CHAPTER 1  A Conspiracy Against the Reformation    
CHAPTER 2  The Church Becomes a Department of State    
CHAPTER 3  Tyndale and His Enemies    
CHAPTER 4  Henry VIII as King-Pontiff    
CHAPTER 5  Henry Destroys His Opponents    
CHAPTER 6  Two Notable executions    
CHAPTER 7  The Dissolution of the Smaller Monasteries    
CHAPTER 8  Henry Negotiates With German Lutherans    
CHAPTER 9  The Accusation of the Queen    
CHAPTER 10  The Execution of Anne Boleyn    
CHAPTER 11  Catholicism Versus Protestantism    
CHAPTER 12  Henry Enforces "Catholicism Minus the Pope"    
CHAPTER 13  The Pilgrimage of Grace    
CHAPTER 14  The Martyrdom of Tyndale    

The parliament of 1534 had greatly advanced the cause of the Reformation. The voices of the most enlightened men of England had been heard in it with still greater power than in 1529; and accordingly a historian, referring to the meeting of 1534, speaks of it as "that great session." These enlightened men, however, formed but a small minority, and among them were many who, from a want of independence, never voted on the side of liberty but when the king authorized them. The epoch was a critical one for the nation. It might as easily fall back to the pope as advance towards the Gospel. Hesitating between the Middle Ages and modern times, it had to choose either life or death. Would it make a vigorous effort and reach those bracing heights, like travelers scaling the rugged sides of the Alps? England appeared too weak for so daring a flight. The mass of the people seemed chained by time-worn prejudices to the errors and practices of Rome. The king no doubt had political views which raised him above his age; but, a slave to his passions, and the docile disciple of the old ways, he detested a real Reformation and real liberty. The clergy were superstitious, selfish, and excitable; and the advisers of the crown knew no other rule than the will of their master. By none of these powers, therefore, could a transformation be accomplished. The safety of England came from that sovereign hand, that mysterious power, which was already stirring the western world. The nation began to feel its energetic impulse. A strange breeze seemed to be filling the sails and driving the bark of the state towards the harbor, notwithstanding the numerous shoals that lay around it.

The thought which at that time mainly engrossed the minds of the most intelligent men of England—men like Cranmer, Cromwell, and their friends—was the necessity of throwing off the papal authority. They believed that it was necessary to root out the foreign and unwholesome weed, which had spread over the soil of Britain, and tear it up so thoroughly that it could never grow again. Parliament had declared that all the powers exercised by the bishop of Rome in England must cease and be transferred to the crown; and that no one, not even the king, should apply to Rome for any dispensation whatsoever. A prelate had preached every Sunday at St. Paul’s Cross that the pope was not the head of the Church. On the other hand, the pontiff, who was reckoning on Henry’s promised explanations and satisfactory propositions, seeing that the messenger whom he expected from London did not arrive, had solemnly condemned that prince on the 23^rd of March, 1534. But immediately startled at his own boldness, Clement asked himself with agony how he could repair this wrong and appease the king. He saw it was impossible, and in the bitterness of his heart exclaimed, "Alas! England is lost to us!"

Two days after the famous consistory in which Henry’s condemnation had been pronounced, an English courier entered Rome, still in a state of agitation and trouble, and went straight to the papal palace. "What is his business?" people said, "and what can give him such boldness?" The Englishman was bringing to the ministers of the Vatican the long-expected act by which the King of England declared himself prepared to enter into an arrangement with the pope, provided the cardinals of the imperial faction were excluded. The messenger at the same time announced that Sir Edward Carne and William Revett, two envoys from Henry VIII, would soon arrive to conclude the business. Cardinal Farnese, who erelong succeeded Clement under the title of Paul III, and the more moderate prelates of the sacred college waited upon the pope at once and begged him to summon the consistory without delay. It was just what Clement desired, but the imperialists, more furious than ever, insisted on the confirmation of the sentence condemning Henry, and spared no means to ensure success. Monks went about repeating certain stories which their English brethren sent them, and which they furthermore exaggerated. They asserted that the English people were about to rise in a body against the king and throw themselves at the feet of the holy father. The pope ratified the sentence, and the consistory, taking one more step, urged the Emperor to carry it out.

It has been said that a delay of two days was the cause of the Reformation of England. That is a mistake. The Reformation came from the Holy Scriptures, from God, from His mighty grace, and not from princes, their passions, or delays. Even had the pontifical court at last conceded to Henry the divorce he asked for, that prince would probably not have renounced the rights he had acquired, and which made him sole and true monarch of England. Had he done so, it is doubtful whether he was strong enough to check the Reformation. The people were in. motion, Christian truth had reappeared among them: neither pontifical agitations nor concessions could stop the rapid current that was carrying them to the pure and living waters of the Gospel.

However, Sir Edward Carne and William Revett, Henry’s envoys, arrived in Italy full of hope, and pledged themselves (as they wrote to the king) to reconcile England and the papacy "in conformity to his Highness’ purpose." Having learnt on reaching Bologna that Du Bellay, the bishop of Paris, who was instructed to support them, was in that city, they hurried to him to learn the exact state of affairs. The bishop was one of those enlightened catholics who believed that the extreme papal party was exposing the papacy to great danger, and who would have prevented schism in the Church by giving some satisfaction to Germany and England. Hence the envoys from Henry VIII found the prelate dejected and embarrassed. "All is over," he told them. "The pope has pronounced sentence against his Majesty." Carne and Revett were thunderstruck; the burden was too heavy for them. "All our hopes have vanished in a moment," they said. Du Bellay assured them that he had spared no pains likely to prevent so precipitate and imprudent an act on the part of a pope. "But the imperialists," he said, "moved heaven and earth, and constrained Clement VII to deliver a sentence in opposition to his own convictions." The ambassador of Francis I added that there was still one gleam of hope. "Raincé, secretary to the French embassy at Rome, with an oath, wished himself at perdition," said Du Bellay rather coarsely, "if our holy father does not patch up all that has been damaged." The Englishmen desired to go to the pope forthwith, in order to prevent the execution of the sentence. "Do nothing of the kind," said the French bishop. "Do not go to Rome on any pretext whatsoever."

Perhaps Du Bellay wanted first to know what his master thought of the matter. Carne, undecided what to do, dispatched a messenger to Henry VIII to ask for orders; and then, ten days later, wishing to do something, he appealed from the bishop of Rome ill-informed to the bishop of Rome better-informed.

When the King of England received his ambassador’s message, he could hardly restrain his anger. At the very moment when he had made a concession which appeared to him the height of condescension, Rome treated him with contempt and sacrificed him to Charles V. Even the nation was aroused. The pope, it was said, commissions a foreign prince to execute his decrees; soldiers, newly raised in Germany, and brimful of insults and threats, are preparing to land in England. National pride arrayed the people on the king’s side. Henry no longer hesitated; his offended honor demanded reparation—a complete rupture alone could satisfy it. Many writers supported him. "The pope," said Dr. Sampson, dean of the Chapel Royal, "has no more power in England than the Archbishop of Canterbury in Rome. It was only by tacit consent that the pope crept into the kingdom, but we intend to drive him out now by express consent." The two houses of parliament were almost unanimously of that opinion. The privy council proposed to call upon the lord mayor to see that anti-Romish doctrines were taught in every house in London. Lastly, the people showed their opposition after their fashion, indulging in games and masquerades, in which a cardinal at one time, the pope at another, were represented. To call a man a "papist" or "a priest of the pope" was one of the greatest insults. Even the clergy declared against Rome. On the 31^st of March the lower house of convocation discussed whether the Roman pontiff had in England, according to Scripture, a higher jurisdiction than any other foreign bishop. Thirty-three voted in the negative, only four in the affirmative. The king immediately forwarded the same question to all the ecclesiastical corporations of the kingdom. The friends of the Gospel were filled with joy. The pope had made a great mistake when, imitating the style of ancient Rome, he had hurled the bolts of the Vatican, as Jupiter had in days of old launched the thunders of the Capitol. A great revolution seemed to be working itself out, unopposed in this island, so long the slave of the Roman pontiffs. There was just at this time nothing to be feared from without; Charles V was overwhelmed with business, the King of Scotland was on better terms with his uncle of England, and Francis I was preparing for a friendly interview with Henry VIII. And yet the danger had never been greater, but the mine was discovered in March 1534, before the match could be applied to it.

A dangerous political and clerical conspiracy had been for some time silently organizing in the monasteries. It was possible, no doubt, to find here and there in the cloisters monks who were learned, pious, and loyal; but the greater number were ignorant and fanatical, and terribly alarmed at the dangers which threatened their order. Their arrogance, grossness, and loose manners irritated the most enlightened part of the nation; their wealth, endowments, and luxury aroused the envy of the nobility. A religious and social transformation was taking place at this memorable epoch, and the monks foresaw that they would be the first victims of the revolution. Accordingly they were resolved to fight to the uttermost for their altars and homes. But who was to take the first step in the perilous enterprise—who to give the signal?

As in the days of the Maid of Orleans, it was a young woman who grasped the trumpet and sounded the charge. But if the first was a heroine, the other was an ecstatic—nay, a fanatic.

There lived in the village of Aldington in Kent a young woman of singular appearance. Although of an age which is usually distinguished by a fresh and clear complexion, her face was sallow and her eyes haggard. All of a sudden she would be seized with a trembling of the whole body; she lost the use of her limbs and of her understanding, uttered strange and incoherent phrases, and fell at last stiff and lifeless to the ground. She was, moreover, exemplary in her conduct. The people declared her state to be miraculous, and Richard Masters, the rector of the parish, a cunning and grasping priest, noticing these epileptic attacks, resolved to take advantage of them to acquire money and reputation. He suggested to the poor sufferer that the extraordinary words she uttered proceeded from the inspiration of Heaven, and declared that she would be guilty if she kept secret this wonderful work of God. An official of Canterbury, Dr. Edward Bocking, joined the priest with the intention of turning the girl’s disease to the profit of the Romish party. They represented to Elizabeth Barton—such was the name of the Kentish maiden—that the cause of religion was exposed to great danger in England, that it was intended to turn out the monks and priests; but that God, whose hand defends His Church by the humblest instruments, had raised her up in these inauspicious days to uphold that holy ark, which king, ministers, and parliament desired to throw down. Such language pleased the girl; on the faith of the priests, she regarded her attacks as divine transports; a feeling of pride carne over her; she accepted the part assigned her. On a sudden her imagination kindled; she announced that she had held communications with saints and angels, even with Satan himself. Was this sheer imposture or enthusiasm? There was, perhaps, a little of both; but, in her eyes, the end justified the means. When speaking, she affected strange turns, unintelligible figures, poetical language, and clothed her visions in rude rhymes, which made the educated smile, but helped to circulate her oracles among the people. Erelong she set herself unscrupulously above the truth, and, inspired by a feverish energy, did not fear to excite the people to bloodshed.

There was somewhere out in the fields, in one part of the parish, a wretched old chapel that had been long deserted, and where a coarse image of the Virgin still remained. Masters determined to make it the scene of a lucrative pilgrimage. He suggested the notion to Elizabeth Barton, and erelong she gave out that the Virgin would cure her of her disorder in that holy consecrated edifice. She was carried thither with a certain pomp, and placed devoutly before the image. Then a crisis came upon her. Her tongue hung out of her mouth, her eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and a hoarse sepulchral voice was heard speaking of the terrors of hell; and then, by a singular transformation, a sweet and insinuating voice described the joys of paradise. At last the ecstasy ended, Elizabeth came to herself, declared that she was perfectly cured, and announced that God had ordered her to become a nun and to take Dr. Bocking as her confessor. The prophecy of the Kentish maiden touching her own disease being thus verified, her reputation increased.

