Thomas More: Why Patron of Statesmen? 1498522270, 9781498522274

Citation preview

Thomas More

Thomas More Why Patron of Statesmen? Edited by Travis Curtright

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2015 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Thomas More : why patron of statesmen? / edited by Travis Curtright. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4985-2226-7 (cloth : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-4985-2227-4 (electronic) 1. More, Thomas, Saint, 1478-1535. 2. Political science--Philosophy. 3. Christianity and politics-Catholic Church. 4. Church and state--Catholic Church. I. Curtright, Travis, editor. B785.M84T49 2015 320.092--dc23 2015022729 TM The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Printed in the United States of America

For Mary

“I never intend, God being my good Lord, to pin my soul to another man’s back, not even the best man that I know this day living: for I know not where he may hap to carry it.” Thomas More to his daughter, in prison, August 1534.

Contents

Acknowledgments

xi

Thomas More: Why Patron of Statesmen? Travis Curtright

1

1 Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule Gerard Wegemer 2 Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety: Thomas More’s Response to Lucian’s The Tyrannicide Carson Holloway 3 Images of the Statesman in Utopia James R. Stoner, Jr. 4 Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True: On the Political Tales of Plato’s Critias and More’s Hythlodaeus Jeffrey S. Lehman 5 Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine J. Brian Benestad 6 Faith, Reason, and Order: Thomas More and Natural Law Samuel Gregg 7 Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533 Travis Curtright 8 Thomas More: Patron Saint of Leading Citizens Stephen W. Smith 9 What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong Louis Karlin ix

5

17 37

55 75 95 111 133 155

x

Contents

10 The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy: A Reflection on A Man for All Seasons James V. Schall, S. J.

181

Appendix: Apostolic Letter

197

Bibliography

203

Index

211

About the Contributors

219

Acknowledgments

This collection evolved over the course of several years in hope that the timeliness of its publication would spur interest in Thomas More’s political philosophy and his practice of statesmanship. I am grateful to the contributors for their collaborative, interdisciplinary work and especially for their willingness to investigate early modern political thought with a view towards reinventing or renewing the significance of More in the twenty-first century. Special thanks are due to The Center for Thomas More Studies for its annual conferences and to Gerard Wegemer for his leadership as Director. I thank my own research assistant, Sophia Barrows, for her excellent work in support of my chapter, “Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533.” I am also very grateful to Marc Guerra, who first recognized the need for this collection and encouraged me to begin work upon it. I owe my wife, Mary, my most important debt of gratitude not simply for reviewing the whole of this text and compiling its bibliography but especially for her love and affection.

xi

Thomas More Why Patron of Statesmen? Travis Curtright

The year 2015 marks the fifteenth anniversary of Saint John Paul II’s promulgation of Thomas More as Patron Saint of Statesmen and Politicians. Yet, since the announcement no serious answer has been given by a community of scholars as to why More was named such. 1 What were More’s guiding principles of leadership and in what ways might they remain applicable today? This collection of essays addresses these questions by investigating More through his writings, his political actions, and in recent artistic depictions. Though the use of the English word “statesman” originates only after More’s death, the questions about the “best state of the commonwealth” and how one should manage or serve in public affairs constitute the subject matter of his classic Utopia. 2 In fact, as James R. Stoner, Jr. reminds us, the Latin version of John Paul’s text employs the term gubernator or helmsman, defining More as the patron saint gubernatorum. The Latin term seems an apt choice. As an effective helmsman guides a ship, leaders should navigate the ship of state; both must occasionally and even often sail through tempests. Plato, at least, uses the same image in The Statesman, referring to a “noble steersman.” 3 Such piloting metaphors for leadership More uses often but most famously in Utopia, where he argues in favor of serving kings and, in general, on behalf of engagement in politics. Despite the difficulties involved, “you must not abandon the ship in a storm because you cannot control the winds.” 4 For More, the helmsman needs a comprehensive understanding of the whole—“knowledge of the ship, the sea, the winds, and their own crews; they need sufficient skill in the many arts required for piloting, for gubernans,” which is “the root of our word ‘govern.’” 5 What, then, did More think of as the knowledge necessary for governing? 1

2

Thomas More

Gerard Wegemer and Carson Holloway respond to this question first with essays on the importance of liberty. For Wegemer, More is rightly called a “Christian English Cicero,” who believes in liberty under and in law, both for individuals and society at large. Such a teaching More learns from the Roman republic and resonates with American ideals. More’s concern for liberty, ultimately, illustrates a striking independence of mind because he emphasizes the absolute importance for even kings to govern only with and by the people’s consent. Wegemer’s synoptic analysis ranges throughout More’s canon; Holloway, however, focuses upon a single text, More’s Declamation in Response to Lucian’s The Tyrannicide. Holloway’s More finds tyranny an ever-present threat to liberty, which calls for an intelligent and thorough assessment of the tyrant’s character and the illusory freedoms it privileges. Thus, Holloway details More’s understanding of tyranny, its political ramifications, and touches upon More’s approach to dealing with such rulers, a dangerous game requiring the utmost skill. For both Wegemer and Holloway, whether as an ideal to which More aspires or as principle of political life that he should guard, the essence of rule consists in protecting the true liberty of the people. Utopia, however, remains More’s best known political work and, as in More’s own day, it continues to invite many kinds of readers. So it is that James R. Stoner, Jr. explores images of statesmanship from the characters of More and Morton to the leaders of the island commonwealth of Utopia itself. More’s image of himself as author of the whole, too, suggests a new genre of analysis, that of “literary statesmanship,” whereby More’s Utopia revives political philosophy independent of the theological training of universities of his times. Jeffrey S. Lehman’s essay expands upon that educative purpose of Utopia by distinguishing its sources from those found in Roman rhetoric or by way of Lucianic inspiration. Instead, Lehman understands Utopia as an exercise in dialectics, after the model not necessarily of Plato’s Republic or Laws but of the Timaeus and Critias. In proposing new sources, Lehman shows how the book teaches readers how to weigh competing points of view, thereby imparting or sharpening a reader’s capacity for prudential judgment. Utopia itself becomes not just a work by a statesman but an education for future ones. J. Brian Benestad, finally, addresses how such literary statesmanship offers a paradigm for how Catholic politicians might understand and approach today’s so-called “public square.” Like Lehman, Benestad finds More an advocate of prudence, a virtue which teaches compromise, or what More calls an “indirect method.” More’s argument from book one of Utopia shows how an accommodating approach is necessary for politics, even if that approach differs, Benestad stresses, from the work of evangelization or the witness of martyrdom. More’s political tactics as statesman, in essence, recognize a principle of Catholic social thought, which affirms how no mere

Thomas More

3

structural changes in society may be effective without an interior transformation within leaders and ordinary citizens. Samuel Gregg explores further that distinctly Catholic and civil philosophy of More by overturning conventional belief about More’s relationship to scholastic thought and, in particular, Thomas Aquinas. Especially in More’s disputes with Luther, Gregg shows how More employs Thomistic reasoning in debating the relationship between faith and reason, the character of the will, and in the role of equity in judicial systems. More’s incorporation of Thomas in opposition to reformers, however, iterates his humanist conviction about the civilizing potential of right reason and ongoing belief in a real rather than an imagined sense of freedom. To ignore these aspects of the human condition, in More’s view, undermines any attempt to reform religion or the political order. My own essay shows how More himself leads during a time when Henry VIII threatens to destroy the political order More wishes to retain. Though biographers often find More “retired” from politics in 1533, I believe the spring and summer of this year actually provide a very active and intense picture of More’s exercise of leadership against Henry VIII’s agenda. More’s actions and writings during this period, in fact, reveal a series of stunning countermeasures to the crown. Just as remarkable, More opposes the king while he fashions a defense of himself as a loyal subject. To see how More accomplishes this feat reveals the essence of his own practices as a rhetorician of surpassing brilliance. Stephen W. Smith closes our treatment of More’s life and writings by defining “statesmanship,” or More’s sense of leadership, and its key attributes. Smith begins with More’s sources, especially Plato and Cicero, before suggesting that we should use the term “leading or first citizen” instead of “statesman” to describe how More receives and understands ancient teaching about either the politikos or the princeps. Next, Smith highlights how More connects liberal education, the formation of conscience, and the virtue of integrity to the practices of friendship and civil association. Ultimately, however, courage united with justice is what best defines More as England’s first or leading citizen. The final essays address how most readers today discover More in the literary and artistic depictions of him from Robert Bolt’s A Man For All Seasons and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall: A Novel. In an examination of both texts, Louis Karlin argues that they offer serious reflections on the temptations of political life, ask what it means to practice statesmanship, and question if success in politics requires abandoning virtue. So, too, both are beset by historical errors of fact. Even so, Karlin calls for renewed study of A Man for All Seasons because Bolt writes, in many ways, better than he himself knows. Bolt captures the essence of More’s resistance to Henry in a poetic, persuasive language, which encourages readers and playgoers alike to think

4

Thomas More

critically, even self-critically. In doing so, Bolt’s play parallels some of More’s own artistry, especially Utopia. James V. Schall, S.J., finally, accepts Karlin’s challenge and offers a new reflection on Bolt’s play in light of political philosophy. The presentation of More’s trial is not a question of how religion or philosophy limits the civil order but how the civil order should understand religion or philosophy in regards to the temporal sphere for which it is responsible. Political philosophy, Schall holds, seeks and is open to what is beyond politics, but Bolt’s play questions this position with its dramatization of Machiavellian action, showing how the prince and lo stato may become the highest law, even despite More’s opposition. Bolt’s common man, thus, suggests More’s place in the history of political philosophy: “It isn’t difficult to keep alive, friends—just don’t make trouble—or if you must make trouble, make the sort of trouble that’s expected.” 6 For Schall, More’s political philosophy becomes the sort of trouble that is not expected. In his execution, More upholds the transcendent order from within the political one. NOTES 1. Scholarly focus upon More and statesmanship is rare but Catholic lay people and politicians still look to him as an example. Mario M. Cuomo, “A Personal Appreciation” in Interpreting Thomas More’s Utopia, ed. John C. Olin (New York: Fordham University Press, 1989), 5, writes: “Let me confide to you that in the last few years I have come to a much greater appreciation of the kinds of temptations that Thomas More must have contended with . . . I have more need of his counsel now than I ever imagined I would when I first turned to him.” The most recent and full study was Gerard B. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996). For a review of recent More scholarship, see my The One Thomas More (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 1-14. 2. On best state of a commonwealth, see the title page of Thomas More, Utopia, ed. Edward Surtz and J. H. Hexter, vol. 4, The Yale Edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965), which reads: De optimo reipublicae statu deque nova insula Utopia. 3. Plato’s The Statesman, trans. C. J. Rowe, in Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1997), 297e. 4. More, Utopia, 98/27–28. 5. Gerard Wegemer, Young Thomas More and the Arts of Liberty (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 20. 6. Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons (New York: Random House, 1960), 162–63.

Chapter One

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule Gerard Wegemer

“The world has never had a good definition of the word liberty,” Abraham Lincoln wrote in April 1864, “and the American people, just now are much in want of one.” With some people, Lincoln went on to say, “the word liberty may mean for each man to do as he pleases”; therefore, “the shepherd drives the wolf from the sheep’s throat, for which the sheep thanks the shepherd as a liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty. . . . Plainly the sheep and the wolf are not agreed upon a definition of the word liberty. . . .” Although humorous, Lincoln then said with warweariness that the “wolf’s dictionary” would be repudiated in the United States only at the cost of Civil War. 1 “Give me liberty or give me death” 2 expresses most famously the thirst for liberty that is one of the defining characteristics of human nature. Liberty is one essential component of the dynamic inner structure of what makes a person “finally and essentially” a person along with “conscience, truth, [and] responsibility,” all working together to “form a whole”; accordingly, liberty has long been understood as “a faculty of responsible self-determination” 3 and opposed to all forms of slavery, personal and political. Just as individuals can enslave themselves to crippling obsessions or to sins, so one part of society—unchecked, ungoverned—can enslave another. This view of liberty has also been expressed as self-government under law, or “liberty in law” as Cicero wrote in 63 B.C. 4 Liberty in law is represented by the statue Armed Freedom on the U.S. Capitol Building, 5 imitating the goddess Libertas of the ancient Roman Republic, a people unable to “endure slavery” and a nation where, as Cicero states, “the assured possession of the Roman people is

5

6

Chapter 1

liberty.” 6 As we will see, Thomas More was aptly called the “Christian English Cicero” shortly after his death. 7 Liberty without law, More wrote, is “in opposition to the judgment of all learned men, in opposition to the judgment of all good men, in opposition to the public agreement of the whole world” (CW 5, 281) 8 and results in “the most miserable slavery” for the people (CW 5, 415, 277). At the beginning of his literary career, More satirized false notions of liberty that claim “I live as I will.” 9 In his early “Book of Fortune” More posed the issue this way: “[C]hoose what you wish, / Stately Fortune or humble Poverty: / That is to say . . . / . . . bondage or free liberty.” Why? Poverty will nothing take of [Fortune’s] gifts, [and] With merry cheer, looks upon the press [=crowd], And sees how Fortune’s household goes to wreck. Fast by her stands the wise Socrates . . . “I bear,” said [the wise one], “all mine with me about.” Wisdom he meant, not Fortune’s fickle fees. For nothing he counted his that he might lose. 10

In his first published works, More focused upon the qualities of the skilled princeps, Cicero’s term for those good “leading citizens” who alone have the virtues, training, 11 and ingenuity needed to secure a people’s safety and some measure of justice. Law and liberty, of course, do not and cannot exist while a tyrant reigns—as More grippingly dramatized in his earliest literary works. 12 As he expressed in another early work: only in the actual liberty, prosperity, peace, and joy of the people is “revealed the excellence” of the ruler; such a ruler thinks in terms of duty towards his people, not personal advantage; such a ruler is guided by law (the best of reason deliberated in council), not personal will. 13 Duty and law are necessary aspects of liberty and justice for More. In his last work, More explains that “leading citizens” of state and church who “are truly fitting [vere decoros]” to hold their titles of office are those who “have in fact lived up to such honorific names by conscientiously performing their duties [officiis]” (CW 14, 375/1-2). True “leading citizens [principes]” have the “duty [officium] . . . to see that justice [is] done” (371/7–8) and any who “neglects to do what the duty of his office requires” is “like a cowardly ship’s captain who . . . deserts the helm, hides away cowering in some cranny, and abandons the ship to the waves” (265/2–5). The harmony that More envisioned between law, duty freely assumed, and justice is expressed in his masterful “On Two Beggars, One Lame, One Blind,” 14 where he sets forth this harmony in an artful simplicity that figures forth his distinctive understanding of human nature: There can be nothing more helpful than a faithful friend, who by his own readiness to serve assuages your hurts. Two beggars contracted an alliance of firm friendship

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule

7

—a blind man and a lame one. The blind man said to the lame one, “You must ride upon my shoulders.” The latter answered, “You, blind friend, must find your way by means of my eyes.” The love that unites, shuns the castles of proud kings and rules in the humble hut. 15

“Readiness to serve” or duty [officio] 16 arises from one’s role in a free society, especially seen in the free dialogue and invitation characteristic of friendship. This free “love that unites” is known by the “humble” who recognize that all human beings are political by nature, that is, limited and needy of others. In this context law brings about “firm friendship” by clarifying specific “alliances” 17 by contracts. This same view is expressed by Cicero’s On Friendship and On Duties, both showing the inter-connected character of human beings, as More also expressed in his Epigram 112: On the Good King and his People A kingdom in all its parts is like a man; it is held together by love [amor] The king is the head; the people form the other parts. Every citizen the king has he considers a part of his own body (that is why he grieves at the loss of a single one). The people risk themselves to save the king and everyone thinks of him as the head of his own body. 18

This poem, like Cicero’s philosophic works, draws attention to the importance of thinking of oneself in relations to the other members of a body politic by love freely exercised. Cicero points out in On Duties, “as Plato has admirably expressed it, we are not born for ourselves alone, but our country claims a share of our being, and our friends a share.” 19 At the end of his life, More explained at some length the dangers of not recognizing this social, inter-connected dependence that Plato and Cicero showed to be true. For More, false and dangerous expectations of life arise from false understandings of liberty. 20 This danger arises from “my own wrong imagination whereby I beguile myself with an untrue persuasion” (CW 12, 251). We wrongly “reckon as though we might . . . do what we would, but therein we deceive ourselves for what free man is so free that can be suffered to do what[ever] he lists [wants]?” (252). Some of these constraints facing everyone are the “high commandments” of God, “the laws made by men for the quiet and politic government of the people,” and the commands of those who “have authority over us” (252–53). Considering these alone, “every free man . . . shall then find his liberty much less than he took it before” (253). Given human nature, “our fantasy frames us a false opinion by which we deceive ourselves and . . . we take ourselves [to be] far more free than we be” (276). In reality, successful living and successful rule require that one accept and even take on temporary restraints or “short bondage” for the sake of “everlasting liberty” (254, 280). Such self-restraint requires that proper notions and affections have been firmly “fixed and rooted

8

Chapter 1

in the mind” (281) beforehand, having freely used one’s mind for “long and deep meditation” to establish a “habitual, steadfast, and deep-rooted purpose” (294). In order for people “to follow reason and rule themselves thereby,” More explains, “we must hear reason 21 and let it sink into our heart and not cast it out again . . . with pampering in and stuffing up our stomachs with a surfeit of worldly vanities” (296). This freely “forged and fashioned” 22 character ruled by reason and therefore by law 23 depends upon considerable self-knowledge (226–27, 238) that is freely sustained and freely developed (273–76) to assure the clear thinking always needed by the charioteer in governing his horses. 24 Leading citizens, as Cicero explained, must have not only self-rule but also the habitual concern for law, justice, and liberty in serving the common good of all those ruled. Epigram 109 sets forth this same perspective, showing that law is essentially “The Difference between a Tyrant and a Leading Citizen [Princeps].” Without law, the tyrant treats his people as slaves; with law, the “leading citizen” treats his people politically as his fellow “freemen” and personally as his own children: The Difference between a Tyrant and a Leading Citizen [Princeps] 25 The leading citizen who respects the law differs from the cruel tyrant thus: A tyrant rules his people as slaves; a king thinks of his as his own liberos 26 [children/freemen].

Epigram 111 also draws attention to the leading citizen’s characteristic civic concern for all and for liberty. The Good Leading Citizen [Princeps] Is a Father Not a Master 27 The devoted leading citizen [pius princeps] will never lack liberis [children/ freemen]. He is father to the whole realm. Therefore the most successful leading citizen abounds With as many children/freemen as citizens.

This stress on devoted concern for all citizens pervades More’s treatment of the good ruler, as is clear from Epigram 115: On Leading Citizens, Good and Bad What is a good leading citizen? He is a watchdog, guardian of the flock, who by barking keeps the wolves from the sheep. What is the bad ruler? He is the wolf.

In perhaps his best-known formulation, More wrote that the true leading citizen “should be more concerned with the welfare of his people than with his own, just as it is the duty [officium] of the shepherd, insofar as he is a real one, to feed his sheep and not himself.” 28

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule

9

More goes even further than Cicero in stressing that human beings—and especially rulers—have duties for the care not only of friends but even of enemies. Repeatedly quoting Sirach 17:12 (“as the Scripture says, God has given everyone care and charge of his neighbor”), More argues there are circumstances when one “must needs care and take thought not for his friends only but also for his very foes” (CW 12, 202/26–28). Elsewhere More notes that this principle applies “most specially” to rulers, to shepherds of people (CW 13, 21/21–22)—especially because the sheep will perish “all for [the shepherd’s] negligence” (22/3–4). Or as More states elsewhere: this principle “bindeth first” the ruler “to the safeguard of his people [even] with the peril of himself” (CW 6, 415/1–2). In his famous Utopia, More adopts a Ciceronian persona using Cicero’s vocabulary and perspective, and argues that “do[ing] the greatest good to the public’s interest by your advice” is the “most important part of your duty [officio] as it is the duty of every good person.” 29 In the principal book that the character Thomas Morus “echoes . . . almost word for word,” 30 Cicero wrote that “a free people . . . all enjoy equal rights before the law” and that “in defense of liberty, the magnanimous soul should stake everything” (On Duties 1.88, 1.68). More shows, as Cicero did, that the best analogies for liberty as selfgovernment are the well-trained pilot freely choosing the best means to bring his ship safely to port, 31 or the expert actor freely choosing his part and then the most apt gestures and modes of expression for it, 32 or the expert rider freely reining and spurring one’s powerful horse to win the race, 33 or the expert doctor freely choosing the best available means to bring health. 34 More adds the popular biblical and Greek analogy of the expert shepherd outmaneuvering the hungry wolf to protect the sheep. 35 As opposed to the “misused liberty” 36 of one “taking counsel of his desire,” 37 the truly free person heeds the counsel of reason and therefore of those best traditions and past counsels proven by time to serve society’s welfare. 38 These traditions and counsels are usually preserved in customs and laws proved over time and trusted with having the good of the city in mind, and they help determine what Cicero called “duty”: doing what one ought by choosing freely and rationally the best means available for any given situation. Otherwise individuals can become tyrants looking for their own pleasure and will, not citizens building up the health and strength of the body politic. Self-governing citizens educate and equip themselves for liberty in law. That equipment includes: a well-trained and virtuous mind, a clear conscience, proper fear, diligent industry, and a humble vision recognizing all as fallen, fallible, proud, and therefore capable of humble virtue and loyal friendship—as exemplified in More’s ideal citizens, those “wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove.” 39

10

Chapter 1

Throughout his literary works, More used “citizens” or “people” not “subjects.” 40 Why? As he wrote in a letter to Erasmus: the true princeps will “rule over free people” rather than over “subjects, as the term is now used by kings to refer to their people, who are really worse off than slaves” 41 —and only such a leader would know “how to rule a free people [liberis].” 42 As Cicero did for the Romans, More introduced new concepts that in time deepened and changed his country’s self-understanding. More’s most daring innovations were discreetly hidden in his provocative and innovative literature. These innovations all relate to More’s project of bringing the Renaissance to England, that is, of introducing those concepts and terms that would define the emerging modern world: liberty under law in a republic of selfgoverning citizens led by elected “leading citizens” who are masters of law trained not only in equity but also in a view of humanity that respects the proper spheres of church and state law. 43 Quoting Plutarch, More clearly points out that laws are powerless without talented leaders proven by long trials of fire because laws are “just like spiders’ webs; they would hold the weak and the delicate who might be caught in their meshes, but would be torn in pieces by the rich and powerful.” 44 He knew from his long study of history that only trained leaders—forged by “great study and loyal industry”—could enact those laws, preserving and advancing the best reflections of good citizen-legislators as proven over time. More also saw that law and liberty were powerless without the institutional innovations that only “leading citizens” could successfully devise because only they would be trusted enough to convince enough people to try them and because only they would know the particulars of the country’s history to know what innovations to propose. Two examples of ingenious institutions More points out in his History of Richard III are London’s office of Recorder and the medieval church’s custom of sanctuary. The Recorder, serving as “mouth of the city,” is “a mayoral assistant well trained in the laws of his country who prevents any erroneous judgments from being given through ignorance of the laws”; he alone presents new proposals to the London citizens (CW 15, 470). Sanctuary’s reason for coming into existence is equally illuminating and useful, as More explains: “[I]t is when the source of danger is the law itself that one has to resort to a privilege for protection; and . . . it is from this necessity that the custom of sanctuaries arose and grew up” (CW 15 373-75). Two innovations of special importance that More proposed for England were political free speech and term limits allowing rulers to be responsive to the people. As Speaker of the House in 1523, More gave the first defense of free speech recorded in history (and which Henry VIII granted in that parliament but not again). Five years earlier, he published a poem showing that the election of a one-year consul or executive is superior to the “blind chance” of hereditary monarchy (Epigram 198). More also pointed out the importance of

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule

11

independent courts 45 and of parliament’s role as “absolute authority” in England 46 —based on the view that human beings are free and therefore responsible for self-government; 47 he expanded the role of lawyers and began other legal reforms; 48 he also advocated wider access to education especially as seen in More’s practice and defense of women’s education. Erasmus admits to sharing the prejudice of his times against such education—until he met More’s daughters and heard More’s reasoning. 49 More hired the best tutors available in England and abroad to give his daughters a full education in the liberal arts and sciences. Their astronomy tutor from Germany, for example, soon became the King’s royal astronomer, and his daughters studied medicine with the books of the scholar who became the King’s royal physician and who endowed the first chairs of medicine at Cambridge and Oxford. Erasmus marveled that the obvious success of More’s daughters set a new fashion in education. 50 Another striking indication of More’s independence from the fashions of his times is his willingness to write that governors—even kings—rule a free people only with that people’s consent. In his first book of Latin poetry, More published one titled “The Consent of the People Both Bestows and Withdraws Sovereignty.” The rest of the poem reads: “Any one man who has command of many men owes his authority to those whom he commands; he ought to have command not one instant longer than his [people] wish. Why are impotent kings so proud? Because they rule merely on sufferance?” He also quite boldly indicates that the “essence” of rule is “to carry out the laws and to act as their servant,” even for kings. 51 Given this concern that dutiful “leading citizens” rule free people, one wonders less that five widely divergent London playwrights would join forces in praising More during the late years of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, a time filled with concern for renewed civil wars from contested succession. In Sir Thomas More, the hero of the play is praised for his “great . . . study” and “loyal industry” in the service of “forging” the “peace / That shines upon our commonwealth.” Among these five playwrights were the guarded and enigmatic William Shakespeare along with the famous spy who brought Catholics to their death, Anthony Munday. Yet all five give unqualified praise to More for his inventive and humorous prudence, his devoted care to every segment of the city, and his unpretentious marriage of wit and wisdom used to serve the city. The Elizabethan play Sir Thomas More, that never got past Queen Elizabeth’s censors, describes More in this way: This little isle holds not a truer friend Unto the arts . . . He’s great in study; that’s the statist’s [statesman’s] grace That gains more reverence than the outward place. . . . That study is the general watch of England;

12

Chapter 1 In it the prince’s safety and the peace That shines upon our commonwealth are forged By loyal industry . . . 52

More’s great study and loyal industry were, as these lines express, the characteristics of More’s statesmanship ordered to the city’s safety, peace, and welfare. But this play also dramatizes other fruits of More’s life: his innovative work as a lawyer and judge, as a philosopher and poet; More’s attractive personal life shown most by his good humor in his most trying moments, even in dealing with an unjust judge, even with rebellious citizens, even on the scaffold. In 2000, John Paul II praised More for his service to freedom in law, quoting that famous passage from Thomas More’s beloved Cicero, “We are servants of the law, so that we might be free.” John Paul went on to say: There are many reasons for proclaiming Thomas More Patron of Statesmen and People in Public Life. Among these is the need felt by the world...for credible role models able to indicate the path of truth at a time in history when difficult challenges and crucial responsibilities are increasing. . . . His profound detachment from honors and wealth, his serene and joyful humility, his balanced knowledge of human nature and of the vanity of success, his certainty of judgment rooted in faith: these all gave him that confident inner strength that sustained him in adversity and in the face of death. 53

During his last year in prison, More repeated often the merry quip that “a man may lose his head and have no harm.” During the last hour of his life, he joked with his jailer, then with his guard, and then with his executioner—his famous “scaffold jokes” that provoked the criticism of Tudor historian Edward Hall who was scandalized that More would end his life with “mocks,” lacking the dignity of his station. Yet that humor also reveals an inner selfgovernance and freedom that can both shock and edify as seen in More’s last words to the fifteen judges who falsely condemned him, judges with whom he had worked for decades. Right after his emotionally-charged trial, More’s immediate response was: I verily trust and shall therefore right heartily pray, that though your lordships have now here in earth been judges to my condemnation, we may yet hereafter in heaven merrily all meet together. 54

How does one maintain such liberty in such storm? In prison and during his trial, More did experience the passions and temptations of Everyman during the last fifteen months of his life. But precisely because he did, in order to remain free and to remain loyal, he tied himself to the law of God and the truths of conscience, not to false imaginations or vain hopes. Until the very last moment of his life, up through his final jokes with his guard and then

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule

13

with his executioner, he continued to work for integrity, an integrity that allowed him to calmly—and even joyfully—say that a man could “lose his head and have no harm.” 55 Reflecting on More’s hard work through “great study and loyal industry” in acquiring a refined perspective of true statesmanship can help us understand that his merry humor, even on the gallows, was not just a sign of contradiction, but a model of cultured civility, human splendor, and culturechanging charity. When Pius XI declared More’s sainthood in 1935, he summed up the impression of many when he said, “What a complete man!” And to use the words of John Paul II in his official Proclamation in 2000 of More as Patron of Statesmen and People in Public Life: “This harmony between the natural and the supernatural is perhaps the element which more than any other defines the personality of this great English statesman: he lived his intense public life with a simple humility marked by good humor, even at the moment of his execution.” For liberty and justice to reign, every society—familial, civic, or professional—must have its own diligent, good-willed, clear-sighted, self-sacrificing “leading citizen” whose integrity of words and good living can persuasively teach the spirit of the laws and the joy of life in ways that inspire and move. As such a leader, More did not lose his perspective; he was not pessimistic; he did not lose his good humor or his ability to witness in the most attractive way to what is true and good—showing the splendor of a good captain who gives not only expert direction to his ship, but also an inspiring example of courage and hope, no matter how dark the skies or how stormy the seas; a splendid example of true integrity, of one who knew how to live, how to work, and how to die—in joy—as “the king’s good servant, and God’s first,” inspiring us even today with his character, his courage, his good cheer, and his love for true liberty. What was the price of that liberty? The “great study and loyal industry” he generously exercised throughout his life to be personally free, to guard his “trust in the truth of God,” and as a consequence, to have the calm and good humor needed for reason and law to govern, piloting his course through the unchartered and dangerous waters that always lie ahead. Perhaps More’s greatest importance is his challenge to us to forge our own souls and our country to be free—and to show us how it can be done, with peace and joy. NOTES 1. Abraham Lincoln, “Address at Sanitry Fair, Baltimore, Maryland,” 18 April 1864, in Lincoln’s Speeches and Writings 1859–1865 (New York: The Library of America, 1989), 589–91.

14

Chapter 1

2. Attributed to Patrick Henry before the American Revolutionary War. Cicero expressed a similar sentiment in 44 B.C.: “In defense of liberty, a great-souled person should stake everything” (De Officiis 1.68). 3. This tradition of governing oneself as a condition for governing others goes back to Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Boethius, Augustine, and Aquinas. Here the quotations are from John Paul II, Be Not Afraid (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984), 100. See Socrates’ argument that the “first duty” of a “free man and a real king” is “to rule oneself, not to be a slave to oneself” (Plato, Alcibiades 122a). 4. Agrarian Law 2.102. All Cicero references are to the Loeb editions. 5. Placed there during Lincoln’s presidency. 6. Cicero makes these statements at Philippic 6.7.19. 7. See Nicholas Harpfield’s Life and Death of Sir Thomas Moore (London: Early English Text Society, 1932), 217 and CW 7, 6/3–6. 8. Here and throughout CW refers to The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963–1997). 9. CW 4, 56/1: “vivo ut volo”—the same idea Cicero criticizes in De Officiis 1.70 referring those wishing to live like kings or philosophers not guided by duty. See also, for example, More’s adjusted translations of Lucian’s Cynic, who lives in a way that he can “do whatever I want, and to live among those whom I want,” and of G. Pico’s Life of Pico della Mirandola, showing another tragic figure governed by a false notion of liberty. 10. TMSB 256 or CW 1, 38–9. Here and throughout TMSB refers to A Thomas More Source Book (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004). 11. This training included education in the law; see Cicero’s De Oratore, for example. 12. See especially More’s Tyrannicide in CW 3.1, 94–127, his History of King Richard III, his Coronation Ode for Henry VIII, and his Latin epigrams on tyranny. 13. CW 3.2, Epigram 19/32, 83, 86–89, 92, 108, but also see the epigrams cited later in this chapter. 14. Epigram 32 in CW 3.2. 15. Vtilius nihil esse potest, quam fidus amicus, / Qui tua damna suo leniat officio. / Foedera contraxere simul mendicus uterque / Cum claudo solidae caecus amicitiae. / Claudo caecus ait, collo gestabere nostro. / Retulit hic, oculis caece regere meis. Alta superborum fugitat penetralia regum, / Inque casa concors paupere regnat amor. 16. Officium has a wide range of meanings from “readiness to serve” to “duty” to “what one has to do to fulfill one’s role.” Cicero explains in De Finibus 3.20 that officium is his translation for the Greek kathēkon (“to be fit, meet, proper”). In his famous De Officiis, he says that “on the discharge of . . . officio depends all that is morally excellent [honestas] and on their neglect all that is morally wrong [turpitudo] in life” (1.4). 17. “foedera contraxere,” both are legal terms; compare with CW 4, 198/4–6. 18. CW 3.2, no. 112: De Bono Rege et Popvulo. Totum est unus homo regnum, idque cohaeret amore. / Rex caput est, populus caetera membra facit. / Rex quot habet ciues (dolet ergo perdere quenquam) / Tot numerat parteis corporis ipse sui. / Exponit populus sese pro rege putatque / Quilibet hunc proprij corporis esse caput. 19. Cicero, De Officiis 1.22. 20. More calls these “fond [=foolish] fantasies”; see, for example, CW 12, 61/18, 154/23, 210/5, 212/18, 219/5, 266/24. 21. “Hearing reason” requires a calm of soul that More places as a major educational priority for his children (see Letter to Gonell, TMSB 198/11–12, 15–16; 199/6–13, 36; 200/ 1–2). For the proper training needed by reason, see CW 6, 131/26–132/16. 22. De Officiis 1.14 (Miller’s translation in the Loeb edition). 23. CW 5, 181, 177 for human law as a work of reason; see Aquinas’ famous definition of law as a “dictate of reason” at Summa Theologica 1–2, 93.3 where Cicero is quoted arguing that justice and law have their source in nature. 24. Thomas More uses this analogy of Plato’s Phaedrus 246a & 253d, in which reason is represented by the horseman and the appetites by the horses, at CW 4, 70/1, 96/6, 242/4; CW 12, 282/23-24; CW 13, 229/12-13; CW 14, 263/11 & 265/1; CW 15, 323/26, 338/3. More’s modifying the image from charioteer to horseman is fully in line with the tradition, especially

Thomas More on Liberty, Law, and Good Rule

15

for a culture no longer using chariots but famous for horsemanship. In that perspective, see also CW 5, 206/22 and its note referring to Erasmus’ Adages 1.2.47 and Pliny’s Epistle 1.8. 25. CW 3.2, no. 109: “QVID INTER TYRANNVM ET PRINCIPEM. / Legitimus immanissimis / Rex hoc tyrannis interest. / Seruos tyrannus quos regit, / Rex liberos putat suos.” 26. Liberos means both “children” and “freemen.” 27. CW 3.2. no. 111: “BONVM PRINCIPEM ESSE PATREM / NON DOMINVM / Princeps pius nunquam carebit liberis. / Totius est regni pater. / Princeps abundat ergo felicissimus, / Tot liberis, quot ciuibus.” 28. CW 4, 94/13–16, but the translation is from Clarence Miller’s edition of Utopia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001): 41. 29. CW 4, 86/8–10. 30. See Quentin Skinner, Visions of Politics: Renaissance Virtues (Cambridge University Press, 2002), 222, where he refers to Morus’ speech in book 1 of Utopia echoing Cicero’s On Duties or De Officiis. 31. More’s most famous use of this metaphor is “You must not abandon the ship in a storm because you cannot control the winds” (CW 4, 99/34–35). One of Cicero’s most famous passages is Epistulae ad Familiares 1.21: “But just as in sailing, it shows nautical skill to run before the wind in a gale, even if you fail thereby to make your port; whereas when you can get there just as well by slanting your tacking, it is sheer folly to court disaster by keeping your original course, rather than change it and still reach your destination; on the same principle in the conduct of state affairs, while we should all have as our one aim and object what I have so repeatedly urged—the maintenance of peace with dignity—it does not follow that we ought always to express ourselves in the same way, though we ought always to have in view the same goal.” More also uses this metaphor at CW 1, 45; CW 3.2, 19/184; CW 12, 6/13, 29/6, 57/ 30–31; CW 14, 265/1–3; CW 15, 476/12. 32. See, for example, Cicero’s De Officiis 1.114 and More’s allusion to it at CW 4, 98/ 12–14. 33. For Cicero see On Duties 1.90, 102–3, and for More: CW 4, 114/25, 96/6; CW 12, 282/ 23; CW 13, 229/12-13; CW 14, 263/11–265/1. 34. Cicero often compares the good ruler to the doctor, but see especially De Officiis 3.22, 32; More uses the same at CW 4, 98/26; CW 6, 261/34; CW 8, 28/22-36; CW 9, 53/27-36; Selected Letters (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961) 5. 35. See CW 3.2, no. 115, CW 4, 94/15–16 , CW 13, 21/33ff, CW 15, 358/25, Hall 2.164. Homer regularly compares the ruler to the “shepherd of the people” as does Plato in Republic, such as 341d, 345c, 440d, 488d and Aristotle in Nicomachean Ethics 1161a. See also Ezekiel 34:2 and Jeremiah 23:1. 36. CW 13, 75/5. 37. CW 2, 61/28. 38. TMSB 253–54; see CW 5, 281; CW 6, 142, 262; by contrast: 368-72, 403–5; CW 10, 163-7. 39. More alludes to this quotation from Christ, Matthew 10:16, throughout his writing career, in his Historia Richardi Tertii (CW 2, 6L/12–13 or CW 15, 320/21); Letter to Thomas Ruthall [Prefatory Letter to Lucian Translations] (CW 3.1, 6/11); Utopia (CW 4, 48/9–10); Letter to Bugenhagen (CW 7, 44/29); Letter to a Monk (CW 15, 260/5–6); Confutation of Tyndale (CW 8, 890/3–5); On the Sadness of Christ (CW 14, 617/1). During the last weeks of his life, More writes in the Tower that Christ “wished his followers to be brave and prudent,” not “senseless and foolish” (CW 14, 59/3). 40. The one exception occurs in the English version of The History of King Richard III, where King Edward’s mother scornfully and vigorously opposes Edward’s marriage to a supposedly virtuous “subject” because such a marriage would “befoul” his “sacred majesty”—and would not bring an “increase of his possessions” (CW 2, 62). 41. More’s Selected Letters 80. 42. CW 4, 96/3. Notice that, although Hythlodaeus (“Speaker of Nonsense”) makes these claims, they are contained in More’s masterfully constructed sentence of 926 words. Prudently hiding under cover of this rant by “Speaker of Nonsense,” More freely gives his strong criticisms of the egregious injustices by contemporary rulers.

16

Chapter 1

43. See Young Thomas More and the Arts of Liberty (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 44. CW 12, 225 quoting Plutarch Solon 5.2–3. 45. CW 4, 93; CW 15, 459. 46. CW 15, 320/23. 47. CW 13, 4, 12–4, 21. 48. See John Guy’s Thomas More (London: Oxford University Press, 2000) 136, but also 134–7, 140–3, 218. 49. TMSB 221–26. 50. TMSB 222. 51. CW 15, 484/4-5 and the poems cited in this chapter. 52. TMSB 110: act 3, scene 1 lines 116–17, 120-21, 131–34. 53. Homily of 5 November 2000, section 3, quoting Cicero’s Pro Cluentius 146. 54. From Roper’s Life of More, TMSB 61. 55. See, for example, TMSB 333 (August 1534) and 348 (3 June 1535).

