SECT. I.

THOMAS CRANMER was born at Aſlacton in Nottinghamſhire, on the ſecond of July 1489. His father was a gentleman of ſmall fortune; but the head of a family, which had long lived in reputation in thoſe parts. He was a lover of country diverſions; and ſeems to have given his ſon an early taſte for them.

The circumſtances indeed of Mr. Cran⯑mer's youth were not ſuch, as uſually uſher [2]in the life of a ſcholar. No man could manage a pack of hounds better; or handle the long-bow with more dexterity; or with the croſs-bow take a ſurer aim. In horſemanſhip he ſo excelled, that after he was an arch-biſhop, he ſcrupled not to ride the rougheſt horſe in his ſtables.

But amuſements with him were only relaxations. He gave himſelf up to ſtudy with equal eagerneſs; and his proficiency in country-diverſions ſhewed merely the verſatility of his genius.—The experi⯑ment, however, is dangerous; and the example not to be followed by thoſe, who are not well aſſured they have his ſtrength of parts, and ſteadineſs of temper to ſecure them from an extreme.

At the uſual age Mr. Cranmer was ſent to Cambridge; which was not then the ſeat of the muſes. Schoolmen were the claſſics of that age; and nothing was heard from the chairs either of ſcience, or reli⯑gion, but what would have inſpired an improved mind with diſguſt. This ſolemn trifling, which was then called learning, engaged Mr. Cranmer at leaſt ten years.

[3]About the year 1520 Martin Luther began firſt to draw the attention of man⯑kind. Many reformers, before his day, particularly Wicliff, Huſs, and Jerome of Prague, at different periods, had ſeen, and expoſed, with great acuteneſs, and ſtrength of argument, the corruptions of the church of Rome. But it pleaſed God to uſe theſe inquiſitive minds only as the dawning of that day, which He intended gradually to open. The corruptions of the church therefore having not yet re⯑ceived any effectual check, continued to ſpread; and, in the days of Luther, had grown to an enormous height. Venality, and rapacity were the reigning character⯑iſtics of the ſovereign pontiff; and of that band of eccleſiaſtics, who retained under him. The very idea of religion was loſt; except where it was neceſſary to uphold ſome parading ceremonies of the church; which were all the remains now left of Chriſtianity. Morals were never thought of; and ſo far were the ruling powers from being hurt by the ſcandalous lives [4]of the clergy, that they invented every method to exempt them from the juriſ⯑diction of all courts, except their own. In them, every treſpaſs found the gentleſt treatment. An eaſy fine would ſatisfy even for murder.

Nor is it ſurprizing, that the inferior clergy ſhould lay aſide all decency of man⯑ners, when they looked up to ſuch pon⯑tiffs, as had long filled St. Peter's chair; particularly Alexander VI, and Julius II. Even Leo X, flattered by the wits of the age, as the revivor, and patron of arts, and letters, tho an elegant prince, was a deteſtable eccleſiaſtic^*.

We need not wonder therefore, if ſo complex a ſyſtem of corruption, as the Roman hierarchy appears to have been, at that time, needed little developing. Lu⯑ther's doctrines ſpread rapidly through Ger⯑many: and tho it was the ſingle corruption of indulgences, which gave the firſt im⯑pulſe [5]to this diſguſt; yet from one error the minds of men preſently paſſed to ano⯑ther; and the tenets of Luther were eager⯑ly embraced, not only by the lower claſſes of people; but even by ſome of the princes of the empire; particularly by the elector of Saxony, one of the beſt, and by his ſufferings ſhewn to be, one of the moſt magnanimous, princes of his time.

But tho the ardent, and intrepid ſpirit of Luther had thus awakened a great part of Germany from its lethargy; yet his opinions found their way but leiſurely into other parts of Europe. In England they were received with great caution. Serious men began to ſee the corruptions of the clergy; but they were afraid to queſtion the infallibility of the pope. They were convinced of the propriety of ſeeking truth in the bible: but examined with great timidity the doctrines it contained.

Indeed, as far as appears, the writings of Eraſmus introduced the firſt idea of ſyſ⯑tematic reformation in England. This reformer was a man of a very different temper from Luther: and yet in his way perhaps he contributed as much to diſ⯑countenance [6]the corruptions of the Romiſh church. Luther, fearleſs in the path of truth, was animated, rather than daunted, by oppoſition. Eraſmus, cautious, and reſpectful to authority, ſhrank from dan⯑ger; and ſought truth only in the regions of tranquillity. Luther, in vehement lan⯑guage, talked of extirpating error, root, and branch. Eraſmus wiſhed only to open the eyes of men; and to leave them by degrees to reform themſelves: he ſatisfied himſelf with expoſing what was wrong; but did not preſume to point out what was right. Luther's oppoſition ran ever in the form of fierce invective, or ſerious argument. Eraſmus, tho always in earneſt, choſe commonly to cloath his ſentiments in ridicule. Luther was re⯑markable for the boldneſs of his mea⯑ſures; and a courſe of intrepid action: while Eraſmus, truſting to his pen, never ventured abroad as the champion of reli⯑gion; but defended it from his cloſet: and the art of printing getting then into uſe, his opinions ſoon made their way into the different parts of Europe.

Thus it happened, through the provi⯑dence of God, that theſe two men, tho [7]in different ways, were equally adapted to the work of reformation. If Luther were the more ſpirited reformer on the ſpot; Eraſmus was better qualified to make pro⯑ſelytes at a diſtance. If Luther's rough, and popular addreſs were better ſuited to the multitude; the poliſhed ſtyle, and elegant compoſition of Eraſmus, found readier acceſs to the gentleman, and the ſcholar.

The works of this celebrated writer be⯑gan to be received in England at the time, when Mr. Cranmer was a ſtudent at Cam⯑bridge; and all men, who pretended to genius, learning, or liberality of ſenti⯑ment, read them with avidity. To the general ſcholar, they opened a new idea—that of thinking for himſelf; and to the ſtudent in divinity, they pointed out the ſcriptures as the only ſource of religious truth. The ſophiſtry of the ſchools be⯑gan apace to loſe credit; and the univer⯑ſities ſoon produced ingenious men, who thought they could not employ their time [8]better, than in ſtudying the naked text of the ſcriptures, which at length drew on a freedom of inquiry. Theſe ſtudents were commonly known by the name of Scrip⯑turiſts.

Mr. Cranmer ranked himſelf very early in this claſs of men; and with great aſſi⯑duity applied to the ſtudy of the ſcrip⯑tures. The more he ſtudied, the more inlightened he grew: he daily ſaw more reaſon for rejecting the falſe aids, in which he conſided; and began to entertain many doubts, and ſuſpicions, which he yet kept to himſelf.

His mode of ſtudy was calculated for improvement, rather than for oſtentation. He read few books; but made himſelf a thorough maſter of thoſe, he did read. A general ſcholar he thought another name for a ſuperficial one. His character as a ſtudent, is thus marked by one of his biographers. "In percurrendis, confe⯑rendiſque ſcriptorum judiciis, tardus qui⯑dem lector, ſed vehemens erat obſervator. Sine calamo nunquam ad ſcriptoris cujus⯑quam librum acceſſit: ita tamen ut me⯑moriam [9]interim, haud minus quam cala⯑mum, exerceret^*."

An imprudent marriage, at this early period of his life, interrupted his ſtudies; and threw him out of his preferment in Jeſus college; of which he had been elected a fellow. He was now reduced to difficult circumſtances. The ſlender income of a lectureſhip, which he obtain⯑ed in Magdalen college, ſeems to have been the whole of what he now enjoyed. But tho it produced him little emolu⯑ment, it tended greatly to increaſe his reputation. His lectures, which were conſidered as ingenious, and learned com⯑poſitions, were always attended by a nu⯑merous academical audience of every de⯑ſcription. They were chiefly directed againſt the Romiſh ſuperſtitions. "He rubbed the galled backs, ſays Fuller, and curried the lazy hides of many an idle, and ignorant frier." I know not that theſe expreſſions give us a juſt idea of [10]Mr. Cranmer's talents. They imply a ſarcaſtic manner, which was not his. Strong ſenſe, and argument were the only weapons he employed.

He had ſcarce been married a year, when his wife died: and ſuch was his reputation in the univerſity, and particu⯑larly in his own college, that, on this event, he was re-elected into his former ſtation.

He had ſoon an opportunity of ſhewing his gratitude. Some agents of cardinal Woolſey being employed to draw together a body of learned men from both the uni⯑verſities to fill the college of Chriſt-church in Oxford, which that prelate had juſt founded; Mr. Cranmer, among others, was applied to; but he did not care to leave his old friends, to whom he had been lately ſo much obliged; tho a better income was offered, and a more promiſing road to preferment.

In the year 1526 ^* he took the degree of doctor in divinity. The ſcripturiſts, it is evident, had great influence in the [11]univerſity at this time; as we find Dr. Cranmer appointed one of the examiners in theology.

In this ſituation he did very eminent ſervice to religion by allowing no ſtudent to proceed to his degree, who did not ap⯑pear to be well acquainted with the ſcrip⯑tures. His ſtrictneſs however was tem⯑pered with ſo much gentleneſs, and be⯑nignity; that the diſappointed candidate, unleſs a very diſingenuous man, plainly ſaw, that the examiner's conſcience drew from him a reluctant ſeverity.

The univerſity however ſoon felt the good effects of Dr. Cranmer's attention. The young divines caught a new object of purſuit; and intirely changed their mode of ſtudy. He would often afterwards ſay, that in the courſe of his life, he had met with many eminent ſcholars, who had told him with great ingenuity, how much they thought themſelves obliged to him for the check he had formerly given them at Cambridge, "Had it not been for that, they would add, we might have perſiſted, all our lives, in our early prejudices."

SECT. II.

While Dr. Cranmer was thus em⯑ployed, about the year 1529, an epi⯑demical diſtemper, attended with many ſymptoms like the plague, broke out at Cambridge. A great alarm was ſpread: the ſchools were ſhut up, and every man endeavoured to provide for his own ſafety by flight. Dr. Cranmer retired into Eſſex, to the houſe of Mr. Creſſy, a gentle⯑man of fortune at Waltham; whoſe ſons had been his pupils at Cambridge; and whoſe education he ſtill continued to ſu⯑perintend. Theſe circumſtances were the foundation of all his future fortunes.

That great eccleſiaſtical cauſe, king Henry's divorce, was at this time in agi⯑tation. The legatine court, which ſhould have decided that buſineſs, was juſt diſ⯑ſolved, [13]and had left the affair in its old uncertainty.

Henry's devotion to the See of Rome had made him thus far ſubmit with pa⯑tience to its delays. But his eyes were now in a great meaſure opened. He be⯑gan to ſee that Clement, whoſe. character was a compound of diſſimulation and ti⯑midity, had been acting a double part; and that while he openly pretended every thing in favour of the divorce, he was in fact no other than the dupe of the emperor. With this clue the Engliſh miniſtry was able to unravel the mazes of the pope's duplicity: and this laſt affair, the diſſolu⯑tion of the legatine court, and the avocation of the cauſe to Rome, after ſo many af⯑fected delays, at length convinced even Henry himſelf, that the pope meant no⯑thing in earneſt.

While the monarch, vexed at this new diſappointment, was revolving in his mind the indignities he had ſuffered, he relaxed himſelf with a ſhort journey, or progreſs (as theſe journeys were then called) through ſome of the ſouthern counties. On his return, he ſpent a night at Waltham; [14]where his retinue, as was uſual on ſuch occaſions, were lodged among the neigh⯑bouring gentlemen. Fox, provoſt of King's college in Cambridge, and Gardiner, af⯑terwards the celebrated biſhop of Win⯑cheſter, then attended the king; and were invited, with ſome others, to the houſe of Mr. Creſſy, where they paſſed the even⯑ing with Dr. Cranmer. The converſation turned on the only topic, which was then diſcuſſed among courtiers, the unhand⯑ſome behaviour of the court of Rome: and on all ſides, the pope's diſſimulation, and the king's forbearance, were ſpoken of, with acrimony, and admiration.

Dr. Cranmer, who ſeemed to have di⯑geſted the whole buſineſs in his mind, ſaid, he thought a method might be pur⯑ſued, which would tend to bring the matter to a happy iſſue. When all with great eagerneſs deſired to know, what he meant, he told them, his idea was, to col⯑lect: the opinions of all the univerſities in Europe on this ſimple queſtion, Whether it was lawful to marry a brother's wife? Their approbation of the marriage, he ſaid, would ſatisfy the king's ſcruples; or [15]their diſapprobation of it would bring the pope to a deciſion.

Dr. Cranmer's opinion ſeemed very plauſible both to Fox, and Gardiner; who failed not, the next morning, to mention it to the king. It ſtruck Henry at once; who with that indelicacy which was na⯑tural to him, cried out with an oath, that "Cranmer had gotten the right ſow by the ear."

He was immediately ſent for; and had a long conference with the king; which ended in Henry's commands to put his ſentiments in writing, both with regard to the divorce itſelf; and the manner in which he propoſed to conduct it.

The great merit of Dr. Cranmer's pro⯑poſal, which is not immediately evident, ſeems to conſiſt, not ſo much in changing the judges, as in narrowing the queſtion. Inſtead of inquiring, whether the pope's diſpenſation gave legality to Henry's mar⯑riage with his brother's wife? he wiſhed to inquire ſimply, Whether ſuch a mar⯑riage was not contradictory to the divine commands? If the univerſities deter⯑mined, that it was not ſo, the king muſt then give up his ſcruples, and keep his [16]wife. Of this however he was under no apprehenſion. But if the univerſities de⯑termined, that ſuch a marriage was un⯑lawful; the king might then, if the pope were refractory, do without him; ſaying, the marriage was in itſelf null.

Henry therefore being reſolved to adopt this new plan, began next to adjuſt the proper mode of executing it. He read Dr. Cranmer's papers with great atten⯑tion; and was perſuaded, that he, who had ſhewn himſelf ſo much a maſter of the caſe, was the only perſon, in whoſe management of it, he could thoroughly confide. At the ſame time he thought an obſcure eccleſiaſtic had not dignity of cha⯑racter enough to repreſent his perſon abroad. He joined therefore in com⯑miſſion with him the earl of Wiltſhire, and the biſhop of London; recommend⯑ing him, in a particular manner, to the friendſhip of the former.

The earl of Wiltſhire, with whom Dr. Cranmer ever afterwards maintained a ſtrict friendſhip, was one of the greateſt ornaments of the Engliſh court. In a public character he had appeared to ad⯑vantage, [17]once in Spain, and a ſecond time in Germany. At home he had borne with equal credit, the offices of treaſurer of the houſe-hold, and lord privy ſeal. In private life, his manners were very amiable. He was one of the moſt learned men of his age; and one of the beſt phi⯑loſophers: and tho a courtier, and a ſtateſman, had employed much of his time in the ſtudy of the ſcriptures, which he made the rule of his life. To his re⯑queſt it was owing, that Eraſmus com⯑poſed his valuable treatiſe on a preparation for death. But what ſtill made this ex⯑cellent man more celebrated than all his virtues, was his being the father of Ann Bolleyn; who was, at this time, well known to be the intended conſort of Henry.

In the year 1530 the three commiſ⯑ſioners ſet out on this extraordinary occa⯑ſion; bending their courſe firſt to Italy, where they found ſucceſs in ſome of the univerſities, which were even dependent [18]on the pope. Dr. Cranmer offered to diſpute the matter fairly in the Rota.

The pope, at firſt, was very angry; declaring to thoſe about him, that he would not ſuffer his power to be diſcuſſed by friers; alluding probably to the un⯑dignified character of Dr. Cranmer. But finding afterwards of what conſe⯑quence he was, he became very deſirous of attaching him to his intereſt; and with this view conferred on him the office of penitentiary-general of England, with full powers to bind and looſe. Dr. Cran⯑mer could not avoid accepting the pope's favour; but as it was a power he never meant to uſe, he conſidered it as a very inſignificant ſine-cure.

At the end of the firſt year, the three delegates having traverſed the univerſities of Italy, the commiſſion was diſſolved; and a new one made out, directed ſolely to Dr. Cranmer, who was ſtiled Conſili⯑arius regis, et ad Caeſarem orator. It bears date January 24, 1531. No diſguſt ſeems to have been taken at the other commiſſioners; but as Dr. Cranmer was the perſon, on whom the king chiefly [19]relied, it is probable he had from the firſt, determined to intruſt the matter ſolely to him, as ſoon as his character had acquired a little conſequence.

Very great ſucceſs attended his com⯑miſſion. Few ſcruples were raiſed; and he had little more to do, than to collect the hands and ſeals of ſuch univerſities, as favoured the king's intentions; which were, on the matter, almoſt all he ap⯑plied to.

This expedition ſo readily projected, and ſo chearfully undertaken, does not perhaps place Dr. Cranmer in the moſt advantageous point of light. There were good political reaſons, no doubt, to in⯑duce the king to wiſh for a divorce. His marriage with Catharine was by no means generally approved, either at home, or abroad: the legitimacy of Mary, in trea⯑ties of marriage with neighbouring princes, had been queſtioned; and the terrible effects of the late civil wars in England, occaſioned by diſputed titles, were wounds not yet intirely healed. Male iſſue to the [20]king, which might prevent ſuch conſe⯑quences, was therefore very deſireable to all men.

But reaſons of ſtate, however admiſſible in a cabinet, ſhould never be ſuppoſed to influence a churchman. We allow, that Dr. Cranmer might think the marriage wrong: but tho it poſſibly might be a point of conſcience with the king, it could however be none with him; and there was manifeſtly a difference between ad⯑viſing not to do a thing; and adviſing to undo it, when already done; at leaſt in a matter of ſo diſputable a nature. He knew, that, in the old teſtament, the marriage of a ſiſter was allowed; and among the patriarchs often practiſed: and that the marriage of a brother's wife was, in ſome caſes, enjoined. The new teſta⯑ment was ſilent on the ſubject. There could therefore be no moral turpitude in it: nor any thing but the common law, and uſage of nations to reſtrain it.

On the other hand, the baſeneſs, and ungenerous behaviour, which followed the contrary part, were evident at ſight. To repudiate a woman, with whom the king [21]had cohabited near twenty years as his wife; and to illegitimate a daughter, bred up in the higheſt expectations, and now marriagable, were acts of ſuch cruelty, that it ſeems to indicate a want of feeling to be in any degree acceſſory to them. To this may be added, that the notoriety of the king's paſſion for Ann Bolleyn, which all men believed to be—if not the firſt mover, at leaſt the principal ſpring of his pretended ſcruples, threw a very indelicate imputation on all who had any concern in the affair. No ſerious churchman, one would imagine, could be fond of the idea of adminiſtring to the king's paſſions. It is with concern there⯑fore that we ſee a man of Dr. Cranmer's integrity and ſimplicity of manners, act⯑ing ſo much out of character, as to com⯑pound an affair of this kind, if not with his conſcience, at leaſt with all delicacy of ſentiment; and to parade through Europe, in the quality of an ambaſſador, defending every where the king's pious in⯑tentions.

But the cauſe animated him. With the illegality of the king's marriage, he en⯑deavoured [22]virtually to eſtabliſh the inſuf⯑ficiency of the pope's diſpenſation; and the latter was an argument ſo near his heart, that it ſeems to have added merit to the former. We cannot indeed ac⯑count for his embarking ſo zealouſly in this buſineſs, without ſuppoſing his prin⯑cipal motive was to free his country from the tyranny of Rome, to which this ſtep very evidently led. So deſireable an end would, in ſome degree, he might ima⯑gine, ſanctify the means.

This was not the only foreign buſineſs in which Dr. Cranmer was employed. He was intruſted with many private diſ⯑patches from the king. He had matters of trade alſo to negotiate for the mer⯑chants of England. Once he was obliged to furniſh himſelf with camp-equipage, and attend the emperor, who had taken the field againſt the Turks. In every em⯑ployment he ſhewed himſelf to be a man, whoſe knowledge was by no means totally confined to his profeſſion; but was of a [23]more general caſt, than the ſimplicity of his character led men to ſuppoſe.

If Dr. Cranmer began to think favour⯑ably of the reformation before he left Eng⯑land, he became during his ſtay abroad, an intire convert. That freedom, with which men diſcuſſed religious opinions in Germany, was very agreeable to a man of his liberal turn; and he felt himſelf every day ſitting looſer to thoſe prejudices, which had hitherto involved him. Oſi⯑ander, whom he found at Nuremburgh, contributed, among others, very much to inlighten his mind. The unreſtrained converſation of this reformer appeared to him, at firſt, as a kind of libertiniſm: it ſounded harſhly in his ear; and he would aſk, if ſuch an opinion were falſe, how it could poſſibly poſſeſs itſelf of the minds of the greateſt, and moſt learned men of all ages, through ſuch a tract of time? Oſiander carried him boldly ſtill higher into antiquity. Tell me not, ſaid he, what Auſtin ſays, and Jerome; but what Peter ſays, and Paul. Read your bible; [24]and ſay honeſtly, whether ſuch and ſuch doctrines are not plainly repugnant to ſuch and ſuch paſſages of ſcripture?

SECT. III.

In the midſt of theſe reſearches the attention of Dr. Cranmer was ſuddenly recalled to other objects. He received a meſſage, informing him, that the king intended to reward his ſervices by be⯑ſtowing on him the ſee of Canterbury, then vacant by the death of Dr. Warham.

Whatever exalted ideas Dr. Cranmer might entertain from the king's favour, it is very certain he was both ſurprized, and perplexed at this meſſage. Two things eſpecially occurred to him as matter of great difficulty. The firſt was the oath, he was obliged to take to the pope, which appeared to him as an in⯑ſuperable obſtacle. The other was a more private concern. He had engaged abroad in a ſecond marriage; and however liberal [25]his own ſentiments might be on that ſubject, he knew the prejudices of the world ran ſtrongly againſt him. I call them prejudices only, becauſe, I think, it does not appear, that the ſecular clergy, at that time, were abſolutely required to take the vow of celibacy.

Whether he urged his ſcruples to the king (who in a matrimonial buſineſs could not ſurely be a rigid caſuiſt) does not appear. It is certain however that the affair of the marriage was made eaſy to him; and that the king's meſſage brought him immediately to England. Hiſtory does not fix the time of his return with any preciſion. Lord Herbert ſays, he was preſent at the king's marriage with Ann Bolleyn; which the lateſt accounts celebrate on the 25th of January, 1533. Archbiſhop Parker ſays, he actually per⯑formed the ceremony. Fox ſays, it was impoſſible, for he was certainly then in Germany. The controverſy is ſcarce worth deciding.

In however contemptible a light the pope's authority was, at this time, con⯑ſidered, the new archbiſhop, it ſeems, [26]could not legally be conſecrated without bulls from Rome. Henry, it may be imagined, might have diſpenſed with this form; but to get rid of forms is often the laſt work of reformation. The price of the commodity however was greatly fallen. The popes formerly ex⯑acted more than a thouſand pounds of our money, for their bulls of conſecration; but the new archbiſhop, or rather the king, who ſeems to have managed the matter, contrived to procure them for leſs than half that ſum.

With regard to the oath of fidelity to the pope, which the archbiſhop was obliged to take at his conſecration, he proteſted, that he took it in no ſenſe, but ſuch as was wholly conſiſtent with the laws of God—the king's prerogative—and the ſtatutes of the realm—that he did not bind himſelf from ſpeaking his mind freely in matters of religion—the government of the church; and the rights of the crown—and that he meant, on all occaſions, to oppoſe the pope's illegal authority; and condemn his errors.

[27]This oath, taken in a ſenſe ſo very oppoſite to its real intention, has often been alledged againſt the archbiſhop; and indeed it ſeems rather to injure the feel⯑ings of a delicate mind. His friends however ſuppoſe they ſufficiently apolo⯑gize for his behaviour, by obſerving, that he made his exceptions in an open man⯑ner, without any mental reſervation; and that he fully ſatisfied thoſe, who were impowered to adminiſter the oath.

Thus was a private churchman raiſed, at one ſtep, to the firſt dignity of his pro⯑feſſion; and tho the truth of hiſtory hath obliged us to confeſs, that he took ſome ſteps, not quite ſo direct, as might be wiſhed, in this haſty advancement; yet we cannot, by any means, conſider him as a man, who had formed any ſettled plans of ambition, which he was reſolved at all hazards to ſupport; but that, in what he did amiſs, he was rather vio⯑lently borne down by the king's autho⯑rity. His mildneſs and ſimplicity were unequally matched with the impetuoſity of Henry; who having no ſcruples of his own, conſidered little the ſcruples of [28]others. To this may be added, that the primate thought himſelf ſtrongly attached by gratitude to his prince. And indeed the errors of this excellent perſon, as we ſhall have other occaſions to obſerve, were leſs owing to the temptations of vice, than to the weakneſs of ſome unguarded vir⯑tue.—Thus much at leaſt may be ſaid in apology for thoſe parts of his conduct, at this time, which ſeem rather to require one.

As to the king, his placing ſo good a man at the head of the church, deſerves little praiſe. If we may judge from the general tenor of his character, which was throughout unprincipled, and inconſiſtent, he meant nothing more than to advance a man, who had ſhewn himſelf ſo ready a caſuiſt; and was able to take ſo vigorous a part againſt the church of Rome, which Henry was at this time determined to op⯑poſe.

Very ſoon after his conſecration, the primate was called on to finiſh the great cauſe of the divorce by paſſing a final ſen⯑tence.

[29]The queen had retired to Ampthill, a royal manſion near St. Albans; where ſhe lived with great diſcretion; and drew the pity and reſpect of the whole nation by the decency, and dignity of her ſufferings. The town of Dunſtable, which lay almoſt in ſight of her windows, was appointed by Henry, with his uſual indelicacy, as the place, where the archbiſhop and his aſſociates, were to ſit in conſiſtory. As Henry well knew the queen would not anſwer the ſummons; the vicinity of the place, being of no conſequence, had the appearance of an additional affront.

The queen treated the ſummons ſhe re⯑ceived, with that indignation which was expected; and being pronounced contu⯑macious, a final ſentence of divorce was paſſed.

