TOWER ON THE EYE OF HIS MARTYRDOM. 
 
 LONDON : BURNS AND OAT^S, 
 
 Portman Street and Paternoster Row, 
 
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 1875. : . 
 
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 I. BISHOP FISHER. 
 
 The Tower of London, considered as a fortress, a 
 palace, and a prison, has attached to it historical 
 reminiscences fraught with the deepest interest. 
 Blended with its general history there are memories 
 which possess a special attraction for the. Catholic 
 mind. The Catholic traditions of the Tower present 
 to us some of the fairest and brightest, as well as 
 gome of the saddest yet the most glorious, records of 
 that ancient monument. For centuries, at various 
 intervals, many of the kings and queens of England 
 resided therein. There King Stephen kept court 
 during the festival of Whitsuntide. There Henry 
 III., third founder of Westminster Abbey, spent con- 
 siderable portions of the year with his family. On 
 such occasions large distributions of food and clothing 
 to the poor were frequently made at the gates, and 
 the royal children w^ere often employed, under the 
 encouraging eyes of their parents, in ministering with 
 their youthful hands food and raiment to the poor 
 members of Jesus Christ. During one of the periods 
 of her residence at the Tower, Eleanor of Provence, 
 wife of Henry III., refounded St. Katherine’s Hospital.* 
 
 * The heart of Queen Eleanor was conveyed by her son Edward 
 I. from the convent of Ambresbury, where she died, to the church 
 of the Nuns of St. Clare, commonly called the Minories, near the 
 Tower, where it was honourably interred in presence of a great mul- 
 titude on the feast of St. Nicholas. 
 
 y 
 
4 
 
 In the year 1223, the King of Jerusalem, John de 
 Brienne, and the Grand Master of the Knights Hos- 
 pitallers, haying come to England to seek aid for the 
 relief of the Holy Land against the Saracens, were 
 received with splendid hospitality at the Tower, 
 where they stayed for some months. At an earlier 
 date we find St. Thomas of Canterbury living in the 
 Tower, on his being named Constable of that royal 
 residence. 
 
 I hasten to speak of a pageant which would seem 
 to close the bright Catholic memories of the Tower of 
 London, and to introduce others of a more sorrowful, 
 but of a holier and grander type. Henceforward, to 
 Catholic eyes and hearts, it will cease to be simply 
 the abode of kings and warriors, only to be looked 
 upon as a shrine sanctified by the memory of holy 
 martyrs. Its vaults and dungeons will be trodden 
 with uncovered head and reverent step, as are those of 
 the Catacombs, for they will recall deeds of Christian 
 heroism as glorious as those recorded in early times. 
 
 On the morning of the 23d of June 1509, a mar- 
 riage procession issued forth from the Tower; it was 
 that of the youthful Henry and the chaste and beautiful 
 Princess Katherine of Aragon. From hence it went 
 forth through the streets of London. The inhabitants 
 of Cornhill, as the richest citizens, displayed cloth of 
 gold. Along that street, to the ’Change, the way was 
 lined with young maidens dressed in virgin white, 
 bearing palms of white wax in their hands. Priests 
 in rich robes censed the queen’s procession with silver 
 censers as it passed. Of all the pageants ever devised 
 for royalty this was the most ideal and beautiful. Thus 
 speaks a modern biographer of Katherine of Aragon. 
 
 Could any one of those who saw that bright mar- 
 
5 
 
 riage procession coming forth from the gates of the 
 Tower have looked into the near future, what strange 
 contrasts would he not have beheld ! He would have 
 seen, as the direct sequences of that feast, other pro- 
 cessions coming also from thence and ascending the 
 hill of the Tower — the processions of martyrs on the 
 way to the place of their martyrdom ; he would have 
 seen their faces bright as that of the bridegroom, and 
 he would have heard them singing the marriage song. 
 Foremost amongst that happy crowd of blessed mar- 
 tyrs, he would have beheld an aged Bishop, tall and 
 venerable, and bowed under the weight of fourscore 
 years — the glorious Fisher, who suffered death on 
 Tower Hill for refusing to deny that Katherine, the 
 pure and holy, was Henry’s lawful wedded wife ; and 
 for maintaining, in spite of the royal usurpations, the 
 ecclesiastical supremacy of the Holy See. 
 
 As centuries pass by, our Lord, as Redeemer and 
 Saviour of men, would seem to reappear on earth in 
 certain holy personages, who rise up one by one, as 
 the world needs them, to save a nation or an epoch 
 from entire perdition and utter darkness. Such a 
 blessed appearance in his day was John Fisher, Bishop 
 of Rochester. He was born at Beverley in Yorkshire. 
 His early education was conducted by a holy priest, 
 who was attached to the collegiate church of that 
 town. He made rapid progress in his elementary 
 studies, and at a proper age was transferred to Cam- 
 bridge. He soon became a shining light in that uni- 
 versity ; rapidly he rose to its highest honours, until 
 at last we find him named its perpetual Chancellor. 
 He was the first on whom this great distinction had 
 been conferred. In the mean time Fisher was ordained 
 priest. This period of his life was marked by his pro- 
 
found study of the sacred Scriptures, and of the 
 writings of the Fathers. Hitherto he seems to have 
 lived within the secluded circle of literature and 
 piety ; but so great a light was not to be hidden under 
 a bushel. God was to call him forth to become a 
 guide of souls, a benefactor to the poor, a light to 
 the clergy, and a noble confessor of the faith. One 
 of the first who recognised his rare merits as a 
 director of souls, was the illustrious Princess Margaret, 
 Countess of Richmond, mother of the then reigning 
 monarch, Henry YII. This virtuous lady was pos- 
 sessed of great wealth, which she resolved to employ 
 in good works. Fisher was her chosen guide in the 
 exercise of her charities, and marvellous were the fruits 
 of a benevolence thus wisely directed. Under the 
 prompting of Fisher, she devoted large sums to such 
 works as feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, 
 paying the debts of poor prisoners, sheltering orphans, 
 giving marriage portions to virtuous young women, 
 founding hospitals and asylums for various forms of 
 human infirmity. But the piercing glance of Fisher’s 
 mind discovered another evil, which was descending 
 gradually as a death-pall upon the whole nation : it 
 was the increasing ignorance in matters of science 
 and religion of all classes of society, the clergy as 
 well as the laity, the noble and the plebeian. What 
 loftier charity than that of substituting light for this 
 coming darkness ? To this grand form of benevolence 
 Fisher devoted himself, and generously was he 
 seconded by the Princess Margaret. Schools and 
 colleges were established by their joint cooperation. 
 Two new colleges were founded at Cambridge — Christ 
 Church and St. John the Evangelist’s ; to Christ’s 
 College Fisher was a large benefactor, and he was 
 
7 
 
 chosen its visitor for life. Many of the martyrs and 
 confessors of the faith in the sixteenth century came 
 forth from this seminary; amongst whom may be 
 mentioned Richard, Reginald, and William Exmew, 
 who suffered martyrdom the same year and for the 
 same cause as Fisher ; and Richard Hall, the biographer 
 of the prelate, who, having studied at Christ’s College, 
 died at Cambrai, whither he fled in order freely to 
 practise his religion. Lady Margaret, acting under 
 the advice of Fisher, commenced the foundation of 
 the College of St. John the Evangelist at Cambridge, 
 but she died before she could complete the undertak- 
 ing. The task was taken in hand by Fisher, who, out 
 of his own resources, and by imposing great priva- 
 tions on himself, was enabled to accomplish the object 
 so dear to his heart. In 1516 he blessed the new 
 college and published its statutes, which he himself 
 had drawn up; and to it he left by will his library, 
 which was considered to contain the largest and most 
 precious collection of books in possession of any pre- 
 late of that day. It was chiefly to Fisher’s instru- 
 mentality that was due the introduction at Cam- 
 bridge of the study of Greek and Hebrew ; and at his 
 own expense he founded the first chairs of these lan- 
 guages in the university. But whilst thus occupied 
 in the promotion of classical and linguistic knowledge, 
 he did not neglect to labour for the advancement of 
 the higher science of Scripture and divinity. Aided 
 by the Princess Margaret, he established at Oxford 
 and Cambridge divinity professorships, named after 
 the benefactress, the Lady Margaret’s, for the expound- 
 ing of Holy Scripture and the instruction of young 
 preachers. Not content with these foundations, the 
 zeal of Fisher would fain embrace the whole kingdom 
 
8 
 
 in its grasp. He mourned over the decay of piety 
 throughout the land, which he knew arose in the 
 main from the neglect of the appointed shepherds to 
 feed their flocks with the food of heavenly instruction. 
 With the view of remedying this evil in some mea- 
 sure, he obtained from the Holy See a precious right 
 for the University of Cambridge, that of sending 
 forth every year twelve chosen preachers, authorised 
 by apostolic indult to announce the divine word to 
 clergy and people in every part of the three kingdoms ; 
 the only preliminary condition required, being the con- 
 sent of the rectors in whose churches they preached. The 
 Council of Lateran having been convoked, Fisher was 
 chosen to be the representative of the University of 
 Cambridge thereat: Erasmus was to have accom- 
 panied him to Kome on that occasion, but they had 
 scarcely set forth on their journey, when they were 
 recalled by order of the King. 
 
 The bishopric of Rochester becoming vacant, 
 Henry VII. cast his eyes upon Fisher as the future 
 occupant of that ancient see, which had been founded 
 by St. Augustine,, the Apostle of England, in the 
 year 604. Pope Julius III. confirmed the King’s 
 choice, and in the forty-fifth year of his age, in 
 October 1504, the humble professor of Cambridge 
 became Bishop of Rochester. During thirty years 
 he ruled that diocese with the pastoral statf of the 
 good shepherd, who was ever ready to give his life 
 for his flock ; his episcopate was one unbroken act of 
 pastoral zeal; his love for the poor was his most 
 marked characteristic. He had fixed days for visiting 
 the hospitals and prisons of his diocese ; and on such 
 occasions he distributed abundant alms, and addressed 
 the unfortunate inmates in words of tender consola- 
 
9 
 
 tion and instruction. He also frequently visited the 
 poor in their homes, especially in their times of sick- 
 ness or domestic trouble. All looked up to him as to 
 a father to help them in their distress, and to counsel 
 and guide them in their perplexities. In his own 
 house he exercised a generous hospitality ; men of 
 letters from every country found a welcome under 
 his roof. Erasmus was his frequent guest. Young 
 men of limited means who aimed at literary progress, 
 especially poor students of Cambridge, found in him 
 always a generous patron and friend. He was ever 
 ready to take part in works of public utility, and he 
 bore the chief expense in the construction of a bridge 
 at Rochester. But these external occupations did not 
 in any way interfere with the full discharge of his 
 duties as a Bishop. He loved his diocese as the 
 mystic bride to which God had wedded him, and 
 from which he resolved never in life to be willingly 
 separated. Richer sees were offered to him, but he 
 constantly refused to accept them, playfully saying, 
 c I am not willing to be divorced from my present 
 wife, who hath no fault but her poverty.’ He loved 
 to dwell in the midst of his people in Rochester, and 
 dreaded the precincts of the court, complaining bit- 
 terly whenever he was called away to take part in 
 some court ceremony, from which he could not ab- 
 sent himself without giving offence to those in high 
 places. He was not insensible of the dangers which 
 were then threatening England’s Catholicity. The 
 great edifice which had stood for well-nigh a thou- 
 sand years was, alas, becoming rotten in its founda- 
 tions. Its Bishops were courtiers and not the true 
 shepherds of their flocks; hence their fall en masse 
 when the storm of apostasy rose and the floodgates 
 
10 
 
 were opened. With prophet-like boldness Fisher, in 
 Convocation, addressed himself to his peers: ‘My 
 Lords,’ said he, ‘what have we to do with the courts 
 of Kings? If we are in love with majesty, is there a 
 greater excellence than that God whom we serve? 
 If we are in love with stately buildings, are there 
 higher roofs than our cathedrals ? If with apparel, 
 is there a greater ornament than that of our priest- 
 hood ? or is there better company than communion 
 with the Saints ? I think it is necessary that we who 
 are the heads should give example to the inferior 
 clergy, that we may be all better conformable to the 
 image of God.’ This holy prelate, in his own house, 
 gave the example of every episcopal and Christian 
 virtue ; he led a life of continual prayer and self- 
 denial ; he was always watchful over the interests of 
 souls; but the most striking trait in his beautiful 
 character was his indomitable courage in defending 
 the rights of justice and truth. An opportunity was 
 to be given him of displaying this noble virtue before 
 the eyes of all the world. 
 
 In the early period of his reign, Henry VIII. 
 looked up to Fisher as a father. The Countess of 
 Richmond, the King’s grandmother, had on her 
 deathbed recommended the youthful monarch to the 
 special spiritual care of the holy prelate. Henry 
 used to boast that no monarch in Christendom could 
 vaunt himself on having in his dominions a prelate 
 more learned, wise, and holy than the Bishop of 
 Rochester. 
 