Elizabeth Barton’s accomplices imagined that the new prophetess required a wider stage than the fields of Aldington, and hoped that, once established in the ecclesiastical metropolis of England, she would see her followers increase throughout the kingdom. Immediately after her cure, the ventriloquist entered the convent of St. Sepulchre at Canterbury, to which Dr. Bocking belonged. Once in this primatial city, her oracles and her miracles were multiplied. Sometimes in the middle of the night, the door of her cell opened miraculously—it was a call from God, inviting her to the chapel to converse with Him. Sometimes a letter in golden characters was brought to her by an angel from heaven. The monks kept a record of these wonders, these oracles; and, selecting some of them, Masters laid the miraculous collection, this bible of the fanatics, before Archbishop Warham. The prelate, who appeared to believe in the nun’s inspiration, presented the document to the king, who handed it to Sir Thomas More, and ordered the words of the Kentish maiden to be carefully taken down and communicated to him. In this Henry VIII showed probably more curiosity and distrust than credulity.

Elizabeth and her advisers were deceived, and thought they might enter into a new phase, in which they hoped to reap the reward of their imposture. The Aldington girl passed from a purely religious to a political mission. This is what her advisers were aiming at. All, and especially Dr. Bocking, who contemplated restoring the authority of the papacy—even were it necessary to their end to take the king’s life—began to denounce in her presence Henry’s tolerance of heresy and the new marriage he desired to contract. Elizabeth eagerly joined this factious opposition. "If Henry marries Anne Boleyn," she told Bishop Fisher, "in seven months’ time there will be no king in England." The circle of her influence at once grew wider. The Romish party united with her. Abell, Queen Catherine’s agent, entered into the conspiracy; twice Elizabeth Barton appeared before the pope’s legates; Fisher supported her, and Sir Thomas More, one of the most cultivated men of his day, though at first little impressed in her favor, admitted afterwards the truth of some of her foolish and guilty revelations. One thing was yet wanting, and that was very essential in the eyes of the supporters of the movement—Elizabeth must appear before Henry VIII as Elijah appeared before Ahab; they expected great results from such an interview. At length they obtained permission, and the Kentish maiden prepared herself for it by exercises which over-excited her. When brought into the presence of the prince, she was at first silent and motionless, but in a moment her eyes brightened and seemed to flash fire; her mouth was drawn aside and stretched, while from her trembling lips there fell a string of incoherent phrases. "Satan is tormenting me for the sins of my people," she exclaimed, "but our blessed Lady shall deliver me by her mighty hand. ... O times! O manners! ... Abominable heresies, impious innovations! ... King of England, beware that you touch not the power of the holy Father. ... Root out the new doctrines. ... Burn all over your kingdom the New Testament in the vulgar tongue. Henry, forsake Anne Boleyn and take back your wife Catherine. ... If you neglect these things, you shall not be king longer than a month, and in God’s eyes you will not be so even for an hour. You shall die the death of a villain, and Mary, the daughter of Catherine, shall wear your crown."

This noisy scene produced no effect on the king. Henry, though prompt to punish, would not reply to Elizabeth’s nonsense, and was content to shrug his shoulders. But the fanatical young woman was not discouraged—if the king could not be converted, the people must be roused. She repeated her threats in the convents, castles, and villages of Kent, the theatre of her frequent excursions. She varied them according to circumstances. The king must fall, but at one time she announced it would be by the hands of his subjects; at another, of the priests; and at a third, by the judgment of God. One point alone was unchanged in her utterances—Henry Tudor must perish. Erelong, like a prophetess lifted above the ordinary ministers of God, she reprimanded even the sovereign pontiff himself. She thought him too timid, and, taking him to task, declared that if he did not bring Henry’s plans to naught, "the great stroke of God which then hung over his head" would inevitably fall upon him.

This boldness added to the number of her partisans. Monks, nuns, and priests, knights, gentlemen, and scholars, were carried away by her. Young folks especially and men of no culture eagerly embraced this mad cause. There were also men of distinction who did not fear to become her defenders. Bishop Fisher was gained over; he believed himself certain of the young woman’s piety. Being a man of melancholy temperament and mystic tendency, a lover of the marvelous, he thought that the soul of Elizabeth might well have a supernatural intercourse with the Infinite Being. He said in the House of Lords, "How could I anticipate deceit in a nun, to whose holiness so many priests bore witness?" The Roman Catholics triumphed. A prophetess had risen up in England, like Deborah in Israel.

One eminent and large-hearted catholic, Sir Thomas More, had however some doubts, and the monks who were Elizabeth’s advisers set every engine at work to win him over. During the Christmas of 1532, Father Risby, a Franciscan of Canterbury, arrived at Chelsea to pass the night there. After supper, he said, "What a holy woman this nun of Kent is! It is wonderful to see all that God is doing through her." "I thank God for it," answered More coldly. "By her mediation she saved the cardinal’s soul," added the monk. The conversation went no farther. Some time later a fresh attempt was made; Father Rich, a Franciscan of Richmond, came and told More the story of the letter written in letters of gold and brought by an angel. "Well, father," said the chancellor, "I believe the nun of Kent to be a virtuous woman, and that God is working great things by her, but stories like that you have told me are not part of our Credo, and before repeating them, one should be very sure about them." However, as the clergy generally countenanced Elizabeth, More could not bear the idea of forming a sect apart, and went to see the prophetess at Sion monastery. She told him a silly story of the devil turned into a bird. More was satisfied to give her a double ducat and commend himself to her prayers. The chancellor, like other noble intellects among the catholics, was prepared to admit certain superstitions, but he would have had the nun keep in her religious sphere; he feared to see her touch upon politics. "Do not speak of the affairs of princes," he said to her. "The relations which the late Duke of Buckingham had with a holy monk were in great part the cause of his death." More had been Chancellor of England, and perhaps feared the duke’s fate.

Elizabeth Barton did not profit by this lesson. She again declared that, according to the revelations from God, no one should deprive the Princess Mary of the rights she derived through her birth, and predicted her early accession. Father Goold immediately carried the news to Catherine. The nun and her advisers, who chided the pope only through their zeal for the papacy, had communications with the nuncio; they thought it necessary for him to join the conspiracy. They agreed upon the course to be adopted; at a given time, monks were to mingle with the people and excite a seditious movement. Elizabeth and her accomplices called together such as were to be the instruments of their criminal design. "God has chosen you," said the nun to them, "to restore the power of the Roman pontiff in England." The monks prepared for this meritorious work by devout practices; they wore sackcloth next to their skin; they fastened iron chains round their bodies, fasted, watched, and made long prayers. They were seriously intent on disturbing the social order and banishing the Word of God.

The violent Henry VIII—easy-tempered for once in his life—persisted in his indifference. The seven months named by the prophetess had gone by, and the dagger with which she had threatened him had not touched him. He was in good health, had the approbation of parliament, saw the nation prosper under his government, and possessed the wife he had so passionately desired. Everything appeared to succeed with him, which disconcerted the fanatics. To encourage them Elizabeth said: "Do not be deceived. Henry is no longer really king, and his subjects are already released from every obligation towards him. But he is like King John, who, though rejected by God, seemed still to be a king in the eyes of the world."

The conspirators intrigued more than ever; not content with Catherine’s alliance, they opened a communication with Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury, niece of Edward IV, and with her children, the representatives of the party of the White Rose. Hitherto this lady had refrained from politics, but, her son Reginald Pole having united with the pope and quarreled with Henry VIII, they prevailed upon her to carry over to the Princess Mary, whose household she directed, the forces of the party of which she was the head.

The conspirators believed themselves sure of victory, but at the very moment when they imagined themselves on the point of restoring the papacy in England, their whole scheme suddenly fell to the ground. The country was in danger; the state must interfere. Cranmer and Cromwell were the first to discover the approaching storm. Canterbury, the primate’s archiepiscopal city, was the center of the criminal practices of the Kentish woman. One day the prioress of St. Sepulchre received the following note from Cranmer: "Come to my palace next Friday; bring your nun with you. Do not fail." The two women duly came; Elizabeth’s head was so turned that she saw in everything that happened the opportunity of a new triumph. This time she was deceived. The prelate questioned her; she obstinately maintained the truth of her revelations, but did not convince the archbishop, who had her taken to Cromwell, by whom she was sent to the Tower with five other nuns of her party. At first Elizabeth proudly stuck to her character of prophetess; but imprisonment, the searching questions of the judges, and the grief she felt on seeing her falsehoods discovered, made her give way at last. The unhappy creature, a blind tool of the priests, was not entirely wanting in proper feeling. She began to understand her offense and to repent of it; she confessed everything. "I never had a vision in all my life," she declared, "whatever I said was of my own imagination; I invented it to please the people about me and to attract the homage of the world." The disorder which had weakened her head had much to do with her aberrations. Masters, Bocking, Goold, Deering, and others more guilty than she appeared before the Star Chamber. Elizabeth’s confession rendered their denials impossible, and they acknowledged having attempted to get up an insurrection with a view of re-establishing the papacy. They were condemned to make a public disavowal of their impostures, and the following Sunday at St. Paul’s was appointed for that purpose. The bishop of Bangor preached; the nun and her accomplices, who were exposed on a platform in front of him, confessed their crimes before the people, and were then led back to the Tower.

Personages far more illustrious than these were involved. Besides an epileptic woman and a few monks, the names of Fisher and of More were in the indictment. Cromwell urged both the bishop and the statesman to petition the king for pardon, assuring them they would obtain it. "Good Master Cromwell," exclaimed Sir Thomas More, who was much excited and ashamed of his credulity, "my poor heart is pierced at the idea that his Majesty should think me guilty. I confess that I did believe the nun to be inspired, but I put away far from me every thought of treason. For the future, neither monk nor nun shall have power to make me faithless to my God and my king." Cranmer, Cromwell, and the chancellor prevailed on Henry VIII to strike More’s name out of the bill. The illustrious scholar escaped the capital punishment with which he was threatened. His daughter, Margaret Roper, came in a transport of joy to tell him the news. "In faith, Meg," said More with a smile, "quod differtur non aufertur" (what is postponed is not dropped).

The case of the bishop of Rochester was more serious; he had been in close communication with all those knaves, and the honest but proud and superstitious churchman would not acknowledge any fault. Cromwell, who desired to save the old man, conjured him to give up all idea of defending himself, but Fisher obstinately wrote to the House of Lords that he had seen no deception in the nun. The name of the king’s old tutor was left, therefore, in the bill of attainder, but he was charged with misprision, i.e., failure of duty in respect to the crime of another, and not with treason. In the outcome he was condemned to the loss of his goods and to imprisonment at the king’s pleasure, penalties from which he escaped by the payment to the king of a fine of £300.

The bill was introduced into the House of Lords on the 21^st of February, and received the royal assent on the 21^st of March. The prisoners charged with treason were brought together in the Star Chamber to hear their sentence. Their friends had still some hope, but the Bull which the pope had issued against Henry VIII on the 23^rd of March, endangering the order of succession, made indulgence difficult. The king and his ministers felt it their duty to anticipate, by a severe example, the rebellion which the partisans of the pontiff were fomenting in the kingdom. Sentence of death was pronounced upon all the criminals.