There was ſomething alſo very indeli⯑cate in placing the primate at the head of this court, as he had already taken ſo prin⯑cipal a part in the cauſe. It gave great offence to the queen, and ſhocked the archbiſhop himſelf: but Henry, who had no idea of decency, would hear no reaſon againſt it.

[30]Within a few weeks after the divorce, on the 7th of September 1533, the prin⯑ceſs Elizabeth was born; and the king ordered the archbiſhop to be her godfa⯑ther.

SECT. IV.

The definitive ſentence which had paſſed in England, it may eaſily be ſup⯑poſed, occaſioned much clamour at Rome, where menaces of excommunication, in a very lofty tone, were thrown out. In re⯑turn, the king and the primate joined in an appeal to a general council; a theme, then very popular; both among proteſ⯑tants, and papiſts. This appeal they notified to the pope, who was then at Marſeilles. It was intruſted to the care of Bonner, afterwards the celebrated biſhop of London; who executed his commiſſion with his uſual vehemence. The incenſed [31]pope, on the other hand, equally impetu⯑ous, talked of throwing the miniſter head-long into a cauldron of molten lead: on which Bonner, alarmed at the idea, pre⯑cipitately retired.

Francis I was, at this time, joined in bonds of ſtricteſt amity with England. The part which Henry had taken in the affairs of Europe, after the fatal battle of Pavia, had rivetted the generous heart of the French monarch to him with more than political friendſhip. Francis had ſeen, with real concern, the progreſs of the breach between Henry and the See of Rome; and had reſolved to take this op⯑portunity of an interview with the pope, to endeavour to repay his obligations to the king of England, by bringing his diſagreeable difference with the pontiff, if poſſible, to an accommodation. He made the attempt: but found the pope full of reſentment; and it was with the ut⯑moſt difficulty, that he at length pre⯑vailed on him to promiſe, that Henry might ſtill expect a favourable ſentence from the conclave, if he would make his ſubmiſſion before a ſhort day, which was [32]appointed. But this was only half the obſtacle. Henry was as lofty as the pope; and could as ill brook ſubmiſſion, as the other could bear controul.

There happened to be in the French king's retinue at Marſeilles, a churchman of very eminent abilities, Bellay biſhop of Bayonne. An accidental circumſtance had juſt thrown the eyes of all men upon him. The night before the pope made his public entrance, it was diſcovered, that the preſident of the parliament, who had been appointed to receive him with a Latin oration, had unluckily choſen a ſubject, which would certainly give the pontiff offence: and yet there was no time for a new compoſition. In this ar⯑ticle of extremity, when the whole buſi⯑neſs of the ceremonial was deranged, Bellay offered his ſervice to ſpeak extem⯑pore; and did it with ſuch uncommon propriety and elegance, that he was marked, from that time, as a man of the firſt genius in France.

This perſon the French king made choice of to perſuade Henry into the agreement, he had juſt made with the [33]pope. The biſhop knew mankind, and could adapt himſelf to their foibles. Henry was well tinctured with the eru⯑dition of thoſe times; and affected greatly the character of being a patron of learning. Bellay knew him thoroughly; and draw⯑ing the diſcourſe from buſineſs to letters, would often put him in mind of the great reputation he had in Europe for learning; and how much the whole catholic cauſe was indebted to his pen. By artfully inſinuating theſe topics, he at length en⯑gaged Henry to accept the accommoda⯑tion, which Francis had made for him; and to ſend a courier with his ſubmiſſion to Rome.

This treaty with the pope was not tranſacted ſo ſecretly, but in part it tran⯑ſpired, and gave the firſt alarm to the proteſtant party; whom it intirely con⯑vinced of the fickleneſs of the king's temper, and of the ſlender grounds they had for the certainty even of a bare tole⯑ration. None was more diſtreſſed than the archbiſhop: but with his uſual calm⯑neſs, and caution he held his peace; and truſted for the protection of religion to [34]that Almighty Hand, which had begun the reformation of it.

In this ſuſpence the minds of men re⯑mained many weeks; and they whoſe principles waited on every change, began already to waver; and to talk publicly of the precipitancy of the late innovations, which ran the riſk of throwing the king⯑dom into ſuch a ſerment, as could not eaſily be allayed.

At length the long expected courier ar⯑rived from Rome; and produced a new agitation in the minds of men. All was now declared to be over; and ſuch a breach made with the pope, as could never again be healed.

The account of the matter was this. Contrary winds had detained the courier, it ſeems, beyond his day. The biſhop of Bayonne, (who, after all his ſervices in England, had himſelf undertaken a voyage to Rome to negotiate with the pope) preſſed his holineſs to make ſome allow⯑ance for the uncertainty and danger of winds, and ſeas; eſpecially as it was then [35]in the depth of winter: and to ſuſpend a definitive ſentence for one week only. But the emperor's influence, and the pope's own iraſcible temper prevailed for haſtier meaſures. Nay even the uſual forms of buſineſs were accelerated; and after a ſhorter hearing than, in ſuch a caſe, was commonly allowed, a definitive ſentence was paſſed, confirming the king's marriage with Catharine; and declaring him excommunicated, if he did not put away his preſent queen.

Two days after the definitive ſentence had paſſed, the king's ſubmiſſion arrived. The pope ſtood aghaſt: but it was now too late: the ſentence could not be re⯑viewed; the cardinals of the oppoſition holding firm to the eſtabliſhed rules of the conclave.—If any event could au⯑thorize man to point out the immediate finger of God, this certainly might.

Many hiſtorians have entertained doubts of the king's ſincerity in this buſineſs: and it is certain the parliament, at this time, was beginning to take meaſures not very agreeable to the popiſh intereſt. But however this may be reconciled, it [36]is difficult to ſay, what Henry's meaning could be, if it was not pure. He had already felt his own ſtrength; and was under no neceſſity either to amuſe, or temporize: nor was duplicity, among thoſe faults, which are commonly laid to his charge.

While affairs with the court of Rome were thus depending, the emiſſaries of the popiſh party allowed themſelves unbridled licence in England. We are amazed that ſuch a prince as Henry could bear to be told in his own chapel, That unleſs he reſtored religion, dogs ſhould lick his blood, as they had licked the blood of Ahab. But there was a groſſneſs in the manners of thoſe times, which we muſt carry along with us in all our inquiries into them. The actions of men were perhaps more reſtrained, than they are now: their tongues were certainly more licentious; and Henry, who had no idea of delicacy him⯑ſelf, was leſs offended, than might be imagined, at the groſs indelicacy of others.

[37]But of all the efforts of the popiſh clergy, at this time, the deluſions of the maid of Kent were the moſt extraordinary. This enthuſiaſt, falling into artful hands, was managed in ſuch a way, as to draw the attention of the whole kingdom. Her prophecies were uttered in very free languages and ſhe poured the vengeance of heaven, with a very liberal hand, on the king, and his abettors. Her impoſ⯑tures were at length detected; and ſhe ſuffered death, with her accomplices.

SECT. V.

The parliament, in the mean time, took vigorous meaſures in ſupport of religious liberty. Such a ſpirit was raiſed in the commons, that they debated freely on the great queſtion of the ſupre⯑macy of the pope—a queſtion, which, if ever moved before, had been always treated with the utmoſt diſtance, and ti⯑midity. It was carried however now [38]againſt the ſee of Rome with a very high hand.

In elder times, when parliaments queſtioned only ſome exorbitant claim of the pope—his power to raiſe money in England, or to confer benefices on fo⯑reigners; however ſpirited ſuch inquiries appeared at the time, poſterity ſaw they had been carried on without foreſight. A few branches might be lopped off: but as the trunk itſelf was left ſtanding, it was able, at the returning ſeaſon, to ſhoot as vigorouſly as before.

One would have imagined, that an act ſo deſtructive of popery, as the act of ſupremacy, would, at leaſt, have been retarded by ſome diſſenting voices, among ſo many, who were friends to the ſee of Rome in their hearts. But tho it met with oppoſition, yet it was much leſs oppoſed than could have been imagined; and by few perſons of conſequence. Lee of York, Tunſtal of Durham, and Stokeſly of London, all papiſts, and two of them bigoted, acceded to it. Gar⯑diner was even ſtrenuous in its ſupport. "The realm and the church, (ſaid he, [39]with that ſubtilty, which was character⯑iſtic in him) conſiſt of the ſame people. And as the king is head of the realm: he muſt therefore be head of the church."

This act was obtained chiefly by the abilities of the primate, who diſcovered ſuch a fund of learning, and good ſenſe on the queſtion; and delivered his ſenti⯑ments in ſuch a flow of natural and eaſy eloquence, that he ſilenced oppoſition, and gave his cauſe all the luſtre, which reaſon and argument could give.

When the prejudices of men began to cool; and the conſequences of this very important act were ſeriouſly conſidered, all ſober men of every denomination acknowledged the utility of it. They hoped a more orderly clergy would now ſucceed; whoſe manners might be more eaſily inſpected; and whoſe conduct would be amenable to civil authority. They hoped an end would now be put to thoſe conteſts between the civil and eccleſiaſ⯑tical powers, which had often coſt the nation ſo dear. They ſaw a way opened for the redreſs of many grievances, which could not eaſily approach the court of [40]Rome at ſo remote a diſtance, and ſo in⯑trenched in forms. In ſhort, they fore⯑ſaw a variety of advantages from the ſim⯑plicity of the government, as it was now eſtabliſhed; and from the abolition of that groſs abſurdity in every political ſyſtem, an imperium in imperio.

The proteſtants had ſtill farther cauſe for rejoicing. They conſidered this act, as the only thing, which could open a way to reformation. For tho in itſelf it had no immediate connection either with doctrine, or diſcipline; yet without it, no ſtep could be taken towards the refor⯑mation of either. Beſides, they thought the abrogation of the decretals was a great ſtep towards the introduction of the bible; and imagined, they ſhould be able, through ſo wide a breach, to puſh out every error, and every corruption of the church.

When this celebrated act paſſed; ano⯑ther, as a kind of appendage to it, paſſed alſo—the act of ſucceſſion; which ſettled the crown on the children of the preſent [41]queen; declaring Mary, the daughter of Catharine, in effect illegitimate.

This act involved in ruin two excellent men, Fiſher biſhop of Rocheſter, and Sir Thomas More. The parliament had de⯑clared the denial of the king's ſupremacy to be high treaſon: and impoſed a teſt⯑oath to be taken by all people in office; and indeed univerſally, if required. Fiſher refuſed it; and More, when queſtioned, talked in very ambiguous language. He might as well have ſpoken plainly. Henry, impatient of controul, conſidered his ambiguity as guilt. The primate laboured with every application of his intereſt, and talents, to preſerve theſe victims of lawleſs power. With More he had lived on terms of great fa-miliarity; and was prompted to employ even caſuiſtry to ſave him. "On one hand, ſaid he, you are doubtful as to the point in queſtion. On the other, you are certain, you ought to obey your prince. Let doubt then give way to certainty."—More ſmiled, and laid his head upon the block.

[42]This was not the only innocent blood, which was ſhed at this time. That queen, for whoſe ſake Henry had put away a wife, with whom he had lived twenty years, was herſelf in little more than three, become the object of his averſion; and was condemned to death on the mereſt ſurmiſe. A few unguarded expreſſions were the utmoſt, that could be proved againſt her. She was a lady of a gay and lively temper; and in ſuch diſ⯑poſitions, little, verbal levities are not only conſiſtent with the pureſt manners; but even ſometimes perhaps indicative of them. Henry however wiſhed not to find her innocent; and indiſcretion had the force of crime.

Among the many ſuſpicious circum⯑ſtances, which attended this very myſte⯑rious affair, it was not one of the leaſt, that during the diſcuſſion of it, the arch⯑biſhop was directed, by an order from the king, to keep his houſe at Lambeth. The popiſh party were univerſally bent againſt the queen; and, it was ſuppoſed, [43]were afraid of the primate's interpoſition, and influence.

Henry however, when it ſerved his purpoſe, introduced him as an actor in the affair. The life of the queen was not all the king aimed at. Her daughter, the lady Elizabeth, muſt alſo be declared illegitimate, to make way for the poſterity of his future conſort. To this end, he reſolved, on the ſtrength of ſome ſurmiſe of a precontract, to be divorced from her, before he put her to death. But tho the earl of Northumberland, who was ſup⯑poſed to be the other party, made the moſt ſolemn allegations, that no ſuch contract had ever exiſted, yet the king was determined ſhe ſhould be found guilty; and the archbiſhop was to be his inſtrument. To him, it is ſaid, the queen made a private confeſſion of her crimes; and the comment of hiſtory on her confeſſion is, that having been ſen⯑tenced to be burnt, or beheaded, as the king pleaſed, ſhe was terrified into a con⯑ſeſſion to avoid the more rigorous part of the ſentence. On the ſtrength however [44]of this confeſſion, the archbiſhop paſſed a ſentence of divorce.

Immediately after this ſentence, ſhe was beheaded; and the king, void of every idea, not only of feeling, but of decency, the very next day married Jane Seymour. By this precipitancy however he made a better apology for the unfortu⯑nate Ann Bolleyn, than the moſt zealous of her advocates could have done.

When we conſider the whole of this black affair—the want of legal evidence to prove any crime—yet a ſentence of death paſſed in conſequence of that in⯑ſufficient proof—a precontract ſuppoſed, which was to void the marriage—and yet the crime of adultery ſtill charged—the terrifying mode of the ſentence—and above all the king's known attachment to another lady—we are ſurprized to find a man of the archbiſhop's character ſub⯑mitting, in any ſhape, to be an actor in ſo complicated a ſcene of barbariſm, cruelty, abſurdity, and injuſtice. The confeſſion had certainly all the appearance of being extorted—by both parties the contract was denied on oath—and if both [45]parties had even confeſſed it, it is proba⯑ble, that the archbiſhop might have found ſtrong arguments to prove, in any other inſtance, that a conſummated mar⯑riage was a more inviolable bond, than a precontract; and ſtill more ſo, if the parties firſt contracting had given up their mutual vows. The whole, in ſhort, has the appearance of a diſhoneſt ſubmiſſion to a tyrant's paſſions; and we can apolo⯑gize for it only as we have done for ſome other of this prelate's compliances, by ſuppoſing that his meekneſs was violently borne down by the king's impetuoſity.

Indeed the plenitude of a king's power was never ſo thoroughly impreſſed on the minds of men, as in this reign; tho it took in future reigns, as far as ſuch jargon can do, a more ſyſtemized form. The Vox Dei, which was afterwards too freely ſuppoſed to iſſue from the people, was however now ſuppoſed to iſſue ſolely from the throne. When therefore we find theſe great condeſcenſions to a prince in men of eminent characters, we muſt not meaſure them by the liberal notions of later times; but muſt make ſome allow⯑ances [46]for thoſe high ideas of kingly power, which prevailed in thoſe periods, in which they lived.

It is true, we are told, the primate made a ſpirited application to the king in the queen's favour: but on this apology, it is probable, none of his advocates will be very forward to expatiate. The more innocent he thought her, the more guilty he muſt think himſelf.

How far his acting ex officio was an apology, let thoſe define, who think themſelves obliged to perform the func⯑tions of an office, which requires unlaw⯑ful deeds.

SECT. VI.

Queen Ann's death was conſidered by the popiſh party as the ſignal of vic⯑tory. They had little conception, that the proteſtants could unite under any other leader, who could have intereſt with the king. But they formed a wrong [47]judgment; and had the mortification, to ſee the primate's influence in no degree diminiſhed. All therefore, who wiſhed well to a reformation, looked up to him, as the only perſon, who was capable of conducting it. And indeed he was every way qualified to anſwer their wiſhes. By prudent caution, diſcrete forbearance, and pure ſimplicity of manners, he was able to oppoſe and counter-act the deſigns of ſome of the moſt artful men of his time. For there are ſeaſons, when ſim⯑plicity will have the advantage of art; and will miſlead even the deſigning man; who judging from his own feelings, conſiders a plain, and open behaviour as a maſk.

It was very neceſſary indeed that the proteſtant cauſe ſhould have at leaſt one able leader: for except the archbiſhop himſelf, there was not a man who fa⯑voured it, and had the power to conduct it. The earl of Eſſex, it is true, who was then ſecretary of ſtate, was a man of great ability. No one had taken a juſter meaſure of the times; or underſtood with more exactneſs, that difficult part of the [48]miniſterial office, the management of parties. But Eſſex ſat at another helm, which called for all his addreſs; and he could rarely aſſiſt the archbiſhop, however well-inclined, except when the affairs of the church coincided with the buſineſs of the ſtate: nor was he enough acquainted with theological matters to give a conſe⯑quential opinion in any of the intended alterations of religion.

Among the biſhops of thoſe times, who favoured the reformation, were, Latimer biſhop of Worceſter, Shaxton of Saliſbury, and Barlow of St. David's. Theſe were the primate's natural coadjutors; but none of them was able to give him any material aſſiſtance.

Latimer poſſeſſed every virtue that could adorn a Chriſtian prelate. No man oppoſed vice more ſucceſsfully; or kept the clergy of his dioceſe in better order. But in traverſing the arts of party, he had no addreſs. Perfectly ſincere him⯑ſelf, he had little comprehenſion of the duplicity of others; and ſeemed to think, that nothing was requiſite to give either a party, or an individual, a proper direc⯑tion, [49]but a genuine diſplay of truth. He conſidered only what was right to be done; not what the times could bear.

Shaxton had lived more in the world than Latimer; but was ſtill a worſe aſſociate to the archbiſhop. He had an unaccommodating ſourneſs about him; which was continually taking, or giving offence. His moroſeneſs was marked ſtrongly in the lines of his viſage; which almoſt prejudiced men at ſight againſt every propoſal he could make. Nor was he without a tincture of pride, and ſelf importance; which are bad in any man, worſe in a churchman, and worſt of all in a reformer.

Barlow was as little depended on by the archbiſhop as either of the other. He was a man of ſenſe and learning; but was ſo indiſcrete, ſo totally unguarded, and his converſation ſo full of levity, that the primate was always afraid of any com⯑munication with him on matters of buſi⯑neſs: and would ſometimes ſay, on coming to the concluſion of a long debate; "This is all very true; but my brother [50]Barlow, in half an hour, will teach the world to believe it is but a jeſt."

Perhaps indeed it was not to be re⯑gretted, that the primate had no aſſo⯑ciate. Under the wiſe councils of one prudent man the arduous buſineſs of re⯑formation probably proſpered better, than it could have done in the hands of many. In the whole ſyſtem of human affairs, it is certainly the niceſt point to conduct the religious opinions of the public. The more quietly, and gently every change is introduced, the better. Altercation is fatal to the attempt; and altercation is generally found in a multi⯑plicity of voices. A multiplicity of opi⯑nions ſucceeds a multiplicity of voices. The paſſions armed with religious zeal ſoon enter the liſts; and all is preſently confuſion.

The wiſdom, and deciſive judgment of a ſingle leader prevented this. By attend⯑ing carefully to times, and ſeaſons, and throwing out only ſuch innovations as he found men were able to bear, the prudent archbiſhop introduced imperceptibly the moſt conſequential changes.

[51]His difficulties however were very great. To form a religious eſtabliſhment out of the general confuſion, in which all things were now involved, appeared a work of infinite perplexity. That flux of opinions, which the reformation occa⯑ſioned, was an endleſs ſource of diſcord: and the more men receded from that cen⯑tral point of authority, which had drawn them together; the wider they ſpread from each other. Every man had his fa⯑vourite tenet, in which he thought the ſum of chriſtianity conſiſted; little ſects began to form themſelves; and the pri⯑mate ſoon found, how impoſſible it was to impreſs the large idea of religion upon the narrow mind of party.

The ſame diverſity of opinion which diſtracted the people, was found among the leaders. Every one had his own creed; and the miſchief was, that no man thought it a hardſhip to impoſe his own creed on others. Some thought the ceremonies only of the Romiſh church were antichriſtian; and adhered with firmneſs to its doctrines. Others rejected the doctrines; but were dazzled with the [52]ſplendor of its ceremonies. Some again thought it prudent, as a conciliating mea⯑ſure, to retain every thing that could be retained with innocence: while others cried out loudly for utter extirpation; and thought the farther they got from popery, the nearer they advanced to truth.

The difficulties, in the way of refor⯑mation, which aroſe thus from the dif⯑ferent opinions of proteſtants, were ſtill greatly increaſed by the oppoſition of papiſts. This large body of men, it may eaſily be imagined, were more than ordi⯑narily inflamed by the turn, which affairs were likely to take againſt them. If they were before formidable for their numbers, they now became more ſo, when em⯑bodied in a ſuffering cauſe, ſupporting one common end, and availing themſelves of all thoſe arts, which are generally made uſe of by the inſtruments of de⯑clining party. Among theſe arts, the moſt obvious, and the moſt effectual, was, to ſoment jealouſy, and diſcord among the various ſectaries of the new [53]religion; to which of themſelves they were ſufficiently inclined.

But the difficulties, which aroſe from the popiſh party, would have been more eaſily ſurmounted, if the king had not been at its head. The fame, which Henry had acquired, as defender of the faith, had invariably attached his haughty mind to the doctrines of popery. The ſupremacy indeed ſlattered his ambition; and he was glad, as far as that was an object, to coincide with the circum⯑ſtances of the times: but he was careful to have it believed, that he was no con⯑vert to the opinions of the new faith; and that his heart had not received the leaſt impreſſion againſt the religion of his fore⯑fathers. Whatever advantage therefore the proteſtants gained during this reign, they were intirely indebted for it, either to the pride, the caprice, or the intereſt of the king.

Amidſt all theſe difficulties, the arch⯑biſhop endeavoured gradually to mature in his own breaſt every part of the great [54]ſcheme he had in view, before he ven⯑tured to bring it forward.

He began, in the ſpirit of equity, with redreſſing the abuſes of his own courts; tho together with theſe abuſes, he retrenched his own ſees and thoſe of his officers. This gave the public an early and favourable impreſſion of his deſigns.

The great number of idle holidays, with which the calendar was charged, became the next object of his cenſure. The archbiſhop himſelf, to the aſtoniſh⯑ment of thoſe around him, ſat down to a hot ſupper on the eve of St. Thomas of Canterbury. As theſe holidays interfered with feed time and harveſt, it was gene⯑rally not unpopular to aboliſh them.

It was popular alſo, as well as highly neceſſary, to regulate the public diſ⯑courſes of the clergy. The pulpit elo⯑quence indeed of that time was little more than a groſs attempt to exalt the power of the church. The good arch⯑biſhop ſaw its abuſe; and endeavoured to make it the vehicle of inſtruction. But the regulations he yet made were few.

[55]With his uſual caution he felt his ground, as he proceeded; and it was not till long afterwards, that he compleated his inten⯑tion on this head, by the publication of the homilies.

How exceedingly a reformation in preaching was wanted, we may judge from the following extracts from ſermons, which we may ſuppoſe were the beſt the times produced, as they were thought worthy of being made public.—In one of theſe ſermons, the prieſt inveighing againſt irreverence to the miniſters of re⯑ligion, tells the following ſtory: "St. Auſtin," ſays he, "ſaw two women prating together in the pope's chapel, and the fiend ſitting in their necks, writing a long roll of what the women ſaid. Preſently letting it fall, St. Auſtin took it up; and aſking the women, what they had ſaid, they anſwered, Only a few pater-noſters. Then St. Auſtin read the bill, and there was never a good word in it."—In another ſermon we are told, "that, four men had ſtolen an abbot's ox. The abbot did a ſentence, and curſed them. Three of them were ſhriven, and aſked [56]mercy. The fourth died, without being abſolved. So when he was dead, his ſpirit walked by night, and ſcared all who ſtirred from their houſes after ſun ſet. It happened that once, as a prieſt went in the night, with God's body, to a ſick man, the ſpirit met him, and told him who he was, and why he walked; and prayed the prieſt to tell his wife to make amends to the abbot, that he might abſolve him; for he could have no reſt till then. So this was done, and the poor ſoul at length went to reſt."—In a ſermon upon the maſs, the people are told, that, among the benefits ariſing from it, "On the day they hear it, all idle oaths, and forgotten ſins ſhall be forgiven. On that day they ſhall not loſe their ſight; nor die a ſudden death; nor wax aged: and every ſtep thitherward, and homeward, an angel ſhall reckon."—The immediate tendency of ſuch diſcourſes was obvious.

SECT. VII.

Thus far the primate, however cautious, ventured with leſs heſitation. What he had yet done was little more, than fell under his own proper authority. But it required more addreſs to ſtrip the popular opinions of the times of that error, and abſurdity, which adhered to them. Some ſteps however were taken, which at leaſt narrowed a few of the groſſeſt of the popiſh doctrines.

Tradition was not expreſſlly diſavowed; but the bible, and creeds were made the rule of faith.—Images were not for⯑bidden; but the people were inſtructed to conſider them only as incentives of devo⯑tion.—Prayers to ſaints were allowed; but Chriſt's ſole mediation with the Father was inſiſted on.—Sprinkling holy water, ſcattering aſhes, and creeping to the croſs, were tolerated; but the people were aſſured, they made no atonement for [58]ſin.—The exiſtence of purgatory was not diſputed; but all indulgences, and mercenary pardons were declared invalid.

How far indeed the archbiſhop himſelf was inlightened, cannot eaſily be known at this day: but it is probable, that whatever had been his own private opi⯑nions, he would not have ventured far⯑ther in public, than he now did.

The doctrine of tranſubſtantiation was left preciſely as it ſtood. Our eccleſi⯑aſtical writers all agree, that the primate himſelf held that opinion, till within a few years of his death; which is the more ſurprizing, as Wicliff, near two centuries before, had ſaid much to bring it into diſcredit. How firmly attached the primate was to it, at this time, ap⯑peared on the following occaſion.