 Twenty years of the married life of Henry had 
 now elapsed. Nothing had occurred to disturb the 
 harmony of his relations with his chaste and holy 
 wife Katherine, until in an evil hour the eye of the 
 
11 
 
 monarch fell upon Anne Boleyn, one of the Queen’s 
 maids of honour. The sequel is well known, and 
 needs no repetition here, further than what is re- 
 quired to illustrate the noble traits of character dis- 
 closed on the part of the venerable Bishop of Ro- 
 chester, amidst the sad and terrible events of that 
 period. Henry was bent on legalising, before the 
 Church and the world, his adulterous intercourse with 
 Anne Boleyn. Katherine was to be despoiled of her 
 title of wife and queen; and in her stead Anne was 
 to be raised to the throne and acclaimed as Queen of 
 England. This iniquity was resisted at Rome ; but, 
 alas, all the Bishops of England, with one glorious 
 exception, seconded the designs of Henry. Threats 
 and bribes and promises had been freely and success- 
 fully employed by that tyrant prince, in gaining over 
 to the side of his guilty designs against the rights of 
 the best of queens and the purest of wives, not only 
 the vast majority of the commons and nobles and 
 judges, but also the whole episcopal body of Eng- 
 land, with the exception of Fisher, Bishop of Roches- 
 ter. This holy and courageous prelate openly and 
 generously espoused the cause of the wronged and 
 injured Katherine, having a consciousness, from what 
 he knew of the passions of Henry, that thereby he 
 was exposing himself to the forfeiture, not only of 
 liberty, but also of life. 
 
 On the 18th June 1529, Fisher appeared as the 
 advocate of Katherine in the great hall of the palace 
 of Black Friars. The King and Queen were present. 
 The court was presided over by Wolsey and Cam- 
 peggio, the Cardinal-legates. When Katherine Queen 
 of England was cited : she made the circuit of the 
 court to the place where the King sat, and kneeling 
 
before him, said in broken English : 4 Sir, I beseech 
 you, for all the love there hath been between us, and 
 for the love of God, let me have some right and jus- 
 tice ; take of me some pity and compassion, for I am 
 a poor stranger, born out of your dominions. I have 
 here no unprejudiced counsellor, and I flee to you 
 as to the head of justice within your realm. Alas, 
 alas, wherein have I offended you ? I take God and 
 all the world to witness that I have been to you a 
 true, humble, and obedient wife, ever conformable 
 to your will and pleasure. I loved all those you 
 loved only for your sake, whether they were my 
 friends or mine enemies. These twenty years have I 
 been your true wife, and by me ye have had divers 
 children, although it has pleased God to call them 
 cut of this world, which has been no fault of mine. 
 I put it to your conscience, whether I came not to 
 you a maid. If you have since found any dishonour 
 in my conduct, then I am content to depart, albeit 
 to my great shame and disparagement. But if none 
 there be, then I beseech you thus lowlily to let me 
 remain in my proper state. Most humbly do I re- 
 quire of you, in the way of charity and for the love 
 of God, who is the just Judge of all, to spare me the 
 sentence of this new court. If ye will not extend to 
 me this favour, your pleasure be fulfilled, and to God 
 do I commit my cause.’ With that, making a low 
 obeisance to the King, she departed from the court, 
 leaving behind her many sad hearts and weeping eyes. 
 
 Henry, perceiving the impression produced by 
 the pathetic appeal of Katherine, commenced one of 
 his hypocritical orations, in which he said: ‘Foras- 
 much as the Queen is now gone, I will declare in her 
 absence before you all, that she has ever been to me as 
 
13 
 
 true, obedient, and conformable a wife, as I could 
 wish or any man desire to have, having all the vir- 
 tuous qualities that ought to be in a woman of her 
 dignity; so that if I sought all Europe over I should 
 never find a better wife. But conscience, conscience 
 is such a thing ! Who can endure the sting and 
 prick of conscience? Therefore, my Lords, I thought 
 good, for the relieving of my conscience, to know by 
 your good and learned counsel whether I might law- 
 fully take another wife, by whom God may send me 
 issue male.’ 
 
 No Bishop present but one dared to oppose the 
 designs of the King. The noble Fisher boldly, under 
 the frown of royalty, pleaded the cause of Katherine, 
 and stood up against the proposal of Henry. The 
 King, darting an angry look on the intrepid prelate, 
 exclaimed: 4 Well, well, my lord of Rochester, it 
 makes no great matter ; we will not stand with you 
 in argument. You are but one amongst the rest, 
 if the worst fall out.’ A judgment was soon to fall 
 on the episcopal body of England, for abandoning 
 thus collectively the cause of outraged justice and 
 innocence, in order to please a wicked king ; its 
 candlestick was to be removed from its place; its 
 Catholicity was to depart from it. 
 
 Henry’s hopes of obtaining the consent of the 
 Holy See to a divorce from Katherine, and to his 
 marriage with Anne Boleyn, having entirely failed, 
 he abandoned himself to a violent hatred of Rome, 
 and vowed vengeance against Clement, who had re- 
 fused to grant the dispensation, and had further de- 
 clared his marriage with Katherine true and valid. 
 It was then that the idea of aspiring to become him- 
 self the head of the Church, in all things spiritual as 
 
14 
 
 well as temporal, took shape in his mind. We will 
 allow Hall to relate how the King was led to form 
 and entertain a project so extraordinary. 
 
 ‘ The King being at that time at a place called St. 
 Osyth, near Colchester, this passage happened: Mr. 
 Cranmer, a Master of Arts and Fellow of Jesus Col- 
 lege, Cambridge, being at the same time retired into 
 that country with one of his pupils, when hearing 
 some of the attendants of the King declaring how 
 discontentedly he behaved himself, insomuch that he 
 would hardly suffer any man to come near him, said, 
 44 Gentlemen, if the King knew but his own power, 
 there would be no cause left for discontentment, but 
 rather a way paved for all manner of satisfaction. 
 For if the King rightly understood his own office, 
 neither Pope nor any potentate whatsoever, neither 
 in causes civil or ecclesiastical, hath anything to do 
 with him or any of his actions within his own realm 
 and dominion ; but he himself, under God, hath su- 
 preme government in this land in all causes whatso- 
 ever. And this I am able to make good against any 
 man living.” One of the courtiers hearing this, and 
 knowing it to be a speech agreeable to the King’s 
 temper, said unto Cranmer, u I tell thee, scholar, the 
 King shall not sleep until I have told him what thou 
 hast said; and if thou canst make true thy words, 
 for aught I know in time thou mayst be a Bishop.” 
 Whereupon he hastens to the court to speak with 
 the King. It was late in the evening before he could 
 find his opportunity, but at last he found it ; and 
 when he related to the King what such a man had 
 said, and what he would undertake, the King swore 
 by his wonted oath, “ Mother of God, that man hath 
 the right sow by the ear. I shall not go to bed till 
 
15 
 
 I speak to him;” commanding the same party to 
 bring Cranmer to him with all speed.’ 
 
 The daring and sacrilegious project of declaring 
 himself head of the Church had now fully entered the 
 mind of Henry. In his supremacy he saw an easy 
 road to become possessed of all the goods of the 
 Church, and to grant to himself what dispensations 
 he liked for the indulgence of his passions. He re- 
 solved to demand at once of the Bishops, to acknow- 
 ledge him as the head of the Church in England. 
 
 o o 
 
 Convocation was assembled by his orders to discuss, 
 as he declared, a matter of great importance. When 
 the Bishops were assembled, the object for which he 
 had called them together was made known to them ; 
 namely, that they should acknowledge him to be the 
 supreme head of the Church. This amazing proposal 
 was introduced on the part of the King by Sir Thomas 
 Audley, of infamous memory, with a mixture of royal 
 threats and promises. The Bishops were panic- 
 stricken. For a while all remained silent. At last 
 Fisher rose, and addressed the assembled Convoca- 
 tion in these bold and noble words : 
 
 4 My Lords, it is true we are under the King’s 
 lash, and stand in need of the King’s good favour 
 and clemency. Yet this argues not that we should 
 therefore do that which will render us both ridiculous 
 and contemptible to all the Christian world, and hissed 
 out of the society of God’s Holy Catholic Church. 
 For what good will that be to us, to keep the posses- 
 sion of our houses and cloisters and convents, and to 
 lose the society of the Christian world, to preserve 
 our goods and to lose our consciences? Wherefore, 
 my Lords, I pray let us consider what we do, and 
 what it is we are to grant, or whether it lieth in our 
 
16 
 
 power to grant what the King requireth at our 
 hands, or whether the King be an apt person to re- 
 ceive this ; that so we may go wisely to work, and not 
 like men who had lost all honesty and wit together 
 with their worldly fortune. What is the supremacy 
 of the Church which we are to give unto the King ? 
 It is to exercise the supremacy of the Church in 
 chief, which, according to all that ever I have learned, 
 both in the Gospel and through the whole course of 
 divinity, mainly consists in these points: Firstly, 
 in loosing and binding sinners according to that which 
 our Saviour said unto St. Peter when He ordained 
 him head of His Church, To thee 1 will give the keys of 
 the kingdom of heaven. Now, my Lords, can we say 
 unto the King, To thee I will give the keys of the 
 kingdom of heaven ? If you say, Aye, where is your 
 w r arrant? If you say, No, then you have answered 
 yourselves that you cannot put such keys into his 
 hands. Secondly, the supreme government of the 
 Church consists in feeding Christ’s sheep and lambs 
 according to our Saviour’s promise unto Peter, of 
 making him His universal shepherd. Christ gave to 
 Peter unlimited jurisdiction when He said, Feed My 
 lambs ; and not only so, but feed those who are the 
 feeders of My lambs —feed My sheep. Now r , my Lords, 
 can any of us say to the King, Pasce oves — Feed my 
 lambs, feed my sheep ? God has given to His Church 
 some to be apostles, some evangelists, some pastors, 
 some doctors, that they might edify the body of 
 Christ ; so that you must make the King one of these, 
 before you can set him one over these. And when 
 you have made him one of these supreme heads of 
 the Church, he must be such a head as may be answer- 
 able to all the members of Christ’s body. It is not the 
 
17 
 
 few ministers of an island that must constitute a head 
 over the universe ; or at least, by such example, we 
 must allow as many heads over the Church as there 
 are sovereign powers in Christ’s dominions. What 
 then will become of the supremacy? Attendite vobis : 
 Take heed to yourselves , and to the whole flock, wherein 
 the Holy Ghost hath placed you Bishops to rule the Church 
 of God , was not said to Kings but to Bishops. We can- 
 not grant this unto the King, without renouncing our 
 unity with the See of Rome. In doing this, we should 
 forsake the first four General Councils. We should 
 thereby renounce all canonical and ecclesiastical laws 
 of the Church of Christ. We renounce thereby the 
 unity of the Christian world ; and we so leap out of 
 Peter’s ship to be drowned in the waves of all heresies, 
 sects, schisms, and divisions. The first General 
 Council acknowledged the authority of Silvester, 
 Bishop of Rome, by sending their decrees to be rati- 
 fied by him. The Council of Constantinople did ac- 
 knowledge Pope Damasus to be their chief, by admit- 
 ting him to give sentence against the heretics Mace- 
 donia and Sabellius. The Council of Ephesus ad- 
 mitted Pope Celestine to be their chief judge, by ad- 
 mitting his condemnation on the heretic Nestorius. 
 The Council of Chalcedon admitted Pope Leo to be 
 their chief head; and all General Councils of the 
 world admitted the Pope of Rome only to be the 
 supreme head of the Church. And now shall we ac- 
 knowledge another head? or one head to be in En^- 
 land, and another in Rome ? By this argument Herod 
 must have been the head of the Church of the Jews; 
 Nero must have been the head of the Church of 
 Christ. The King’s majesty is not susceptible of this 
 donation. Ozias, for meddling with the priest’s office, 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 was thrust out of the Temple, and smitten with le- 
 prosy. King David, when bringing home the ark of 
 God, did he so much as touch the ark or execute the 
 least priestly function? All good Christian emperors 
 have ever refused ecclesiastical authority. For at the 
 first General Council of Nice, certain bills were previ- 
 ously brought unto Constantine to be confirmed by 
 his authority ; but he ordered them to be burnt, say- 
 ing, “ God hath ordained you priests, and given you 
 power to j udge over us.” V alentine, the good emperor, 
 was required by the Bishops to be present with them to 
 reform the heresy of the Arians. He answered : u As 
 I am one of the lay people, it is not lawful for me to 
 define such controversies, but let the priests, to whom 
 God has*given charge thereof, assemble when they will 
 in due order.” Theodosius, writing to the Council of 
 Ephesus, saith it is not lawful for him that is not of 
 the holy order of Bishops to intermeddle with eccle- 
 siastical matters. And now shall we cause our King 
 to be head of the Church, when all good Kings have 
 abhorred the very least thought thereof, and so many 
 wicked Kings have been plagued for so doing? Truly, 
 my Lords, I think they are his best friends who dis- 
 suade him from it; and he would be the worst enemy 
 to himself if he should obtain it. Lastly, if this 
 thing be, farewell to all unity of Christendom. For, 
 as that holy and blessed martyr St. Cyprian saith, 
 all unity depends upon that Holy See as upon the 
 authority of St. Peter’s successors; for, saith the 
 same holy father, all heresies, sects, and schisms have 
 no other rise but this, that men will not be obedient 
 to the chief Bishop. And now for us to shake off our 
 communion with that Church, either we must grant 
 the Church of Rome to be the Church of God, or else 
 
19 
 
 a malignant Church. If you answer she is of God, 
 and a Church where Christ is truly taught, and His 
 sacraments rightly administered, how can we forsake, 
 how can we fly from such a Church ? Certainly we 
 ought to be with, and not to separate ourselves from, 
 such a one. If we answer that the Church of Rome 
 is not of God, but a malignant Church, then it will 
 follow that we, the inhabitants of this land, have not 
 as yet received the true faith of Christ ; seeing that 
 we have not received any other Gospel, any other 
 doctrine, any other sacraments, than what we have 
 received from her, as most evidently appears by all 
 the ecclesiastical histories. Wherefore, if she be a 
 malignant Church, we have been deceived all this 
 while. And if to renounce the common Father of 
 Christendom and all the General Councils, be to for- 
 sake the unity of the Christian world, then the grant- 
 ing of the supremacy of the Church unto the King is 
 a renouncing of this unity, a tearing of the seamless 
 coat of Christ in sunder, a dividing of the mystical 
 body of Christ, His spouse, limb from limb, and tail 
 to tail, like Sampson’s foxes, to set the field of Christ’s 
 Holy Church all on fire. And this it is which we are 
 about. Wherefore let it be said unto you in time, 
 and not too late, Look you to that.’ 
 
