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CHAPTER XI.

GIVING UP THE GREAT SEAL.

THE aversion More felt to his late task, made him alive to the fact that others still more painful and repugnant to his feelings, would have to be gone through should he continue in office; to remain a faithful Catholic, and at the same time act as Chancellor and Minister to the King, was simply impossible.

He therefore urgently entreated his intimate friend, the Duke of Norfolk, to plead with the King for leave to retire from office, and he felt the task the easier, inasmuch as he had lately suffered from a complaint of the chest, brought on, it was supposed, by constant stooping over the writing table.

After repeated solicitations, the Duke obtained the desired leave, and Sir Thomas waited upon the King at Greenwich to deliver up the Great Seal, which he courteously received; and Henry, as he received it from the hand of the Chancellor, thanked him for his good services, adding, "In any future suit which you may hereafter have, which may affect either your honour or your profit, you shall not fail to find me a good and gracious lord."

"How true these professions were," says Cresacre More in the life of his great ancestor, "let others judge, as the King not only never bestowed on him the value of a single

penny, but robbed him and his posterity of all tlnd thay possessed."

He might have added, of his head also, for su. was of more consequence than his fortune.

watertely his life unwilling

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Dignities and honours had been thrust on an recipient, the tenor of More's whole life shewed this, hut it し el would have been a difficult matter for him to have shirke

the honours showered upon him by a Tudor Sovereign; and we must needs think he acted for the best, when he took upon him the onerous charge of the Chancellorship.

However, one may imagine the joy that must have filled his heart, when he was once more free, free for his beloved studies, free for his sweet domestic joys, free for his dear Margaret, whose name even has been so long banished from these pages, whilst we have been looking over the great event which dismembered England from the centre of Catholic unity, and which, as it led afterwards to the very death of her great and good father, we have noticed as far as the length of our humble volume permitted.

Free! what joy is comprised in that word, how More's heart must have bounded with joy as he passed out from Eastgreenwiche, and wended his way back to Chelsea, what joy as he folded Margaret in his arms, she whom he loved so well, for never were father and daughter more closely united than were these two, she must have known this secret, as she did all others, and how, for his dear sake, she must have rejoiced when he whispered in her ear:-"Sweet Meg, I am free."

The next day was a holiday, probably the Feast of the Ascension, for More resigned the Great Seal on the 10th of May, and he doubtless dreaded to confront Dame Alice, with what she was sure to consider the saddest of all sad

news, so he resolved to break it to her in Chelsea church; a novel expedient, but the manner in which it was done, was quite in keeping with the humourous character of the

ex-chancellor.

When Mass was over, More being generally in the chancel with the choristers, it was the custom for one of the attendants to go to the seat used by Lady More and her family, and inform her if "my lord," had already gone, "but on this day, the first day that he was "free," he went himself and cap in hand, with a low bow, said he to Lady More "May it please your ladyship to come forth, for my lord has gone."

Mistress Alice naturally thought my lord was jesting with her, according to his old fashion, but on their way home, he told her the truth in sober earnest, explaining to her that in very truth, he was "my lord" no longer.

One can well imagine the feelings of such a woman as Lady More is described at such an announcement; her husband's large emoluments were gone, her own dignity, also; one may really pity her for what she must have felt, when she ascertained that what she had considered as a jest, was the sober unvarnished truth.

Was not her inelegant phrase but too true; did she speak amiss when she had said, "you are always making goslings in the ashes?"

More must surely have found it a hard matter to stop her shrewish tongue on this occasion, in which the patience of far more amiable and gentle women would have been tried, so he turned the conversation and began to criticise the fashion of her dress, saying, he espied a great fault in it that morning.

For a few moments it changed the topic on which Lady

More's thoughts were bent, and she called her daughters to her, bidding them say "what was amiss in her costume,” and she being angry that none of them could see anything wrong, Sir Thomas then said, "Do you see, children, that your mother's nose is somewhat awry." At these words poor Lady More broke from him in a great rage.

All which he did to make her think the less of her decay of honour, which else would have troubled her sore.

Now to face his family and dependents, and tell them they must all disperse, must here have been the trouble, and the only trouble More felt in his altered position; as usual, he tried to get over his task in his humorous way; so he called his household together, his children, servants, and retainers, many of whom, according to the custom of the times, were men of family and position, and telling them that he was no longer Lord Chancellor, and that in future he could not keep up such an establishment as hitherto, he demanded of them individually what kind of service they wished to procure, and whether they would like to enter that of any nobleman, as if so he would try to settle each one to his liking.

Moved even to tears, they declared they would sooner serve him for nothing than others for a salary, but to this he would not agree, and he arranged so as to place them all in good situations.

But the greatest trial was to part from his children, those children who had dwelt beneath his roof even after they had entered the married state; but mastering his emotion, he called them all about him, and bade them consult with him as to what they had best do, as now he had resigned

* More.

his office, he could not keep them with him as he had hitherto done.

But my

But neither sons nor daughters spoke a word. "Then will I shew unto you all my mind," said he, "I have been brought up at Oxford, at an inn of Chancery, and Lincoln's Inn, and also in the King's Court, and so have gone from the lowest degree to the highest; and yet have I in yearly revenue at this present little left me above a hundred a year, so that now, if we live together, we must look to be contributors together. advice is that we fall not to the lowest fare first. We will not descend to Oxford fare nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, where many right worshipful men of great account and right good years live full well. If we cannot maintain that we will go a step lower, and come down to Oxford fare, wherewith many an ancient father and learned doctor has been contented, and if our united purses will not do that much, then will we with bags and wallets go a begging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us charity, and at every man's door we will sing a Salve Regina, whereby we shall still keep company and be merry together." *

Silent and tearful those whom he loved stood around him, whilst throwing a veil over the grief he must needs have felt, the good Christian still with an innocent jest on his lips sought to infuse into their souls somewhat of his own spirit of cheerful contentment. Looking on More's past life with the eyes of the world, his practical and shrewd

*He here alludes to the practice of begging adopted by the poor scholars of Oxford, who used to go begging through the streets, singing the Salve Regina.