Chapter Two

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety Thomas More’s Response to Lucian’s The Tyrannicide Carson Holloway

Catholics venerate Thomas More as a saint and martyr, but people of all faiths—or no faith at all—admire him as a statesman. Evidence of this widespread admiration emerged from the movement that encouraged John Paul II to proclaim More the “Patron of Statesmen and Politicians.” In the apostolic letter making this proclamation, the pope noted that support for the idea had come from people of “different political, cultural, and religious allegiances,” thus indicating a “deep and widespread interest in the thought and activity of this outstanding statesman.” 1 The existence and success of the celebrated play and film, A Man for All Seasons, also attests to significant non-Catholic admiration for More. The playwright and screenwriter, Robert Bolt, was not himself a Catholic, yet in the introduction to the published version of the play he frankly confessed that he had been moved to write the work by his respect for the firmness of More’s convictions in grappling with the problems of his time. Bolt’s introduction also noted that he found examples of More’s moral seriousness alarmingly lacking among modern men, thus suggesting that, had he lived long enough, Bolt might have approved John Paul II’s proclamation of More as patron of statesmen. At any rate, the continued popularity of the work suggests that not a few readers and viewers have shared Bolt’s admiration for More. 2 While it is good to admire the statesman, such admiration can only bear fruit if it is accompanied by an effort at understanding. Admiration draws the soul toward an example of human excellence; it is felt as a desire to be like the person admired. But that desire cannot be fulfilled without undertaking a 17

18

Chapter 2

careful study of the statesman’s own thought, which alone can reveal a path towards the greatness he achieved. A full understanding of statesmanship, however, requires an understanding of its opposite: tyranny. Here we encounter a paradox: to understand the statesman, the peak of political excellence, we must seek to understand the tyrant, the pit of political depravity. This is clear on general principles. The statesman is not a philosopher or a mystic. Like them, his conduct is informed by his knowledge of and seriousness about the good. Unlike them, however, he cannot rest content with gazing upon the supreme good. The statesman is responsible for the well-being of an earthly political community, and so he must concern himself with the deficiencies that commonly afflict such communities, even the most grievous deficiencies, and how to deal with them. The statesman is like a physician, but physicians, although they are guided by a concern with health, must also study disease. This connection between statesmanship and tyranny was also evident in Thomas More’s political career. Much of More’s public life was spent serving, and trying to moderate the courses of, King Henry VIII. Henry is commonly thought of as a tyrant; and while there are some who challenge this popular conception, few even of Henry’s defenders would be able to claim that the characterization of him as a tyrant was wholly without foundation. It would seem, then, that a key element of More’s statesmanship while he served at the highest levels—on the King’s council and later as Lord Chancellor—involved grappling with tyranny, trying to correct it or at least limit the scope of its abuses. A full understanding of More’s statesmanship, therefore, requires an inquiry into his understanding of tyranny and how it is to be confronted. For More’s thinking on these questions we may turn to his Declamation in response to Lucian’s The Tyrannicide. Lucian’s work—which More translated from Greek into Latin—presents a fictional court speech in which a citizen claims to deserve the city’s reward, provided for by law, for having killed the tyrant. The argument for this claim, however, involves a certain lawyerly creativity that may have amused an experienced and skilled lawyer like More. According to Lucian’s very brief introduction to the speech, his character had gone to the acropolis to kill the tyrant, but had instead slain his son, leaving his sword in the body. Finding his son dead, the tyrant had then taken the sword and killed himself. So the killer of the son, claiming to have provoked the tyrant’s suicide, presents himself to the city as a tyrannicide and the city’s savior! 3 More was sufficiently struck by the Tyrannicide to write his own Declamation in response to it. More’s short work presents the court speech of a fellow citizen who follows Lucian’s oration and who challenges this supposed tyrannicide’s right to the legal reward. This work is not a treatise on tyranny but instead presents itself as a political speech or legal argument

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

19

directed to a certain concrete (although fictional) situation. Nevertheless, as we shall shortly see, More’s Declamation brings forward in the course of its argument a diagnosis of tyranny and an account of how best to treat it. Before considering More’s argument, however, we may note two simple, even superficial, but nevertheless significant, aspects of the Declamation: its existence and its title. It is in the first place worthy of our notice that the piece was written at all. More was not a scholar or a philosopher but a lawyer and statesman, a busy man of affairs. In this context, it is reasonable to conclude that More, by the very act of writing the Declamation, demonstrated that he thought of tyranny as an important political phenomenon, one worthy of his (limited) time for reflection. The setting of Lucian’s Tyrannicide is ancient and pagan, and More adopts that setting as his own in his response. His references to the “city” and the “gods” suggest forms of political organization and religion no longer dominant in More’s own time. Nevertheless, More evidently thought that the problem of tyranny remained one worthy of his attention, thus implying that it is a danger at all times and all places. This view would seem to find confirmation, moreover, in his more celebrated works. More, after all, wrote a history of Richard III, one that seems to present that King as a tyrant and that can be understood as a study of tyranny. 4 And the first part of More’s Utopia suggests that the European monarchs of More’s time were well-acquainted with, and not at all above using, tools that one might associate with tyranny: wars of acquisition, as well as shady manipulations of currency and law to serve the ruler’s interests. 5 In the second place, More signals by his choice of title that because tyranny is an ever-present problem, those who wield political authority (or those who would instruct them) must try to learn how to respond to it intelligently. Lucian called his piece The Tyrannicide. It is hard to not see some commentary already present in More’s careful choice of title for his own response: Thomas More’s Declamation in Reply to the Lucianic One. 6 Omitting reference to Lucian’s own title, More pointedly refuses to dignify Lucian’s character with the name, “tyrannicide.” To do so would risk, even if only for a moment, appearing to endorse Lucian’s character’s wrongheaded attack on the tyranny under which his city suffered. If the disease of tyranny had died out, we would not need to concern ourselves much with the proper modes of treatment. But since this disease still strikes all too frequently, More reminds us by his title that we should not bestow the name “physician” on people who don’t really know what medicines to use to cure or ameliorate it.

20

Chapter 2

THE NATURE AND ORIGINS OF TYRANNY In the course of responding to the claims of Lucian’s would-be tyrannicide, More brings forward his understanding of the nature of tyranny, an understanding that is broadly consistent with the account of tyranny first offered by classical political philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle. He begins from the simplest and most obvious consideration: that tyranny is rule by one man. Lucian’s character advances two arguments in favor of his claim to be a tyrannicide. He holds that by killing the tyrant’s son he effectively killed the tyrant, whose suicide followed his discovery of his son’s death. Before resorting to that argument, however, he contends that in killing the son he was actually killing a tyrant, since the son was a kind of co-ruler and co-oppressor with his father. The city had suffered under a double tyranny, which the supposed tyrannicide had ended by killing one tyrant directly and the other indirectly. 7 More responds that this argument betrays a misunderstanding of tyranny’s nature. It is not, he suggests to the jury, credible that “one city satisfied two tyrants,” or that they could have “lived in concord within the same walls.” “Whoever asks us to believe that,” he says, has “a very inadequate notion of the nature of tyranny.” 8 Plato, in his Republic, and Aristotle, in his Politics, present the tyrant as a solitary ruler. 9 Following their teaching, More reminds his audience that whoever claims to have killed two tyrants cannot really claim to have killed a tyrant at all. If there were two rulers, the regime was not in fact a tyranny. One might object that this alone is a relatively superficial objection. After all, the difference between one and two rulers does not seem of itself to establish a difference in the quality of the rule. Even Aristotle’s typology of regimes indicates that tyranny is not the only form of rule by one. A king is also a solitary ruler. For Aristotle the moral difference between the two is that a king rules for the good of his subjects, and a tyrant only with a view to his own advantage. Accordingly, one-ness cannot be the essence of tyranny. 10 Nevertheless, More only begins from this superficial observation, linking it to the deeper nature of tyranny. He suggests that the solitary status of the tyrant as ruler is only a visible consequence of the disorder of soul within: a kind of unrestrained desire that cannot brook any limitations, not even those imposed by a partner in crime and rule. “Tyranny,” More says, “is always a violent and fearsome thing. If the son had had power, he would not have endured his father; nor would the father for his part have allowed the son to gain so much power that he could take control.” 11 This raises a question: if tyranny is characterized by unchecked desire, what kind of desire specifically is the root of tyranny? Here More’s account appears generally to follow the ancients, but also to offer an important modification. The inner state of the tyrant is less a theme of Aristotle than of

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

21

Plato, who, in book 9 of the Republic, puts forward a lengthy, detailed, and compelling account of the injustice within the tyrant’s soul, which is the cause of the outward acts of injustice for which he is reviled. According to the Republic, the human soul has three parts: reason, spiritedness, and desire. Reason is the part by which we can know what is good and true. Spiritedness is the seat of anger, self-assertion, and the love of victory and honor. Desire, or the appetitive element, is the part by which the soul craves the pleasures of the body: food, drink, and sex. According to the Republic, there is a hierarchy of dignity among these parts, although it can in practice be undone and an improper hierarchy of power put in its place. Reason is the most distinctly human and best part of the soul. In the healthy, well-ordered, or just human being, reason rules over the desires with the help of the spirited element, ordering the lower elements with a view to the good of the whole soul, and especially the good of reason, which longs for knowledge of the truth. The soul of the tyrant, however, departs drastically from this best arrangement. He is ruled not by his reason but by his desires, the lowest part of his soul, which are insatiable and which lead him to all manner of crime to satisfy their incessantly crying lusts. 12 Parts of More’s account seem at first to follow this Platonic view. He restates Lucian’s character’s claim that the son was more a tyrant than the father, since the former “committed dreadful crimes against the citizens— murder, robbery, rape—in brief, all known forms of crime.” 13 More, as we have seen, denies that there could have been two tyrants, but he does not deny that such crime is characteristic of tyranny. Furthermore, while he denies that Lucian’s speaker really deserves to be credited as a tyrannicide, he admits that a genuine tyrannicide would have merited a great reward. The members of the jury, he suggests, “are not unaware how large the reward for tyrannicide is—and rightly so; for what sum is large enough if it means recovery of fields, homes, fortunes, children, wives, the liberty and safety of all people and finally the very altars and temples of the gods.” 14 Thus does tyranny appear as a kind of universal injustice: the tyrant treats unjustly the city, everyone in it, and everyone associated with it. More worthy of notice for our present purpose, however, are the objects of the tyrant’s desire. More’s account in these passages lays emphasis on bodily or material goods—fields, homes, fortunes—and the gratification of such desires by taking by force what belongs to others—robbery, rape. This is in accord with the Republic’s suggestion that the tyrant is driven to commit injustice against everyone around him by his infinite desires. More speaks of the tyrant as being “impelled by greed.” 15 This, again, calls to mind the role of the bodily desires. The Republic refers to the desiring part of the soul as the moneymaking part since money is ordinarily needed to satisfy the desires of the body. 16

22

Chapter 2

More’s account, however, goes further and suggests a noteworthy departure from the Platonic account of tyranny. Both agree that tyranny involves the rule in the soul of the lower parts that are not in fact worthy to rule. But More lays much more emphasis on the role of spiritedness in tyranny, and goes so far as to suggest that the real root of tyranny is not excessive bodily desire but unrestrained spiritedness. That bodily desire is not the ultimate culprit is suggested by More’s comparison of tyranny among beasts with tyranny among humans. In denying Lucian’s speaker’s claim that there were two tyrants in the city, More observes that almost “all beasts living by prey (the characteristic of tyrants), on whom hunger alone has stamped certain marks of a tyrannical nature, rage against their own offspring rather than accept them as companions of the hunt.” Accordingly, he concludes, it is not credible that a human tyrant would tolerate a confederate in rule. 17 Beasts, More suggests, whose lives are dominated by bodily desires (such as hunger) are capable only of showing “certain marks of a tyrannical nature.” In contrast, human beings are capable of having a tyrannical nature, of succumbing more completely to tyranny. Bodily desires alone are not enough to bring tyranny into being. This would seem to make sense. Tyranny does not appear to be the straightest route to a life of physical pleasure. It is true that the tyrant will have opportunities to indulge his bodily appetites far exceeding the dreams of even the most licentious private men. On the other hand, attaining to tyranny, and maintaining that station once it is attained, requires constant exertion. Moreover, as Lucian’s speech reminds us, the tyrant must live under a constant threat of violent death at the hands of one of his oppressed and desperate subjects—the fear of which would tend to disturb his tranquility of mind and poison his enjoyment of the bodily pleasures. 18 In sum, being the tyrant is hard, and any man with sufficient talent to pull it off would also have more than sufficient talent to become a wealthy businessman. But if such a man were impelled mainly by a desire for physical excess he would probably choose the latter path rather than the former. The excesses of spiritedness, therefore, remain as the primary cause of tyranny. Accordingly, More’s correction of Lucian’s speaker emphasizes the role of the spirited desires in tyranny, and suggests that they are the chief cause of the tyrant’s inability to share power with anyone else, even a son. Having noted that even beasts of prey, who only prefigure tyranny, will not tolerate partners in the hunt due to their hunger, More suggests that much less will the spirited desires of a human tyrant permit such sharing: “And do we imagine that a human tyrant, puffed up by pride, driven by the lust of power, impelled by greed, provoked by the thirst for fame, can share his tyranny with anyone?” 19 Of the four passions mentioned here, three—pride, lust for power, thirst for fame—relate to what Plato calls the spirited part of the soul, that which desires honor and preeminence. The fourth, greed, is ambiguous.

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

23

As we noted before, on a Platonic account it most obviously relates to the desires of the body, since money is the tool by which they are ordinarily satisfied. On the other hand, money can also be a tool of political power. In any case, in More’s account, unlike Plato’s, spiritedness, more than the desires or appetites, is put forward as the fundamental cause of tyranny. The tyrant, it seems, wants not so much to enjoy himself hedonistically as to elevate himself above the ordinary lot of human beings by making himself the supreme locus of power and praise in the city. Nevertheless, as we have already seen, More’s account, like Plato’s, does emphasize the tyrant’s lack of restraint in relation to bodily desires and the resulting injustices done to everyone around him: to gratify his desires, the tyrant resorts to murder, rape, and robbery, and even in the end to plundering the temples of the gods. If a spirited desire for supremacy is the root cause of tyranny, why does the tyrant behave in this manner? Why can he not be content with being the ruler, enjoying the loftiest position in the city, and governing his people moderately and justly? Two answers suggest themselves. In the first place, the tyrant may use the objects of bodily desire as instruments by which to establish his total dominance over the city. Merely to rule justly and moderately, with a view to protecting public order, would perhaps not satisfy his prideful lust for complete supremacy within the community. Such just rule would be undertaken with a view to safeguarding the rights or legitimate interests of his subjects, but such an aim would already admit some kind of equality between them and the tyrant. Such a ruler might be the first citizen, but still would be just one citizen among many. He would not be a tyrant, and such rule would impose limits on the tyrant’s domination that no real tyrant could tolerate. To put the matter more bluntly and harshly, the tyrant may murder, rob, and rape his subjects not so much to gratify his bodily desires as to gratify a spirited desire for supremacy by subjugating and humiliating them. In the second place, we should note that the tyrant’s immoderation and injustice may also to some extent result more directly from a simple desire to gratify the bodily passions without even thinking of them as instruments of humiliation. Even if the tyrant is led into tyranny more by spiritedness than desire, desire remains as much a part of his nature as of any other man’s. Having achieved a position of perfect impunity, he will be free to exercise those desires to any extent he might wish, and this is a temptation that most men would not be able to resist. In fact, we may even say that the tyrant, although driven more by spirited desires than most men, will nevertheless also end up pursuing bodily desires more than most men, not only because of greater opportunity, but also greater need. As Plato suggests in the Republic—and as More would no doubt agree—the tyrannical soul is incapable of genuine human happiness. In such a soul the worst parts dominate the best,

24

Chapter 2

reason. The desires of reason, however, are more truly human desires, more emphatically the desires of the whole soul, than those of the appetites and the spirited element. Therefore, the soul of the tyrant is “full of confusion and regret.” 20 Reason can be subordinated, but it cannot be destroyed. It continues to long for an experience of the highest good, but the tyrant’s way of life excludes the possibility of this experience by organizing all of the soul’s activities with a view to power and domination. The tyrant has dedicated himself to a life that is demanding, difficult, and dangerous, but that is not fundamentally satisfying. It would not be surprising if such a soul would turn to various immediately pleasant activities as a distraction from its own unhappiness. The pleasures of the body may be superficial goods, but they are for that very reason obvious goods, especially to a soul that has no experience of the joys of reason. Thus the tyrant uses bodily immoderation not only as a tool of domination but also as a kind of (ultimately ineffective) therapy for his own sickness of soul. More’s Declamation points to three other aspects of tyranny, all of which agree with the classical account. In the first place, More indicates that tyranny is a lawless form of rule. He suggests that it is characteristic of “legitimate” authority, as opposed to tyranny, to govern by laws and to obey the laws. 21 This becomes more explicit when he responds to the supposed-tyrannicide’s claim to have delivered the city from a permanent tyranny: after all, he killed the tyrant’s heir. By way of rejoinder More poses the following rhetorical questions: “Why mention heirs to me? Why remind me of laws in a tyranny?” In such a regime laws are “laws in name only.” “A tyrant always dies intestate, since the laws, which alone can make a will valid, are held captive by him.” 22 This lawlessness proceeds from the nature of tyranny, from the tyrant’s unlimited spirited desire for preeminence over other human beings. He could not enjoy such preeminence in the presence of laws possessing an authority higher than his own will. The tyrant might call his directives “law,” but they hardly deserve the name since they are completely revisable at his will. If a single man’s will is law, then there is no law in the usual sense of the term: as a settled rule superior to any single man’s will. At first glance, tyranny appears to be a regime in which there is no freedom. If we take a second look, however, a look that is more sympathetic to the position of the tyrant, we might conclude instead that there is in fact some freedom in a tyranny: the freedom of the tyrant himself. Everyone else is enslaved, but in the absence of law, possessed of supreme power to gratify his unlimited appetites, the tyrant might appear to be not only free, but freer than any other human being in any kind of regime. All of the tyrant’s subjects lack freedom, but perhaps in the tyrant himself we find the perfection of human freedom. The Declamation’s account of tyranny, however, shows that even the tyrant’s freedom is illusory: we can rightly say that a tyranny is utterly

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

25

devoid of freedom because even the tyrant himself is enslaved. A meaningful, substantial freedom must be understood as a freedom to possess what is good. Nobody would congratulate a destitute man on his freedom to starve, or a wounded man on his freedom to bleed to death. Nobody would insist on the real freedom of such a man, even if he were at liberty to move from one room to the next while starving or bleeding. So it is with the tyrant. He has immense power, and so a certain superficial freedom, understood as an ability to manipulate his surroundings. But this power is in fact useless with a view to enjoying the genuine goods that human nature craves and on which human happiness is based. Plato reminds us that the tyrant cannot know friendship: because his only thought is for the satisfaction of his own desires, he must reduce everyone around him to a tool of his own appetites. 23 More, as we have seen, similarly suggests that the tyrant must be a solitary ruler because his lust for power cannot tolerate any partner, not even a son. Again, as we have seen, the tyrant’s bodily immoderation is to some extent a sign of his need to distract himself from his own unhappiness. The tyrant has power over everything, but no power to be happy, and he has freedom to do anything, except the things that make for a good human life. Such power and freedom are empty. Accordingly, the Declamation signals the tyrant’s lack of freedom by the way it characterizes his relationship to his own desires. Again, contending that the tyrant could only be a single ruler, More asks: “do we imagine that a human tyrant, puffed up by pride, driven by the lust of power, impelled by greed, provoked by the thirst for fame, can share his tyranny with anyone?” 24 This language emphasizes the tyrant’s lack of self-sufficiency and freedom. In an earlier passage, More had suggested that a certain mark of tyranny could be seen in the “hunger” of beasts of prey. Here he speaks of the human tyrant’s “thirst” for fame. But hunger and thirst are desires of someone who lacks what he needs. It is worth pausing for a moment to reflect on the implications of More’s argument. He contends that the tyrant must be solitary, that he cannot tolerate even his son as a kind of junior partner or apprentice in the tyranny, as this would be inconsistent with his “thirst” for fame. One might think that an established tyrant would be famous enough to satisfy himself, and that he might therefore be willing to share. The tyrant, however, has an unlimited desire for supremacy. For such a person there is no such thing as enough fame. Such a person, however, has organized his life around a desire that can never be satisfied, and has therefore locked himself into a position of a radical lack of self-sufficiency. Such a position is incompatible with a genuine freedom, and More indicates this by laying stress on the tyrant’s lack of freedom, or his subjection to his own unruly desires. He is “driven by the lust of power, impelled by greed, and provoked by the thirst for fame.” 25 The tyrant is not free but is dominated by forces beyond his own control, even if they are forces within his own disordered soul.

26

Chapter 2

TYRANNY AND HUMAN NATURE More’s teaching is sobering, even chilling. On the one hand, he paints tyranny as a frightful form of political and moral disorder. On the other hand, from the beginning his inquiry implies, as we have suggested, that tyranny is a problem encountered commonly enough that the statesman needs to understand it. Given the extremity of the evil, we might want to console ourselves that it is at least rare. More, however, refuses us this consolation. The Declamation supports this sobering conclusion by suggesting that tyranny is in fact rooted in human nature. Tyranny presents a kind of paradox. As the preceding discussion suggests, it is a kind of violence against human nature, directed not only against the tyrant’s unfortunate subjects but even against the tyrant himself. Nevertheless, tyranny also finds some support in human nature. It tends to grow out of the ordinary course of the human passions, which, because of our fallen nature, are not always properly regulated. The very situation to which the Declamation is addressed teaches this lesson about tyranny as an ever-present danger. More is responding, after all, to the Lucianic character’s unjustified demand to be rewarded as a tyrannicide. That is, he is claiming for himself an honor that he does not truly deserve, just because he wants it. Put another way, his spirited desire for public praise has slipped the bonds of reason. Yet this is the very root of tyranny, as we have seen. More confronts us with the sobering reflection that the impulses that give rise to tyranny begin to show themselves in the immediate aftermath of the tyranny’s destruction, and even in people who were the instruments of its destruction. The Declamation strengthens this point by fostering certain skepticism about motives. More begins by claiming that his motives for speaking should be beyond question, since he is obviously trying to perform a service for the city: he is trying to save it from making an expenditure it cannot afford and that justice does not require. Nevertheless, he goes ahead and makes a defense of his motives. We might wonder why he introduces such a line of argument. Perhaps it would be better to leave the question of his motives unaddressed. After all, it is impossible to defend one’s motives without acknowledging the possibility that they are questionable. Such a defense draws unwelcome attention to an issue that a speaker might rather wish to remain obscure. Further reflection, however, suggests that raising skepticism about motives can only help More’s project in the Declamation. For, to the extent that his audience becomes habituated in such skepticism, they would have to apply it as well to the claims of Lucian’s would-be tyrannicide. More brings this point out more clearly later in the Declamation when he playfully— indeed, impishly—raises the question of the supposed tyrannicide’s motives while making a high-sounding refusal to pursue the question himself. I won’t question your motives, he says, but one of the “keener advocates, who scruti-

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

27

nize every point, and ply with doubt,” might well raise the question whether you killed the tyrant’s son “in revenge or retaliation for some private injury done to you.” 26 In general, such skepticism keeps us mindful that the enemies of the tyrant may not be animated by the best of motives, whatever they may claim in public. Or, the enemies of the tyrant may not be enemies of tyranny. Such enemies will include spirited and decent men who chafe under unjust servitude. But they will also include primarily selfish men who simply resent the fact that the tyranny has not operated to their own benefit. And they might also include spirited and spectacularly selfish men who aspire to the tyranny themselves. Skepticism about human motives necessarily implies an awareness of man’s fallen condition, which in turn reminds us that human beings are prone to tyranny. The Declamation suggests this point in another way, as well. More contends that he needs to defend his motives because he sees that “nothing is attempted, however rightly, which the malevolence of the wicked does not carp at and distort.” 27 The malevolence of the wicked, it seems, is a force to be reckoned with even in non-tyrannical regimes. More does not say that the wicked are a majority in the city. But even if they are only a minority, and perhaps even a small minority, their views carry sufficient weight to influence the city’s deliberations: there is real danger that they will carry the day if they are not intelligently refuted. To suggest that wickedness is part of the ordinary politics of a non-tyrannical regime is to suggest that such a regime carries within itself the seeds of tyranny. More makes this point more openly in his criticism of the supposed tyrannicide’s misunderstanding of the nature of tyranny. In making his argument that a tyrant could never tolerate a partner in rule, he observes that even “legitimate authorities, not only governing by laws but also obeying laws, and so very much milder than a tyranny, are nevertheless so dominated by the desire for power that they spare not the lives of intimate friends rather than allow them to share their rule.” 28 If we live in a lawful regime, we might be tempted to think that tyranny is some far-off possibility, which it depends on fundamentally different kinds of human beings than the ones with whom we interact on a daily basis. The tyrant, in other words, is a monster or a psychopath; and we ordinarily don’t have to worry about being ruled by such a person. In fact, More suggests, such thoughts are naïve. It does not go too far to say that the lawful ruler is a potential tyrant. For the same spirited motives that drive the tyrant—love of power and fame—are present, although in a more restrained form, even in legitimate rulers. If tyrannical impulses can be known to be at work in the souls of citizens even in non-tyrannical regimes, they show themselves much more openly once a tyranny is actually established. When we think of a tyranny, we often think of a regime in which one man oppresses and violates the whole city.

28

Chapter 2

Again, More reminds us that this view is naïve. Although the tyrant is a solitary ruler, it is not as if his rule works only to his own advantage and to everyone else’s disadvantage. The sad truth is that a tyrant usually has plenty of willing supporters and henchmen. As More opens his Declamation, he responds to the claim that he might be animated not by public spiritedness but by grief over the death of the tyrant. This claim, he says, is pure assertion with nothing to support it. If the supposed tyrannicide wanted to establish this point, he “should have showed that I was connected to the tyrant by blood or marriage, or obliged to him for favors, or in league with him in crime; but he has not even tried to show anything like that.” 29 More denies that he has any reason to grieve over the death of the tyrant. Nevertheless, he also implicitly concedes that it is plausible that not a few of the citizens would grieve for him: his kin, those he has won over by bestowing benefits, and those he has used as instruments of oppression. Later, when pressing the point that the tyrant’s son must be understood not as a co-tyrant but rather as a subordinate, he suggests that tyrants ordinarily have many enablers. If the son committed outrages, he says, this is only “proof that he was his father’s accomplice. Of such persons, how few there are who would not rob, violate marriages, plunder homes, despoil temples, kill those who stand in the way, and murder the leading citizens?” Such men “take shelter” under the tyrant and “commit such outrageous crimes” under his “power and protection.” 30 (103). Similarly, More also indicates that when a tyrant dies, he will leave behind not only a “people” now “free,” but also “friends . . . busy with lamentation” and “accomplices stunned by his death.” 31 THE PROPER RESPONSE TO TYRANNY The preceding reflections suggest that tyranny is not an easy problem to solve. Being rooted in human nature, having a basis in the unruly desires of human beings, it is not subject to a simple solution. Tyranny is not as delicate as we might wish to believe. Accordingly, the Declamation seeks to correct not only the Lucianic speaker’s mistaken understanding of the nature of tyranny, but also his mistaken—dangerously mistaken—understanding of how to deal with it. Lucian’s would-be tryannicide emphasizes his manliness and courage in attacking the tyranny. He wished to destroy the tyrant, and he made an attempt to do so. Such wishes and actions bespeak a spirited desire to do something on behalf of the city. Here again, however, More reminds us that we cannot simply remain on the level of spiritedness. Spiritedness is the cause of tyranny, so spiritedness cannot simply be its solution (although it must indeed play a part in the solution). More specifically, uncontrolled spiritedness is the

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

29

cause of tyranny, so its solution must be found in some properly controlled spiritedness: that is, spiritedness under the direction of reason. More highlights the importance of reason or wisdom in resisting tyranny by comparing the tyrannicide to a physician. Doctors are judged by whether they heal the patient, not by their wanting to do so and trying to do so. If I offer a doctor a specific fee to cure me, then I don’t owe it to him if he tries and fails—although I might in fairness owe him something if he ameliorates the disease somewhat. And if, “grossly ignorant of medical science,” he nevertheless tries to treat me and leaves me “miserably poisoned” and worse off than before, he deserves no reward but in fact “condemnation for rashly meddling, to my danger, in this matter in which he was unskilled.” 32 The law rewarding the tyrannicide, More indicates, is based upon this understanding. It rewards tyrannicide, or the successful destruction of the tyrant, not the mere spirited wish to destroy the tyrant and the mere attempt to do so. By holding out a reward for the successful completion of the task, the law seeks not only a man of courage but also a man of intelligence, one who is capable of calculating about how to match the proper means to the desired end. The law, More says, seeks as a tyrannicide a “resourceful man, one not only strong-handed but (much more) strong-hearted; able in stratagem rather than in force; one who knows how to lay plots, hide his traps, make the most of his opportunities.” 33 Moreover, as More’s medical analogy reminds us, grappling with tyranny requires intelligence and skill because the enterprise is a positively dangerous one. An incompetent doctor may leave you not only not cured but also “miserably poisoned,” and a failed tyrannicide may leave the tyranny not only in place but actually stronger than it was before. Such, he suggests, was the result of our would-be tyrannicide’s blundering. He killed the son, but left the tyrant’s other forces intact. The tyrant was then in a position to hunt down his enemies and render the foundations of his power more secure. And, like the incompetent doctor, such a “tyrannicide” not only has no claim on any reward, but in fact deserves outright condemnation, because “by his recklessness he had not only exposed himself alone, uselessly, to dangers, but at the same time had thrown the entire city into extreme peril, since by foolishly inciting him he made the tyrant more menacing to the citizens and more wary of plots.” 34 More’s response to Lucian thus reveals something important about his understanding of statesmanship. The competent statesman, the political physician who undertakes to treat the commonwealth, must possess an accurate knowledge of the true roots of political disease in our fallen human nature, and an accompanying sobriety: an ability to manage these evils intelligently, cautiously, and without unrealistic expectations of easy success. Statesmanship is in danger of being misled by a foolish optimism. The worse a problem is, the more we wish it could be corrected. Any mortally diseased man will

30

Chapter 2

certainly hope that the disease is curable. Similarly, we hope that tyranny, the worst disease that can befall a commonwealth, is curable. Wishes, however, do not change reality, and in some cases we may find that even the gravest evils can only be mitigated and not eliminated. If we return to More’s medical analogy, we find that it fosters such limited expectations: none of the hypothetical physicians that he presents actually cures the disease. The best that is achieved by the competent one is that he improves the patient’s condition somewhat. 35 And if we reflect further on More’s critique of Lucian’s “tyrannicide,” we find that it implies a similar view of politics. Lucian’s character blundered because he left the tyrant alive with all his forces at his disposal. But even if he had succeeded in killing the tyrant, those forces would still have survived: men who had made their privileged place in the city by enforcing the tyrant’s rule and robbing their fellow citizens under the shelter of his power. Such men would fear nothing more than the inevitable retribution of those they had formerly oppressed, and they would desire nothing more than to erect some successor to the tyrant. Given their motives and their power, they would have no slight chance of success. In any case, success or failure would be accompanied by a river of innocent blood. Killing a tyrant is at least as likely to set off a civil war as it is to establish a free public order. The Declamation’s account of the task and limits of statesmanship is consistent with that presented in More’s more famous political work, Utopia. There More admonishes the dogmatic and high-minded Raphael that, while politics usually is deeply corrupt, it is nevertheless worthwhile for the just and wise man to take part, not with any vain hope of transforming it, but instead with a view to making things a little less bad than they otherwise would have been. 36 Furthermore, it would seem that More took the thought expressed in both the Declamation and Utopia as his guide in his own efforts at practical statesmanship. In light of Henry VIII’s war on the Church and on ancient principles of English and indeed European civilization, More must have regarded him as a tyrant or a potential tyrant. We might wonder, then, why More the statesman did not take some more decisive and forceful stand against Henry. Far from thinking of tyrannicide, More carefully refused to be involved in any plots against Henry or even to denounce him openly. He limited himself prudently to doing what he thought could be done to check Henry’s abuses. The Declamation teaches us that in confining himself to such measures More was not displaying a failure of nerve but acting on principles he had thought out with some care long before Henry’s reign reached the point of crisis.

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

31

CONCLUSION: PIETY, TYRANNY, AND STATESMANSHIP Thus far, More’s account of tyranny may leave the reader wishing for something more positive and more reassuring. He tells us that tyranny is an ongoing problem rooted in our fallen nature and that much of the time the best we can hope for is its amelioration, not its eradication. Referring once more to the medical analogy, we ask: is there no cure for tyranny, or at least some inoculation against it, some wholesome medicine that could, if fully digested, foster a true health of soul such that we would not be tempted to tyranny? The Declamation does suggest such a preventative: piety, or respect for the gods as just and benevolent. Indeed, the Declamation presents itself as a fictional act of pious statesmanship, or statesmanship on behalf of piety. Piety, or acknowledgement of and gratitude for the goodness of the gods, emerges in the Declamation from our experience of the limits of human wisdom. More persuasively argues that the supposed tyrannicide cannot deserve to be rewarded for the death of the tyrant because the latter’s death cannot be understood as an act of the former. He killed the tyrant’s son, and the tyrant killed himself. But the tyrant’s suicide was completely out of the course of ordinary human behavior, and therefore we should reject as ridiculous any claims of the would-be tyrannicide that he foresaw this outcome and can take credit for it. 37 Nevertheless, it did happen. Here we encounter an event in which things went contrary to all human expectation, and did so in such a way as to free the city from the worst of evils. How could this happen? Are we to attribute it to blind luck, or to the benevolence of the gods? More opts for the latter explanation without even mentioning the former, and uses his speech to encourage his fellow citizens to honor the gods by giving them thanks for this unlooked for deliverance. On his view, it turns out, rewarding Lucian’s speaker is not just a waste of money on an undeserving claimant, and it is an injustice to those beings, the gods, who truly deserve the credit. 38 Teaching this lesson appears to be a key purpose of the Declamation. It is indeed the point on which More concludes his oration. “What else did” this alleged tyrannicide accomplish, he asks, but to “warn the tyrant to be on his guard,” and thus to “plunge the whole city into the greatest danger by his folly?” Nevertheless, to paraphrase a Christian text that More surely knew well, where folly abounded, the care and power of the gods abounded even more. 39 “The gods, amending his madness, suddenly turned that danger into the most fortunate safety.” More thus begs the jurors, by the immortal gods, the gods who are the sources of this most precious freedom, this unlooked-for happiness, not to allow what came to us through the design and power of all the gods to be ascribed to the madness of one man; nor to allow this city ever to be so ungrateful to the gods their liberators; nor to suffer it to confess that its safety is owed to the temerity of a human being rather than to the benevolence of the gods, who we may now hope will always

32

Chapter 2 be propitious toward this city if we, mindful of what they have bestowed, acknowledge them (as is right) the authors of what their blessings. 40

How, we might ask, is this teaching an answer to the problem of tyranny? Most obviously, a belief in benevolent gods—gods who care about justice, and who have power over human affairs—serves to deter tyranny. Such a belief might well lead the tyrannical soul to moderate its desires, to check its injustice, lest the gods bring it to a disastrous end. This answer, however, is not entirely adequate. It may place a certain restraint on the tyrannical soul, but it does not cure it. On its own, this answer makes the divine will a kind of “heteronomy,” to use a term of Pope John Paul II. In other words, it presents the divine will as a kind of external imposition on the soul. 41 The soul restrained by this belief still longs for tyranny, although it may hold itself in check out of fear of the gods. Such a soul may ask, with Adeimantus in Plato’s Republic, whether there is some more satisfactory account, one according to which injustice and tyranny are bad in themselves, and not only because of the punishments of the gods. 42 Put more positively, is there no good of the soul, desirable for its own sake, beside which the inducements to tyranny, unlimited power and pleasure, appear to be insignificant and unworthy? Pointing to such possibilities, the Declamation indicates a second way in which piety, or belief in the goodness of the gods, opposes tyrannical desire, not just by overbearing it but by healing it. This comes to light in a compelling passage in which More relates what he supposes the last words of the tyrant would have been. Confronted with the death of his son, this tyrant would have “vomited from his filthy mouth insane abuse against the gods”: O wrath of the gods, O hatred of the divine powers! I see the manifestations of your ill-will, you denizens of heaven. I see the signs of your dark malice. Nothing exists more wicked, more vainglorious and malevolent than you. You wish to rule alone, to govern alone; yet not sufficiently contented with your own happiness, you are always consumed by envy of others’ happiness.