 The words of the holy Bishop produced a profound 
 impression on the whole Convocation. The proposal 
 to vote the supremacy of the King was rejected for that 
 time. But Henry was not to be baffled. He sent his 
 orators to the Convocation House to put its members 
 in mind of the danger they were in, and to acquaint 
 them with the King’s heavy displeasure. Henry, find- 
 ing his threats not producing the desired results, had 
 recourse to smiles and promises. The Bishops were 
 
20 
 
 summoned to meet him in his palace at Westminster. 
 At their first entrance into his presence, he cast upon 
 them a most gracious look, and spoke to them in the 
 softest and most winning words he could use, pro- 
 mising never to abuse his authority, if his supremacy 
 over the Church were admitted. ‘Wherefore,’ said he, 
 ‘having made you this frank promise, I expect that 
 you shall deal with me accordingly.’ 
 
 At the next assembly of the Bishops, Fisher dis- 
 cussed the promises of the King in these words : ‘ It 
 is true the King was graciously pleased to protest thus 
 and thus. What if the King should alter his mind ? 
 Where is our remedy ? What if a woman succeed to 
 the crown ? Must she be head of the Church ? What 
 if an infant should succeed? Can he be head? This 
 were not only to make the Church no Church, but 
 the Scripture no Scripture, and at last Jesus to be no 
 Christ.’ 
 
 In the mean time, a law was passed declaring 
 Henry head of the Church. An oath was also framed, 
 embodying his supremacy in all things, spiritual as 
 well as temporal, in his dominions ; and also declaring 
 the validity of his marriage with Anne Boleyn. This 
 oath was to be pressed especially on Bishops and per- 
 sons of distinction. Fisher was summoned to appear 
 at Lambeth before the Commissioners appointed for 
 administering this oath. The Commissioners were 
 Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury ; Cromwell, Secre- 
 tary of State ; and Audley, Lord Chancellor. On re- 
 ceiving this summons, the holy Bishop felt that the 
 hour, to which he had been looking forward, of suf- 
 fering for Jesus Christ, and for the cause of truth and 
 justice, had now come. He had a presentiment of what 
 was going to happen, and felt that his life was aimed 
 
21 
 
 at. Before starting on his journey, he made his will, 
 and left legacies to several charities. On his depar- 
 ture, a great crowd, representing all classes in his be- 
 loved city of Rochester, followed him weeping, and 
 accompanied him for some miles. They felt that they 
 would never again see their holy Bishop and father. 
 When he arrived at Lambeth, he and Sir Thomas 
 More, who had also been summoned to take the oath, 
 met one another at the entrance to the Archbishop’s 
 palace. Sir Thomas accosted the Bishop thus: ‘Well 
 met, my Lord; I hope we shall meet in heaven.’ To 
 which the Bishop replied : 4 This should be the way, 
 Sir Thomas, for it is a very strait gate we are in.’ 
 When he appeared before the Commission, he was 
 asked, in the name of the King, to subscribe to the 
 oath. He read over attentively the form of the oath, 
 and then asked to be granted some days for its more 
 careful perusal. Five days were allowed to him. This 
 delay having expired, he appeared again before the 
 Commissioners. He then said that if he were allowed 
 to modify the form of the oath on certain points, he 
 might be able to subscribe to it with security to his 
 conscience, and thus meet the wishes of the King. 
 The Commissioners answered that the King would 
 not permit any modification, and that the oath should 
 be subscribed to as it stood. Then Cranmer said to 
 him in a stern voice, 4 My Lord of Rochester, you 
 must answer directly, whether you will or will not 
 subscribe to the oath.’ Upon which the Bishop re- 
 plied firmly, 4 If you will needs have me answer di- 
 rectly, my answer is, that, forasmuch as my con- 
 science cannot be satisfied, I absolutely refuse the 
 oath.’ As a consequence of this refusal, the holy 
 Bishop was committed prisoner to the Tower on the 
 
22 
 
 26th of April 1534. Henry still hoped, however, 
 to conquer his resistance. By his orders several mem- 
 bers of the Privy Council visited the aged prelate in 
 his dungeon, for the purpose of persuading him to take 
 the obnoxious oath, and thus recover the King’s friend- 
 ship. To their solicitations he made reply : ‘ My very 
 good friends, and some of you my old acquaintances, 
 I know you wish me no hurt, but a great deal of good. 
 I do believe that, on the terms you speak of, I might 
 have the King’s favour as much as ever. Wherefore, 
 if you can answer me one question, I will perform all 
 your desires.’ 4 What is that, my lord?’ said one and 
 all of them. ‘It is this,’ answered the Bishop : ‘ what 
 will it gain a man to w T in the whole world and to lose 
 his own soul?’ 
 
 On another occasion, a large number of Bishops 
 were sent by Henry to visit Fisher in prison, for the 
 purpose of shaking his constancy, and inducing him 
 to conform to the views and wishes of the King on the 
 subject of his divorce from Katherine. Fisher was 
 deeply grieved on beholding members of his own order 
 thus openly espousing the cause of injustice, and acting 
 as the mere creatures of Henry’s unlawful designs. In 
 sad and solemn tones, he replied to their unworthy 
 manoeuvres : ‘ My Lords, it doth wound me grievously 
 that I should be so urged by you, whom this business 
 concerns as much as it does me. Alas, I do but de- 
 fend your cause, whilst you so plead against your- 
 selves. It would better become us all to stick to- 
 gether, in repressing the violences and injuries which 
 daily are obtruded on our Holy Mother the Catholic 
 Church, whom we have all in common, than thus 
 divided among yourselves to help on the mischief. 
 But I see judgment is begun at the house of God ; and 
 
23 
 
 I see no hope, if we fall, that the rest will stand. You 
 see we are betrayed on every side, and that the citadel 
 is betrayed by those who should defend it. Since we 
 have made no better resistance, we are not the men 
 that shall see an end of these calamities. Wherefore, I 
 pray, leave me to Almighty God, in whom only there 
 is comfort, which no man can deprive me of. And for 
 that you have so often told me of the King’s heavy dis- 
 pleasure against me, I pray remember my duty to his 
 grace. Tell him I had rather exercise the duty I owe 
 unto his grace in praying for him, than in pleasing him 
 in this kind.’ Such solemn touching words should 
 have opened the eyes, and reached the hearts of these 
 time-serving prelates. Alas, they had implicated 
 themselves too far to retrace their steps. They were 
 unwilling to exchange the smiles of the King and their 
 palatial homes for the monarch’s high displeasure and 
 a dungeon in the Tower, as fellow -captives of the 
 noble Fisher. Some of those Bishops became after- 
 wards the fiercest abettors of that persecution, which 
 was about to burst over the heads of the faithful 
 Catholics of the kingdom. 
 
 During the early part of the good Bishop’s im- 
 prisonment, he was treated with some degree of con- 
 sideration ; this was continued so long as the hope re- 
 mained of winning him by promises and flattery to the 
 King’s unholy projects. In this period he was able 
 to hold communication by letter with his illustrious 
 fellow-confessor, Sir Thomas More, who had also been 
 cast into the Tower for the same cause as Fisher. Great 
 was the consolation which these holy prisoners for the 
 faith derived from their mutual exhortations to one 
 another to persevere to the end in the good cause, and, 
 if it should be God’s will, to die joyfully for justice 
 
24 
 
 and truth. But this correspondence was discovered 
 and stopped. It now became evident that the resolute 
 spirit of Fisher was proof against the seductions em- 
 ployed to draw him to Henry’s side. It was accord- 
 ingly resolved to increase the rigour of his prison dis- 
 cipline, and thus to subdue by severity his noble con- 
 stancy. For fourteen months this venerable man, 
 now approaching his eightieth year, was left to pine 
 in a damp dungeon; his clothes were allowed to fall 
 into a state of rags and filth ; his supply of food was 
 coarse and insufficient; the winter wind played through 
 his prison bars on his ill-clad and wasted body ; he 
 was deprived of books, and was denied the consolation 
 of receiving the sacraments; nor was his confessor 
 allowed free access to him. In this dire extre- 
 mity, the aged Bishop wrote to Secretary Cromwell the 
 following most touching letter, the original of which 
 is still in existence, and I have had the happiness of 
 holding it in my hands: 4 Furthermore, I beseech you 
 to be good master unto me in my necessity, for I have 
 neither shirt, nor suit, nor yet other clothes that are 
 necessary for me to wear, but that be ragged and 
 rent to shamefully. Notwithstanding I might easily 
 suffer that, if they would keep my body warm. But 
 my diet also, God knoweth how slender it is at many 
 times. And now in mine age my stomach may not 
 away but with a few kind of meats, which if I want, 
 I decay forthwith, and fall into coughs and diseases of 
 my body, and cannot keep myself in health. And, 
 as our Lord knoweth, I have nothing left unto me for 
 to provide any better, but as my brother of his own 
 purse layeth out for me, to his great hinderance. 
 Wherefore, good master secretary, soon I beseech 
 you to have some pity upon me, and let me have such 
 
25 
 
 things as are necessary for me in mine age, and spe- 
 cially for my health. And also that it may please you, 
 by your high wisdom, to move the King’s highness to 
 take me unto his gracious favour again, and to restore 
 me unto my liberty out of this cold and painful im - 
 prisonment ; whereby ye shall bind me to be your poor 
 beadsman for ever unto Almighty God, who ever have 
 you in His protection and custody. Other two things 
 I must also desire upon you : that one is, that it may 
 please you that I may take some priest within the 
 Tower, by the assignment of Master Lieutenant, to 
 hear my confession against this holy time ; that other 
 is, that I may borrow some books to stir my devotion 
 more effectually these holy days, for the comfort of 
 my soul. This I beseech you to grant me of your 
 charity. And thus our Lord send you a merry Christ- 
 mas and a comfortable to your heart’s desire. At the 
 Tower, the 22 d day of December.’ 
 
 But the severity of his treatment served only to 
 brighten the spirit, and exalt the courage of this holy 
 confessor. Recourse was now had to stratagem to 
 induce him to submit. It was known that he enter- 
 tained great friendship and a high esteem for his 
 fellow-prisoner Sir Thomas More. By the express 
 order of the King, a false report of More’s taking the 
 oath of supremacy was communicated to Fisher, with 
 the view of inducing him to do likewise. The good 
 Bishop was grieved when the false news of More’s 
 fall reached him ; he expressed himself surprised at 
 Sir Thomas’s want of resolution: ‘But perhaps,’ he 
 said, 6 he was induced to do it through a natural ten- 
 derness and affection for his numerous and starving 
 family. But what excuse can I have, who fall alone, 
 — who am a minister of the Gospel, and am particu- 
 
26 
 
 larly obliged by my character to give good example 
 to others?’ 
 