During this time the unfortunate Elizabeth Barton saw all the evils she had caused rise up before her eyes; she was grieved and agitated, she was angry with herself and trembled at the idea of the temporal and eternal penalties she had deserved. Death was about to end this drama of fanaticism. On the 20^th of April the false prophetess was carried to Tyburn with her accomplices, in the midst of a great crowd of people. On reaching the scaffold, she said, "I am the cause not only of my own death, which I have richly deserved, but of the death of all those who are going to suffer with me. Alas! I was a poor wretch without learning, but the praises of the priests about me turned my brain, and I thought I might say anything that came into my head. Now I cry to God and implore the king’s pardon." These were her last words. She fell—she and her accomplices—under the stroke of the law.

These were the means to which fervent disciples of Rome had recourse to combat the Reformation in England. Such weapons recoil against those who employ them. The blindest partisans of the Church of the popes continued to look upon this woman as a prophetess, and her name was in great favor during the reign of Mary. But the most enlightened Roman Catholics are now careful not to defend the imposture. The fanatical episode was not without its use; it made the people understand what these pretended visions and false miracles were, through which the religious orders had acquired so much influence, and so far contributed to the suppression of the monasteries within whose walls such a miserable deception had been concocted.

The maid of Kent having been executed, her partisans rallied round another woman, who represented the Romish system in its highest features, as Elizabeth Barton had represented it in its more vulgar phase. After the nun came the queen.

Catherine had always claimed the honors due to the Queen of England, and her attendants yielded them to her. "We made oath to her as queen," they said, "and the king cannot discharge our consciences." Whenever Lord Mountjoy, royal commissioner to the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, called her "princess," she raised her head haughtily and said to him, "You shall answer for this before God." "Ah!" exclaimed Mountjoy, fretted by the vexations of his office, "I would a thousand times rather serve the king in the most dangerous cause!" Mary having also received an injunction to drop her title of princess, made answer, "I shall believe no such order, unless I see his Majesty’s signature." The most notable partisans of Roman Catholicism, and even the ambassador of Charles V, paid the queen frequent visits. Henry became uneasy, and shortly before Christmas 1533 he took measures to remove her from her friends. Catherine opposed everything. Suffolk wrote to the king, "I have never seen such an obstinate woman." But there was a man quite as obstinate, and that was Henry.

His most cherished desires had not been satisfied—he had no son. Should he chance to die, he would leave two daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, the former supported by the partisans of the old times, the latter by those of the new. Civil war would probably decide to whom the crown should belong. It was necessary to prevent such a misfortune. The Lords and Commons, therefore, petitioned the king, no doubt at his instigation, that his marriage with Lady Catherine should be declared null, and her child illegitimate; that his marriage with Queen Anne should be recognized as valid, and the children issuing from it alone entitled to succeed. All classes of people immediately took the statutory oath; even the monks bowed their heads. They said, "Bound to render to our king Henry VIII, and to him alone after Jesus Christ, fidelity and worship, we promise inviolable obedience to our said lord as well as to our most serene Queen Anne, his wife, and to their children; and we profess perpetual respect for the holy and chaste marriage which they have legitimately contracted." This forced testimony, borne to Anne by the monastic orders, is one of the numerous monuments of the despotism of Henry VIII and of the moral weakness of the monks.

But in this oath of allegiance the king had meditated a more important object—to banish the papacy from England. The monks bound themselves not only to recognize the prescribed order of succession, but further to substitute the primacy of the king for that of the pope. "We affirm," they said, "that King Henry is the head of the Anglican Church, that the Roman bishop, falsely styled pope and sovereign pontiff, has no more authority than any other bishop; and we promise to preach Christ simply and openly according to the rule of Scripture and of the orthodox and catholic doctors." A sign, a word from the State was sufficient to make the papal army pass from the camp of Rome to the camp of the king.

The "famous question," that of the Romish jurisdiction, was also put before the two universities. On the 2^nd of May, 1534, Cambridge declared that "all its doctors, having carefully examined the Holy Scriptures, had not discovered the primacy of the pope in them." The clergy of the province of York, led by the archbishop, Edward Lee, a churchman full of talent, activity, and vanity, stoutly resisted at first, but eventually the prelate wrote to the king on the 2^nd of June that "according to the unanimous opinion of his clergy, the pope in conformity with the Holy Scriptures had no more authority in England than any other foreign ecclesiastic." Henry, not content with the proclamations of his council and the declarations of parliament, required for his separation from Rome the suffrage of the Church; and the Church, probably more from weakness than conviction, gave it. However, without reckoning the members of the clergy who, like the primate, wanted no pope, there were many bishops who, at heart, were not sorry to be liberated from the perpetual encroachments of the Roman court.

A rumor from the continent suddenly alarmed the king among all his easy triumphs; a more formidable enemy than monks and bishops was rising against him. It was reported that the Emperor was not only recruiting soldiers in Flanders, but was preparing considerable numbers from Bohemia, Germany, Italy, and Spain for the invasion of England. Francis I could not permit this kingdom, so close to his own, to be occupied by the armies of Charles V, his constant enemy; he determined therefore to have an interview with Henry, and to that intent sent over the Seigneur De la Guiche, his chamberlain and counselor. Henry replied that it would be difficult to leave England just at a time when pope and Emperor spoke of invading him; the more so as he must leave his "most dearly beloved queen" (Anne Boleyn) and his young daughter, the Princess Elizabeth; as well as another daughter and her mother, the aunt of Charles V, whose partisans were conspiring against him. "Ask my good brother the king," said Henry to De la Guiche, "to collect a fleet of ships, galleys, and barks to prevent the Emperor’s landing. And in case that prince should invade either France or England, let us agree that the one who is not called upon to defend his own kingdom shall march into Charles’ territories." However, Henry consented to go as far as Calais.

There was another invasion which, in Henry’s eyes, was much more to be dreaded. That king—a greater king perhaps than is ordinarily supposed—maintained that no prince, whether his name was Charles or Clement, had any business to meddle with his kingdom. The act of the 23^rd of March, by which the pope had condemned him, had terminated his long endurance; Clement VII had declared war against him and Henry VIII accepted it. A man, though he be ordinarily the slave of his passions, has sometimes impulses which belong to great characters. Henry determined to finish with the pope as the pope had finished with him. He will declare himself master in his own island; dauntlessly he will brave Rome and the imperial power ready to assail him. Erelong the fire which consumed him appeared to kindle his subjects. The political party, at the head of which were Suffolk and Gardiner, was ready to give up the papacy, even while maintaining the dogmas of catholicism. The evangelical party desired to go farther, and drive the catholic doctrines out of England. These two hostile sections united their forces against the common enemy.

At the head of the evangelicals, who were eventually to prevail under the son of Henry VIII, were two men of great intelligence, destined to be powerful instruments in the enfranchisement of England. Cranmer, the ecclesiastical leader of the party, gave way too easily to the royal pressure; but, being a moderate theologian, a conscientious Christian, a skillful administrator, and indefatigable worker, he carefully studied the Scriptures, the Fathers, and even the Schoolmen; he took note of their sayings and, strengthened by their opinions, continued the work of the Reformation with calmness and perseverance. Beside him stood Cromwell, the lay leader of protestant feeling. Gifted in certain respects with a generous character, he loved to benefit those who had helped him in adversity; but too attentive to his own interests, he profited by the Reformation to increase his riches and honors. Inferior to Cranmer in moral qualities, he had a surer and a wider glance than the primate; he saw clearly the end for which he must strive and the means necessary to be employed, and combined much activity with his talents. These leaders were strongly supported. A certain number of ministers and lay members of the Church desired an evangelical reform in England. Latimer, a popular orator, was the tribune commissioned to scatter through the nation the principles whose triumph Cranmer and Cromwell sought. He preached throughout the whole extent of the province of Canterbury; but if his bold language enlightened the well-disposed, it irritated the priests and monks. His great reputation led to his being invited to preach before the king and queen. Cranmer, fearing his incisive language and sarcastic tone, begged him to say nothing in the pulpit that would indicate any soreness about his late disgrace. "In your sermon let not any sparkle or suspicion of grudge appear to remain in you. If you feel authorized by the Word of God to attack any sin or superstition, let not the reproof be given without affection." Latimer preached, and Anne Boleyn was so charmed by his evangelical simplicity, Christian eloquence, and apostolic zeal, that shortly she used her influence with the king to have the preacher elevated to the see of Worcester. Latimer takes his place by the side of Cranmer among the reformers of the English Church.

The evangelical and the political parties being thus agreed to support the prince, Henry determined to strike the decisive blow. On the 9^th of June, 1534, about three months after he had been condemned at Rome, he signed at Westminster the proclamation "for the abolishing of the usurped power of the pope." The king declared, "That having been acknowledged next after God, supreme head of the Church of England, he abolished the authority of the bishop of Rome throughout his realm, and commanded all bishops to preach and have preached, every Sunday and holy day, the true and sincere Word of the Lord; to teach that the jurisdiction of the Church belongs to him alone, and to blot out of all canons, liturgies, and other works the name of the bishop of Rome and his pompous titles, so that his name and memory be never more remembered in the kingdom of England, except to his contumely and reproach. By so doing you will advance the honor of God Almighty, manifest the imperial majesty of your sovereign lord, and procure for the people unity, tranquility, and prosperity."

Would these orders be executed? If there remained in any university, monastery, parish, or even in any wretched presbytery, a breviary in which the name of the pope was written; if on the altar of any poor country church a missal was found with these four letters unerased—it was a crime. If every weed be not plucked up, thought the king’s counselors, the garden will soon be entirely overrun. The obstinacy of the clergy, their stratagems, their pious frauds, were a mystery to nobody. Henry was persuaded, and his counselors still more so, that the bishops would make no opposition; they resolved therefore to direct the sheriffs to see that the king’s orders were strictly carried out. "We command you," said that prince, "under pain of our high indignation, to put aside all human respect, to place God’s glory solely before you, and, at the risk of exposing yourselves to the greatest perils, to make and order diligent search to be made. Inform yourselves whether in every part of your county the bishop executes our commands without veil or dissimulation. And in case you should observe that he neglects some portion, or carries out our orders coldly, or presents this measure in a bad light, we command you strictly to inform us and our council with all haste.

"If you hesitate or falter in the commission we give you, rest assured that being a prince who loves justice, we will punish you with such severity that all our subjects will take care for the future not to disobey our commands."

Everybody could see that Henry was in earnest, and, immediately after this energetic proclamation, those who were backward hastened to make their submission. The dean and chapter of St. Paul’s made their protest against the pope on the 20^th of June. On the 27^th the University of Oxford, in an act where they described the king as "that most wise Solomon," declared unanimously that it was contrary to the Word of God to acknowledge any superiority whatsoever in the bishop of Rome. A great number of churches and monasteries set their seals to similar declarations.

Such was the first pastoral of the prince who claimed now to govern the Church. He seemed desirous of making it a mere department of the State. Henry allowed the bishops to remain, but he employed the functionaries of police and justice to overlook their episcopate, and that office was imposed upon them in such terms that they must necessarily look sharp after the transgressors. First and foremost the king wanted his own way in his family, in the State, and in the Church. The latter was to him as a ship which he had just captured; the captain was driven out, but for fear lest he should return, he threw overboard all who he thought might betray him. With haughty head and naked sword Henry VIII entered the new realm which he had conquered. He was far from resembling Him whom the prophets had announced: Behold thy king cometh unto thee, meek and lowly.

The power in the Church having been taken from the pope, to whom should it have been committed?

Scripture calls the totality of Christian people a holy nation, a royal priesthood; words which show that, after God, the authority belongs to them. And, in fact, the first act of the Church, the election of an apostle in the place of Judas, was performed by the brethren assembled in one place. When it became necessary to appoint deacons, the twelve apostles once more summoned "the multitude of the disciples." And later still, the evangelists, the delegates of the flocks, were selected by the voice of the churches.