Then, according to More’s account, he resolved to “die today as tyrant, despite the displeasure of the gods.” 43 There is a great contrast between the understanding of the gods to which More wishes to draw the citizens and that held by the tyrant. Both believe in the gods as powers superior to man, but More teaches that they are benevolent while the tyrant holds that they are malicious. It is characteristic of the tyrant, it would seem, to believe that the larger whole to which he belongs— the cosmos and the powers that rule it—is hostile to human happiness. This observation sheds additional light on the origins of tyranny. For this very belief, perhaps, is the first step on the road to tyranny. If we believe that the cosmos is hostile to our happiness, then the quest for power will become the

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

33

imperative around which we organize our lives: power by which to make everything that surrounds us submit to our will and yield up what we wish to have. If we trust the goodness of the cosmos, such a quest is unintelligible. For if we trust the goodness of the cosmos, we may hope that happiness will be ours on the basis of the good activities this larger order prescribes for us, without the need to overmaster it through power. Of these two dispositions, trust in the goodness of the whole seems to be the more reasonable and wholesome. The particular tyrant depicted in the Declamation came to a bad end, yet the speech that More puts in the tyrant’s mouth indicates that tyranny as such is doomed to failure. Man is by his nature a dependent being, a part of a larger whole over which he has very limited control. No man can make himself superior to the cosmos, and in fact the human race itself cannot do so. If the whole is hostile to human happiness, no amount of human power will succeed in altering it—although such power may succeed in distracting us temporarily from our desperate situation. The tyrant’s suicide reveals the irrationality and futility of his quest. If the gods are our enemies, we cannot finally conquer them, and all that is left is to defy them by seeking our own destruction. If we begin from the assumption that being is not good, we cannot make it good, but only can seek to escape it. 44 The tyrant’s path, the path of power, is not the path of progress but instead of despair and death. As an alternative to the tyrant’s desperate and doomed worship of power, More teaches piety, trust in the goodness of the gods or of the whole. While More is most famous as a saint, the Declamation does not appear to be a distinctly Christian work: it is set in an evidently preChristian time and does not rely on Christian revelation. Nevertheless, the Declamation suggests that reason’s meditation on tyranny points to a solution to the problem of evil—confidence in the goodness of the divine—very close to the one More also believed to have been revealed by God. Reason prepares the way for faith and is perfected by faith. NOTES 1. John Paul II, Apostolic Letter Issued Motu Proprio: Proclaiming Saint Thomas More Patron of Statesmen and Politicians (October 31, 2000), section 1. 2. Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons (New York: Vintage Books, 1960), x–xi. Allan Bloom was surely recalling the influence of A Man for all Seasons, both the play and the film, when he noted that the students of the 1960s had “Thomas More’s resistance to the tyrant’s commands” as the “daily fare” of their imagination.” This remark also attests to admiration for More among non-Catholics, although Bloom is probably correct that the moralistic youth of that generation did not fully understand the man they admired, that they were taken more by the “noble pose” of resistance than by the “complexity” of situations such as the one More confronted, which—as Bloom points out and as both Bolt and More knew well—“are always ambiguous in terms of both duty and motive, and require the subtlest reasoning as well as all the other virtues in the highest degree in order to be addressed justly.” Allan Bloom, The

34

Chapter 2

Closing of the American Mind: How Higher Education has Failed Democracy and Impoverished the Souls of Today’s Students (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987), 325. 3. See Lucian’s The Tyrannicide in A.M. Harmon, trans., Lucian, volume V (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936), 444–73. 4. Thomas More, The History of King Richard III and Selections from the English and Latin Poems, ed. Richard Sylvester (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976). 5. Thomas More, Utopia, ed. George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 14, 29, 31–34. 6. See More’s Declamation in Craig R. Thompson, ed., The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, volume 3, part 1 (New Haven: Yale University Press: 1974), 95. 7. Lucian, The Tyrannicide, 445–451, 453. 8. More, Declamation, 101. 9. See Plato, Republic, trans. Allan Bloom (New York: Basic Books, 1991), book 9, and Aristotle, Politics, trans. Carnes Lord (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), book 3, chapter 7 Aristotle’s Politics. 10. Aristotle, Politics, 1279a26–b10. 11. More, Declamation, 101–103. 12. Plato, Republic, 572d–575d. 13. More, Declamation, 101. 14. More, Declamation, 99. 15. More, Declamation, 101. 16. Plato, Republic, 583a. 17. More, Declamation, 101. 18. On this point see Plato, Republic, 578d–579c. 19. More, Declamation, 101. 20. Plato, Republic, 577e. 21. More, Declamation, 101. 22. More, Declamation, 105. 23. Plato, Republic, 575e–576a. 24. More, Declamation, 101. 25. Ibid., emphasis added. 26. More, Declamation, 107. 27. More, Declamation, 97. 28. More, Declamation, 101. 29. More, Declamation, 95. 30. More, Declamation, 103. 31. More, Declamation, 105. 32. More, Declamation, 109. 33. Ibid. 34. More, Declamation, 111. 35. More, Declamation, 109. 36. More, Utopia, 36. 37. More, Declamation, 113, 117. 38. In moving from a wholly unpredictable deliverance from evil to a belief in the goodness of the divine, More may here anticipate what a great Catholic Englishman of a later generation called “eucatastrophe.” According to J. R. R. Tolkien, the consolation experienced through an unlooked for happy ending is the highest function of the “fairy story,” and it points beyond the griefs of this world to a more fundamental reality in which man can rejoice. Such eucatastrophe “denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.” Tolkien, “On Fairy Stories,” in The Tolkien Reader (New York: Ballatine Books, 1966), 85–86. 39. Romans 5:20: “where sin increased, grace abounded all the more.” 40. More, Declamation, 125. 41. See John Paul II’s encyclical Veritatis Splendor (August 6, 1993), section 41: “Human freedom and God’s law meet and are called to intersect, in the sense of man’s free obedience to

Statesmanship, Tyranny, and Piety

35

God and of God’s completely gratuitous benevolence towards man. Hence obedience to God is not, as some would believe, a heteronomy, as if the moral life were subject to the will of something all-powerful, absolute, extraneous to man and intolerant of his freedom. If in fact a heteronomy of morality were to mean a denial of man’s self-determination or the imposition of norms unrelated to his good, this would be in contradiction to the Revelation of the Covenant and of the redemptive Incarnation. Such a heteronomy would be nothing but a form of alienation, contrary to divine wisdom and to the dignity of the human person” (emphasis in original). 42. Plato, Republic, 362e–367e. 43. More, Declamation, 123. 44. I must acknowledge that these reflections on the fundamental defect in the ideology of power were much influenced by the excellent concluding pages of Pope Benedict XVI’s In the Beginning: A Catholic Understanding of the Story of Creation and the Fall (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company), 91–100.

Chapter Three

Images of the Statesman in Utopia James R. Stoner, Jr.

Since statesmanship requires caution as well as boldness, perhaps the first thing to note is that the word “statesman” would not have been in the vocabulary of Thomas More. The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) dates its first use to 1592, and the word “state” itself does not acquire its modern meaning until sometime earlier in the same century. The latter word appears in its Latin cognate in the full title of Utopia, but with the older meaning of “condition”: De optimo reipublicae statu deque nova insula Utopia, or in English, On the best state of a commonwealth and on the new island of Utopia. 1 Moreover, modern English-Latin dictionaries contain no Latin word that translates “statesman,” so to the literalist no “statesman” can appear in Utopia, a book written in Latin and never translated by its author. When Pope John Paul II proclaimed More the patron saint of “statesmen and politicians” in 2000, the Latin version read “gubernatorum, politicorum virorum ac mulierum,” but “gubernator” means “helmsman,” a metaphor for our “statesman” perhaps but not the same thing. 2 If, however, we adopt the OED’s definition of statesman—“one who takes a leading part in the affairs of a state or body politic, especially one who is skilled in the management of public affairs”—then statesmanship is not only not absent from Utopia, but might be said to be the principal theme of the work as a whole. It takes hold already on the title page, where the author identifies himself as an officeholder—“Undersheriff of the Famous City of London”—and continues through the prefatory letters that More and his friend Erasmus solicited to introduce the work, for several of the scholars and others who write take special note of the fact that the author is not only a scholar but an official. 3 More, of course, writes himself and his friend Peter Giles into the dialogue, though not as men of action exactly; the supposed conversation takes place during a hiatus in an actual diplomatic mission in 37

38

Chapter 3

which the two men were engaged, but the only action we see is their failed attempt to persuade the other interlocutor, the fictional Raphael Hythloday, that he ought to serve as counselor to some prince. At the risk of being even more anachronistic than our topic demands, one might say of Raphael that he is a thoroughgoing anti-statesman: He rejects compromise in principle, and wealth and power in practice; we learn about him immediately that he gave up his inheritance as a young man in order to follow his genius, and he has traveled the world seeing many states, but taking responsibility for governing none of them. He lovingly describes a society where harmony and happiness are achieved by institutions radically different from those of any state in his own era. In the essay that follows, I will discuss four images of the statesman in Utopia. First, in book one, we meet traditional statesmen, both Thomas More himself appearing as a character and Cardinal Morton, More’s own mentor as a boy; more precisely, we meet the latter indirectly, through the presumably fictional story of a meeting he had held at which Raphael says he was present. Next, we will look at Raphael’s bold alternative to statesmanship, its mirror image, so to speak: his description of a best regime in the mode of, but also in contrast to, the image of the best city in the works of Plato. Third, we’ll look at the statesmen of Utopia itself as Raphael describes them, both the class of ordinary rulers and the remarkable founder of the island commonwealth, Utopus. Finally, we will turn our attention to Thomas More as author, who helps initiate a kind of literary statesmanship that, I believe, still matters today. TRADITIONAL STATESMANSHIP: THE DIALOGUE OF COUNSEL I The setting of the dialogue in Utopia is framed by a diplomatic mission, described in a general way in its opening sentence. Two rulers, Henry VIII, King of England, and Charles, Prince of Castile (not yet Holy Roman Emperor), are said to have differences, apparently over trade, which they have asked those who serve them to settle. More describes himself as Henry’s spokesman (orator), and he praises his companion Cuthbert Tunstall, whose office indicates a higher rank than More’s but who is not said to head the mission or to command More’s service. Their counterparts are also introduced, the Mayor of Bruges, who is designated head of that group, and one Georges de Themsecke, singled out as “their main speaker and guiding spirit,” a man More praises for his eloquence, his legal learning, and his diplomatic skill. We meet none of these men nor even hear about them again, but the opening gently indicates something about authority: While each state is headed by a monarch, diplomacy requires agents, and these in turn are distin-

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

39

guished not only by their formal rank but by their skill. In short, authority has both a conventional and a natural character, a point More underlines by saying of De Themsecke’s eloquence that it is “by nature as well as by training.” 4 Although the diplomatic mission frames the setting, because the Prince’s delegates have suspended talks for a few days to consult with him, More takes the occasion to go from Bruges to Antwerp, apparently on private business, where he assumes his own quarters but passes time with a friend, Peter Giles, another actual person who appears as a character in the dialogue. One morning after mass, Giles stops More and introduces him to the welltraveled Raphael Hythloday; More invites them both back to the garden at his lodgings, and there the rest of the dialogue takes place. As Gerard Wegemer points out, More carefully establishes the character of each of the interlocutors by deed as well as by narration, and he establishes his own credibility as a narrator through the match between deed and description. 5 Giles appears as he is characterized: “open-hearted, affectionate, loyal and sincere.” More is courteous and diplomatic, attentive to his religious duties and mindful of his family, but also curious about human affairs; in Giles’ words, “ . . . about unknown peoples and unexplored lands . . . I know that you’re always greedy for . . . information.” 6 Raphael, by contrast, is carelessly dressed, sun-burned and bearded, looking, More thinks, like a ship’s captain, but in fact he is a traveler. His fictional character is signaled to the reader: His family name means “well-learned in nonsense,” and Giles says that he accompanied Amerigo Vespucci on voyages recounted not by Vespucci himself but in a work known to be spurious or fictional. 7 One of the fictions was that Vespucci left two dozen men behind on his spurious voyage, and Raphael is said to have been one of these. Unlike More, who indicates he has his own family and business as well as a mission from his king, Raphael, we learn immediately, resigned his patrimony and left his native Portugal years before to begin his travels. Giles enthusiastically introduces him to More as a Ulysses or a Plato, apt comparisons because he is said to have studied Greek rather than Latin, since he “gave himself wholly to philosophy” (the Latin verb is “addixerat,” root of our word “addiction”), at which the Greeks exceled beyond the Romans, we are reminded. In short, the dialogue takes place among cosmopolitans, real and imagined, in a private setting, in a city, to be sure, but also in a garden on a grass-covered bench. It is reasonable enough to suppose that the topic of discussion will be the political nature of man. Although More has Raphael begin his discourse by describing where he traveled—across the ocean, in the temperate zone south of the equator—his first tales are mentioned in general terms as recounting and criticizing customs and institutions both abroad and in Europe. The discussion begins in earnest only when Giles ingenuously suggests to Raphael that, with all his

40

Chapter 3

experience, he ought to serve as a counselor to a prince, the type that is, we saw at the outset, closest to what we mean today when we speak of a statesman. Perhaps because Giles makes an appeal to Raphael’s self-interest as well as to public-spiritedness, he is quickly and repeatedly rebuffed: Raphael insists he has no need to help his family and friends any further, having long ago given them his possessions; having nothing to gain for himself, since already “I live as I please,” to serve a prince would for him be servitude. 8 When More steps in to deepen the public-spirited appeal, suggesting it would be worthy of his “generous and truly philosophical soul” to incite a great prince to “right and honorable things,” his plea, too, is rejected, but now with a longer argument. 9 Political men would not care for the substance of what he has to say, asserts Hythloday, and the councils of princes are so corrupted by the courtier spirit that they are unlikely even to listen; princes mistake the public interest, which they generally define as war and conquest, while counselors are so tied to their own interests—that is, to their standing in the eyes of their superiors—that they cannot begin to deliberate about what the public interest really is. He offers three examples; two are hypotheticals that substantiate his point, as More admits, but the first is told as though it had actually happened, and as scholars have noticed, rather than prove his point, it shows how a genuine statesman takes advice. That first example is related by Raphael as having taken place some twenty years before, at the table of John Morton, then Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal of the Church, and Lord Chancellor of England under King Henry VII. 10 As it turns out, More had actually served as a page in Morton’s household, albeit a few years earlier, and in the dialogue he confirms Raphael’s assessment of the Cardinal’s character. The counsel offered by the traveler concerns the abolition of the death penalty for thieves, and his argument against it involves, as George Logan has recently stressed, an analysis of complex social causation. 11 The heart of Raphael’s case is this: The penalty is too harsh in itself, yet it isn’t an effective deterrent. Simple theft is not so great a crime that it ought to cost a man his head, yet no punishment however severe can restrain those from robbery who have no other way to make a living. 12

The root causes of the problem are two-fold, both grounded in the habits of noblemen, who live off others’ labor. First, the nobles support a number of retainers, some of whom they keep around to serve as soldiers in war, and these when at home or when let go as too expensive practice on fellow subjects the arts of robbery they learned at war. Second, to gain profit from the wool trade, the nobles have been enclosing land, simultaneously ejecting tenants and driving up the price of food, impoverishing the common people and driving them to vice and crime. Against these causes, which we recog-

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

41

nize as economic, legal punishments are largely futile. Moreover, Raphael argues, it is unjust and disproportionate to consider human life less valuable than money and thus to take the former as the penalty for taking the latter. Besides, God’s command is not to kill, and “the law of Moses, . . . harsh and severe, as for an enslaved and stubborn people, . . . punished theft with a fine, not death.” Better to force thieves to pay retribution to their victims and to put them to work on public projects: “the aim of punishment is to destroy vices and save men.” 13 The reactions of most of the others around the table confirm Raphael’s complaint; a lawyer promises a full refutation, the house fool turns to mockery, a friar, joking at first, grows angry and declaims in “righteous zeal,” and all keep an eye on the Cardinal, expressing whatever opinion they take to agree with his. 14 Yet his reaction is the critical one, and it is not at all dismissive. He stops the lawyer after Raphael had made his point about the failure of deterrence, encouraging the latter to continue with his point about intrinsic injustice; he humors the fool and gently chastises the angry friar. Most interestingly, he finds a way to propose a test of Raphael’s proposal, not by changing the law outright but by seeking a royal reprieve for condemned thieves, then allowing them then to work off their crime, with the reprieve to be revoked in case of misbehavior. Of course we have no evidence that this was ever actually put into effect, and it is far shy of Raphael’s proposal for wholesale reform—it does not address the underlying economic conditions, for example—but More seems at least to indicate how a prudent, traditional statesman might at once engage in reform and manage the opposition it is bound to provoke. Morton is at any rate willing to listen to reason, and through Raphael, More the author shows his readers the kind of reasons that might appeal to a responsible statesman, both those that address the underlying causes in human behavior and the actual consequences of laws, and those that address the basic question of legal justice. This interplay of philosophy and statesmanship—of principle and practice—is endorsed by More in making his case against Raphael’s insistence upon remaining aloof from politics, and illustrated, too, in the moment of endorsement, as More begins by agreeing with his opponent before proposing a distinction. The passage is worth quoting at length: When your listeners are already prepossessed against you and firmly convinced of opposite opinions, how can you win over their minds with such outof-the-way speeches? This academic [scholastic] philosophy is pleasant enough in the conversation of close friends, but in the councils of kings, where great matters are debated with great authority, there is no room for it. . . . . . . But there is another philosophy, better suited for this role of citizen, that takes its cue, adapts itself to the drama in hand and acts its part neatly and appropriately. This is the philosophy for you to use. . . .

42

Chapter 3 . . . [B]y an indirect approach, you must strive and struggle as best you can to handle everything tactfully—and thus what you cannot turn to good, you may at least make as little bad as possible . . . 15

As Wegemer points out, More is making the case for Ciceronian statesmanship, which eschews the detachment of either the Stoic or the Epicurean philosopher and instead takes responsibility for bringing philosophic insight to bear in public life, within the limits of the possible, however narrow they might be. 16 Of course More’s plea here falls on deaf ears, for as much as any prince, Raphael is obstinate in his opinions, brazenly comparing his perfectionism to Christ’s and treating tactfulness as dissembling. And Raphael is oblivious of the further dramatic irony by which he repeats the righteous indignation he contemned in the friar at Morton’s table, discussed only moments before. THE ANTI-STATESMAN: THE DIALOGUE OF COUNSEL II AND THE STORY OF UTOPIA But Ciceronian statesmanship cannot be the last word for More the author, not least because he gives the last word here to Hythlodaeus and of course writes Book II, the description of Utopia. Even if the “best state of the commonwealth” depicted there is ironic, meant as a literary exercise rather than a concrete proposal, as it surely is, it still has to be explained why More created it. After all, he initiated the modern genre, endowed it with his coinage, and knowingly took the risk that he, like Plato before him, would be misunderstood as writing a blueprint for action. The best place to begin is to review Raphael’s entire case for proceeding as he does. Before his indignant outburst in response to More’s Ciceronian traditionalism, and after the ambiguous discussion of his failure or success with Cardinal Morton, Raphael gives two further examples of imaginary interventions where he supposes his advice would be ignored. Both involve discussions at a royal council, the first in France, the second before some unnamed king. The French council is deliberating how to expand the king’s influence in Europe, subduing Italy, assimilating Flanders, Brabant, and Burgundy, and conquering “some other nations [England?] he has long had in mind to invade.” 17 Raphael’s intervention would be to dissuade the king from all such enterprises, leaving Italy to its own devices and not expanding a France already almost too big to be governed. The second council is deliberating how to fill the [same?] king’s coffers with the gold he will need for his enterprises: whether to inflate the currency, revive old laws to levy fines, influence judges so they favor royal power, and the like. Here Raphael would reply that “it is the king’s duty to take more care of his people’s welfare than of his own.” 18 In both cases, Raphael’s objections are even more radical than

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

43

those he raised before Cardinal Morton and so hardly suited for council deliberations; as Aristotle wrote, men deliberate about means, not about ends. 19 Both could be implemented only with a change of regime, from a kingship anchored in military glory to some sort of republic aiming at the people’s prosperity. In fact, in both instances, Raphael imagines making his case by relating an example from the peoples he discovered in America, not far from the Utopians. Against the would-be conquerors, Raphael cites the example of the Achorians, who, realizing that military expeditions yielded continual troubles abroad and corruption and expense at home, gave their king the choice of whether to rule his conquests or his ancestral home, but not both. Against the devious treasurers, he invokes the Macarians, who limit to a modest amount the money that the treasury is allowed to contain. Raphael’s fundamental claim, he tells More and Giles, is that “wherever you have private property and money is the measure of all things, it is hardly ever possible for a commonwealth to be just or prosperous.” 20 When More raises the familiar Aristotelian objections—men neglect common things, and quarrel about them—Raphael replies that he has seen such a system work among the Utopians. Of course this remark is ironic, since both Raphael and Utopia are fictions, and More even underlines the irony by having Raphael once mention “the kind of thing that Plato imagines in his republic, or that the Utopians actually practice in theirs.” 21 Socrates defends the noble lie in the Republic, but truthfully presents his best city as a city in speech, a pattern in heaven, not practicable on earth, at least without violence or coincidence. 22 More writes in the dedicatory letter to Utopia that “I’d rather say something untrue than tell a lie. In short, I’d rather be good than prudent,” but he pretends Utopia really exists and solicits prefatory letters from real people to further obfuscate his gag. Why does the argument about common property have to be presented in the description of an entire city, or rather, an entire nation? More is undoubtedly engaged in a dialogue with Plato: Mention of the latter is frequent in book one of Utopia and imitation of the Republic in book two is close enough to make every difference significant. Like Plato, More is seeking to give an account of the nature of political things; like Plato, More holds that an account of the nature of things is the business of philosophy; and like Plato, More thinks that a philosophical account of the nature of political life requires abstraction from private property, since the things of the world are not by nature assigned to particular people and since politics, precisely because it assigns to each his own, cannot be understood in itself as dependent on that which it establishes. To be sure, as a Christian, More accords to philosophy a different status than did Plato. We see this in the difference between Hythloday and Socrates as exemplars, for example, and in the complete absence in Utopia of the analogy between the city and the soul, on which the entire argument of the Republic is based. Nature, which

44

Chapter 3

for More includes especially the temporal, is transcended by its Author, who exists outside of time, while for Plato there is a realm of nature itself that is transcendent and timeless. Still, for More, the reality of the City of God does not dissolve the integrity of the city of man; perhaps he thought Augustine in fact too Platonist for thinking so, for treating the human city as fragmented and imperfect, like physical matter in Plato, which is irrational and unintelligible except through its idea. 23 Reviving the inquiry into the best regime is the business of philosophy, not statesmanship, or at least not ordinary statesmanship. And this inquiry, however limited in the end by its temporal and worldly parameters, is the task that More assigns to Raphael, vindicating perhaps the noble half of the character’s name. Raphael’s plea is that he be able to portray the city as a whole—the wholly natural city, the city without private property, the best city—showing how the parts fit together in a self-sustaining way, and that he be able to do so without having to invent the city step-by-step beginning from the accident of contemporary conventions. Although presented as a traveler who is recounting something he has seen, Raphael is also More’s philosopher, imagining the best city as it might be naturally known, unbounded by current ways and means. Although the parts of the city do not correspond to the parts of the soul in Utopia, Utopia is in some ways like its fictional narrator: It has dispensed with private property, and it is devoted to living by philosophy alone. As Raphael explains in book two, that philosophy sees pleasure as the human good, although it finds the greatest pleasures in the pleasures of the mind: “knowledge and the delight that arises from contemplating the truth, the gratification of looking back on a well-spent life, and the unquestioning hope of happiness to come” 24 —the last reinforced by the two tenets of their common religion, that the soul is immortal and that one is rewarded or punished in the afterlife for the deeds done here. Theirs is a comfortable life, supplied with material plenty—since no one lives off others’ labors, none need work more than six hours a day, unless during their two years of agricultural service—and all choose whatever trade they please. Because they share everything in common, their houses are open both to the streets and to the courtyards, and to be sure no one grows too attached to a single place, they trade homes every ten years. They live in families, which is only natural, but they eat at common tables, as was recommended and occasionally practiced among the Greeks. In contrast to Plato’s city, not only are wives not in common, but the division of classes is not so rigid: There is no warrior (auxiliary) class in the city, and while the best minds are designated members of a scholarly class and excused from ordinary labor at the trades, the designation does not accord its recipient life tenure, for “if any of these scholars disappoints the hopes they had for him, he is sent packing, to become a workman again.” 25 The Utopians are humane—contrary to Christian teaching, divorce and remarriage is allowed to the incompatible, and suicide is

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

45

permissible for the incurable whose suffering is great—and while they permit slavery as a punishment for several crimes or as a freely-chosen status for the wretched of other lands, they treat their servants gently. They do their best to avoid fighting wars, using stratagem to defeat their enemies and employing vicious mercenaries, though both the men and the women fight with courage when pushed to extremity. Because they don’t use money but know how to be productive, they amass a huge treasury in gold to meet the needs of war, which they store openly, so to speak, by making chamber-pots and chains for slaves out of the elsewhere-precious metal. Their dress is drab and uniform, lest it become a means of distinction among persons, but they are allowed to eat their food with relishes—so they are not the city of pigs in the Republic, the primitive city based only on material exchange and common festivals. 26 They do have a few of the latter, however, including a monthly day of atonement. They eagerly learn new things from their visitors, though they are not themselves devoted to innovation; from a stray ship of Romans and Egyptians over a millennium before they acquired the arts of Mediterranean antiquity, and from Raphael and his fellows they quickly learn paper-making, printing, and the use of the compass. They are charmed by the knowledge of Christianity, particularly impressed by the community of goods among the first apostles, but since no priest accompanied Raphael, they have no access to most of the sacraments, only to the moral teachings of the faith. Any literary image of the best city is apt to hold a mirror up to its readers, striking them as charming or repulsive, or sometimes the one and sometimes the other, according to the readers’ own characters and tastes. Raphael, when he concludes his sketch, praises the city extravagantly—“I consider [it] not only the best but indeed the only one that can rightfully claim that name”— and proceeds to condemn all others, “among whom I’ll be damned if I can discover the slightest degree of justice or fairness”: “I can see in them nothing but a conspiracy of the rich, who are advancing their own interests under the name and title of the commonwealth.” 27 More, who has been listening silently to the afternoon discourse, is more circumspect in his assessment. Raphael had concluded with a peroration on the evils that follow from pride, “a serpent from hell that twines itself around the hearts of men, acting like a suckfish to draw and hold them back from choosing a better way of life,” but the objection that surfaces in More’s thoughts is precisely that something is sacrificed when all human pride is subverted by propertyless equality: “This…utterly subverts all the nobility, magnificence, splendor and majesty which (in public opinion) are the true ornaments and glory of any commonwealth.” 28 Does More agree with public opinion? Does he fear that, if public opinion sees nothing to admire in the government, public order will fall apart? Is his objection philosophical—can philosophy define what is noble in human nature on its own terms?—or is his resistance itself an expression of pride? Ever the diplomat, and reminding us that Raphael had earlier criti-

46

Chapter 3

cized those who object to novelty just to show their own intelligence, More holds his tongue, praising the Utopians’ way of life and promising to revisit the issues it raised. Looking back on the supposed conversation, he exclaims: “Would that this would happen some day!” And his final sentence preserves the optative mood: Meantime, while I can hardly agree with everything he said (though he is a man of unquestionable learning and enormous experience in human affairs), yet I freely confess that in the Utopian commonwealth there are very many features that in our own societies I would wish rather than expect to see. 29

Does Raphael’s anti-statesmanship, then, have its desired effect? There is no little ambiguity in Raphael’s desire: He says he eschews all political counsel and wishes only to be left alone to see the world as it is and to do as he pleases, in other words to philosophize, but the vehemence of his speech both in insisting on presenting the best regime at the end of book one and in explaining and defending it at the end of book two suggests he really does mean for his discourse to have an effect on actual statesmen. It does on More: At the very least, after hearing about the Utopians he is thinking in new ways about the institution of property, at least to the point of raising new objections to its abolition, and his wish to continue the discussion in good time suggests that the presentation of an imagined ideal is a genuine part of philosophic dialectic. More precisely, Raphael’s discourse has an effect on the character More, the author perhaps signaling thereby to the reader how to think about what he had just read. But of More the author, more later. THE STATESMEN OF UTOPIA ITSELF Thus far we have examined statesmanship as it appears in the characters in the dialogue, particularly More and Hythloday, and also Morton and the others mentioned by name. But there are unnamed statesmen in Utopia itself, as well as the named founder, and a consideration of statesmanship in the dialogue would be incomplete without attention to these. Perhaps it is more precise to refer to most of them as officers or officials rather than as statesmen, remembering again that Utopia is referred to as a commonwealth (reipublicae) rather than a state. The first thing to notice about them is that they are elected; even when the choice of candidates is restricted to the scholar class, men come to office through election by those they govern, not through inheritance or appointment. This may not raise an eyebrow today, but surely it did in More’s time. The English freeholders elected members of parliament, a position More himself had held several times before he wrote Utopia, the free cities of Europe would have elected their own officials, and the designated Electors chose the German Emperor, but for the most part in

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

47

More’s world the chief offices passed by inheritance from father to son, and numerous others, including the offices More attributes to himself, were by appointment from hereditary kings and nobles. In Utopia, 30 by contrast, the most basic office, the syphogrant or phylarch, is elected by each group of thirty families—one block and dining unit—for a one-year term; one presumes that voting belongs to the male head of the household, but the text here does not say. The principal job of the syphogrants is to ensure that people work hard at their chosen trades; natural indolence apparently has not been conquered in Utopia, but it is hard to imagine the scoldings are too severe if those who administer them have to stand for reelection, and most are said to lead by example, working at a trade even though their office would exempt them. Tranibors are annually elected over groups of ten syphogrants, though it isn’t clear whether the syphogrants elect their tranibors or whether all the householders get to vote; tranibors tend to be reelected, Raphael explains, unless a serious reason emerges for their defeat. The two hundred syphogrants elect the prince, who holds office for life, provided he is not suspected of aiming to institute a tyranny. The twenty tranibors meet with the prince at least every other day as a senate, and they bring a pair of syphogrants to each meeting; the syphogrants have their own assembly as well. Rules forbid precipitous action by the senate, even immediate debate on newly introduced bills, and the tranibors and prince are forbidden on pain of death to conduct public business outside the appointed assemblies, to prevent conspiracies. The syphogrants, however, are allowed to consult with the households and with one another before informing the senate of their views. Offices are structured this way in every city on the island—there are fifty-four nearly identical cities—but the cities also send three representatives every year to the capital for a general council. There is no mention of a central prince or commanding general, even though the Utopians go to war as an entire country, the council apparently having charge of their common affairs. To serve in the higher offices—tranibor or prince, and also as ambassador or priest—one has to be a scholar. 31 Scholars are nominated by the priests and chosen by the syphogrants on a secret ballot; they are freed from ordinary trades and labor, but obliged to attend—perhaps also to deliver?—the various lectures given every morning before dawn to anyone who chooses to come. Craftsmen can enter the literary class if diligent study gains them election, and as noted before, scholars can be demoted if they fail to live up to their promise. Raphael says explicitly that both men and women attend lectures, and it appears that both can be designated members of the literary class. Unless they hold a higher office, the scholars mingle with the others at the common tables. The fields of scholarship include music, dialectic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and medicine, though apparently not logic; “In intellectual pursuits they are tireless,” Raphael reports of the Utopians, and they devour whatever European literature comes into their hands. 32 Moral

48

Chapter 3

philosophy and religion are matters of particular concern, though the latter, while monotheistic, is simple in its precepts and tolerant of a variety of practices. Each city elects thirteen priests, one of whom is designated the head priest, by popular vote, and these are consecrated for life; women are eligible for the priesthood, though usually only elderly widows are so chosen, and the wives of priests are specially honored in any event. The priests can exercise no force beyond excommunicating “flagrant sinners.” Their chief office is to teach the young, but they also preside over worship, “act as censors of public morality,” and (half of them at a time) go to war with their countrymen, not to fight but to restrain their own country’s soldiers from acts of cruelty, a practice which earns them great respect from abroad. 33 Little is reported about the duties of officials besides the priests—they punish wrongdoers, deliberate on public measures, and elect one another, but that is about all we learn—so it is difficult to say too much about their statesmanship beyond that they are expected to act discreetly and maintain a certain dignity at table and in public ceremonies. They do earn a reputation for incorruptibility thanks to the absence of money, such that neighboring countries often hire Utopian magistrates to serve in their governments for terms of one to five years. When the Utopians go to war, however, they engage in acts that could hardly be called statesmanlike. In the first place, they make no treaties, holding that “the kinship of nature is as good as a treaty.” 34 Second, they are said to despise war, so they fight only in selfdefense or to punish someone who has wronged one of their neighbors; Raphael says that they pay strict attention to justice in deciding when to fight, but then tells of a recent war where “the rights and the wrongs of the quarrel” between two of their neighbors were unclear, despite which the Utopians favored one side and eventually turned the other into slaves after defeat. 35 Third, they fight by stratagem rather than by rules of honor, offering huge bounties to those who assassinate enemy leaders, stirring up dissension among them, hiring fierce mercenaries, and the like, all before sending their own troops into battle; even when their own troops fight, they excel at laying ambushes and inventing war machines. Again, no officer is mentioned who leads the troops or even devises the forms of deceit, although after conquering a country, they leave behind managers of forfeited estates, who are allowed to “live on the properties in great style and conduct themselves as mandates,” provided they return a profit to the treasury at home. 36 In short, statesmanship of any distinction appears to be as absent from Utopia as it is from Raphael’s own concerns; the island seems rather to be a machine that runs of itself, its people “easy-going, cheerful, clever, and [fond of] their leisure.” 37 There is, or was, one exception, and that is the founder, Utopus. Like an ancient legislator on the model of Lycurgus of Sparta or Solon of Athens, he seems to have devised the country’s laws and established its basic practices,

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

49

though this is not explicitly said concerning most matters. Raphael mentions four great actions he took in establishing Utopia. First, he conquered the territory, at the time a peninsula with rugged coasts and “rude, uncouth inhabitants”; he thus began not as a lawgiver but as a warrior king. 38 Second, he had his men and his new subjects work together to cut a channel fifteen miles wide, making the land he named after himself into an island. Raphael remarks that by mingling his troops and those they vanquished in the work they would not see labor as disgraceful, a trait that on the whole the Utopians still possess; he does not remark, as commentators do, on the magnitude, not to say implausibility, of digging the English Channel, so to speak, by hand. Third, Utopus founded the city of Amaurot, still the capital and apparently the prototype for all the others. The key here was laying out the blocks and the common gardens, establishing the basic pattern of neighborhood life without requiring more than the circumstances would allow. Raphael says that Utopus “left to posterity matters of adornment and improvement such as he saw could not be perfected in one man’s lifetime,” and indeed over time the housing stock has improved, from mud-plastered cabins to three-story houses made of stone or brick. 39 In contrast to European countries, where the vanity of owners causes structures to be built and torn down for arbitrary reasons, Utopian houses, held in common and traded every decade, have improved year by year and block by block. These three deeds are mentioned at the beginning of Raphael’s narration, but the fourth appears only at the end. Utopus, he tells us, is responsible for Utopia’s practice of religious toleration. Discovering that religious sects had been fighting one another before his conquest, in fact making the land vulnerable to that very conquest, He prescribed by law that everyone may cultivate the religion of his choice, and strenuously proselytize for it too, provided he does so quietly, modestly, rationally and without insulting others. If persuasion fails, no one may resort to abuse or violence; and anyone who fights wantonly about religion is punished by exile or slavery. 40

Lest this seem only to show concern for temporal interests against spiritual needs, the narrator adds that Utopus made this law in the interest of religion itself. Not being sure “whether God likes diverse and manifold forms of worship and hence inspires different peoples with different views,” but knowing it folly to try to force conformity, he “left the whole matter open, allowing each person to choose what he would believe,” foreseeing that “if one religion is really true and the rest are false, the truth will sooner or later emerge and prevail by its natural strength, if only men will consider the matter reasonably and moderately.” As with so much in Utopia, the event seems to vindicate both possibilities: The Utopians converge in their belief in

50

Chapter 3

one God, in immortality of the soul and in reward or punishment in an afterlife, but they differ in their worship and in some other religious tenets and practices, so for example there is a celibate sect, honored for their piety if not for their reasonableness. If there is little statesmanship exercised by the ordinary officers in Utopia, even a suspension or corruption of statesmanship in war, Utopus by contrast seems designed to teach important lessons, beyond recognition of the necessity of conquest in a founding—not unmentioned by the ancients—and of artificial action to set one people apart from others if they are to be formed by good laws. Both in laying out the city and in establishing the law of religious toleration, Utopus looks long into the future and is content merely to establish a basic framework upon which future generations might build. This is explicit in the account of the houses, which he expected to grow stronger, more spacious, and more handsome over the years, as indeed they have. It is implicit perhaps in the account of religion, which seems to develop in a rational direction over the course of Utopian history, towards worship of one God, an absence of animal sacrifice, precepts that encourage simplicity, gentleness, and happiness, and the like. Commentators make much of the mix of similarities and differences between Utopian religion and orthodox Christianity in More’s day, not least because of his own later activities, strenuous and sacrificial, in defense of the latter, but the important thing to remember is that Utopia is presented as the philosopher’s best regime, the best that can be known by reason alone, in the absence of divine revelation. It is significant that the Utopians are attracted to Christianity when it is introduced to them by Raphael and his companions—perhaps in spite of its being introduced by them, given Hythloday’s heterodoxy—and that they dispatch a convert who seeks to damn the unconverted as quickly as Cardinal Morton dismissed the intolerant friar. 41 That a civil ruler like Utopus should not presume to settle matters of religion on his own authority seems to be a lesson one might draw from the discussion of his policy of toleration that is not contradicted by the dramatic events of More’s later career. LITERARY STATESMANSHIP The three images of the statesman in Utopia discussed thus far are the images More draws for his readers. The fourth and final image I would mention is the image More establishes as author of the book. Since he makes himself a character in the dialogue, narrates the dialogue, and introduces it with letters that entangle fact and fiction, this is an image More invites us to consider. Actually we have considered that image in part: More presents himself as a traditional statesman, educated by a traditional statesman, anchored in the Ciceronian tradition. But in creating a philosophic counter-statesman, of

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

51

course, he puts the traditional statesman in dialogue with the philosopher, then publishes this dialogue for the world. This last act is what I want to call More’s literary statesmanship, and I do not believe it is traditional, but rather the introduction of something new. The first moment in this statesmanship is one that has been widely noticed: More’s participation in, indeed his being exemplary of, the humanist movement in his day to educate statesmen in classical literature and the liberal arts. Utopia praises the liberally educated Giles and Morton and Hythloday, and the prefatory letters of course praise the author himself. The Utopians themselves are educated in this way, at least the scholars among them, and their economic institutions are designed to multiply the leisure time available for a liberal education, and to multiply the number of citizens who have leisure. With Utopia More not only endorses such a project but contributes to it, for the book points the reader back to a wealth of sources and stands on its own as a great work of literature, a flight of imagination that induces serious thought about serious things, delightfully. Even today the book can be profitably taught to incoming students of politics, for it both introduces students to the pleasure of reading and makes the case for its value—and to the perplexity of reading, the discovery that conventional understandings are not sufficient to address the problems of any age. A second moment of literary statesmanship concerns More’s membership through the publication of Utopia in the emerging republic of letters. This new regime, made possible by the new technology of book printing, changed the character of European intellectual life, and More was an early and eager participant. Indeed, as a holder of office and now author of a book on politics, More indicates his awareness of the potentially political dimension of this development. The movement was cosmopolitan, to be sure, and Utopia is a cosmopolitan book, in its setting, in its characters, in its prefatory materials, and in its publication history. Whether More anticipates the negative as well as positive consequences of the technological development of the book trade is hard to say, though he was to spend the last decade of his life engaged in literary controversies that would have been unimaginable without modern publication. He indicates, through Raphael’s mention of the compass, his awareness that new technologies can have bad social consequences as well as good. 42 He likewise has Raphael mention in passing the use of books by philosophers to give advice to rulers, though he despairs of getting them to read and understand, unless, as Plato said, kings themselves become philosophers. 43 What More surely knew, even before the coinage of the term above is that the literary world is necessarily republican; reputations might grab attention, resources are needed to bring a text to light and see it distributed, but in the end it is an enterprise of many minds pushing against one another and pulling together, not subject to a superintending authority besides public opinion or the opinion of the literary class. In that way, Utopia is

52

Chapter 3

not merely an imagined regime; it models elements of the emerging literary world. How, then, does More’s literary statesmanship conform to his character as a Christian humanist? It surely engages a world outside the institutional Church if not necessarily outside of Christendom. It is an alternative, a third way, beyond the scholastic philosophy of the universities, then firmly within the Church structure, and the civil philosophy of the traditional statesman that More as a character praises in book one. As More’s imaginary Utopia appears to revive the ideal of the city after its demotion by Augustine, More’s literary Utopia helps revive the tradition of political philosophy independent of theology and of the schools. Precisely if the imaginary ideal is ironic, the literary project is in earnest. Whether the question of the relation of the City of God and the human city is perennial to the Christian, or whether it was a question of particular importance in More’s age—as it is in ours—Utopia is a book, not for every statesman’s pocket, but for every statesman’s shelf. NOTES 1. Thomas More, Utopia: Latin Text and English Translation, ed. George M. Logan, Robert M. Adams, and Clarence H. Miller (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 2–3. Unless otherwise noted, translations are from this edition. 2. Pope John Paul II, Apostolic Letter Issued Motu Proprio Proclaiming Saint Thomas More Patron of Statesmen and Politicians (October 31, 2000) http://www.vatican.va/holy_ father/john_paul_ii/motu_proprio/documents/hf_jp-ii_motu-proprio_20001031_thomas-more_ en.html, accessed 2/10/14; Latin version: http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/ motu_proprio/documents/hf_jp-ii_motu-proprio_20001031_thomas-more_lt.html; accessed 2/ 10/14. 3. See especially the prefatory letters of Erasmus and Bude, Utopia, pp. 5, 9. 4. Utopia, 41. 5. Gerard B. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), ch. 5. The account in this and succeeding paragraphs is indebted to Wegemer’s analysis. 6. Utopia, 43. 7. Utopia, 45 and note 9. See also Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship, pp. 100–101. 8. Utopia, 51. 9. Utopia, 53 [translation altered]. 10. For an interesting discussion of Morton’s role in Utopia, as well as his appearance in More’s History of Richard III, see Travis Curtright, The One Thomas More (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012), ch. 2–3. 11. George M. Logan, The Meaning of More’s Utopia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983). 12. Utopia, 57. 13. Utopia, 69, 75. 14. Utopia, 79. 15. Utopia, 95–97. 16. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship, ch. 6. 17. Utopia, 83. 18. Utopia, 91–93. 19. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, book III, 1112b12.