 It was now made manifest that Fisher could not 
 be induced to act against his conscience, either by 
 fraud, flatter}^, or coercion. His firmness excited to 
 the utmost the wrath of the court, and it was resolved 
 to bring him as soon as possible to trial for high trea- 
 son, and thus hasten on his end. Difficulty was, how- 
 ever, found in discovering evidence of his formal denial 
 of the King’s ecclesiastical supremacy ; for he had been 
 very cautious in speaking on the subject. A snare was 
 accordingly laid to draw from him such a denial as 
 would constitute high treason. Richard Rich, the 
 Solicitor-General, went to visit him, under pretence 
 of coming on the part of the King himself. His com- 
 mission, apparently, was to acquaint the Bishop that 
 of late his Majesty had conceived some doubts con- 
 cerning the new oath he had imposed upon his people, 
 and that he wished to be enlightened on the matter 
 by Fisher, whom he regarded as the most capable 
 person in Europe to set him right; he therefore de- 
 sired him to be frank and explicit on the subject, and 
 assured him that no advantage would be taken of any 
 declaration he should make. The good Bishop, sus- 
 pecting no fraud, told Rich very freely that it was not 
 only his own opinion, but the received doctrine of the 
 universal Church, that the substance of the oath was 
 contrary to the law of God, and that he was willing 
 to make it appear so, when the occasion offered. This 
 stratagem of Rich’s sealed the Bishop’s fate : Henry 
 learnt with gratification, from the Solicitor’s own lips, 
 with what success Fisher had been entrapped ; no fur- 
 ther delay was allowed in bringing him up for trial. 
 On the 17th of June 1535, he was conducted from the 
 
27 
 
 Tower to the King’s Bench, Westminster. It was a 
 melancholy sight, to see this aged and venerable pre- 
 late led through the streets of London as a public 
 criminal. He reached Westminster by slow and pain- 
 ful stages, exciting compassion in beholders as he 
 walked along with tottering steps. Having entered 
 the great hall, he was called to hold up his hand as 
 a common malefactor. His indictment was then read, 
 the substance of which was, that he maliciously had 
 used the following words : 4 The King our Sovereign 
 Lord is not the supreme head of the Church of 
 England.’ The only witness produced by the Crown 
 was Rich, the Solicitor- General. With amazement the 
 holy Bishop beheld Rich coming forward as a witness 
 against him. 4 Mr. Rich,’ he said, 4 1 marvel to hear 
 you come and bear witness against me of those words. 
 My Lords, this man came to me on a secret message 
 which he brought me from the King, wherein his 
 grace desired to know my full opinion on the matter. 
 But I put him in mind of the new Act of Parliament, 
 which might endanger me much, should I speak any- 
 thing against its provisions. Whereon he assured me 
 that, upon his honour and on the word of a king, 
 nothing I should say unto this his messenger should 
 be deejned against the statute, seeing it was but a 
 declaration of my mind unto his own person; and 
 the messenger added a solemn promise that it would 
 be repeated to no living soul, but only to the King.’ 
 Rich did not contradict this statement; he merely 
 said he had done no more than what his Majesty had 
 commanded him. Audley ruled against the Bishop’s 
 plea, declaring at the same time that in so speaking 
 against the King’s supremacy — yea, though at the 
 King’s own command — he had committed treason, 
 
28 
 
 and that nothing could save him from death but the 
 King’s pardon. The jury knew what verdict they 
 were expected to give: each one felt his own life 
 was in peril, should he venture to disregard the will 
 of the Crown in this matter. The venerable Bishop 
 was declared by them guilty of high treason, and 
 sentence of death was recorded against him on 
 the spot. When the sentence was pronounced, he 
 asked permission to say a few w^ords, which was 
 granted to him. He then spoke in these terms: 
 ‘My Lords, you have condemned me to die for the 
 crime of high treason, because I was not willing to 
 acknowledge the King to be the head of the Church 
 of England. Now that I am condemned by your 
 sentence, I resign myself fully into the hands of God, 
 to suffer all that, in His holy will, He may decree in 
 my regard. To Him I abandon myself without re- 
 serve. I will now freely declare to you what I think 
 of the royal supremacy. I am convinced now, as I 
 always have been, and I repeat it here for the last 
 time, that his Majesty has no right whatsoever to 
 exercise that supremacy over the Church, which he 
 claims for himself. I have never heard that any 
 earthly prince possessed such a right. If the King 
 continues to follow this path, the anger of God will 
 overtake him, and he will bring a scourge upon his 
 own soul and upon the souls of many in his kingdom. 
 I earnestly beg of God to grant to his Majesty the 
 grace of retracing his steps whilst yet there is time, 
 and of listening to wise counsels for the profit of his 
 own soul and the good of Christendom.’ Having said 
 these words he surrendered himself to the armed escort, 
 who were in readiness to convey him back to the 
 Tower. 
 
29 
 
 The sentence of death which had just been pro- 
 nounced upon him, seemed to communicate a new 
 life to the holy Bishop. Erasmus thus describes the 
 venerable confessor’s appearance, when he came forth 
 from the great hall of Westminster : 6 One would think 
 that he was returning from some festive scene. His 
 countenance was radiant with joy ; his step was light 
 and steady ; his whole manner bespoke an interior 
 gaiety of heart. One could see that the holy Bishop 
 now felt that his soul was nigh to that harbour of 
 eternal rest, after which he had so long yearned.’ 
 When he reached the gates of the Tower, turning to 
 his escort, he thanked them with a gracious smile for 
 their services. He expressed regret that poverty pre- 
 vented him testifying his gratitude by some suitable 
 gift, but added that he would not fail to offer his 
 prayers on their behalf. 
 
 As soon as Henry learnt that Fisher was sentenced 
 to death, he despatched at once to Rochester some of 
 his emissaries, headed by one Moryson, to seize on 
 the Bishop’s effects in the name of the Crown. Fisher’s 
 great charities and his munificent gifts to the Univer- 
 sity of Cambridge left him in possession of very few 
 valuable objects at the time of his imprisonment — 
 Moryson was disappointed in finding the episcopal 
 palace so bare of treasures. But at last he made a 
 discovery, which filled him with the hope of laying 
 his hands on some objects of great value to take back 
 to the King. In a hidden corner he found a great 
 chest, strongly bound with iron clasps, and carefully 
 locked and sealed. He concluded at once that it con- 
 tained some rich deposit, and called around him his 
 companions to witness the procedure of opening the 
 mysterious chest. At last the lid was raised, and the 
 
30 
 
 precious contents disclosed. They consisted of an old 
 hair shirt and other instruments of corporal penance, 
 wherewith the holy Bishop had been in the habit of 
 chastising his body to bring it into subjection, after 
 the example of St. Paul. This incident, whilst it 
 filled the rapacious emissaries of Henry with con- 
 fusion, brought to light the heroic austerities which 
 Fisher had been in the habit of practising in his 
 private life. 
 
 A clause was, by Henry’s wishes, inserted in the 
 Bishop’s sentence, by which the right of naming a day 
 for his execution was reserved to the King. This was 
 probably done in the hope that Fisher’s courage would 
 at last break down, and that he would consent to 
 petition for life. But an event happened about this 
 time, which had the effect of hastening forward the 
 execution of the holy confessor: Paul III. had just 
 named him Cardinal. When Henry heard of this 
 nomination, he was much enraged, and exclaimed: 
 4 The Pope may send him a hat; but he will have to 
 wear it on his shoulders, for I will not leave him a 
 head on which to wear it.’ Late in the evening of 
 the 21st of June, a messenger arrived at the Tower, 
 bearing Henry’s orders for the execution of Fisher on 
 the following morning. The Bishop had already retired 
 to rest, and the Lieutenant of the Tower, through a 
 motive of compassion, did not wish to disturb the 
 sleep of the aged prelate, by communicating this in- 
 telligence to him at so advanced an hour. Next day, 
 at five o’clock, he came to Fisher’s chamber, and found 
 him asleep in bed ; awakening him, he told him that 
 he was the bearer to him of a message from the King, 
 that he had to suffer that forenoon. c Well,’ said the 
 Bishop, 1 if this be your errand, you bring me no great 
 
31 
 
 news, for I have looked forward a long time for this 
 message. I most humbly thank his Majesty, that it 
 hath pleased him to rid me of this worldly business/ 
 He then inquired what hour was appointed for his 
 execution, and was told ten o’clock that same morn- 
 ing. Hearing this, he said : 4 Then, good Lieutenant, 
 let me by your patience sleep an hour or two, for 1 
 have slept very, very ill this night ; not for any fear 
 I have of death, I thank God, but by reason of my 
 great infirmity and weakness.’ 4 The King’s pleasure 
 is further,’ said the Lieutenant, 4 that you should use 
 as little speech as may be, especially of anything 
 touching his Majesty, whereby the people may have 
 any cause to think of him or his proceedings other- 
 wise than well/ 4 For that,’ replied the Bishop, 4 you 
 shall see me order myself as, by God’s grace, neither 
 the King nor any man else shall have occasion to 
 mislike my words.’ The Lieutenant then departed, 
 and the holy prisoner slept calmly for two hours. He 
 awoke refreshed, and then called his man to help him 
 to rise, but first commanded him to remove from him 
 the hair shirt which he constantly wore, and to con- 
 vey it privily out of the house. He then ordered a 
 shirt of the whitest linen to be prepared, and his best 
 apparel to be cleanly brushed and laid out for him. 
 His servant, who had never witnessed before, on the 
 part of the holy Bishop, such care about his dress and 
 person, ventured to ask his Lordship what this sudden 
 change might mean, and why he was so particular 
 that morning, when he had only a few hours to live, 
 about the comeliness of his apparel. The Bishop 
 replied : 4 Dost thou not know that this is our mar- 
 riage-day, and that it behoveth us to employ all 
 comeliness and care for the solemnity thereof?’ About 
 
32 
 
 nine o’clock the Lieutenant came again, and, finding 
 him almost ready, announced that he was now come 
 for him. Fisher, then turning to his man, said: 
 
 4 Reach me my furred tippet to put about my neck. 1 
 4 0 my Lord,’ interposed the Lieutenant, 4 what need 
 you be so careful about your health for this little 
 time, being, as your Lordship knoweth, not much 
 above an hour?’ 4 1 think no otherwise,’ replied the 
 Bishop ; 4 but yet in the mean time I will keep myself 
 as well as I can; for I tell you the truth, though I 
 have, thank our Lord, a very good desire and a will- 
 ing mind to die at this present, and so trust in His 
 infinite mercy and goodness that He will continue it, 
 yet I will not willingly hinder my health one minute 
 of an hour, but still prolong the same as long as I 
 can by such reasonable ways and means as Almighty 
 God hath provided for me.’ The holy Bishop then 
 made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and tak- 
 ing up a little book in his hand, which was the New 
 Testament, went out of the prison door. Being so 
 weak from age and infirmity, he was scarcely able 
 to go down the stairs. When he reached the 
 stair-foot, he was taken up in a chair between 
 two of the Lieutenant’s men, and carried in the 
 midst of a great number of armed soldiers to 
 the Tower-gate, to be given over to the Sheriff of 
 London for execution. When the cortege arrived at 
 the precincts of the Liberties of the Tower, a halt was 
 made for some moments, whilst arrangements were 
 being concluded with the sheriff for the delivery into 
 his hands of the august prisoner. During that inter- 
 val the Bishop rose from his chair, and, leaning for 
 support against the wall, lifted his eyes towards 
 heaven, and said : 4 0 Lord, this is the last time I shall 
 
33 
 
 ever open this book ; let some comfortable text now 
 chance nnto me, whereby Thy poor servant may 
 glorify Thee in this my last hour.’ Thus saying he 
 opened the New Testament, and the following words 
 were the first on which his eyes fell : I have glorified 
 Thee on earth. 1 have finished the work which Thou 
 gavest me to do. Now glorify Thou me , 0 Father , with 
 Thyself (St. John xvii. 4). Having read so far he 
 closed the book, saying, 4 Here is learning enough for 
 me to my life’s end.’ Thus speaking, he sank ex- 
 hausted into his chair, and was carried by the sheriff’s 
 men to the scaffold on Tower Hill. The holy con- 
 fessor never ceased all along the way praying and 
 devoutly meditating on the words he had just read. 
 When he reached the foot of the scaffold, a new cour- 
 age glowed within his aged breast. He felt the 
 moment was now at hand, when he should lay down 
 his life for the love of Jesus Christ, and in defence of 
 Catholic truth. When he was on the point of going 
 up the steps, he seemed to receive a supernatural 
 strength for the occasion ; his habitual feebleness left 
 him ; he refused the aid which was offered him, and 
 casting from him the walking-staff on which he had 
 been leaning for support, he exclaimed in playful 
 tones, 4 Now, my poor feet, shift for yourselves ; render 
 me this last service ; step forward manfully to the 
 goal.’ With the quickness of a young man he as- 
 cended the flight of steps leading to the platform of 
 the scaffold. When he had reached it, the south- 
 eastern sun shed a sudden ray of vivid light on his 
 brow. His tall and slender figure, bowed with age, 
 seemed at that moment as if encircled with a heavenly 
 halo. The holy prelate, gazing upon the bright sun- 
 light playing around his scaffold, exclaimed: Come 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 ye to Him , and be enlightened , and your faces shall not 
 be confounded. 
 
