reminded the Court of the infamous character of Rich, which was such that no one who knew him would believe him upon oath. Rich, smarting under this well-merited castigation, thereupon called a couple of witnesses, but even they were ashamed to support such vile testimony against such a man, and declared that though they were in the room, they did not attend to the conversation. Foiled in the hope of direct proof of the charge, the slaves in the shape of judges decided that silence was treason, and the other slaves in the shape of jurymen, without even reading the indictment, gave a verdict against the prisoner. Sentence of death was then pronounced upon him, and he rose to address the Court finally. In the rudest manner, they attempted to silence him, and twice, by their clamour, they succeeded; but the firmness of the noble victim at length triumphed, and he told them that he could now openly avow what he had before concealed from every human being, that the oath of supremacy was contrary to all English law. He declared that he had no enmity against his judges. There would, he observed, have always been a scene of contention, and he prayed that as Paul had consented to the death of Stephen, and yet was afterwards called to tread in the same path, and ascend to the same heaven, so might he and they yet meet there. "And so," he added, in conclusion, "may God preserve you all, and especially my lord the king, and send him good counsel."
As he turned from the bar, his son rushed through the hall, fell upon his knees, and implored his blessing; and, on approaching the Tower Wharf, his daughter, Margaret Roper, forced her way through the guard which surrounded him, and, clasping him round the neck, wept and sobbed aloud. The noble man, now clothed with all the calm dignity of the Christian philosopher, summoned fortitude enough to take a loving and a final farewell of her; but as he was moved on, the distracted daughter turned back, and, flying once more through the crowd, hung on his neck in the abandonment of grief. This was too much for his stoicism; he shed tears, whilst with deep emotion he repeated his blessing, and uttered words of Christian consolation. The people and the guards were so deeply affected, that they too burst into tears, and it was some time before the officers could summon resolution to part the father and his child.
On the 6th of July he was summoned to execution, and informed that the king, as an especial favour, had commuted his punishment from hanging, drawing, and quartering. On this Sir Thomas, who had now taken his leave of the world, and met death with the cheerful humour of a man who is well assumed that he is on the threshold of a better, replied with his wonted promptitude of wit, "God preserve all my friends from such favour." As he was about to ascend the scaffold, some one expressed a fear lest it should break down, for it appeared weak. "Mr. Lieutenant," said More, smiling, "see me safe up, and for my coming down, let me shift for myself." The executioner then approached, and asked his forgiveness. More embraced him, and said, "Friend, thou wilt render me the greatest service in the power of any mortal: but," putting an angel into his hand, "my neck is so short, that I fear thou wilt gain little credit in the way of thy profession."
The same fear of the eloquence of the illustrious victim which had attempted to stop his mouth on the trial, now forbade him to address the multitude; he, therefore, contented himself with saying that he died a faithful subject to the king, and a true Catholic before God. He then prayed, and, laying his head upon the block, bade the executioner stay his hand a moment, while he put back his beard. For "that," said he, "has never committed any treason." His head was severed at a single blow, and was, like Fisher's, fixed on London Bridge.
The execution of these two illustrious men, who were celebrated all over Europe—especially Sir Thomas More, for his wit, his genius, his learning, and general character; Fisher being scarcely less so for the solid piety and integrity of his character—produced a sensation of horror throughout every civilised nation, and stamped the King of England as a cruel tyrant, even in that age of tyranny. The only crime of these martyrs' to freedom of opinion was, that they tacitly, not publicly, not daringly, not officiously, refused to believe any absurd or tyrannic doctrine that the Royal egotist pleased to assert. In Rome, where they were regarded as martyrs to the Papal supremacy, the ferment was excessive, and Paul III., the new Pope, was incited to prepare a bill of excommunication against Henry, though his prudence induced him to withhold its publication. The Emperor of Germany and the King of France were less reticent of their expressions of execration. Charles told Eliott, the English ambassador, "If we had been master of such a servant, of whose abilities we ourself have had these many years no small assurance, we would rather have lost the best city in our dominions, than so worthy a counsellor." Francis spoke with still greater asperity to the English ambassador at his Court of these executions, and said, "Why does not your master rather banish offenders than put them to death?"
Henry was highly incensed that even kings should venture to find fault with his arbitrary temper, and sent word that "they had died by due course of law, and were well worthy to have died ten times worse deaths, if they had a thousand lives." But the world took the liberty of judging for themselves, and it saw only in him what he was, a monster of self-will, and a murderer on a throne. The learned men joined the monarchs in a more lasting record of Henry's infamy. Cardinal Pole denounced him, in the most eloquent and vehement writings, as a disgrace to humanity; and Erasmus wrote to his friend Latomus, that the English were now living under such a reign of terror, that they dared not to write to foreigners, nor receive letters from them. Corvinus, in his epistles, says that he had seen the tears of many for the fate of More, who never saw him in their lives, nor were in any way affected by any of his actions.
A full measure of the indignation of the public, both at home and abroad, fell upon the queen, Anne Boleyn, for these measures, as she was deemed the chief cause of the breach with Rome, and this fatal power being conferred on a man so ill calculated to bear it. Though the English were obliged to speak their feelings in whispers, the populace abroad made very free with the Royal butcher of the wise and good, and with his new queen. In the Netherlands cloths were painted with the portraits of Henry, and were sold in the fairs, with "the picture of