Images of the Statesman in Utopia

53

20. Utopia, 101. 21. Utopia, 99. 22. Plato, Republic, book III, 414b-c; book VII, 540d–541a; book IX, 592b. 23. For a somewhat different discussion of the relation of Plato, Augustine, and More, see Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship, ch. 7. 24. Utopia, 173. 25. Utopia, 131. 26. Republic, book II, 372c–d. 27. Utopia, 241–245. 28. Utopia, 247 [translation altered]. 29. Utopia, 249. 30. The discussion of the offices can be found in Utopia, 121–25, with additional details on p. 145. 31. The discussion of the scholarly or literary class begins at Utopia, 131. 32. Utopia, 181. 33. Utopia, 231–33. 34. Utopia, 201. 35. Utopia, 203. 36. Utopia, 217. 37. Utopia, 179. 38. Utopia, 111. 39. Utopia, 119–21. 40. Utopia, 223. The quotations in the following paragraph are from the same page. 41. Utopia, 221–23. 42. Utopia, 49. 43. Utopia, 83.

Chapter Four

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True On the Political Tales of Plato’s Critias and More’s Hythlodaeus Jeffrey S. Lehman

Among the many classical sources for Thomas More’s Utopia—Herodotus, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca, Plutarch, Tacitus, Lucian—the most prominent is undoubtedly Plato; and of Plato’s dialogues, the vast majority of Utopia scholarship has concerned itself with the Republic and the Laws. 1 Without denying the extent of More’s use of the Republic and Laws, we do well to consider two other dialogues as sources: Timaeus and Critias. In these dialogues, the character Critias tells a tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis; both the tale and its teller shed considerable light on More’s Utopia, especially the dialectical interchange between Raphael Hythlodaeus and Morus in Book I. When commenting on the dialogical elements of Utopia, current scholarship has tended to focus on Plato’s Republic or the dialogues of Cicero or Lucian 2 as the principal source(s) for the rich “Dialogue on Counsel,” typically attending to the dialogue of Book I and the relation of Book I to Book II in rhetorical terms. 3 While these rhetorical accounts are insightful, they seldom note the presence and power of dialectics in More’s Utopia. 4 Rather than simply creating an imitation of Lucianic dialogue or an exercise in deliberative rhetoric, More, like Plato before him, employs dialectics and irony to assist the reader in “the highest work proper to the soul, the work of perceiving the true and the good.” 5 For More, a statesman must discern—he must “see”—the true and the good in order to guide the ship of state with prudence. When encountering dialogical literature, then, the reader must exercise his faculty of judgment, carefully weighing various points of view—both 55

56

Chapter 4

those found within a text and those in “divers” texts—in an attempt to discern “the very nature of things.” 6 This “active participation through dialectic study” is a natural antidote to pride, which tends to direct one towards one’s own preconceived ideas of the true and the good and thereby forestalls the exercise of prudent judgment and its pursuit of what is true and good simpliciter. 7 Alongside dialectics, both Plato and More place irony. 8 Among other things, the presence of irony in great dialogues stimulates the reader to carefully weigh the words he encounters: Are they to be taken at face value? Do they point in the opposite direction of their surface meaning? In context, what other alternatives might there be? These and related questions come to mind when a reader encounters irony in the work of a true dialogical artist. Together, irony and dialectics serve to sharpen one’s sense of prudent judgment, thereby opening the way for perception of the true and the good. In what follows, I will examine how the aforementioned general connection between dialectics, irony and prudence is manifest in specific texts of Plato and Thomas More. Significantly, when comparing the political tales of Plato’s Critias and Thomas More’s Hythlodaeus, one finds remarkable parallels between Plato and More as literary artists teaching political truths. In Plato’s Timaeus and Critias, Critias tells a tale of primeval Athens and Atlantis, a tale which Critias insists is “passing strange . . . yet wholly true” (20d). In More’s Utopia, Hythlodaeus—a man “learned in nonsense”—tells an extended tale of Utopia—an ideal regime which is literally “no place.” By examining the tales, the bearers of the tales, and the disposition each author establishes in the reader in the careful consideration of the tales, we see two great literary artists employing the art of words in order to foster the growth of political virtue in the souls of their readers. CRITIAS’ TALE OF PRIMEVAL ATHENS AND ATLANTIS “Listen then, Socrates, to a tale which, though passing strange, is yet wholly true . . .” (Timaeus 20d). 9 Thus begins Critias’ account of primeval Athens and her great adversary, Atlantis. Among other things, the tale tells of the political virtues of the ancient Athenians and their victory over a proud and grasping Atlantic foe. It is a tale told in two installments—the former found near the beginning of Plato’s Timaeus, a “dialogue” which is largely a monologue by Timaeus on cosmology; the latter being the central topic of the Critias, another curious “dialogue” dedicated to a fuller retelling of the tale of primeval Athens and Atlantis—but which nevertheless breaks off midsentence (Critias 121c). What is the reader to make of this “passing strange” tale? In order to find out, we must consider the tale, 10 the teller of the tale, and the combined effect teller and tale have on the reader.

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

57

Before we examine these matters, though, let us establish more clearly the immediate and broader context of Critias’ speech. Near the beginning of the Timaeus, Socrates offers a recapitulation of a discourse that he and the others present had the day before concerning the best kind of constitution (politeia) for a city (17c–19a); and he requests to see that city “alive” and “in motion” (19b). 11 The tale of Critias is offered in reply to Socrates’ request (20d). Furthermore, we should not overlook the broader context implied by Socrates’ recapitulation. Politeia is the Greek title for Plato’s Republic, and the city Socrates describes here bears a very striking resemblance to the “city in speech” outlined in that dialogue. So dramatically speaking, Critias’ tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis follows on the heels of the discussion of the best politeia in the Republic. 12 Now, on to the tale itself: Initially, one might be tempted to think that Critias’ claim to the veracity of his tale is to be taken as it stands, particularly since he describes it as a logos (as opposed to mythos; see 20d). 13 On the other hand, given the fact that he feels the need to insist on the truth of his tale from the opening line, perhaps we ought to hold his claims in some measure of suspicion—or even amusement. Furthermore, as Donald Zeyl points out, Critias’ obsession with asserting the truth of his tale preoccupies him throughout its telling (see, for example, 20d8, 26c7–d1, 26e4–5, and 21a5). 14 Indeed, Critias goes to such great lengths to convince us of the truth of his tale that it can hardly be taken at face value. Next, consider the provenance of Critias’ tale. In order to establish the trustworthiness of his story, Critias gives an account of its transmission, summarized by James Arieti below: First Egyptian priests passed [the tale] down to Solon (23D). Solon told the tale to his friend Dropides, Critias’s great-grandfather; Dropides told it to his son Critias (the grandfather of the dialogue’s Critias). The Critias of the dialogue heard the tale when ten years old from his grandfather on the day of the Apaturia, called “Curiotis” [sic] (21B). So the story about the Athenians is cast into the fog merely by long passage of time. The fact that the Apaturia is a festival of Dionysus is also suspicious, as Dionysus is the god of wine and comedy and tragedy (imaginative poetry). 15

In examining Critias’ account of the tale’s transmission, we find a sizeable temporal distance between the original tale and Critias himself. Furthermore, the original tale was told to Solon some 9,000 years after the events in question! Given these facts, it would be surprising indeed to find that Critias’ tale faithfully recounts the story of ancient Athens and Atlantis—that is, if these regimes existed at all. And finally, as Arieti points out, connecting the original telling of the story with the Apaturia hardly helps the reader to take Critias’ account seriously. 16

58

Chapter 4

In addition to these general problems regarding the trustworthiness of the tale, there are specific problems regarding the credibility of Atlantis, Athens, or both. As for Atlantis, its very name probably would have carried the original Greek reader’s mind to unknown mythical places. 17 Purportedly located beyond the Pillars of Heracles, Atlantis would naturally be perceived as remote, mysterious, and probably fanciful. As for ancient Athens, it should make the alert reader more than a little suspicious when Critias’ account of the primeval city matches so precisely the account of the ideal city in the Republic, thereby displaying “alive” and “in motion” the very city in speech of yesterday’s discourse. 18 Finally, both ancient Athens and Atlantis are conveniently beyond the reach of empirical scrutiny. This is because “there occurred portentous earthquakes and floods, and one grievous day and night befell them, when the whole body of [the Athenian ] warriors was swallowed up by the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner was swallowed by the sea and vanished . . .” (25c/d). 19 Thus, not a tangible trace of either regime remains. We have only the tale and its teller to vouch for the tale’s authenticity. Is it any wonder that Aristotle, speaking of Plato’s Atlantis, remarked (perhaps with a wry smile), “the man who invented it also made it disappear?” 20 Finally, perhaps the most devastating blow to the credibility of Critias’ tale (and, by extension, Critias himself as bearer of the tale) comes precisely when he is trying his utmost to assure us of it. Near the end of his monologue, Critias says that he began to recall parts of the tale even while Socrates was speaking the day before; yet due to the lapse of time, his recollection of it was not sufficiently clear (25e–26a). Therefore, he decided to go over it in his mind carefully while Socrates was speaking (that is, during the speech of the previous day); then he related the tale to Timaeus and Hermocrates on the way home; and finally he pondered it during the night until he had recovered the whole story (26a–b). Critias then muses: Marvelous, indeed, is the way in which the lessons of one’s childhood “grip the mind,” as the saying is. For myself, I know not whether I could recall to mind all that I heard yesterday; but as to the account I heard such a great time ago, I should be immensely surprised if a single detail of it has escaped me. I had the greatest pleasure and amusement in hearing it, and the old man was eager to tell me, since I kept questioning him repeatedly, so that the story is stamped firmly on my mind like the encaustic designs of an indelible painting (26b–c; emphasis added). 21

We will return to Critias’ pleasure and amusement in hearing the tale below. For now, notice that Critias’ final line alone would be enough effectively to undermine any credibility he has sought to maintain. The imagery involved here immediately brings to mind the distinction made in the Republic between the inferior “stamping” education in Book II (see 377b) and the superi-

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

59

or “turning” education illustrated in the image of the cave in Book VII (see 514a ff.). On the one hand, the conception underlying the stamping education is that knowledge is acquired when something external is imparted to the soul from without—as a seal is impressed upon wax. On the other hand, the conception behind the turning education is that knowledge is attained only through a “turning around” of the soul—a reorientation to reality. After introducing the latter type of education, the former type is set aside and is said to be as ridiculous as trying to put sight into blind eyes (518b). Thus, for anyone who has carefully read the Republic, Critias could not have said anything that would do more to undercut the credibility of his tale and himself. Our discussion of the tale of Critias has led us quite naturally to a consideration of the teller of the tale. Indeed, each observation about the tale tells us something about Critias himself: 1) he is a teller of a “passing strange” tale, yet he insists that it is “wholly true”; 2) he tells a story of dubious provenance, relating details of events supposedly taking place well over 9,000 years ago—and with no corroborating written record; 3) he expounds upon ancient Athens and Atlantis (with each description exhibiting reasons for the reader to distrust its historicity) and says both regimes were destroyed by cataclysmic events—thereby conveniently removing them from the realm of empirical investigation; and 4) he claims that his account is “stamped firmly on [his] mind like the encaustic designs of an indelible painting.” In short, he tells a dubious tale, and he expects to be believed solely on the basis of his own authority. So much for what the tale can tell us about the character of Critias. What else can we glean from the dialogues? As in other dialogues, in the Timaeus and Critias Plato uses specific names for interlocutors who would be familiar to his audience. These names and interlocutors would typically bring along with them a web of prior associations. Curiously, it is not clear just which “Critias” Plato has in mind in these two dialogues. It could be either the Critias who was one of the Thirty Tyrants in league with the Spartans (in which case Plato “erred” by two generations when he traced the family lineage back to Solon), or the Critias who was the grandfather of Critias the tyrant (in which case it is difficult to see why Plato would have chosen the man as an interlocutor). Scholars are divided on the question. Though I think the former Critias is the most plausible, it is not my purpose to defend that position here. Regardless of which Critias is in view, we get a fairly clear picture of his character from the dialogues themselves. Whether or not the interlocutor Critias is the tyrant Critias, he certainly acts the part. In order to see how this is so, we need to place the Critias of the dialogues alongside the Timaeus of the dialogues and compare the two. After giving his recapitulation of yesterday’s discourse and requesting to see that city and its citizens alive and in motion, Socrates disqualifies the

60

Chapter 4

poets, the Sophists, and himself as capable of delivering the requested speech. The spokesman must exhibit at once the virtues of a philosopher and a statesman—“both by word and deed” (19d/e). At this point, Socrates reviews the credentials of each of the proposed speakers. His description of Timaeus’ credentials comes first and the space devoted to it is more than that of Critias and Hermocrates combined: For our friend Timaeus is a native of a most well-governed State, Italian Locris, and inferior to none of its citizens either in property or in rank; and not only has he occupied the highest offices and posts of honour in his State, but he has also attained, in my opinion, the very summit of eminence in all branches of philosophy (20a; emphasis added). 22

Clearly, then, Timaeus is at once a philosopher and a statesman. Compare this high acclamation to the “credentials” of Critias, who is simply said to be “no novice” in the subjects under consideration (20a). Following on the heels of Socrates’ commendation of Timaeus, this is faint praise indeed. The contrast between Timaeus and Critias continues throughout the dialogues. Whereas Critias boldly claims from the start to be telling a tale (that is, a logos) which, “though passing strange, is yet wholly true” (20d), Timaeus begins by invoking God (or “a god”; 27c). 23 And while Timaeus will initially refer to his own account as a logos (27c), by the end of the prelude he is calling it only an eikota mython—that is, a “likely story” (29d). 24 This comparison points out a fundamental difference between the two speakers. The words of Timaeus are characterized by modesty and discretion. Those of Critias are characterized by arrogance and presumption. Consider, for example, the context of Timaeus’ statement about his “likely story”: Wherefore, Socrates, if in our treatment of a great host of matters regarding the Gods and the generation of the Universe we prove unable to give accounts that are always in all respects self-consistent and perfectly exact, be thou not surprised; rather we should be content if we can furnish accounts that are inferior to none in likelihood, remembering that both I who speak and you who judge are but human creatures, so that it becomes us to accept the likely [story] of these matters and forbear to search beyond it (29c/d). 25

Ironically, once Timaeus has delivered his extended monologue on cosmology and passes the baton to Critias, the latter—without even a word of thanks for the brilliant speech of Timaeus—abruptly begins thus: I accept the task, Timaeus; but the request which you yourself made at the beginning, when you asked for indulgence on the ground of the magnitude of the theme that you were about to expound, that same request I also make now on my own behalf, and I claim indeed to be granted a still larger measure of indulgence in respect of the discourse I am about to deliver. I am sufficiently

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

61

aware that the request I am about to make is decidedly presumptuous and less civil than is proper, but none the less it must be uttered (Critias 106 c–107a). 26

The foregoing, it must be noted, is only the preamble to Critias’ plea for indulgence. The entire plea runs nearly two pages in translation! 27 Whereas Timaeus is modest and diplomatic, Critias—by his own account—is “decidedly presumptuous and less civil than is proper.” Here as elsewhere in the dialogues, Timaeus exhibits political virtues in his words and deeds; Critias does not. 28 Furthermore, in both dialogues we find the character Critias placing himself in the limelight and grasping for control. First of all, Critias presents himself as the benefactor of the whole group, given that he will provide the political tale requested by Socrates. He magnanimously shares his story with his friends beforehand, “so that they might share in [his] rich provision of discourse” (Timaeus 26c). 29 Critias conceives Timaeus’ treatment of cosmology as but a prelude to his own discussion of the ancient Athenians. Of course, what we actually have are a couple of short vignettes—one a prelude, one a postlude—which serve as amusing bookends (some would even say diversions) to the impressive cosmological monologue of Timaeus. In addition to having an over-inflated view of his dialogical importance, Critias also shows signs of wanting to control the course of the conversation. Consider the strange, heavy-handed maneuver whereby Critias first delivers an abbreviated version of the tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis and then outlines an order of speeches which not only enables him to speak again, but also gives him the last word. Reflecting upon this strange course of dialogical events, Arieti muses, “I wonder whether Plato is simply satirizing Critias’s tyrannical style.” 30 Indeed, this seems to be exactly what he is doing. Just as Timaeus’ words and deeds embody political virtues, so too Critias’ words and deeds embody political vices. 31 How do the foregoing considerations fit together to lead the careful reader toward prudent judgment regarding Critias and his tale? Over the course of our discussion, we have carefully weighed Critias’ claim that his tale is “passing strange…yet wholly true” against his own words and deeds as well as the words and deeds of other interlocutors. In the process, such dialectical weighing of one thing against another has inevitably led to the discovery of ironies on multiple levels. To be sure, dialectics and irony lead us to a deeper discernment regarding Critias and his tale. But what, in the end, are we to make of Critias’ claim that his tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis is “wholly true”? Are we simply to conclude that it is wholly false? To further complicate the irony, consider the fact that, while the reader is clearly led to mistrust Critias and his tale, the other interlocutors do not challenge the truth of the tale. In fact, Socrates goes so far as to say that it is “no invented fable but genuine history” (26e). Thus, in addition to the ironies already noted, we

62

Chapter 4

must add the irony that while the interlocutors seem prepared to accept the truth of the tale, the reader is certainly led by Plato in the opposite direction. Is there, then, a sense in which Critias’ tale is “wholly true?” In examining the details of Critias’ tale, some readers have noticed striking parallels with historic Athens of the fifth century BC. For example, Critias’ ancient Athens is presented as a politically virtuous regime that heroically defends itself and others from a proud and grasping imperialist foe. Thus, we can view “ancient Athens” as an image of historic Athens during her successful repulse of the imperial Persians during the GrecoPersian Wars. 32 On the other hand, if one has most recent events in mind, perhaps the more accurate portrait of the then present day Athens would be the imperialist aggressor, Atlantis. By becoming proud and tyrannical, the Athens of history brought upon herself and her “allies” the bloody and protracted Peloponnesian War. 33 Of course, these similarities invite us to weigh “ancient Athens” against “ancient Atlantis.” Furthermore, we must dialectically weigh both of these against historic Athens of the fifth century. Ironically, “ancient Athens” and “Atlantis” each is and is not historic Athens. 34 These dialectical comparisons, it would seem, are meant to lead the attentive reader toward prudent judgment regarding the virtues and vices of historic Athens—both the contemporary city and the city of the not-so-distant past. If this interpretation is correct, then Critias’ tale is in a sense “passing strange, yet wholly true”; and Socrates is justified in claiming that Critias has presented “genuine history.” At its heart, then, the tale of Critias presents the reader with images of opposing regimes. By means of dialectics and irony, Critias’ tale sharpens the reader’s sense of prudent judgment in political matters. We must not forget, however, that Plato also presents us here with rival conceptions of the statesman. Undoubtedly, we are meant to weigh the “words and deeds” of Critias and Timaeus against one another, thereby coming to greater understanding of the virtues proper to the statesman. So Critias and his tale—both inventions of Plato—serve to foster the growth of political prudence in the soul of the reader. HYTHLODAEUS’ TALE OF UTOPIA With Critias’ tale of primeval Athens and Atlantis fresh in our minds, let us turn our attention to Hythlodaeus’ tale of Utopia. As with Critias’ tale, we will pay careful attention to the tale, the bearer of the tale, and related matters in order to see how it fosters the growth of prudent judgment in the reader by means of irony and dialectics. In addition to these “internal” considerations, we will also compare Hythlodaeus’ tale of Utopia with the tale of Critias just

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

63

discussed. By so doing, certain remarkable similarities between Plato and More as literary artists teaching political truths will come to light. Perhaps the best place to begin is with a dialectical examination of the title of the entire work: “Concerning the Best State of a Commonwealth and the New Island of Utopia.” 35 At first glance, one might assume that an inquiry into the “best state of a commonwealth” simply is a discussion of the “new island of Utopia.” (After all, this is apparently the perspective on the question defended by the character Hythlodaeus. 36) But there are other possibilities. Perhaps what author More means is that Utopia concerns both the best state of a commonwealth and the new island of Utopia. In this case, the two would not necessarily be the same thing. (At least some distance between the best commonwealth and Utopia itself is implied by character Morus’ response to Hythlodaeus at the end of Book II. 37) From the opening page, then, More puts the reader to work, inviting dialectical engagement with the text in order prudently to weigh the words of the author. We must keep these alternative readings of the title in mind as we consider the tale of Hythlodaeus within the broader context of Utopia. 38 Before examining the tale itself, let us briefly consider its context. The tale proper occupies the better part of Book II of Utopia. 39 In Book I, Peter Giles introduces Morus to Hythlodaeus, and the three discuss a variety of social and political problems then plaguing Western Europe. Within this broad dialogical context, the interlocutors consider the particular question of whether the true philosopher should involve himself in political life by offering his wise counsel to kings. 40 Morus advocates such involvement, citing the authority of Plato, who “thinks that commonwealths will be happy only when philosophers become kings or kings become philosophers” 41 —a clear reference to the ideal regime of Plato’s Republic. 42 For his part, Hythlodaeus adamantly rejects the notion of such involvement (a fact to which we will return below); but he nevertheless boasts of the political virtues of the Utopians, a people who “actually practice” the “kind of thing that Plato sketches in his Republic.” 43 Hythlodaeus’ references to Utopia and its citizens become more frequent toward the end of Book I, and the other interlocutors implore him to further describe the island to them. Indeed, they want to know “everything” about Utopia. 44 The three decide to break for lunch and reconvene to hear the tale of Hythlodaeus in the afternoon. Book I ends as Hythlodaeus is about to begin. Thus, a brief consideration of context reveals the tale’s connection to the question of the philosopher’s involvement in politics; and this question, in turn, connects the tale of Hythlodaeus to the ideal commonwealth of Plato’s Republic. Significantly, both the tale of Critias and the tale of Hythlodaeus have Plato’s discussion of the ideal commonwealth as a background. And both seek to present that ideal commonwealth “alive” and “in motion.”

64

Chapter 4

Turning to the tale itself, we find further similarities between the tales of Critias and Hythlodaeus. For Hythlodaeus, like Critias before him, presents his tale of Utopia as that of an historical regime. In fact, Hythlodaeus goes a step further than Critias by insisting that Utopia still exists. What is more, Hythlodaeus ends his fabulous tale of Utopia with a rather audacious claim: “The institutions [the Utopians] have adopted have made their community most happy and, as far as anyone can tell, capable of lasting forever”! 45 Whereas Critias’ tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis was but a fond memory for Critias, Hythlodaeus tells a tale of a regime that—“as far as anyone can tell”—may well prove eternal. For all Hythlodaeus’ protestations to the contrary, however, there are a number of reasons to distrust the historicity of Utopia. Initially, the trustworthiness of Hythlodaeus’ tale seems to be on sure footing. Hythlodaeus is said to be Portuguese by birth and to have “accompanied Vespucci on the last three of his four voyages, accounts of which are now common everywhere.” 46 As Critias had tethered his tale to a trustworthy source (he said it came originally from the mouth of the revered Athenian lawgiver, Solon), so too Hythlodaeus lends credence to his account of Utopia by placing his travels of the world within the broader context of the well-documented explorations of Amerigo Vespucci. On the last of these voyages with the great explorer, Hythlodaeus was permitted by Vespucci “after much persuasion and expostulation” to remain behind with a garrison “at the farthest point of the last voyage.” 47 It is after the departure of Vespucci that Hythlodaeus and his companions make their maiden voyage to the island of Utopia. Unfortunately, once Vespucci is gone the credibility of Hythlodaeus’ adventures becomes exceedingly tenuous. Although Hythlodaeus claims that he lived in Utopia for five years and that the island still exists, there is no tangible, empirically verifiable trace of Utopia in the entire dialogue. As R.S. Sylvester points out, we are left with the impression that “Utopia has no concrete, geographical existence.” He sums up the situation as follows: Because someone coughed too loudly, Peter Giles tells us, everyone missed Hythlodaeus’ words giving the latitude of the new land; Hythlodaeus himself never tells us precisely how he got to Utopia, nor do we know exactly what happened to him after he delivered his discourse at Antwerp. 48

In a letter to Giles attached as a preface to the first edition of Utopia, More himself remarks, [I]t did not occur to us to ask, nor to him to say, in what area of the New World Utopia is to be found. I wouldn’t have missed hearing about this for a sizeable sum of money, for I’m quite ashamed not to know even the name of the ocean where this island lies about which I’ve written so much. 49

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

65

So then, if Giles is to be believed, empirical evidence for Utopia is coughed (and whispered 50) out of existence. If More is to be believed, neither he nor Giles asked (nor did Hythlodaeus volunteer) where in the world Utopia was to be found—a rather conspicuous oversight given the fact that More and Giles implored Hythlodaeus to tell them “everything” about Utopia. 51 Furthermore, as with the name of Atlantis in Critias’ tale, both the name “Utopia” and other names within the tale ironically undercut any attempt to take the tale at face value. Literally, Utopia means “no place.” More himself notes this etymology and several others in a second letter to Giles that appeared in the 1517 edition of Utopia. Therein he defends the factual basis of the book in a way that is playfully ironic: But when he [a “very sharp fellow” who read Utopia] questions whether the book is fact or fiction, I find his judgment awry. . . . And so if I had merely given such names to the ruler, the river, the city and the island as would indicate to the knowing reader that the island was nowhere [Utopia], the city a phantom [Amaurot], the river waterless [Anyder] and the prince without a people [Ademos], that would have made the point. It wouldn’t have been hard to do, and would have been far more clever than what I actually did. If the veracity of a historian had not actually required me to do so, I am not so stupid as to have preferred those barbarous and meaningless names of Utopia, Anyder, Amaurot and Ademos. 52

Although using such fictitious names would have been “far more clever than what [he] actually did,” More was constrained by “the veracity of a historian” to record these nonsensical names. Dominic Baker-Smith, among many others, sees in More’s use of fanciful names a borrowing from Lucian, creating a “serio-comic” context for the tale of Utopia. 53 Though More may be employing Lucianic satire here, if we take seriously the relationship between Critias and Hythlodaeus, there is something deeper at work as well. As Arthur Kinney points out, we find two “Englands” in Utopia: These extremes, between a real England portrayed in a real Antwerp in Utopia I and an irrational Nowhere in Utopia II, retain a general opposition…. But the distinctions are not always sharp and absolute. For it is the fantastic Hythlodaeus who supplies much of the factually grounded criticism in Utopia I, while Nowhere in Utopia II resembles, in its pseudo-history, geography, and bicameral government, Thomas More’s own England rather than a strange and unknown land. 54

Significantly, just as the tale of Critias presents the reader with two cities of Athens, so also Utopia presents us with two Englands. To be sure, both Englands are not within the tale of Hythlodaeus. Nevertheless, both Plato and More present two pictures of a regime, each of which is and is not that

66

Chapter 4

regime in a variety of senses. This complex dialectical presentation of political regimes encourages the reader prudently to weigh the regimes against one another and thereby come to a clearer knowledge of how political principles apply in the “real world.” This brings us to one of the most crucial yet often misunderstood aspects of the dialectics of Utopia. While scholars readily note the ambiguity of the names of the principal interlocutors (see below), the irony of the Lucianic appellations of Utopian persons and places, and other humorous incongruities in the book, they fail to allow these ironies and ambiguities to do their proper dialectical work. If, like the tale of Critias, the tale of Hythlodaeus is “passing strange, yet wholly true,” then we will need to dialectically weigh each of Raphael Hythlodaeus’ words—not simply accept or reject them in toto. It is generally acknowledged that the observations he makes in Book I of the social and political problems then plaguing England are indeed astute. But simply because he can diagnose the social and political problems of his day, it does not follow that Hythlodaeus can see clearly the politically prudent solutions to these problems. This is not to say, of course, that his solutions are simply to be dismissed. Rather, it should give us reason for pause before accepting or rejecting them uncritically. 55 It also underscores the difficulty of the task of the statesman, who must carefully weigh political possibilities in order to discern the best way forward. For the statesman, there is a constant tension between the way things are and what we desire to see. More goes to great lengths to dramatize this tension. In the aforementioned letter to Giles, More casts himself as a Critias, implicitly raising the question of how to distinguish imagined regimes from actual ones. More writes: But I see, my dear Giles, some men are so suspicious that in their circumspect sagacity they can hardly be brought to believe what we simple-minded and credulous fellows wrote down of [Hythlodaeus’] story. My personal credibility among these people may be shaken, not to speak of my reputation as a historian. 56

More further protests that others beside he and Giles were there to hear Hythlodaeus; and if not even this satisfies the skeptic, More directs us to ask Hythlodaeus himself. Though More has not seen him since that day, he has been told by travelers out of Portugal that he is “still healthy and vigorous as ever.” 57 Thus, More not only juxtaposes imagined regimes with real ones, but also imagined persons with actual ones. Is there a real Hythlodaeus? Is there even a real Morus, who worries over his reputation as a “historian”? By fictionalizing himself speaking with a fictive Hythlodaeus, More’s Utopia is itself a “third removed” from reality, signifying again the connection with Plato. 58

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

67

In addition to the names in the tale and More’s insistence that he has recorded historical fact, there are other questions provoked by Hythlodaeus’ telling of the tale. First of all, consider the date of Utopia’s founding. Hythlodaeus informs us that written records of Utopia “began 1,760 years ago with the conquest of the island” by Utopus 59 —a date which coincides the founding of Utopia with the accession of Agis IV as King of Sparta, a man who was put to death for trying to institute egalitarian reforms. 60 Given the radically egalitarian nature of Utopia itself, this “coincidence” is most ironic. Second, it is certainly ironic that, in trying to convince his listeners of the political virtues of Utopia and her citizens, he repeatedly insists that the regime and its practices must be seen to be believed. 61 Of course, this is precisely what neither the interlocutors nor the readers of Utopia are ever able to do. These ironies challenge the reader to look beyond the surface of Hythlodaeus’ tale in order to weigh his audacious claims against the more sober statements of Morus. Once again, an examination of the tale invites a look at the teller of the tale. From the foregoing treatment of the tale, we have learned a few things about Hythlodaeus himself: 1) he insists that his tale of Utopia reveals a people who “actually practice” what “Plato sketches in the Republic”— namely, “the best state of a commonwealth”; 2) he contends that, not only does the commonwealth now exist, but also it is “capable of lasting forever”; 3) he situates his own travels within the well-documented explorations of Vespucci and yet “discovers” Utopia after Vespucci has gone, thereby removing the only possible trace of tangible evidence of the island (that is, outside his own testimony); 4) he tells the tale of an island whose name means “no place” and recounts cities, rivers, and rulers with dubious appellations; and 5) he repeatedly asserts that Utopia must be seen to be believed. Although I have referred to him throughout as Hythlodaeus, this is of course only his family name. Giles tells us early on that his full name is Raphael Hythlodaeus. Literally, the first name is Hebrew for “God has healed”; it could by extension mean “messenger of God.” The family name, on the other hand, is of Greek origin and means something like “learned in nonsense.” 62 This invites the reader to weigh the radically opposite connotations of his two names against one another as well as against his words and deeds in the dialogue. Curiously, a parallel ambivalence arises when we consider the name of the character Morus, which literally means “fool” in Greek. 63 While the name means “fool,” it refers to the character who allegedly wrote down Utopia and calls himself a “Most Distinguished and Eloquent Author” who is also “Citizen and Sheriff of the Famous City of London.” 64 By extension, of course, Morus refers—at least in some sense—to More himself. Significantly, the reader is asked to judge between a voice of nonsense and that of a fool when it comes to thinking about politics. 65 The ambiguities of both names invite a careful weighing of each character’s

68

Chapter 4

words and deeds in the dialogue against their respective names; it also invites a dialectical comparison of one character with the other. As we further consider the tale of Hythlodaeus itself, we find that much turns upon what the prudent observer does and does not “see.” Recall the ongoing irony of Hythlodaeus’ insistence that Utopia must be seen to be believed, even when neither Morus nor the reader ever sees anything of Utopia. Once Hythlodaeus has completed his huge tale of Utopia and Book II is drawing to a close, Morus offers a final assessment of the story: When Raphael had finished his story, I was left thinking that quite a few of the laws and customs he had described as existing among the Utopians were really absurd. These included their methods of waging war, their religious practices, as well as others of their customs; but my chief objection was to the basis of the whole system, that is, their communal living and their moneyless economy. 66

Morus is far from convinced by Hythlodaeus, particularly with reference to communal living and a moneyless economy. Significantly, in the last line of Utopia, Morus says, “I freely confess that in the Utopian commonwealth there are many features that in our own societies I would like rather than expect to see.” 67 Endeavoring to see clearly is the business of dialectics; it is also the business of the wise statesman. When we get to Morus’ lines at the end of Utopia, we must realize that the work of dialectics is meant to continue beyond the pages of the text itself if the true goal of political clear-sightedness is to be achieved. Throughout Hythlodaeus’ tale of Utopia, we find many details that, as Morus puts it, are “really absurd.” In addition to his chief objections against communal living and a moneyless economy, Morus also mentions the Utopians’ methods of waging war and their religious practices. At every turn, however, Hythlodaeus assures his interlocutors that the Utopians are well pleased with the arrangement. Of course, they must be since they too are the creation of his politically idealistic mind. Hythlodaeus has absolute coercive power over each and every person in Utopia. And why shouldn’t he? The answer to this question is found back in Morus’ exhortation of Hythlodaeus, where he urges him not to “force strange and untested ideas on people.” 68 And this is exactly what Hythlodaeus’ Utopian brainchild does. No one can object to the strange and untested ideas of Hythlodaeus’ ideal regime, since neither the interlocutors nor the readers have any way of seeing this regime “alive” and “in motion.” Any opposition to his Utopian dream has been edited out by Hythlodaeus. At the same time, there seems to be much that is “wholly true” in Hythlodaeus’ assessment of the social and political ills of his day. And while we may not be inclined to accept the Hythlodaen vision carte blanche, there is certainly a measure of truth in it as well. Recall too that it is the “Fool”

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

69

Morus who advocates political involvement. Is statesmanship folly? If not, where exactly is the truth in Utopia? The text before us artfully presents a dialectical exchange left “incomplete.” What would Morus the statesman say in response to Hythlodaeus? What should we say? Perhaps the only reliable path toward answers to these questions is a rereading of More’s Utopia, one accomplished in the presence of like-minded friends committed to dialectically pursuing a clearer vision of political things. READING UTOPIA ANEW While many readers of Utopia have correctly noted profound connections between it and Plato’s Republic and Laws, there has been little discussion of the connections between Utopia and Critias’ tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis in Plato’s Timaeus and Critias. This essay has been a small effort to further this discussion. In Critias’ tale of Athens and Atlantis and in Hythlodaeus’ tale of Utopia, we have seen two great writers of dialogues employing the art of words in order to foster the growth of political virtue—and prudence in particular—in the souls of their readers. As great authors, though, neither is satisfied with instruction alone. Reflecting upon when he first heard the tale of ancient Athens and Atlantis, Critias remarks that he “had the greatest pleasure and amusement in hearing it.” 69 Such is the common experience of most who read the tale. Likewise, in his subtitle to Utopia, More refers to it as “A Truly Golden Handbook, No Less Beneficial than Entertaining.” 70 These “passing strange yet wholly true” tales delight and instruct at the same time. In the process, they invite active dialectical engagement on the part of their readers. Perhaps it was just such a dialectical exercise that prepared More for the decisions he would make as a statesman. In writing Utopia, he invites any readers who choose to join him in thinking through the fundamental issues to gain a clearer view of political things. NOTES 1. When considering Plato as a source, the common working hypothesis is that the Utopia is in some sense an imitation of Plato’s Republic. Allusions to the Republic in Utopia are so widespread and commentary on these allusions is so voluminous that instances hardly need to be cited. For a reading of Utopia that takes the Laws rather than the Republic as More’s chief inspiration, see Thomas I. White, “Pride and the Public Good: Thomas More’s Use of Plato in Utopia,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 20:4 (October 1982): 329-354. 2. For an excellent treatment of the Lucianic elements, see Dominic Baker-Smith, “Reading Utopia,” in George Logan, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 141–67 (esp. 142–44). 3. One significant example is Elizabeth McCutcheon, who sees Book I as an instance of deliberative rhetoric, Book II as epideictic rhetoric, and the whole as “a fictionalized example of deliberative rhetoric, at once literary, philosophical, political, and social . . .” Elizabeth McCutcheon, “More’s Rhetoric,” in George Logan, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Thomas

70

Chapter 4

More (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 46–68 (esp. 54–57). The classic article on deliberative rhetoric in Utopia is George Logan, “Utopia and Deliberative Rhetoric,” Moreana 31:118–119 (June 1994), 103–120. 4. For the purposes of this essay, dialectics refers to the art of logical argumentation. A counterpart to rhetoric and yet distinct from it, dialectics is an open-ended pursuit of the true and the good among interlocutors who are mutually seeking these ends and willing to entertain any reasonable argument in their pursuit. The very nature of dialectical inquiry is to begin at a dialectical starting point, often a question agreed upon by the interlocutors, and proceed through the give and take of dialogue to seek an answer to the question. The spirit of Utopia is dialectical. To paraphrase R. S. Sylvester, the title poses a question rather than offers a solution (see R. S. Sylvester, “SI HYTHLODAEO CREDIMUS: Vision and Revision in Thomas More’s Utopia,” reprinted in John Dunn and Ian Harris, eds., More:I, Great Political Thinkers Series, pp. 203–05; I will return to this below). The entire dialogue is a dialectical exchange, one which draws the reader into the conversation and through active involvement seeks to sharpen his judgment on political matters. 5. Wegemer, 79. 6. More as cited in Wegemer, 81–82. 7. Wegemer, 83. For More, “the true work of reason begins by considering and contemplating varying opinions and images from different points of view, usually with the help of good conversation (the ordinary form of dialectics). Pride enters when one prematurely ends this process, arbitrarily taking one’s own image or opinion of the good as the definitive one” (89). 8. Though notoriously difficult to define, irony typically involves a distance between what is actually said or written and what the informed listener or reader is intended to glean from what is said or written. Wegemer directs us to H. W. Fowler’s explanation: “Irony is a form of utterance that postulates a double audience, consisting of one party that hearing shall hear and shall not understand, and another party that, when more is meant than meets the ear, is aware both of that more and of the outsider’s incomprehension” (Fowler 305). Alternatively, Christopher Rowe describes “Platonic irony” as “a form of expression which, when taken with its context, tends to undermine itself . . .” (95). It is not my purpose here to come up with an ironclad definition of irony. I take it for granted that the average reader of both Plato and More has a clear enough idea of what is generally meant by the term and can spot a good measure of the irony in these authors. 9. Bury translation, 29. Plato, Timaeus. Critias. Cleitophon. Menexenus. Epistles, trans. R. G. Bury (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929). 10. For the purposes of this essay, I will restrict my comments to those aspects of the tale which appear to me to lead the reader toward prudent judgment regarding the tale and its contents. 11. “Gladly would I listen,” says Socrates, “to anyone who should depict in words our State [polis] contending against others in those struggles which States wage; in how proper a spirit it enters upon war, and how in its warring it exhibits qualities such as befit its education and training in its dealings with each several State whether in respect of military actions or in respect of verbal negotiations” (19c; Bury translation, 23, 25). 12. For a detailed treatment of the dramatic continuity between the Republic and TimaeusCritias, see Hayden W. Ausland, “Who Speaks for Whom in the Timaeus-Critias?” in Who Speaks for Plato?: Studies in Platonic Anonymity, 191–95. 13. On the use of logos and mythos in Timaeus and Critias, see Christopher Rowe, “Myth, History, and Dialectic in Plato’s Republic and Timaeus-Critias,” in Richard Buxton, ed., From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 263–78. On the use of these words throughout the Platonic corpus, see Kathryn A. Morgan, Myth and Philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 242–89; and Penelope Murray, “What is a Mythos for Plato?” in Richard Buxton, ed., From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 251–62. 14. Plato, Timaeus, trans. Donald J. Zeyl (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2000), xxvii.