 By this time it was ten o’clock. The executioner, 
 being then ready to do his work, knelt down before 
 him to ask his forgiveness. 4 1 forgive thee,’ said the 
 Bishop, 4 with all my heart, and I trust thou shalt see 
 me overcome this storm courageously.’ Then his 
 gown and tippet were taken from him, and he stood 
 in his doublet and hose in the sight of the vast mul- 
 titude which had assembled on Tower Hill. Turning 
 to the crowd, the holy martyr spoke these words: 
 4 Christian people, I come hither to die for Christ’s 
 Holy Catholic Church, and I thank God that yet I 
 have not feared death. Wherefore I desire you to 
 help me by your prayers, that in the very point and 
 instant of death’s stroke I may stand steadfast, with- 
 out failing on any point of Catholic faith. I beseech 
 Almighty God, of His infinite goodness, to save the 
 King and this realm, that it may please Him to hold 
 His holy hand over it, and to send the King good 
 counsel.’ These words he spoke with such a cheer- 
 ful countenance, and with such constancy and courage, 
 that it appeared evident to all that he was not only 
 void of fear, but also glad to die. He knelt on both 
 knees and said certain prayers, among which were 
 the Te Deum and the psalm In te Domine speravi. 
 The executioner then came and bound his hands, and 
 put a kerchief before his eyes. The lips of the holy 
 martyr continued still to move in earnest supplica- 
 tion to God. His prayer being ended, he calmly laid 
 his head over the middle of a little block, and the 
 executioner with one blow cut his slender neck 
 asunder. 
 
 His venerable body lay exposed upon the scaffold 
 
35 
 
 till eight o’clock that evening, when two watchmen 
 carried it on their halberts to Allhallows Barking 
 churchyard, in Tower-street, where it was thrown 
 naked into a hole, without a coffin, or shroud, or any 
 ceremony. His head was raised on a pole on London 
 Bridge, where it was exposed during the octave of St. 
 John the Baptist, his patron saint. At that same 
 time Henry was celebrating his birthday with Anne 
 Boleyn at Westminster. St. John Baptist lost his 
 head on Herod’s birthday, for opposing the evil pas- 
 sions of that tyrant King; and on the birthday of 
 Henry the head of Fisher was raised on London 
 Bridge. Fisher suffered martyrdom on the 2 2d of 
 June, the feast of St. Alban, the protomartyr of 
 England. His name does not yet appear in the list 
 of England’s canonised saints; but we rejoice in the 
 expectation that he and other blessed martyrs of his 
 period, who died for the same cause as he did, will 
 soon receive in our churches the public veneration 
 due to such heroic confessors of the faith. 
 
 The head of the martyr remained exposed for 
 several days on London Bridge; crowds came daily 
 to venerate the holy relic; some declared they saw 
 rays of light issuing from it at frequent intervals. 
 The populace, who had been misled at first by false 
 reports against the good Bishop, spread by Henry’s 
 agents, now began to see things in their true light, 
 and to express themselves loudly in his favour, and 
 openly to condemn the King’s proceedings. A tumult 
 was dreaded, and the head was removed to quell the 
 excitement. 
 
 The news of Fisher’s death caused a thrill of hor- 
 ror through Europe. Charles Y., on healing of it, sent 
 for the English ambassador, Sir Thomas Eliot, to ask 
 
36 
 
 him if it were true that the King of England had put 
 the Bishop of Rochester to death. On finding the 
 report confirmed by the ambassador, Charles said, 
 with grief and indignation depicted on his counten- 
 ance : 4 The King, your master, had not the like to that 
 Bishop in his realm; so that, in killing that Bishop, 
 he hath killed all the Bishops of England at one 
 blow.’ 
 
 Cardinal Pole thus extols the merits of the holy 
 prelate in a work addressed to Henry VIII. : 4 If an 
 ambassador had to be sent from earth to heaven, there 
 could not, among all the Bishops and clergy, so fit a 
 man be chosen as he ; for what other man have we 
 presently, or many years past had, comparable with 
 him in sanctity, learning, wisdom, and careful dili- 
 gence in the office and duty of a Bishop? 7 Paul III., 
 on hearing of the martyrdom of Fisher, addressed a 
 letter to all the princes of Christendom, in which he 
 denounces with grief and indignation the crime of 
 Henry, in causing the death of so holy and learned a 
 Bishop. In this letter he also declares that he had 
 named the holy Bishop Cardinal, in view of his 
 eminent merits, hoping by investing him with this 
 sacred office to shield him from the fury of Henry. 
 His Holiness on this occasion points out many traits 
 of resemblance between Fisher and St. Thomas of 
 Canterbury. He hesitates not to place the virtues 
 and merits of the holy Bishop of Rochester on a level 
 with those of that blessed martyr. We cannot sum 
 up the life and death of this holy prelate in words 
 more fitting than the following, which we borrow 
 from Hall : 4 Thus much may I say, that unto J ustus, 
 his predecessor, the first Bishop of Rochester, he was 
 a just and true successor. The place of his birth he 
 
37 
 
 doth greatly beautify with the glorious Bishop St. 
 John of Beverley. To the county of Kent, where he 
 was Bishop, he is an ornament with St. Thomas of 
 Canterbury. In the gravity of his writings he is to 
 be reverenced with St. Bede. For stoutly defending 
 the rights and liberties of holy Church against the 
 power of princes, he is not inferior to the blessed 
 Bishops St. Ambrose and St. Chrysostom. In pray- 
 ing for his enemies and persecutors he resembleth 
 holy Stephen. In the courage and constancy of his 
 martyrdom he was a second Cyprian; and in the 
 manner of his death a St. John the Baptist.’ 
 
II. SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 The venerable pontiff’s blood was scarcely dry on 
 Tower Hill, when Sir Thomas More, Fisher’s fellow- 
 prisoner, suffered the same death on the same spot, 
 and for a like refusal to acknowledge the ecclesiastical 
 supremacy of Henry VIII. The history of Sir Thomas 
 More’s early and domestic life has a special value, in- 
 asmuch as it gives us a fair glimpse of the private life 
 of good Catholics in his day. It is generally, and I 
 need not say wrongly, supposed by many outside of 
 the Catholic Church, that before the time of the Re- 
 formation, as it is called, ignorance, superstition, and 
 vice were universally prevalent in this country. 
 The life of Sir Thomas More, by itself, is a clear refu- 
 tation of this charge ; we cannot study it without be- 
 ing struck by the influence which, in those pre-Refor- 
 mation days, religion exercised over English homes, 
 sanctifying every detail of family life. In fact reli- 
 giousness, such as it is in England at the present day, 
 is but the residuum of that grand old Christianity 
 which prevailed in this country before the so-called 
 Reformation. It is like the uncultivated garden of 
 some deserted mansion, where many beautiful flowers 
 still continue to grow amidst the prevailing weeds 
 and ruins. 
 
 Thomas More was born in Milk-street in the City 
 of London. His father, Sir John More, was one of 
 the judges of the King’s Bench. At an early age he 
 
39 
 
 entered as page the household of Cardinal Morton, 
 Archbishop of Canterbury. This illustrious prelate 
 was a great patron of science and the fine arts. He 
 quickly discovered the brilliant genius of his youthful 
 page, and took measures to have him educated at 
 the University of Oxford. Having completed his 
 university studies with great distinction, More re- 
 turned to London. From his early days, the growth 
 of piety in his soul kept pace with the growth of 
 knowledge in his mind. Instead of betaking himself 
 to the gaieties of London life, he took up his abode 
 in the guest-house of the Carthusian monastery near 
 Smithfield. For six years he resided in this place, 
 taking part in many of the devotions and austerities 
 of its holy inmates. His bed was a hard bench on 
 the ground, with a log for his pillow; his fastings 
 and vigils were very frequent ; his hair shirt was 
 scarcely ever abandoned, even at the time of his 
 highest dignity, and he parted with it only when on 
 the point of martyrdom. He gave it privately to his 
 beloved daughter Margaret, a few days before his ex- 
 ecution. His corporal austerities form a circumstance 
 in More’s life, which his Protestant biographers have 
 been unable to understand. They seem to forget that 
 such practices are coeval with Christianity ; they are 
 the natural consequence of the example and teaching 
 of our Lord, of St. John the Baptist, and the Apostles. 
 As military exercises prepare the soldier for warfare, 
 so do the exercises of voluntary self-denial train the 
 Christian man to fight victoriously, with the aid of 
 God’s grace, against his fiercest and basest passions. 
 But More’s personal austerity produced no morose- 
 ness nor sourness of temper. Never was there a 
 more unselfish and joyous disposition than his. Thus 
 
40 
 
 Hume writes of him : ‘The austerity of his virtues 
 and the sanctity of his manners had nowise encroached 
 on the gentleness of his temper, nor ever diminished 
 that frolic and gaiety to which he was naturally in- 
 clined. He sported with all the varieties of fortune 
 into which he was thrown, and neither the pride natu- 
 rally attending a high station, nor the melancholy in- 
 cident to poverty and retreat, could ever lay hold of 
 his serene and equal spirit.’ 
 
 His eloquence, his learning, and sterling worth of 
 character opened a ready way for him to the honours 
 and emoluments of public life. We find him named 
 successively Privy Councillor, Speaker of the House 
 of Commons, and finally Lord High Chancellor of 
 England. Before we follow him on his career in the 
 political world, let us visit him in his home at Chelsea. 
 Thus does Erasmus speak of it : 1 It is a house in 
 which everybody studies the liberal sciences; where 
 the principal care is virtue and piety; where intem- 
 perate language is never heard ; where regularity and 
 order are prescribed by the mere force of courtesy ; 
 where every one performs his duty, and all are so 
 cheerful, as if mirth were their only employment. 
 Such a house ought rather be called a practical school 
 of the Christian religion.’ 
 
 So thoroughly did the taste for learning and 
 liberal accomplishments pervade More’s whole house- 
 hold, that even if a servant discovered an ear for 
 music, or a talent for any particular accomplishment, 
 it was sure to be encouraged; and for this purpose 
 resources of all kinds were provided — a noble library, 
 a museum of natural history, musical instruments, 
 and astronomical apparatus, with gardens extensively 
 and admirably laid out. While at meals, to prevent 
 
41 
 
 trifling or improper conversation before children and 
 servants, he ordered a domestic to read aloud such 
 books as might prove instructive and interesting. 
 He was an early riser himself, and exacted similar 
 habits from all his family, whom he gathered morn- 
 ing and evening for devotions in common. He al- 
 lowed no pressure of business to interfere with this 
 duty. On a certain day, a messenger came from the 
 King to see him, when he was at Mass. He would not 
 stir till the conclusion of the service. He said on 
 that occasion, 4 Let us serve God first; the King’s turn 
 comes next.’ Roper says it was his invariable custom, 
 before entering on any business of importance, to con- 
 fess, hear Mass, and communicate. Every Friday he 
 spent a considerable portion of the day in meditating 
 on the Passion of our Lord. He carried the proces- 
 sional cross in the procession of Corpus Christi, and 
 on Sundays and festival days he joined the choir of 
 his parish church in surplice. When he was Lord 
 Chancellor, a certain nobleman visited him, and find- 
 ing him clad in surplice preparing to take part in 
 chanting Vespers, remarked that the King would not 
 be pleased at hearing that his Lord Chancellor was 
 thus engaged. 4 Not so,’ replied More with his usual 
 smile ; 4 the King, your master and mine, will not surely 
 be offended by my serving his Master and mine.’ The 
 method he pursued in the education of his children 
 was wise and affectionate. 4 Remember,’ he would 
 say to them, 4 virtue and learning are the meat; play 
 is but the sauce ; we must not go to heaven on 
 feather beds. Our Lord went thither by suffering, 
 and the servant may not be in better case than the 
 Master. You now find everything favouring your 
 spiritual progress ; but a day may come when all this 
 
42 
 
 will be changed. Be sure, then, to stand fast, and to 
 cling close to God.’ His children were so much at- 
 tached to him, and he to them, that even after their 
 marriage they could not bear to separate themselves 
 from him. His married daughters lived with their 
 families under his roof. His beautiful domestic spirit 
 manifests itself in the following fragment of one of 
 his letters to a friend : L The greater part of the day 
 is given to other people’s business; the remainder 
 must be given to my family at home. I must gossip 
 with my wife, chat with my children, and find some- 
 thing to say to my servants; for all these things I 
 reckon a part of my business, unless I were to become 
 a stranger in my own house.’ Though he loved all 
 his children tenderly, there was one to whom he bore 
 a special affection — his beloved daughter Margaret. 
 None of them so resembled himself in gifts of mind 
 and heart as she. His correspondence Avith her forms 
 one of the tenderest and most refined productions in 
 English literature. It was not, however, as his cor- 
 respondent that Margaret Avas to be principally con- 
 spicuous, but as his almoner. He purchased a house 
 at Chelsea which he placed under her care, where the 
 sick and indigent Avere attended by her. 
 
 We cannot close this sketch of the private and 
 domestic virtues of More, Avithout making mention of 
 the deeply reverential love Avhich he bore to his aged 
 father. We cannot do better than quote the Avords 
 of Lord Campbell on this matter : c There is no cir- 
 cumstance in Sir Thomas More’s life Avhich affects 
 our imagination so much, or gives us such a lovely 
 picture of the manners of the times, as his demeanour 
 to his father, wdio was then ninety years of age, and 
 Judge in the Court of King’s Bench. Every day 
 
43 
 
 during Term time, before he began business in his 
 own court, he went into the Court of King’s Bench, 
 and, kneeling before his father, asked and received 
 his blessing.’ 
 