John Lambert, a man of eminent piety, having denied the real preſence, was cited before the archbiſhop; who with a mix⯑ture of mildneſs and gravity, expoſtulated with him, on his maintaining ſo unſcrip⯑tural an error. Lambert retired modeſtly; but it appearing afterwards, that he was not converted, the affair was carried before [59]the king. The king, reſolving himſelf to confute ſo notorious a heretic, cited him to enter into free debate on the ſubject. The royal pedant entered the place of com⯑bat, ſurrounded by his biſhops, and nobles. The archbiſhop ſat at his right hand, and aſſiſted at this very extraordinary diſputa⯑tion. Lambert being confounded with an aſſembly ſo little ſuited to the freedom of debate, yielded an eaſy victory to the king; who triumphing over him in the true ſpi⯑rit of a polemic; condemned him to the ſtake. We do not find that the archbiſhop took any part in his death; it were to be wiſhed he had rid his hands of the diſpu⯑tation likewiſe.

The primate ſhewed the ſame attachment to the doctrine of tranſubſtantiation on another occaſion. Vadian, a learned fo⯑reigner, having written a treatiſe againſt the corporeal preſence, thought it a proper work for the archbiſhop of Canterbury to patronize, and preſented it to him; con⯑cluding that his grace's opinions on that ſubject, were as liberal as his own. But the archbiſhop was not a little diſpleaſed. He informed Vadian, that his book had [60]not made a convert of him; and that he was hurt with the idea of being thought the patron of ſuch unſcriptural opinions.

In the year 1538, the archbiſhop finiſhed a great work, which he had long had in hand, the printing of an Engliſh bible.

Wicliff was the firſt Engliſhman, who undertook to render the holy ſcriptures into his native tongue. But Wicliff's tranſla⯑tion was now obſolete; and to be found only as a matter of curioſity in a few libra⯑ries. In the year 1526 Tindal tranſlated and printed the new teſtament in the low countries. But his tranſlation, which was rather a haſty performance, was very incorrect; and nobody was more ſenſible of its deficiences than Tindal himſelf. He was public ſpirited enough to have amended the faults of it, by a new edition: but his finances were too ſcanty for ſuch an undertaking. The zeal of Tunſtal bi⯑ſhop of Durham, furniſhed him the means. Tunſtal, tho a papiſt, was the moſt mo⯑derate of men; and being deſirous of re⯑moving a ſtumbling block as quietly as [61]poſſible, he privately bought up the whole impreſſion at his own expence, and burnt it^*. This money being returned into Tindal's hands, enabled him to republiſh his work in a more correct form. By the great induſtry however of the popiſh party this edition alſo was in a good meaſure ſuppreſſed: and indeed it was at beſt an inaccurate tranſlation; being the per⯑formance only of a ſingle man, who la⯑boured alſo under many diſadvantages.

This verſion however, inaccurate as it was, the archbiſhop made the baſis of the work, he now intended; and the method he took, was to ſend portions of it to be corrected by the biſhops, and other learned divines; reſerving to himſelf the reviſal of the whole.

[62]Stokeſley, biſhop of London, was the only prelate, who refuſed his contribution. "It is no wonder," (ſaid one of the arch⯑biſhop's chaplains, with more humour, than charity) "that my lord of London refuſes to have any hand in this buſineſs: it is a teſtament, in which he knows well he hath no legacy." This bible, through the means of the lord Eſſex, was licenſed by the king; and fixed to a deſk in all pa⯑rochial churches.

The ardour, with which, we are infor⯑med, men flocked to read it, is incredible. They, who could, purchaſed it; and they who could not, crouded to read it, or to hear it read, in churches; where it was common to ſee little aſſemblies of mecha⯑nics meeting together for that purpoſe after the labour of the day. Many even learned to read in their old age, that they might have the pleaſure of inſtructing themſelves from the ſcriptures. Mr. Fox mentions two apprentices, who joined, each his little ſtock, and bought a bible, which at every interval of leiſure, they read; but being afraid of their maſter, who was a zealous papiſt, they kept it under the [63]ſtraw of their bed. Such was the extaſy of joy, with which this bleſſing was received at that time—when it was uncommon.

Soon afterwards, under the authority of convocation, the archbiſhop took a farther ſtep. The creed, the Lord's prayer, and the ten commandments were allowed to be taught in Engliſh. A plain expoſition alſo of the more obvious points of faith, and practice, was publiſhed in a treatiſe, which was generally called the biſhop's book, from the hands, through which it went: its real title was, The inſti⯑tution of a Chriſtian man. It was afterwards enlarged, and publiſhed under the royal licence; and then became the king's book.

Theſe were the principal ſteps, which the archbiſhop took in the buſineſs of reformation—all taken between the years 1533 and 1538. His difficult circum⯑ſtances allowed no more. It is wonderful indeed he did ſo much: for except in the matters of ſupremacy, and tranſubſtantia⯑tion, the king, and he had very different ſentiments on every topic of religion: and [64]the paſſions of Henry, thoſe guſts of whirlwind, made it dangerous for any one to oppoſe him. But the archbiſhop, tho he tried this hardy experiment of⯑tener than once, never loſt his favour.—In the buſineſs of monaſteries he riſked it moſt.

Henry had already laid his rapacious hands on ſome of the ſmaller houſes; and finding the prey alluring, he determined to make a ſecond, and more daring at⯑tempt. The larger houſes afforded his avarice a more ample range. The affair was brought into parliament; and men ſeemed to think, they were at liberty to ſpeak their opinions freely. They agreed, that the wealth of the church was a dead weight on the nation—that it debauched the clergy; and drained the people—and that it was juſt, and right, to lay public hands on this uſeleſs maſs of treaſure.—At the ſame time having been ſhocked at ſeeing the king appropriate to himſelf, as he had lately done, the piety of ages; or laviſh it in wanton donations on the avarice of his courtiers; they cri⯑ed, "Let us ſtrip the clergy of their [65]wealth; but let us paſs a law, that it may be employed in ſome national ſervice."

Of the party, which held this language, the archbi@hop was at the head. With great earneſtneſs he ſpoke in this cauſe; and propoſed various ſchemes for throwing this maſs of ſacred treaſure into ſome uſeful channel. He mentioned the en⯑dowment of ſchools; the maintenance of ſcholars at the univerſities; the foundation of hoſpitals, and alms-houſes: "Nay, rather, ſaid he, than ſuffer it to be con⯑ſumed in private channels, let us expend it on high roads."

One of his ſchemes was new; and ſeems to have been happily conceived. He propoſed to inſtitute colleges of prieſts in every cathedral, compoſed of ſtudents, juſt removed, and well recommended, from the univerſities. Here they were to apply themſelves to divinity under the eye of the biſhops; who being thus ac⯑quainted with their worth and abilities, might collate them from theſe ſeminaries to parochial charges.

But this, and all his other beneficial ſchemes were overruled. The king was [66]determined to apply this wealth to other uſes; and hinted his intentions to the houſe in a very intelligible manner. The royal hint gave a ſudden change to the deliberations of parliament. Every man trembled at the idea of oppoſition. Simple terror effected then, what venality hath ſince effected. Eſſex immediately gave way. The boldeſt ſpeakers were ſilent. The primate's was the laſt mouth, which opened in this cauſe.—His honeſt zeal ſhewed the goodneſs of his heart; and that was the reward of his labour.

SECT. VIII.

The oppoſition, which the king met with in this buſineſs from the pro⯑teſtant party, is thought by many hiſto⯑rians to have leſſened the archbiſhop's in⯑fluence; and to have thrown weight, at this time, into the oppoſite ſcale. It is certain, the biſhop of Wincheſter, and other leaders of the popiſh party, [67]began now to aſſume unuſual ſpirits, and to appear with more importance at court.

The biſhop of Wincheſter was one of thoſe motley miniſters, half ſtateſman, and half eccleſiaſtic, which were common in thoſe needy times, when the revenues of the church were neceſſary to ſupport the ſervants of the crown. It was an in⯑vidious ſupport; and often faſtened the odium of an indecorum on the king's miniſters; who had, as miniſters always have, oppoſition enough to parry in the common courſe of buſineſs: and it is very probable, that Gardiner, on this very ground, hath met with harder meaſure in hiſtory, than he might otherwiſe have done.

He is repreſented as having nothing of a churchman about him, but the name of a biſhop. He had been bred to buſineſs from his earlieſt youth; and was tho⯑roughly verſed in all the wiles of men, conſidered either as individuals, or, em⯑bodied in parties. He knew all the modes of acceſs to every foible of the human heart; his own in the mean time, [68]dark, and impenetrable. He was a man, "who, as Lloyd quaintly ſays, was to be traced like the fox; and like the Hebrew, to be read backwards:" and tho the in⯑ſidious caſt of his eye indicated, that he was always lying in wait: yet his ſtrong ſenſe, and perſuaſive manner, inclined men to believe he was always ſincere; as better reaſons could hardly be given, than he had ready on every occaſion. He was as little troubled with ſcruples, as any man, who thought it not proper intirely to throw off decency. What moral vir⯑tues, and what natural feelings he had, were all under the influence of ambition; and were accompanied by a happy lubri⯑city of conſcience, which ran glibly over every obſtacle.—Such is the portrait, which hiſtorians have given us of this man; and tho the colouring may be more heightened in ſome, than in others; yet the ſame turn of feature is found in all.

This prelate being at the head of the popiſh party, and aided by the duke of Norfolk's influence, thought he had now an opportunity to ſtrike a blow, which might be fatal to the proteſtant cauſe. [69]The times favouring him, he inſinuated to the king, that the meaſures he was now purſuing had placed him in a very precarious ſituation with regard to foreign powers—that the German proteſtants would in all probability be cruſhed—and that if this ſhould be the caſe, it was very likely from the temper and ſituation of men and things, that his majeſty would ſee a very formidable league excited againſt him by the popiſh princes—that it was prudent at leaſt to guard againſt ſuch an event—and that it might eaſily be done by enacting ſome laws in favour of the old religion, which might ſhew Chriſtendom, that he had not ſet his face againſt the church; but only againſt the ſupremacy of the pope.

This language in a prudential light, was more than plauſible; and it had its full effect on Henry; eſpecially as it co⯑incided with his own apprehenſions. For the enterprizing ſpirit of Charles V, then in league with the pope, ſeemed to be carrying every thing with a full tide of ſucceſs in Germany; and to have nothing ſo much in contemplation as to re-eſta⯑bliſh, [70]through Europe, the ſpiritual do⯑minion of the pope.

An alteration in the public faith, was then a matter of eaſy deciſion. The king's inclination alone was ſufficient to inforce it. The duke of Norfolk there⯑fore, as had been agreed, informed the houſe of the king's wiſh to ſhew his re⯑gard to the old religion; and as it would be agreeable to his majeſty to have every body think as he did, the duke preſumed, that nobody wiſhed to think otherwiſe.

The king's ideas were received with re⯑verence, and the whole houſe became immediately zealous papiſts; and paſſed an act, which had been framed by Gardi⯑ner, in favour of ſome of the more pe⯑culiar doctrines of the Roman church—tranſubſtantiation—communion in one kind—vows of chaſtity,—the celibacy of the clergy—private maſſes—and auricular confeſſion. This act, which paſſed in the year 1539, is known by the name of the act of the ſix articles; and was guarded according to the ſuppoſed degrees of guilt, by fines, forfeitures, impriſonment, and death.

[71]The good archbiſhop never appeared in a more truly Chriſtian light, than on this occaſion. In the midſt of ſo general a defection, (for there were numbers in the houſe, who had hitherto ſhewn great for⯑wardneſs in reformation), he alone made a ſtand. Three days he maintained his ground; and baffled the arguments of all oppoſers. But argument was not their weapon; and the archbiſhop ſaw himſelf obliged to ſink under ſuperior power. Henry ordered him to leave the houſe. The primate refuſed: "It was God's cauſe, he ſaid, and not man's." And when he could do no more, he boldly entered his proteſt.—Such an inſtance of fortitude is ſufficient to wipe off many of thoſe courtly ſtains, which have faſtened on his memory.

As the primate himſelf was a married man, it hath been ſaid, he was particularly intereſted in this oppoſition: and it is cer⯑tain, that as ſoon as the act paſſed, he ſent his wife, who was a niece of Oſiander's, into Germany. But Mr. Strype gives us good reaſon to believe, that his chief ob⯑jection to any of theſe articles, was the [72]cruelty of the penalties, with which they were guarded; ſo alien, he thought, to the ſpirit of Chriſtianity.

It is amazing that the very extraordi⯑nary freedom, which the archbiſhop took on this occaſion, did not entirely ruin him in the king's favour. Indeed all men expected to have ſeen him ſent immedi⯑ately to the tower. But Henry's regard for him was ſo far from being leſſened, that he ordered the duke of Norfolk, with the earl of Eſſex, and others, to dine with him the next day at Lambeth; and comfort him, as the king phraſed it, under his diſappointment.—"My Lord archbiſhop, ſaid Eſſex, you were born in a happy hour. You can do nothing amiſs. Were I to do half of what you have done, my head muſt anſwer it:"—A prophetic ſpeech, as it afterwards appeared!

This ſingular viſit, at Lambeth, tho ſo well intended by the king, was the ſource of great mortification to all. The con⯑verſation, after dinner, falling on the late miniſtry, and Woolſey's name being men⯑tioned, Eſſex could not forbear drawing a parallel between the archbiſhop and the [73]cardinal. The cardinal, ſaid he, through the violence of his temper in managing a a debate, would often change his friends into enemies: whereas the mildneſs of the archbiſhop often makes his enemies, his friends. The duke of Norfolk adopted the remark; and Surely, (ſaid he with a ſarcaſtic ſneer,) nobody knew the cardinal better, than my lord Eſſex, who was once his menial. Eſſex anſwered with ſome warmth, that he was not the only per⯑ſon in company, who had ſerved the car⯑dinal; at leaſt, who had ſhewn an in⯑clination to ſerve him: for if fame ſpoke truth, the great duke of Norfolk himſelf had offered to be the cardinal's admiral, if ever he ſhould attain the papacy. The duke of Norfolk firing at this, ſtarted up, and with a vehement oath, cried out, he lyed. Eſſex preparing to reſent the affront, the archbiſhop got up, and with the reſt of the company interfering, com⯑poſed the quarrel at that time: but the duke laid it up in one of thoſe ſecret chambers of his memory, where thoſe affronts are regiſtered, which nothing but blood can expiate.

[74]The arguments, which the archbiſhop had uſed in parliament againſt the act of the ſix articles, had been repreſented to the king in ſo ſtrong a light, that he ex⯑preſſed a great deſire to ſee them; and the archbiſhop accordingly had them fairly copied out for his inſpection. The fate of the volume, in which they were con⯑tained, occaſioned ſome perplexity.

Among the amuſements of the Eng⯑liſh monarchs of thoſe times, that of bear-baiting on the river Thames was in high eſteem. In this diverſion Henry happened to be engaged, when the arch⯑biſhop's ſecretary took boat at Lambeth, charged with his maſter's book to Weſt⯑minſter. The waterman had orders to keep as far as poſſible from the tumult; but whether led by curioſity to ſee the paſtime, or through ſome unavoidable ac⯑cident, he found himſelf preſently in the midſt of the croud; and by a miſchance ſtill greater, the bear making directly to his boat; climbed up the ſide, and over⯑ſet it. The ſecretary was ſoon taken up; but recovering from his ſurprize, he found [75]he had loſt his book. He hoped it might have ſunk to the bottom; but he diſ⯑covered afterwards, that it had fallen into the hands of ſome ignorant perſons, who had conveyed it to a popiſh prieſt. The prieſt, conceiving it to be a ſatire on the ſix articles, determined to carry it to the council. The ſecretary, in the mean time, ſuſpecting what might happen, ap⯑plied to lord Eſſex, as his maſter's friend. He had ſcarce told his ſtory, when the prieſt appeared, at the door of the coun⯑cil-chamber, with the book under his arm. Lord Eſſex addreſſing him in an angry tone, and telling him that the book belonged to a privy-counſellor; the prieſt delivered it up, with many humble geſticulations; and was glad to get off without farther queſtion.

SECT. IX.

The act of the ſix articles, was a ſignal to the whole popiſh party. They now plainly ſaw their power; and had only to exert it properly. The parlia⯑ment, and convocation were the ſcenes of action. Here the primate almoſt ſingle oppoſed them. A few of the biſhops lent him aid; but it was feeble. They were either unintereſted in the cauſe; or men of no abilities in buſineſs. One or two of them, from whom he expected aſſiſtance, deſerted him. But the ſevereſt loſs he felt, at this time, was that of his great friend, the earl of Eſſex.

The intereſt of that eminent ſtateſman declined with that of the proteſtants; and he paid at the block, the penalty of his maſter's offences. The diſſolution of monaſteries had given general diſguſt. The alms, and hoſpitality of the monks, indiſcriminately adminiſtered, had through [77]a courſe of ages invited ſloth; and theſe channels of ready ſupply being now ſtop⯑ped, the neceſſitous found it irkſome to exchange a life of idleneſs for a life of induſtry. A general diſcontent ſoon finds a mouth to expreſs it. Clamour grew loud; and the king's government, uneaſy. Something muſt neceſſarily be done.

Among all the arts of expediency laid up in the cabinets of princes, the readieſt is to ſacrifice a miniſter. The death of Cromwel was repreſented to the king as the beſt mean of compoſing the people. But tho prudential reaſons may neceſſitate a prince to diſcard a miniſter, yet guilt only, and that nicely examined, can au⯑thorize an act of blood. The hand of a tyrant however generally throws aſide the balance. It is a nice machine; and re⯑quires pains, and temper to adjuſt it. The ſword is an inſtrument more deci⯑ſive; and of eaſier diſpatch. Henry's was always ſtained with blood—often with innocent blood—but never with blood more innocent than that of Eſſex.

Among the many friends of this great man, ſeveral of whom had taſted largely [78]of his bounty, not a ſingle perſon en⯑deavoured to avert his ruin, but the pri⯑mate. He with generous friendſhip wrote to the king; united himſelf with the falling miniſter; and endeavoured, at the hazard of his own ſafety, to inſpire his royal maſter with ideas of juſtice. But the fate of Eſſex was decreed; and ſo light a thing, as a whiſper from the ſtill voice of juſtice, could not avert it.—Hiſtory unites in marking the duke of Norfolk, and the biſhop of Wincheſ⯑ter, as the ſecret contrivers of this baſe affair.

The primate and Eſſex had ever main⯑tained a uniform friendſhip for each other, through every period of their power. It was a friendſhip pure from jealouſy on both ſides. Amidſt all the jarrings of court faction, nothing ever diſturbed it. Each knew the integrity of the other's intentions; and each ſupported the other's ſchemes with an exertion of all his in⯑tereſt. In ſome things perhaps the zeal of Eſſex for his friend was apt to carry him too far; and the primate had oftener than once occaſion to repreſs it.

[79]A prieſt near Scarborough, ſitting among his companions, over his beer, at the door of a country ale-houſe; and ſome⯑body happening to mention the arch⯑biſhop; "That man, ſaid the prieſt, as great as he is now, was once but an oſt⯑ler; and has no more learning, than the goſlings yonder on the green." Eſſex, who had his ſpies in every quarter, was in⯑formed of what the prieſt had ſaid. A meſſenger was immediately diſpatched for him; and he was lodged in the Fleet.

Some months elapſed, when the arch⯑biſhop, who was intirely ignorant of the affair, received a petition from the poor prieſt, full of penitence for his impru⯑dence, and of ſupplication for mercy.

The primate having inquired into the buſineſs ſent for him. "I hear, ſaid he, you have accuſed me of many things; and among others, of my being a very ignorant man. You have now an oppor⯑tunity of ſetting your neighbours right in this matter; and may examine me, if you pleaſe."

The prieſt, in great confuſion, beſought his grace to pardon him: he never would offend in the ſame way again.

[80]"Well then, ſays the archbiſhop, ſince you will not examine me, let me examine you."

The prieſt was thunderſtruck; making many excuſes; and owning he was not much learned in book-matters.

The archbiſhop told him, he ſhould not then go very deep; and aſked him two or three of the plaineſt queſtions in the bible; Who was David's father? and who was Solomon's?

The prieſt, confuſed at his own igno⯑rance, ſtood ſpeechleſs.

"You ſee, ſaid the archbiſhop how your accuſation of me, riſes againſt your⯑ſelf. You are an admirable judge of learning and learned men.—Well, my friend, I had no hand in bringing you here, and have no deſire to keep you. Get home; and if you are an ignorant man, learn at leaſt to be an honeſt one."

Soon after, the earl of Eſſex came to the primate; and with ſome warmth told him, he might for the future fight his own battles—that he had intended to to have made the prieſt do penance at [81]Paul's croſs; but his grace's misjudged lenity had prevented him.

"My good lord, ſaid the primate, taking him by the hand, be not offended. I have examined the man myſelf; and be aſſured from me, he is neither worth your notice, nor mine."

Notwithſtanding however the loſs of his great aſſociate, the archbiſhop did not deſpair. An attempt was made in con⯑vocation to revive ſome popiſh cere⯑monies. A ſort of ritual was produced, which conſiſted of ninety articles. The archbiſhop unaided went through the whole; and reaſoned with ſuch ſtrength of argument, as brought over many to his opinion. Whom he could not convince, he ſilenced.

The next field, in which he appeared, was the houſe of lords, where he himſelf made the attack, by bringing in a bill to mitigate the penalties of the ſix articles. This was a bold attempt, and drew on him the whole force of oppoſition. The biſhops of Rocheſter and Hereford, who [82]had promiſed to aſſiſt him, gave way, as the debate grew warm; and begged the archbiſhop to follow their example. It was in vain, they told him, to perſiſt: He could not benefit his cauſe; but he might ruin himſelf. The archbiſhop, with that ſpirit which he always exerted, where re⯑ligion was concerned, declared himſelf careleſs of any conſequence.

His perſeverance had an effect, which he durſt not have hoped for. The laity were intirely exempted from the penalties of the act; and the clergy were in no dan⯑ger, till after the third conviction. The primate obtained alſo that no offences ſhould be cognizable, after they had lain dormant a year. It is not improbable, that he was indebted for this victory to the book, which he had ſent to the king; the rigour of whoſe opinions it might, in ſome degree, have qualified.

In another effort alſo the primate ob⯑tained an advantage. He prevailed with the king to allow the uſe of a few prayers in the Engliſh tongue; which was the firſt attempt of the kind, that had been made.

[83]On the other hand, he had the mortifi⯑cation to ſee the uſe of the bible taken away. Wincheſter brought the affair into convocation. In the debate, which enſued, the tranſlation was chiefly ob⯑jected to, ‘Let the people have their bible, ſaid Wincheſter, but let it be a correct one; and let not error and hereſy be ſpread by authority.’ He propoſed therefore to have the bible care⯑fully examined; and with this view to have it put into the hands of the biſhops; where he doubted not he had influence to ſuſpend it, as long as he pleaſed.

The primate ſaw his policy, and with all his weight oppoſed him. He wiſhed to preſerve the preſent tranſlation, even with all its inaccuracies; which he thought better than to run the riſk of a new one. But he could not prevail. One point however he gained. Inſtead of putting the bible into the hands of the biſhops; he got it put into the hands of the two univerſities, which he ſuppoſed would be leſs ſubject to popiſh influence.

He was right in his conjecture; for the univerſities were very ſpeedy in their re⯑viſion. [84]But the primate had the old battle to fight again. Tho a more correct bible was produced, yet the ſame oppoſi⯑tion was ſtill made to its publication; and new topics of argument were introduced. The archbiſhop however had now en⯑couraged a conſiderable party to ſecond him; and the affair was combated with great vigour. But the oppoſition of the popiſh party became ſo formidable, that the archbiſhop was again intirely de⯑ſerted. Single however, as he had done before, he ſtill bore up againſt his adver⯑ſaries; and perſevered, till by dint of perſeverance he obtained a limited uſe of the bible, tho it was never publicly al⯑lowed during the remainder of Henry's reign.

SECT. X.

While the primate was acting this great and noble part in parliament, an un⯑expected [85]event placed him in a very deli⯑cate and dangerous ſituation.

At an early hour, in the morning, an unknown perſon, of the name of Laſ⯑celles, deſired a ſecret admittance to him; and with much heſitation opened an affair, which the archbiſhop would often ſay, gave his ſpirits a greater agitation, than he ever felt before, or after.—The affair was no leſs, than the diſcovery of the queen's incontinence.

The primate with his uſual caution weighed the information; and the proof, on which it reſted; and he had the more time for deliberation, as the king was then on a progreſs. If the information were juſtly founded, it was both wrong, and dangerous, to conceal it—if unjuſtly, it was equally ſo to divulge it. The di⯑lemma was difficult.

The buſineſs was perplexed alſo by a circumſtance of peculiar delicacy. The queen was niece to the duke of Norfolk, who was at the head of the popiſh party; and the good primate, who had ſeen with what ſiniſter arts that claſs of men had carried on their ſchemes, was apprehend⯑ſive, [86]that ſuch a ſtory as this, might have too much the air of retaliation, and the malignity of party; and if it ſhould prove falſe, would fix an imputation on his character, which he had ever been careful to avoid. His enemies, he knew, were always on the watch againſt him; and might, for ought he knew, have taken this very method of doing him an injury.

Thus diſtracted by a view of the affair in every light, he went at laſt to the lord chancellor, and the earl of Hertford, whom the king had left with a com⯑miſſion of regency, during his abſence; and to them he unboſomed his diſtreſs.

After the firſt impreſſion of terror was over, with which the privacy of ſuch an affair naturally ſtruck every one, who was connected with the tyrant, the chancellor, and lord Hertford were both of opinion, that as the affair reſted on ſuch undoubted evidence, it was leſs hazardous to divulge, than to conceal it. This point being ſettled, the more arduous one ſtill re⯑mained of informing the king. The pri⯑mate thought it beſt, that all three ſhould join in the information; and give it that [87]weight, which no ſingle perſon could give. The two lords, on the other hand, were of a different opinion. As the in⯑telligence, they ſaid, had been given to the primate, and they had only been con⯑ſulted, the information would come moſt naturally from him. Beſides, they re⯑marked, it was more reſpectful to keep a matter of ſo delicate a nature in a ſingle hand; and if ſo, the primate's eccleſiaſti⯑cal character, and well-known judgment made him the propereſt meſſenger of bad news; as when he had given the wound, he could pour in balm to heal it.—In concluſion, the meekneſs of the arch⯑biſhop gave way; and he took upon him⯑ſelf alone the taſk of carrying the unwel⯑come truth to the king.