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

71

15. James A. Arieti, Interpreting Plato: The Dialogues as Drama (Savage, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers 1991), 20. 16. Literally, the Apaturia is the “Feast of Deception.” See Warman Welliver, Character, Plot and Thought in Plato’s Timaeus-Critias (Leiden, Netherlands: Brill, 1977), 14. 17. Consider Christopher Gill’s commentary: “The name Atlas (Critias 114a–b) and Atlantis (i.e., the island of Atlas) evoke the associated myths of the island of the daughter of Atlas, sitting at the world’s end (Odyssey 1.48 ff.), . . . Atlas himself was imagined as being outside the limits of the known world, usually in the far west (Theogony 517–518), but sometimes in the depths of the sea (Odyssey 1.53–54) or beyond the earth (Theogony 746 ff.). Thus ‘Atlas’ suggested remote and fabulous places; but he was also associated with mythical stories of crime and punishment” (xiii). Gill’s final point about crime and punishment fits nicely with the destruction of Atlantis found in Critias’ tale. 18. Again, Gill’s comments are helpful: “The ancient Athens [Critias] depicts (and it is Athens, not Atlantis, we should note, which is the hero of the tale) was ruled by the cohesive, separate military class Socrates imagined in the Republic (Timaeus 24a f., 26c f.). And the war he begins to describe is one which brings out a central theme of the Republic: that a ruling-class without private wealth is stable and united, and its state can defeat any enemy, however rich, whereas the possession of wealth by individual rulers creates disunity, and leads to political degeneration and military defeat (421 ff., cf. 550d ff.). Ancient Athens’ political structure was characterized by cohesion and stability; led by a governing class without private wealth, the city won a great victory in the war against Atlantis (Critias 110c ff., Timaeus 23c, 25b f.)” (xv). 19. Bury translation, 43. 20. As cited in Gill, vii. 21. Bury translation, 45. In commenting upon his difficulty of recalling to mind all that he heard “yesterday,” perhaps Critias invites a comparison between his own tale and the recollections of Socrates in the Republic and the Timaeus, both of which recall events of “yesterday” (cf. Republic 327a; Timaeus 17a, c). 22. Bury translation, 25, 27. 23. One might think that the only reason Timaeus does so is because Socrates reminds him to invoke the gods just before he speaks (at 27b). Yet Socrates’ mention of the gods in this context seems to be more a commentary on the impiety of Critias in not doing so. Perhaps he deems all or part of what Critias has said (or the manner in which he said it?) as impious. 24. The terminology is fairly difficult to follow in Bury since it is masked in translation. For the most part, he translates logos as “tale” in Critias’ monologue and as “discourse” (27c5) or “account” (29b5) in Timaeus’ prelude. Oddly, he also translates mythos as “account” at 29d2, thereby entirely concealing the distinction between these terms. 25. Bury translation, 53. 26. Bury translation, 259, 261. 27. For a detailed treatment of the ongoing verbosity of Critias, see Welliver, 14 ff. 28. Incidentally, in each case, the response of Socrates corroborates the reader’s estimation of the request. In response to the lines from Timaeus cited above, Socrates says, “Excellent, Timaeus! We must by all means accept it as you suggest; and certainly we have cordially accepted your prelude; so now, we beg you, proceed straight on with the main theme” (Timaeus 29d; Bury translation, 53, 55). In response to Critias’ long-winded, arrogant request, on the other hand, Socrates grants the request but also grants the same for Hermocrates when he comes to speak “ . . . in order that he may provide a different prelude and not be compelled to repeat the same one” (Critias 108b; Bury translation, 263). All this is a not so subtle critique of Critias’ request. Furthermore, Socrates follows the permission with an admonition: “I forewarn you, however, dear Critias, of the mind of your audience—how that the former poet won marvelous applause from it, so that you will require an extraordinary measure of indulgence if you are to prove capable of following in his steps” (108b; Bury translation, 263). 29. Bury translation, 45. 30. Arieti, 21. 31. For a detailed treatment of the political virtues and vices exhibited by Timaeus and Critias, see Welliver. Although I find a few of his interpretations a bit strained, I think he generally has the right picture of these characters and their words and deeds.

72

Chapter 4

32. See Gill, xvii ff. 33. This interpretation of Atlantis as an image of Athens during the Peloponnesian War is corroborated by the presence of Hermocrates as an interlocutor. Hermocrates was the Syracusan statesman and general largely responsible for the crushing defeat of the Athenians in Sicily (see Gill, xix). 34. Of course, neither ancient Athens nor Atlantis are what they are purported to be. Yet each “is” historic Athens at a certain moment in recent history. Ironically, ancient Athens presents an image of what historic Athens is no longer; and Atlantis presents an image of what Athens is but should not be. To the extent that Athens seeks after her “original” virtue, she “is” ancient Athens. To the extent that Athens fails to do so, she “is not” her true self. I take it that Plato intends the reader to engage in these dialectical comparisons and reflect upon the attendant ironies. 35. Thomas More, Utopia, ed. George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 1. All subsequent page references are to the Cambridge edition. 36. Near the end of Book I, for instance, Hythlodaeus boasts that if Giles or More had only seen the Utopian people they “would frankly confess that [they] had never seen a well-governed people anywhere but there” (40). Also, in Book II Hythlodaeus says, “But of this I am sure, that whatever you think of their ideas, there is not a more excellent people or a more flourishing commonwealth anywhere in the whole world” (77). 37. “When Raphael [Hythlodaeus] had finished his story,” Morus reflects, “I was left thinking that quite a few of the laws and customs he had described as existing among the Utopians were really absurd” (110). For clarity’s sake, I will refer throughout to More the character as “Morus” and to More the author as “More.” 38. For more detail on the title, see R. S. Sylvester, “SI HYTHLODAEO CREDIMUS: Vision and Revision in Thomas More’s Utopia,” reprinted in John Dunn and Ian Harris, eds., More:I, Great Political Thinkers Series (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1997), 203–05; and Arthur F. Kinney, Rhetoric and Poetic in Thomas More’s Utopia (Malibu, CA: Undena Publications, 1979), 12. 39. Though the Utopia as a whole is a dialogue, nearly all of Book II is an extended monologue by Hythlodaeus on the Utopian regime and its citizens. Incidentally, this draws our attention to another similarity between the tales of Critias and Hythlodaeus—both are monologues embedded within larger dialogues. 40. See 28 ff. 41. Ibid., 28. 42. . See Republic 473c ff. 43. Utopia, 36. 44. Ibid., 41. 45. Ibid., 110 (emphasis added). 46. Ibid., 10. 47. Ibid. 48. Sylvester, 205. The coughing incident Sylvester mentions is found in Giles’ letter to Jerome Busleyden: “As for More’s difficulties about locating the island, Raphael [Hythlodaeus] did not try in any way to suppress that information, but he mentioned it only briefly and in passing, as if saving it for another occasion. And then an unlucky accident caused both of us to miss what he said. For while Raphael was speaking of it, one of More’s servants came in to whisper something in his ear; and though I was listening, for that very reason, more intently than ever, one of the company, who I suppose had caught cold on shipboard, coughed so loudly that some of Raphael’s words escaped me” (p. 125 of the Cambridge edition). Ironically, then, while it took earthquakes and floods to destroy Critias’ ancient Athens and Atlantis,—if Giles is to be believed—Hythlodaeus’ Utopia is destroyed with but a cough and a whisper. 49. Ibid., 5. 50. See note 45. 51. Ibid., 41. 52. Ibid., 113. 53. Baker-Smith, 141–44. Baker-Smith is following the basic argument he laid out in his earlier More’s Utopia (New York: Harper Collins, 1991).

Passing Strange, Yet Wholly True

73

54. Kinney, 29. See pp. 29–30 for Kinney’s extended, insightful discussion. The “real England” portrayed in Book I refers, of course, to an extended dialogue within the dialogue in which Hythlodaeus relates a previous discussion he had with Cardinal Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, regarding the present ills of England (15–28). 55. Incidentally, this is what many interpreters of Utopia do when considering Hythlodaeus’ political vision of Book II. Rather than allowing the dialectical context established by Book I to inform their reading of the work as a whole, they interpret Book II as if Hythlodaeus were simply a mouthpiece for More, the author (or, for one of the “conflicted” perspectives within the troubled author). This fails to do justice to the dialectical character of Utopia and thus shortcircuits the dialectical pursuit of prudence the work is meant to engender. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid., 114. 58. See Republic, Book X. I am indebted to Travis Curtright for this observation. 59. Ibid., 47. 60. On which, see Plutarch’s “Agis” in his Parallel Lives, trans. Bernadotte Perrin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1988); and R. J. Schoek, “More, Plutarch, and King Agis: Spartan History and the Meaning of Utopia,” reprinted in R. S. Sylvester and G. P. Marc’hadour, eds., Essential Articles for the Study of Thomas More (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), 275–80. Notice also that, according to Hythlodaeus, the Utopians “are very fond of Plutarch’s writings” (78). 61. Take, for example, the following lines spoken by Hythlodaeus: “But you should have been with me in Utopia and seen with your own eyes their manners and customs, as I did—for I lived there more than five years, and would never have left, if it had not been to make that new world known to others. If you had seen them, you would frankly confess that you had never seen a well-governed people anywhere but here” (40; emphasis added). Regarding the Utopians’ use of gold, Hythlodaeus says, “I’m really quite ashamed to tell you how they do keep it, because you probably won’t believe me; I would not have believed it myself if someone else had simply told me about it, but I was there and saw it with my own eyes. . . . Unless one has actually seen it working, their plan may seem incredible . . . ” (62; emphasis added). Soon thereafter, Hythlodaeus reveals that the Utopians use gold to fashion “chamber pots” and the “humblest vessels” (63). To be sure, one would have to see this to believe it. 62. Another possible meaning is “merchant, purveyor of nonsense.” See N. G. Wilson, “The Name Hythlodaeus,” reprinted in John Dunn and Ian Harris, eds., More:II, Great Political Thinkers Series (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1997), 457. 63. More is clearly punning on the Latin version of his own name. For more detail on this and other puns on More’s name, see Germain Marc’hadour, “A Name for All Seasons,” reprinted in R. S. Sylvester and G. P. Marc’hadour, eds., Essential Articles for the Study of Thomas More (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), pp. 539–62. 64. Utopia, 1. 65. See Baker-Smith, CCM, 142. 66. Utopia, 110. 67. Ibid., 111 (emphasis added). 68. Ibid., 36. 69. Timaeus 26c. 70. Utopia, 1.

Chapter Five

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine J. Brian Benestad

Thomas More’s Utopia, properly understood, can make a significant contribution to how Catholic politicians should understand the various ways to approach what is often called today the “public square” as well as other aspects of Catholic social doctrine. The problem, of course, is to understand Utopia properly. More scholar George M. Logan was right on target when he wrote, “Utopia has proved to be too sophisticated for its readers both in substance and in literary method.” 1 Author Thomas More composed the two parts of Utopia, Books I and II as a dialogue among Raphael Hythlodaeus, Peter Giles, and himself (henceforth Morus). Because Utopia is a dialogue, it is not readily apparent who speaks for author More, or whether all the characters speak in some way for him. In Thomas More on Statesmanship Gerard Wegemer has quite convincingly shown that Raphael and Morus “dramatize two distinct philosophies of life. . . . Morus identifies himself and Raphael as representing two types of philosophers—Raphael is the scholastic, while Morus is the civic humanist (CW 4, 98/6,10–11).” 2 If Morus speaks for author More, he doesn’t always reveal what he thinks to Raphael or, even, to the readers. For example, at the end of Book II, which is almost exclusively Raphael’s long explanation of the Utopian way of life, Morus says to his readers, but not to Raphael, “Not a few things came to my mind which seemed very absurdly established in the mores and laws of the people described—not only in their method of waging war, their divine matters [rebus divinis] and religion, and likewise in other practices of theirs, but most of all in that feature which is the principal foundation of their whole arrangement, namely, their common way of life — without any exchange of money” (CW 4, 245/18–23). Morus explains why 75

76

Chapter 5

he doesn’t reveal these critical thoughts about the Utopians to Raphael: “I was not sufficiently certain that he could bear any opposition to his views” (CW 4 245/27–28). Therefore, instead of engaging in a probing discussion with Raphael, Morus “praised their way of life and Raphael’s speech and, taking him by the hand, led him into supper” (CW 4, 245/31–33). We readers, of course, would like to hear in detail what Morus thought about the Utopian way of life. The task that I set for myself is not to interpret Raphael’s presentation of Utopia in Book II, but to focus on an analysis of Book I insofar as that helps us better understand contemporary Catholic social doctrine. 3 The main subject of Book I is the attempt by Morus and Peter Giles to persuade Raphael Hythodaeus to offer his services as a counselor to some king. Morus makes the principal arguments, especially at the end of Book I (in the section called the “dialogue of counsel” by J. M. Hexter), all of which Raphael strenuously resists. 4 If Morus is author More’s spokesman, we must also be open to the possibility that Raphael makes some valid points that Morus does not want to make in his own name. At any rate, in responding to the exhortation of Morus and Giles, Raphael makes observations about human nature, the behavior of kings and their advisers, and the role of virtue and structural change in promoting a good political and social order. To facilitate my analysis I will begin with a brief look at some of the letters that were published with the 1518 edition of Utopia, touching only on points that will help us to interpret Book I. READING BOOK I OF UTOPIA More wrote two of these letters to Peter Giles; friends and associates of More wrote the other letters. In his first letter to Giles, More maintains the fiction that he just recorded what Raphael Hythodaeus had to say and therefore didn’t have to labor as a typical author. His principal task was to imitate the “careless simplicity [neglectam simplicitatem]” of Raphael’s mode of speaking (CW 4, 38/13). More reinforces this negative impression of Raphael by saying of Peter Giles that “the simplicity of no one is more prudent [nulli simplicitas inest prudentior]” (48/10). Morus’s characterization of Peter makes one think of Mt 10:16: Behold I send you as sheep in the midst of wolves; be therefore prudent as serpents and innocent as doves [Ecce ego mitto vos sicut oves in medio luporum; estote ergo prudentes sicut serpents et simplices sicut columbae].” As further proof that More attaches great importance to prudent innocence I would direct attention to J. Froben’s printer’s device, placed at the end of the 1518 edition of Utopia. The device of Utopia’s printer portrays two serpents and a dove as well as the exact words of Mt 10:16b in Greek (Be prudent as serpents and innocent as doves), together

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

77

with the Latin words prudens simplicitas amorque recti (prudent innocence and love of the right). 5 Giles himself, in his letter to Busleyden refers to author More’s “prudence [prudentiam] with which he has noted the sources from which all evils actually arise in the commonwealth or from which all blessings possibly could arise, all quite unknown to ordinary folk” (CW 4, 23/11–13). Froben’s device also contains the Hebrew of Psalm 125:4, “Do good, O Lord, to those who are good, and to those who are upright in their hearts.” This makes sense in the light of the previous verse and the indirect approach to the attenuation of evils recommended by Morus in Book I of Utopia. Psalm 125:3 reads, “For the scepter of wickedness shall not rest upon the land allotted to the righteous, lest the righteous put forth their hands to do wrong.” Morus recommends finding a way to reduce the amount of evil rulers do so that ordinary citizens will not be induced to live badly themselves. One way God blesses the good is by diminishing the evil wicked rulers do. More’s first letter to Giles also mentions his belief that Utopia will be difficult to understand and appreciate, and that some people do, in fact, believe that Raphael Hythlodaeus is a real person and not a fictional character invented by author More. More’s second letter to Giles, appearing only in the 1517 edition, also implies that the place known as Utopia is More’s creation and not a real place. More makes this point clearly by saying that if he had created a fictional place, he would have found a way to make this known to more learned readers. “Thus, if I had done nothing else than impose names on ruler, river, city, and island such as might suggest to the more learned that the island was nowhere, the city a phantom, the river without water, and the ruler without a people, it would not have been hard to do and would have been much wittier than what I actually did” (CW 4, 251/13–21). He then says, tongue in cheek, that he used the barbarous and meaningless names of Utopia, Anyder, Amaurot and Ademus, which, in fact, are words derived from the Greek meaning respectively nowhere, waterless, phantom or shadowy, and without a people. More also explains the significance of writing the way he did. It is so that “the truth, as if smeared with honey, might a little more pleasantly flow into people’s minds” (CW 4, 251/8–9). With the guidance of the letters we now turn to Book I which reveals how author Thomas More places himself, Morus (meaning fool), in the dialogue with his new friend Peter Giles and a mysterious stranger by the name of Raphael Hythlodaeus (meaning “learned in nonsense”), a native of Portugal. The setting of the dialogue is Flanders, where Morus had gone in the service of King Henry VIII along with the virtuous and learned Cuthbert Tunstall. They had the task of resolving a commercial dispute between King Henry VIII and Charles, the prince of Castile. After a break in the discussions taking place in Bruges, Morus traveled to Antwerp on business and there received a visit from Peter Giles, whom Morus described as learned, virtu-

78

Chapter 5

ous, modest, and possessed of all the qualities of the perfect friend. As mentioned, Morus also says about Giles that “in no one is there a more prudent simplicity” (CW 4, 49/10). After attending mass on a weekday, Morus ran into Peter and Raphael, who were talking in the street. Morus notices Raphael’s “cloak hanging carelessly [neglectim] from his shoulder”(CW 4, 48/21). Peter introduces Raphael to Morus and tells him about Raphael’s renunciation of his patrimony in favor of his brothers, his traveling like Ulysses and Plato, his travels with Vespuccci on three of his last four voyages (two of which historians say didn’t take place), further travels through many countries with five companions, his particular interest in philosophy, and his extensive knowledge of Greek. Peter also adds that Raphael “wrested” permission from Vespucci to stay behind at the farthest point of the fourth voyage and was wondrously fortunate to get home at all. That his return home in Portugal was described as “beyond hope” or expectation by Peter is another indication of Raphael’s imprudence. After Peter finishes his introduction, the three of them retire to a bench in the garden (along with Morus’s personal servant, John Clement, who does not participate in the conversation) and begin to converse. Morus then reports that Raphael comments about what happened after Vespucci sailed away. “[T]hrough meetings and flattering, he and his companions began, little by little, to ingratiate themselves with the people of the land” (CW 4, 51/30–31). They received supplies so that they were able to travel extensively, finding cities and towns “and republics not badly instituted with a great multitude of peoples” (CW 4, 53/1–2) After describing more of Raphael’s travels, Morus reports what Raphael said about teaching people he met during his travels about the use of the compass. Morus judges that Raphael placed these people in danger: “Now, trusting the magnet, they do not fear wintry weather, feeling secure rather than really being safe. Thus, there is a risk that what was thought likely to be a great benefit to them may, through their imprudence, become a cause of great evils” (CW 4, 53/26–29). Their imprudence, Morus implies, stems from Raphael’s imprudence. As we keep seeing, Morus clearly associates the words careless and imprudent with the person of Raphael. Morus then says that he will not mention “those wise and prudent provisions which he (i.e., Raphael) noticed anywhere among nations living together in a civilized way” (CW 4, 53/33–34). Morus will also pass over “not a few points from which our own cities, nations, peoples and kingdoms may take example for the correction of their errors” (CW 4, 55/2–4). Then Morus says that Raphael spoke most prudently (prudentissime) on the errors and wiser measures respectively committed and adopted in unspecified European countries and in the unknown lands that he visited. Note that this is the first time that Morus says that Raphael actually recognized the prudent provisions made by the old and new peoples, thereby implying that we readers might

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

79

have something to learn from Raphael, while avoiding whatever is imprudent in his thought. The conversation really gets underway when Peter and Morus urge Raphael to be of service to his fellow human beings by becoming an adviser to a king. Peter tells Raphael that as adviser he could promote his own interests and those of his relatives and friends. Raphael responds that he has already done quite enough for his friends and relatives by generously distributing his possessions before undertaking his voyages. They can’t reasonably expect him to place himself in servitude to kings for their sake, Raphael adds. Peter responds that he is only asking Raphael to serve kings, not to be their slave and then adds, “whatever name you give to this mode of life, . . . it is the very way by which you can not only profit people both as private individuals and as members of the commonwealth but also render your own condition happier” (CW 4, 55/35–39). Raphael responds that he would not want to seek happiness by a way “which my soul abhors. As it is, I now live as I wish [sic vivo ut volo]” (CW 4, 57/1–2). This admission is very revealing since anyone with a family and work to do makes many sacrifices to accomplish his tasks and would never say vivo ut volo. Morus, invoking the qualifications of Raphael’s “absolute learning [absoluta doctrina]” and “so great experience of affairs,” urges him to serve the public interest especially by persuading some great prince to pursue “just and honorable courses.” Morus then explains the reason for his recommendation: “From the monarch, as from a never-failing spring, flows a stream of all that is good and evil over the whole nation” (CW 4, 57/16–20). Raphael denies that he has the ability to be a good adviser and then gives a few reasons why a king and his counselors would not be interested in what he has to say. Kings, Raphael points out, are mainly interested in military pursuits and in acquiring new kingdoms rather than governing well the kingdoms in their charge. The counselors are either wise enough to advise the king on their own, or they regard themselves as sufficiently wise, a fault stemming from pride. And without exercising good judgment, they approve whatever the kings’ special favorites say, no matter how ludicrous. In addition, sometimes advisers argue that “it might be a great danger to be found with more wisdom on any point than our forefathers” (CW 4, 59/11–12). Yet, Raphael adds, sometimes the good practices of ancestors are rejected while their bad judgments are accepted as gospel truth. Then he says that he even experienced such ridiculous behavior in England. Morus is intrigued and asks for more information. Raphael seeks to prove his point by telling about his experiences in England at the table of Cardinal Morton, who was at the time Chancellor of England. Raphael describes Cardinal Morton as a man of virtue and prudence (prudentia) with extraordinary natural abilities improved by learning and practice. Raphael even noticed that “The king placed the greatest confidence

80

Chapter 5

in his advice and the commonwealth seemed much to depend upon him when I was there” (CW 4, 59/39–61/1). This is because Cardinal Morton had acquired political prudence (prudentiam rerum) by spending his whole life in great affairs “amidst great and many dangers.” Raphael even mentions that he knows about Morus’s admiration for Cardinal Morton’s greatness. This admission implies that he knew something about Morus before Peter introduced the two men. After describing the king’s reliance on Cardinal Morton’s prudence, Raphael should have noticed that he too might have success as an adviser to a king. Or he should have explained why Cardinal Morton’s example was an anomaly not capable of being imitated by him or anyone else. One day when Raphael was dining with Cardinal Morton, a layman praised the English practice of hanging thieves. Raphael responded to the layman in the presence of the cardinal arguing that even the death penalty could not deter theft if people are starving and without work and he added that death is an unjust penalty for simple theft. What should be done is to reform things so that people are not forced into a life of thievery in order to support themselves. It would be better to create jobs for the destitute and to make some provision for soldiers who come home from the king’s wars as cripples unable to exercise their previous trade. As things stand, Raphael notes, the noblemen live idly with a great number of servants who have never learned a trade by which they could earn their living. To make matters worse, the noblemen live like drones off the labor of their tenants whose rent they keep raising. After discussing the kinship between the lives of thieves and soldiers, Raphael proceeds to point out that enclosing a great deal of land for grazing sheep destroys farms and thereby diminishes the number of available jobs. Noblemen and “even abbots, some of whom are holy men, . . . leave no ground to be tilled; they enclose every bit of land for pasture; they pull down houses and destroy towns, leaving only the church to pen the sheep in” (CW 4, 67/ 4, 8–11). The enclosures force people to abandon their homes, take away jobs, raise the price of food and reduce many to penury; “what remains for them but to steal and be hanged” (CW 4, 67/28). Raphael attributes all these ills to “the outrageous greed of a few [paucorum improba cupiditas]” (CW 4, 69/23). Because many live in “wanton luxury” the suffering of the poor is exacerbated by the contrast. People of all classes “are given to much ostentatious sumptuousness of dress and to excessive indulgence at table” (CW 4, 69/ 31–33). Other things that lead people to deform their character and to spend too much money are brothels, ale houses, and crooked games of chance. The wasting of money then leads people to rob others. Raphael deplores the practice of giving the young a morally corrupt education, turning them into

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

81

thieves and then punishing them. Raphael’s solution is government imposition of strict laws. Cast out these ruinous plagues. Make laws that the destroyers of farmsteads and country villages should either restore them or hand them over to people who will restore them and who are ready to build. Restrict the rich from buying up everything, and of exercising a kind of monopoly. Let farming be resumed and let wool-working be restored once more that there may be respectable jobs to employ usefully . . . the idle throng (CW 4, 69/38–39, 71/ 1–6).

Especially noteworthy in Raphael’s proposals is the attempt to overcome the baneful effects of a bad moral education by an institutional solution to political and social problems. Raphael wants to bypass the laborious work of forming the characters of both the upper and lower classes. Without that painstaking educational effort one wonders how enough people would be persuaded to bring about the requisite institutional changes. Cardinal Morton pays no attention to Raphael’s suggestions for the reform of the social order by institutional changes to promote gainful employment, but does want to know two things from Raphael: why he wants the death penalty abolished for theft and what alternative penalty he proposes. Cardinal Morton fears that the abolition of the death penalty would remove the only serious deterrent to theft. Raphael responds that God has forbidden the taking of human life in any circumstance. He adds that Exodus did not prescribe death for any kind of theft, but doesn’t mention that Exodus did impose the death penalty for other crimes Raphael goes on to tell Cardinal Morton that England is making a serious mistake by imposing the death penalty on both murderers and petty thieves because the latter really have an incentive to kill the theft victim in order to cover up the crime. “Thus,” Raphael adds, “while we endeavor to terrify thieves in a manner that is excessively cruel, we urge them on to kill good people” (CW 4, 75/13–15). As for an alternative penalty, Raphael describes in detail how the Polylerites deal with their criminals. 6 For my purposes it is not necessary to go into every detail pertaining to all that was said at Cardinal Morton’s table. Suffice it to say that the Polylerites require their criminals to engage in work on public projects with the money they earn going to victims of theft, or the criminals hire themselves out to private individuals. If they slack off at work, they may be whipped. At the end of the day they are locked in their cells. The criminals wear clothing of the same color, have the tip of their ear cut off, and wear a special badge, the removal of which is a capital crime, the same punishment likewise meted out for other seemingly minor infractions, such as talking with a slave from another district who is being punished for committing some crime. Strangely, Raphael says nothing about the Polylerite use of the death penalty in so many instances. He seems en-

82

Chapter 5

thralled with their way since the “object of public anger is to destroy the vices but to save the persons and so treat them that they necessarily become good and for the rest of their lives they repair all the damage done before” (CW 4, 79/ 12–14). As things turn out, adds Raphael, some of the enslaved workers behave so well that they are set free every year. Of course, the majority of the prisoners are not set free. Morton’s advisers disagree with Raphael’s suggestions not to subject thieves to the death penalty, and to adopt the Polylerite system of punishment for them, but Morton himself says that it would be worth a try. As soon as Morton reacts positively to Raphael’s idea, all the cardinal’s advisers enthusiastically do the same. This story certainly doesn’t prove Raphael’s main point, since the cardinal actually listened to Raphael, although the advisers were closed minded. Travis Curtright comments, “Morton silences Hythloday’s opponents at one point (71/ 30–32) and he proposes experimenting with Hythloday’s ideas, cautiously accepting and even approving them” (81/ 7–18). The king’s reliance on Cardinal Morton’s prudence and Morton’s willingness to listen to counselors argue against “Hythloday’s overall position against service.” 7 Raphael, however, doesn’t advert to the significance of the cardinal’s willingness to listen to him, just as he didn’t advert to the king’s willingness to have Cardinal Morton as a trusted adviser. Moreover, Morus is too courteous to draw out the implications of Raphael’s admission that Cardinal Morton both gave and received welcome advice. One is forced to conclude from Raphael’s remarks that advisers can indeed make some difference, but cannot expect to get a hearing on all matters dear to their heart. Let us call to mind the fact that Cardinal Morton says nothing about the government policy and institutional changes proposed by Raphael to restore lost jobs. After a fool and a theologian friar speak, Cardinal Morton ended the dinner party, dismissed all his guests and went to hear petitioners. Raphael then tells Morus that he should now see that the cardinal’s advisers would never heed his advice. Morus responds by noting that Raphael has spoken prudently and agreeably and then urges him to make a significant contribution to the public welfare by becoming an adviser to a prince. To back up his counsel Morus says, Your favorite author, Plato, is of the opinion that commonwealths will finally be happy only if either philosophers become kings or kings turn to philosophy. What a distant prospect of happiness there will be if philosophers will not condescend even to impart their counsel to kings (CW4, 87/11–15).

Raphael remains unmoved and proceeds at length to give more evidence that no one in the halls of power would listen to him.

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

83

Raphael first responds to Morus’s Platonic argument by noting that “Plato was doubtless right in foreseeing that if kings themselves do not philosophize, they would never approve of the advice given by philosophers, because they have been from their youth imbued and infected with perverse opinions” (CW 4, 87/18–22). Since this is the case, Raphael asks rhetorically, “If I proposed sound ordinances to some king and tried to uproot from his soul the pernicious seeds of evil, do you not suppose that I should be forthwith banished or treated with ridicule”? (CW 4, 87/23–25). After disposing of Morus’s appeal to Plato, Raphael goes on to give a plethora of examples to show that his sound advice would not be taken seriously. For example, Raphael asks what would happen if he told the King of France that he should desist from his plans to conquer other kingdoms because he had quite enough work to govern his own kingdom well; or suppose he disapproved of a king’s plan to raise money by dishonest measures. Or imagine that he told a king about the best way to envision kingship. That is to say, Suppose I should show that they choose a king for their own sake and not for his—to be plain, that by his labor and effort they may live well and safe from injustice and wrong. For this reason, it belongs to the king to take more care for the welfare of his people than for his own, just as it is the duty of a shepherd, insofar as he is a shepherd, to feed his sheep rather than himself (CW 4, 95/13–19).

Or finally, suppose he told kings of the policy instituted by the Macarians (a fictitious people near the land of Utopia) of not allowing their king to have more than a thousand pounds of gold or its equivalent. “To sum it all up, if I tried to obtrude these and like ideas on men strongly inclined to the opposite way of thinking, to what deaf ears should I tell the tale!” (CW 4, 97/35–38). Morus says to Raphael that he should not give advice, however sound it may be, which he is certain would be rejected. Then Morus adds, “In the private conversations of close friends this scholastic philosophy is not unpleasant, but in the councils of princes, where great matters are set in motion with great authority, there is no room for this kind of philosophy” (CW 4 99, 5–8). Morus argues that Raphael should be guided by a philosophy that adapts itself to the situation at hand, without embracing any kind of relativism: If you cannot pluck up perverse opinions by the root, if you cannot cure according to your heart’s desire vices of long standing, you must not on that account desert the commonwealth. You must not abandon the ship in a storm if you cannot restrain the winds. . . . Instead, by an indirect approach, you must try and strive to the best of your power to handle all things rightly. What you cannot turn to good, you must at least make as little bad as you can (CW 4, 99/ 31–35, 38-39; 101/1–2).

84

Chapter 5

Sounding like Plato or Aristotle in dialogue with modern political philosophy, Morus concludes his argument by saying both seriously and with humor, “For in order that everything be good, this would not be possible unless everyone were good, which I do not as yet expect for several years to come” (CW 4, 101/2–4). This very significant comment shows that Morus doesn’t think that any kind of institutional or structural change in the political and social order can take the place of educating ordinary citizens and leaders to the love of what is right and the practice of virtue. This most important comment of Book I also explains why Morus doesn’t embrace all the structural changes Raphael proposes to remedy the problems caused by the failure to educate citizens and leaders to virtue. Morus uses humor to make easier Raphael’s acceptance of his point. Out of respect for Raphael and his limited understanding, he doesn’t bring out into the open all his disagreements, thereby putting the indirect approach into practice. Raphael has no interest in discussing Morus’s proposal, but brashly accuses Morus of recommending the telling of lies and of covering up the teaching of Christ. Raphael insists that he would tell no lies in the presence of princes and their advisers, even if philosophers adopt this practice. With respect to Christian teaching, he says, Truly, if all things are to be dropped as unusual and absurd—whatever the perverse morals of men have caused people to regard as foreign—we must conceal in Christian communities nearly all that Christ taught. Yet he forbade us to conceal them to the extent that what he had whispered in the ears of his disciples he commanded to be preached openly from the housetops (CW 4, 101/ 23–28).

Raphael then tells Morus that he would get nowhere with his “indirect approach,” even though he had previously admitted using “ingratiating speeches” to get along with people in a land where Vespuccci had left him and his companions. If Raphael had taken a respectful approach with Morus, he would have politely asked how an adviser using the indirect approach could possibly avoid all lies and the omission of some Christian truths, making plain his belief that Morus would never want to act against Christian teaching. Raphael owes Morus some deference given what he knows about him and as a fellow human being. Raphael continues denouncing the indirect approach, arguing that “at court there is no room for dissembling nor may one leave an error or crime uncensored. One must openly approve the worst counsels and subscribe to the most ruinous decrees.” As his final point Raphael adds that the only way to bring about real improvements in any regime is to abolish private property as Plato recommended and the Utopians put into practice. “The most prudent Plato, to be sure, easily foresaw that the one and only road to the public welfare lies in the maintenance of equality in all respects” (CW 4,105/8–10).