 We have now to pass to other scenes of his event- 
 ful life. He who had edified and gladdened the de- 
 voted family circle in the most Christian of homes, 
 is soon to become a resplendent light for the whole 
 Catholic world and for all future generations. More 
 and Henry VIII. may be regarded as personifications, 
 each being the type of a system. More personified 
 in himself that old Catholic faith which for many 
 centuries had shone over England, and in the bright- 
 ness of which she had emerged from the proportions 
 of a petty province overrun by savage hordes to the 
 grandeur of a mighty nation, with a Constitution 
 and a code of laws moulded on the framework of the 
 Catholic Church, filled by the wisdom of her spirit, 
 and partaking of her energy, vitality, and durability. 
 The sun of that old faith went down, by a myste- 
 rious judgment of God, suddenly on the land; but 
 all was not to be gloom. Its receding glories became 
 centred in men like Fisher and More, of the noblest 
 generosity and most attractive sanctity, whose me- 
 mories still live and give light ; and that light is, too, 
 the dawn of a returning day of faith for this kingdom, 
 once so Catholic. 
 
 Henry, on the contrary, was an apt personifica- 
 tion of that new creed, the basis of whose worship 
 was self. Never was the idol of self raised higher 
 than in the person of Henry : other ambitious 
 princes were satisfied with extending their earthly 
 sovereignty over countries and peoples ; but he 
 claimed for himself a spiritual sovereignty over all 
 
44 
 
 classes of his subjects, clergy and laity alike. He 
 had himself proclaimed head of the Church of Eng- 
 land in all things, spiritual as well as temporal, and 
 he forced a Bill through Parliament, which declared 
 the denial of this pretended supremacy a crime of 
 high treason punishable with death. Henry’s first 
 object in this proceeding was to escape from the 
 authority of the Pope, who forbade him to abandon 
 his lawful and most virtuous wife Katherine, to 
 espouse a vile courtesan, Anne Boleyn. Henry aimed 
 also at acquiring dominion over the goods of the 
 Church, for the purpose of replenishing his exchequer, 
 which had been emptied by his criminal prodigality. 
 He looked about for creatures who would become 
 the instruments of his wicked designs. Too many, 
 alas, were ready at hand for his purposes. He sought 
 especially to win over to his side men of worth and 
 influence, and he made overtures of the most tempt- 
 ing sort to More. But here he met a resistance 
 which he had little expected. More was prepared 
 for the coming storm. For two years and a half he 
 had held the office of Lord Chancellor ; but, from the 
 beginning, the cares and responsibilities of that ex- 
 alted station had weighed heavily upon him, and he 
 was anxious to lay down a dignity which he had not 
 sought. On this course he at last resolved, preferring 
 a life of poverty and obscurity, with a safe conscience, 
 to the honours and emoluments attaching to the 
 chancellorship. When More retired into private life, 
 he was a poor man ; his happy home at Chelsea had 
 to be broken up, and all his married children, who, 
 with their families, had been living under his roof, 
 left him, with one exception. He could not bring 
 himself to part with his beloved daughter Margaret, 
 
45 
 
 and her husband, William Roper. In his retirement 
 he gave himself up to his literary pursuits and to his 
 devotions ; but he had certain forebodings that he 
 would not be allowed to remain long in peace. A 
 special invitation to the so-called marriage festival of 
 Henry with Anne Boleyn was sent to More, which 
 he refused to accept, and this refusal filled up the 
 cup of Anne Boleyn’s wrath against him : she resolved 
 to be revenged and to compass his death. A grow- 
 ing presentiment kept urging More to prepare for 
 his fate ; he redoubled his devotions and austerities, 
 seeking, too, to fortify the members of his family for 
 the approaching crisis by similar means. He would 
 introduce, as if by accident, into his ordinary con- 
 versation allusions to the joys of heaven, to the 
 sufferings of the martyrs, and to the happiness of 
 losing all things, even life itself, for God. He de- 
 clared that he was ready himself, if God so willed it, 
 joyfully to die in such a cause. A form of oath had 
 been drawn up by Henry’s orders, embodying the 
 legality of his marriage with Anne Boleyn, and de- 
 claring him to be head of the Church in all things 
 and causes, both temporal and spiritual. More was 
 summoned before Henry’s Commissioners to take this 
 false and blasphemous oath. This requirement he 
 met by a plain refusal ; and when threatened by the 
 Commissioners with the anger of the King if he per- 
 sisted in his course, he replied : 4 My Lords, these 
 threats are terrors for children, but not for me.’ On 
 his return to his home he exhibited signs of extra- 
 ordinary cheerfulness; he said playfully to his son- 
 in-law, 4 Roper, I have given the devil a good fall 
 this day,’ meaning that by his refusal to take the 
 oath he had committed himself so fully to the good 
 
46 
 
 cause that he could no longer retire from it. One 
 day, having asked his daughter how the world went 
 on, and what news there was of the new Queen, 4 In 
 faith, father/ she replied, 4 never was it merrier; 
 there is nothing at court but sporting and dancing. 7 
 4 Alas, Meg,’ he exclaimed, 4 it is ever so with her. 
 It pitieth me to think into what misery that poor 
 soul will come with these dances of hers. She will 
 spurn off our heads like footballs, but it will not be 
 long ere her own head will dance the same dance as 
 ours.’ 
 
 More was expecting every day to be cast into 
 prison on charge of high treason : at last his anticipa- 
 tions were realised. On the morning of the day on 
 which he was taken, he confessed, heard Mass, and 
 communicated. The summons to appear anew before 
 the King’s Commissioners was received by him with 
 joyful composure of mind, yet his heart was full; for 
 he tenderly loved those fond and dear ones, from whom 
 he felt he was going to be separated for ever in this 
 world. He went forth in silence, accompanied only 
 by his son-in-law Roper. For a while he sat in the 
 barge that was conveying him from Chelsea to West- 
 minster silent and thoughtful : a struggle was going 
 
 O o o o O 
 
 on within his breast ; his feelings as a father and hus- 
 band were battling against the loftier dictates of his 
 conscience and his duty as a Christian. Roper, on his 
 side, was absorbed in his own sad thoughts, being 
 deeply afflicted at the sight of the unusual melancholy 
 that sat upon the venerable and beloved face of More. 
 Presently sadness vanished from the brow of the latter, 
 and his countenance was lit up with its wonted smiles. 
 Rising and approaching Roper, he gaily said : 4 Son 
 Roper, let us give thanks to God : the field is won; 7 
 
47 
 
 manifesting thus the triumph, which God’s grace had 
 just gained within his breast over the force of natural 
 affections. When he appeared before the Commis- 
 sioners, the obnoxious oath was again tendered to 
 him, and on his further refusal to take it, he was 
 committed to the Tower. Here he spent a month 
 without being permitted to see any one. At last his 
 beloved daughter Margaret found means of reaching 
 him. Alas, her natural affection for her father had 
 got somewhat the better of her Christian fortitude ; 
 for she fain would persuade him to yield to the wishes 
 of the King. This was a cruel pang to the heart of 
 More ; but he soon had the happiness of seeing her 
 relent of her purpose; and she continued to the end 
 to act in a manner befitting the daughter of such a 
 father. There is nothing more beautiful or touching 
 in the English language, than More’s conversations 
 with his daughter during his long imprisonment in the 
 Tower. One day, taking her by the hand, he made 
 her kneel at his side : they recited together the Litany 
 and the Penitential Psalms, before commencing their 
 conversation. He then rose, and gazed at her fondly, 
 and sitting down beside her, they mutually poured 
 their souls into one another. He then spoke to her 
 thus, with his usual cheerfulness : 1 They that put me 
 here may ween, as I verily believe, that they have done 
 me a high displeasure ; but I assure you, my own good 
 daughter, that had it not been for wife and children 
 I would long ere this have chosen a straiter cell’ — 
 meaning that he would have embraced the religious 
 state. c Methinks,’ he continued, 4 God dealeth with me 
 as with a wanton child, and doth set me on His lap to 
 dandle me.’ On another occasion, playfully alluding 
 to her attempts to shake his resolution, he said she was 
 
48 
 
 another Eve whom the serpent was employing as an 
 instrument of temptation ; then assuming a sadder 
 and more earnest tone, 4 Daughter Margaret/* he con- 
 tinued, 4 many years have I studied this matter, but I 
 cannot hear or see that which will cause me to change 
 my mind. There is no remedy. God hath placed me 
 in this strait, that I must either deadly displease Him, 
 or abide whatever He wills to fall on me. I have 
 not forgotten in this matter the counsels of our Lord, 
 that we should count the cost ere yet we begin to 
 build. Full many a night, Margaret, while my wife 
 slept, have I weighed and counted, ere yet I closed 
 my eyes, what peril might befall me ; and I am sure 
 no case came heavier than mine. In thinking on it, 
 daughter, I had oftentimes a right heavy heart; but 
 yet I thank my Lord for all that I never thought to 
 change.’ Margaret hinted that possibly a time might 
 come when he would change, and that then it would 
 be all too late. This remark touched him to the 
 quick. 4 Too late!’ he cried; 4 1 beseech our Lord 
 that if ever I make such a change, it may be too late 
 indeed. In this world I pray that I may never bene- 
 fit by such a change ; and albeit I know well that for 
 my sins I am well worthy that God should let me slip, 
 yet I cannot but trust His merciful goodness. I will 
 not mistrust His grace ; and if it be His gracious mind 
 that I suffer in this cause, I doubt not but that, in His 
 high goodness, He will make it to serve as a release of 
 the pains of purgatory. Mistrust Him, Meg, will not 
 I, even though I should feel me faint. Yea, if I feel 
 any fear, even at the point to overthrow me, yet will I 
 remember how St. Peter began to sink for his want 
 of faith ; and then will I, like him, call on Christ for 
 help, and He will set His holy hand on me, and in the 
 
49 
 
 stormy sea will hold me up from drowning. I wot 
 well, Margaret, without my own fault He will not let 
 me be lost. Therefore, my own daughter, trouble not 
 thy mind for anything that can happen to me in this 
 life, for nothing can happen but what God will ; and 
 I know and am sure that whatsoever it be, be it ever 
 so bad, it should be indeed the best. And so, my 
 good child, commend me to all my friends ; and I 
 pray right heartily that you will all serve God, and 
 be merry and rejoice in Him.’ 
 
 Various were the devices employed to shake the 
 constancy of More during his imprisonment in the 
 Tower. It was thought that, by seeing others led 
 forth to death for denying the supremacy of Henry, 
 he might be terrified into submission. There were 
 then under sentence of death at the Tower three holy 
 Carthusians — William Exmew, Humphrey Middle- 
 more, and Sebastian Newdegate — who were con- 
 demned to die for the same holy cause as that for 
 which More was a prisoner. On the morning of their 
 execution, they were led by design under the window 
 of More’s cell. He was conversing with his daughter 
 Margaret at the time. Attracted by the sound of the 
 passing cavalcade, he looked forth, and presently ex- 
 claimed, ‘Meg, Meg, do you see who is going by?’ 
 * Yes, father,’ she replied ; ‘it is the Carthusians that 
 are being led off to Tyburn.’ Fixing his eyes upon 
 those holy martyrs, More envied them their blessed 
 lot. He then said aloud, ‘ How full of peace their 
 looks ! Listen, they are singing the Te Deum : well 
 may they sing; they are going to the marriage-feast. 
 0, how God is good to us in this valley of tears ! He 
 calls them to Himself. Farewell! farewell!’ Over- 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 come with joyful emotions, he sank into the arms of 
 his daughter. 
 