It is a principle of reason, that authority, where a corporate body is concerned, resides in the totality of its members. This principle of reason is also that of the Word of God.

When the Church became more numerous it was called upon to delegate (at least partially) a power that it could no longer exercise wholly of itself. In the apostolic age the Christians, called to form this delegation, adopted the forms with which they were familiar. After the pattern of the council of elders, which existed in the Jewish synagogues, and of the assembly of decurions, which exercised municipal functions in the cities of the pagans, the Christian Church had in every town a council, composed of men of irreproachable life, vigilant, prudent, apt to teach, but distinct from those who were called doctors, evangelists, or ministers of the Word. Still the Christians never entertained the idea of giving themselves a universal chief, after the image of the emperor. Jesus Christ and His Word were amply sufficient. It was not until many centuries later that this anti-Christian institution appeared in history.

The authority, which in England had been taken away from the pope, should return in accordance with scriptural principles to the members of the Church; and if, following the example of the primitive Christians, they had adopted the forms existing in their own country in the sixteenth century, they would have placed as directors of the Church—Christ remaining their sole king—one or two houses or assemblies, authorized to provide for the ecclesiastical administration, the maintenance of a pure faith, and the spiritual prosperity of that vast body. These assemblies would have been composed, as in the primitive times, of a majority of Christian laymen, with the addition of ministers; and both would have been elected by believers whose faith was in conformity with that of the Church.

But was there at that time in England a sufficient number of enlightened Christians to become members of these assemblies, and even to hold the elections which were to appoint them? It is doubtful. They were not to be found even in Germany. "I have nobody to put in them," said Luther, "but if the thing becomes feasible, I shall not be wanting in my duty."

This form of government not being possible in England then, according to the Reformer’s expression, two other forms offered themselves. If the first were adopted, the authority would be remitted to the clergy; but that would have been to perpetuate the doctrines and rites of popery and to lead back infallibly to the domination of Rome. The most dangerous government for the Church is the government of priests; they commonly rob it of liberty, spontaneousness, evangelical faith, and life.

There remained no alternative then but to confide the supreme authority in the Church to the State, and this is what was generally done in the sixteenth century. But men of the greatest experience in these matters have agreed that the government of the religious society by the civil power can only be a temporary expedient, and have universally proclaimed the great principle "that the essence of all society is to be governed by itself" (Grotius). To deny this axiom would be utterly contrary not only to liberty, but, further still, contrary to justice.

We must not forget, when we speak of the relations between Church and State, that there are three different systems—the government of the Church by the State; the union of the Church, governing itself, with the State; and their complete separation. There is no reason for pronouncing here upon the relative value of the two last systems.

Two persons were at this time specially dreaded by the Roman party; one was at the summit of the grandeurs of the world, the other at the summit of the grandeurs of faith—the Queen and Tyndale. The hour of trial was approaching for both of them.

There existed another reformation than that of which the sheriffs were to be the agents; there were other reformers than Henry VIII. One man, desirous of reviving the Church of England, had made the translation of the Holy Scriptures the work of his life. Tyndale had been forced to leave his country, but he had left it only to prepare a seed which, borne on the wings of the wind, was to change the wildernesses of his native land into a fruitful garden.

The retired tutor from the vale of the Severn was living in 1534 as near as possible to England—at Antwerp, whence ships departed frequently for British harbors. The English merchants, of whom there were many in that city, welcomed him with fraternal cordiality. Among them was a friend of the Gospel, Thomas Poyntz, a member of the grocers’ company and distantly related to Lady Walsh of Little Sodbury. This warm-hearted Christian had received Tyndale into his house, and the latter was unremittingly occupied in translating the Old Testament, when an English ship brought the news of the martyrdom of Fryth, his faithful colleague. Tyndale shed many tears, and could not make up his mind to continue his work alone. But the reflection that Fryth had glorified Jesus Christ in his prison aroused him; he felt it his duty to glorify God in his exile. The loss of his friend made his Savior still more precious to him, and in Jesus he found comfort for his mind. "I have lost my brother," he said, "but in Christ, all Christians and even all the angels are father and mother, sister and brother, and God Himself takes care of me. O Christ, my Redeemer and my shield! Thy blood, Thy death, all that Thou art and all that Thou hast done—Thou Thyself art mine!"

Tyndale, strengthened by faith, redoubled his zeal in his Master’s service. While pursuing his study of the Scriptures with intense eagerness, he combined with learning the charity that maintains good works. The English merchants of Antwerp having made him an annual allowance, he consecrated it to the poor; but he was not content with mere giving. Besides Sunday he reserved two days in the week, which he called his "days of recreation." On Monday he visited the most out-of-the-way streets of Antwerp, hunting in garrets for the poor English refugees who had been driven from their country on account of the Gospel; he taught them to bear Christ’s burden, and carefully tended their sick. On Saturday, he went about the city, seeking out the poor in "every hole and corner." Should he happen to meet some hardworking parents burdened with children, or some aged or infirm man, he hastened to share his substance with the poor creatures. "We ought to be for our neighbor," he said, "what Christ has been for us." This is what Tyndale called his "pastime." On Sunday morning he met with the merchants in a room prepared for evangelical worship, and read and explained the Scriptures with so much sweetness and unction and in such a practical spirit that the congregation (it was said) fancied they were listening to John the Evangelist. During the remainder of the week the laborious scholar gave himself entirely to his translation. He was not one of those who remain idle in the hope that grace may abound. "If we are justified by faith," he said, "it is in order that we may do Christian works."

There came good news from London to console him for the death of Fryth. In every direction people were asking for the New Testament; several Flemish printers began to reprint it, saying, "If Tyndale should print 2,000 copies, and we as many, they would be few enough for all England." Four new editions of the sacred book issued from the Antwerp presses in 1534.

There was at that time living in the city a man little fitted to be Tyndale’s associate. George Joye, a fellow of Cambridge, was one of those active but superficial persons, with little learning and less judgment, who are never afraid to launch out into works beyond their powers. Joye, who had left England in 1527, noticing the consideration which Tyndale’s labors brought to their author, and being also desirous of acquiring glory for himself, began, though he knew neither Hebrew nor Greek, to correct Tyndale’s New Testament according to the Vulgate and his own imagination. One day when Tyndale had refused to adopt one of his extravagant corrections, Joye was touched to the quick. "I am not afraid to cope with him in this matter," he said, "for all his high learning in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin." Tyndale knew more than these. "He is master of seven languages," said Busche, Reuchlin’s disciple, "Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, English, French, and so thoroughly that, whichever he is speaking, one might believe it to be his mother tongue."

In the month of August, Joye’s translation appeared at Antwerp; he had advertised it as "clearer and more faithful." Tyndale glanced over the leaves of the work that had been so praised by its author, and was vexed to find himself so unskillfully "corrected." He pointed out some of Joye’s errors, and made this touching and solemn declaration: "Moreover, I take God, which alone seeth the heart, to record to my conscience, beseeching Him that my part be not in the blood of Christ, if I wrote of all that I have written, throughout all my books, aught of an evil purpose, of envy or malice to any man, or to stir up any false doctrine or opinion in the Church of Christ, or to be author of any sect, or to draw disciples after me. ... Also, my part be not in Christ, if mine heart be not to follow and live according as I teach, and also, if mine heart weep not night and day for mine own sin, and other men’s. ... As concerning all I have translated, or otherwise written, I beseech all men to read it for that purpose I wrote it, even to bring them to the knowledge of the Scripture. And as far as the Scripture approveth it, so far to allow it; and if in any place the Word of God disallow it, then to refuse it, as I do before our Saviour Christ and His congregation."

While Joye was waging this petty war against Tyndale, every ship that came from London to Antwerp brought the cheering news that the great conflict seemed to be dying out in England, and that the king and those around him were drawing towards protestantism. A change had been worked in Anne’s mind analogous to that which had been wrought in her position. She had been ambitious and worldly, but, from the moment she ascended the throne, her character had expanded; she had become queen, she wished to be the mother of her people, especially of those who trod in the paths of Holy Scripture. In the first transports of his affection, Henry had desired to share all the honors of sovereignty with her, and she had taken this high position more seriously than Henry had intended. When he saw her whom he had placed by his side imagine that she had any power, the selfish and jealous monarch knit his brows; this was the beginning of the storm that drove Anne Boleyn from the throne to the scaffold. She ventured to order Cromwell to indemnify the merchants who had suffered loss for having introduced the New Testament into England. "If a day passes," people said, "without her having an opportunity of doing a service to a friend of the Gospel, she is accustomed to say with Titus, ‘I have lost a day.’" Harman, a merchant of Antwerp and a man of courage, who had helped Tyndale to publish the Gospel in English, had been kept seven months in prison by Wolsey and Hacket. Although set at liberty, he was still deprived of his privileges and compelled to suspend business. He came over to England, but instead of applying either to the lord chancellor or to Cromwell for the restoration of his rights, he went straight to the Queen. Anne, who was then at Greenwich Palace, was touched by his piety and sufferings, and, probably without taking counsel of the king, she dictated the following message to the chief minister, which we think worth quoting in full.

Anne the Queen. Trusty and right well-beloved, we greet you well. And whereas we be credibly informed that the bearer hereof, Richard Harman, merchant and citizen of Antwerp in Brabant, was in the time of the late lord cardinal put and expelled from his freedom and fellowship of and in the English house there, for nothing else, as he affirmeth like a good Christian man, but only for that, that he did, both with his goods and policy to his great hurt and hindrance in this world, help to the setting forth of the New Testament in English. We therefore desire and instantly pray you, that with all speed and favour convenient, you will cause this good and honest merchant, being my Lord’s true, faithful, and loving subject, to be restored to his pristine freedom, liberty, and fellowship aforesaid. And the sooner at this our request: and at your good pleasure to hear him in such things as he hath to make further relation unto you in this behalf.

Given under our signet at my Lord’s manor of Greenwich, the xiv day of May.

To our trusty and right well-beloved Thomas Cromwell, principal secretary to his Majesty, the king my lord.

This intervention of the queen in favor of a persecuted evangelical was much talked about. Some ascribed her conduct to the interests of her own cause, others to humanity; most of the friends of the Reformation regarded it as a proof that Anne was gained over to their convictions, and Tyndale manifested his gratitude to the queen by presenting her with a handsome copy of his New Testament.

What gave such joy to Tyndale annoyed the king greatly. Such a private order as this coming from the queen singularly displeased a monarch whose will it was that no business should be discussed except in his council. There was also in this order, at least in Henry’s eyes, a still greater evil. The evangelical reformation, which Henry had so stoutly combated and which he detested to the last, was making great progress in England. On the 4^th of July, 1533, Fryth, the friend of Harman and Tyndale, was burnt at Smithfield, as being one of its followers, and ten months later, on the 14^th of May, 1534 Harman, the friend of Tyndale and Fryth, had been declared "a good Christian" by the queen. Anne dared profess herself the friend of those whom the king hated. Did she design to make a revolution—to oppose the opinions of her lord the king? That letter did not remain without effect: it was reported that the friends of the Word of God, taking advantage of these favorable dispositions, were printing at Antwerp six separate editions of the New Testament, and were introducing them into England.