It was indeed an unwelcome truth. The king at this time, had ſo little con⯑ception of the queen's diſhoneſty, and loved her with ſuch entire affection, that he had lately given public thanks for the happineſs he enjoyed with her.

The method which the primate took, was, to draw up the whole affair on pa⯑per, with all the evidence, on which it [88]reſted, and preſent it to the king in pri⯑vate.

Henry took the information, as we may ſuppoſe he would. His ſury broke out in vehement execrations, and threats againſt thoſe, who had been the contri⯑vers of ſuch villainy. And yet even in his rage he ſeems to have ſpared the arch⯑biſhop, as a man who might be impoſed on; but could not intend deceit. By degrees however, as his royal ſury ſub⯑ſided, and he examined the evidence cool⯑ly, it made a deep impreſſion on him; and paſſions of another kind began to riſe. In ſhort, the queen and her accomplices were tried, condemned, and executed. A little before her death ſhe confeſſed her guilt to the archbiſhop; and the full voice of hiſtory bears teſtimony to the juſtice of her ſentence.

About the time, in which the arch⯑biſhop was concerned in this affair, he was engaged in another, almoſt equally invidious; the viſitation of All-ſouls-col⯑lege in Oxford. That ſociety was in [89]much diſorder. Their diſſentions gave great offence; and the irregularity of their manners, ſtill greater. They are taxed, in the language of thoſe times, with their ſcandalous compotations, commeſſations, and ingurgitations. The archbiſhop, as viſi⯑tor, was called in by one of the contend⯑ing parties; and he found it no eaſy matter to compoſe their heats, and reſtore good manners. With his uſual vigour he went through the diſagreeable taſk; and having mixed as much lenity as poſſible, with his cenſures, he reviewed their ſta⯑tutes; and made ſuch additions, as he hoped would prevent any miſbehaviour for the future.

In the year 1542, which was the year after theſe troubleſome affairs, happened the battle of Solway-moſs; where the Scotiſh army received a total defeat. Many of their nobility being taken priſoners, were ſent to London, and committed to the care of the moſt conſiderable perſons about the court. The earl of Caſſilis, was ſent to Lambeth. Here he found [90]himſelf in a ſchool of philoſophy, and religion; where every thing great, and noble, and liberal abounded. Caſſilis himſelf had a turn for literature; and ſoon became enamoured with this amiable ſociety. The gentleneſs, and benevolence of the archbiſhop in particular attracted his eſteem; and brought him to think more favourably of the reformers; to whoſe opinions he ſoon became a tho⯑rough convert. Scotland had not yet re⯑ceived the tenets of the reformation: and the archbiſhop would often ſay, "That when it ſhould pleaſe God to inlighten that country, he hoped the intimacy, which had ſubſiſted between him and the earl of Caſſilis, might not wholly be without effect." And in fact it proved ſo: for ſome years afterwards, when the reformed opinions got footing in Scot⯑land, nobody contributed ſo much to eſtabliſh them, as that nobleman.

SECT. XI.

Tho it might be ſuppoſed, that the queen's death would have weakened the popiſh cauſe, yet we do not find, that it produced any ſuch effect. Many re⯑marked, that after the firſt heat of the rupture with Rome, the king had been gradually returning towards it; and that, with regard to all the doctrines of popery, he was, at this time, more zealous, than he had ever been: and they accounted for it very plauſibly by obſerving, that as his paſſions began to cool, the religious fear took more poſſeſſion of him.

The popiſh party, it is certain, at this period aſſumed unuſual ſpirits; and thought they had influence enough to obtain any point.

One morning the primate was ſurprized with a meſſage from the king, who lay off Lambeth in his barge, and wiſhed imme⯑diately [92]to ſpeak with him. As he came on board, the king called out, "I can now inform you, who is the greateſt heretic in Kent:" and ordering the barge to row gently up the river, he ſeated the archbi⯑ſhop by him, and produced a large book, which, he ſaid, contained an accuſation of ſeveral of the Kentiſh miniſters againſt their dioceſan.

The archbiſhop, who was not very pre⯑ſent in the article of ſurprize, gazed firſt at the king, and then at the book, and could not, in ſome minutes, collect an anſwer. The king bad him not be diſtreſ⯑ſed: "I conſider the affair, ſaid he, merely as a combination of your enemies; and as ſuch I ſhall treat it."

Commiſſioners were ſoon after appoint⯑ed to examine the evidence againſt the primate; and at the head of the board the king, with his uſual indelicacy, placed the primate himſelf. The archbiſhop was ſhocked at this deſignation; and could barely be prevailed on to appear once at the opening of the commiſſion. It ſuf⯑ficiently ſhewed however, how the king ſtood affected; and ſaved the archbiſhop's [93]advocates the trouble of any laboured de⯑fence. Each of the accuſers endeavoured with what art he was able, to withdraw himſelf from a buſineſs, which was likely to bring him ſo ungrateful a return.

The chief contriver of this whole affair was the biſhop of Wincheſter, who with great aſſiduity, had collected a variety of paſſages from ſermons, and other diſcourſes in which it was ſuppoſed, the archbiſhop had ſhewn more regard to the new learning (as proteſtantiſm was called) and the pro⯑feſſors of it, than the laws then in force allowed.

Among other agents whom Wincheſter employed, he drew over by his inſinuating arts, two perſons, who were very nearly connected with the archbiſhop himſelf; Dr. Thorndon, ſuffragan of Dover, and Dr. Barber, a civilian. Each of them had been promoted by the archbiſhop, and held an office under him; and both had been always treated by him on the footing of intimate friends. Barber even lived in his houſe; and had a penſion ſettled on him, that he might be ready with his ad⯑vice on every occaſion. When the proofs [94]therefore of this conſederacy were put into the primate's hands, we may ſuppoſe his aſtoniſhment on finding a letter from each of theſe perſons, containing a variety of matter againſt him, which his familia⯑rity, and unreſerved freedom with them, had eaſily furniſhed.

Soon afterwards, when theſe two per⯑ſons happened both to be with the archbi⯑ſhop, at his houſe at Beckeſburne; "Come your ways with me, ſaid he, leading them into his ſtudy; I muſt have your advice in a certain matter." When he had carried them to a retired window in the room, "You twain, he reſumed, be men, in whom I have had much truſt; and you muſt now give me ſome council. I have been ſhamefully abuſed by one or twain, to whom I have ſhewed all my ſecrets, And the matter is ſo fallen out, that they have not only diſcloſed my ſecrets; but alſo have taken upon them to accuſe me of hereſy; and are become witneſſes againſt me. I require you therefore to adviſe me, how I ſhall behave myſelf to them. You are both my friends; what ſay you to the matter?"

[95]Whether they had any ſuſpicion of the archbiſhop's meaning, does not appear: As the queſtion however was put, they could not avoid pronouncing with great ſeverity againſt ſuch villany. The pri⯑mate then drawing the letters from his boſom, "Know you, ſaid he, theſe papers, my maſters?—You have con⯑demned yourſelves. God make you both good men. I never deſerved this at your hands. If ſuch men as you, are not to be truſted, there is no fidelity to be found. I fear my left hand will accuſe my right." Having ſaid this, he added, after a pauſe, that they might reſt aſſured, he would take no ſteps to puniſh their baſeneſs; but he thought it fit to diſcharge them from his ſervice.

The king however treated the arch⯑biſhop's accuſers with more ſeverity; and threw many of them into priſon. This alarming Gardiner, he wrote a letter to the primate in the following abject ſtyle.

‘Gentle father, I have not borne ſo tender a heart towards you, as a true child ought to bear; tho you never gave me occaſion otherwiſe; but rather [96]by benefits provoked me to the con⯑trary. I aſk mercy of you with as contrite a heart, as ever David aſked of God.—I deſire you to remember the prodigal child. I am full ſorry for my fault; heartily confeſſing my raſhneſs, and indeliberate doings. Forgive me this fault; and you ſhall never hereaſter perceive, but that at all times I ſhall be as obedient, as ever was child to his natural father. I am your's, and ſhall be your's; and that truly while I live. Good father, I have given myſelf unto you, heart, body, and ſervice. And now remember that I am your true ſervant.’

This letter, tho it appears from Win⯑cheſter's future life, to have been a mere artifice, ſo wrought on the gentle nature of the primate, that hearing the king was reſolved to lay Wincheſter's letters before the houſe of lords, he went to him, and at length prevailed on him, not to give the biſhop any further trouble; but to let the matter drop.

[97]The event of this accuſation checked the ardour of the archbiſhop's enemies for ſome time; but it revived again in about two years, on the death of Charles Bran⯑don duke of Suffolk.

With this nobleman the king had pre⯑ſerved, through life, a friendſhip, of which it was not thought his heart was ſuſceptible; and on hearing of his death, he pronounced a ſhort eulogy on his me⯑mory, which was beyond the moſt la⯑boured panegyric. The news was brought to him in council: "God reſt his ſoul! (ſaid the king, with much emotion:) he was an honeſt man. I have known him long; and never knew him ſpeak a bad word behind the back of any man." Then turning round the board, with a ſarcaſtic air, "Of which of you, my lords, added he, can I ſay as much?"

The duke's amiable manners had long engaged the eſteem of the archbiſhop; whoſe virtues, in return, were equally admired by the duke. A very ſincere friendſhip ſubſiſted between them; and it [98]was thought the perſuaſive arguments of the primate had drawn the duke to think favourably of the reformers, whoſe friend and patron, he was generally eſteemed.

Tho the duke had ever been a cautious man; and interfered little in public affairs; yet conſidering his favour with the king, the popiſh party thought his death of great advantage to their cauſe. They conceived, that it might both weaken the proteſtant intereſt; and tend alſo to leſſen the king's regard for the primate.

Elated with theſe hopes, the biſhop of Wincheſter, and his emiſſaries, beſet the king, now yielding to age and infirmity; and endeavoured to awaken his religious fears. ‘In vain might wiſe laws ſtruggle with hereſies, if the patrons of thoſe hereſies were above law. Of his ma⯑jeſty alone redreſs could be had. He was God's vicegerent to rectify the abuſes of the times; and might be aſſured, the ſword was not put into his hands in vain: he was accountable for the truſt.’

From hints they proceeded to plainer language; and at length, in direct words, [99]informed the king, that while the arch⯑biſhop ſat in council, nothing effectual could be conſulted about religion. They prayed his majeſty therefore to give leave for the primate to be ſent to the Tower; and it would then be ſeen, how ample a charge againſt him would appear.—The king pondered, and conſented.

That very evening, as it grew dark, Henry ſent for the archbiſhop to White⯑hall. He was walking penſively in a long gallery, when the archbiſhop entered. ‘My lord of Canterbury, ſaid the king, I have given permiſſion to have you ſent to the Tower. Some lords of council have dealt with me to that purpoſe. They have grievous things to lay to your charge, which they dare not utter, while you have free admiſſion to the board.’

The archbiſhop expreſſed his readineſs to have his conduct inquired into, in whatever manner the king thought fit: and offered to go, with great alacrity, to the Tower, till he had fully anſwered the accuſations of his adverſaries.

The king interrupting him, as his manner was, with a burſt of vociferation, [100]expreſſed his ſurprize at the primate's ſimplicity: but immediately ſoftening his voice, told him, that it was much ea⯑ſier to keep him from the Tower; than to deliver him out of it. ‘You will be ſent for, ſaid he, in the morning, by the council; and dealt with haughtily. If the lords talk of committing you, deſire you may firſt hear your accuſers. If they deny this, appeal to me; and take this ring; which you may ſhew them as a token.’

At eight the next morning, the arch⯑biſhop was accordingly called before the council; and was kept ſome time, ſtand⯑ing at the door. Being admitted, he punctually followed the king's directions; and when the lords inſiſted on ſending him to the Tower, he appealed to the king, who had taken the affair, he told them, into his own hands. As he ſaid this, he produced the ring, which was a token very well known.

Every one preſent was confounded; and the lord Ruſſel ſtarting up, cried out, with an oath, ‘I told you, my lords, how it would be; and that the king [101]would never ſuffer him to be com⯑mitted.’

When the affair was brought before the king, he made a ſhort buſineſs of it. Striding haughtily round the room, and throwing an eye of indignation firſt on one, and then on another; "I thought, ſaid he, I had a diſcreet council; but I ſee I am deceived. How have ye handled here my lord of Canterbury? What made ye of him? a ſlave; ſhutting him out of the council chamber among ſerving men.—I would have you to underſtand, by the faith I owe to God, (laying his hand ſolemnly on his breaſt) that if a prince can be beholden to a ſubject, I am to my lord of Canterbury; whom I ac⯑count as faithful a man towards his prince, as ever was prelate in this realm: and one to whom I am ſundry ways beholden: and therefore he that loveth me, will regard him."

Having ſaid this he ſtrode out; and left the lords endeavouring which ſhould apologize to the primate in the higheſt ſtrain of compliment. The next day the king ſent ſeveral of them, as was cuſtom⯑ary [102]with him after ſuch diſſentions, to dine with the archbiſhop at Lambeth.

There is ſomething ſingular in this whole affair. It is difficult to ſay, whe⯑ther Henry was at firſt in earneſt, and afterwards changed his reſolution; or whether he took this method to check the forwardneſs of the archbiſhop's enemies.

While this ſcene was acting in the council, a part of the fame plan was pre⯑paring in parliament. There Sir John Goſwick, in a ſtudied harangue, accuſed the archbiſhop of being an upholder of heretical opinions; with which he had greatly infected the county of Kent. Henry being informed of this motion, called a gentleman in waiting, and ſent Sir John this meſſage: ‘Tell that varlet Goſwick, that if he do not preſently reconcile himſelf to my lord of Canter⯑bury, I will puniſh him for the ex⯑ample of others. What knows he of my lord's preaching in Kent? Was not he, at that time, in Bedfordſhire?’—The meſſage was very intelligible; and had its full effect.

SECT. XII.

But it was not only in matters of religion that every advantage was taken againſt the archbiſhop; the moſt trivial cavils were often made. He had enemies ready for any ſpecies of calumny; and Sir Thomas Seymour, who had abilities to object to nothing elſe, was able to object to the meanneſs of his houſe-keeping. On this head, he threw out inſinuations to the king. Henry heard him with ap⯑parent indifference; and careleſly an⯑ſwered; "Ay! Seymour! and does my lord of Canterbury keep as little hoſpita⯑lity, as you ſay? In good faith, I thought the contrary."

The king ſaid no more, but took an early opportunity to ſend Sir Thomas, on ſome frivolous meſſage, to Lambeth, about dinner time. When he came there, he was carried through the great hall, where a bountiful table was ſpread, tho [104]only in its ordinary manner. From thence he was conducted up fairs to the archbiſhop, where he found a large com⯑pany juſt ſitting down to dinner; among whom the archbiſhop, in his uſual hearty manner, inſiſted, that Sir Thomas ſhould take a place.

The next time the king ſaw him, "Well, ſaid he, Seymour, what cheer had you at Lambeth? for I ſuppoſe my lord would keep you to dine."

The poor man, confounded at the queſtion; and ſeeing plainly the king's meaning, threw himſelf at his feet, and begged his Majeſty to pardon the ſoul ſlander, with which he had aſperſed the archbiſhop. He then frankly mentioned all he had ſeen; and concluded with ſay⯑ing, he believed nobody in the realm, except his highneſs himſelf, kept ſuch a table.

"Ah! good man! ſaid the king; all he hath, he ſpendeth in houſe-keeping: and if he now keep ſuch a table, as you ſay, it being neither term, nor parlia⯑ment, he is meetly viſited, at thoſe times, I warrant you."—" But, added the [105]king, aſſuming a ſeverer tone, I know the bottom of all theſe falſities. You want to have a finger in church matters, do you? But you may ſet your heart at reſt: while I am king, there ſhall be no ſuch doings."

Theſe inſinuations with regard to the archbiſhop's great ceconomy, ſeem in ſome degree to have been credited by Sir Wil⯑liam Cecil; who in a letter, told the pri⯑mate freely, what was current at court—that he, and all the biſhops were im⯑menſely rich—and that they had nothing in view, but raiſing princely fortunes for their families.—The archbiſhop's an⯑ſwer to Cecil is ſo ingenuous; and bears ſo ſtrong a ſtamp of honeſty, that it is well worth tranſcribing.

Theſe invidious reports with regard to the avarice of the biſhops, are commonly aſcribed to the avarice of the courtiers; who were deſirous of adding the revenues of the biſhopricks to the ſpoils of the monaſteries. The wealth of the biſhops therefore was the faſhionable court-topic of that day: and every patriot declaimed on the expediency of ſtripping them of their temporalities, and ſettling penſions on them; that they might not be in⯑cumbered with ſecular affairs.

Henry knew well the meaning of this language; and alluded to it, when he told Sir Thomas Seymour, he wanted to have a finger in church matters.

But tho Henry would not allow his courtiers to ſtrip the clergy of their poſ⯑ſeſſions, he was very well inclined to do it himſelf. His method was, to oblige the biſhops to make diſadvantageous exchanges with crown lands. In this way he ſtrip⯑ped the fee of Canterbury, during arch⯑biſhop [108]Cranraer's time, of 150£. of an⯑nual rent; and the archbiſhop would often hint, that if he were leſs hoſpitable, than his predeceſſors, a reaſon might be given.

During the ſhort remainder of Henry's reign, the archbiſhop met with no farther diſturbance of any kind; his enemies being now convinced of the king's reſolu⯑tion to ſkreen him from all attacks. In⯑deed the protection, which Henry at all times afforded him, in oppoſition to his own irritable and implacable temper, the genius of his religion, and the bias of bigotry, makes one of thoſe ſtrange con⯑tradictions, which we ſometimes meet with, but cannot account for, in the cha⯑racters of men.

It is ſomewhat ſingular, that Henry, on one of theſe late attacks, obſerving the mildneſs of the primate's temper, the acrimony of his adverſaries, and the danger he muſt neceſſarily run, when de⯑prived of the protection of his prince, gave him for his arms, as if in the ſpirit [109]of foreſight, three pelicans feeding their young with their own blood: and added, in an odd jumble of coarſe metaphor, ‘That he was likely to be taſted, if he ſtood to his tackling.’

The laſt act of this reign was an act of blood; and gave the archbiſhop a noble opportunity of ſhewing how well he had learned that great Chriſtian leſſon of for⯑giving an enemy.

Almoſt without the ſhadow of juſtice, Henry had given directions to have the duke of Norfolk attainted by an act of parliament. The king's mandate ſtood in lieu of guilt; and the bill paſſed the houſe with great eaſe.

No man, except the biſhop of Win⯑cheſter, had been ſo great an enemy to the archbiſhop, as the duke of Norfolk. He had always thwarted the primate's meaſures; and oftener than once had practiſed againſt his life. How many would have ſeen with ſecret pleaſure the workings of Providence againſt ſo ran⯑corous an enemy; ſatisfied in having [110]themſelves no hand in his unjuſt fate! But the archbiſhop ſaw the affair in another light: he ſaw it with horror; and altho the king had in a particular man⯑ner intereſted himſelf in this buſineſs, the primate oppoſed the bill with all his might; and when his oppoſition was vain, he left the houſe with indignation; and retired to Croydon.

While the king was puſhing on the attainder of the duke of Norfolk, with ſuch unjuſt, and cruel precipitancy, he was himſelf haſtening apace to the grave. He had long been an object of diſguſt, and terror. His body was become a maſs of fetid humours; and his temper was ſo brutal, that if he had not been diverted by a ſtratagem, he would have put his queen to death, only for differing from him on a point of theology—a queen too, whoſe daily employment it was, to fit for hours on her knees before him, dreſſing the offenſive ulcers of his legs. His attendants approached him with trem⯑bling. One or two of them ran the riſk [111]of loſing their heads, only for intimating their fears about his health. It was prognoſticating his death; and amounted nearly to high-treaſon.

Diſeaſe at length ſubdued this brutal ſpirit. When he was now almoſt in the article of death, Sir Anthony Denny ventured to. hint, with great delicacy, that his phyſicians thought his majeſty's life in ſome danger. Henry took the admonition patiently, for he felt nature ſpeaking a leſs ceremonious language within. He was juſt able to order the archbiſhop to be called.

When the primate came, he found the king ſpeechleſs, extended on a couch, his eyes glazed, and motionleſs. His attendants had ventured now to throw off all diſguiſe; and the real ſentiments of the heart, on this great occaſion, were viſible on every inlightened countenance. The archbiſhop's ſenſations were very different. His were the painful feelings, which ariſe from pity mingled with a high ſenſe of gratitude, where there could be no real eſteem; and where, in an hour of the greateſt. diſtreſs, there was no poſſibi⯑lity [112]of being of ſervice. With an eye melting in tenderneſs, he leaned over the dying king; and ſympathized with every pang. Henry did not yet ſeem entirely deprived of intellect. The primate begged him to give ſome ſign of his dying in the faith of Chriſt. Henry made an effort to graſp his hand, and expired.

SECT. XIII.

The death of Henry, which hap⯑pened in the year 1547, opened a new ſcene. On producing his will, it ap⯑peared, that ſixteen of the leading men of the kingdom were appointed regents. They were reſtrained by many limitations; but under theſe, a majority were allowed to govern the kingdom as they thought fit. This happy clauſe overturned all the reſt. Henry had compoſed the regents, as equally as he could, of both parties in religion; and hoped, that by keeping things, during his ſon's minority, in the [113]ſame heſitating ſituation, in which he had left them, he might prevent their running into extremes. But it happened otherwiſe. A majority plainly inclined to the proteſtant cauſe, either from conſcience, or intereſt; and they thought themſelves fully authorized by the pre⯑cept of the will, to govern the king⯑dom as they thought fit. The earl of Hertford, the king's uncle, was created duke of Somerſet, and choſen protector. The other regents immediately became cyphers.

The archbiſhop, tho placed at the head of the regency, rarely interfered with ſtate affairs; and gave little interruption to the ambition of his compeers. In eccleſi⯑aſtical matters he took the lead: and every thing, that was done, in this de⯑partment, during Edward's reign, may be conſidered as done by his authority.

But it would interfere too much with the nature of ſuch a work as this, to enter into a minute detail of all the changes, which were made in religion. [114]Such a detail appears more properly in works appropriated to theſe inquiries^*. Here it is propoſed only to illuſtrate the character of this excellent prelate; and it will be enough to touch ſo far on the changes he made, as to throw a proper light on his wiſdom, prudence, learning, moderation, and ſirmneſs.

The firſt ſtep he took, regarded the ſettlement of the ſupremacy; a point, which he had exceedingly at heart, as the foundation of every thing elſe. He formally therefore petitioned the young king, that as he had exerciſed the office of archbiſhop under his father, he might be permitted to exerciſe it under him: and he would perform no epiſcopal duty, till his new licence was made out.—This example, he propoſed ſhould be inforced on the clergy.

Thus authorized he proceeded to the affairs of religion. But before any thing was done, he thought it right to ſhew the [115]neceſſity of doing ſomething: and to this purpoſe a general viſitation was made. Abuſes of all kinds were inquired into—corrupt doctrines; corrupt practices; ſu⯑perſtitious ceremonies; the lives of the clergy; and the manners of the laity, The viſitors had authority to proceed a ſtep farther. In flagrant caſes a few cen⯑ſures were paſſed; and a few injunctions given. The idea was to reſtrain, rather than to aboliſh, the old ſyſtem.

Among other things it was thought expedient to ſuſpend preaching. Amidſt the licence of the times, no ſpecies of it deſerved more reproof, than that which had gotten poſſeſſion of the pulpit. Many of the monks had been ſecularized; and bringing with them into their churches their old monaſtic ideas, the popular divinity of thoſe times was, if poſſible, more oppoſite to ſcripture, and more offeaſive to common ſenſe, than it had ever been in the darkeſt reign of po⯑pery. In the room of preaching, a book of homilies was publiſhed, and ordered to be read in churches. The uſe of ſcripture alſo was allowed; and that the people [116]might have an explanation of it at hand, the commentary of Eraſmus was autho⯑rized.—Theſe changes had great effi⯑cacy; moderate as they appeared, and aiming rather to undermine the founda⯑tions of popery, than to overturn them by any open aſſault.

The minds of the people indeed were, in a good degree, prepared for them; and it is ſaid, nothing contributed more to looſen their prejudices, than a popular paper, which was publiſhed, about the cloſe of the late reign, intitled, The ſup⯑plication of the poor commons to the king. It was levelled chiefly at the ignorance, and immorality of the Romiſh clergy; and being written in a maſterly manner; and interſperſed with a variety of lively anecdotes, it was much read; and tended greatly to give the people juſt ideas of the clerical office. Among other ſtories the following very curious one is related. ‘A certain court-chaplain, who had great preferment, obſerved, as he was travelling, a church upon a fair hill, [117]beſet with groves, and fields, the green meadows lying beneath on the banks of a river, garniſhed with willows, poplars, and alders. He was mightily taken with the place, and calling out to his ſervant, Robin, ſaid he, this benefice ſtandeth pleaſantly. I would it were mine. Why, Sir, ſaid his ſer⯑vant, it is your's; and immediately named the pariſh—If your highneſs had ſo many ſwine in this realm, as you have men, would you commit the keeping of them to ſuch ſwine-herds, as did not know their ſwine-cots, when they ſaw them?’

The dread, in which the Romiſh clergy were at that time thrown, from what had been already done, is ſtrongly expreſſed in the following language. ‘Theſe dumb dogs have learned to fawn upon them, who bring them bread; and to be wonderful friſky when they are che⯑riſhed: but if they be once bid to couch, they draw the tail between their legs, and get them ſtrait to their kennel: and then, come who will, they ſtir no more, till they hear their fire pope cry [118]out, hey, cut, or long tail. So afraid are they of ſtripes, and leſt they ſhould be tied up ſo ſhort, that they cannot range abroad; nor worry, now and then, a lamb.’