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

85

Deep, lasting reform requires a kind of communism. Without it some little relief is possible, but there “is no hope, however, of a cure and a return to a healthy condition, as long as each individual has his own private property” (CW 4, 105/37–39). Morus rejects Raphael’s proposal to abolish property with cogent reasons, but he does so in a very polite and respectful manner (“but to me the contrary, I say, seems to be the case [At mihi inquam contra videtur]”). He asks how there can be an adequate supply of goods if individuals do not have the motive of personal gain to be productive. The abolition of private property, Morus thinks, will encourage sloth and reliance on the industry of others. “Moreover, when people are goaded by want and yet the individual cannot legally keep as his own what he has obtained, must there not be trouble from continual bloodshed and civil discord” (CW 4, 107, 10–12). Without argument, Morus also says that the abolition of property will lead to a lack of respect for the magistrates and their office, since there will be no distinction among citizens. Raphael responds to Morus by implying that he would change his mind if he had the opportunity to live among the Utopians where the abolition of private property was a great success. Morus demonstrates his open-mindedness by inviting Raphael to tell them all about the Utopian regime in great detail. Raphael agrees, noting that his narration will take some time. Morus, ever the gracious host, says, “Let us therefore go inside to eat. Afterwards, we shall take up as much time as we like.” At this point we can note that Raphael has finally laid his cards on the table. The only way to overcome the evils and imperfections of any regime is to adopt a radical structural change, the abolition of private property. Book II also reveals that Raphael supports the various Utopian structures that attempt to stifle the emergence of pride. Otherwise stated, Raphael doesn’t believe any approach to political reform will work that depends on the education of citizens to virtue together with Morus’s indirect approach. That approach accepts the fact that reform will necessarily be hindered by the vices and imperfections of the leaders and ordinary citizens. THE INDIRECT METHOD AND TODAY’S CATHOLICS IN POLITICS This dialogue in Book I, of which we have offered an analytic summary, could deepen Catholics’ understanding of Catholic social doctrine by making them think about the way they could and should contribute to the common good of the society in which they live. Indeed, More’s point of moderating expectations for reform, but doing what can be done, finds an echo in some famous Catholic authors where it initially might not be expected. With re-

86

Chapter 5

spect to the exhortation about reducing the impact of evil in the world, the great Catholic writer, J. R. R. Tolkien, made the exact same point in his The Lord of the Rings. In Part 3, The Return of the King, Gandalf explains that destroying the Ring of Power and defeating Sauron will not eradicate all evil. Rather, every generation must wage its own battle against evil. If [the Ring of Power] is destroyed, then, [Sauron] will fall; and his fall will be so low that none can foresee his arising ever again. . . . And so a great evil of this world will be removed. Other evils there are that may come; for Sauron is himself but a servant or emissary. Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who lie after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule. 8

Tolkien’s story brings out the implications of Morus’s point. It makes people of one generation realize that their success in uprooting evils will not only bring benefits to themselves, but also to subsequent generations (e.g., a ban on cloning or physician assisted suicide). Since the victory over evil is never definitive on this earth, people must remain attentive to the onset of new evils, such as the problem that Saruman causes in the Hobbits’ shire after the defeat of Sauron. The Diary of a Country Priest by George Bernanos, the French Catholic novelist, brings out the same point. An older, wise priest, the Curé de Torcy, tells a younger priest in a country parish to give up his ongoing battle to prevent the influence of the devil in people’s lives. Then he adds: What the Church needs is order, you’ve got to set things straight all the day long. You’ve got to restore order, knowing that disorder will get the upper hand the very next day, because such is the order of things unluckily–night is bound to turn the day’s work upside down–night belongs to the devil. 9

In other words, the battle to overcome the inevitable influence of the devil in people’s lives must be waged on a daily basis. Still another example of what Morus is talking about can be found in John Paul II’s Evangelium Vitae (1995). He, of course, argues that laws permitting abortion are unjust. Nevertheless, he says that legislators can and should support laws curtailing the number of legal abortions when a consensus to ban all abortions cannot be reached. Legislators can support imperfect laws in good conscience as long as they make known their position that all abortions should be prohibited (see no. 73). Today, it is not a question of becoming an adviser to a king, but of improving the way democracies and authoritarian regimes work in the world. In democracies people can join the government as an elected or appointed official, or become advisers to senators, representatives, judges and presi-

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

87

dents. While few will perform those roles many more could contribute to the public good by informing themselves about the major issues of the day and by joining groups that advocate good public policy. Much can also be done at one’s place of work to make enterprises a true communion of persons that deliver a good product or service at a fair price. In places like the United States there are a plethora of mediating institutions or voluntary organizations in which people can promote good or bad causes. We began this essay with reference to Morus’s statement that he couldn’t tell Raphael what he found wrong with Utopia. Raphael is simply not openminded enough to evaluate and respond to Morus’s arguments; he loves his own opinions too much. This attitude is more common than most people think. It even affected the brilliant and well-read St. Augustine. When he was still a teenager, his mother, Monica, went to an unnamed bishop and asked if he would refute her son’s erroneous Manichean beliefs. In the Confessions Augustine explained the bishop’s reason for not entering into conversation with him. “He refused, rightly as I have realized since. He told her that I was still unteachable [respondit enim me adhuc esse indocilem] because I was all puffed up with the newness of heresy and had already upset a number of insufficiently skilled people with certain questions . . . ” 10 The example of Raphael and the young Augustine imply that advisers and people receiving advice must always strive and strain to be truly open-minded. Even persons who are usually open-minded and prudent may experience the temptation to surrender their good reasoning about a particular matter in the face of persistent opposition. The great Catholic writer Alessandro Manzoni addresses this phenomenon in his novel The Betrothed. The most learned and virtuous cardinal of Milan, Federigo Borromeo, is trying to deal with a plague that is ravaging Milan and the surrounding territory. Government authorities ask the cardinal to organize a procession which would carry the body of St. Charles Borromeo through the streets. The cardinal refuses to do so, especially because he foresaw the very real danger of the plague being spread by the procession. The authorities keep insisting to such an extent that he finally consents with the predictable disastrous results. The plague spreads like wildfire. Manzoni’s reflection on this incident is illuminating. So it is not difficult to understand how the archbishop’s good reasons were overcome, even in his own mind, by the bad reasons of others. Whether there was an element of weakness of will in his change of mind is a mystery of the human heart which we cannot plumb. But if there is ever a case in which we can blame the intellect and acquit the heart, it is when one treats of those few (and the cardinal was one of their number) whose whole life is a record of resolute obedience to conscience, without any regard for temporal interests of any kind. 11

88

Chapter 5

If the reasoning of superior individuals is sometimes overcome by the bad reasoning of people around them, the problem of remaining open-minded and dedicated to the truth is more difficult than appears at first sight. Manzoni’s story brings to mind a section of Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, titled “The power exercised by the majority in America over thought.” In that section, Tocqueville makes two of the most startling statements in his great commentary on American democracy: “I know of no country in which, speaking generally, there is less independence of mind and true freedom of discussion than in America,” and “there is no freedom of the mind in America.” These observations are less surprising to Tocqueville readers familiar with what he wrote about the power and influence of majority opinion. Given what More says about the immoderate love of one’s own opinions and what Manzoni and Tocqueville say about the weakness of an individual’s reasoning in the face of persistent opposition to one’s point of view, it is not surprising that Catholic social teaching addresses the issue. In Deus caritas est Pope Benedict XVI notes that individuals have difficulty arriving at a sound understanding of justice. “The problem is one of practical reason; but if reason is to be exercised properly, it must undergo constant purification, since it can never be completely free of the danger of a certain ethical blindness caused by the dazzling effect of power and special interests.” 12 It is the Church’s role to purify reason “and to stimulate greater insight into the authentic requirements of justice as well as greater readiness to act accordingly, even when this might involve conflict with situations of personal interest.” 13 Reading the dialogue would also help open-minded advisers understand that they will most often not be able to do all the good they have in mind since their best advice will nearly always be rejected because of the ignorance and/or bad character of the people they are advising. If imbued with this understanding, advisers will not get too discouraged and settle for the little good they can do or the evil they can overcome. Students of More can further understand that they will need extensive knowledge to understand the good they can do, a sterling character to practice all the requisite virtues for the task at hand, and a gracious manner in the face of disrespectful opposition. Think of the patience and graciousness of Morus when Raphael brusquely rejected his suggestion to adopt the “indirect approach.” Would-be advisers need a thick skin so as not to take offense when it is inevitably given. Advisers have to be so focused on the good they can do for others that they take little note of the abuse directed their way. Reading More’s dialogue of counsel helps readers understand better what Pope Benedict XVI meant by pointing out two temptations people might experience when they try to address the needs of others. The pope emeritus says, “we can, on the one hand, be driven towards an ideology that would aim at doing what God’s governance of the world cannot: fully resolving

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

89

every problem. Or we can be tempted to inertia, since it would seem that in any event nothing can be accomplished.” 14 Raphael succumbs to both temptations. He steadfastly refuses to adopt Morus’s indirect approach, insisting that he could do nothing as an adviser to a prince. And he becomes a great defender of the abolition of private property and of extreme restrictions on the exercise of liberty in the land of Utopia. 15 He also admires Utopia because he thinks, wrongly, that it has extirpated pride and most other vices, and, in his opinion, has established the most perfect regime ever to exist on the face of the earth. Reading about Raphael’s failure to avoid the temptations of Utopianism and inertia helps readers understand how seductive these temptations can be. Given the difficulties of contributing to the common good and the limited good that people can expect for their efforts and the risks that they sometimes run, is it prudent to enter into public service? Here is the beginning of an answer. The setting of the dialogue seems to indicate where More the author stood. Recall that the real Thomas More actually did go on a mission in Flanders on behalf of King Henry VIII and the people of England. Others participating in the discussion on behalf of King Henry were men of learning and virtue and still opted to be royal advisers. More chose to be an adviser to Henry despite the restrictions on his freedom of speech and the limited good that he could do. He became Chancellor of England in 1529 but resigned in 1532 when he realized that if he continued in the king’s employ, he was going to be put in a situation where he would be forced to act against his conscience. He eventually was put in such a position when he was pressured to recognize King Henry VIII as the head of the Church in England. Following the guidance of his conscience, he refused to do so and suffered imprisonment and death. Because of the dialogue between Morus and Raphael, More readers also have a chance to reflect on the morality of the indirect approach. The question author More poses for us in the dialogue is whether Catholics and others may embrace Morus’s indirect approach without violating the teaching of Christ and depriving a nation of the complete truth about love, justice and the common good? Could Morus’s indirect approach sometimes lead Catholics to withhold teaching that could possibly get a hearing? Is there not a tendency for Catholics today to bow down before the reigning opinions in the culture? Would they invoke More’s indirect approach as justification for not making their views known on marriage, abortion, contraception, physicianassisted suicide, the withdrawal of food and water from elderly patients, and unsavory business practices? Does Thomas More’s real life provide some guidance in answering these questions? More could not rely on some kind of indirect approach to save his life. Like Peter Giles, Thomas More remained prudent as a serpent, innocent as a dove and a lover of right. And Catholics are called to do the same today with

90

Chapter 5

full awareness that prudence and innocence cannot save a person from all distress and harm. Alessandro Manzoni came to the same conclusion at the end of his famous novel: “Troubles often come because we bring them upon ourselves, but that the most prudent and innocent conduct is not enough to hold them at bay; and that when they come, whether by our fault or not, confidence in God softens them and renders them useful for a better life.” 16 Despite his troubles, More never gave up this belief. 17 Even if Thomas More would not use the indirect approach to avoid martyrdom, what about more ordinary mortals. Would they be tempted to be silent about the countercultural truths of the Catholic faith so as not to give offense to the movers and shakers of society or to make their lives more comfortable? In my mind, this is an ever-present danger that can only be countered by a growing love of truth and one’s neighbor. If people are motivated to love their neighbors by bringing more truth into their lives, they will be able to resist the temptation to hold back true teaching when there is a real possibility of getting a hearing in the public square. Catholics must also keep in mind that Morus is proposing the indirect approach for the public square, not for the work of evangelization and catechesis in the Catholic Church. The whole truth of the Catholic faith must be taught over a period of time. For example, priests and deacons should not refrain from presenting the Catholic teaching on marriage because people in the congregation don’t want to hear it. Of course, there is nothing wrong with preparing people to hear truths that seem offensive and wrong because of the reigning opinions in society. Following St. Paul’s advice to tell the truth in love is a sine qua non of effective evangelization and catechesis. Paul also recommended a gradual approach to teaching the Catholic faith: first milk and then solid food. 18 (It is, of course, puzzling why Morus didn’t make this kind of argument in his conversation with Raphael.) By way of a conclusion let us now return to Morus’s explanation of why the indirect approach is necessary in the public square. Recall his striking statement: “For in order that everything be good, this would not be possible unless everyone were good, which I do not expect for several years to come” (CW 4, 101/2–4). The implication of this statement is that the practice of virtue by leaders and citizens alike is absolutely necessary to bring about the full reform of society. No particular “structural change” change in society, such as the abolition of private property, can take the place of individual morality. This is one of the fundamental principles of contemporary Catholic social doctrine. 19 Let us call to mind a few reiterations of this teaching. Vatican Council II’s Dignitatis humanae (Declaration on Religious Freedom, no. 6) says that “society itself will benefit from the goods of justice and peace which result from people’s fidelity to God and his holy will.” Pope Benedict XVI has made this point on not a few occasions. For example, in his 2007 trip to Brazil he says, “[w]herever God and his will are unknown,

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

91

wherever faith in Jesus Christ and in his sacramental presence is lacking, the essential element for the solution of pressing social, political problems is also missing.” Besides an education in their faith, Catholics must also receive an “[e]ducation in Christian personal and social virtues.” This kind of education would include “a genuine spirit of truthfulness and honesty among the political and commercial classes.” 20 In short, individuals transformed by their faith and virtues will work to bring justice to the political and social order. Anticipating a likely objection to his emphasis, Benedict asks how can one justify “the priority of faith in Christ and of ‘life’ in him” when there are so many pressing political, economic and social problems in Latin America? His simple answer is that one can never prescind from educating citizens in the practice of the virtues if the aim is to establish a just society. In order to buttress his point, he notes that both Marxism and capitalism promised to establish and maintain just structures in society without bothering about “individual morality.” People now see, Benedict XVI implies, that both political and economic systems failed to deliver the just structures that they promised. His ultimate point is that “the presence of God, friendship with the Incarnate Son of God, the light of his word: these are always fundamental conditions for the presence of justice and love in our societies.” 21 Pope Benedict is, of course, reiterating the teaching of St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Thomas More and of all the popes who wrote social encyclicals from Pope Leo XIII to Pope Francis. In his second encyclical, Spe salvi, Pope Benedict also addressed the exaggerated hopes that were placed in structural change by Bacon and Marx to bring about a just society. Originally, “the recovery of what man had lost through the expulsion from Paradise was expected from faith in Jesus Christ: herein lay redemption. Now this Redemption is no longer expected from faith, but from the newly discovered link between science and praxis.” 22 Faith was seen only as a benefit for individuals in this life or the next. The collective hope for a better future for all now depended on the widespread belief that temporal progress was inevitable if people relied on the conquest of nature by science in view of man’s comfort and health. This is the famous Baconian project. When reliance on science and technology for hope and benefits proved to be insufficient, Benedict says there was a turn to “effective” politics, not the “idealistic” politics of Plato and Aristotle. The pope emeritus doesn’t attempt to tell the whole story, beginning with Machiavelli, but explains this turn to effective politics by summarizing what Marx expected from the political process. “Progress towards the better, towards the definitively good world, no longer comes from science but from politics–from a scientifically conceived politics that recognizes the structure of history and society and thus points out the road towards revolution, towards all-encompassing change.” 23 The key change for Marx was, of course, abolishing private property and

92

Chapter 5

socializing the means of production as the way to do away with injustice in society. Marx was relying on a structural change in society to overcome the public harm usually caused by private vice. Marx’s error, the pope argues, is not recognizing that man’s freedom to do good or evil remains no matter what shape the structures of society take. He forgot that man always remains man. He forgot man and he forgot man’s freedom. He forgot that freedom always remains also freedom for evil. He thought that once the economy had been put right, everything would automatically be put right. His real error is materialism: man, in fact, is not merely the product of economic conditions, and it is not possible to redeem him purely from the outside by creating a favorable economic environment. 24

Pope Benedict does not rely on science to bring about inevitable progress for one simple reason. Scientific and technical progress can lead to both good and evil. “If technical progress is not matched by corresponding progress in man’s ethical formation, in man’s inner growth . . . , then it is not progress at all, but a threat for man and the world.” 25 Think of the harm that terrorists can do with advanced technology, especially nuclear weapons. The use of technical advances, therefore, must always be guided by true moral principles. This may or may not happen because every human being and every generation have the choice either “to draw upon the moral treasury of the whole of humanity” or to reject that treasury. This means that scientific and technological progress will always be a two-edged sword. It may be used for good or ill. Because the moral treasury of humanity exists as a potential guide for the use of people’s freedom, “[t]he right state of human affairs, the moral wellbeing of the world can never be guaranteed simply through structures alone, however good they are.” 26 Pope Benedict is not, of course, denying the importance of structures. But they have to be animated by people who choose to acquire wisdom and virtue. Pope Benedict’s reflection on the potential of freedom for good or ill is both a summons to use freedom well and to recognize that people’s bad use of freedom will deny justice and love to many citizens in the countries of the world. Since each generation has to produce enough wise and ethical people to make a difference, “the kingdom of good will never be definitively established in the world.” 27 The people of every generation must seek to understand and to develop the moral treasury of humanity and make it accessible to more and more people. That is exactly what Catholic social doctrine attempts to do for the citizens and nations of the world.

Thomas More’s Utopia and Catholic Social Doctrine

93

NOTES 1. George M. Logan, The Meaning of More’s Utopia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 56. 2. Gerard B. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 91–92. All future references to More’s Utopia will be to the Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 4, published in 1965. I will use the standard abbreviation CW 4 followed by the page and line numbers. I do modify the Yale translation in the light of the Latin original. I would also like to note that Wegemer’s book has substantially influenced my interpretation of More’s Utopia, but is not the cause of any errors that I might make. 3. An analysis of Book II would be fruitful, but would require more than one essay. My analysis of Book I is not exhaustive, but focused on the goal of making Catholic social doctrine more understandable and persuasive. 4. Cf. Travis Curtright, The One Thomas More (Washington DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 72. 5. See picture of Froben’s device in Appendix I of Utopia. 6. The word Polylerites is derived from Greek and means people of much nonsense. Raphael says he encountered them during his Persian travels. The Polylerites are a creation of author More and do not exist in any real place. 7. Travis Curtright, The One Thomas More, 88. 8. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Return of the King, Part Three of the Lord of the Rings (New York: Ballantine, 1994), 160. 9. George Bernanos, The Diary of a Country Priest (New York: Macmillan, 1970), 16. 10. Augustine, Confessions, trans. Frank Sheed (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2006), 51. 11. Alessandro Manzoni, The Betrothed (New York: Viking Penguin, 1987), modified translation. 12. Pope Benedict XVI, Deus caritas est, no. 28. 13. Deus caritas est, no.28. 14. Deus caritas est, no. 36. 15. See Book II of Utopia for a description of the extreme restrictions on liberty. 16. The Betrothed, 720. 17. On this point see Alvaro De Silva, The Last Letters of Thomas More (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmanns, 2000). 18. Cf I Corinthians 3: 2. 19. For the rest of the essay I draw upon and rewrite sections of my book, Church, State, and Society An Introduction to Catholic Social Doctrine (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2011), 11–12, 15–17. 20. Pope Benedict XVI, “Meeting and Celebration of Vespers with the Bishops of Brazil,” May 11, 2007. All of Pope Benedict’s speeches can be found on the Vatican website, www.vatican.edu. Search under the category of Pope Benedict XVI’s travels outside of Italy. 21. Pope Benedict XVI, “Address at the Inaugural Session of the Fifth General Conference of the Bishops of Latin America and the Caribbean,” 13 May 2007. 22. Spe salvi, no. 16. 23. Spe salvi, no. 20. 24. Spe salvi, no. 21. 25. Spe salvi, no. 22. 26. Spe salvi, no. 24. 27. Spe salvi, no. 24.

Chapter Six

Faith, Reason, and Order Thomas More and Natural Law Samuel Gregg

Much of the intellectual backdrop to the Renaissance and the Reformation was formed by a generalized reaction through Western Europe against what was perceived to be a degenerate form of scholasticism and, in some cases, the general idea of natural law. The most extreme response was perhaps found in Martin Luther’s conviction that the Gospel of Christ had been hopelessly obscured from the faithful by excessive attention by churchmen and theologians to the thought of pagan philosophers, most notably Aristotle. Others writing in the same period, such as Erasmus, were less inclined to totalistic denunciations of scholasticism. Nonetheless they too believed that scholasticism had distracted many Christians, especially those teaching in universities, from close study and assimilation of the Word of God as it is found in Scriptures and other sources of Revelation such as the writings of the Church Fathers. That Thomas More shared in the wider reaction against the type of scholasticism which exercised considerable influence upon the late-medieval social and political order is not in dispute. Such reservations should not, however, be understood as reflecting a desire on More’s part to marginalize either the claims of natural law in general, or scholastic thinkers and methods of reasoning in particular. Writing 406 years after More’s death, the French Thomist Jacques Maritain described More as a “bon disciple de saint Thomas d’Aquin.” 1 In certain respects, that claim was somewhat of an exaggeration. This paper argues, however, that Thomistic thought informs crucial elements of More’s contribution to crucial debates—specifically discussions concerning the relationship between faith and reason, the character of the will (especially its place vis-à-vis reason), and the place of equity in the workings of 95

96

Chapter 6

judicial systems—that shaped the social, political and legal landscape of sixteenth-century Europe. ARISTOTLE, AQUINAS, AND SCHOLASTICISM Disputes about the precise relationship between the type of natural law reasoning expressed, for instance, in Aristotle’s writings with Christianity did not have to wait until the sixteenth century to emerge. In the thirteenth century, important Franciscan scholars were critical of many of Thomas Aquinas’s arguments: so much so that several of Aquinas’s propositions were condemned not long after his death by Bishop Étienne Tempier of Paris with the support of many Franciscans associated with the University of Paris. Some of these criticisms reflected disagreements among medieval scholastic thinkers about the precise relationship between the will and reason. Most famously, many Franciscans maintained the primacy of the will whereas most Dominicans followed Aquinas in upholding the primacy of the intellect. Nominalist thinkers such as William of Ockham were skeptical of Aquinas’s confidence in the intellect. Ockham maintained that, at best, reason allowed us to know probable truths. Others, such as John Dun Scotus, held that attempts to understand all of God’s actions were an essentially forlorn exercise. This led Scotus to adopt voluntaristic positions that emphasized the importance of God’s will. He and his followers maintained that the purpose of theology was to grow in love of God and that excessive “intellectualism” would distract Christians from doing so. A more general criticism of Aquinas in the medieval period (later echoed by Luther and many Protestants) was that he gave so much space to Aristotle’s Ethics and the role of reason that many of his writings, most notably his Summa Theologiae, should have been labeled Aristotelian rather than Christian. 2 When we turn to the Summa’s specific treatises on matters such as law, virtue, and happiness, it soon becomes apparent that Christ, the Scriptures, and the Church Fathers are mentioned sparingly. But as the late Servais Pinckaers, O. P. observed, this type of criticism often reflects a limited reading of Aquinas’s corpus. Attentiveness to all three sections of the Summa, for example, illustrates a profound unity between the first part, which concerns the study of God; the second part that primarily concerns law, virtue, and morality; and the third part which outlines the road to true happiness through Christ and the aid of his grace, dispensed through the sacraments. 3 Loss of sight of this unity of the Summa occurred within just a few decades after Aquinas’s death. Such fragmentation contributed to the spread of a type of hyper-rationalism among many scholastic theologians of which figures ranging from Luther to Erasmus were so critical. The Summa’s second part was by far the most read during the High and Late Middle Ages, to

Faith, Reason, and Order

97

the detriment of the first and third parts. The situation was not helped by the fact that the three parts of the Summa were often circulated separately throughout Europe, thereby ensuring that the second part was often read in isolation. Further complicating matters was, paradoxically enough, the sheer power of Aquinas’ synthesis and the manner in which it wove together the Scriptures, metaphysics, dogmatic theology, the Greek and Roman philosophers, the Church Fathers, and moral theology into one cohesive work. Such was the strength of Aquinas’s integration that it seemed, at least to some of those in the schools who followed Aquinas, that there was no longer any need to “go back” and read, for instance, the Church Fathers of the Patristic period or even examine Scripture too closely. Of course the method followed by the schools was highly speculative because speculation is integral to the very nature of theology. But the schools employed Aquinas’s method of dialectic reasoning in an increasingly abstract manner and applied it almost exclusively to Aquinas’s thousands of pages of writing. These trends in learning, combined with the fact that Aquinas placed such emphasis upon man’s rational capacities, further encouraged a sense of “timelessness” about the scholastic method that rendered, at least to some late-medieval scholastic minds, exploration and analysis of the past and the present somewhat redundant. HUMANISTS: AGAINST—AND FOR—SCHOLASTICISM This context helps us to understand some of the reasons that so many Renaissance and Reformation thinkers expressed such negative views of scholasticism. Yet it also demonstrates why the character of Thomas More’s response was rather different from the ferocity of Luther’s initial rejection. For, at least in the minds of More and figures such as John Colet, John Fisher, and Erasmus, there was an important distinction to be made between Aquinas and many of his scholastic successors. The primary humanist complaint against the scholastics was that they seemed to have boxed themselves into a prison of intellectual self-sufficiency, and thereby marginalized the place of God and Divine Revelation. John Colet, for instance, was concerned about what he regarded as Aquinas’s “Aristotelianization” of Christian doctrine. Colet subsequently held that figures such as Saint Paul and Denis the Areopagite considered it “an unworthy thing that human reason should be mixed up with Divine Revelation; nor would they have thought that the truth was believed rather through the persuasion of men than through the power of God.” 4 To this critique, Erasmus added the observation that abstract scholastic argumentation could actually inhibit people’s minds from apprehending reality. He argued, for instance,

98

Chapter 6

that temporal rulers did not need “that scrupulous and exact knowledge of academic subjects [scholaticarum disciplinarum]” that seems to undermine any attention to the common sense found among those who spend most of their time in the world. 5 As André Prévost observes, few things were as irritating to Thomas More than what he regarded as the tendency of late-medieval scholasticism to reduce theology to the manuals and the associated failure to pay close attention to the Scriptures and Church Fathers. 6 Speculation and dialectic in themselves, More insisted, were useful, but primarily in preparing people for more significant areas of study. 7 For More, the problem with excessively abstract dialectical reasoning was that it attenuated and occasionally perverted the breadth of one’s theological awareness. 8 According to More, decadent forms of scholasticism encouraged theologians to invest the study of Scripture with their particular preoccupations instead of seeking out the texts’ true meaning. In one instance, More even employed the mildly disparaging expression theologistae to describe those theologians who never bothered to study the Scriptures or read the Church Fathers. 9 In his Letter to Dorp, More asked his reader to consider the sheer unlikelihood that Church fathers such as Saint Jerome, Saint Ambrose, and Saint Augustine had ignored many of the same questions explored by the scholastics. More was particularly censorious of the disputatious character of much scholastic theology. Not only, he argued, did it do little to change the minds of heretics trained in the same methods of dispute; it also often produced bad preaching. 10 Associated with this concern was More’s worry that the type of sophistry and excessive casuistry flowing out of the theological schools hindered the capacity of bishops and priests to teach clearly on matters of faith and morals, thereby compromising the ability of ordinary people to live in accordance with Christ’s teaching. 11 The general humanist emphasis upon literature, rhetoric and grammar formed a crucial background element to More’s reservations about late-medieval scholasticism. More criticized, for instance, what he regarded as the scholastics’ disregard for the traditional Latin usage of words. This, More suggested, helps to explain what he regarded as their departures from common sense 12 as well as their many sophisms 13 which had made their way into scholastic theology. 14 As a result, More contended, some scholastics were often led to speculate “beyond nature’s [i.e., reason’s] own bounds.” 15 At a broad level, the humanist-scholastic controversy was in many ways a battle over which discipline would be the governing “science.” At the same time, it was a dispute about the respective merits of practical learning versus speculation. The humanists thought it a mistake for the scholastics to see their intellectual constructs as ultimate realties. The scholastic response to the humanist critique was to (1) stress the importance of logic and (2) warn that excessive attention to poetry and rhetoric could lead the passions to

Faith, Reason, and Order

99

override the intellect. Scholastic theologians were also wary of the Ciceronian convention 16 that emphasized rhetoric because the scholastics thought it was underpinned by a degree of skepticism concerning reason and its capacity to recognize truth. Yet despite the real tensions, it is too simple to make such a rigid division between the “new” (humanism) and the “old” (scholasticism). Rhetoric and grammar, for instance, had never been abolished from the medieval curriculum promoted by the scholastics. Likewise, as dedicated a humanist as Bishop John Fisher had no hesitation in placing figures such as Aquinas and other scholastic thinkers such as Albert the Great, Bonaventure, William of Paris, and Gregory of Rimini side-by-side with the very humanist emphasis upon learning Hebrew and Greek in the theology curriculum followed at Cambridge University. Fisher himself described Aquinas as a doctor “most learned and at the same time most holy.” 17 Like most humanists, Fisher was critical of aspects of the scholastics’ style of writing. Nevertheless Fisher did not hesitate to insist that if you “take away dialectics . . . you immediately take away the power of either demolishing the false or of establishing the true.” 18 Similarly, even a humanist as critical of scholasticism as John Colet affirmed that forms of secular learning such as philosophy and dialectical forms of reasoning could be used in the education of Christians and the study of theology, provided that one retained a focus on eternal things. As Colet put it, “[u]se well temporal things. Desire eternal things.” 19 Here it is worth noting that Colet tended to reserve some of his sharper criticisms for the Law of Nations (ius gentium) rather than natural law per se. The former, he argued, often permitted injustices that were contrary to the promptings of natural law itself with regard to, for instance, property arrangements. 20 Like most learned men of his time, More was well-versed in Aquinas’s writings. In his biography of More, for instance, Thomas Stapleton records More as pointing out to his secretary, John Harris, how the writer of a new book promoting various heresies had effectively quoted a specific section of Aquinas’s Summa Theologiae out of context. 21 Likewise, More’s son-in-law William Roper recorded that More became more interested over time in the scholastic disputation that occurred in the universities. 22 Though More did not have a high opinion of Dun Scotus, 23 he did not hesitate to describe Aquinas himself as “uir eruditissimus, et idem sanctissimus” [that most learned and holy man], 24 “that holy doctor,” 25 and “the flower of theology, and a man of that true perfect faith.” 26 On other occasions, More indicated that Aquinas himself had never been guilty of excessive rationalism and had been as attentive as any Renaissance humanist to how something like humor could have a profoundly positive role in shaping a person’s character. “St. Thomas,” More wrote in his Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, “says that the proper pleasant talking which is called eutrapelia is a good virtue,

100

Chapter 6

serving to refresh the mind and make it quick and lusty to labor and study again where continual fatigue would make it dull and deadly.” 27 FAITH, REASON, AND PHILOSOPHY Many of these matters were to be clarified in More’s mind by the intellectual debates and social turmoil occasioned by the rise of Martin Luther. The early Luther’s view of Aquinas in particular and scholasticism and philosophy more generally is clear. In his Against Latomus, for instance, Luther proclaimed that “[t]he sophists have imposed tyranny and bondage upon our freedom to such a point that we must not resist that twice accursed Aristotle, but are compelled to submit.” 28 Luther also tended to associate Thomism itself with cunning and intellectual manipulation. He described Henry VIII’s defense of indulgences, for example, as “royal and Thomistic shrewdness,” and even mocked Henry himself as “the Thomistic king.” 29 Similar declamations of scholasticism can be found in the writings of Luther’s English disciples, most notably William Tyndale. In his view, Aquinas had inflicted “Aristotle dead and damned” upon the universities so much so that he is “nowadays the instructor of all the universities, more than Christ.” 30 Tyndale consequently insisted that the efforts of clergy and theologians to bring philosophy into theological reflection were gravely mistaken. 31 For if solafideism was true and faith was essentially a “feeling faith,” then, so the argument went, it was likely that human reasoning and recourse to the insights of pagan philosophers would lead one astray from true knowledge of Christ. The apparent call for Christians to abandon philosophy implied in these and similar words uttered by the “new men” (usually in the context of presenting arguments in favor of solafideism) contained a significance that far exceeded that of the humanists’ debates with the scholastics. It immediately created a confrontation with those who argued on the basis of Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 13–1–3, 13) that (1) hope and charity played important roles in salvation, 32 and (2) good works, as underscored by the Letter of Saint James, were not irrelevant to one’s salvation. 33 In the mind of Catholics such as More, the Lutheran position on such matters amounted to no less than a demand to change the very idea of Christian faith itself: a transformation that would inevitably alter the entire Christian conception of social order. At the same time, solafideism facilitated a quarrel with those Christians who believed that philosophy and reason more generally had an important part to play in understanding and explicating the truths and inner logic of Christian faith. As every sixteenth-century European theologian and philosopher knew, Christ had spoken of the need for childlike faith if one is to be

Faith, Reason, and Order

101

saved. 34 Likewise Paul had warned believers against placing worldly knowledge over faith in Revelation. 35 These were among the Scriptural passages that the early Reformers appealed to over and over again. Catholics, however, noted that the same Paul had not hesitated to use expressions and sayings of pagan philosophers. 36 They also observed that figures such as Augustine had pointed to those sections of the Old Testament which seemed to affirm that one could use, with caution, secular ideas and insights to promote Christian truth. 37 Gerard Wegemer and others have illustrated that Thomas More had no illusions that philosophy and reason were sufficient to resolve social conflict or produce statesmen, let alone overcome the effects of human weakness and self-deception. 38 Certainly much of the second book of More’s Utopia suggests ways in which reasonable pagans unaided by Divine Revelation could create a better society than the Christian rulers of sixteenth-century Europe. Utopia also claims that people can indeed conclude, through reason alone, that there is a God and that people possess an immortal soul. 39 It may, however, also be argued that the same book, by illustrating the Utopians’ endorsement of various practices such as divorce and euthanasia plainly contrary to Catholic faith subtly demonstrates how reason itself can and does go very badly without the specific guidance of Christ who famously, and to his listeners’ astonishment, forbade the practice of divorce. More’s reflections upon such questions in Utopia effectively foreshadow his response to Lutheran arguments concerning faith and philosophy. More framed his contribution to the debate by always insisting that it was good to distinguish philosophical questions from those that belonged more properly to the realm of theology. More also specified, like Aquinas, that reason was the servant of revelation. Hence, reason had to submit to revelation when the claims of reason seem to head in another direction. 40 The effects of sin upon man’s nature and therefore reason, More maintained, meant that supernatural grace is needed to incline man’s intellect to assent to all of the claims made by Christian faith. 41 Having specified these distinctions, More proceeded to argue that while God gave “our first parents” only two or three precepts directly, the reason that he planted in their souls gave them significant indication of God’s way and the path of good and evil. 42 One therefore ought to have some confidence in the capacity of reason to know more-than-scientific truths, even in the absence of Revelation. In his Dialogue concerning Heresies, for instance, More informs his interlocutor, the Messenger, that reason makes it possible for ordinary people, however subject to temptation and capable of error, to know the moral truths that are also specified in the Decalogue. People have, he says, “reason in their heads and thereto the light of faith in their souls.” 43 To this, More added the claim that if, like faith, philosophical reason ultimately proceeded from God, then there was no basis to assume an automatic

102

Chapter 6

conflict between the two. The truth knowable through philosophy, More wrote, “is the wisdom given of God, and may well do service to his other gifts of higher wisdom.” 44 This is the classic Thomist approach: while the truth contained in Revelation always surpasses the insights of reason, Christian faith does not reject the claims of reason. More also believed that it was possible to deploy reason to defend the claims of faith. Though, he claimed, the Catholic faith is not based on reason alone, reason nonetheless pointed to its superiority to all other religious claims. 45 Nor was More wary of invoking scholastic references to highlight what he saw as the flaws in reasoning that characterized Luther’s claims about the content and demands of Christian faith. 46 In his Letter to Bugenhagen , for instance, not only does More argue for the validity for the rational approach of scholastic theology, but he also claims that the scholastic doctors “of these eight hundred years last passed . . . do consent and agree with the old holy doctors of the other eight hundred years before.” 47 In response to the early Protestant denouncements of the influence of scholastics—aptly summarized by the Messenger’s line in the Dialogue Concerning Heresies that “Philosophy [is] the mother of heresies”—More cited Augustine’s point that pride was the “great” destroyer of faith rather than reason. 48 More repeated this claim on other occasions when disputing Lutheran ideas. 49 Before, however, reason was engaged in support of the claims of Catholic Faith, More stressed, as Aquinas also insisted, that reason required formation through “study, labor, and exercise of Logic, Philosophy and other liberal arts.” 50 This in turn laid the foundation for a healthy collaboration between Christian faith and reason so that reason did “not resist faith but walk with her, and as her handmaiden so wait upon her.” 51 In the search for such training, More was happy to recommend ancient pre-Christian philosophy and philosophers as a primary source, insofar as their use of logic and reason did not contradict the claims of Christian faith. Here More reminded his Lutheran opponents that Church Fathers such as Saint Jerome had made a parallel between the ancient Israelites plundering the treasures of the Egyptians and the use made by Christians of what More called “the riches and learning and wisdom that God gave” to the “pagan writers.” 52 REASON AND FREE WILL There was nevertheless another dimension to More’s concerns about the early Reformers’ views of reason. His desire to see that reason retain its place in discussions of Christian faith was not confined to ensuring the intelligibility of Christian faith. His other concern was that if the Lutherans truly believed that reason was not man’s primary attribute, then severe social disorder would ensue.