It was not only the king who was irritated—the anger of the Romish party was greater still; but as they dared not strike the queen, they looked about for another victim. Neither Bishop Fisher, Sir Thomas More, nor Henry VIII appear to have had any part in this new crime. Gardiner, now bishop of Winchester, gave a force to the episcopal body of which it had long been deprived, and several prelates, "incensed and inflamed in their minds," says Foxe, called to remembrance that the best means of drying up the waters of a river is to cut off its springs. It was from Tyndale that all those writings proceeded—those Gospels which, in their opinion, were leading England astray. The moment seemed favorable for getting rid of him; he was actually in the territory of Charles V, that great enemy of the Reformation. Gardiner and his allies, the chief of whom was probably Stokesley, bishop of London, determined to send into the Low Countries two persons with instructions to keep an eye upon the reformer, to take him unawares, and have him put to death. For this purpose they selected a very clever monk of Stratford-le-Bow Abbey and a zealous young papist, who had the look of a gentleman, and who (they hoped) would soon gain Tyndale’s heart by his amiability.

It was about the end of the year 1534, while the reformer was still living at Antwerp in the house of Thomas Poyntz, when one day, dining with another merchant, he observed among the guests a tall young man of good appearance whom he did not know. "He is a fellow countryman," said the master of the house, "Mr. Harry Philips, a person of very agreeable manners." Tyndale drew near the stranger and was charmed with his conversation. After dinner, just as they were about to separate, he observed another person near Philips, whose countenance from being less open pleaded little in his favor. It was "Gabriel, his servant," he was told. Tyndale invited Philips to come and see him; the young layman accepted the invitation, and the candid reformer was so taken with him that he could not pass a day without him—inviting him at one time to dinner, at another to supper. At length Philips became so necessary to him that he prevailed upon him, with Poyntz’s consent, to come and live in the same house with him. For some time they had lost sight of Gabriel, and on Tyndale’s asking what had become of him, he was informed that he had gone to Louvain, the center of Roman clericalism in Belgium. When Tyndale and Philips were once lodged beneath the same roof, their intimacy increased; Tyndale kept no secrets from his fellow countryman. The latter spent hours in the library of the hellenist, who showed him his books and manuscripts, and conversed with him about his past and future labors, and the means that he possessed for circulating the New Testament throughout England. The translator of the Bible, all candor and simplicity, supposing no evil, thinking nothing but good of his neighbor, unbosomed himself to him like a child.

Philips, less of a gentleman than he appeared, was the son of a tax collector in Dorsetshire and had disgraced himself by robbing his father of money. In 1534, he was living in London and seeking employment. The pretended domestic, a disguised monk, was a crafty and vicious churchman, who had been brought from Stratford-le-Bow and given to the so-called gentleman, apparently as a servant, but really as his counselor and master. Neither Wolsey, More, nor Hacket had succeeded in getting hold of Tyndale, but Gardiner and Stokesley, men of innate malice and indirect measures, familiar with all holes and corners, all circumstances and persons, knew how to go to work without noise, to watch their prey in silence, and fall upon it at the very moment when they were least expected. Two things were required in order to catch Tyndale—a bait to attract him, and a bird of prey to seize him. Philips was the bait, and the monk Gabriel Donne the bird of prey. The noble-hearted Poyntz, a man of greater experience than the reformer, had been for some time watching with inquisitive eye the new guest introduced into his house. It was of no use for Philips to try to be agreeable; there was something in him which displeased the worthy merchant. "Master Tyndale," he said one day to the reformer, "when did you make that person’s acquaintance?" "Oh! he is a very worthy fellow," replied Tyndale, "well-educated and a thorough gentleman." Poyntz said no more.

Meanwhile the monk had returned from Louvain, where he had gone to consult with some of the most fanatical papal leaders. If he and his companion could gain Mr. Poyntz, it would be easy to lay hold of Tyndale. They thought it would be sufficient to show the merchant that they had money, imagining that every man was to be bought. One day Philips said to Poyntz, "I am a stranger here, and should feel much obliged if you would show me Antwerp." They went out together. Philips thought the moment had come to let Poyntz know that he was well supplied with gold, and even had some to give to others. "I want to make several purchases," he said, "and you would greatly oblige me by directing me. I want the best goods. I have plenty of money," he added. He then took a step farther, and sounded his man to try whether he would aid him in his designs. As Poyntz did not seem to understand him, Philips went no farther.

As stratagem did not succeed, it was necessary to resort to force. Philips, by Gabriel’s advice, set out for Brussels in order to prepare the blow that was to strike Tyndale. The Emperor and his ministers had never been so irritated against England and the Reformation. The troops of Charles V were in readiness, and people expected to hear every moment that war had broken out between the Emperor and the king. On arriving at Brussels, the young Englishman appeared at court and waited on the government; he declared that he was a Roman Catholic disgusted with the religious reforms in England and devoted to the cause of Catherine. He explained to the ministers of Charles V that they had in the Low Countries the man who was poisoning the kingdom, and that, if they put Tyndale to death, they would save the papacy in England. The Emperor’s ministers, delighted to see Englishmen making common cause with them against Henry VIII, conceded to him all that he asked. Philips, sparing no expense to attain his end, returned to Antwerp, accompanied by the imperial prosecutor and other officers of the Emperor.

It was important to arrest Tyndale without having recourse to the city authorities, and even without their knowledge. Had not the Hanseatic judges the strange audacity to declare, in Harman’s case, that they could not condemn a man without positive proof? The monk, who probably had not gone to Brussels, undertook to reconnoiter the ground. One day, when Poyntz was sitting at his door, Gabriel went up to him and said, "Is Master Tyndale at home? My master desires to call upon him." They entered into conversation. Everything seemed to favor the monk’s designs; he learned that in three or four days Poyntz would be going to Bergen-op-Zoom, where he would remain about six weeks. It was just what Gabriel wanted, for he dreaded the piercing eye of the English merchant.

Shortly after this, Philips arrived in Antwerp with the prosecutor and his officers. The former went immediately to Poyntz’s house, where he found only the wife at home. "Does Master Tyndale dine at home today?" he said. "I have a great desire to dine with him. Have you anything good to give us?" "What we can get in the market," she replied laconically.

The new Judas hurried to meet the officers, and agreed with them upon the course to be adopted. When the dinner-hour drew near, he said, "Come along, I will deliver him to you." The imperial prosecutor and his followers, with Philips and the monk, proceeded towards Poyntz’s house, carefully noting everything and taking the necessary measures not to attract observation. The entrance to the house was by a long narrow passage. Philips placed some of the agents a little way down the street; others, near the entrance of the alley. "I shall come out with Tyndale," he told the agents, "and the man I point out with my finger is the one you will seize." With these words Philips entered the house; it was about noon.

The creature was exceedingly fond of money—he had received a great deal from the priests in England for the payment of his mission—but he thought it would be only right to plunder his victim before giving him up to death. Finding Tyndale, at home, he said to him after a few compliments, "I must tell you my misfortune. This morning I lost my purse between here and Mechlin, and I am penniless. Could you lend me some money?" Tyndale, simple and inexperienced in the tricks of the world, went to fetch the required sum, and lent him forty shillings. The delighted Philips put the money carefully in his pocket, and then thought only of betraying his kind-hearted friend. "Well, Master Tyndale," he said, "we are going to dine together." "No," replied Tyndale, "I am going to dine out today; come along with me, I will answer for it that you will be welcome." Philips joyfully consented; promptitude of execution was one element of success in his business. The two friends prepared to start. The alley by which they had to go out was (as we have said) so narrow that two persons could not walk abreast. Tyndale, wishing to do the honors to Philips, desired him to go first. "I will never consent," replied the latter, pretending to be very polite. "I know the respect due to you—it is for you to lead the way." Thus Tyndale, who was of moderate height, went first, while Philips, who was very tall, came behind him. He had placed two agents at the entrance, who were sitting at each side of the alley. Hearing footsteps they looked up and saw the innocent Tyndale approaching them without suspicion, and over his shoulders the head of Philips. He was a lamb led to slaughter by the man who was about to sell him. The officers of justice, frequently so hard-hearted, experienced a feeling of compassion at the sight. But the traitor, raising himself behind the reformer, who was about to enter the street, placed his forefinger over Tyndale’s head, according to the signal which had been agreed upon, and gave the men a significant look, as if to say to them, "This is he!" The men at once laid hands upon Tyndale, who, in his holy simplicity, did not at first understand what they intended doing. He soon found out, for they ordered him to move on, the officers following him, and he was thus taken before the imperial prosecutor. The latter, who was at dinner, invited Tyndale to sit down with him. Then ordering his servants to watch him carefully, the magistrate set off for Poyntz’s house. He seized the papers, books, and all that had belonged to the reformer, and returning home, placed him with the booty in a carriage, and departed. The night came on, and after a drive of about three hours they arrived in front of the strong castle of Vilvorde, built in 1374 by duke Wenceslaus, situated two leagues north of Brussels, on the banks of the Senne, surrounded on all sides by water and flanked by seven towers. One of the three drawbridges was lowered, and Tyndale was delivered into the hands of the governor, who put him into a safe place. The reformer of England was not to leave Vilvorde as Luther left the Wartburg.

The object of his mission once attained, Philips, fearing the indignation of the English merchants, escaped to Louvain. Sitting in taverns or at the tables of monks, professors, and prelates, sometimes even at the court of Brussels, he would boast of his exploit, and, desiring to win the favor of the imperialists, would call Henry VIII a tyrant and a robber of the State.

Shortly Poyntz returned from Bergen-op-Zoom, and he and his fellow merchants, deeply offended by the loss of their friend and by the prosecutor’s encroachment upon their rights and privileges, addressed a letter to Mary of Hungary, at that time Queen Regent of the Netherlands, urging her to agree to the speedy release of Tyndale, but their protest proved unavailing. Her officials objected strongly to the release of a man who had, in their opinion, done such great harm to the papal cause in England.

Tyndale, deprived of all hope, sought consolation in God. "Oh! what a happy thing it is to suffer for righteousness’ sake," he said. "If I am afflicted on earth with Christ, I have joy in the hope that I shall be glorified with Him in heaven. Trials are a most wholesome medicine, and I will endure them with patience. My enemies destine me for the stake, but I am as innocent as a new-born child of the crimes of which they accuse me. My God will not forsake me. O Christ, Thy blood saves me, as if it had been mine own that was shed upon the cross. God, as great as He is, is mine with all that He hath." And again, "There is none other way into the kingdom of life than through persecution and suffering of pain and of very death, after the example of Christ."

Tyndale in his prison at Vilvorde was happier than Philips at court. If we carefully study the history of the reformers, we recognize at once that they were not simply masters of a pure doctrine, but also men of lofty soul, Christians of great morality and exalted spirituality. We cannot say as much of their adversaries—what a contrast here between the traitor and his victim! The calumnies and insults of the enemies of protestantism will deceive nobody. If it is sufficient to read the Bible with a sincere heart in order to believe it—it is sufficient also to know the lives of the reformers in order to honor them.

While the Roman papacy was triumphing in the Low Countries, a lay papacy was being established in England. Henry VIII gave his orders like a sovereign bishop, summus episcopus, and the majority of the priests obeyed him. They believed that such an extraordinary state of things would be but of short duration, and thought that it was not worth the trouble of dying in battle against what would perish of itself. They muttered with their lips what the king ordered them, and waited for the coming deliverance.

Every preacher was bound to preach once at least against the usurpations of the papacy, to explain on that occasion the engagements made by the pope with the king of England, the duplicity shown by Clement, and the obligation by which the monarch was bound to thwart so much falsehood and trickery. The ministers of the Church were ordered to proclaim the Word of Christ purely, but to say nothing about the adoration of saints, the marriage of priests, justification by works and other doctrines rejected by the reformers, which the king intended to preserve. The secular clergy generally obeyed.