Then follows a long account of their rapacity, of which many inſtances are given. Among others, we are told, ‘it was no rare thing to ſee poor people beg at Eaſter, to pay for the ſacrament, when they receive it. Nor is it leſs common to ſee men beg for dead bodies, that they may pay the prieſt's dues. It is not long ſince, in the city of London, a dead body was brought to the church to be buried; being ſo poor, that it was almoſt quite naked. But theſe charitable men, who teach us, that it is one of the works of mercy to bury the dead, would not bury this dead corps, without their dues. So they cauſed it to be carried into the ſtreet, till the poor people, who dwelled there, begged ſo much as the dues came to.’

The apoſtrophe of theſe ſuppliants to the king was very noble, and ſpirited. [119] ‘If you ſuffer Chriſt's poor members to be thus oppreſſed, expect the righteous judgment of God for your negligence. Be merciful therefore to yourſelf, as well as to us. Endanger not your own ſoul by the ſuffering of us poor com⯑mons. Remember that your hoar hairs are a token, that nature maketh haſte to abſolve your life. Defer not then, moſt dread ſovereign, the reformation of theſe enormities. For the wound is even unto death. Whoredom is more eſteemed than wedlock. Simony hath loſt its name. Uſury is lawful gains. What example of life do the people ſhew this day, which declares us more to be the people of God, than Jews, and Mahometans?’

The leaders of the popiſh party eaſily ſaw the tendency of the primate's mea⯑ſures; and gave them what oppoſition they were able. The Biſhop of Win⯑cheſter never appeared in a more becoming light, With equal firmneſs, and plauſi⯑bility he remonſtrated. ‘The com⯑mencement [120]of a minority, he ſaid, was not a time to introduce novelties. To alter the religion of a country was a ſerious buſineſs; and required the ut⯑moſt deliberation. No act of legiſlature, he obſerved, had yet paſſed; and it was great preſumption to publiſh things under the king's name; with which, it was well known, neither he, nor the protector, were at all acquainted. But even if bare decency were conſulted, it was very offenſive to all ſober men to ſee the wiſdom of ages cancelled in a few months.—The paraphraſe of Eraſmus, he remarked, was written at a time, when the pen of that writer was very licentious. It contained many points of doctrine, which, he preſumed, the proteſtants themſelves would not willingly inculcate; and he would maintain, that it contradicted the homilies in many par⯑ticulars. As for the homilies, tho he did not doubt their being well intend⯑ed, yet they were certainly very inac⯑curate compoſitions; and ran into length on many curious points of doc⯑trine, which tended rather to miſlead, [121]than to inform the people.—For him⯑ſelf, he ſaid, he was careleſs of all con⯑ſequences, which the freedom of his ſpeech might draw upon him. The laſt ſcene of his life was now on the ſtage; and he only wiſhed to conclude it properly.’

There was an energy, and greatneſs in this language, ſuperior to any thing, that had ever fallen from Gardiner: and if that had been the laſt ſcene of his life, we muſt have acknowledged the dignity of it's concluſion. In his objections alſo there was more than a ſhew of reaſoning; and the promoters of reformation had but an indifferent ground for a defence. They anſwered with the plainneſs and ſimpli⯑city of honeſt men (which was the beſt defence they could make), that they were aſſured their amendments were right on the whole; and that if ſome things were objectionable, theſe too ſhould be amend⯑ed, as ſoon as poſſible.

This was a better anſwer; and more in the ſpirit of reformation, than their replying, as they afterwards did, to the arguments of Wincheſter, by throwing [122]him into priſon. This violent meaſure may well be reckoned among the errors of thoſe times. The archbiſhop indeed does not appear to have had any hand in this affair. It iſſued ſolely from the council; and was intended probably to remove Wincheſter from the parliament, which was then about to be aſſembled. In every light, political or religious, it was a harſh, diſcordant meaſure; and very unworthy of the liberal cauſe, which it was intended to ſerve.

SECT. XIV.

On the fourth of November 1547, about nine months after Henry's death, a parliament was aſſembled; and the lea⯑ders of the proteſtant cauſe hoped to make it the inſtrument of ſtill more eſſential alterations, than any they had yet made. Indeed, the bias of the nation leaned more to this ſide. Such a change ap⯑peared in the opinions of men, ſince the [123]laſt parliament of Henry, that no one could imagine the two aſſemblies were compoſed of the ſame people. In every debate the proteſtant took the lead; and drew over a majority. In that age of novelty, when the general principles of men were unfixed, it was an eaſy matter to perſuade thoſes who were incapable of rational inquiry. The convocation, ani⯑mated by the archbiſhop, ſhewed the ſame ſpirit; and digeſted buſineſs for the par⯑liament. The act of the fix articles was repealed: communion in both kinds was allowed: tradition was diſcredited.: lent was conſidered as a political inſtitution: the liturgy was ordered to be new mo⯑delled; an eaſy catechiſm to be framed; and the canon law to be reformed.

Theſe things however were not all done at this time: but I mention them together, as the principal acts of parlia⯑ment, and of convocation, during this ſhort reign.

In framing the catechiſm, and new mo⯑delling the liturgy, and the canon law, the archbiſhop had the chief hand. The laſt indeed he had attempted in the late [124]reign: but the prevalence of the popiſh party obliged him to leave that uſeful work unfiniſhed. He now undertook it in earneſt and not being ſatisfied with making it an accurate, and judicious per⯑formance, he endeavoured to make it even elegant. Dr. Haddon was eſteemed at that time, the beſt latiniſt in England; and the archbiſhop engaged him to re⯑viſe the language of his performance. Several of Haddon's corrections may yet be ſeen in the original manuſcript; which is ſtill extant in Bennet-college in Cam⯑bridge. Mulierum a partu, is altered into Levatarum puerperarum: and cuicunq hoc proerogativum eſt, into cuicunq hoc pecu⯑liare jus tribuitur, quod proerogativum vo⯑cant.—But ſuch was the fatality attending this uſeful work, that it was prevented taking effect in Edward's, as it had been in Henry's reign: it was not ſufficiently prepared to be brought forward, before that king's immature death.

The archbiſhop endeavoured alſo to con⯑fine the office of confirmation, as much as [125]he could to adults. He ſaw little uſe in adminiſtering it to children. But when people were come to years of diſcretion; and ſeriouſly deſired to renew their bap⯑tiſmal vow, he thought the ſolemnity of ſuch an ordinance, at that time, might make a ſtrong impreſſion.

Some other changes he made of ſmaller import; but ſtill with that admirable cau⯑tion, and prudence, which marked all his proceedings.

His caution however did not paſs wholly uncenſured. Many of his friends con⯑ceived, that he might have taken haſtier ſteps. The zeal of Calvin in particular took offence. That reformer wrote his ſentiments very freely to the archbiſhop; and wiſhed him to puſh matters with a little more ſpirit. He put him in mind of his age, which could not long allow him to continue his uſeful labours; and feared, that on his death, an opportunity would be loſt, which might never be re⯑covered. The archbiſhop anſwered his letter with great kindneſs—reminded him of the many difficulties he had ſtill to oppoſe; and endeavoured to convince him [126]of the great imprudence of leſs cautious meaſures.

While the primate was thus aboliſhing the eſſentials of popery, it may be ſup⯑poſed, he did not ſuffer it's pageantry to paſs unobſerved.

The frequency of proceſſions was be⯑come a great abuſe. Men began to think nothing was religion, but what was an object of fight. This ſhews, how much they have to anſwer for, who introduce needleſs ceremonies into the offices of any religious eſtabliſhment. The minds of the people at the time we are now de⯑ſcribing, faſcinated with pomp, and ſplen⯑dor, ſaw with leſs reluctance the founda⯑tions of popery ſhaken, than the oſtenta⯑tious ceremonies aboliſhed of carrying palms on Palm-Sunday, or aſhes on Aſh-Wedneſday.

Mr. Hume treating theſe alterations with levity, attributes them to the mo⯑roſe humour of the reformers; and inſi⯑nuates, that it is happy when ſuperſti⯑tion, (which is generally with him ano⯑ther [127]word for religion), takes this in⯑offenſive turn.—When Mr. Hume rears the ſtandard of infidelity, and boldly combats the truths of religion, he acts openly, and honeſtly: but when he ſcatters his careleſs inſinuations, as he traverſes the paths of hiſtory, we cha⯑racterize him as a dark, inſidious enemy.

During the debates on theſe ſubjects, a very extraordinary phenomenon appeared in the houſe of lords—the archbiſhop of Canterbury at the head of the popiſh peers, and popiſh biſhops, contending eagerly againſt the whole force of the proteſtant intereſt. The point in diſpute, was the propriety of granting a large parcel of collegiate, and chantry lands to the king's uſe. Had it been intended to employ this grant in any uſeful work, the archbiſhop would readily have given his vote for it: but he knew well what direction it would take; and he wiſhed the lands rather to continue as they were, hoping for better times, than have them fall into the hands of rapacious courtiers. [128]He had the mortiſication however to ſee his opponents prevail.

While this bill was depending in the houſe, the two univerſities, which were clearly comprehended in the letter of it, became very apprehenſive; and made powerful interceſſion at court to avert the danger. Whether the primate intereſted himſelf in their favour on this occaſion, does not appear: it is rather probable that he did, as we find him intereſting himſelf for them on many other occaſions.

They were, at that time, little more, than nurſeries of ſloth, ſuperſtition, and ignorance; and not many degrees raiſed above the monkiſh inſtitutions, which had lately been ſuppreſſed. Many inge⯑nious men, and ſcholars of great repute⯑tion, were among them; but they were yet ſo thinly ſcattered in the ſeveral col⯑leges, as to have little influence in form⯑ing the general character of the univer⯑ſities: and they who wiſhed well to theſe foundations, eaſily ſaw this corruption muſt terminate in their ruin; and deſired [129]to avert it. The archbiſhop always thought himſelf much intereſted in the welfare of both the univerſities, but of Cambridge in particular; and tho he does not appear to have had any legal power there, yet ſuch was his intereſt at court, and ſuch was the general dependence of the more eminent members of that ſociety upon him, that ſcarce any thing was done there, either of a public, or a private nature, without conſulting him. It was his chief endeavour to encourage, as much as poſſible, a ſpirit of inquiry; and to rouſe the ſtudents from the ſlumber of their predeceſſors; well knowing, the libertas philoſophandi was the great mean of detecting error, and that true learning could never be at variance with true reli⯑gion. Aſcham, and Cheke, two of the moſt elegant ſcholars of that age, were chiefly relied on, and conſulted by the archbiſhop in this work.

SECT. XV.

While the primate was acting this great, and good part; and on all occaſions diſcovering the utmoſt mildneſs and can⯑dour; the truth of hiſtory calls on us to acknowledge, that on one unhappy occa⯑ſion, he appeared under a very different character; that of a bigotted perſecutor. It is very true indeed, that he went not voluntarily into this buſineſs; but acted under a commiſſion to inquire into here⯑tical opinions.

When the errors of the church of Rome were ſcrutinized; private judg⯑ment, altho the baſis of all liberal in⯑quiry, gave birth, as might naturally be ſuppoſed, to a variety of ſtrange enthuſi⯑aſtic opinions. Many of theſe were un⯑queſtionably abſurd enough; and ſome of them deſtructive of moral goodneſs: as that, the elect could not ſin—that altho the outward man might tranſgreſs, the in⯑ward [131]man remained immaculate—that the regenerate have a right to what they want; and ſome others, equally deteſta⯑ble.—They were opinions however of a leſs offenſive nature, that drew upon them the archbiſhop's ſeverity.

Joan Bocher, and George Paris were accuſed, tho at different times, one for denying the humanity of Chriſt; the other for denying his divinity. They were both tried, and condemned to the ſtake: and the archbiſhop not only con⯑ſented to theſe acts of blood; but even perſuaded the averſion of the young king into a compliance. "Your majeſty muſt diſtinguiſh (ſaid he, informing his royal pupil's conſcience) between common opinions, and ſuch, as are the eſſential articles of faith. Theſe latter we muſt on no account ſuffer to be oppoſed."

It is true, theſe doctrines, eſpecially the latter, in the opinion of the generality of chriſtians, are ſubverſive of the funda⯑mentals of chriſtianity. To deny the divinity of Chriſt ſeems to oppoſe the general idea, which the ſcriptures hold out of our redemption. On the other [132]hand, many particular paſſages, which deſcribe the humanity of Chriſt, ſeem to favour the doctrine: and ſome there are, who hold it even in this inlightened age. At worſt therefore we muſt conſider it, as an erroneous opinion. To call it hereſy, when attended with a good life, is cer⯑tainly a great breach of chriſtian charity. Is it not then aſtoniſhing, that a man of the archbiſhop's candour could not give it a little more indulgence? If any opinions can demand the ſecular arm, it muſt be ſuch only, as lead to actions, which in⯑jure the peace of ſociety. We are ſur⯑prized alſo at ſeeing the archbiſhop ſo far depreciate his own cauſe, as to ſup⯑poſe that one man incurred guilt by act⯑ing on the ſame principles, which inti⯑tled another to applauſe: and that he who in the opinion of one church, was the greateſt of ſchiſmatics himſelf, ſhould not even in common juſtice indulge, in all the more ſpeculative points of religion, tole⯑ration to others. Nothing even plauſible can be ſuggeſted in defence of the arch⯑biſhop on this occaſion; except only that the ſpirit of popery was not yet wholly repreſſed.

[133]There are however, among proteſtant writers at this day, ſome who have under⯑taken his vindication. But I ſpare their indiſcretion. Let the horrid act be uni⯑verſally diſclaimed. To palliate, is, to participate. With indignation let it be recorded, as what above all other things has diſgraced that religious liberty, which our anceſtors in moſt other reſpects ſo nobly purchaſed.

From this diſagreeable view of the archbiſhop let us endeavour to bring our⯑ſelves again in temper with him, by viewing him as the friend and patron of the diſtreſſed. The ſuſſering profeſſors of proteſtantiſm, who were ſcattered in great numbers about the various countries of Europe, were always ſure of an aſylum with him. His palace at Lambeth might be called a ſeminary of learned men; the greater part of whom perſecution had driven from home. Here among other celebrated reformers, Martyr, Bucer, Aleſs, Phage ſound ſanctuary. Martyr, Bucer, and Phage were liberally penſioned [134]by the archbiſhop, till he could other⯑wiſe provide for them. It was his wiſh to fix them in the two univerſities, where he hoped their great knowledge, and ſpirit of inquiry, would forward his de⯑ſigns of reſtoring learning: and he at length obtained profeſſorſhips for them all. Bucer and Phage, were ſettled at Cam⯑bridge; were they only ſhewed what might have been expected from them, both dying within a few months after their arrival. But at Oxford Martyr acted a very conſpicuous part; and con⯑tributed to introduce among the ſtudents there a very liberal mode of thinking.

Aleſs had been driven from Scotland, his native country, for the novelty of his opinions. The cauſe in which he ſuffer⯑ed, added to his abilities and learning, ſo far recommended him to the univerſity of Leipſic, to which he retired, that he was choſen a profeſſor there. At this place he became acquainted with Melancthon, who having written a treatiſe on ſome part of the controverſy between the papiſts, and proteſtants, was deſirous of conſulting the archbiſhop on a few points; and en⯑gaged [135]Aleſs, otherwiſe not averſe to the employment, to undertake a voyage into England for that purpoſe. In the courſe of the conference, the archbiſhop. was ſo much taken with his ſimplicity, and learning, that he ſettled a penſion on him; and retained him in his family.

The misfortunes of the times drew Alaſco alſo into England, where the archbiſhop became an early patron to him; and ſhewed on this occaſion at leaſt, the candour, and liberality of his ſentiments, by permitting a perſon, who held many opinions very different from his own, to collect his brethren, and ſuch as choſe to communicate with him, into a church. At the head of this little aſſembly Alaſco long preſided; exhibiting an eminent example of piety, and decency of man⯑ners.

Among other learned foreigners John Sleiden was under particular obligations to the archbiſhop. Sleiden was, at that time, engaged in writing the hiſtory of the reformation; a work from which much was expected; and which the arch⯑biſhop, by allowing him a penſion, and [136]opportunities of ſtudy, enabled him to proſecute with leſs difficulty, than had attended the beginning of his labours.

Leland, the firſt Britiſh antiquarian, was alſo among the primate's particular friends. Leland had a wonderful facility in learning languages; and was eſteemed the firſt linguiſt in Europe. The arch⯑biſhop ſoon took notice of him, and with his uſual diſcernment, recommended him to be the king's librarian. His genius threw him on the ſtudy of antiquities; and his opportunities, on thoſe of his own country: the archbiſhop, in the mean time, by procuring preferment for him, enabled him to make thoſe inquiries, to which his countrymen have been ſo much indebted.

Among others, who were under obli⯑gations to the archbiſhop's generoſity, was the amiable biſhop Latimer; who not chooſing to be reinſtated in his old biſhoprick, and having made but an in⯑different proviſion for his future neceſſi⯑ties, ſpent a great part of his latter life with the archbiſhop, at Lambeth.

[137]Beſides this intimacy with learned men at home, the archbiſhop held a conſtant correſpondence with moſt of the learned men in Europe.

The great patron of Eraſmus had been archbiſhop Warham; than whom, to give popery its due, few churchmen of thoſe times led a more apoſtolical life. When Cranmer ſucceeded Warham, Eraſmus was in the decline of age. He found, however, during the ſhort time he lived, as beneficent a friend under the new arch⯑biſhop, as he had loſt in the old one.

The primate correſponded alſo with Oſiander, Melancthon, and Calvin. His foreign correſpondence indeed was ſo large that he appointed a perſon with a ſalary at Canterbury, whoſe chief employment it was, to forward, and receive his packets.

Among the moſt eminent of his corre⯑ſpondents was Herman, archbiſhop and elector of Cologn. This prelate had been early impreſſed with the principles of the reformation by Melancthon; and had uſed all his influence to introduce them in his electorate. But he met with powerful oppoſition; the pope and emperor com⯑bining [138]againſt him, the former in his ſpi⯑ritual, the latter in his temporal capacity. So potent a combination cruſhed him. Terms indeed were offered; but he would hearken to no diſhonourable compromiſe. ‘Nothing, he would ſay, can happen to me unexpectedly: I have long ſince for⯑tiſied my mind againſt every event.’ Inſtead of a ſplendid life therefore, at va⯑riance with his opinions; he choſe a pri⯑vate ſtation; in which he enjoyed the pleaſures of ſtudy; the friendſhip of good men; and the tranquility of a good con⯑ſcience.

SECT. XVI.

In the year 1549, the archbiſhop was engaged in a controverſy of a very ſin⯑gular kind, on the following occaſion.

The diſſolution of monaſteries, having thrown the landed intereſt of the nation, into new hands, introduced alſo a new kind of culture; which at firſt occaſioned [139]a ſcarcity. Mr. Hume, ſpeaking of this matter, with great judgment remarks, ‘that no abuſe in civil ſociety is ſo great, as not to be attended with a variety of beneficial conſequences; and in the be⯑ginnings of reformation, the loſs of theſe advantages is always felt very ſenſibly; while the benefit reſulting from the change, is the ſlow effect of time; and is ſeldom perceived by the bulk of a na⯑tion.’ Thus, on the preſent occaſion, the bad effects of a new mode of culture were experienced, before its advantages took place; and the people expreſſing diſſ⯑atisfaction in all parts, in ſome flamed out into acts of violence. Among other inſurrections, one in Devonſhire was very formidable. The inſurgents felt the effects of famine, but in an age of ignorance they could not trace the cauſe. The diſcon⯑tented prieſts, who ſwarmed about the country, preſently aſſigned one. ‘The famin [...] was a judgment for the abolition of the holy catholic religion; and till that was reſtored, the people muſt not look either for ſeed-time, or harveſt.’

[140]Such language changed riot into en⯑thuſiaſm. The banner of the croſs was reared; and the inſurgents, marking them⯑ſelves with the five wounds of Chriſt, cal⯑led their march, the pilgrimage of grace.

Their firſt attempt was on Exeter, which they ſurrounded with their tumul⯑tuary forces. The town was reduced to extremity; but ſtill reſiſted; encouraged chiefly by a brave old townſman, who bringing all his proviſion into the ſtreet, ‘Here, cried he, my fellow-citizens, take what I have, among you. For my⯑ſelf, I will ſight with one arm, and feed on the other, rather than ſuffer theſe ruffians to enter.’

As the rebels were thus checked by the firmneſs of Exeter, they employed this time of inactivity in ſending petitions and articles to the king, in which they demand⯑ed, the ceremonies of the popiſh worſhip to be reſtored—the new liturgy to be abo⯑liſhed—the uſe of the bible to be forbid⯑den—and, in ſhort, every thing to be undone, that had already been done.

General anſwers were given to theſe demands; but the rebels continuing ſtill [141]unſatisfied, Lord Ruſſel was ſent againſt them with a body of forces. He fell on them, as they lay before Exeter; and gave them a ſevere defeat.

But tho their ſpirit was broken, their prejudices continued. The archbiſhop therefore engaged in the humane part of bringing them to reaſon: hoping that their ſufferings had, by this time, abated the ar⯑dour of their zeal.

The articles of their petitions, relating to religion, which were fifteen in number, the archbiſhop undertook to anſwer. The firſt rough draught of this work, which is of conſiderable length, is ſtill extant in the library of Bennet-college in Cambridge, and is publiſhed by Mr. Strype in his ap⯑pendix to the life of archbiſhop Cranmer. It contains a very extenſive compaſs of learning; and is written with great ſtrength of argument: but its principal recommend⯑dation is, its being ſo admirably adapted to the capacity of thoſe, to whom it was addreſſed. Nothing can ſhew more judg⯑ment or knowledge of the manners of the lower people.—I ſhall give the reader a [142]few paſſages from this very maſterly work, as a ſpecimen.

The rebel articles begin with the phraſe, We will have.

"In the firſt place, ſays the archbiſhop, I diſlike your beginning. Is it the faſhion of ſubjects to ſay to their prince, We will have? Would any of you, that be houſe-holders, be content, that your ſervants ſhould come upon you with harneſs on their backs, and ſwords in their hands, and ſay, We will have?

But leaving your rude, and unhandſome manner of ſpeech, I will come to the point. You ſay you will have all the holy decrees to be obſerved. But I dare ſay, very few, or none of you, underſtand what you aſk. Do you know what the holy decrees be? As holy as they may be cal⯑led, they be indeed ſo wicked, and full of tyranny, that the like were never deviſed. I ſhall rehearſe ſome of them, that you may ſee how holy they be.—One decree ſayth, That all the decrees of the biſhop of Rome ought to be kept as God's word. Ano⯑ther, that whoſoever receiveth not the decrees of the biſhop of Rome, his ſin ſhall never be [143]forgiven. A third, that altho the biſhop of Rome regard neither his own ſalvation, nor any man's elſe, but puts down with himſelf, headlong innumerable people, by heaps, into hell; yet may no mortal man preſume to re⯑prove him therefore. I cannot think that you be ſo far from all godlineſs, as to de⯑ſire decrees, which be ſo blaſphemous to God; and ſo far from all equity and rea⯑ſon. For I dare ſay, that the ſubtle pa⯑piſts when they moved you to ſtand in this article, that all holy decrees ſhould be obſer⯑ved, never ſhewed you theſe decrees: ſor if they had, they knew right well, you would never have conſented to this arti⯑cle.

But now let me ſhew you, what a miſe⯑rable caſe you ſhould bring yourſelves into, if the king's majeſty ſhould aſſent unto this firſt article. For among theſe decrees, one is, that no prieſt ſhall be ſued before a temporal judge for any manner of cauſe or crime; but before his biſhop only. Another is, that a prieſt may ſue a temporal man ei⯑ther before a temporal, or a ſpiritual judge, at his pleaſure. I cannot deny, but theſe be good, and beneficial decrees for the li⯑berty [144]of the clergy. But I ſuppoſe none of you will think it an indifferent decree: that a prieſt ſhall ſue you, where he liſt: but if he had ſlain one of your ſons or bro⯑thers, you could have no remedy againſt him; but only before the biſhop. What mean theſe papiſtical prieſts, think you, that ſtirred you up to aſk ſuch decrees to be obſerved, but craſtily to bring you un⯑der their ſubjection; and that you your⯑ſelves ignorantly aſking ye wiſt not what, ſhould put your heads under their girdles.

Surely, if ye had known theſe decrees, when ye conſented to this article, ye would have torn the article in pieces: for by this article ye would have all the an⯑cient laws of the realm to ceaſe, and thoſe decrees come in their room. Or other⯑wiſe, by your own article ye would con⯑demn yourſelves to be heretics.

How ye be bewitched by theſe falſe pa⯑piſts? Why do ye ſuffer them to abuſe you by their ſubtlety? Why do ye not ſend them to the king, like errant traitors, ſay⯑ing unto him, ‘Moſt mighty prince, we preſent here unto you heinous traitors againſt your majeſty, and great deceivers [145]of us, your true ſubjects. We have erred; and by ignorance have been ſedu⯑ced to aſk, we iſt not what. Have pity on our ignorance; and puniſh theſe abominable raitors.’

What was in your minds to aſk ſuch a thing as this? and ſo preſumptuouſly to fay, We will have it? I truſt there be not in you ſo much malice, and deviliſhneſs, as the article containeth: but that you have been artfully ſuborned by wicked pa⯑piſts to aſk, you know not what.

If you had aſked, that the word of God might be duly obſerved, and kept in this realm, all that be godly Would have com⯑mended you. But as you aſk Romiſh de⯑crees to be obſerved, there is no godly Engliſhman, that will conſent to your ar⯑ticle. But clean contrary, a great number of godly perſons within this realm, for the love of God, be daily humble ſuitors to the king's majeſty, that he will weed out of his realm all popiſh decrees, laws, and canons, and whatſoever elſe is contrary to God's word. And is any of you ſo far from reaſon, as to think he will hearken to you, who ſay, We will have Romiſh laws; [146]and turn his ear from them, who are hum⯑ble ſuitors for God's word?"

From theſe few extracts, which are taken from the archbiſhop's anſwer to the firſt article, the reader may judge, in how admirable a way, he anſwered the remain⯑ing fourteen. The whole work indeed may be a model to thoſe, who wiſh to make themſelves maſters of that mode of reaſoning, which is adapted to the people.