Faith, Reason, and Order

103

More was always attentive to the social and political problems proceeding from man’s disordered passions. Much of More’s analysis in the Dialogue concerning Heresies involves showing his interlocutor how rational reflection serves to calm people’s religious feelings. In a solafideist world, however, there is, strictly speaking, little room for reason to be deployed to master the will. Solafideism could thus easily become a way to justify all sorts of evil. In his Letter to Burgenhagen, for example, More maintains that the Lutheran idea that no sin except unbelief can damn a Christian effectively means, that provided we have faith, we can do anything we want. 53 As a practical example, More pointed to the Peasants Revolt in Germany. The subsequent social upheaval and violence, according to More, was an entirely predictable result of the spread of Luther’s understanding of justification by faith. 54 A crucial element of More’s argument is that solafideism and the subsequent downgrading, if not shunning of reason effectively leads to the rejection of free will. Not mincing words, More described the denial of free will as being “the very worst and most mischievous heresy that ever was thought upon, and also the most mad.” 55 Like many others, More was greatly alarmed by the outright denial of free will in Luther’s response to Erasmus’s De libero arbitrio. More particularly had in mind passages from the Bondage of the Human Will in which Luther claimed, among other things, that “[f]ree will can never be predicated of man, but only of God;” and that “The human will is like a beast of burden. If God mounts it, it wishes and goes as God wills; if Satan mounts it, it wishes and goes as Satan wills. Nor can it choose its rider, nor betake itself to him it would prefer, but it is the riders who contend for its possession.” 56 Luther’s rejection of free will would have us believe, More says, that Christ “came to grant people permission and complete freedom to give themselves up to all kinds of debauchery. And then, after they had led that sort of life on earth, he would give them eternal happiness in heaven.” 57 Such a position, More states, is absurd. In responding to Tyndale, More argues that by denying that the will has any place in man’s salvation, the Lutherans effectively relegated man’s salvation to a type of arbitrary destiny which in turn means that man is no longer responsible. 58 This, as More remarks elsewhere, led man to either presumption or despair. 59 In disputing Luther’s claims, More draws upon arguments articulated by Aquinas but also scholastic methods of reasoning. More’s discussion in his Letter to Burgenhagen of the denial of free will takes the form of a long technical scholastic dialectical analysis in which More employs the scholastic device of posing questions and then supplying possible answers before determining which answer is valid and why. 60 His way of highlighting the errors and contradictions in Burgenhagen’s arguments is primarily through

104

Chapter 6

deploying reason and logic (rather than rhetoric and grammar) to develop lengthy syllogistic critiques of Lutheran propositions concerning the will. In responding to Luther’s views concerning the will, More does not deny the effects of human sin upon the nature of human beings. That said, More does not accept Tyndale’s claim that man’s nature is totally corrupted. Rather he affirms that there is an order of the knowledge of good and evil “built” into human nature which man is capable of knowing through reason. 61 Grace, More argues, is offered to everyone, but one must cooperate with its workings through making the act of faith and then making choices that, at a minimum, do not render life in Christ “dead,” as stated in the Letter of James. For More, man does have some responsibility for his salvation. To this extent, More appears to avoid (like Luther) Pelagianism, but also avoids falling victim to fideism. But More also draws upon classic Thomistic accounts in his presentation of the respective places of faith and free will in the economy of salvation. Against the theological determinism that he detected in Luther, More insisted that faith had to be formed by love before it could be viewed as sufficient for salvation. 62 This is precisely the reasoning employed by Aquinas in his discussion of faith and salvation. For Aquinas, “charity is called the form of faith in so far as the act of faith is perfected and formed by charity.” 63 Aquinas goes on to maintain that faith without the form of charity is no longer living; more precisely, faith becomes lifeless. In this regard, Aquinas argued that “the distinction of living from lifeless faith is in respect of something pertaining to the will, i.e., charity, and not in respect of something pertaining to the intellect.” 64 EQUITY AND NATURAL LAW More’s controversies with Luther and his followers concerning free will, reason, and faith also matter because they touch directly on some crucial questions of law with which he was particularly concerned. One among these was what More regarded as the potential of the Reformers’ ideas to introduce a high degree of arbitrariness into the working of legal systems. In some cases, More disputed particular Lutheran claims because he saw in them the potential for tyranny. Tyndale’s Obedience of a Christian Man, for example, claimed that the king’s “law is God’s law.” 65 For More, such a proposition was problematic not just because it seemed to diminish if not abolish the place of ecclesiastical law; the same assertion could be understood as leading to the conclusion that the king’s law is whatever he wills. More’s broader concern, however, was with Luther’s particular strictures concerning the role of rulers and magistrates in the giving of law. In his Responsio ad Lutherum, More directed attention to the manner in which

Faith, Reason, and Order

105

Luther’s Babylonian Captivity treats the subject of law and law-givers. According to Luther: If the magistrate happens to be prudent, by a natural inclination he will administer all things more happily than by law; if not prudent he will promote nothing with the laws except evil, when he does not know how to use them or moderate them occasionally. Indeed in public affairs it is better cared for that good and prudent men should superintend than that law be borne, for these will be the best laws judging all variety of cases with a living equity [vivaci aequitate]. For if the erudition of the divine law attends a natural prudence, it is quite superfluous and harmful to have written laws. Above all, charity certainly needs no laws. 66

In one sense, this should be understood as an attack on the alleged legalism that, in Luther’s view, had permitted the papacy to obscure the Scriptures and the free workings of grace by immersing them in a false Gospel of works. Politically-speaking, as John Headley pointed out long ago, 67 the reasoning of the early Luther on this subject worried all of Europe’s rulers because of what they saw as the potential it created for arbitrary law-making by seemingly minimizing the significance of any form of man-made law—be it statute law, common law, or canon law—as far as possible in the name of a concept of equity that appears to be divinely-inspired. Debates concerning the relative justice afforded by the good man compared to that by laws that have been established and developed over time through custom and the decisions of judges operating according to the reasoning contained in precedent and statute law are hardly new. In Luther’s case, much depends upon what he meant by “living equity.” In Headley’s view, it involved something like “the Aristotelian notion of epieikeia that held for a moderation or individual adjustment of the general law.” 68 Headley points to the following passage from Luther as one in which love and natural law are posited as the primary, even preferable, way to resolve disputes among Christian people. Where you still judge according to love you will easily distinguish and arrange all things without law books, but where you exclude love and natural law you will accomplish no longer what is pleasing to God, even if you gobbled up all the law books and jurists, for they will only make you err, the more you think according to them. A just judgment, therefore, must and cannot be pronounced out of books, but out of the free mind, which no book would offer. But love and natural law of which all reason is replete, supply such a judgment. Out of the law books come spun, uncertain judgments. 69

One obvious critique of this position is how Luther reconciles his reference to the workings of natural law (Aristotelian or otherwise) and love in light of his aforementioned absence of any real confidence in reason. It may be that

106

Chapter 6

the reference to love indicates that Luther is reliant here upon his theology of grace, which would somehow inspire the Christian judge to make the right judgment. More’s critique of Luther’s views on the law and the magistrate does not begin with a focus on this specific question. It is clear that More had a higher view than Luther of the reliability of “law books:” that is, the pronouncements of judges, the decisions of legislatures, and the decrees and the canonists throughout Christendom. According to More: If you take away the laws and leave everything free to the magistrates, either they will command nothing and they will forbid nothing, and then magistrates will be useless; or they will rule by the leading of their own nature and imperiously prosecute anything they please, and then the people will be in no way freer, but, by reason of a condition of servitude, worse, when they will have to obey, not fixed and definite laws, but indefinite whims changing from day to day. And this is bound to happen even under the best magistrates, whom, although they may enjoy the best laws, nevertheless the people will oppose and murmur against as suspect, as though they govern everything, not according to what is just and fair, but according to caprice. 70

Initially one might conclude from these words that More is primarily reacting against Luther as a common lawyer. Common law is partially based on the sense that judges, while exercising some independent judgment, must always partake of the wisdom of the past in order to lend stability to the future. Laws, More believed, founded on whim rather than on the exercise of reason by many over long periods of time, would only facilitate disrespect for law among the citizens. More’s reservations about Luther’s strictures concerning equity go beyond, however, the worries of a common lawyer who focuses upon case law and precedent which is occasionally modified, supplemented and corrected by legislators and canonists. In the first place, More was not afraid to cite Aristotle and Plato as figures whose writings have much to contribute to the business of law-making. 71 In that regard, More not only indicates a willingness to look to other sources of wisdom to shape the law; he also looks to figures regularly cited by Renaissance figures but also by medieval scholastics. Headley, however, suggests that More’s response also reflects the influence of classical Roman law which held that aequitas integrated and organized ius, rather than the former standing above and judging the latter as Luther seems to argue. Headley consequently believed that More insists that equity can only be exercised in conjunction with and in reference to written law because, in More’s view, there is hardly a judgment that is not based in some way upon established law. 72

Faith, Reason, and Order

107

What, however, seems to be missing from this discussion is awareness of just how close More’s conception of equity is to that of Aquinas. Aquinas held that the radical justice of equity (aequitas, epieikeia) involves departure from a common rule in its usual meaning so that the rule may be upheld in its true sense all things considered, 73 and subject to the good judgment (virtus iudicativa) that any such judgment needed. 74 This did not mean that judges could be allowed to act on the basis of whim and feeling, or even an overriding concern for the circumstances of the particular case under consideration. This becomes apparent once we begin to unpack Aquinas’s conception of equity. In the first place, equity for Aquinas meant to act in accordance with the same “right reason” that should underlie the common or general rule. 75 Second, Aquinas held that equity involves looking at the intent of the legislation: that which the law-giver would have intended if he had been able to anticipate the particular circumstances in question. 76 Acting on such an intention, Aquinas adds, is to prefer equity to the form or words of the law, 77 but without undermining or contradicting the intention of the law and thus the written law itself. Moreover, Aquinas insisted that in cases of equity judges should do nothing that weakened the law—so much so that he stated that in some cases there was actually a judicial duty to adhere to law (secundum rigorem iuris) where others might rightly assume that judges should resort to equity. 78 CONCLUSION One of Thomas More’s twentieth century biographers, Richard Marius, maintained that “More was more thoroughly immersed in late medieval Catholic theology than some scholars have been willing to admit.” 79 Marius had in mind particular parallels between More’s response to Luther’s sola fides argument and that of Aquinas and other scholastic thinkers to the various expressions of sola fides reasoning that preceded Luther. Here, however, we also see that More’s conception of social order is not as distant from that of scholastic thinkers as is often assumed to be the case with Renaissance humanists. Apart from deploying scholastic forms of argument, More also drew upon scholastic thought at different points to underline some of the political and social implications of many of the new men’s theological claims. From this perspective, we see that More’s criticism of many aspects of the Reformers’ thought is not so much that of a conservative who is unwilling to critically examine the foundations of what one believes in order to determine what is essential to such foundations, and what is contingent and open to correction. Nor can it be characterized as that of a common lawyer who prefers to see developments in law emerging from below rather than proceeding from radical changes enacted from above by governments or

108

Chapter 6

by judges acting arbitrarily. Rather, More’s concerns regarding the Reformers flowed from his confidence in the civilizing potential of right reason, his consciousness of the effects of sin, and his conviction that freedom is real rather than imaginary. Inattentiveness to the importance of such realities— the truth of which is so rigorously affirmed by Aquinas and other scholastic thinkers—was bound, to More’s mind, to undermine any project that sought to create or reform social order. NOTES 1. Jacques Maritain, “La philosophie du Droit,” in ed. Richard O’Sullivan, The King’s Good Servant: Papers read to the Thomas More Society of London (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1941), 41. 2. See Servais Pinckaers, O. P., The Sources of Christian Ethics, trans. Mary Thomas Noble, O. P., (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1995), 168–169. 3. Ibid., 220–229. 4. John Colet, Enarratio in primam epistolam ad Corinthios (London: George Bell, 1874), 19. 5. Erasmus, Ep. Opus epistolarum Des. Erasmi Roterodami, eds. P. S. Allen et al. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1906–1958), vol. 2, .579. 6. See André Prévost, Thomas More et la crise de la pensée européenne (Paris: Mason Mame, 1969), 139. 7. See Thomas More, In Defense of Humanism: Letters to Dorp, Oxford, Lee, and a Monk, Historia Richardi Tertii, ed. Daniel Kinney, Collected Works of St. Thomas More, vol.15 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 74. Hereafter CW 15. 8. CW 15, 26–36. 9. See CW 15, 106. 10. See CW 15, 70–74. 11. See CW 15, 50–52, 64, 70, and 74. 12. See CW 15, 26–36. 13. See CW 15, 28, 30, 32. 14. See CW 15, 26, 36. 15. See CW 15, 30. 16. See Jerrold E. Seigel, Rhetoric and Philosophy in Renaissance Humanism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 17, 74–75. 17. Edward Sturz, S.J., The Works and Days of John Fisher (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), 162. 18. John Fisher, Assertionis Lutheranae Confutatio (Antwerp, 1523), foll. 300. 19. John Colet, A Right Fruitful Monition in J.H. Lupton, A Life of John Colet 2nd ed. (London: George Bell and Sons, 1887), 310. 20. See John Colet, Opuscula: Ioannis Coleti opuscula quaedam theologica, ed. J. H. Lupton (London: George Bell and Sons 1876), 134. 21. See Thomas Stapleton, Tres Thomae seu res gestae S.Thomae Apostoli. S. Thomae archiepiscopi Cantuariensis et martyris. Thomae Mori Angliae quondam cancellarii. Coloniae Agrippinae, sumpt. Bernardi Gualtheri (Cologne, 1612), ch. 4, 191. 22. William Roper, Life of Sir Thomas More in eds. Gerard B. Wegemer and Stephen W. Smith, A Thomas More Sourcebook (Washington, DC: CUA Press, 2004), 27. 23. See CW 15, 286. 24. Thomas More, Responsio ad Lutherum, ed. John M. Headley, trans. Sister Scolastica Mandeville, Collected Works of St. Thomas More, vol. 5, part 1 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969), 354/18–19. Hereafter 1 CW 5.

Faith, Reason, and Order

109

25. Thomas More, The Confutation of Tyndale’s Answer, ed. Louis Schuster et al., Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 8, part II (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), p.713/21. Hereafter 2 CW 8. 26. 2 CW 8, 713/24–25. 27. Thomas More, A Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, eds. Louis L. Martz and Frank Manley, Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol.12 (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1976), 82/19. Hereafter CW 12. 28. Martin Luther, Schriften, Predigten, Disputationen 1520/21, vol. 8, D. Martin Luthers Werke (Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1888), pp. 98–99. 29. Cited in 1 CW 5, 324, 25/26 and 27. 30. William Tyndale, The Obedience of a Christian Man, ed. Henry Walter (Cambridge, Parker Society, 1848), 55. 31. See Tyndale, Obedience, 154–158. 32. 1 CW 8, p. 51. 33. 1 CW 8, p. 401. 34. See, for example, Lk 9:465–48. 35. Rom 1: 20–25. 36. See, for instance, 1 Cor. 1:17–29. 37. See, for instance, Augustine, De Doctrina christiana, 2.40.60 in Patrologiae Cursus Completus: Series Latina, ed. J-P. Migne (Paris, 1844–1903), vol. 34, 63. 38. See Gerard Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America, 1996), 23–73. 39. See Thomas More, Utopia, eds. Edward Sturtz, S. J., and J. H. Hexter, Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 4 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965), 217–23. 40. See Thomas More, The Confutation of Tyndale’s Answer, eds. Louis A. Schuster, Richard C. Marius, James P. Lusardi, and Richard J. Schoeck, Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 8, part 1 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), 64/28–34. Hereafter 1 CW 8. 41. Thomas More, The Confutation of Tyndale’s Answer, Louis A. Schuster, Richard C. Marius, James P. Lusardi, and Richard J. Schoeck (eds.), Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 8, part 2 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), 778/13–20. Hereafter 2 CW 8. 42. Thomas More, A Dialogue concerning Heresies, eds. Thomas M. C. Lawler, Germain Marc’hadour, and Richard C. Marius, vol. 6, part 1 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1981), 50/13–14. Hereafter 1 CW 6. 43. Ibid, 129/25. 44. 1 CW 8, 64. 45. See 2 CW 8, 749/20–29. 46. 1 CW 5, 315/15–316–30. 47. 1 CW 8, 368. 48. 1 CW 6, 126/11. 49. 2 CW 8, 662/18–20. 50. 1 CW 6, 132. 51. 1 CW 6, 131. 52. 1 CW 6, 132. 53. See Thomas More, Letter to Bugenhagen, Supplication of Souls, Letter Against Frith, eds. Frank Manley, Germain Marc’hadour, Richard Marius, and Clarence H. Miller, Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 7 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 58, 62. Hereafter CW 7. 54. See CW 7, 98–102. 55. 1 CW 6, 400. 56. Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will: A New Translation of De Servo Arbitrio (1525), Martin Luther’s Reply to Erasmus of Rotterdam, eds. J. I. Packer and O. R. Johnston (NJ: Fleming H. Revell Co., 1957), 89. 57. See CW 7, 68. 58. 1 CW 8, 498/21–24. 59. 1 CW 8, 426/6–13. 60. See CW 7, 32–84.

110

Chapter 6

61. See 1 CW 6, 141. 62. Thomas More, The Answer to a Poisoned Book, eds. Stephen Merriam Foley and Clarence H. Miller, Complete Works of St Thomas More, vol. 11 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), 37. Hereafter CW 11. 63. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, ed. T. Gilby O. P. (London: Blackfriars, 1963), II–II q. 4, a.3. Hereafter ST. 64. ST, II–II, q. 4, a.4 65. Tyndale, Obedience of a Christian Man, 6–7. 66. Martin Luther, Schriften, Predigten, Disputationen 1519/20, vol. 6, D. Martin Luthers Werke (Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1888), 554. 67. See John Headley’s long discussion of this issue in “More against Luther: On Laws and the Magistrate,” Moreana 15–16 (1967): 211–224. 68. Ibid., 215. 69. Martin Luther, Predigten und Schriften 1523, vol. 11, D. Martin Luthers Werke, (Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachf, 1966), p. 279. 70. 1 CW 5, 276/25–278/2. 71. 1 CW 6, 262/3 and 334/23. 72. Headley, “More against Luther,” 218. 73. See ST, II–II, q. 120, aa1 and 2. 74. See ST, II–II. q. 57, a. 6, ad. 3. 75. See ST. II–II, q. 157 a. 2 ad. 2. 76. See ST I–II, q. 96, a. 6, ad. 2. 77. See ST II–II, q. 157, ad. 3 ad. 1. 78. See S. Thomae Aquinatis, Scriptum super libros Sententiarum magistri Petri Lombardi episcopi Parisiensis, vol. 4. ed. M.F. Moos (Parisiis: P. Lethielleux, 1947), d. 19, q.2, a. 3, sol. I. ad 5. 79. See Richard Marius, “More and the Early Church Fathers,” in eds. R. S. Sylvester and G. P. Marc’hadour, Essential Articles for the Study of Thomas More (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), 405.

Chapter Seven

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533 Travis Curtright

Biographers and historians typically view the months leading up to Anne Boleyn’s June, 1533 coronation as the time of More’s retirement to Chelsea, full of isolation and anxiety, and for writing “bitter, ugly, almost unreadable books” against heresy. 1 From More’s publications against William Tyndale and Christopher St. German to crucial events like parliament’s approval of the Act in Restraint of Appeals, however, I find More’s so-called retirement from office a time full of polemical battle and political intrigue. 2 As we shall see, the particular episodes that best capture More’s judicious brand of defiance include most especially his boycott of Anne’s coronation and the publication of two of his polemical works, The Confutation of Tyndale and his Apology. These will show how the spring and early summer of 1533 provide a very specific, active, and intense portrait of More’s exercise of leadership against Henry VIII’s plans for re-marriage and reformation. Such resistance not only occasions the final break between these former friends but also it reveals why the Crown finds More to be a threat. Most impressive, however, is how More enacts opposition strategies while erecting, at the same time, a defense of himself as the king’s good servant. To see how More does so, we must first grasp how several political controversies converge in a single year. THE KING’S GREAT MATTER By the spring of 1533, Henry and Anne had married in secret, she was pregnant, and in June she would celebrate her coronation. Though the case for dispensing with Queen Catherine was ongoing with Rome, Henry had 111

112

Chapter 7

confidence enough to proceed because of the recently won support for Anne from the king of France and due to the installment of a new archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. Alliance with France might compensate for whatever losses were incurred by way of Spain’s Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, who was Catherine’s own nephew, but Cranmer would provide Henry with an “invalid” verdict for his previous marriage if the Church did not, which in fact Cranmer proclaimed on May 23rd. 3 With Henry’s baby and possible male heir due in September, the theological arguments against dissolving his previous marriage must be accepted. The king’s great matter became a state imperative for dismantling papal authority in England and elevating its monarch to supreme head of the church. 4 The conflict had reached its climax. In July of the same year, Pope Clement VII would conditionally excommunicate Henry, in effect, threatening the measure if the king were to remain obstinate in his second marriage. 5 Biographers of More rightly focus upon Anne’s coronation, an event to which More was invited but declined to attend. When the bishops of Durham, Bath and Winchester petition More to “keep them company” at “the coronation,” More “remembers” an emperor who deals with the unique problem of virgins who are accused of committing a “certain offense” that carries the death penalty. So More “merrily said unto them”: Now it so happened that the first committer of that offense was indeed a virgin, whereof the Emperor hearing was in no small perplexity, as he that by some example fain would have had that law to have been put in execution. Whereupon when his Council had sat long, solemnly debating this case, suddenly arose there up one of his Council, a good plain man, among them, and said, “Why make you so much ado, my lords, about so small a matter? Let her first be deflowered, and then after may she be devoured. 6

More’s reply alludes to Tiberius’ “stairs of Mourning,” which receive this qualification in the original: “Since ancient usage made it impious to strangle virgins, young girls were first violated by the executioner and then strangled.” 7 The anecdote paints the Emperor’s chambers of deliberation with brutal colors, perhaps provoking comparisons between Tiberius and Henry for More’s audience. Whereas the original simply gives the event as a dark paradox—committing rape in the name of the law—More creates speakers and debate, amplifying the scene for persuasive effect. A council sits long in session to determine the matter. The argument is “solemn” and protracted. More’s “good plain man” proposes the final, brutal solution. Lest the import of his message seems ambiguous, More adds: “And so though your lordships have in the matter of the matrimony hitherto kept yourselves pure virgins, yet take good heed, my lords, that you keep your virginity still. For some there be that by procuring your lordships first at the coronation to be present, and next to preach for the setting forth of it, and finally to write books to all the

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

113

world in defense thereof, are desirous to deflower you; and when they have deflowered you, then will they not fail soon after to devour you.” 8 More’s reply is shocking not simply because of his elaboration why he would not attend. The bishops invited More to join them at the Tower and process to Westminster with them, where Anne would be crowned, which meant that More could have greeted Anne along with other persons of rank after her elaborate parade from Greenwich and just before the king did. The bishops offered More a place of honor. We can only imagine what they thought of him or his words as Anne arrived and, finally, “was received by the King, who laid his hands on both her sides, kissing her with great reverence and joyful countenance.” 9 John Guy believes “Anne thirsted for revenge” after learning of More’s refusal to attend. “By boycotting Anne’s day of triumph,” Guy concludes, “he put a sword in his enemies’ hands.” 10 Indeed, even before the coronation, in April, the Spanish Ambassador Eustace Chapuys writes that at an Easter feast the people were asked to pray for “Queen Anne” and “almost everyone took his departure with great murmuring and ill looks, without waiting for the rest of the sermon.” The king, in response, “sent word to the Mayor that on dread of his displeasure he should take order that nothing of the kind happened again, and that no one should be so bold as to murmur at his marriage.” 11 In this context, More’s story about an emperor would appear conspicuously bold. Guy’s assessment appears plausible for other reasons as well. More’s own nephew, William Rastell, records the aftermath of his uncle’s boycott: Queen Anne “made the King a great banquet” and “allured there the king with her dalliance and pastime to grant unto her this request, to put the Bishop [Fisher] and Sir Thomas More to death.” 12 More himself, at his own trial, acknowledges the central importance of the marriage in the charges against him, announcing to his jury: “But I am not unaware of the reason for which you have adjudged me to death. The one single cause is that I have been unwilling over the past years to consent to the second marriage of the king.” In the same eyewitness report of the trial, More’s reply to the charge that he maliciously conspires with Bishop Fisher may allude to Queen Anne’s involvement in pursuing a case against him. After denying that he spoke maliciously against the Act of Succession, More says: “In the meantime, however, it could be that many things have been viciously and maliciously spoken about me to arouse hatred against me on the part of his royal majesty.” 13 So those who attend the coronation and support the marriage, contrary to More’s warning, are not devoured for doing so. For the same reason that they are spared, though, as Eric Ives writes, by the time of More’s execution “it was all too plausible to present Anne as a latter-day Salome demanding the head of a new saint.” 14

114

Chapter 7

In terms of evaluating the political importance of More’s boycott, we should consider not only his fate but also how his action might galvanize resistance against Anne. In May, just before the June coronation, king Henry offers money to those who “inform against persons so speaking” against his second marriage because, “notwithstanding the orders against it, people will speak of this marriage.” 15 And at the coronation, “no one in London or the suburbs, not even women and children” kneel and cry “God save the king, God save the queen.” When the people are commanded to do so, someone responds that the peoples’ hearts may not be ordered and that even “the king could not make them do so.” 16 Chapuys calls the event “a great dissatisfaction” to the “common people” and comments how “it seems that the indignation of everybody about this affair has increased by a half since the coronation.” 17 Such testimony doesn’t appear inaccurate because of bias either. Cromwell’s own clerks follow reports about those “in this realm that be not in their minds full pleased and contented that our Sovereign hath married as he hath done.” If these “forbear to speak at large for fear of punishment, yet they mutter together secretly.” The same report claims the commoners whisper against Cranmer because of his decision against Catherine and warns “if the Pope be excluded out of this realm, the Archbishop must be chief of the clergy here; which will be lightly accepted in the people’s hearts.” Cranmer, therefore, should defend his decision and those clergy who support him. In response, the hand of one of Cromwell’s clerks notes on the report itself that its contents are “reasons” for clearing those who support the king and “for abolishing the Pope’s supremacy.” 18 More’s boycott, like the whispering commoners, indicates an opposition that will require stricter measures. Ironically, the essential reason for the outcry against the marriage was the very one Thomas More, as chancellor, was sent to parliament the year before to refute. From Chapuys’ letter to Charles V on 2 April, 1532, we read how the “Chancellor set forth by command that there were some who had said the King pursued this divorce out of love for some lady, and not out of any scruple of conscience; and this was not true, for he was only moved thereto in discharge of his conscience, which, through what he had read and discovered from doctors and universities, was in bad condition from living with the Queen.” More, then, had the scholarly opinions in the king’s favor read aloud in English. 19 “Love for some lady” would receive a more public outlet in the years after Henry’s reign. Most famously, Shakespeare’s play named for Henry VIII refers to him as a man “whose conscience crept too near another lady,” but, earlier, George Cavendish’s 1558 verses speak in the voice of Anne: “I was the author why laws were made / For speaking against me, to endanger the innocent; / And with great oaths I found out the trade / To burden men’s conscience: thus I did invent / Lineally to succeed in this Imperial crown.” 20

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

115

Sentiments against Anne, though, already circulate among the people in 1532 and only increase with subsequent events in the next year; such charges indicate the problems More’s refusal to attend the coronation would exacerbate. PAPAL PRIMACY Shortly after the coronation, Henry writes to the Duke of Norfolk, “for we, having the justness of our cause for us, with the consent of our nobility and commons, have no such need of what the Pope can do for or against us,” yet by the end of June the king has an appeal ready for a future general council “should he be excommunicated by the Pope on account of his divorce from Katharine of Aragon.” 21 Along with the threat of excommunication, Charles V’s instructions of 31 May on how to proceed in the Boleyn case illustrate the political stakes: “You shall also consult on the best means of forcing the king of England to put away his concubine, and, if possible, getting his Holiness to deprive him of his kingdom, which he holds of the Holy See.” 22 In light of Henry’s confrontation with Clement, More’s comments on the papacy in his Confutation of Tyndale are particularly important for realizing More’s careful strategy of opposition. Though More probably composes his Confutation in the summer of 1531, the last half, books 4 to 8, does not appear until the spring of 1533. A final and incomplete book 9 is not published until William Rastell’s 1557 printing of The Works of Sir Thomas More. Even so, there is evidence of modifications and ongoing contributions for the second installment from its very first pages, suggesting how some parts of this volume respond to the more immediate context of the spring of 1533. The title page of the publication of the second part excludes what the first part prominently proclaims: the authorship of “Sir Thomas More, Knight [and] Lord Chancellor of England.” Both the earlier by-line and the one from 1533 contrast with Rastell’s subsequent Works, which lists More as “sometime Chancellor”; taken all together, these title pages implicitly point to a rise and fall in More’s relationship with Henry. The 1533 edition, in particular, coincides with More’s resignation the year before and status in 1533. 23 That some more substantial modifications occur between first and second installment appears evident from the preface to the whole, which More writes in the fall of 1532, because it promises a refutation of John Frith’s attack on the existence of purgatory that the second part doesn’t provide. Instead, More supplies a polemic against Barnes’ idea of an invisible church. Because the Confutation evolves and responds to More’s own circumstances at different times, when More directly addresses Tyndale’s question—“whether the pope and his sect be Christ’s Church or not?”—he may

116

Chapter 7

use the occasion to deflect accusations in 1533 that he is papist. 24 For this reason, More makes the question of papal primacy a personal one. “I call the church of Christ,” More asserts, “the catholic known church of all Christian nations.” He continues: All albeit that all these nations now do and long have done, recognize and acknowledge the pope, not as the bishop of Rome but as the successor of Saint Peter, to be their chief spiritual governor under God, and Christ’s Vicar on earth, and so do not only we call him but Tyndale’s own fellow friar, Barnes, [does so] too: Yet did I never put the pope for part of the definition of the Church. (CW 8.2, 576/28–35)

Though others call the pope the “chief spiritual governor,” More, we read later, “purposely declined” to follow them. “For I knew very well,” More writes, “that the church being proved this commonly known Catholic congregation of all Christian nations” would invite a second question, “whether over all that catholic church the pope must be head and chief governor?” What then? Perhaps every province might have a head without recourse to the pope. More explores further: But what authority would “provincial patriarchs” have among the people? Because of questions such as these, More will not include the pope in his definition of the Church. “I purposely forbore,” More writes, “to put in the pope as part of the definition of the Church, as a thing that need not [be included], since, if he be the necessary head, he is included in the name of the whole body. And whether he be or not, if it be brought into question, were a matter to be treated and disputed.” Such represents the whole of More’s reply to Tyndale’s much longer attack against the papacy from this section, providing a rare instance of where More’s interlocutor used more ink than he did. For More, Tyndale simply “confounds the matter with two questions at once.” Or, Tyndale confuses the question of what constitutes the church, which is More’s concern, with the role of the pope, which More asserts is a “matter to be treated and disputed beside” (577/1–31). In An Answer into Sir Thomas More’s Dialogue (1531), however, Tyndale’s question about the papacy appears in the first third of the book, which differs from the later chapter-by-chapter rebuttal of More’s Dialogue Concerning Heresies. By the time Tyndale responds to book 4 of the Dialogue, for example, the alteration in format is clear. Tyndale’s first point from this section begins: M. A friar’s manner of life that accepts marrying a nun makes it easy to know that his doctrine is not good. T. the profession of either is plain idolatry and deceiving a man’s soul and robbing him of his good . . . Wherefore when they come to the knowledge of the truth, they ought no longer therein to abide. 25

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

117

In the above, More is cited as “M.” before Tyndale as “T.” refutes. Yet Tyndale’s earliest sections are much longer essays on a question, which often do not even name his adversary. The sections on papacy from An Answer, in fact, read like they could fall easily into some other of Tyndale’s polemical writings, such as the The Practice of Prelates (1530). More did not need to provide an emphatically personal explanation about how he understands the status of the papacy in order to debate this particular issue with Tyndale. Yet he does so. The reason why may be found in the last book of the Confutation, which is not published in 1533 but appears in Rastell’s much later Works. In book 9, More connects his previous arguments for a commonly known Church to a commonly recognized head of it. For heretics have yet to devise a better “sign or token” for recognizing the Church other than this “known Catholic Church” (993/34–36). Actually, the divisions among reformed churches illustrate the need for a shared and commonly known institution of belief. In contrast to them, Christ began his church as “notable and well known” and, of that same church so began, there has been “succession continued,” an acknowledged 1,500 years of succession (1009/25–27). Moreover, Christ as “the head of the Church” did “from the beginning” include “a head of the church and known head” to follow him; such a practice exists in perpetuity and independent of whether or not the head turns out to be a good or an evil man. In proposing an invisible Church without apostolic succession, then, heretics “fall from Saint Peter and refuse him for head of the church and so forth down all the remnant of his successors by row” (1010/15-1011/2). More later qualifies that if Christ did not appoint Peter as head, he appoints multiple ones in selecting his apostles; in either case, however, God will “know his flock” and “the flock should know their shepherd,” who would be God’s commonly known and recognized representative on earth (1011/3–22). Thus, from book 9, More’s argument, despite its later qualification, dangerously addresses papal primacy, which book 5 examines as a separate matter in defining the Church. More does not treat a common head in the published version partly because he claims the question is vexed by how the people could determine an authoritative head from so many claims, yet in book 9 he provides an answer to this conundrum: Just as tradition reveals the presence of publicly known heads of the Church, it shows how there should be one commonly known as above all others. The inexorable logic of the Church as a commonly recognized institution, therefore, leads More towards papal primacy. For this reason alone the publication of book 9 in 1533 would be tantamount to confessing the very primacy that Henry wishes to obliterate. 26 Indeed, when More defends himself against Cromwell’s charge that he opposes the king in the “great matter of his marriage or concerning the primacy of the Pope,” we see exactly how papal primacy impacts the 1533

118

Chapter 7

installment of the Confutation. More writes in his March 5, 1534 letter to Cromwell: But where as I had written thereof at length in my Confutation before, and for the proof thereof had compiled together all that I could find therefore, at such time as I little expected that there should fall between the King’s Highness and the Pope such a breach as is fallen since, when I after that saw the thing likely to draw toward such displeasure between them, I suppressed it utterly and never put word thereof into my book, but put out the remnant without it, which thing well declares that I never intended anything to meddle in that matter against the King’s gracious pleasure, whatsoever mine own opinion were therein. 27

In reply to the charge that More supports papal primacy, More cites what he “suppressed,” which, it turns out, refers to the passages that argue for papal primacy, though Cromwell doesn’t know that. He might not suspect it from the contents of More’s letter either. For in the same letter, More narrates his earlier opposition to Henry’s own proclamation of papal primacy in the Assertio septem Sacramentorum of 1521 as well as claiming that he “never” gave “ear to the pope’s proceedings in the matter.” More concludes his defense on this charge: “Yet never thought I the pope above the general council nor never have in any book of mine put forth among the King’s subjects in our vulgar tongue, advanced greatly the pope’s authority.” 28 In sum, More does not answer Cromwell’s charge completely even as he creates the impression of his innocence. The pope’s authority, ultimately, need not rank above a council in order for him to remain the visible head of the Church to whom Henry should defer on the question of an annulment, especially when there is no council in session to determine the matter. By emphasizing a comparison between council and pope, rather than king and pope, More rebuts a charge that imprecisely captures the original allegation. The issue is not papal hegemony but primacy vis-à-vis the king’s claims for supreme headship. In light of what More refuses to publish and what Cromwell may read as incriminating evidence, More may honestly conclude: “I never intended anything to meddle in that matter against the King’s gracious pleasure, whatsoever mine own opinion were therein.” Thus, the suppression of book 9 reveals artful opposition by way of discreet self-defense. More could be accused of finding papal primacy to be a matter of opinion rather than a falsehood, which the doctrine of kingly supremacy should supplant, but he could not be charged as a papist traitor. If the published version of the Confutation provides evidence to defend More on the charge of papal primacy, however, it also provokes the Crown’s wrath in regard to the king’s remarriage.

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

119

FLESHLY FEELING FAITH In the same letter to Cromwell, More addresses Anne’s coronation and legitimacy in a passage that Rastell cut from his edition of More’s Works. 29 More calls Anne “this noble woman really anointed Queen” and claims of her title that he did “neither murmur at it nor dispute upon it, nor never did nor will, but without any other manner meddling of the matter among his other faithful subjects faithfully pray to God for his Grace and hers both, long to live and well their noble issue too, in such wise as may be to the pleasure of God.” More, writing in his own defense, claims the role of “faithful subject” not only to the king but also to his new queen. In the context of More’s polemical contest with Tyndale and from the vantage point of the Crown, More’s words of good will to Cromwell favorably compare with those of his adversary. Though rumors circulate in January that Henry is appealing to Lutherans for aid with his great matter, Tyndale, like Luther himself, would not support the king’s divorce. As The Practice of Prelates explains at great length, Henry doesn’t have a case from scripture, law, or even in politics. “The king’s grace,” so Tyndale imagines as an objection, “shall have another wife, and she shall bear him a prince, and he shall break strife.” Yet Tyndale sensibly rejoins: “Who hath promised him a prince? Moreover, if his new marriage be not well proved, and go forth with good authority, so shall we yet follow the princess [Mary] still; or if she be sent another way, some other whom we shall suppose more righteous inheritor.” 30 Whereas More states that he will pray for “noble issue” in “such wise as may please God,” Tyndale imagines how a child could turn England into a scenario of greater political strife. Yet Cromwell courts Tyndale for Henry’s cause in 1533 while working against More during the same year. There are reasons within the Confutation for Henry or his agents to suspect More as well. Apart from More’s embarrassing references to the King’s earlier Defense of the Church, More persists with the same assault, which Tyndale quotes from and rebuts above: the charge that breaking vows constitutes moral corruption. As More put in the first part of the Confutation, if God wished to reform His Church, he wouldn’t send Luthers or Tyndales or “no friar out of a nun’s bed to preach it” (CW 8.1, 337/35–6). In the second part, too, More uses the breaking of vows in punning upon and overturning Tyndale’s notion of a “feeling faith” in a way that could be used to critique Henry’s attempts at remarriage. Henry, at least, may be accused of what More calls a “fleshly feeling faith.” More creates this alliterative phrase as a rebuttal to “feeling faith,” which Tyndale positively compares to “historical faith” in his Answer. The last “hangs on the truth and honesty of the teller or of the common fame and consent of the many,” which “faith is but an opinion and therefore abides ever fruitless.” Feeling faith, however, is no “opinion but a sure feeling and

120

Chapter 7

therefore ever fruitful.” A historical faith depends upon the honesty of a preacher but a feeling faith comes from “the power of God and of the Spirit.” 31 For More, historical faith was “the right faith” which is “wrought and written always by God Himself in man’s heart, and therefore it is never without hope and charity . . . within the heart together with the faith, and therefore a feeling faith that never can fail” (8.2, 780/36–781/1–3). The Church and its tradition, in other words, were and are the means of God in producing a genuine life in the Spirit. In addition to the theological point, however, More imagines Luther and Kate before a council, justifying their abandonment of their vows because of a “feeling faith” which supersedes or overrides Church authority and precept: And when he [Luther] finds a nun that feels the like and that each of them feel each other and like well each other for their feeling faith, then may they both be sure that they may boldly break their vows and wed themselves together. And thereby shall they feel by their fleshly feeling faith, that they two be two specially chosen by God before the world was made to go together in this world and bring forth holy fruit to serve the devil at his dinner. (8.2, 926/7–14)

More, thereby, re-describes the doctrine of feeling faith into a distinctly Protestant defense of lewd conduct, a point More iterates often. Like so, the theological argument parallels the rhetorical thrust of More’s rejoinder. Louis A. Schuster, co-editor of the Yale Confutation, historicizes More’s words as a form of persuasion, crude yet efficacious, especially in appealing to England’s commoners. “More was employing the age-old technique of discrediting an innovator’s ideas among the masses,” Schuster writes, which was “to expose his private life.” Better than any complex theological argument, “‘by their fruits you will know them’ was a principle the common man would understand.” 32 More’s argument would be supported by the prohibition of such marriages by ecclesiastical and civil law and the Church teaching that unions between friars and nuns were not marriages but incest. 33 Indeed, if Richard Morison’s Apomix Calumniarum (1537) may be trusted, More often joked how the pope should thank heaven every day because Luther married a nun and, thereby, alienated the people from his cause. 34 If More’s approach met with success, it remains controversial for commentators who prefer a psychological assessment in light of More’s views about sexuality. 35 When revisionist scholars G. R. Elton, Alistair Fox, and Richard Marius spotlight More’s repetitious attacks of vow-breaking, they accuse him of what Elton finds as an irregular “preoccupation with the problems of men’s sexual nature,” what Fox echoes an “obsessive preoccupation,” and what Marius applies to the Confutation, which shows how it “rings with the clangor of More’s own repressed sexuality.” 36 More’s arguments

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

121

against a feeling faith, in this way, now represent psychological grounds for attacking him. Because of the revisionists’ focus upon More’s defense of sexual morality, the political context of his argument still does not receive the attention it deserves. More’s coinage of a “fleshly feeling faith” explicitly refers to friars, priests and nuns who break their vows because of sexual appetite, which must have caught the attention of Thomas Cranmer, who married in 1532 just months before Rome approved him as archbishop of Canterbury. Cranmer’s conversion to Lutheranism is dated from his wedding with the niece of Andreas Osiander’s wife. Osiander was a major Lutheran proponent in favor of Henry’s divorce, and Cranmer, who used to be appalled at Lutheran teaching, underwent “a watershed in his thinking” about religion during his acquaintance with Osiander. 37 If More’s explicit teaching could be used to admonish Cranmer, the implicit one could be applied to Henry. 38 In casting aside Catherine, after all, Henry could be accused of breaking his own marriage vows. As it turns out, More’s words in opposition to revising Church laws for the sake of a “fleshly feeling faith” are points similar to those that would be applied to Henry’s case by his enemies. 39 Most recognizable though, a “fleshly feeling faith” resonates with earlier objections that Henry’s own troubles with the Church are occasioned by “love of a lady.” Just as More’s arguments were successful with the people, they could be altered to ridicule the king. By repeating the charge of vow-breaking for the sake of sating sexual desire, More invites his audience of English commoners to associate the king’s remarriage—along with its attendant defiance of Roman Catholicism—with Lutheran antecedents, heretical teachings, and lewd behavior. More emphasized this point elsewhere as well. Shortly after the Confutation appears in print, More sends his epitaph to Erasmus for publication. The letter dates from June, 1533—the same month of Anne’s anointing as Queen. Curious though it may seem, the epitaph includes More’s wish for living with two wives—his first, Jane, and his second, Alice—but only in heaven. “O how happily we could have lived all three together if fate and morality permitted,” More writes, but “the grave, that heaven, will bring us together.” Given Henry’s marital struggles with Catherine and Anne, as Frank Mitjans suggests, More’s words carry an ironic edge. 40 The same appears true for “fleshly feeling faith.” THE APOLOGY A final work that Rastell publishes in the spring of 1533 exemplifies More’s discretion with language and resistance to the king’s policies. By April, the Apology of Sir Thomas More, Knight appears in response to Christopher St.