There were however numerous exceptions, particularly in the north of England, and the execution of Henry’s orders gave rise to scenes more or less riotous. Due credit must be given to those who ventured to resist a formidable power in obedience to conscientious principles. There were here and there a few signs of opposition. On the 24^th of August, 1534, Father Ricot, when preaching at Sion Monastery, called the king, according to his orders, "the head of the Church," but added immediately after that he who had given the order was alone responsible before God, and that he "ought to take steps for the discharge of his conscience." The other monks went farther still; as soon as they heard Henry’s new title proclaimed, there was a movement among them. Father Lache, who, far from resembling his name (meaning "lax"), was inflexible even to impudence, got up; eight other monks rose with him and left the chapel "contrary to the rule of their religion" and to the great scandal of all the audience. These nine, boldly quitting the church one after another, were the living protest of the monks of England. They wanted to maintain the dominion of the pope in the Church, and in the State also. The king-pope would have none of these freaks of independence. Dr. Bedyll, a fellow of New College, Oxford, who had received Cromwell’s order to inspect this monastery, proposed to send the nine monks to prison, "to the terrible example of their adherents."

The priests, finding that they must act with prudence, avoided a repetition of such outbreaks and began secretly to school their penitents in the confessional, bidding them employ mental reservations, in order to conciliate everything. They set the example themselves. "I have abjured the pope in the outward man, but not in the inward man," said one of them to some of his parishioners. The confessor at Sion Monastery had proclaimed the king’s new title and even preached upon it; yet when one of his penitents showed much uneasiness because he had heard Latimer say that the pope himself could not pardon sin, "Do not be afraid," said the confessor, "the pope is assuredly the head of the Church. True, king and parliament have turned him out of office here in England, but that will not last long. The world will change again, you will see, and that too before long." "But we have made oath to the king as head of the Church," said some persons to a priest. "What matters!" replied he. "An oath that is not very strictly made may be broken the same way."

These mental reservations, however, made many ecclesiastics and laymen to feel uneasy. They longed for deliverance; they were on the lookout; they turned their eyes successively towards Ireland, which had risen for the pope, and towards the Low Countries, whence they hoped an imperial fleet would sail for the subjugation of England. Men grew excited. In the monasteries there were fanatical and visionary monks who, maddened by the abuses of power under which they suffered, and fired by persecution, dreamt of nothing but reaction and vengeance, and expressed their cruel wishes in daring language. One of them named Maitland, belonging to the Dominican order in London, exclaimed presumptuously, as if he were a prophet, "Soon I shall behold a scaffold erected. ... On that scaffold will pass in turn the heads of all those who profess the new doctrine, and Cranmer will be one of them. ... The king will die a violent and shameful death, and the queen will be burnt." Being addicted to the black art, Maitland pretended to read the future by the help of Satanic beings. All were not so bold; there were the timid and fearful. Several monks of Sion House, despairing of the papacy, were making preparations to escape and hide themselves in some wilderness or foreign cloister. "If we succeed," they said, "we shall be heard of no more, and nobody will know where we are." This being told to Bedyll, Cromwell’s agent, he was content to say, "Let them go; the loss will not be great." Roman Catholicism was, however, to find more honorable champions.

Two men, a bishop and a layman, celebrated throughout Christendom, John Fisher and Sir Thomas More, were about to present an opposition to the king which probably he had not expected. Since More had fathomed the king’s intentions, and resigned the office of chancellor, he often passed whole nights without sleep, shuddering at the future which threatened him, and watering his bed with tears. He feared that he was not firm enough to brave death. "O God!" he exclaimed during his agitated vigils, "come and help me. I am so weak I could not endure a fillip" (i.e., even a trifling blow). His children wept, his wife stormed against her husband’s enemies, and he himself employed a singular mode of preparing his family for the fate that awaited him. One day, when they were all at table, a sergeant entered the room and summoned him to appear before the king’s commissioners. "Be of good cheer," said More, "the time is not yet come. I paid this man in order to prepare you for the calamity that hangs over you." It was not long delayed.

Shortly after the condemnation of Elizabeth Barton the nun, Sir Thomas More, Fisher, and many other influential men were summoned to the archbishop’s palace to take the oath prescribed in the Act of Succession. More confessed, received the sacrament, and, forbidding his wife and children to accompany him, as was their custom, to the boat which was to carry him to Lambeth, he proceeded in great emotion towards the place where his future would be decided. His startled family watched him depart. The ex-chancellor, taking his seat in the boat along with his son-in-law William Roper, endeavored to restrain his tears and struggled but without success against his sorrow. At length his face became more serene, and, turning to Roper, he whispered in his ear, "I thank our Lord, my son; the field is won." On his arrival at Lambeth Palace, where Bishop Fisher (of Rochester) and a great number of ecclesiastics were assembled, More, who was the only layman, was introduced first. The chancellor read the form to him; it stated in the preamble that the troubles of England, the oceans of blood that had been shed in it, and many other afflictions, originated in the usurped power of the popes; that the king was the head of the Anglican Church, and that the bishop of Rome possessed no authority out of his own diocese. "I cannot subscribe that form," said More, "without exposing my soul to everlasting damnation. I am ready to give my adhesion to the Act of Succession which is a political act—but without the preamble." "You are the first man who has refused," said the chancellor. "Think upon it." A great number of bishops, doctors, and priests who were successively introduced took the required oath. But More remained firm, and so did Bishop Fisher.

Cranmer, who earnestly desired to save these two conscientious men, asked Cromwell to accept the oath they proposed, and the latter consulted the king upon it. "They must give way," exclaimed Henry, "or I will make an example of them that shall frighten others." As the king was inexorable, they were attainted by act of parliament for refusing to take the required oath, and sent to the Tower.

The family of Sir Thomas More was plunged in affliction. His daughter Margaret, having obtained permission to see him, hurried to the Tower, penetrated to his cell, and, incapable of speaking, fell weeping into his arms. "Daughter," said More, restraining himself with an effort, "let us kneel down." He repeated the seven penitential Psalms, and then, rising up, said, "Dear Meg, those who have put me here think they have done me a high displeasure, but God treats me as He treats His best friends." Margaret, who thought of nothing but to save her father, exclaimed, "Take the oath! Death is hanging over your head." "Nothing will happen to me but what pleases God," replied Sir Thomas More. His daughter left the Tower, overwhelmed with grief. His wife, who also went to see him, Chancellor Audley, the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, Cromwell, and other of the king’s counselors were not more successful than Margaret. Bishop Fisher met similar solicitations with a similar refusal.

As the king’s government did not wish to hurry on the trial of these illustrious men, they turned from the chiefs to the followers. The Carthusians of London were in great odor of sanctity; they never spoke except at certain times, ate no meat, and affirmed that God had visited them in visions and miracles. Their house was not free from disorders, but many of the monks took their vocation seriously. When the royal commissioners visited them to tender the oath of succession, Prior Haughton, a man of small stature but agreeable appearance and noble carriage, appeared before them. The commissioners required him to acknowledge Henry’s second marriage to be lawful; Haughton at first sought a loophole, and answered that the king might be divorced and married without him or his monks having anything to say to it. "It is the king’s command," answered the commissioners, "that you and your brethren acknowledge by oath the lawfulness of his union. Call the monks together." The Carthusians appeared, and all refused to take the oath. The prior and proctor were consequently sent to the Tower. The Bishop of London used all his influence to make them change their opinions, and succeeded in persuading them that they might take the oath, by making several reservations. They therefore returned to the Charter-House and prevailed upon their brethren to do as they had done.

Immediately all was confusion in the monastery. Several monks in deep distress could not tell which course to follow; others, more decided, exclaimed that they would not yield at any price. "They are minded to offer themselves in sacrifice to the great idol of Rome," wrote Bedyll to Cromwell. At last, when the soldiers appeared to take the rebels to the Tower, the terrified monks lost heart, and took the oath to the new marriage of Henry VIII "so far as it was lawful." The bitter cup was removed, but not for long.

Whilst England was separating from Rome, Clement VII was dying of vexation. The hatred felt by the Romans towards him was only equaled by the joy they experienced at the election of his successor. Alexander Farnese, the choice of the French party, was a man of the world, desirous of putting down the protestants, recovering England, reforming the Church, and above all enriching his own family. When Da Casale, Henry’s envoy, presented his homage, "There is nothing in the world," said Paul III to him, "that I have more at heart than to satisfy your master." It was too late.

Clement’s behavior had produced an evil influence on the character of the Tudor king. The services rendered by this prince to the papacy had been overlooked, his long patience had not been rewarded; he fancied himself despised and deceived. His pride was irritated, his temper grew fiercer; his violence, for some time restrained, broke out, and, unable to reach the pope, he revenged himself on the papacy. Until now, he had scarcely been worse than most of the sovereigns of Christendom; from this moment, when he proclaimed himself head of the Church, he became harsh, and cared for nothing but gratifying his evil inclinations, his despotic humors, his bloodthirsty cruelty. As a prince, he had at times shown a few amiable qualities; as a pope, he was nothing but a tyrant.

Henry VIII, observing the agitation his pretensions caused in England, and wishing to strengthen his new authority, had caused several bills concerning the Church to be brought into the parliament, which met on the 3^rd of November, 1534, and continued in session until the 18^th of December. The ministers who had drafted them, far from being protestants, were zealous partisans of scholastic orthodoxy. They included the cunning Gardiner, a furious Catholic; the duke of Norfolk, who assisted in the king’s movements against Rome only to prevent him from falling into the arms of the reformers; and the politic Cromwell, who, despite his zeal against the pope, declared at his death, possibly giving a particular meaning to the words, that he died in the catholic faith.

The first act passed by parliament was the ratification of the king’s new title, already officially recognized by the clergy. Henry’s ministers knew how to make the law strict and rigorous. "It is enacted," so ran the act, "that our lord the king be acknowledged sole and supreme head on earth of the Church of England; that he shall possess not only the honors, jurisdictions, and profits attached to that dignity, but also full authority to put down all heresies and enormities, whatever be the customs and the laws that may be opposed to it." Parliament also enacted that "whoever should do anything tending to deprive the king or his heirs of any of their titles, or should call him heretic, schismatic, usurper, &c., should be guilty of high treason.

Thus Henry VIII united the two swords in his hand, and virtually became a pope in his own dominions. Whether a pope claims to be king, or a king claims to be pope, it comes to nearly the same thing. At the time when the Reformation was emancipating the long-enslaved Church, a new master was given it, and what a master! The consciences of Christians revolted against this order of things. One day—it was some time later—Cranmer was asked, "Who is the supreme head of the Church of England?" "Christ," was the reply, "as He is of the universal Church."

"But did you not recognize the king as supreme head of the Church?"

"We recognized him as head of all the people of England," answered Cranmer, "of churchmen as well as of laymen."

"What! not of the Church?"

"No! Supreme head of the Church never had any other meaning than what I tell you."

This is explicit. If the title given to Henry only signified that he was king of the clergy as well as of the laity, and that the former were under the jurisdiction of the royal courts as well as the latter, in all matters of common law, there can be nothing fairer. But how was it that Cranmer did not find as much courage in Henry’s lifetime to speak according to his conscience, as when examined in 1555 by Brokes, the papal sub-delegate? An interpretative document drawn up by the government at almost the same time as the act of parliament, corroborates however the explanation made by Cranmer; it said, "The title of supreme head of the Church gives the king no new authority; it does not signify that he can assume any spiritual power." This document declares that the words reform, abuses, and heresies indicate the authority which the king possesses to suppress the powers which the bishop of Rome or other bishops have usurped in his realm. "We heartily detest," said William Fulke, Master of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, "the notion that the king can do what he likes in matters of religion." Even Elizabeth refused the title of head of the Church. Probably these are facts which are not generally known.