SECT. XVII.

The extenſive correſpondence a⯑broad, in which the archbiſhop was enga⯑ged, and the many applications, he received from all parts, put him, at this time, (about the year 1546) on a ſcheme, which he had greatly at heart—the union of all the proteſtant churches in Europe.

They were all united againſt the preten⯑ſions of the church of Rome: but in no other point, were they perfectly harmo⯑nious. Their wideſt differences however [147]regarded the ſacraments, divine decrees, and church government. On each of theſe heads they held their ſeveral opinions with obſtinacy enough on all ſides.

Of theſe diſſentions the papiſts took the advantage. ‘Let the proteſtants alone, (was the cry:) they will ſoon quarrel with the fame acrimony among them⯑ſelves, which they have already ſhewn towards us: and it will preſently appear; that there can be no criterion of reli⯑gion; nor peace to Chriſtendom, but in the boſom of a mother-church.’

Such ſarcaſtic reflections hurt the arch⯑biſhop; as he conceived they injured reli⯑gion. He earneſtly wiſhed therefore to remove this block of offence; and to give the cauſe he revered, that ſupport, which next to truth, he thought, union alone could give it. How noble would be the coalition, he would fay, if all the mem⯑bers of proteſtantiſm ſhould unite in one mode of church government; and in one confeſſion of faith!

In the ſouthern parts of France, in Hol⯑land, and in Germany, the reformation flouriſhed chiefly under Calvin, Bullenger, [148]and Melancthon. To theſe eminent re⯑formers the archbiſhop applied with much earneſtneſs; intreating them to join their endeavours with his, in forwarding this great ſcheme; and propoſed England as a place, where they might hold their con⯑ſultations with the mod convenience, and the moſt ſecurity. The good archbiſhop wanted the experience of later times to convince him, how great an impoſſibility he attempted. He was not aware, that when private judgment becomes the crite⯑rion, it will ſhew itſelf of courſe in differ⯑ent creeds, in different modes of worſhip, and in different forms of church government; which latter will always take their complexion from the ſtate.—How little could be expected from this interview, Me⯑lancthon's anſwer might early have convinced him. That reformer, in ſtrong language, applauded the primate's intention, and heartily wiſhed it might ſucceed. ‘But, added he, the model you ought to go upon, is certainly that confeſſion of faith, which we ſigned at Auſburgh.’—However liberal that confeſſion might be, [149]there was certainly no liberality in the impoſition of it.

Calvin ſeems to have expected very lit⯑tle from this buſineſs. He anſwers only in general terms. He profeſſes that he would croſs ten ſeas with chearfulneſs for the good of Chriſtendom, or of the church of England alone; but, in the preſent caſe, he pleads his inability; and recom⯑mends the whole buſineſs to the hands of God.—This reformer ſaw deeper into the affair, than our good archbiſhop: he not only ſaw the impracticability of it; but probably thought, with many other learn⯑ed men, that if the thing had even been practicable, it was by no means adviſeable: as different ſects would naturally be a check on each other, and might preſerve the church of Chriſt from thoſe impurities, which the . deſpotiſm of the Roman hierarchy had un⯑queſtionably introduced; and which ano⯑ther deſpotic hierarchy might introduce again.

During the courſe of this projected union, a queſtion aroſe of great importance; [150]and which indeed threw many difficulties in the very veſtible of it. The queſtion was, whether, in drawing up a confeſſion. of faith, definite, or general terms, ſhould be adopted? The primate, with his uſual candour, pleaded for the greateſt latitude. ‘Let us leave the portal, ſaid he, as wide as we can; and exclude none, whom it is in our power to comprehend.’ He was oppoſed in this argument chiefly by Melancthon; who, tho a mild and gentle reformer on moſt occaſions, wrote with too much animoſity on this; making up in zeal, what he wanted in candour.

Here ended the projected union of the proteſtant churches. The troubleſome times, which afterwards broke out in Eng⯑land, put an end to all farther thoughts of the deſign; after the archbiſhop had labour⯑ed in it full two years to no purpoſe.

SECT. XVIII.

But altho the primate's moderation failed of its effect abroad, it had fuller ſcope among the ſectaries at home.

When the bible was firſt opened, after men had ſo long been deprived of it, they were ſatisfied with reading it ſimply, and gathering from it a rule of life and man⯑ners; overlooking queſtions of difficulty in the general comfort derived from its promiſes; and troubling nobody with their particular opinions. This is ever the gol⯑den age of religion. But men ſoon begin to look higher. The vulgar can read their bibles; and learn their duty. The learned muſt do ſomething more. They muſt unravel knotty points: they muſt broach novel-doctrines; which the people muſt be made to receive, as points of impor⯑tance: they muſt contradict, and oppoſe: they muſt ſhew themſelves, in ſhort, to be [152]able champions of religion; and fit to appear at the head of ſectaries.

Much of this ſpirit had already gotten abroad in England; and a variety of cauſes concurred in ſtirring it up. Be⯑ſides the different tenets, which began to appear among the Engliſh proteſtants themſelves; diſguſted papiſts artfully threw in their ſubtleties, and diſtinctions; and a multitude of religioniſts from Ger⯑many, Switzerland, and Holland, led by their paſtors, brought over with them multifarious and contradictory creeds. It was then as common for men to migrate for the fake of religion, as it is now for the fake of trade. In a word, all this maſs, digeſting together, began to fer⯑ment.

If ſectaries (united in leading princi⯑ples, and differing only in a few indiffer⯑ent forms, or ſpeculative points) would keep their opinions to themſelves; their differences, as Calvin ſeemed to think, might ſerve the cauſe of religion, inſtead of injuring it. But the forwardneſs of teachers in impoſing all their own whim⯑ſical dogmas on others, inſtead of keep⯑ing [153]to the great truths of religion, is the grand miſchief. It is this, which diſ⯑tracts the people; who being thus ac⯑cuſtomed to hear a different doctrine every day, begin to think of religion it⯑ſelf, which appears ſo variable an object, with leſs reverence.—Much of this in⯑temperate zeal had at this time poſſeſſed the teachers of religion; and it became very evident, that practical chriſtianity had loft ground; in proportion, as the ſcience of theology was more ſtudied.

To provide for the peace of the church, in oppoſition to this growing evil, the council appointed the archbiſhop to draw up a ſet of articles. The affair was deli⯑cate. The liberty of private judgment being the baſis of the late ſeceſſion from the church of Rome, every reſtraint upon it ſeemed an oppoſition to the leading principle of the reformation. A reſtraint however on the clergy ſeemed to be no breach of liberty. It was only what every church might juſtly impoſe. No⯑thing more therefore was intended on this occaſion, but to draw ſuch a line, as would keep paſtors within the pale of [154]their own congregations; or at leaſt prevent their diſturbing the eſtabliſhed church.

Among the various opinions, which diſtracted men at this time, beſides the tenets of popery, which were yet far from being ſilenced, were thoſe concern⯑ing juſtification, faith, good works, free will, and predeſtination.

The doctrine of ſupererogation, and the ſcandalous ſale of indulgences, had brought good works into ſuch diſcredit, that many well diſpoſed teachers, with a view to oppoſe this evil the more effec⯑tually, laid the chief ſtreſs on faith. The Antinomian paſtors, refining on this, denied the benefit of any works at all. This again gave juſt offence to others; who to rid themſelves of this miſchief, ran into the other extreme; and not con⯑tent with ſhewing the neceſſity of good works, they inculcated their meritorious, and ſufficient efficacy.

Again, on the topics of free will, and predeſtination, the ſame variety of opi⯑nions diſtracted the people. Some teachers left the will at perfect liberty. Others [155]thought it more ſcriptural to allow it only free to ſin; while good works, they conceived, proceeded merely from the grace of God. Others again, and in par⯑ticular a ſect ſtiled the Goſpellers, would admit no qualifying at all in the doctrine of predeſtination; but reſolved all into the abſolute decrees of God.

Amidſt this variety of doctrine, the archbiſhop endeavoured to draw up ſuch a ſet of articles, as would beſt provide for the peace of the church. It was a nice affair, and he thought it prudent on this occaſion, as he had done before on a ſimi⯑lar one, to uſe ſuch moderation, perhaps ſuch well-timed ambiguity, as might give as little offence as poſſible.

Such was the origin of that celebrated teſt of orthodoxy, which is now known by the name of the 39 articles of the church of England. Thoſe framed by the archbiſhop indeed conſiſted of 42: but in all ſucceeding ſettlements of the church, what was now compoſed on this head, was not only made the groundwork; but was, in many parts, almoſt verbatim retained.

[156]In this work it is not known that the archbiſhop had any coadjutor. It is im⯑probable however that a man of his can⯑dour and modeſty would engage in a work of this kind without many conſultations with his friends: and it is commonly ſuppoſed, that Ridley, biſhop of London, was particularly uſeful to him. Ridley was a man of exemplary piety, and learn⯑ing; and what was ſtill more neceſſary in the preſent work, a man of ſound judg⯑ment, and great moderation.

The chief objection, at this time of day, againſt the articles, ſeems to be their treating at all of matters of ſuch myſte⯑rious import. Let us endeavour, to ſettle, as we pleaſe, the doctrines of fore⯑knowledge, predeſtination, and other points, equally abſtruſe; we ſhall find ourſelves, at the cloſe of the argument, only where we began. As theſe deep queſtions however were the chief points debated at that time, the archbiſhop was under a neceſſity of taking notice of them. At this day it is leſs neceſſary; and there⯑fore articles accommodated to the preſent times, would probably be formed on a [157]different plan. Few will think the arti⯑cles thus framed by archbiſhop Cranmer, in the infancy of the church, are compleat, and perfect: tho every candid perſon will ſee many difficulties, that would follow an attempt to make them more ſo. If ſuch an attempt could be ſucceſsfully proſe⯑cuted, no doubt all good men would re⯑joice in it. In the mean time, they will admire the wiſdom, and moderation of that perſon, who framed them, as they are, in the midſt of ſo much prejudice, confuſion, and contrariety of opinion.

One of the moſt offenſive articles, to ſubſcribers in general, is the 17th on pre⯑deſtination and election. But its title is its moſt offenſive part. It is certainly to be wiſhed, that ſuch doctrines had been left untouched; as they ſeem to be matters only of private opinion. But whatever were the archbiſhop's real ſentiments on this ſubject, he ſeems to have been very heſitating, and perhaps intentionally am⯑biguous, in the impoſition of them on others. The ſevere doctrine of reproba⯑tion ſeems to be ſtrongly diſavowed under the pointed terms of a moſt dangerous down⯑fall, [158]leading to deſperation, or unclean living. And how it is poſſible to hold an abſolute election, without mixing with it the doc⯑trine of reprobation, is not eaſy to con⯑ceive. Yet ſtill, as if the article, in the matter of election, had gone too far, it concludes with aſſerting, that we muſt re⯑ceive God's promiſes, in ſuch wiſe as they be generally ſet forth in holy ſcripture. So that, in fact, the article, fairly analyzed, ſeems to aſſert nothing, after all its cir⯑cumlocution, but that the doctrine of re⯑probation is very pernicious; and that as to God's election, and promiſes, whatever may be ſaid about them, we muſt reſolve all at laſt into a belief of what is generally ſaid in ſcripture.

But whatever imperfections the articles may really have; they have been charged with many, which they certainly have not. Of one very great inſtance of diſingenuity I cannot forbear taking notice. It is con⯑tained in a celebrated writer on Engliſh hiſtory, whoſe acrimony on all occaſions, in which religion is concerned, I have al⯑ready remarked. After throwing out many [159]ſevere things againſt the ſpirit of the refor⯑mers at this time, and giving his reader an idea of the articles, which archbiſhop Cranmer now compoſed. ‘Care, ſays he, is taken to inculcate not only, that no heathen, however virtuous, can eſ⯑cape an endleſs ſtate of the moſt exqui⯑ſite miſery; but alſo, that any one who preſumes to maintain, that a pagan can poſſibly be ſaved, is himſelf expoſed to the penalty of eternal perdition^*.’

The article alluded to in this paſſage, he tells us, is the 18th. Now the truth of the matter is, that this article has no⯑thing at all to do with the heathen world, either here, or hereafter. It does not in any ſhape even hint at them. The early reformers moſt probably ſuppoſed, as all charitable chriſtians do now, that the hea⯑then world were as much the objects of God's mercy, as chriſtians themſelves; and that Chriſt, who is called the lamb ſlain, from the foundation of the world, died for their ſins, as well as ours: The article barely aſſerts, that no religion can promiſe [160]ſalvation to mankind, except the chriſtian; which is ſo far from damning pagans, that it virtually implies, Chriſt died for them, as well as for us.

SECT. XIX.

Nor was this good prelate ſo in⯑tirely ingroſſed by his cares for the general welfare of the church, as not to pay a cloſe attention to the particular affairs of his own province. He made himſelf well acquainted with the characters of all the clergy in his diſtrict. His viſitations were not things of courſe; but ſtrict ſcrutinies into the ſtate of miniſters, and their pa⯑riſhes. In diſpoſing of his benefices, he endeavoured, as much as he could, to ſuit the paſtor to his flock. After his death was found, among his papers, a liſt of ſeve⯑ral towns thus indorſed: Memorandum; theſe towns to have learned miniſters. In theſe places, it is probable, he knew the peo⯑ple were more than commonly addicted to [161]popery: or that they had gotten among them ſome popiſh prieſts of more than or⯑dinary ſubtlety, who had miſled them.

He was very exact alſo in the reſidence of the clergy; and granted diſpenſations with caution. He had a ſtrict eye alſo on their doctrine. To ſome he recommended the homilies; and to others proper topics for their diſcourſes.

He himſelf alſo preached often, where⯑ever he viſited. In his ſermons to the people he was very plain and inſtructive; inſiſting chiefly on the eſſentials of chriſ⯑tianity. In his ſermons at court, or on public occaſions, he would declaim, with great freedom and ſpirit, againſt the reigning vices of the times. His idea, however juſt, ſeems to have been, that the lower orders wanted principles more than practice; and the higher, practice more than principles.

Sir Richard Morriſon, a gentleman who had been much employed in embaſ⯑ſies abroad, both under Henry the eighth and Edward the ſixth, gives us this cha⯑racter of the archbiſhop's ſermons, of which he was a frequent auditor. ‘The [162]ſubjects of his ſermons, for the moſt part, were, from whence ſalvation is to be fetched; and on whom the confi⯑dence of man ought to lean. They inſiſted much on doctrines of faith, and works; and taught what the fruits of faith were; and what place was to be given to works. They inſtructed men in the duties they owed their neigh⯑bour; and that every one was our neighbour, to whom we might any way do good. They declared, what men ought to think of themſelves, after they had done all; and laſtly, what promiſes Chriſt hath made; and who they are, to whom he will make them good. Thus he brought in the true preaching of the goſpel, altogether different from the ordinary way of preaching in thoſe days, which was to treat concerning ſaints—to tell legendary tales of them—and to report miracles wrought for the confirmation of tranſubſtantiation and other popiſh corruptions. And ſuch a heat of conviction accompanied his ſer⯑mons, that the people departed from them with minds poſſeſt of a great ha⯑tred [163]of vice; and burning with a deſire of virtue.’

Biſhop Burnet alſo, who had ſeen the greateſt part of a ſermon, which the arch⯑biſhop had preached at court, on a faſt day, in the year 1549, tells us, that ‘it is a very plain, impartial diſcourſe; without any ſhew of learning, or con⯑ceits of wit. He ſeverely expoſtulates, in the name of God, with his hearers for their ill lives, their blaſphemies, adulteries, mutual hatred, oppreſſion, and contempt of the goſpel; and com⯑plains of the ſlackneſs of government in puniſhing theſe ſins; by which it be⯑came, in ſome ſort, guilty of them.’—From this account of the archbiſhop's preaching, it ſeems, that whatever ſpecu⯑lative opinions he might hold, no man could have a juſter idea of the great truths of the goſpel; nor of thoſe topics, on which its miniſters ought chiefly to inſiſt.

Nor did his own dioceſe alone ingroſs his care. His advice was generally taken in filling up vacant fees in his province. [164]He lived, of courſe, harmoniouſly with all his biſhops; and was ſeconded by them in all his ſchemes of reformation. He recommended nothing more ſeriouſly to them, than to examine candidates for holy orders with the greateſt care; and to follow the apoſtle's advice in laying hands ſuddenly on no man.

It was common at that time, when any ſee became vacant, for every courtier to be on the watch to procure ſome rich grant out of its temporalities. The arch⯑biſhop was as watchful on the other ſide; and when any ſcheme of this kind was on foot, he was generally ſucceſsful in tra⯑verſing it.

He was commonly conſulted alſo in the choice of Iriſh biſhops. We have many of his recommendations ſtill extant. ‘The foremoſt, (ſays he, on an occaſion of this kind,) of thoſe, I propoſe, is Mr. Whitebread of Hadley, whom I take, for his good knowledge, ſpecial honeſty, fervent zeal, and polite wiſ⯑dom, to be moſt mete. Next to him Mr. Richard Turner, who beſides that he is witty, and merry withal; (qua⯑lities [165]not unbecoming the gravity of a clergyman, if they be diſcretely uſed) has nothing more at heart than Jeſus Chriſt, and his religion; and in lively preaching of the word declareth ſuch diligence, faithfulneſs, and wiſdom, as for the ſame deſerveth much com⯑mendation. There is alſo one Mr. Whitacre, a man both wiſe, and well learned, chaplain to the biſhop of Win⯑cheſter, very mete for that office; if he might be perſuaded to take it upon him.’

Nor did the good primate confine his cares even to thoſe of his own country: he extended them to the reformers of all nations, French, Dutch, Italians, and Spaniards, who had fled to England on account of religion. To him they all applied for that aſſiſtance, which he rea⯑dily afforded. He was at great pains in forming them into different ſocieties; and in procuring churches and little eſtabliſh⯑ments for them; in which, without any [166]reſtraint, they choſe their own paſtors, and united in their own mode of worſhip.

This kindneſs was afterwards remem⯑bered: and when England became a per⯑ſecuted country, contributed not a little to procure for its refugees, in many places, that generous treatment, which it had once afforded.

SECT. XX.

After a ſucceſsful adminiſtration, the protector Somerſet, unhappily aſſum⯑ing too much conſequence, expoſed him⯑ſelf to an envious party, which had long been collecting againſt him. It was formed under the machinations of the Earl of Warwick, afterwards duke of Northumberland; a man totally unprin⯑cipled; guided only by his ambition; and equally verſed in the arts of attaching a party, and ſupplanting a rival. All the protector's friends, one after another, he drew from him by ſpecious pretences; [167]and when he made his firſt grand move⯑ment in the ſeceſſion to Ely houſe, he had the pleaſure to look round the aſſem⯑bly, and ſee, that ſcarce one man of con⯑ſequence was abſent, except the arch⯑biſhop of Canterbury.

Him no arts of ſeduction could allure. He knew Northumberland's bad deſigns; and Somerſet's honeſt meanings. Each had ambition: but while that of Somerſet was gratified with a few trivial trappings, Northumberland's dark ſchemes threat⯑ened ruin to the empire.

Nor was the primate merely neutral in this affair. He wrote to the ſeditious chiefs at Ely-houſe with ſuch a ſpirit, as ſhook their reſolutions; and would have broken the confederacy, had it been headed by a leſs daring leader, than the duke of Northumberland. It appears from the primate's letter, that he was more intimately acquainted with thoſe ſecret ſprings, which governed their motions, than they could have wiſhed, or ſuppoſed.

But altho the primate's remonſtrance probably checked Northumberland's de⯑ſigns, [168]as his firſt manoeuvres ſeem evi⯑dently marked with irreſolution; yet he gave way only to attack with greater vigour: and, in the end, Somerſet, tho allied to the crown, ſhrouded by the affection of his prince, the favour of the people, and his own innocence, was unable to grapple with the pernicious arts of this ſubtle rival; and was brought to the ſcaffold for the foibles, and inac⯑curacies of his life, which were magnified into crimes.

After the duke of Somerſet's death, the archbiſhop had no weight in public af⯑fairs. Northumberland was as little the patron of religion, as he had hither⯑to been of public peace; and tho he found it convenient to make proteſtantiſm his profeſſion; yet all men knew, that, neither it, nor any ſpecies of religion, had poſſeſſion of his heart.

The archbiſhop and he were never on terms. Often would Cecil ſay, ‘Your grace muſt temporize with this man, or we ſhall do nothing.’ As often [169]would the primate anſwer, ‘He would endeavour to do his utmoſt.’ But the integrity of his heart generally faltered in the attempt.

It was a difficult matter indeed, to keep terms with Northumberland. The arch⯑biſhop had every reaſon to think him as much his own private enemy, as the enemy of the public. The ears of the young king were continually beſet with the duke's inſinuations: and tho Edward was not forward in liſtening to any ſtories againſt the primate; yet enough was ſaid to weaken all the counſels, and defeat all the plans, which he propoſed.

Among the many mortifications, which he met with from Northumberland, it went neareſt his heart to ſee the little care, that was taken in filling vacant fees, and other great benefices of the church. His own recommendations of proper per⯑ſons had little weight; and he was grieved to find all thoſe low intereſts prevailing, which would of courſe introduce great in⯑difference among the miniſters of religion. It was the conſtant endeavour of Nor⯑thumberland to keep the king, as little as [170]poſſible acquainted with buſineſs of every kind; and as much out of the way of thoſe, who were likely to give him infor⯑mation. Among all the old miniſters, none but Cecil had acceſs to the cabinet—Cecil, whoſe courtly arts carried him to the very limits of ſincerity—perhaps ra⯑ther beyond them. With him the arch⯑biſhop intruſted a liſt of ſuch perſons, as he thought moſt proper to ſucceed to any vacancy; and the wary miniſter, by ob⯑ſerving opportunities, obtained prefer⯑ment for many of them.

The laſt affair of a public nature, in which the archbiſhop was engaged, during this ſhort reign, was the excluſion of the princeſs Mary, in favour of Lady Jane Grey. Friend as he was to the reforma⯑tion, he oppoſed this violent meaſure with all his might; and pleaded the oath he had taken in favour of the princeſs. The whole power of Northumberland had no weight with him. The king himſelf, who had been wrought into a thorough conviction of the utility of excluding his [171]ſiſter, aſſailed him with every argument, that tenderneſs, and affection could ſug⯑geſt. The primate's conſtancy at length gave way; and he conſented to hear the matter explained by the judges of the realm. The judges of the realm with great learn⯑ing ſhewed him, that his late oath could not lawfully bind him. The archbiſhop modeſtly profeſſed his ignorance of law; and took a new one: while the friends of his memory wiſh they had any veil to throw over his conduct in this diſcredita⯑ble affair; which became afterwards in⯑deed a ſource of the deepeſt affliction to himſelf.

Northumberland's great plan was now matured. The king, who had thus far been an inſtrument, became, from this time, an incumbrance; and was laid aſide with as little ceremony, as if he had been an actor in a drama. Thus at leaſt run the ſuſpicions of hiſtory.

[172]The king's death was a very ſincere affliction to the archbiſhop, not only as a public calamity; but as a private loſs. The archbiſhop was his godfather, and loved him with a parent's affection; and tho his high ſtation would not allow him to take any part in the prince's educa⯑tion, yet Cheke, and all his other tutors, thought themſelves in ſome degree ac⯑countable to the archbiſhop; and uſed to acquaint him with the progreſs of their royal pupil. We have a letter from Dr. Cox ſtill preſerved; in which he tells the archbiſhop, in the language of the times, ‘that the prince diſcovered great toward⯑neſs, and all honeſt qualities: that he ſhould be taken as a ſingular gift of God: that he read Cato, Vives, and Eſop; and that he conned very plea⯑ſantly.’

Eraſmus's character of him is rather curious. Eraſmus ſeems to have known little more, than that he was a very modeſt boy. But as he was a king like⯑wiſe, the panegyriſt thought it proper to [173]cloath his ſentiment (for he had but one) in great pomp, and variety of expreſſion. ‘Senex, juvenis convictu, factus ſum melior, ac ſobrietatem, temperantiam verecundiam, linguae moderationem, modeſtiam, pudicitiam, integritatem, quam juvenis a ſene diſcere debuerat, a juvene ſenex didici.’

SECT. XXI.

After the death of Edward, which happened in the ſummer of the year 1553, we find the archbiſhop engaged in all the irreſolute meaſures, ſucceeding that pe⯑riod, till the ſettlement of Mary. With the commencement of her reign his troubles began.

When he obſerved the turn, which affairs were likely to take, one of the firſt things he did, was to order his ſteward to pay every farthing that he owed; ſaying, [174] ‘In a ſhort time perhaps we may not be able.’ When the accounts and receipts were brought to him, ‘I thank God, ſaid he, I am now mine own man; and with God's help am able to anſwer all the world, and all wordly adverſities.’

He was firſt aſſaulted, as is uſual, by calumny, and invective. A thouſand ſtories were propagated; which were founded commonly on ſome little known circumſtance, or occurrence; and half the ſtory being true, gave a degree of credit to the other half, which was falſe. Many of theſe reports he ſuffered to die away unnoticed; leaving his life and actions to confute them. But one, which concerned the intereſts of religion, he thought it proper to obviate in a public manner. The affair was this.

Maſs, it ſeems, had been ſaid in the cathedral church of Canterbury by ſome zealous prieſt, immediately on the change of government; and the report ran, that it had been done by the archbiſhop's order: as indeed, before any thing was [175]legally altered, it could not well be ſup⯑poſed otherwiſe. Many people believed it, who were much hurt with it; and the primate was ſurprized to find, with what malicious expedition a ſtory, ſo wholly oppoſite to the character he had ever maintained, could circulate not only among his enemies, but among his friends.

He determined therefore to ſtop it; and immediately drew up, and publiſhed, a declaration, in which he expreſſed his abhorrence of the maſs as a ſpecies of idolatry—and profeſſed his intire appro⯑bation of all the changes, that had been made in the laſt reign. This paper was conſidered, by the advocates for reforma⯑tion, as an inſtance of true chriſtian for⯑titude, well becoming the firſt proteſtant eccleſiaſtic. By worldly men, it was looked on as a piece of indiſcrete, and intemperate zeal^*.