 The day of his trial at last arrived. After fifteen 
 months of imprisonment in the Tower, he was led 
 forth to traverse London on foot from his prison to 
 Westminster. Lord Campbell thus describes that 
 tragic journey: ‘On the morning of the trial More 
 was lead on foot, in a coarse woollen gown, through 
 the most frequented streets from the Tower to West- 
 minster Hall. The colour of his hair, which had be- 
 come gray since he last appeared in public, his face, 
 which, though still cheerful, was pale and emaciated, 
 his bent posture, and his feeble steps, which he was 
 obliged to support with his staff, showed the rigour 
 of his confinement, and excited the sympathy of the 
 people, instead of impressing them, as it was intended, 
 with a dread of the royal authority. When, sordidly 
 dressed, he held up his hand as a criminal in that 
 place where, arrayed in his magisterial robes, and sur- 
 rounded by crowds who watched his smile, he had 
 been accustomed on his knees to ask his father’s bless- 
 ing before mounting his own tribunal to determine, 
 as sole judge, the most important rights of the highest 
 subjects in the realm, a general feeling of horror and 
 commiseration ran through the spectators. And after 
 the lapse of three centuries, during which statesmen, 
 prelates, and kings have been unjustly brought to 
 trial under the same roof — considering the splendour 
 of his talents, the greatness of his acquirements, and 
 the innocence of his life — we must still regard his 
 murder as the blackest crime that ever has been per- 
 petrated in England under the form of law’ ( Lives 
 of the Chancellors of England). More’s trial was a 
 
51 
 
 mockery. The tyrant will of Henry ruled supreme 
 in courts of justice as well as in Parliament. Such, 
 too, was the depth to which the administration of the 
 law had fallen, that no man’s life w^as safe in the 
 hands of the judges and juries of the land, if it were 
 known that Henry wished for his death. More was 
 found guilty of the so-called crime of refusing to ac- 
 knowledge that Henry VIII. was head of the Church 
 of England, in all things spiritual and temporal. Sen- 
 tence of death was pronounced on him without delay 
 by the infamous Audley, who presided as judge, and 
 who acted as one of the chief agents in the early work 
 of the Reformation. The venerable martyr was con- 
 ducted back to the Tower by water ; on his arrival 
 at the Tower-wharf, a scene took place which is one 
 of the most touching on record. His beloved daughter 
 Margaret, with her kinsman Dancey, was awaiting 
 him there ; she saw by the axe which was borne before, 
 with its edge turned towards him, that her worst 
 fears were realised, and that her father was condemned 
 to death. Unable to restrain herself, she rushed 
 towards him, exclaiming, 4 My father ! my father V 
 We shall allow her, in her own words, to describe 
 this scene : 4 1 forced my way through the crowd, 
 fearless of bills and halberds, and did cast my arms 
 around my father’s neck. He cries, 44 My Meg, bless 
 thee, bless thee ! Enough, enough, my child ! What ! 
 mean ye to weep and break mine heart? Remember 
 that though I die innocent it is not without the will 
 of God, who could have turned my enemies’ hearts, 
 if it were best. Therefore possess your soul in pa- 
 tience. Kiss them all for me.” So he gave me back 
 to Dancey’s arms, the guards about him all weeping ; 
 
52 
 
 but I could not thus lose sight of him for ever; so, 
 after a minute’s pause, did make a second rush back 
 away from Dancey, and clave to father again and 
 again. They had pity on me, and made pause while 
 I hung upon his neck. This time there were large 
 drops standing on his dear brow, and the big tears 
 were swelling in his eyes. He whispered to me, 
 “ Meg, for Christ’s sake don’t unman me ; thou wilt 
 not deny my last request?” I said, “Oh no,’’ and 
 loosened my arms. “God bless you!” he saith with 
 a last kiss. I could not help crying, “My father! 
 my father!” “The chariot of Israel and the horse- 
 men thereof,” he whispered, and pointed upwards 
 with so passionate a regard, that I looked up expecting 
 to see a beautiful vision.’ 
 
 Samuel Rogers has written the following lines on 
 this scene : 
 
 ‘ And the blushing maid, 
 
 Who through the streets as through a desert stray’d, 
 
 And when her dear, dear father pass’d along 
 Would not he held, hut, bursting through the throng, 
 Halberds and hill-axes, kiss’d him o’er and o’er, 
 
 Then turn’d and went, then sought him as before, 
 
 Believing she should see his face no more.’ 
 
 The 6th of July, the vigil of the feast of the 
 Translation of St. Thomas of Canterbury, was the 
 day fixed for the execution of More. On the previous 
 day, writing to his daughter with a coal, for pen and 
 ink, as well as his books, had been for many months 
 taken from him, he said, L To-morrow I long to go to 
 God. It will be St. Thomas’s even and the octave 
 of St. Peter ; it were a day meet as one well suited 
 for me.’ On the morning of the appointed day 
 he was led forth from the Tower. His countenance 
 
53 
 
 was lighted up with its accustomed smile, which 
 grew brighter as he approached the scaffold. The 
 longing desire of his heart, to die for the love of Jesus 
 Christ, was on the point of being accomplished. The 
 executioner seemed afraid to approach him, but More 
 kissed him as a dear friend, and bade him pluck up 
 his courage and fear nothing. He asked the prayers 
 of all around him, and called on all to witness that he 
 died in the faith of the Holy Catholic Church, loyal 
 to his God and to his King. He then knelt, and with 
 great fervour recited the Miserere psalm. He rose, 
 and with light joyous step advanced towards the scaf- 
 fold. Laying his head upon the block, he turned his 
 beard aside with a smile, saying, 4 This at least has 
 committed no treason.’ 
 
 When Henry heard of his death he was playing 
 at chess with Anne Boleyn. Frowning upon her he 
 said, 4 You are the cause of this.’ But his remorse 
 was only superficial, for he gave orders that the head 
 of More should be raised on a pole over London- 
 bridge, his object being to strike terror into the hearts 
 of his subjects by this ghastly display. For a whole 
 month that venerable head was suspended over L on- 
 don-bridge. Daily did Henry and Anne pass beneath 
 it insultingly, as they went in their barge from Green- 
 wich to W estminster. Margaret, the beloved daughter 
 of More, succeeded at last in securing that venerable 
 relic, for which filial act she was cast, by Henry’s 
 orders, into the Tower. At the death of More, Henry 
 seized upon all his chattels, and expelled his family 
 from their house at Chelsea, which he gave to one 
 Pawlet, to reward him for some infamous service. 
 
 4 More is dead,’ writes Pole ; 4 More, whose breast was 
 
54 
 
 purer than snow, and whose genius was excellent 
 above all his nation. His goodness has so engraven 
 him on men’s hearts that all lament his death, as if 
 he were a father or a brother. I have seen tears flow 
 from eyes that never saw him ; yea, whilst I write my 
 own tears flow against my will and blot my pages.’ 
 
 Church of the English Martyrs, 
 
 Great Prescot-street, Tower Hill. 
 

 A SPIRITUAL CONSOLATION, 
 
 WRITTEN BY 
 
 JOHN FISHER, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, 
 
 TO HIS SISTER ELIZABETH, 
 
 AT SUCH TIME AS HE WAS PRISONER IN THE TOWER OF LONDON. 
 
 Very necessary and commodious for all those that mind to lead 
 a virtuous life ; also to admonish them to he at all times pre- 
 pared to die, and seemetli to he spoken in the person of one 
 that ivas suddenly prevented hy death. 
 
 2 Cor. vi. Behold now is the acceptable time, now 
 is the day of salvation. 
 
 Matt, xxiiii. Watch, therefore; for ye know not 
 what hour your Lord doth come. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A SPIRITUAL CONSOLATION, 
 
 WRITTEN BY 
 
 JOHN FISHER, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, 
 
 TO HIS SISTER ELIZABETH. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Sister Elizabeth, nothing doth more help effectually to get 
 a good and virtuous life than if a soul, when it is dull and 
 unlustie without devotion, neither disposed to prayer nor to 
 any other good work, may he stirred or quickened again by 
 fruitful meditation. I have therefore devised unto you this 
 meditation that followeth ; praying you for my sake, and for 
 the weal of your own soul, to read it at such times as you 
 shall feel yourself most heavy and slothful to do any good 
 work. It is a manner of lamentation and sorrowful com- 
 plaining made in the person of one hastily prevented by death 
 (as I assure you every creature may be), none other surety 
 we have living in this world here. 
 
 But if you will have any profit in reading of it, three 
 things you must do in any wise. 1st, when you shall read 
 this meditation, devise in your mind as nigh as you can all 
 the conditions of a man or woman suddenly taken and ra- 
 vished by death ; and think with yourself that ye were in the 
 same condition so hastily taken, and that forthwith you must 
 needs die, and your soul depart hence and leave your mortal 
 body, never to return again for to make any amends or to do 
 any release to your soul after this hour. 
 
 2dly, that ye never read this meditation but alone by 
 yourself in secret manner, where you may be most attentive 
 thereunto ; and when ye have the best leisure, without any 
 let of other thoughts or business. For if you otherwise be- 
 have yourself in the reading of it, it shall anon lose the virtue 
 and quickness in stirring and moving of your soul, when you 
 would rather have it stirred. 
 
 3dly, that when you intend to read it you must afore lift up 
 
58 
 
 your mind to Almighty God, and beseech Him that, by the 
 help and succour of His grace, the reading thereof may fruit- 
 fully awake in your soul a good and virtuous life according 
 to His pleasure, and say : 4 Deus in adjutorium meum in- 
 tende ‘ Domine ad adjuvandum me festina ‘ Gloria Patri,’ 
 &c.; ‘ Laus tibi Domine rex eternae gloriae. Amen.’ 
 
 Alas, alas, I am unworthily taken all suddenly; Death hath 
 assailed me ; the pains of his stroke he so sore and grievous 
 that I may not long endure them ; my last home, I perceive 
 well, is come ; I must now leave this mortal body, I must now 
 depart hence out of this world, never to return again into it. 
 But whether I shall go, or where I shall become, or what 
 lodging I shall have this night, or in what company I shall 
 fall, or in what country I shall be received, or in what 
 manner I shall be entreated, God knoweth, for I know not. 
 What if I shall be damned in the perpetual prison of hell, 
 where the pains are endless and without number ; grievous it 
 shall be to them that be damned for ever, for they shall be 
 as men in most extreme pains of death, ever wishing and de- 
 siring death, and yet never shall they die. It should be now 
 unto me much weary one year continually to lie upon a bed, 
 were it never so soft ; how weary then shall it he to lie in the 
 most painful fire so many thousand of years without number ; 
 and to be in that most horrible company of devils, most ter- 
 rible to behold, full of malice and cruelty ! 0, wretched and 
 
 miserable creature that I am, I might so have lived and so 
 ordered my life by the help and grace of my Lord Christ 
 Jesu, that this hour might have been unto me much joyous 
 and greatly desired. 
 
 Many blessed and holy saints were full joyous and de- 
 sirous of this hour, for they knew well that by death their 
 souls should be translated into a new life ; to the life of all 
 joy and endless pleasure ; from the straits and bondage of 
 this corruptible body into a very liberty and true freedom 
 among the company of heaven ; from the miseries and griev- 
 ances of this wretched world, to he above with God in com- 
 fort inestimable that cannot he spoken or thought. They 
 were assured of the promises of Almighty God, which had 
 so promised to all them that be His faithful servants. And 
 sure I am, that if I had truly and faithfully served Him unto 
 
59 
 
 this hour, my soul had been partner of these promises. But 
 unhappy and ungracious creature that I am, I have been 
 negligent in His service, and therefore now my heart doth 
 waste in sorrows, seeing the nighness of death, and consider- 
 ing my great sloth and negligence. I thought full little thus 
 suddenly to have been trapped ; but (alas) now Death hath 
 prevented me, and hath unwarily attacked me, and suddenly 
 oppressed me with his mighty power, so that I know not 
 whither I may turn me for succour, nor where I may seek 
 now for help, nor what thing I may do to get any remedy. 
 If I might have leisure and space to repent me and amend 
 my life, not compelled with this sudden stroke, but of my 
 own free will and liberty, and partly for the love of God, 
 putting aside all sloth and negligence, I might then safely 
 die without any dread ; I might then be glad to depart hence, 
 and leave my manifold miseries and encumbrances of this 
 world. 
 
 But how may I think that my repentance or mine amend- 
 ment cometh now of mine own free will, since I was before 
 this stroke so cold and dull in the service of my Lord God ? 
 Or how may I think that I do this more rather for His love 
 than for fear of His puuishment, when if I had truly loved 
 Him I should more quickly and more diligently have served 
 Him heretofore ? Meseemetli now that I cast away my sloth 
 and negligence compelled by force. Even as a merchant 
 that is compelled by a great tempest in the sea to cast his 
 merchandise out of the ship, it is not to be supposed that he 
 w r ould cast away his riches of his own free will, not compelled 
 by the storm. And even so likewise do I, if this tempest of 
 death were not now raged upon me, it is full like that I would 
 not have cast from me my sloth and negligence. 0, would 
 to God that I might now have some further respite, and 
 some longer time to amend myself of my free will and liberty. 
 0, if I might entreat Death to spare me for a season ; but 
 that will not he : Death in no wise will be entreated, delay he 
 will none take, respect he will none give, if I would give him 
 all the riches of this world ; no, if all my lovers and friends 
 would fall upon their knees and pray him for me ; no, if I 
 and they would weep (if it were possible) as many tears as 
 there he in the seas drops of water, no piety may restrain 
 
60 
 
 him. Alas, when opportunity of time was, I would not use 
 it well, which if I had done, it would now* be unto me more 
 precious than all the treasures of a realm. For then my 
 soul, as now, should have been clothed with good works in- 
 numerable, the which should make me not to be ashamed 
 when I should come to the presence of my Lord God, where 
 now I shall appear laden with sin miserably to my confusion 
 and shame. But, alas, too negligently have I let pass from me 
 my time, not regarding how precious it was, nor yet how 
 much spiritual riches I might have got therein, if I would 
 have put my diligence and study thereunto. For assuredly 
 no deed that is, he it never so little, but it shall be rewarded 
 of Almighty God. One draught of water given for the love 
 of God shall not be unrewarded. And what is more easy to 
 he given than water ? 
 