In England it was reserved for Catholics as well as for evangelicals to give the world, amid great misery, remarkable examples of Christian virtues. Latimer and others preached the truth courageously; martyrs like Bilney, Tewkesbury, and Fryth had laid down their lives for the Gospel. Now in the other party, laymen, monks, and priests, with unquestionably a less enlightened piety, were about to furnish proofs of their sincerity. There were Roman martyrs also. Two armies were in presence; many fell on both sides; but there was a sensible difference between this spiritual war and the wars of nations. Those who bit the dust did not fall under the weapons of a hostile army; there was a third power, the king-pope, who took his station between the two lines, and dealt his blows, now to the right, now to the left. Leaders of the pontifical army were to be smitten in the struggle in which so many evangelicals had already fallen.

Sir Thomas More, while in prison, strove to banish afflicting thoughts by writing a history of Christ’s passion. One day when he came to these words of the Gospel, Then came they and laid hands on Jesus, and took him, the door opened, and Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower, accompanied by Sir Richard Rich, the solicitor-general, appeared. "Sir Thomas," said Rich, "if an act of parliament ordered all Englishmen to acknowledge me as their king, would you acknowledge me?" "Yes, sir." "And if an act of parliament ordered all Englishmen to recognize me as pope?" "Parliament has no authority to do it," answered More. Sir Thomas held that an act of parliament was sufficient to dethrone a king of England; it is to a great-grandson of More that we are indebted for this opinion, which a grand-nephew of Cromwell put into practice a hundred years later. Was Henry VIII exasperated because More disposed so freely of his crown? It is possible, but be that as it may, the harshness of his imprisonment was increased. Suffering preceded martyrdom. The illustrious scholar was forced to pick up little scraps of paper on which to write a few scattered thoughts with a coal. This was not the worst. "I have neither shirt nor sute," he wrote to the chief secretary of state, "nor yet other clothes that are necessary for me to wear, but that be ragged and rent too shamefully. Notwithstanding, I might easily suffer that if that would keep my body warm. And now in my age my stomach may not away but with a few kind of meats; which, if I want, I decay forthwith, and fall into crases and diseases of my body, and cannot keep myself in health. ... I beseech you be a good master unto me in my necessity, and let me have such things as are necessary for me in mine age. Restore me to my liberty out of this cold and painful imprisonment. Let me have some priest to hear my confession against this holy time, and some books to say my devotions more effectually. The Lord send you a merry Christmas.

"At the Tower, 23^rd December."

It is a relief to hope that this scandalous neglect proceeded from heedlessness and not from cruelty. His requests were granted.

While these sad scenes were enacted in the Tower, there was great confusion in all England, where the most opposite parties were in commotion. When the traditional yoke was broken, every man raised up his own banner. The friends of More and Fisher wished to restore the papacy of the Roman bishop; Henry VIII, Cromwell, and the court thought how to establish the supremacy of the king; Cranmer and a few men of the same stamp endeavored to steer between these quicksands, and aspired to introduce the reign of Holy Scripture under the banner of royalty. This contest between forces so different, complicated too by the passions of the sovereign, was a terrible drama destined to wind up not in a single catastrophe, but in many. Illustrious victims, taken indiscriminately from all parties, were to fall beneath the oft-repeated blows and be buried in one common grave.

The prudent Cranmer lived in painful anxiety. Surrounded by enemies who watched every step, he feared to destroy the cause of truth by undertaking reforms as extensive as those on the Continent. The natural timidity of his character, the compromises he thought it his duty to make with regard to the hierarchy, his fear of Henry VIII, his moderation, gentleness, and plasticity of character and in some respects of principle, prevented his applying to the work with the decision of a Luther, a Calvin, or a Knox. Tyndale, if he had possessed the influence that was his due, would have accomplished a reform similar to that of those great leaders. To have had him for a reformer would, in Wycliffe’s native land, have been the source of great prosperity, but such a thing was impossible; his country gave him, not a professor’s chair, but exile. Cranmer moved forward slowly; he modified an evangelical movement by a clerical concession. When he had taken a step forward, he stopped suddenly, and apparently drew back, not from cowardice, but because his extreme prudence so urged him. The boldness of a Farel or a Knox is in our opinion far more noble, and yet this extreme moderation saved Cranmer and English protestantism with him. Near a throne like that of Henry’s, it was only a man of extreme caution who could have retained his position in the see of Canterbury. Cranmer knew that if he came into collision with the Tudor’s scepter, he would find it a sword. God gives to every people and to every epoch the man necessary to it. Cranmer was this man for England, at the time of her separation from the papacy. Notwithstanding his compromises, he never abandoned the great principles of the Reformation; notwithstanding his concessions, he took advantage of every opportunity to encourage those who shared his faith to march towards a better future. The primate of England held a torch in his hand which had not the brilliancy of that borne by Luther and Calvin, but the tempest that blew upon it for fifteen or twenty years could not extinguish it. Sometimes he was seized with terror; as he heard the lion roar, he bent his head, kept in the background, and concealed the truth in his bosom; but again he rose and again held out to the Church the light he had saved from the fury of the tyrant. He was a reed and not an oak—a reed that bent too easily—but through this very weakness he was able to do what an oak with all its strength would never have accomplished. The truth triumphed.

At this time Cranmer thought himself in a position to take a step—the most important step of all; he undertook to give the Bible to the laity. When the convocation of clergy and parliament had assembled, he made a proposition that the Holy Scriptures should be translated into English by certain honorable and learned men, and be circulated among the people. To present Holy Scripture as the supreme rule instead of the pope was the bold act that decided the evangelical reformation. Stokesley, Gardiner, and the other bishops of the catholic party cried out against such a monstrous design. "The teaching of the Church is sufficient," they said, "we must prohibit Tyndale’s Testament and the heretical books which come to us from beyond the sea." The archbishop saw that he could only carry his point by giving up something; he consented to a compromise. Convocation resolved on the 19^th of December, 1534, to lay Cranmer’s proposal before the king, but with the addition that the Scriptures translated into the vulgar tongue should only be circulated among the king’s subjects in proportion to their knowledge, and that all who possessed suspected books should be bound to give them up to the royal commissioners; others might have called this resolution a defeat—Cranmer looked upon it as a victory. The Scriptures would no longer be admitted stealthily into the kingdom, like contraband goods; they would appear in broad daylight with the royal sanction. This was something.

Henry granted the petition of Convocation, but hastened to profit by it. His great fixed idea was to destroy the Roman papacy in England, not because of its errors, but because he felt that it robbed princes of the affection and often of the obedience of their subjects. "If I grant my bishops what they ask for," he said, "in my turn I ask them to make oath never to permit any jurisdiction to be restored to the Roman bishop in my kingdom; never to call him pope, universal bishop, or most holy lord, but only bishop of Rome, colleague and brother, according to the ancient custom of the oldest bishops." All the prelates were eager to obey the king; but the archbishop of York, secretly devoted to the Roman Church, added, to acquit his conscience, "that he took the oath in order to preserve the unity of the faith and of the Catholic Church."

Cranmer was filled with joy by the victory he had won. "If we possess the Holy Scriptures," he said, "we have at hand a remedy for every disease. Beset as we are with tribulations and temptations, where can we find arms to overcome them? In Scripture. It is the balm that will heal our wounds, and will be a more precious jewel in our houses than either gold or silver." He therefore turned his mind at once to the realization of the plan he had so much at heart. Taking for groundwork an existing translation (doubtless that by Tyndale) he divided the New Testament into ten portions, had each transcribed separately, and transmitted them to the most learned of the bishops, praying that they might be returned to him with their remarks. He even thought it his duty not to omit such decided catholics as Stokesley and Gardiner.

The day appointed for the return and examination of these various portions having arrived (June 1535) Cranmer set to work, and found that the Acts of the Apostles were wanting; they had fallen to the lot of the bishop of London. When the primate’s secretary went to ask for the manuscript, Stokesley replied in a very bad humor, "I do not understand my lord of Canterbury. By giving the people the Holy Scriptures, he will plunge them into heresy. I certainly will not give an hour to such a task. Here, take the book back to my lord." When the secretary delivered his message, Thomas Lawney, one of Cranmer’s friends, said with a smile, "My lord of London will not take the trouble to examine the Scriptures, persuaded that there is nothing for him in the Testament of Jesus Christ." Many of the portions returned by the other bishops were pitiable. The Archbishop saw that he must find colleagues better disposed.

Cranmer had soon to discharge another function. As popery and rebellion were openly preached in the dioceses of Winchester and London, the metropolitan announced his intention to visit them. The two bishops cried out vehemently, and Gardiner hurried to the king. "Your Grace," he said, "here is a new pope!" All who had anything to fear began to reproach the primate with aspiring to honors and dominion. "God forgive me," he said with simplicity, "if there is any title in the world I care for more than the paring of an apple. Neither paper, parchment, lead, nor wax, but the very Christian conversation of the people, are the letters and seals of our office." The king supported Cranmer, knowing that certain of the clergy preached submission to the pope. The visitation took place. Even in London priests were found who had taken the oath prescribed by Henry VIII, and who yet "made a god of the Roman pontiff, setting his power and his laws above those of our Lord." "I command you," said the king, "to lay hold of all who circulate those pernicious doctrines."

Francis I watched these severities from afar. He feared they would render an alliance between France and England impossible. He therefore sent Bryon, high-admiral of France, to London, to reconcile the king with the pope, to strengthen the bonds that united the two countries, and at the same time, he prevailed upon Paul III to withdraw the decree of Clement VII against Henry VIII. But success did not crown his efforts; the king of England had no great confidence in the sincerity of the pope or of the French king. He was well pleased to be no longer confronted by a foreign authority in his own dominions, and thought that his people would never give up the Reformation. Instead of being reconciled with the Roman pontiff, he found it more convenient to imitate the pope, and to break out against those subjects who refused to recognize him, the king, as head of the Church.

He first attacked the Carthusians, the most respectable of the religious orders in England, and whom he considered as the most dangerous. Where there was the most goodness, there was also the most strength, and that strength gave umbrage to the despotic Tudor king.

Monastic life, abominable in its abuses, was, even in principle, contrary to the Gospel. But we must confess that there was a certain harmony between the wants of society in the Middle Ages and monastic establishments. Many and various motives drove into the cloisters the men that filled them, and if some were condemnable, there were others whose value deserves to be appreciated. It was these earnest monks who, even while defending the royalty of the pope, rejected most energetically the papacy of the king; this was enough to draw down upon them the royal vengeance. One day a messenger from the court brought to the Charter-House of London an order to reject the Roman authority. The monks, summoned by their prior, remained silent when they heard the message, and their features alone betrayed the trouble of their minds. "My heart is full of sorrow," said Prior Haughton. "What are we to do? If we resist the king, our house will be shut up, and you young men will be cast into the midst of the world, so that after commencing here in the spirit you will end there in the flesh. But, on the other hand, how can we obey? Alas! I am helpless to save those whom God has entrusted to my care!" At these words the Carthusians "fell all a-weeping," and then, taking courage from the presence of danger, they said, "We will perish together in our integrity, and heaven and earth shall cry out against the injustice that oppresses us." "Would to God it might be so," exclaimed the Superior, "but this is what they will do. They will put me to death—me and the oldest of us—and they will turn the younger ones into the world, which will teach them its wicked works. I am ready to give up my life to save you, but if one death does not satisfy the king, then let us all die!" "Yes, we will all die," answered the brethren. "And now let us make preparation by a general confession," said the prior, "so that the Lord may find us ready."