It was however more than the temper of the government could bear. The arch⯑biſhop [176]was called before the Star-chamber, ſeverely queſtioned, and thrown into the Tower. The objected crime was treaſon: but his late bold declaration had, at leaſt, precipitated the meaſure. The parlia⯑ment made no difficulty in attainting him: and indeed his compliance in the affair of Lady Jane was a very juſtifiable founda⯑tion for an attainder.

This was a meaſure, which was little expected by the archbiſhop; and touched him nearer than any thing could have done. If he had ſuffered for his doctrines, he might have had the comfort of a good conſcience; but to ſuffer as an evil-doer, was a mortification he could not bear.

It was true, indeed, that the queen had pardoned many, who were more con⯑cerned in the late ſettlement of the crown in favour of Lady Jane, than he had been. Few indeed, who were at all obnoxious, could be leſs ſo: and his ſervices to Mary, in the time of her father, which were fre⯑quent, and diſintereſted, deſerved ſurely a grateful remembrance. But his remon⯑ſtrances, tho couched in the humbleſt, and moſt penitent language, had for ſome [177]time, no effect. At length however he obtained his pardon; moſt probably be⯑cauſe it was more agreeable to the genius of the government, that he ſhould ſuffer for hereſy, than for treaſon. On the former pretence, he was ſtill confined.

He might however have avoided queſ⯑tion either on one account, or the other; if he could have prevailed with himſelf to leave the kingdom; as many church-men had done. Even after his impriſonment, he might probably have found the means of an eſcape. Some indeed imagined, it was what his greateſt enemies deſired, as the eaſieſt means of getting the diſpoſal of the fee of Canterbury. But, from the beginning, he never would think of flight; and all the perſuaſions and tears of his friends were ineffectual. ‘Had I been in any other ſtation, (he would ſay) ex⯑cept this, in which Providence hath placed me, I ſhould certainly have fled. I approve the flight of others. If we are perſecuted in one city, we are au⯑thorized to fly to another. But I am the only perſon in the kingdom, who cannot do it with decency. I have had [178]the principal hand in all the changes of the laſt reign, and I cannot, without great impropriety, avoid appearing in their defence.’

The gloomy temper of the government, in the mean while, became wholly ap⯑parent. So much violence attended every proceeding, in which religion was con⯑cerned, that it was eaſy to foreſee, no meaſures either of charity, or of decency, would be obſerved. The queen delighted in being called a virgin ſent from heaven to revenge the cauſe of God. Under ſuch a title nothing but bigotry, ſuper⯑ſtition, and all their dire effects, could be expected.

How well Gardiner, who was her chief miniſter, was qualified to correct the ſternneſs of her temper, may be con⯑ceived from an anecdote, ſtill preſerved among the groſs improprieties of thoſe times. His almoner going one day to the Fleet-priſon, then full of proteſtants, with a baſket of bread from the biſhop, forbad the keeper, at his peril, to give [179]one morſel of it to any of the heretics: If you do, added he, ‘my Lord will cer⯑tainly do you ſome ſhrewd turn.’

Rigorous however as Mary was in the affairs of religion, in ſtate matters ſhe was lenient enough. No blood was ſhed, but of thoſe, whoſe offences placed them clearly beyond mercy.

The duke of Northumberland was the firſt victim; than whom no man ever ſuffered more unlamented.

The archbiſhop had the ſatisfaction to hear that his friend Sir Thomas Palmer, died in the proteſtant faith; tho he had been perſuaded, with other ſtate-priſoners, to hear maſs.

Palmer was one of the beſt bred men of the age, in which he lived. To his ac⯑compliſhments, both natural and acquired, he had added the advantages of foreign travel; which was rare in thoſe days. His youth had been ſpent with too much licence; and he had been greatly miſled by the inſidious arts of Northumberland: but in other reſpects he was well eſteemed; [180]and in his latter life eſpecially ſeems to have added the virtues of a chriſtian to the accompliſhments of a gentleman. ‘I have learned more (ſaid he, as he ſtood on the ſcaffold) in a dark corner of the Tower, than in travelling round Eu⯑rope.’ Then walking up to the ax, ſtained with the blood of Northumberland, who had juſt ſuffered, ‘I thank God, ſaid he, I am not afraid to die.’

SECT. XXII.

While this ſcene of blood was acting, the archbiſhop continued in the Tower, ſtill unmoleſted. The lenity of the government towards him, was matter of general ſurprize; as the public com⯑monly ſuppoſed he would have been the firſt victim. But many things remained yet to be adjuſted. The great point how⯑ever was to give a triumph to popery in a public diſputation.

[181]In the year 1553, a convocation met at St. Paul's, by the queen's order, to ſettle the doctrine of the real preſence by a fair, and candid diſquiſition. Weſton, dean of Weſtminſter, was choſen prolocutor. A few articles were propoſed for ſub⯑ſcription: and the diſputation was ad⯑journed to Oxford; where it was in⯑tended, that the three biſhops, Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, ſhould enter the liſts with a ſelect body of popiſh diſ⯑putants.

Theſe fellow-ſufferers were all at that time, confined together in a ſmall apart⯑ment in the Tower. Their ſtraitened accommodations however were amply made up to them by the comfort of each other's company. They carried their bibles with them; and on theſe they em⯑ployed their priſon hours; fortifying their faith, and extracting topics of conſolation. Theſe are the ſcenes, in which we are to look for the triumphs of religion. Where its great principles are firmly rooted in the heart, human joys, and human griefs, and human fears, are trivial things.

[182]The convocation had been adjourned to the end of the year 1553: but the ſe⯑veral members of it did not meet at Oxford, till the following April. There alſo, at the ſame time, the three biſhops were carried by the lord Williams of Thame.

From their treatment, on this occa⯑ſion, it was eaſy to foreſee, what mea⯑ſures, they were likely to expect. They had hitherto been confined, it is true, in a very narrow compaſs; but as the Tower was then crouded with priſoners, better accommodations could not well be allow⯑ed. In other reſpects however they had received marks of attention. What they wanted, had been readily furniſhed; and their own ſervants were ſuffered to attend them.

But as ſoon as this new meaſure took place, they experienced a different treat⯑ment. The little baggage they had, was ſtopped: their ſervants were diſcharged: they were conducted to Oxford with ig⯑nominy; [183]and were thrown into the com⯑mon jail.

The time appointed for the grand diſ⯑putation at length arrived. Delegates from both univerſities joined the mem⯑bers of convocation; and the whole body, to the number of thirty-three, aſſembled at St. Mary's church. There being dreſſed in their academical robes, they ſeated themſelves in great ſtate, around the high altar, and the archbiſhop was ſent for. He was brought into the church by the mayor, and bailiffs, under the guard of a company of billmen. They who had known him in his better days, ſaw him now greatly changed. Inſtead of that glow of health upon his cheek; that briſk, and active ſtep, which ſhewed the vigour of his conſtitution; he was now become, through ill-uſage, and confinement, a pale, infeebled old man. Clad in a plain habit, with a ſtaff in his hand; he came forward through an open⯑ing in the croud, paying the prolocutor, [184]and his aſſeſſors, great reſpect. They offered him a ſeat: but he declined it.

The prolocutor then addreſſed him, on the happineſs of religious unity; and told him, the intention of the preſent meeting was to draw him if poſſible, again to the church. ‘Theſe articles, (ſaid he, hold⯑ing out a paper), were agreed on by con⯑vocation, which, we hope, you will have no objection to ſubſcribe.’

The archbiſhop, receiving the paper, joined the prolocutor in a moſt ardent wiſh for chriſtian unity; when it could be obtained, he ſaid, with a good conſcience.

Having read the articles, which con⯑tained the doctrine of the real preſence, drawn up, according to the determination of the church of Rome; he ſhook his head, and ſaid, he feared that paper would not afford a ſufficient foundation for the religious unity, which all ſo much deſired. He offered however, if the paper were left in his hands, to give a fuller anſwer to it by the next morning. This was permitted. At the ſame time, it was agreed, that each point of differ⯑ence [185]ſhould afterwards be the ſubject of a regular diſputation.

On the next day, which was Sunday, the archbiſhop declared in writing, his ſenſe of the articles; and the Monday following was appointed to diſcuſs the queſtions, on which the two parties dif⯑fered.

I mean not however here to enter into a detail of this diſputation; which was car⯑ried into great length; and at this day would be tedious, unintereſting, and un⯑inſtructive, Neither archbiſhop Cran⯑mer, nor biſhop Ridley, I think, acted with ſo much propriety on this occaſion, as biſhop Latimer. The papiſts, it ſeems, puſhed them with the authority of the fathers; ſome of whom talk of the ſacra⯑ment of the Lord's ſupper in a language, to ſpeak ſlightly of it, uncommonly figu⯑rative. Cranmer and Ridley not caring to deny ſo reſpectable an authority, ſeem to have been at a loſs how to evade it: while Latimer with more chriſtian ſimplicity, rid himſelf of the difficulty at once; ‘I [186]lay no ſtreſs on the fathers, ſaid he, ex⯑cept when they lay a ſtreſs on ſcripture.’

At the cloſe of the diſputation the arch⯑biſhop complained greatly of the ſhortneſs of the time allowed for diſcuſſing a ſub⯑ject of ſuch importance: and wiſhed alſo, that he might be allowed to oppoſe, as well as to anſwer; which was abſolutely neceſſary, he ſaid, in a fair diſcuſſion of a queſtion. But he was not heard on either of theſe points: from which, he obſerved, it evidently appeared, that nothing leſs was intended, than a fair in⯑veſtigation of truth.

But in whatever light the arguments of theſe proteſtant biſhops may appear at this day, their chriſtian fortitude will ever be admired. In their own times it was thought matter of great rejoicing, and chriſtian triumph. Soon after the diſpu⯑tation was over, the three biſhops receiv⯑ed the following ſpirited letter from Dr. Taylor, in the name of all their ſuffering brethren.

On the 20th of April 1554, the arch⯑biſhop was condemned. From that time, a more rigorous treatment, than he had yet experienced, took place. It is ſaid, he was ſcarce allowed the neceſſaries of life; tho it is probable ſuch accounts may be exaggerated. His wants however could not be well anſwered, if we may judge from an anecdote ſtill preſerved; which informs us that he received with great thankfulneſs, a ſmall ſupply of linen, ſent him privately by a friend in London.

[189]On the 11th of November following, a new parliament met; which the prote⯑ſtants of thoſe times ſuppoſed, was made pliant by Spaniſh gold. But there is no occaſion for the ſurmiſe; parliaments in thoſe days had little idea of oppoſing the inclinations of the court.

By this parliament the pope's legate was invited into England: and on his ar⯑rival, the nation was reconciled in form to the holy ſee; the legate abſolving all the perjuries, ſciſms, and hereſies, of which the parliament, and the convocation had been guilty.

After this, religious affairs were modelled. The latin ſervice was reſtored; the uſe of the ſcriptures abrogated; and popiſh prieſts appeared in public with that conſequence, which the government al⯑lowed. Biſhop Ridley, characterizing the times, ſays Papiſmus apud nos ubi (que) in pleno ſuo antiquo robore regnat.

Among other inſtances of popiſh zeal, the archbiſhop was informed, that his book on the ſacrament had been publicly burnt. ‘Ah! ſaid he, they have ho⯑noured it more than it deſerved: I hear [190]they burnt it with the new teſtament.’ And indeed this was the fact: for they burnt at the ſame time, the late tranſlation of the teſtament; on the pretence that it was ſpurious.

The convocation in the mean time pe⯑titioned for a revival of the ſanguinary laws. They had already been anticipated; and ſeveral proteſtants had been put to death, without any colour of juſtice; and when a member of the convocation, with more candour than his brethren, obſerved, that the proceedings againſt theſe people could not be juſtified, ‘Why then, ſaid the prolocutor tauntingly, let their friends ſue for redreſs.’—This par⯑liament however put things on a different eſtabliſhment; and the favourers of per⯑ſecution were now allowed legally to fol⯑low their inclinations.

SECT. XXIII.

While the proteſtant ſufferers were lingering in various priſons, a very unſea⯑ſonable diſpute got footing among ſome of the warmeſt of them, on the arduous ſubject of free-will, and predeſtination. It was carried on with ſuch animoſity, that confeſſions were drawn up on both ſides; and ſigned by numbers, who were at that time even under ſentence of death. Each party clamoured loud, that their antagoniſts were likely to do more harm in the chriſtian world, than the papiſts themſelves; in as much as their opinions were as bad, and their example much better. Nay to ſuch a height of phrenzy did their contentions run, that the keeper of the Marſhalſea was often obliged to ſeparate them.

During the courſe of this ill-timed controverſy, the archbiſhop was applied to, for his countenance, by the predeſti⯑narians, [192]to whoſe tenets he was thought moſt inclined. But the prudent primate diſcountenanced both parties, as much as he could; conſidering, no doubt, ſuch controverſies to be eſpecially ill-judged among dying men.

Nor were the endeavours of others wanting to calm the rage of this offenſive zeal. Many of their more moderate bre⯑thren endeavoured to ſet before them the impropriety of their behaviour: and one of them put the matter in a very ſtrong light: ‘There ſhould be no more bitter⯑neſs, ſaid he, in a chriſtian contro⯑verſy, than in a love letter.’ Philpot, afterwards an eminent martyr, wrote a very pathetic diſſuaſive to them on this ſubject; exhorting them ‘to meet each other with the kiſs of charity—to reach out chearfully the hand of peace—to take up their croſs together, and aſcend mount Calvary with hearts full of be⯑nevolence.’

I give a detail of this ſtrange diſpute, both as a curious anecdote of human na⯑ture, and as a very inſtructive leſſon. If a ſpeculative opinion could faſten with ſo [193]much violence, and produce ſo much animoſity, in the minds of pious men, ſuffering together in one common cauſe, and even in the article, as it were, of death—how cautious ought they to be on polemical ſubjects, who have perhaps leſs piety, who live at their eaſe, and are not tied by any of theſe ſtrong obligations to forbearance.

While the Engliſh proteſtants were thus ſuffering at home, ſuch of them as had the good fortune to eſcape abroad, enjoyed more repoſe. Among the Lu⯑therans indeed they met with ſome unkind treatment. Their liberal tenets, with regard to the Lord's ſupper, were very diſguſting to thoſe reformers, who ſtill maintained the doctrine of tranſubſtantia⯑tion. The leaders however of the Lu⯑theran churches, particularly Melancthon, who was a man of candour and modera⯑tion, brought their hearers to a better temper; and inſtructed the populace at Weſel, and Francford, where this inhoſ⯑pitable diſpoſition chiefly appeared, that [194]altho the Engliſh exiles might differ from them in a few points; they were however embarked with them in the ſame common cauſe of religious liberty; and ought cer⯑tainly to be treated as brethren.

At Baſil, John Fox deſigned, and al⯑moſt finiſhed his Acts and monuments of the church. The induſtry of this man is aſtoniſhing. He was principal corrector to one of the greateſt printing houſes in Europe; that of Operin at Baſil. But notwithſtanding his daily employment, he found leiſure to carry on this vaſt work: and what is ſtill more, tho he was not able to keep a ſervant to do his menial offices, the whole was tranſcribed with his own hand. From a work of this kind, we are not led to expect any elegance: yet they who have examined this writer with moſt accuracy, have ac⯑knowledged, that altho his zeal may have led him into ſome exaggerated accounts, where he relies only on hearſay; yet in all matters, where he appeals to authority, or record, he may be fully depended on.

At Straſburgh, biſhop Jewel laid the plan of his excellent Apology for the church [195]of England; tho he did not finiſh it till happier times—a work, in which its many admirers found it hard to ſay, whether candour, and humanity; or ſenſe, learning, and a well-tempered zeal for religion, were more conſpicuous.

Here too William Turner, phyſician to the protector Somerſet, pubiſhed a work, intitled, A diſpenſatory of ſpiritual phyſic. It was levelled againſt the papiſts; and was written with a ſarcaſtic vein of hu⯑mour; Such ſallies of wit and ridicule, tho rather below the dignity of ſuffering religion, ſerved however to divert the univerſal melancholy, which reigned at that time. Turner publiſhed alſo another work of the ſame kind, which he called, The hunting of the Romiſh fox.

The celebrated Scotch reformer, John Knox, publiſhed alſo, at this time, an exhortation to the people of England, ſuited to their calamitous ſtate. It abounds more with enthuſiaſm, than manly ſenſe. Knox had thus early put in his pretenſions to a prophetic ſpirit, which flowed afterwards in more plentiful effuſions from him.

SECT. XXIV.

A full year had now elapſed, ſince the archbiſhop's diſputation at Oxford, and condemnation for hereſy. During this interval the Spirit of perſecution, with a fiery ſword in one hand, and a croſs in the other, was let looſe in all its terrors. The progreſs however of this violent reign marks only the Almigh⯑ty's ordinary mode of providence. When the chriſtian religion was firſt preached, the malice of its enemies immediately aroſe, as if to try, and prove it; and ſeal its truth by the blood of its martyrs. And now when religion was reſtored, after ſo long an age of darkneſs, the pro⯑vidence of God ſeemed to direct in the ſame manner that it ſhould be purified and proved by perſecution.

Among the numbers, at this time, who died for their religion, were the biſhops of London and Worceſter; who [197]were delivered over to the ſecular arm under a commiſſion from Pole the cardi⯑nal-legate.

As they were carried to the ſtake, they paſſed under the window of the priſon, in which the archbiſhop was confined; and looked up for a parting view. The archbiſhop was engaged at that time, in a conference with a Spaniſh friar; but hearing a tumult in the ſtreet, he came to the window. They were not yet out of ſight. He juſt lifted up his eyes and hands, and ſent after the venerable ſuf⯑ferers, a fervent ejaculation for God's aſſiſtance in this laſt great trial.

More ceremony however was thought neceſſary in the primate's caſe, than had been uſed in theirs. Pole's authority was not ſufficient. A commiſſion there⯑fore was ſent for to Rome.

In virtue of this commiſſion, the arch⯑biſhop was convened before the biſhop of Glouceſter, to whom it was delegated, on the 12th of September, 1555. His books, and opinions; his marriage, and [198]invaſion of the privileges of the ſove⯑reign pontiff, were all ſummarily recapi⯑tulated; and he was cited to appear at Rome in eighty days, and anſwer for himſelf. As he did not appear in that time, he was declared contumacious; and a commiſſion was diſpatched to Eng⯑land, to degrade, and deliver him over to the ſecular arm.

Many of our hiſtorians exclaim loudly at the abſurdity of declaring him con⯑tumacious for not appearing at Rome; when it was well known, that, during the whole time, he was detained a priſoner at Oxford. And, no doubt, the thing bears the face of abſurdity. But it would be endleſs to cenſure, and deride, all the formalities of law, which are pertinaci⯑ouſly retained in every country, after the real uſe hath expired.

The ceremony of his degradation was performed by Thirlby biſhop of Ely.

Thirlby, in Cranmer's better days, had been honoured with his particular friendſhip, and owed him many obliga⯑tions. Beſides thoſe of greater value, in the way of preferment, ‘there was no⯑thing [199]he was maſter of, (we are infor⯑med) which was not at Thirlby's com⯑mand. Jewel, plate, inſtrument, map, horſe, or any thing elſe, tho a preſent from the king, if his friend once took a fancy to it, the generous archbiſhop would immediately give it him. And tho many times the doctor for civility's ſake would inſtantly refuſe it; yet Cranmer would ſend it him the next day by a ſpecial meſſage. Inſomuch that it grew into a proverb, that Dr. Thirlby's commendation of any thing to my lord of Canterbury, was a plain winning or obtaining it.’

As this man therefore had long been ſo much attached to the archbiſhop, it was thought proper by his new friends, that he ſhould give an extraordinary teſt of his zeal. For this reaſon the ceremony of the degradation was committed to him. He had undertaken however too hard a taſk. The mild benevolence of the pri⯑mate, which ſhone forth with great dig⯑nity, tho he ſtood dreſt in all the mock pageantry of canvas robes, ſtruck the old apoſtate to the heart. All the paſt came [200]throbbing into his breaſt; and a few repentant drops began to trickle down the furrows of his aged cheek. The arch⯑biſhop gently exhorted him not to ſuffer his private affections to overpower his public. At length, one by one, the canvas trappings were taken off, amidſt the taunts, and exultations of Bonner, biſhop of London, who was preſent at the ceremony. The archbiſhop made ſome heſitation when they took his cro⯑zier out of his hands; and appealed as others had done, to the next general council.

Thus degraded, he was attired in a plain frieze-gown, the common habit of a yeoman at that time; and had, what was then called, a town's-man's cap, put upon his head. In this garb, he was carried back to priſon; Bonner crying after him, ‘He is now no longer my lord! —He is now no longer my lord!’

Full of that indignation, which public wrongs, not private, inſpired, he wrote a letter from his priſon to the queen; in [201]which he expoſtulated with her for ſink⯑ing the dignity of the crown of England to ſuch a degree, as to have recourſe to foreigners for juſtice on her own ſubjects. He ſhewed her, with great force of rea⯑ſon, the many inconveniences, which aroſe from thus ſubmitting to a foreign yoke; and opened the deſigns of the clergy, who had introduced, he told her, this ſlavery again, with the ſole view of eſtabliſhing themſelves in their ancient independent ſtate. He put her in mind alſo of the oath ſhe had taken to her own kingdom; and of the oath which ſhe had taken to the pope; and begged her to conſider, whether there was not ſome contradiction between them.—He con⯑cluded with telling her, that he thought it his duty to enter his proteſt againſt the deſtructive meaſures, which her govern⯑ment was then purſuing.

This letter was carried to the queen by the bailiffs of Oxford. She immediately put it into the hands of cardinal Pole; with whom ſhe ſeems, on all occaſions, to have left the diſpoſal of her conſcience. Pole in a letter, dated from St. James's, [202]Nov. 6, 1555, anſwered it at full length. His very elaborate diſcourſe on this occa⯑ſion makes the 89th article of Mr. Strype's appendix.

From the time of Cranmer's degrada⯑tion, the behaviour of the popiſh party towards him, was totally changed. Every one, who now approached him, put on an air of civility, and reſpect. Elegant entertainments were made for him. He was invited frequently by the dean of Chriſt-church to parties at bowls; an exerciſe, of which he had always been fond: and no liberty, or indulgence, which he could deſire, was denied. In the midſt of theſe amuſements, he was given to underſtand, that the queen was greatly diſpoſed to ſave him: but that ſhe had often been heard to ſay, ſhe would either have Cranmer a catholic, or no Cranmer at all—that, in ſhort, they were authorized in aſſuring him, that if he would only conform to the preſent changes in religion, he might, if he pleaſed, aſſume his former dignity—or, [203]if he declined that, he might enjoy a liberal penſion in retirement.

Among all the inſtances of diabolical cruelty we ſcarce find a greater than this. The whole rage of the popiſh party ſeemed to be centered againſt this upright man. His ſoul they had damned: his body they were determined to burn; and to com⯑pleat their triumph, they wanted only to blaſt his reputation. With this view, theſe wicked arts were put in practice againſt him; which ſucceeded, alas! too well. Cranmer, who was ſufficiently armed againſt the utmoſt rage and malice of his open enemies, was drawn aſide by the deluſions of his falſe friends. After the confinement of a full year within the melancholy walls of a gloomy priſon, this ſudden return into ſocial commerce diſſipated the firm reſolves of his ſoul. A love of life, which he had now well maſtered, began inſenſibly to grow upon him. A paper was offered him, import⯑ing his aſſent to the tenets of popery; and in an evil hour his better reſolutions giving way, he ſigned the fatal ſnare.

SECT. XXV.

Cranmer's recantation was received by the popiſh party with joy beyond ex⯑preſſion. It was immediately printed and publiſhed; and their cruel work wanting now only its laſt finiſhing ſtroke, a war⯑rant was expedited for his execution, as ſoon as poſſible: while he himſelf was yet kept ignorant of their purpoſe.

Some writers ſay, that the recantation was publiſhed unfairly; and a modern attempt has been made to invalidate that re⯑cantation, which the papiſts ſent abroad^*.

But even on a ſuppoſition this had been the caſe, as, in ſome degree, it probably might, yet a very poor defence can be eſtabliſhed, on this ground. Cranmer certainly ſubſcribed his aſſent to the tenets of popery in general terms: and unleſs the zeal of his friends could rid his memory of that ſtain, it is of little con⯑ſequence [205]to ſay, he did not ſubſcribe them in the detail. A much better apology may be grounded on the weak⯑neſs of human nature. They, who look into themſelves, muſt pity him; and wiſh to throw over him the ſkirts of that tender veil, with which the great Friend of mankind once ſkreened the infirmities of the well-intentioned: the ſpirit was willing, but the fleſh was weak.

But no apology could vindicate him to himſelf. In his own judgment, he was fully convicted. Inſtead of that joy, which gives ſerenity to the dying martyr; his breaſt was a devoted prey to contri⯑tion and woe. A reſcued life afforded him no comfort. He had never till now felt the power of his enemies. Stung with remorſe and horror at what he had done, he conſumed his days, and nights in anguiſh. ‘I have denied the faith: I have pierced myſelf through with many ſarrows;’ were the melancholy notes, which took poſſeſſion of his mind; and rang in his ears a conſtant alarm. Then would recur, in a full tide of compunc⯑tion, the aggravating thoughts—that he, [206]who had been chiefly inſtrumental in bringing in the true faith, ſhould be among thoſe, who had deſerted it—that he, who had been ſo long the leader of others, ſhould now ſet them ſo dreadful an example—and that he, who had always been looked up to with reſpect, ſhould at length be loſt, and abandoned among the herd of apoſtates!

Overwhelmed with grief; and per⯑plexity, whichever way he turned his eyes, he ſaw no ray of comfort left. To perſevere in his recantation, was an in⯑ſupportable thought: to retract it, was ſcarce poſſible. His paper was abroad in the world; and he himſelf was in the hands of men, who could eaſily prevent his publiſhing, or ſpeaking, any thing counter to it; if they ſhould ſuſpect he had ſuch an intention.