 But not only deeds, but also the least words and thoughts 
 shall be in likewise. 0, how many good thoughts, deeds, and 
 works might one think, speak, and do in one day, but how 
 many more in one whole year ! 0, alas, my great negligence ! 
 0, alas, my foul blindness ! 0, alas, my sinful madness, that 
 knew this well and would not put it in effectual execution ! 
 0, if now all the people of this world were present here to 
 see and know the perilous condition that I am in, and how I 
 am prevented by the stroke of death, I would exhort to take 
 me as an example to them all, and while they have leisure 
 and time to order their lives and cast from them sloth and 
 idleness, and to repent them of their misbehaviour towards 
 God, and to bewail their offences, to multiply good works, 
 and to let no time pass by them unfruitfully. For if it shall 
 please my Lord God that I might any longer live, I would 
 otherwise exercise myself than I have done before. Now I 
 wish that I may have time and space, but righteously I am 
 denied. For when I might have had it I would not well use 
 it ; and therefore now when I would well use it I shall not 
 have it. 0, ye therefore that have and may use this precious 
 time in your liberty, employ it well, and be not too wasteful 
 thereof, lest peradventure when you would have it it shall be 
 denied you likewise, as now it is to me. But now I repent 
 me full sore of my great negligence, and right much I sorrow 
 that so little I regarded the wealth and profit of my soul, but 
 
61 
 
 rather took heed to the vain comforts and pleasures of my 
 wretched body. 0 corruptible body, to whom I have served, 
 whose appetites I have followed, whose desire I have pro- 
 cured, now dost thou appear what thou art in thy own like- 
 ness. That brightness of thy eyes, that quickness in hearing, 
 liveliness in thy other senses by natural warmness, thy swift- 
 ness and nimbleness, thy fairness and beauty ; all these thou 
 hast not of thyself, they were but lent unto thee for a season ; 
 even as a wall of earth, that is fair painted without for a sea- 
 son with fresh and goodly colours, and also gilted with gold, 
 it appeareth goodly for the time to such as consider no deeper 
 than the outward craft thereof. But when at the last the 
 colour faileth, and the gilding falleth away, then appeareth 
 it in his own likeness. For then the earth plainly showeth 
 itself. In likewise my wretched body, for the time of youth 
 it appeareth fresh and lusty, and I was detained with the 
 outward beauty thereof, little considering what naughti- 
 ness was covered underneath : but now it showeth itself. 
 Now, my wretched body, thy beauty is faded, thy fairness 
 is gone, thy lust, thy strength, thy loveliness, all is gone, 
 all is failed. Now art thou then returned to thine own 
 earthly colour. Now art thou black, cold, and heavy, like a 
 lump of earth ; thy sight is darkened, thy hearing is dulled, 
 thy tongue faltereth in thy mouth, and corruption issueth 
 out of every part of thee. Corruption was thy beginning in 
 the womb of thy mother, and corruption is thy continuance. 
 All things that ever thou receivest, were it never so precious, 
 thou turnest into corruption, and naught came from thee at 
 any time but corruption, and now to corruption thyself re- 
 turnest ; altogether right vile and lothly art thou become, 
 where in appearance before you were goodly ; but the good 
 lines were nothing else but as a painting or a gilting upon 
 an earthen wall. But I looked not so deep, I contented my- 
 self with the outward painting, and in it I took great plea- 
 sure ; for all my study and care was about thee, either to 
 apparel thee with some clothes of divers colours, either to 
 satisfy thy desire in pleasant sights, in delectable hearings, 
 in goodly smells, in sundry manner of tastings and touchings, 
 either else to get thee ease and rest as well in sleep as other- 
 wise. And provided, therefore, pleasant and delectable lodg- 
 
62 
 
 ings, and to eschew tediousness in all these, not only lodgings, 
 but also in apparel, meats, and drinks procured many and 
 divers changes, that when thou wast weary of one then mightest 
 thou content thyself with some other. 0, alas, this was my 
 vain study whereunto my wit was ready applied ; in those 
 things I spent the most part of my days. And yet was I 
 never content long, but murmuring or grudging every hour 
 for one thing or other. And what am I now the better for 
 all this ? what reward may I look for of all my long service ? 
 Or what great benefits shall I receive for all my great study, 
 care, and diligence ? Nothing better am I, but much the 
 worse ; much corruption and filth my soul thereby hath ga- 
 thered, so that now it is made full horrible and lothly to 
 behold. 
 
 Reward get I none other than punishment, either in hell 
 everlasting, or at least in purgatory, if I may so easily escape. 
 The benefits of my labour are the great cares and sorrows 
 which I now am wrapped in. May not I think my wit to 
 have been well occupied in this lewd and unfruitful business; 
 have not I well bestowed my labour about this service of my 
 wretched body; hath not my time been well employed in these 
 miserable studies, whereof now no comfort remaineth, but only 
 sorrow and repentance ? Alas, I heard full often that such 
 as should be damned should grievously repent themselves, 
 and take more displeasure of their misbehaviour than ever they 
 had pleasure before. And yet that repentance then should 
 stand them in no stead, where a full little repentance taken 
 in time might have eased them of all their pains. 
 
 This I heard and read full often, but full little heed or 
 regard I gave thereunto. I well perceived it in myself, but 
 all too late, I dread me. I would that now by the example 
 of me all other might beware, and avoid by the gracious help 
 of God these dangers that I now am in, and prepare them- 
 selves against the hour of death better than I have prepared 
 me. Alas, what availeth me now any delicacy of meats and 
 drinks, which my wretched body insatiable did devour ? What 
 availeth my vanity or pride that I had in myself, either of 
 apparel or of any other thing belonging unto me ? 
 
 Now these pleasures be gone my body is nothing better, 
 my soul is much the worse, and nothing remaineth but sor- 
 
63 
 
 row and displeasure, and yet a thousandfold more than ever 
 I had any pleasure before. 0 body, which hast brought me 
 to this utter discomfort ; 0 corruption, now must I go to 
 make answer for thy wickedness, thy wickedness I say, for it 
 all cometh of thee. My soul had nothing need of such things 
 as was thy desire ; what need my soul, that is immortal, either 
 clothing, or meat, or drink ? What need it any corruptible 
 gold or silver ; what need it any houses or beds, or any other 
 things that appertained to these ? 
 
 For thee, 0 corruptible body, which like a decaying wall 
 daily needeth repairs and botching up with meat and drink, 
 and defence of clothing against cold and heat, was all this 
 study and diligence taken; and yet now wilt thou forsake me 
 at my most need, when account and reckoning of all our mis- 
 deeds must be given before the throne of the Judge most 
 terrible. Now thou wilt refuse me, and leave me to the jeo- 
 pardy of all this matter. 0, alas, many years of deliberation 
 suffice not before so great a Judge to make answer, which shall 
 examine me of every idle word that ever passed my mouth. 
 
 0,then, how many idle words, how many evil thoughts, how 
 many deeds have I to make answer for ! and such as we set 
 but at light, full greatly shall be weighed in the presence of 
 His most high majesty. 0, alas, what may I do to get some 
 help at this most dangerous hour ; where may I seek for suc- 
 cour ; where may I resort for any comfort ? My body for- 
 saketh me, my pleasures be vanished away as the smoke, my 
 goods will not go with me. All these worldly things I must 
 leave behind me; if any comfort shall be, either it must be 
 in the prayers of my friends, or in mine own good deeds that 
 I have done before. 
 
 But as for my good deeds that should be available in the 
 sight of God, alas, they be few, or none that I can think to be 
 available. They must be done principally and purely for His 
 love. But my deeds, when of their kind they were good, yet 
 did I linger them by my folly. For either I did them for the 
 pleasure of men, or to avoid the shame of the world, or else 
 for my own affection, or else for dread of punishment. So 
 that seldom I did any good deed in that purity and straightness 
 that it ought of right to have been done. And my misdeeds, 
 my lewd deeds that be shameful and abominable, be without 
 
64 
 
 number ; not one day of all my life, no not one hour, I trow, 
 was so truly expended to the pleasure of God, but many deeds, 
 words, and thoughts, miscaped me in my life. Alas, little 
 trust then may I have upon my deeds. And as for the prayers 
 of my friends, such as I shall leave behind me, of them many 
 peradventure be in the same need that I am in. So that where 
 their own prayers might profit themselves, they cannot so 
 profit another. And many of them will be full negligent, and 
 some forgetful of me. And no marvel, for who should have 
 been more friendly unto me than mine own self? Therefore 
 I, that was most bound to have done for myself, forget my own 
 weal in my lifetime, no marvel, therefore, if others do forget 
 me after my departing hence. Other friends there be by 
 whose prayers souls may be holpen, as by the blessed and 
 holy Saints above in heaven, which verily will be mindful of 
 such as in earth here have devoutly honoured them before. 
 But, alas, I had special devotion but to a few ; and yet them I 
 have so faintly honoured, and to them so coldly sued for fa- 
 vour, that I am ashamed to ask aid or help of them. At this 
 time, indeed, I had more effectually meant to have honoured 
 them, and more diligently to have commended my wretched 
 soul unto their prayers, and so to have made them my special 
 friends ; but now death hath prevented me so, that no other 
 hope remaineth but only in the mercy of my Lord God, to 
 whose mercy I do now offer myself, beseeching Him not to look 
 upon my deserts, but upon His infinite goodness and abund- 
 ant piety. Alas, my duty had been much better to have re- 
 membered this terrible hour : I should have had this danger 
 ever before my eyes; I should have provided therefore, so 
 that now I might have been in a more readiness against the 
 coming of death, which I knew assuredly would come at last, 
 albeit I knew not when, where, or by what manner, but well 
 I knew every hour and moment was to Him indifferent, and in 
 His liberty. And yet my madness, ever to be sorrowed! 
 Notwithstanding this uncertainty of His coming, and the 
 uncertainty of the time thereof, I made no certain nor sure 
 provision against this hour. Full often I took great study 
 and care to provide for little dangers, only because I thought 
 they might happen, and yet happened they never a deal. 
 And but trifles they were in comparison of this. How much 
 
65 
 
 rather should I have taken study and care for this so great a 
 danger, which I knew well must necessarily fall unto me once ! 
 For this cannot be eschewed in nowise, and upon this I 
 ought to have made good provision. For in this hangeth all 
 our wealth ; for if a man die well, he shall after his death 
 nothing want that he would desire, hut his appetite shall be 
 satiate in every point at the full. And if he die amiss, no 
 provision shall avail him that ever he made before. 
 
 This provision, therefore, is most effectually to be studied, 
 since this alone may profit without other, and without this 
 none can avail. 0, ye that have time and space to make 
 your provision against the hour of death, defer not from day 
 to day like as I have done. For I often did think and pur- 
 pose with myself that at some leisure I would have provided ; 
 nevertheless, for every frivolous business I put it aside, and 
 delayed this provision always to another time, and promised 
 with myself that at such a time I would not fail hut to do it ; 
 hut when that came another business arose, and so I deferred 
 again unto another time. And so, alas, from time to time, that 
 now death in the mean time hath prevented me ; my purpose 
 was good, but it lacked execution ; my will was straight, hut it 
 was not effectual ; my mind well intended, but no fruit came 
 thereof. All for because I delayed so often and never put it in 
 effect, that that I had purposed. And therefore delay it not 
 as I have done, hut before all other business put this first in 
 surety, which ought to he chief and principal business. 
 Neither building of colleges, nor making of sermons, nor giv- 
 ing alms, neither yet any other manner of business shall help 
 you without this. 
 
 Therefore first, and before all things, prepare for this, de- 
 lay not in any way ; for if you do, youjghall be deceived as I 
 am now. And ever I thought, and sara^ and intended that I 
 would make sure and not be deceived by the sudden coming of 
 Death. Yet nevertheless I am now deceived, and am taken 
 sleeping, unprepared, and that when I least weened of his 
 coming, and even when I reckoned myself to be in most 
 health, and when I was most busy, and in the midst of my 
 matters. Therefore delay not you any farther, nor put your 
 trust over much in your friends. Trust yourself while ye 
 space and liberty, and do for yourself now while you 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 1 
 
 may. I would advise you to do that thing that I, by the 
 grace of my Lord God, would put in execution if His pleasure 
 were to send me longer life. Recount yourself as dead, and 
 think that your souls were in prison of purgatory, and that 
 there they must abide till the ransom for them be truly paid, 
 either by long sufferance of pain there, or else by suffrages 
 done here on earth by some of your special friends. Be you 
 your own friend, do you these suffrages for your own soul, 
 whether they be prayers or alms, deeds or any other peniten- 
 tial painfulness. If you will not effectually and heartily do 
 these things for your own soul, look you never that other will 
 do them for you ; and in doing them in your own persons, 
 they shall be more available to you a thousandfold than if 
 they were done by any other. If you follow this counsel and 
 do thereafter, you be gracious and blessed ; and if you do not, 
 you shall doubtless repent your folly, but too late.