Next morning the chapel doors opened and all the monks marched in. Their serious looks, their pale countenances, their fixed eyes seemed to betoken men who were awaiting their last moments. The prior went into the pulpit and read the sixtieth Psalm: "O God, thou hast cast us off." On coming to the end, he said, "My brethren, we must die in charity. Let us pardon one another." At these words Haughton came down from the pulpit, and knelt in succession before every brother, saying, "O my brother, I beg your forgiveness of all my offenses!" The other monks, each in his turn, made this last confession.

Two days afterwards they celebrated the mass of the Holy Ghost. Immediately after the elevation, the monks fancied they heard "a small hissing wind." Their hearts were filled with a tender affection; they believed that the Holy Ghost was descending upon them, and the prior, touched by this surprising grace, burst into tears. Enthusiasm mingled extraordinary fantasies with their pious emotions.

The king had evidently not much to fear in this quarter. His crown was threatened by more formidable enemies. In various parts, especially in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, there were daring partisans of the papacy to be found who endeavored to stir up the people to revolt, and thousands of Englishmen in the North were ready to help them by force of arms. At the same time Ireland wished to transport her soldiers across St. George’s Channel and hurl the king from his throne. The decision with which Fisher, Sir Thomas More, and the Carthusians resisted Henry had not immediate insurrection for its object, but it encouraged the multitude to revolt. The government, thinking, therefore, that it was time to strike, sent the Carthusians an absolute order to acknowledge the royal supremacy.

At this time there was in reality no liberty on one side or the other. Rome, by not granting it, was consistent with herself, but not so the protestantism that denies it. The Reformation, acknowledging no other sovereign Lord and Teacher than God, must of necessity leave the conscience to the Supreme Master, man having nothing to do with it. But the Roman Church, acknowledging a man as its head, and honoring the pope as the representative of God on earth, claims authority over the soul. Men may say in vain that they are in harmony with God and His Word—that is not the question. The great business is to be in accord with the pope. That old man, throned in the Vatican on the traditions of the Church and the bulls of his predecessors, is their judge; they are bound to follow exactly his line, without wavering either to the right or the left. If they reject an article, a jot of a papal constitution, they must be cast away. Such a system, the enemy of every liberty, even of the most legitimate, rose in the sixteenth century like a high wall to separate Rome and the new generation. It threatened to destroy in the future that power which had triumphed in the past.

After the festival of Easter 1535, the heads of two other Carthusian houses—Robert Laurence, prior of Belleval, and Augustine Webster, prior of Axholm—arrived in London in obedience to an order they had received, and, in company with Prior Haughton, waited upon Cromwell. As they refused to acknowledge the royal supremacy, they were sent to the Tower. A week later, they consented to take the oath, adding, "So far as God’s law permits." "No restrictions," answered Cromwell. On the 29^th of April they were placed on their trial, when they said, "We will never believe anything contrary to the law of God and the teaching of our holy mother Church." At first the jury expressed some interest in their behalf, but Haughton uselessly embittered his position. "You can only produce in favor of your opinion," he said, "the parliament of one single kingdom; for mine, I can produce all Christendom." The jury found the three prisoners guilty of high treason. Thence the government proceeded to more eminent victims.

Fisher and More, confined in the same prison, were now treated with more consideration. It was said, however, that these illustrious captives were endeavoring, even in the Tower, to excite the people to revolt. The king and Cromwell could hardly have believed it, but they imagined that if these two leading men gave way, their example would carry the recalcitrants with them; they were therefore exposed to a new examination. But they proved as obstinate as their adversaries, and perhaps more skillful. "I have no more to do with the titles to be given to popes and princes," said Sir Thomas, "my thoughts are with God alone."

The court hoped to intimidate these eminent personages by the execution of the three priors, which took place on the 4^th May, 1535. Margaret hurried to her father’s side. Before long the procession passed under his window, and the affectionate young woman used every means to draw Sir Thomas away from the sight, but he would not avert his eyes. When all was over, he turned to his daughter. "Meg," he said, "you saw those saintly fathers; they went as cheerfully to death as if they were bridegrooms going to be married."

The prisoners walked calmly along; they wore their clerical robes, the ceremony of degradation not having been performed, no doubt to show that a papal consecration could not protect offenders. Haughton, prior of the London Charter-House, mounted the ladder first. "I pray all who hear me," he said, "to bear witness for me in the terrible day of judgment, that it is not out of obstinate malice or rebellion that I disobey the king, but only for the fear of God." The rope was now placed round his neck. "Holy Jesus!" he exclaimed, "have mercy on me," and he gave up the ghost. The other priors then stepped forward. "God has manifested great grace to us," they said, "by calling us to die in defense of the catholic faith. No, the king is not head of the Church in England." A few minutes later and these monks, dressed in the robes of their order, were swinging in the air. This was one of the crimes committed when the unlawful tiara of the pontiffs was placed unlawfully on the head of a king of England. Other Carthusians were put to death somewhat later.

Meanwhile Henry VIII desired to preserve a balance between papists and heretics. The Roman tribunals struck one side only, but this strange prince gloried in striking both sides at once. An opportunity of doing so occurred. Some anabaptists from the Low Countries were convicted on the 25^th of May; two of them were taken to Smithfield and twelve others sent to different cities, where they suffered the punishment by fire. All of them went to death with cheerful hearts.

The turn of the illustrious captives was at hand.

Not long after the death of the Carthusians, Cromwell paid More a visit. Henry VIII loved his former chancellor, and desired to save his life. "I am your friend," said Cromwell, "and the king is a good and gracious lord towards you." He then once again invited More to accept the act of parliament which proclaimed the king’s supremacy; and the same steps were taken with Fisher. Both refused what was asked. From that moment the execution of the sentence could not be long delayed. More felt this, and, as soon as the Secretary of State had left him, he took a piece of coal and wrote some verses upon the wall, expressive of the peace of his soul.

Henry and his minister seemed however to hesitate. It had not troubled them much to punish a few papists and obscure anabaptists; but to put to death an ex-chancellor of the realm and an old tutor of the king—both personages so illustrious and so esteemed throughout Christendom—was another thing. Several weeks passed away. It was an act of the pope that hastened the death of these two men. On the 20^th of May, Paul III created a certain number of cardinals—John Du Bellay, Contarini, Caracciolo, and lastly, Fisher, bishop of Rochester. The news of this creation burst upon Rome and London like a clap of thunder. Da Casale, Henry’s agent at the papal court, exclaimed that it was offering his master the greatest affront possible; the matter was the talk of the whole city. "Your Holiness has never committed a more serious mistake than this," said De Casale to the pope. Paul tried to justify himself. As England desired to become reconciled with the Vatican, he said, it seemed to him that he could not do better than nominate an English cardinal. When Fisher heard the news, he said piously, "If the cardinal’s hat were at my feet, I would not stoop to pick it up." But Henry did not take the matter so calmly; he considered the pope’s proceedings as an insolent challenge. Confer the highest honors on a man convicted of treason—is it not encouraging subjects to revolt? Henry seemed to have thought that it would be unnecessary to take away the life of an old man whose end could not be far off; but the pope exasperated him. Since they place Fisher among the cardinals in Rome, in England he shall be counted the dead. Pope Paul may, as long as he likes, send him the hat; but when the hat arrives, there shall be no head on which to place it.

On the 14^th of June, 1535, Thomas Bedyll and other officers of justice proceeded to the Tower. The Bishop would give no answer to the demand that he should recognize the king as head of the Church. Sir Thomas More, when questioned in his turn, replied, "My only study is to meditate on Christ’s passion." "Do you acknowledge the king as supreme head of the Church?" asked Bedyll. "The royal supremacy is established by law." "That law is a two-edged sword," returned the ex-chancellor. "If I accept it, it kills my soul; if I reject it, it kills my body."

Three days later the bishop was condemned to be beheaded. When the order for his execution arrived, the prisoner was asleep; they respected his slumber. At five o’clock the next morning, 22^nd of June, 1535, Kingston, entering his cell, aroused him and told him that it was the king’s good pleasure he should be executed that morning. "I most humbly thank his Majesty," said the old man, "that he is pleased to relieve me from all the affairs of this world. Grant me only an hour or two more, for I slept very badly last night." Then turning towards the wall, he fell asleep again. Between seven and eight o’clock he called his servant, took off the hair shirt which he wore next his skin to mortify the flesh, and gave it to the man. "Let no one see it," he said. "And now bring me my best clothes." "My lord," said the astonished servant, "does not your lordship know that in two hours you will take them off never to put them on again?" "Exactly so," answered Fisher, "this is my wedding day, and I ought to dress as if for a holiday."

At nine o’clock the lieutenant appeared. The old man—he was about seventy-six years old—took up his New Testament, made the sign of the cross, and left the cell. He was tall, being six feet high, but his body was bent with age, and his weakness so great that he could hardly get down the stairs. He was placed in an armchair. When the porters stopped near the gate of the Tower to know if the sheriffs were ready, Fisher stood up, and, leaning against the wall, opened his Testament, and, lifting his eyes to heaven, said, "O Lord! I open it for the last time. Grant that I may find some word of comfort to the end that I may glorify Thee in my last hour." The first words he saw were these: And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent. Fisher closed the book and said, "That will do. Here is learning enough to last me to my life’s end."

The funeral procession was set in motion. Clouds hid the face of the sun; the day was gloomy; the streets through which they passed seemed dull and in harmony with men’s hearts. A large body of armed men surrounded the pious old man, who kept repeating in a low tone the words of his Testament: Hæc est autem vita æterna, ut cognoscant te solum verum Deum et quern misisti Jesum Christum (John 17:3). They reached Smithfield. "We will help you to ascend," said his bearers at the foot of the scaffold. "No, Sirs," he replied, and then added in a cheerful tone, "Come, feet! do your duty, you have not far to go." Just as he mounted the scaffold, the sun burst out and shone upon his face. "They looked unto him and were lightened," he cried, "and their faces were not ashamed." It was ten o’clock. The noble bearing and piety of the aged bishop inspired all around him with respect. The executioner knelt before him and begged his forgiveness. "With all my heart," he made answer. Having laid aside his robe and furred gown, he turned to the people, and said with gravity and joy, "Christians, I give my life for my faith in the holy catholic Church of Christ. I do not fear death. Assist me, however, with your prayers, so that when the axe falls I may remain firm. God save the king and the kingdom!" The brightness of his face at this moment struck the spectators. He fell on his knees and said, "Eternal God, my hope is in Thy deliverance." The executioner approached and bound his eyes. The bishop raised his hands, uttered a cry towards heaven, and laid his head on the block. The doomsman seized his heavy axe, and cut off the head at one blow. It was exposed for a time by Henry’s orders on London Bridge and then thrown into the river; but soldiers carried the body to Barking churchyard, where they dug a lowly grave for it with their halberds. Later, it was removed to St. Peter’s ad vincula in the Tower, where it lies beside that of Sir Thomas More. Doubts have been thrown upon the details of this death; we believe them to be authentic, and it is a pleasure by reporting them to place a crown on the tomb of a Roman Catholic bishop whose end was that of a pious man.

It was now the turn of Sir Thomas More. On the 1^st of July, 1535, he was summoned before a special commission and a packed jury. The former Chancellor of England quitted his prison in a frieze cloak, which had grown foul in the dungeon, and proceeded on foot through the most frequented streets of London on his road to Westminster. His thin pale face; his white hair, the effect not of time but of sorrow and imprisonment; the staff on which he leaned, for he walked with difficulty, made a deep impression on the people. When he arrived at the bar of the tribunal, and looked around him, though weakened by suffering, with a countenance full of mildness, all the spectators were move