He had yet received no intimation of his death; tho it was now the 20th of March; and by the purport of the war⯑rant, he was to be executed the next day.

[207]That evening Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popiſh party, came to him; and from the inſidious, and ambiguous diſcourſe of this perſon, he had the firſt intimation, tho yet no direct one, of what his enemies intended.

After Cole had left him, he ſpent the re⯑maining part of the evening in drawing up a repentant ſpeech, together with a full confeſſion of his apoſtacy; reſolving to take the beſt opportunity to ſpeak or publiſh it; which he ſuppoſed indeed the ſtake would firſt give him. But, beyond his expectation, a better was afforded.

It was intended, that he ſhould be carried immediately from priſon to the ſtake; where a ſermon was to be preached. But the morning of the appointed day being wet, and ſtormy, the ceremony was performed under cover.

About nine o'clock the lord Williams of Thame, attended by the magiſtrates of Oxford, received him at the priſon-gate; and conveyed him to St. Mary's church; where he found a crouded audience wait⯑ing [208]for him.—He was conducted to an elevated place, in public view, oppoſite to the pulpit.

He had ſcarce time to reflect a moment on the dreadful ſcene, which he ſaw pre⯑paring for him, when the vice-chancellor, and heads of houſes, with a numerous train of doctors, and profeſſors, entered the church. Among them was Dr. Cole, who paying his reſpects to the vice-chan⯑cellor, aſcended the pulpit.

Cole was a man of abilities; and was conſidered, according to the mode of thoſe times, as an elegant ſcholar. His diſcourſe indeed ſeems to have been an excellent piece of oratory.

After a proper preface, he ſhewed the reaſons, why it was thought neceſſary to put the unhappy perſon before them to death, notwithſtanding his recantation. On this head he dwelt largely, and ſaid full as much, as ſo bad a cauſe could be ſuppoſed to bear. Then turning to his audience, he very pathetically exhorted them to fear God, and tremble; taking occaſion from the example before their eyes, to remind them of the inſtability of [209]all human things; and of the great duty of holding faſt their profeſſion without wavering. This venerable man, ſaid he, once a peer, a privy-counſellor, an archbiſhop, and the ſecond perſon in the realm, renounced his faith, and is now fallen below the loweſt.

He addreſſed himſelf laſt to the degraded primate himſelf. He condoled with him in his preſent calamitous circumſtances; and exhorted him to ſupport with forti⯑tude his laſt worldly trial.

Cranmer's behaviour, during this diſ⯑courſe, cannot be better deſcribed, than in the words of a perſon preſent; who, tho a papiſt, ſeems to have been a very impartial ſpectator^*.

‘It is doleful, ſays he, to deſcribe his behaviour; his ſorrowful countenance; his heavy cheer; his face bedewed with tears; ſometimes lifting up his eyes to heaven in hope; ſometimes caſting them down to the earth for ſhame. To be brief, he was an image of ſor⯑row. The dolor of his heart burſt out [210]continually at his eyes in guſhes of tears: yet he retained ever a quiet, and grave behaviour; which increaſed the pity in men's hearts, who unfeignedly loved him, hoping it had been his re⯑pentance for his tranſgreſſions.’

The preacher having concluded his ſermon, turned round to the whole au⯑dience; and, with an air of great dignity, deſired all, who were preſent, to join with him in ſilent prayers for the un⯑happy man before them.

A ſolemn ſtillneſs enſued. Every eye, and every hand were inſtantly lifted up to heaven.

Some minutes having been ſpent in this affecting manner, the degraded pri⯑mate, who had fallen alſo on his knees, aroſe in all the dignity of ſorrow; and thus addreſſed his audience.

‘I had myſelf intended to have deſired your prayers. My deſires have been anticipated; and I return you, all that a dying man can give, my ſincereſt thanks.—To your prayers for me, let me add my own.’

[211]He then, with great fervour of devo⯑tion, broke out into this pathetic excla⯑mation.

‘O Father, Son, and Holy Ghoſt, have mercy on me, a miſerable ſinner. I who have offended heaven, and earth more grievouſly, than tongue can ex⯑preſs, whither ſhall I fly for ſuccour?—On earth all refuge fails me. Towards heaven I am aſhamed to lift my eyes.—What ſhall I then do? Shall I de⯑ſpair?—God forbid!—O good God! thou art merciful, and refuſeſt none, who come unto Thee for ſuccour. To Thee therefore I fly. Before Thee I humble myſelf.—My ſins are great: have mercy upon me! O bleſſed Re⯑deemer! who aſſumed not a mortal ſhape for ſmall offences—who died not to atone for venial ſins—Accept a pe⯑nitent heart, tho ſtained with the fouleſt offences. Have mercy upon me, O God! whoſe property is always to have mercy. My ſins are great: but Thy mercy is ſtill greater.—O Lord, for Chriſt's ſake, hear me—hear me moſt gracious God!’

[212]While he thus prayed, the people ſpontaneouſly caught the fervour; and joined audibly with him. The whole ſcene was highly ſolemn, and affecting.

Having concluded his prayer, he roſe from his knees; and taking a paper from his boſom, continued his ſpeech to this effect.

‘It is now, my brethren, no time to diſſemble. I ſtand upon the verge of life—a vaſt eternity is before me.—What my fears are, or what my hopes, it matters not here to unfold. For one action of my life at leaſt I am account⯑able to the world—my late ſhameful ſubſcription to opinions, which are wholly oppoſite to my real ſentiments. Before this congregation I ſolemnly declare, that the fear of death alone induced me to this ignominious action—that it hath coſt me many bitter tears—that in my heart I totally reject the pope, and doctrines of the church of Rome—and that’—

As he was continuing his ſpeech, the whole aſſembly was in an uproar. Lord Williams gave the firſt impulſe to the [213]tumult; crying aloud, ‘Stop the auda⯑cious heretic.’ On which ſeveral prieſts and friars, ruſhing from different parts of the church, with great eagerneſs ſeized him; pulled him from his ſeat; dragged him into the ſtreet; and with much indecent precipitation, hurried him to the ſtake, which was already prepared, Executioners were on the ſpot, who ſecuring him with a chain, piled the faggots in order round him.

As he ſtood thus, with all the horrid apparatus of death about him, amidſt taunts, revilings, and execrations, he alone maintained a diſpaſſionate behaviour. Having now diſcharged his conſcience, his mind grew lighter; and he ſeemed to feel, even in theſe circumſtances, an in⯑ward ſatisfaction, to which he had long been a ſtranger: His countenance was not fixed, as before, in abject: ſorrow, on the ground; he looked round him with eyes full of ſweetneſs, and benignity, as if at peace with all the world.

A torch being put to the pile, he was preſently involved in a burſt of ſmoke, and crackling flame: but on the ſide next [214]the wind, he was diſtinctly ſeen, before the fire reached him, to thruſt his right hand into it, and to hold it there with aſtoniſhing firmneſs; crying out, "This hand hath offended! This hand hath offended!"—When we ſee human nature ſtruggling ſo nobly with ſuch uncommon ſufferings, it is a pleaſing reflection, that, through the aſſiſtance of God, there is a firmneſs in the mind of man, which will ſupport him under trials, in appear⯑ance beyond his ſtrength.

His ſufferings were ſoon over. The fire riſing intenſely around him, and a thick ſmoke involving him, it was ſup⯑poſed, he was preſently dead. ‘His patience in his torment, (ſays the au⯑thor of the letter I have juſt quoted) and his courage in dying, if it had been in teſtimony of the truth, as it was of falshood, I ſhould worthily, have com⯑mended; and have matched it with the ſame of any father of ancient time. Surely his death grieved every one. Some pitied his body tormented by the fire; others pitied his ſoul, loſt with⯑out redemption for ever. His friends [215]ſorrowed for love; his enemies for pity; and ſtrangers through humanity.’

The ſtory of his heart's remaining un⯑conſumed in the midſt of the fire, ſeems to be an inſtance of that credulous zeal, which we have often ſeen lighted at the flames of dying martyrs.

SECT. XXVI.

Such was the end of Thomas Cranmer, archbiſhop of Canterbury, in the 67th year of his age, after he had preſided over the church of England above twenty years.

In whatever point of light we view this extraordinary man, he is equally the object of our admiration.

His induſtry, and attention were aſ⯑toniſhing. When we conſider him as a ſcholar, his learning was ſo profound; and the treatiſes, which he wrote, were ſo numerous, that we cannot conceive he had any time for buſineſs. And yet when [216]we consider the various ſcenes of active life, in which he was engaged—in the council—in the convocation—in the par⯑liament—in his dioceſe—and even in his own houſe, where he had a conſtant re⯑ſort of learned men, or ſuitors; we are ſurprized how he procured time for ſtudy.

He never indeed could have gone through his daily employments, had he not been the beſt oeconomiſt of his time.

He roſe commonly at five o'clock; and continued in his ſtudy till nine: Theſe early hours, he would ſay, were the only hours he could call his own. After breakfaſt he generally ſpent the remainder of the morning either in public, or pri⯑vate buſineſs. His chapel-hour was eleven; and his dinner-hour twelve. After dinner he ſpent an hour either in converſation with his friends; in playing at cheſs; or in, what he liked better, overlooking a cheſs-board. He then re⯑tired again to his ſtudy, till his chapel⯑bell rang at five. After prayers, he ge⯑nerally walked till ſix, which was, in thoſe times, the hour of ſupper. His [217]evening meal was ſparing. Often he eat nothing: and when that was the caſe, it was his uſual cuſtom, as he ſat down to table, to draw on a pair of gloves; which was as much as to ſay, that his hands had nothing to do. After ſupper, he ſpent an hour in walking, and another in his ſtudy, retiring to his bed-chamber about nine.

This was his uſual mode of living, when he was moſt vacant; but very often his afternoons as well as his mornings, were engaged in buſineſs. To this his cheſs-hour after dinner was commonly firſt aſſigned, and the remainder of the afternoon, as the occaſion required. He generally however contrived, if poſſible, even in the buſieſt day, to devote ſome proportion of his time to his books, be⯑ſides the morning. And Mr. Fox tells us, he always accuſtomed himſelf to read, and write in a ſtanding poſture; eſteeming conſtant ſitting very pernicious to a ſtu⯑dious man.

His learning was chiefly confined to his profeſſion. He had applied himſelf in Cambridge to the ſtudy of the Greek [218]and Hebrew languages; which tho eſ⯑teemed at that time as the mark of hereſy, appeared to him the only ſources of at⯑taining a critical knowledge of the ſcrip⯑tures. He had ſo accurately ſtudied ca⯑non-law; that he was eſteemed the beſt canoniſt in England: and his reading in theology was ſo extenſive, and his collec⯑tions from the fathers ſo very voluminous, that there were few points, in which he was not accurately informed; and on which he could not give the opinions of the ſeveral ages of the church from the times of the apoſtles. ‘If I had not ſeen with my own eyes, ſays Peter Martyr, I could not eaſily have believed, with what infinite pains and labour, he had digeſted his great reading into par⯑ticular chapters, under the heads of councils, canons, decrees, &c.’

His parts were ſolid, rather than ſhin⯑ing; and his memory ſuch, that it might be called an index to the books he had read; and the collections he had made.

Henry the eighth had ſuch an opinion of him, as a caſuiſt, that he would often ſay, ‘He could have no difficulty, while [219]Cranmer was at his elbow.’ And indeed we cannot better account for the conſtant regard, which that capricious monarch ſhewed him, than by ſuppoſing, it proceeded from the opinion the king had of the archbiſhop's being ſo uſeful to him. It was not an unuſual thing for Henry to ſend him a caſe of conſcience at night (and Henry's conſcience was very often troubled) deſiring an anſwer the next morning. On ſuch ſlender no⯑tice, we are told, the archbiſhop would often collect the opinions of twenty, or thirty writers on the ſubject; and within the limited time would ſend all the ex⯑tracts, together with his own concluſion on the whole.

Henry, who was deeper in ſchool-divinity, than in any other kind of learn⯑ing, would take great pleaſure alſo in diſputing with the archbiſhop; and not⯑withſtanding the roughneſs of his man⯑ners, would often indulge that ſort of familiarity, which emboldened thoſe a⯑bout him, to uſe freedom with him. The archbiſhop at leaſt was ſeldom under any difficulty on that head; while the [220]king on his part always paid much defer⯑ence to the primate's learning, and abi⯑lities, (tho the primate was the only perſon to whom he did pay any deference) and would ſometimes do it at the expence of thoſe, who thought themſelves on an equality with the moſt learned. The biſhop of Wincheſter in particular the king would ſometimes delight to mortify; and to ſet him on the wrong ſide of a compariſon with the archbiſhop.—We have an inſtance preſerved.

The king once engaged the two pre⯑lates in a diſpute on the authority of the apoſtolical canons; in which he himſelf bore a part. The archbiſhop ſuſtained the negative. As the diſpute proceeded, the king, either ſenſible of the primate's ſuperiority, or affecting to appear ſo, cried out, ‘Come, come, biſhop Win⯑cheſter, we muſt leave him, we muſt leave him: He is too old a truant for either of us.’

He was a ſenſible writer; rather ner⯑vous, than elegant. His writings were entirely confined to the great controverſy, which then ſubſiſted; and contain the [221]whole ſum of the theological learning of thoſe times.

His library was filled with a very noble collection of books; and was open to all men of letters. ‘I meet with authors here, Roger Aſcham would ſay, which the two univerſities cannot furniſh.’

At the archbiſhop's death the greater part of his original MSS. were left at his palace of Ford near Canterbury; where they fell into the hands of his enemies.

In the days of Elizabeth, archbiſhop Parker, who had an intimation, that many of them were ſtill in being, ob⯑tained an order from Lord Burleigh, then ſecretary of ſtate, in the year 1563, to ſearch for them in all ſuſpected places; and recovered a great number of them. They found their way afterwards into ſome of the principal libraries of England; but the greateſt collection of them were depoſited in Bennet-college in Cambridge.

SECT. XXVII.

But the light, in which archbiſhop Cranmer appears to moſt advantage, is in that of a reformer, conclucting the great work of a religious eſtabliſhment; for which he ſeems to have had all the neceſſary qualifications. He was candid, liberal, and open to truth in a great de⯑gree. Many of his opinions he recon⯑ſidered and altered; even in his advanced age. Nor was he ever aſhamed of owning it; which is in effect, he thought, being aſhamed of owning, that a man is wiſer to-day than he was yeſterday. When his old tenets with regard to the Lord's ſupper, were objected to him; he replied with great ſimplicity; ‘I grant that formerly I believed otherwiſe than I do now; and ſo I did, until my lord of London (Dr. Ridley) did confer with me, and by ſundry arguments, and [223]authorities of doctors, draw me quite from my perſuaſion.’

To the opinions of others alſo he was very indulgent. One fact indeed, men⯑tioned in his life, the death of G. Paris is a glaring inſtance of the contrary. Something, no doubt, ſo good a man would have to ſay for himſelf, if we could hear his plea, in vindication of ſo barbarous, and horrid a piece of bigotry: but as the naked fact now ſtands, we can only expreſs our aſtoniſhment, that a ſin⯑gle action ſhould ſo groſly run counter to every other action of his life.

The uncommon caution of his temper likewiſe qualified him greatly as a refor⯑mer. In his converſation he was re⯑markably guarded. ‘Three words of his, ſays Lloyd, could do more, than three hours diſcourſe of others.’ In acting he always felt his ground, as he proceeded; and had the ſingular wiſdom to forbear attempting things, however deſirable, which could not be attained. He rarely admitted any circumſtances into his ſchemes, which ought to have been left out; and as rarely left out any [224]which ought to have been admitted. Hence it was, that he ſo happily accom⯑pliſhed the moſt difficult of all works, that of looſening the prejudices of man⯑kind. Hence it was alſo, that the ground which he took, was ſo firm, as ſcarce to leave any part of the foundation he laid, under the neceſſity of being ſtrengthened.

The ſweetneſs of his manners alſo con⯑tributed not a little to the completion of his deſigns. He was a man of a moſt amiable diſpoſition. His countenance was always inlightened with that chear⯑ful ſmile, that made every body approach him with pleaſure. It is indeed ſur⯑prizing, how much he was beloved, and how few enemies he made, when we conſider that his whole life was a conſtant oppoſition to the opinions and prejudices of the times. Whom he could not per⯑ſuade, he never diſobliged. A harſh meaſure he conſidered only as another name for an imprudent one. When he could not go on ſmoothly, he would re⯑treat a few ſteps; and take other ground, till he perceived the obſtruction was re⯑moved.

[225]The compoſure of his temper was another happy ingredient in his character as a reformer. It was rarely on any oc⯑caſion either raiſed or depreſſed. His features were by no means an index to the times. His moſt intimate friends could form no conjecture from his outward be⯑haviour (which was always flowing with benignity) whether he had met with any thing either in parliament, or in council, to diſturb him.

One can ſcarce on this occaſion avoid a compariſon between him, and his ſucceſſor archbiſhop Laud. Both were good men—both were equally zealous for religion—and both were engaged in the work of reformation.—I mean not to enter into the affair of introducing epiſcopacy in Scotland; nor to throw any favourable light on the eccleſiaſtical views of thoſe times. I am at preſent only conſidering the meaſures which the two archbiſhops took in forwarding their re⯑ſpective plans. While Cranmer purſued his with that caution and temper, which [226]we have juſt been examining; Laud, in the violence of his integrity, (for he was certainly a well-meaning man) making allowances neither for men, nor opinions, was determined to carry all before him. The conſequence was, that he did no⯑thing, which he attempted; while Cran⯑mer did every thing. And it is probable, that if Henry had choſen ſuch an inſtru⯑ment as Laud, he would have miſcarried in his point: while Charles with ſuch a primate as Cranmer, would either have been ſucceſsful in his ſchemes, or at leaſt have avoided the fatal conſequences that enſued.—But I ſpeak of theſe things merely as a politician. Providence, no doubt, over-ruling the ways of men, raiſes up, on all occaſions, ſuch inſtru⯑ments as are moſt proper to carry on its ſchemes; ſometimes by promoting, and ſometimes by defeating, the purpoſes of mankind.

SECT. XXVIII.

Nor was the good archbiſhop leſs formed for a private, than a public ſta⯑tion. While we revere the virtues of the reformer, we admire the miniſter of the goſpel.

His humility was truly apoſtolical. He was averſe to the ſounding titles of the clergy; and when theſe things, among others, were ſettled, he would often ſay, "We might well do without them." A familiar expreſſion of his, on an occa⯑ſion of this kind, was often afterwards remembered. He had ſigned himſelf in ſome public inſtrument, as he was obliged indeed legally to do, by the ſtyle of pri⯑mate of all England. At this the biſhop of Wincheſter took great offence: inti⯑mating, that there was no neceſſity for that innovation; and throwing out a hint, as if it were an encroachment on the king's ſupremacy. ‘God knows, ſaid [228]the archbiſhop, (when he heard of the invidious things, which Wincheſter had ſaid) I value the title of primate, no more than I do the paring of an apple.’ The expreſſion was afterwards often quoted by thoſe, who were diſinclin⯑ed to all dignities in the church; which they would call in contempt the parings of Cranmer's apples.

The placability of his temper was equal to his humility. No man ever poſſeſſed more chriſtian charity. The leaſt ſign of penitence in an enemy reſtored him immediately to favour; and the archbi⯑ſhop was glad of an opportunity of ſhew⯑ing the ſincerity of his reconciliation. This was ſo well known to be a part of his character, that the archbiſhop of York having long, in vain, deſired his concur⯑rence in a buſineſs, to which Cranmer was averſe; ‘Well, my lord, ſaid York, if I cannot have my ſuit in one way, I will in another. I ſhall preſently do your grace ſome ſhrewd turn; and then, I doubt not, but I can manage ſo, as to obtain my requeſt.’

[229]But the archbiſhop's mildneſs and placability never appeared in ſo ſtrong a light, as when contraſted, as they often were, with the vehemence of Henry's paſ⯑ſions.

A perſon of great rank at court, who was the archbiſhop's ſecret enemy, and had oftener than once done him ill offi⯑ces, came to him, one day, to requeſt his intereſt with the king. The primate with great readineſs undertook his cauſe. "Do you know, ſaid the king, ſuprized at his requeſt, for whom you are making ſuit? Are you acquainted with the man's diſpoſilion towards you?" "I always took him, ſaid the archbiſhop, for my friend." "No, replied the king; he is your mortal enemy: and ſo far am I from granting his rcqueſt, that I com⯑mand you, when you ſee him next, to call him knave." The archbiſhop beg⯑ged his majeſty would not oblige him to uſe language ſo little becoming a chriſtian biſhop. But Henry vociferated again, "I command you, I ſay, to call him knave; and tell him that I ordered you." The primate however could not be per⯑ſuaded, [230]by all his majeſty's eloquence, to call the man knave: and the king, tho in great agitation at firſt, was obli⯑ged, at laſt, to give up the matter with a ſmile.

He was a very amiable maſter in his family; and admirably preſerved the difficult medium between indulgence, and reſtraint. He had; according to the cuſtom of the times, a very numerous retinue; among whom the moſt exact order was obſerved. Every week the ſteward of his houſehold held a kind of court in the great hall of his palace, in which all family affairs were ſettled; ſervants wages were paid; complaints were heard; and faults examined. De⯑linquents were publicly rebuked; and after the third admonition diſcharged.

His hoſpitality and charities were great, and noble: equal to his ſtation; greater often than his abilities.

A plentiful table was among the virtues of thoſe days. His was always bounti⯑fully covered. In an upper room was [231]ſpread his own; where he ſeldom wanted company of the firſt diſtinction. Here a great many learned foreigners were daily entertained; and partook of his bounty. In his great hall a long table was plenti⯑fully covered, every day, for gueſts, and ſtrangers of a lower rank; at the upper end of which were three ſmaller tables, deſigned for his own officers; and inferior gentlemen.

The learned Tremellius, who had him⯑ſelf often been an eye-witneſs of the archbiſhop's hoſpitality, gives this cha⯑racter of it: "Archiepiſcopi domus, publi⯑cum erat doctis, et piis omnibus hoſpitium; quod ipſe hoſpes, Mecoenas, et pater, talibus ſemper patere voluit, quoad vixit, aut po⯑tuit; homo [...] nec minus [...]."

We have ſeen his character aſperſed for want of hoſpitality^*. In part the aſper⯑ſion might have ariſen from an attempt he made, with the aſſiſtance of the other biſhops, to regulate the tables of the clergy; which had lately taken an ex⯑penſive turn. This expence was intro⯑duced [232]by the regular clergy, who could not lay aſide the hoſpitable ideas of their monaſteries; tho a country benefice would by no means ſupport them. The regu⯑lations publiſhed on this occaſion, ordered, that ‘an archbiſhop's table ſhould not exceed ſix divers kinds of fleſh; or as many of fiſh, on fiſh-days.—A biſhop's ſhould not exceed five: a dean's four: and none, under that degree, ſhould exceed three. In a ſecond courſe, an archbiſhop was allowed four diſhes—a biſhop three—all others two—as cuſ⯑tards, tarts, fritters, cheeſe, apples and pears. But if any inferior ſhould en⯑tertain a ſuperior, either of the clergy, or laity, he might make proviſion ac⯑cording to the degree of his gueſt. If any archbiſhop, or other eccleſiaſtic, entertained an ambaſſador, his diet need not be limited.—It was farther ordered, that of the greater fiſh, or fowl, as haddoc, pike, tench, cranes, turkies, ſwans, there ſhould only be one in a diſh: of leſs kinds, as capons, phea⯑ſants, wood-cocks, but two. Of the [233]ſtill leſs fowls, an archbiſhop might have three; all under him only two.’

Among other inſtances of the arch⯑biſhop's charity, we have one recorded, which was truly noble. After the de⯑ſtruction of monaſteries, and before hoſ⯑pitals were erected, the nation ſaw no ſpecies of greater miſery, than that of wounded, and diſbanded ſoldiers. For the uſe of ſuch miſerable objects, as were landed on the ſouthern coaſts of the iſland, the archbiſhop fitted up his manor-houſe of Beckeſburn in Kent. He formed it indeed into a compleat hoſpital; appoint⯑ing a phyſician, a ſurgeon, nurſes; and every thing proper, as well for food, as phyſic. Nor did his charity ſtop here. Each man, on his recovery, was furniſhed with money to carry him home, in pro⯑portion to the diſtance of his abode.

To obviate all the cavils of the papiſts againſt archbiſhop Cranmer, would be to enter into the general argument againſt them. His apoſtacy, his marriage, and his opinions, are queſtions all of common [234]controverſy. On the particular miſcar⯑riages of his life I have every where touched as they occurred; and have by no means ſpared them, when they ap⯑peared to deſerve cenſure. The general objection, which ſeems to bear the hea⯑vieſt upon him, is founded on the pliancy of his temper. Saunders, one of the bittereſt of his enemies, ſarcaſtically calls him Henricianus; and his friends indeed find it no eaſy matter to wipe off theſe courtly ſtains. Without queſtion, many inſtances of great condeſcenſion in his character ſtrike us; but a blind ſubmiſſion to the will of princes was probably con⯑sidered among the chriſtian virtues of thoſe days.

On the other hand, when we ſee him ſingly, and frequently, oppoſe the fury of an inflamed tyrant—when we ſee him make that noble ſtand againſt bigotry in the affair of the ſix articles—or when we ſee him the only perſon, who durſt inform a paſſionate, and jealous prince of the in⯑fidelity of a favourite wife, we cannot but allow, there was great firmneſs in his character; and muſt ſuppoſe, that he [235]drew a line in his own conſcience to direct him, in what matters he ought, and in what matters he ought not, to comply with his prince's will.

He left behind him a widow and children; but as he always kept his fa⯑mily in obſcurity, for prudential reaſons, we know little about them. They had been kindly provided for, by Henry the eighth, who without any ſollicitation from the primate himſelf, gave him a conſi⯑derable grant from the abbey of Welbeck in Nottinghamſhire; which his family enjoyed after his deceaſe. King Edward made ſome addition to his private fortune: and his heirs were reſtored in blood by an act of parliament, in the reign of Eliza⯑beth.