122

Chapter 7

German’s attack upon the Church in England, titled A Treatise Concerning the Division between the Spirituality and Temporality. Though St. German pretends to be an objective observer of the commoners’ complaints about the conduct of the clergy, the true purpose of his treatise is propaganda in support of Cromwell’s Act in Restraint of Appeals, which states in its preamble that England is an empire and all jurisdiction within the realm, including both temporality and spirituality, comes from the king; as a result, there could be no appeal to an external authority like the papacy. Anti-clerical sentiment would need to be high in order to ensure a complete break with Rome. So, too, once the Act passes, Queen Catherine’s appeal to Rome to decide the question of her marriage to Henry is illegal. Finally, as a complement to the first Act, a second bill was planned, which would “restrain bishops from citing or arresting any of the King’s subjects to appear before them in cases of heresy” following state specifications. 41 In reply to Christopher St. German’s Division, but without naming those who support and instigate such anticlerical propaganda, More defends not only heresy proceedings but also the clergy in general. In this instance, though, More receives help. “The simple truth,” observes Fox, “is that St. German’s decision to issue the Division anonymously was a godsend to More, for given St. German’s intimate collusion with the administration, he could hardly have dared answer it had he not been able to pretend that he did not know either its real purpose or the identity of its author.” 42 Whether or not More actually knows St. German authors of the Division, More writes as if he does not, and that he certainly understands Cromwell’s legislative and propaganda strategy well. Throughout the Apology, More avoids directly addressing either the king’s great matter or the issue of papal primacy in the very pages that defend the same Church which thwarts Henry’s plans and whose pope will threaten England’s king with excommunication in the days ahead. More does so by turning the question of heresy into a political warning for kings. 43 In reply to complaints against the unfair implementation of heresy laws by the clergy, More writes that innocents shall be spared and offenders punished because “the king’s highness” will maintain and assist the spirituality in executing the laws, even those that are already made against heresies and command every temporal officer under him to do the same for his part.” 44 Henry has good precedent for doing so. In the subsequent chapter, More rehearses the origins of heresy statues, from De haeretico comburendo, enacted by Henry III in 1401, to the Lollard statute of Henry V in April 1414. 45 More expands upon the latter especially, claiming that because so many winked at heresy for so long, the problem occasioned greater political strife. “In the time of the said famous Prince King Henry the Fifth,” More writes of the Lollards, “they conspired among them, not only the abolition of the faith,

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

123

and spoiling of the spirituality, but also the destruction of the king and all his nobles, with a plain subversion and overturning the state of his whole realm” (162/3–8). More refers to the Oldcastle rebellion and its assassination plot, which Henry thwarts; but the event prompts parliament to pass a law enabling greater cooperation between church and state. Local officials would search for and deliver Lollards to the local bishop within fifteen days and heretics would be divested of their wealth and lands. More’s rhetorical strategy becomes clear in passages such as these: Whereas St. German stresses division between commoners and clergy, More emphasizes conflict between heretics and kings. The threat of civil discord awaits King Henry VIII, the example of history suggests, because rebellion against the Church easily translates into rebellion against kings. More’s argument that heresy births civil strife need not invite skepticism, though it often does for modern commentators. Because of R. W. Chambers’ hyperbole in pronouncing that More acted solely “in the fear of sedition, tumult and civil war” is so well refuted by Marius’ biography of More, too many forget that More need not have acted with a singular objective. 46 More’s opposition to reformed theology is sincere and stems from doctrinal disputes and contrary interpretations over the religious purport of humanism, yet it was not apolitical. 47 As Richard Rex observes, “what Chambers realized, and what Marius does not exactly ignore but at times fails fully to appreciate, is how serious a threat More took Protestantism, in particular, to be.” For Rex, both Chambers and Marius “share one and the same historiographical flaw” because both “seek to bring More into the perspective of a Whiggish moralism: the one to defend, the other to condemn.” 48 Rex’s assessment represents a landmark in More studies because just as Chambers’ “special pleading held the field for almost fifty years,” Marius’ own work has done the same since its publication in 1984. 49 What we lose in the process is how More’s argument and example of Henry V illustrate why his Apology was not a “failure” but a reason for the Crown to demand his head. 50 More knows that this earlier Henry was a model for Henry VIII. 51 That is why in More’s earlier Supplication of Souls (1529), he praises Henry V as “the good Catholic king,” who, with his wise “Christian commoners drew up good laws against heretics,” even as “those who favored the heretics likewise resubmit the bill against the clergy.” 52 In the Apology, More’s message is the same: If Henry VIII and his parliament would be great like their ancestors, they should follow “undoubtedly the good Christian zeal of the prince, the nobles, and the commons” of that time “toward the maintenance of the faith, and their high wisdom in providing for the conservation of the peace” (162/ 21–24). That older king and his parliament said heretics should “forfeit both goods and lands and that the great officers of the realm should be solemnly sworn to repress heretics and assist ordinaries” (162/16–21). Given how the Crown’s arguments for supremacy invoke England’s imperial lineage, the

124

Chapter 7

example of Henry V may rebut the absorption of the Church under the king without defying the realm’s magisterial tradition. 53 Any implied comparison between the two kings Henry, too, would insinuate similarities between and among their respective opponents; in a war of propaganda, both Lollardry and St. German’s polemics could be painted as anti-clerical support of heresy and for past and future rebels. Above all, the oath sworn by every single officer under the Crown since the time of Henry V included assisting the Church against heretics by the same 1414 law. The invocation of Henry V, in this way, argues though does not formally allege hypocrisy and lawlessness behind the king’s proposed legislation. 54 Though parliament approves the Act in Restraint of Appeals about the same time More’s Apology appears in print, St. German’s Division had advertised the crown’s agenda long in advance. When the Division argues that “spiritual rulers” pretend that their authority is immediately derived from God, More questions whether that means “all their whole authority or their authority in some part.” Like with his example of Henry V, More asserts a contrary narrative of England’s history: “For I have never read, or at the least, I remember not that I have read, that ever any king granted them the authority that now not only prelates but other poor plain priests also daily do take upon them, in ministering the sacraments and consecrating the blessed body of Christ, with diverse other authorities beside” (99, 21/26). An excised passage in the Act in Restraint of Appeals asserts what More may not have known for certain but would have expected: That the kings of England historically made laws for spiritual matters as well as temporal ones, “so that no worldly laws, ordinances, jurisdictions, or authority of any person was practiced, experimented, or put in execution within this realm but only such as was ordained, made, derived, and depended of the imperial crown of the same.” Thus, the Imperial Crown, following precedent, becomes the authority for state and church law. “This was certainly a rash claim,” observes G. R. Elton of this passage, “for the spiritual courts had for a long time been in the habit of administering the canon law derived from Rome.” If the misrepresentation of traditional practice is absurd, the King still contemplates it, even wishes for such language to be included. In another passage, once excised but reinstated by Henry before its final and ultimate disappearance from the bill, the law states that temporal and spiritual authority and jurisdiction are “derived” from and “depend” upon the “said Imperial Crown and none otherwise.” Elton rightly calls these assertions “impossible to substantiate” but this is precisely More’s point against St. German. 55 So, too, the second act, which “restrains bishops,” does not pass. Fox believes that the Apology “may have been instrumental in delaying the passage of the second, complementary act.” 56 It is difficult to judge from this distance, but stressing Henry V’s legislation to “assist ordinaries” would contrast well with Cromwell’s second bill, and the argument from the Divi-

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

125

sion, that the government should “restrain” bishops. 57 Even if the Act in Restraint of Appeals ratifies the second bill’s intention to curtail the Church’s powers, the scope of the former remains limited. Earlier drafts halt appeals in heresy cases in a statement of prohibition that does not make the final version. Henry inquired as late as 1530 if the papal registers in Rome could qualify his “imperial” status such that he was “under the pope in any other matter than heresy,” which leads J. J. Scarisbrick to wonder if Henry, at that later date, “had not dared to renounce the see of Peter utterly.” “Was the statute of Appeals,” asks Scarisbrick, “a pis-aller rather than an assured coup demain?” 58 If there were hesitation on Henry’s part, More appears wise to pounce upon it. In focusing upon the actual record of heresy proceedings in England and the traditional support of them by the Crown, More argues the case he thinks he might win. When More’s Debellation of Salem and Bizance later appears in 1533, a second installment against St. German, it returns to points already made in the Apology. For this reason, Fox believes that “More must have felt that sufficient hope remained of impeding any further reformist legislation to justify writing it.” Indeed, because St. German advertises the Crown’s agenda, More may respond to it, independent of whatever final form the Act in Restraint of Appeals takes. For More opposes not simply a particular bill, but an overall agenda, which includes legislation yet to be written but whose contents he already expects. 59 So More writes near the end of his Apology and in general terms: “I will advise you, therefore, good readers for the true taking of the old faith, and for the discerning thereof from all new, to stand to the common well-known belief of the common known Catholic Church of all Christian people.” That old faith “as by yourself, and your fathers, and your grandfathers, you have known to be believed” in England (CW 9, 168/ 38–169/2). WORDS FOR ALL SEASONS What More attempts in these selections from the Apology represent the same approach we have seen in the Confutation. In effect, More resists the king’s agenda without outright opposition to him. The rhetorical concomitant to this political strategy means observing what More advises from his Utopia— namely, decorum. 60 Both in print and in action, More follows the Ciceronian formulation of decorum as “the form of wisdom that the orator must especially employ,” which means adapting himself “to occasions and persons” because “one must not speak in the same style at all times, nor before all people.” 61 More, in other words, acts like an orator statesman in his opposition, which in “the inclusive view of rhetoric maintained by Isocrates, Cicero, and Quintilian made its aim the training of the whole man for public

126

Chapter 7

affairs.” 62 Like Demosthenes, Cicero, or Isocrates, when More addresses his English audience during this period, he does so with the ideal of using rhetoric to protect the truth, admonish his political adversaries, and indicate wherein political harmony may be found. 63 Unlike More’s pagan models and his disputants, his truth was distinctly Christian, especially Catholic, what he called the truths held in common these 1500 years by Christendom, and his opponents were those whose contrary religious beliefs might tear not only England but also all of Christendom asunder. More also writes most of his words, like Isocrates’ address to the Parliament of Athens, instead of orally delivering them. 64 Even so, in order to understand More’s practice of statesmanship during these months as an attempt at persuasion rather than as obfuscation, clerical propaganda, or vindictive countermeasure, we must first acknowledge the difficulty of his rhetorical situation. For Aristotle rhetoric is “the faculty of discovering all the possible means of persuasion in any given case” and the “possible means” in 1533 are very narrow indeed. 65 How, then, should More’s statements to Cromwell, cited above, about Anne as a “noble lady” be judged? These sentiments appear to clash with those that More wrote in boycotting Anne’s coronation. Though the tone obviously differs greatly from one to the other, decorum shows how More’s letter does not contradict his earlier explanation to the Bishops about why he would not attend the coronation. More’s overall position is consistent. He will neither dispute Anne’s elevation nor will he argue against the Church and pope in order to justify it. There is a good legal explanation for this position. Parliament may declare who will inherit the throne as Henry’s successor, privileging Anne’s offspring instead of Catherine’s, as a matter of secular law; but parliament cannot legislate the religious beliefs of all Christendom. As More later writes in explanation of why he refuses to take the Oath of Succession: “I would not deny to swear to the succession, yet unto the oath that there was offered to me I could not swear without jeopardizing my soul to perpetual damnation.” 66 The particular form of the oath offered to More, in other words, clarifies why he refuses it. As Peter Marshall rightly observes: “More would not swear because the preamble to the oath upheld the spiritual validity of the king’s second marriage and implicitly rejected the authority of the pope.” 67 More, then, could admonish bishops to refrain from defending the marriage in their capacity as leaders of the Church while acknowledging the rights and prerogatives of parliament at the same time. He advises both parties according to their state and duties. Likewise, More will not publicly argue for papal primacy but, as he writes to Cromwell, “I never neither read nor heard anything of such effect on the other side, that ever could lead me to think that my conscience were well discharged, but rather in right great peril if I should follow the other side and deny the primacy to be provided by God, which if we did, yet can I nothing . . . perceive any commodity that ever could come by that denial, for

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

127

that primacy is at the leastwise instituted by the body of Christendom and for a great urgent cause in avoiding of schisms and strengthened by continual succession more than the space of a thousand years at the least.” 68 To attack the papacy, in other words, would be wrong, for there are very good reasons for maintaining, above all, Church unity, yet More himself feels no obligation to advocate for papal primacy in his public writings. More’s words suggest how important primacy is for the very situation in which England finds herself, on the brink of schism, without ever arguing for primacy as intrinsic to the deposit of faith. In the spring of 1533, decorum mandates controlled resistance, specifying how the Church should be defended without attacking the central causes of why she is being attacked in England. An economics of sincerity for the sake of persuasion, however, does not mean being insincere. Though More’s opposition to the King’s second marriage was known long before, More doesn’t trumpet this point until his trial. Because papal primacy remains a matter of opinion, More seems content not to express his, especially if doing so would discredit his ability to argue other cases for the Church. If the realm or the king may slide into seditious factions and strife by ignoring heresy, however, More sounds an alarm. To put it paradoxically, More actively opposes Henry during this period while constructing, at the same time, a defense of himself as a loyal subject. More may do so with integrity because he believes that a king’s “faithful servant” should be “God’s first.” 69 NOTES 1. The quote above comes from Richard Marius, Thomas More: A Biography (New York: Vintage Books, 1985), 424. Marius follows G. R. Elton’s assessment of More’s polemical works and identification of More’s most intense period of political counterattack to the Crown’s policies. Elton explores More’s “opposition” from his appointment to Chancellor and up until 1532 in “Sir Thomas More and the Opposition to Henry VIII” in Essential Articles for the Study of Thomas More, ed. Richard S. Sylvester and Germain Marc’hadour (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), 79–91. Hereafter the Essential Articles is cited as EA. For other narratives of this period in 1533 include Peter Ackroyd’s The Life of Thomas More (London: Chatto & Windus, 1998), 321–341; and John Guy, A Daughter’s Love: Thomas & Margaret More (London: Fourth Estate, 2008), 219–228. Though each of the above recognizes More’s tenure as Chancellor and time at trial as periods of conflict, no study demonstrates just how crucial More’s “retirement” is for exemplifying and intensifying his conflict with Henry VIII. 2. Unless otherwise noted by the edition of a cited text, I have modernized all quotations from early modern English. 3. G. W. Bernard, Anne Boleyn: Fatal Attractions (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 62–78. 4. The political circumstances are reviewed well in E. W. Ives, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 127–147. 5. Though Henry’s excommunication is not finally promulgated until 1538, it is written at least three years before and its impetus comes from the events of 1533. See J. J. Scarisbrick, Henry VIII (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 361.

128

Chapter 7

6. See Roper’s Life of More in Gerard B. Wegemer and Stephen W. Smith, A Thomas More Source Book (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 44. Hereafter the Source Book is abbreviated and cited as TMSB. 7. See Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars, trans. J. C. Rolfe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 61.4–5. 8. Roper, 44. In contrast to how More explains his absence, see how Sir W. Courteney excuses himself from attending the coronation to Cromwell in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Vol. 6: 1533, ed. James Gairdner (1882), no. 521; hereafter abbreviated as LP followed by just the document number. Unless otherwise indicated, all citations from LP are from this volume and cited from British History Online at http://www.british-history.ac.uk/ source.aspx?pubid=846. 9. LP, no. 563. For other descriptions of the event, see nos. 583–585, 601. In addition to the assignment of servers and officers, attendance is kept for royalty, clerics, and judges in nos. 563, 583, 701. 10. John Guy, A Daughter’s Love, 223–24, 11. LP, no. 391. The date of Chapuys’ letter is 27 April. 12. The Rastell Fragments in Nicholas Harpsfield, The life and death of Sir Thomas Moore, knight, sometimes Lord high Chancellor of England (London: Oxford University Press, 1963), 235. 13. See the Guildhall report of More’s trial in Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, eds. Henry Ansgar Kelly, Louis W. Karlin, Gerard Wegemer (Rochester, NY: Boydell Press, 2011), 191, 193; the quote that focuses on the charge against More in terms of the King’s second marriage is at 187. 14. Ives, The Life and Death, 201. 15. LP, no. 541. 16. Ibid., no. 585. 17. Ibid., no. 653. 18. Ibid., no. 738. 19. LP, vol. 5: 1531–32, no. 24. 20. See All is True or Henry VIII in The Norton Shakespeare, 2nd ed., ed. Stephen Greenblatt (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2008), 2.2.17–18; Cavendish’s Metrical Visions is cited from Ives, 201. 21. LP, nos. 641, 721. 22. Ibid., no. 570. 23. On the difference in the opening pages of the two parts of the Confutation, I follow The Yale Complete Works of St. Thomas More, vol. 8, part 3: Introduction, Commentary, Glossary, Index (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973), 1419. Part 1 of this series contains books I–IV and part 2 the text of books V–IX. Hereafter all volumes are abbreviated as CW 8 and cited internally by part, page, and line numbers. 24. Even though More’s Dialogue of Heresies does not advocate papal primacy, Tyndale’s Answer to the Dialogue refers to More as a “fleshly minded papist” (190, 30) and repeats variations of the accusation often. 25. William Tyndale, An Answere Vnto Sir Thomas Mores Dialoge, ed. Anne M. O’Donnell and Jared Wicks (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2000), 171. 26. James P. Lasardi, addressing the controversial nature of papal primacy and for similar reasons, believes “there are several places in the Confutation where suppression may have occurred for this reason, and the ninth book is one of them.” See CW 8.3, 1425. 27. St. Thomas More: Selected Letters, ed. Elizabeth Frances Rogers (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967), 206, 214. The emphasis is mine. Hereafter all letters from this edition are abbreviated as SL and cited by page numbers. 28. Ibid., 211, 214. 29. Rastell’s excision need not be understood as an editorial cover-up of an unflattering fault of his uncle. Rather, as a Marian edition, it would be impolitic to publish More’s words in support of Anne’s legitimacy. 30. William Tyndale, The Practice of Prelates in The Works of the English Reformers: William Tyndale and John Frith, vol. 1, ed. Thomas Russell (London: E. Palmer, 1831), 479.

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

129

31. Tyndale, An Answer, 48–49. 32. Schuster, 8.3, 1265. 33. See Ibid., commentary on 41/30–31 and, for More’s own reference to canon law’s teaching, the commentary on 493/7–8. 34. Morison is cited from W. Gordon Zeeveld, “Apology for an Execution” in EA, 209. The Apomix is a defense of Henry VIII and attack of Fisher and More. 35. Cf. Eamon Duffy, CCTM, 212, who criticizes the readings of Marius, Elton, and Fox as distorted by a “largely baseless psychological reading of More.” 36. G. R. Elton is quoted from his review of the Yale Confutation in The English Historical Review 89: 351 (April, 1974): 386; Alistair Fox from his Thomas More: History and Providence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 142; Richard Marius from his Thomas More, 426. 37. On Cranmer, see especially Diarmaid MacCulloch, “Campaign to End a marriage: 152733” from Thomas Cranmer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 41–78; for discussion of his marriage, see 68–73; the quote cited above is at 72. For Cranmer’s initial scandal at Lutheran teaching, see 26–31. 38. I say “could” because Cranmer’s marriage was not widely known. 39. For a sampling of defiance to the new marriage, ranging from comparisons to the adultery of King David to labeling Anne a “whore,” see G. W. Bernard, The King’s Reformation: Henry VIII and the Remaking of the English Church (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 198-199. See, too, Zeeveld’s Apology, 198–211, which reviews early responses to the deaths of More and Fisher and how the King’s actions and policies were perceived. 40. See More’s letter to Erasmus, epitaph, and Mitjans comment in For All Seasons: Selected Letters of Thomas More, ed. Stephen W. Smith (New York: Scepter Publishers, 2012), 182–188. 41. LP 6, no. 2. 42. Fox, 193. 43. On More’s rebuttal of St. German’s legal points about heresy laws and proceedings, see Henry Ansgar Kelly, “Thomas More on Inquisitorial Due Process,” English Historical Review CXXIII, no. 503 (August 1, 2008): 847–894. 44. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of Thomas More, vol. 9, The Apology, ed. J. B. Trapp (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), 155/16-22. Hereafter abbreviated and cited internally as CW 9. 45. The heresy statutes in England from 1382 to 1414 are in CW 9, 249–260. 46. R. W. Chambers, Thomas More (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1958), 282. 47. See Travis Curtright, The One Thomas More (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 105–139. 48. Richard Rex, “More and the heretics: statesman or fanatic?” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George Logan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 109. 49. The quote on Chambers is from John Guy, Thomas More (London: Arnold, 2000), 112. 50. Marius, Thomas More, 438, calls the Apology a “failure,” which echoes Elton’s assessment in “Reviews” in Studies in Tudor and Stuart Politics and Government, vol.3: Papers and Reviews 1973–1981 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 452. 51. In fact, early in his reign, Henry VIII privileges a chivalric model over the humanist one of More and Erasmus. He even commissions the translation of an early life of Henry V. See J. J. Scarisbrick, Henry VIII (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 22–23. 52. Thomas More, The Four Last Things, The Supplication of Souls, A Dialogue on Conscience, rendered in modern English by Mary Gottschalk (New York: Scepter Publishers, 2002), 103–104. 53. The imperial lineage of England is argued for “by divers sundry old authentic histories and chronicles,” which “manifestly declared and expressed that this realm of England is an empire” and is “governed by one supreme head and king.” See “An Act that the appeals in such cases as have been used to be pursued to the see of Rome shall not be from henceforth had nor used but within this realm” in The Tudor Constitution: Documents and Commentary, 2nd ed., ed. G. R. Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 353.

130

Chapter 7

54. See Guy, Thomas More, 120. 55. The excised portions from the Act in Restraint of Appeals and assessment of them are from G.R. Elton, “The Evolution of a Reformation Statute,” The English Historical Review Vol. 64, no. 251 (Apr., 1949): 184. 56. Fox, 197. 57. The second bill also specifies at least two witnesses against the accused and the disclosure of all the names of the accusers who allege heresy (see LP 6, no. 2), which mirrors precisely the position of St. German in 1533. Yet, as More correctly rejoined, ex officio proceedings according to canon law already provide these safeguards. The argument and proposed law designed to stir indignation against the clergy, then, suffered from a misconception of how heresy proceedings actually function, which More exposed. See Kelly, “Inquisitorial Due Process,” especially 854–859 on due process; and 884–894 on the 1534 Act and what it actually accomplishes. In Kelly’s overall assessment: “It has been hard for modern readers to realize how completely More debellated his opponent, because of the tedious length at which he responded, and because most such readers are even more benighted about the principles of canon law than St. German was” (894). 58. I follow and cite from J. J. Scarisbrick, 315. 59. As Fox notes, 197, even the later 1534 Act retains the punishment of burning for relapsed heretics following De haeretico comburendo. The eventual 1534 Act for Punishment of Heresy, of course, resolves the situation because of its specifications that speaking against the Pope and canon law is not heresy. Yet England would continue to have anti-heresy proceedings under the ultimate authority of King Henry. 60. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of Thomas More, vol. 4, ed. Edward Surtz and J.H. Hexter (New Haven, Conn: Yale University Press, 1965), 99/5–8. 61. Cicero, The Orator, trans. H. M. Hubbell (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), xxxv.123. 62. The humanist ideal of an orator statesman is from Donald Lemen Clark, John Milton at St. Paul’s School: A Student of Ancient Rhetoric in English Renaissance Education (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1964), 8. On the importance of rhetorical training for this period in general, see Quentin Skinner, Reason and Rhetoric in the Philosophy of Hobbes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 19–214. 63. Though humanist educational reforms should not be conflated with the religious disputes of the Reformation, there can be no doubt that training in rhetoric well-equipped disputants on both sides, who applied their classical learning to Christianity. For More’s own knowledge and use of classical rhetoric, see his letter to Oxford University; and for an early use of it in controversies of theology, see More’s letters to Dorp and Lee in The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, vol. 15 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963). On how the paths of humanism and Reformation converge in the early sixteenth century, see Erika Rummel, The Humanist-Scholastic Debate in the Renaissance and Reformation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 126–152. 64. Cuthbert Tunstal, Bishop of London, originally commissioned More’s anti-heretical writings in terms of the statesman orator. Like a Demosthenes, More should persuade the common man about the common faith. Tunstal writes to More: “Because you, dearest brother, can rival Demosthenes in our vernacular as well as in Latin, and are a frequent and brilliant advocate of the Catholic position whenever it is publicly challenged, you will never find a better way of spending any leisure hours you can snatch away from your official duties than in publishing in English for the common man [simplicibus et ideotis hominibus] some books that would help him see through the cunning malice of heretics and so keep him alerted and better fortified against these traitorous subverters of the Church” (CW 8.3, 1139). 65. Aristotle is cited from Clark, At St. Paul’s School, 9–10, who discusses this point with Cicero’s teaching on the importance of speaking “in a way adapted to win the assent.” To adjust your speech for particular audiences would entail observing the available means of persuasion. 66. I cite from More’s 17 April 1534 letter to Margaret from Rogers, SL, 217. 67. Peter Marshall, “The Last Years” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George Logan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 122.

Sir Thomas More and his Opposition to Henry VIII in 1533

131

68. Rogers, SL, 211–213. 69. For More’s last words see LP 8, no. 996, p. 395 and the Guildhall report, 195; for discussion of variants, see Elizabeth McCutcheon, “More’s Prison Letters” in Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 107.

Chapter Eight

Thomas More Patron Saint of Leading Citizens Stephen W. Smith

THOMAS MORE AT A TURNING POINT Known to many as “a man for all seasons,” Thomas More (1478–1535) has intrigued generations of writers and thinkers, citizens and statesmen alike. William Shakespeare, for example, wrote of More as living justice “for truth’s sake and his conscience” in his late play, King Henry the Eighth. 1 Shakespeare also collaborated on The Book of Sir Thomas More, a mysterious Elizabethan play in which More is presented as embodying the marriage of “wit and wisdom” and serving as “the general watch of England” and protector of her peace through “loyal industry.” 2 Later in the British tradition, Jonathan Swift numbered Thomas More among the six greatest defenders of liberty, and he went so far as to claim that More was “the person of the greatest virtue these islands ever produced.” 3 For an author who had a “propensity to hate everybody,” as Elizabeth Bennet once said of Fitzwilliam Darcy, this is high praise indeed. Closer to our own time, Winston Churchill admired “the noble and heroic stand” of More and John Fisher against Henry’s growing tyranny, 4 while G. K. Chesterton thought that More “may come to be counted the greatest Englishman, or at least the greatest historical character in English history.” 5 In the 1920s, Chesterton also discerned that Thomas More “represented a type, a turning point, and an ultimate destiny,” and he claimed More would become truly important in “about a hundred years time,” a time we are approaching rapidly in our own lifetimes. 6 Why would Chesterton make such a seemingly extravagant prophecy? How could one free and educated man make an impact like this, on his own country and across the centuries, such that he would be canonized in 1935, named “Law133

134

Chapter 8

yer of the Millennium” in 1999, and finally proclaimed “Patron of Statesmen” by John Paul II at the beginning of the third millennium? It is on this last title—“Patron of Statesmen”—that I will focus by articulating some of the key interior attributes of the fit statesman, with reference to More’s own writings and his living example. But first, what is a “statesman” exactly? How might Thomas More have understood the concept of leader? As Cicero wrote in De Republica, “I begin by observing a rule which all speakers, I fancy, must adhere to if confusion is to be avoided: that is, if the name of the subject under discussion is accepted (whatever it is), the meaning of the name should be explained.” 7 So what is a statesman, in light of the tradition More inherited and studied? PLATO’S STATESMAN: THE KNOWLEDGE AND ART OF STATESMANSHIP For More, two of the most important classical sources on the subject of statesmanship are Plato and Cicero. Plato’s Statesman, for example, depicts a dialogic “search for the statesman” (politikos) and an adequate understanding of his specific character, knowledge and art (258b). 8 This dialogue’s vision of statesmanship, which will be my focus here, seems Plato’s most positive account of the subject, freer as it is from some of the pessimism that may be discerned elsewhere in his writings. 9 In the course of his philosophical search in Statesman, Plato offers the reader several memorable likenesses of the statesman, drawn from shared human experience. These are the “material” (297e) out of which his dialogue will fashion the statesman. First, Plato likens the statesman to “a charioteer” to whom the “reins of the city” are entrusted because of his expert knowledge and art (266e). Next, Plato likens the statesman to the “sole herdsman” and “shepherd” who knows how to “care” for the “collective rearing of human beings ”(267d). Unlike the tyrant, who forces subjects to his will, the statesman respects freedom and wins “voluntary” consent from those he governs (276e). Finally, Plato explores two other likenesses for the statesman, the “noble steersman” or pilot who knows how to navigate the seas, and a “doctor who is ‘worth many others’” on account of his knowledge of “health and truth” and his ability to cure diseases (297e, 299b). After exploring these likenesses and suggesting the statesman’s virtues, Plato compares the proper activity of the statesman to “weaving,” an art that involves “the same activities as statesmanship on a very small scale” (279b). The statesman is, finally, the one who knows how to weave—that is, to direct and care for himself, his city and his fellow citizens in the best way possible: The one that controls [the lesser forms of expertise concerned with practical activity], and the laws, and cares for every aspect of things in the city, weaving

Thomas More

135

together in the most correct way—this, embracing its capacity with the appellation belonging to the whole, we would, it seems, most appropriately call statesmanship. (305e)

Related to statesmanship but “subordinate to the expertise of the statesman” are three “precious” forms of knowledge and art: “generalship,” or command during times of war; “rhetoric,” or the art of persuasion; and finally, “the art of the judge,” who is a master of law (304a). The statesman thus unites character and virtue, knowledge and art, in his person and activities on behalf of the city. Statesman ends with a provocative discussion of the “weaving art” of the statesman, as Plato pushes for greater clarity on just what kind of weaving belongs most properly to the statesman. First, Plato declares “something astonishing”—namely, that two of the great virtues, courage and moderation, seem to be at war and engage “in a great deal of hostility towards each other, about a great many things” (306b, 307d). Because of their passion for peace, quiet, and private business, moderate souls are “less timely” than they should be and have the tendency to become “slaves instead of free men before they have noticed it” (307e, 308a). The courageous, on the other hand, have a certain gift for action but also a propensity for “drawing their cities into some war or other because of their desire for a life of this sort, which is more vigorous than it should be” (308a). Like the moderate, the courageous have a potentially tragic flaw closely associated with their key strength: they tend to make “enemies” and either “completely destroy their fatherlands, or else make them slaves and subjects of their enemies . . . ” (308a). This “war” between moderation and courage, according to the dialogue, is “the most hateful of all for cities,” and the remedy for this disease is only found in the specific “expertise” of the statesman (307d, 310a). In Plato’s final analysis, then, the statesman is the person who knows first how to educate the moderate and the courageous (309b), and then how to knit together these kinds of souls for sake of the common good: This is the single and complete task of kingly weaving-together, never to allow moderate dispositions to stand away from the courageous. Rather, by working them closely into each other as if with a shuttle, through sharing of opinions, through honors, dishonor, esteem, and the giving of pledges to one another, it draws together a smooth and “fine-woven” fabric out of them, as the expression is, and always entrusts offices in cities to these in common. (310e–311a)

The entrusting of offices depends upon the prudence of the statesman, and his seasoned understanding of circumstances, events, and the present needs. When there is a need for “a single officer” in the city, for example, the statesman chooses the person who “has both qualities” of courage and moderation. When there is a need for “more than one” officer he mixes together

136

Chapter 8

“a part of each of these groups.” Without both of these groups “to give their help,” according to the dialogue, nothing goes right in the city, “either on the private or the public level.” The city is at civil war in such a case. The dialogue concludes with Plato’s last and strongest claim: that the happiness of the city depends upon this weaving art of the statesman. The end of the statesman’s art is civic amity: Then let us say that this marks the completion of the fabric which is the product of the art of statesmanship: the weaving together, with regular intertwining, of the dispositions of the brave and moderate people—when the expertise belonging to the [statesman] brings their life together in agreement and friendship and makes it common between them, completing the most magnificent and best of all fabrics and covering with it all the other inhabitants of cities, both slave and free; and holds them together with this twining and rules and directs without, so far as it belongs to a city to be happy, falling short of that in any respect. (311b–c)

According to Plato’s Statesman, any real culture of civic friendship, happiness, and prosperity depends upon the knowledge, art, and virtue of the statesman, especially seen in the statesman’s capacity to weave together courage and moderation. That Thomas More found this understanding of statesmanship congenial may be seen, for example, in his “Coronation Ode” to King Henry VIII, which amidst fulsome praise for the gallant king nevertheless cautions young Henry that “unlimited power has a tendency to weaken good minds, / and that even in the case of very gifted men.” 10 More’s prudent concern in moderating the courage of kings—young Henry’s imagination took great heat from the image of warlike King Henry V—and in counseling others about how to deal with such persons, is further manifest in his political epigrams. Several epigrams liken the king to a powerful lion, a courageous and noble but potentially violent and unruly creature, who has a soft tongue but very sharp teeth, or “bad neighbors” as More amusingly puts it. 11 In his early biography of More, William Roper includes a revealing anecdote about how More counseled Thomas Cromwell to deal with the lion-like Henry: “Mr. Cromwell, you have now entered the service of a most noble, wise, and liberal prince; if you follow my poor advice you shall, in counsel given to his Grace, ever tell him what he ought to do, but never tell him what he is able to do, so shall you show yourself a true faithful servant, and a right worthy Counselor. For if the lion knew his own strength, hard were it for any man to rule him.” 12 When lions can rule and be ruled, however, their great strength can be used to create not endless wars and enemies, but lasting peace and friends, a civic project close to More’s weaving wit throughout his lifetime. As Cathy Curtis argues, More first entered Henry’s service because of his commitment to “early modern European peace-making.” 13 Later, after his

Thomas More

137

resignation, More would single out the peace of Cambrai for special mention on his epitaph: “In that place,” More writes of himself, “he witnessed, in the capacity of ambassador, to his great joy, the renewal of a peace treaty between the supreme monarchs of Christendom and the restoration of a longdesired peace to the world. May heaven confirm this peace and make it a lasting one.” 14 Such peace-making was, for More, the great expression of the statesman’s weaving art—and heart. The supreme challenge to this peace is the sometimes disastrous character and desire of kings, as More makes plain in his great epigram, “De Cupiditate Regnandi.” 15 CICERO ON STATESMANSHIP AND LEADING CITIZENSHIP While Plato was important for More’s intellectual formation, so too was the Roman philosopher Cicero, who holds the most important place among More’s other influences. In More’s 1518 letter to Oxford University, for example, More singles out Cicero as one of two Roman thinkers who offer the world something more than simply warmed over Greek philosophy in Latin translation. 16 As recent scholars such as Quentin Skinner, David Baker, and Gerard Wegemer have shown, More’s early humanistic writings are particularly indebted to Cicero’s understanding of statesmanship, or what is better rendered “first citizen,” a translation of the key Ciceronian and Roman term princeps. 17 I will begin by tracing Cicero’s understanding of statesmanship mainly through the surviving texts of his Republic, fairly representative of his thought elsewhere, and then turn to the concept of first or leading citizenship. In his Republic, Cicero laments the lack of true statesmen at the present moment. The present lack of such persons is “a great tragedy” for Rome, such that “we are left with the name of the Republic, having long since lost its substance” (81). Despite this lament, Cicero’s dialogue explores the character and work of the fit statesman, mainly through the mouth of the famous general Scipio Africanus. In former times, Rome produced “excellent men” capable of embodying and preserving the Roman way of life, along with its institutions. First, the statesman “will indeed have taken trouble to find out about justice and laws and will certainly have studied their foundations” (82). Although the statesman needs to “be well versed in the fundamental principles of law,” this is not the statesman’s “special business” (83). According to Scipio, the ideal statesman’s proper work and “aim” is the “citizens’ happy life—that is, a life secure in wealth, rich in resources, abundant in renown, and honorable in moral character” (83). Here, according to Cicero’s Republic, is “the task,” the “greatest and best” that any person can have: working the harmony, happiness, and concord of citizens and city (83). 18 Like Plato, Cicero understands the art of the statesman to involve “governing and train-

138

Chapter 8

ing peoples, an art which in the case of good and able men still produces, as it has so often in the past, an almost incredible and superhuman kind of excellence” (61). As for the statesman himself, he “should have virtually no duty apart from this, for it embraces all the rest—namely that he should never cease inspecting and examining himself . . .” (57). In De Officiis, Cicero adds that statesmen should “carry with them that greatness of spirit and indifference to outward circumstances to which I so often refer, together with calm of soul and freedom from care, if they are to be free from worries and lead a dignified and self-consistent life.” 19 Self-knowledge, magnanimity of spirit, peace of soul, freedom, integrity, and virtue—here are what the statesman needs most in Cicero’s experienced judgment. While I’ve used the word “statesman” throughout this section on Cicero, recent work suggests that “first citizen” or “leading citizen” [princeps] may be better employed to express Cicero’s understanding of the ideal civic leader. After noting that Cicero in his Epistulae ad Familiares affirms Plato’s saying that “as are the first citizens [principes] in a commonwealth, so are the other citizens apt to be,” 20 Gerard Wegemer unfolds Cicero’s understanding with texts drawn from Pro Sestio, De Natura Deorum, De Legibus, and De Oratore among others, and articulates what the character, knowledge and art of “first citizens” is like: In a state, that ruling part for Cicero is the group of most eminent citizens, the principatus, who are responsible for steering “the ship of state.” These leading citizens emerge as “first” by the proven quality of their service in bringing about the good of the respublica as a whole. To these “who excelled in justice and wisdom,” the people entrust their imperium “without which, existence is impossible for a household, a city, a nation.” Such leaders of government arise because they are “first in wisdom and eloquence in the Senate, in the assembly of the people, and in public causes.” They rise “easily” to first place if they have the natural talent and have worked to achieve the mastery of the arts involved. Maintaining that position of trust, however, requires proving “their loyalty [fides], their steadfastness [constantia], their greatness of soul [magnitude animi]” through many political storms, and through the whole of their lives. 21

Linking Cicero’s understanding to Thomas More’s, Wegemer argues that “both Cicero and More saw the need for a princeps skillful enough—that is, learned, virtuous, experienced, and detached enough—to fashion action that would not only avoid the ill will that causes deadly civic strife but also strengthen the trust and friendship needed to foster ‘sound deliberation’ in the body politic.” 22 The earlier Platonic conception of the statesman, sketched out above, has thus matured into the Ciceronian vision of the statesman, or leading citizen. In both More and Cicero, one sees the best of Plato’s thinking on statesmanship preserved and enhanced, while Plato’s darker

Thomas More

139

thoughts on the subject are corrected or set aside—a philosophical motion similar to the unfolding of More’s “truly golden” dialogue, Utopia. 23 This understanding of statesman as “first citizen” is More’s principal inheritance from Cicero, and seems closest to More’s own view, along with certain additions—a little salt and seasoning—of More’s own. 24 At the risk of adding words to John Paul II’s proclamation, I suggest that Patron of Statesmen and Leading Citizens is perhaps the most accurate title More could be given, and I will use “leading citizen” for the rest of the essay when discussing More’s understanding of the ideal—and much needed—leader in a republic. 25 So what specific wisdom does Thomas More offer the contemporary person on this great subject—leading citizenship—beyond the definitions offered above from Plato and Cicero? What are some of the key inner attributes of a Morean leading citizen? How was “first citizenship” embodied and lived in Thomas More’s case? What do leading citizens need most? LIBERAL EDUCATION AND THE LEADING CITIZEN For More, the most educated Englishman of his generation, and the only true genius in England according to Erasmus, 26 liberal education has as its purpose the formation and freedom of the person—and leading citizens. In the words of Seneca, the other Roman philosopher More admired greatly: “Hence you see why ‘liberal studies’ are so called: because they are studies worthy of the free. But there is only one really liberal study, that which gives a person his liberty. It is the study of wisdom, and that is lofty, brave, and great-souled.” 27 Later named High Steward of both Oxford and Cambridge, the young More was convinced that he stood in great need, regardless of future profession and vocation, of such an education. In particular, he needed “the philosopher’s understanding of human nature, the historian’s knowledge of his own country, the theologian’s perspective on eternity, and the poet’s art of moving” the human heart. 28 We are fortunate to have one surviving letter from More on liberal education, the “Letter to Oxford University,” dated 29 March 1518. In that letter, More responds to the controversy at Oxford over the new study of Greek, which has led to another war on campus, with “Greek” and “Trojan” factions dividing the masters. More singles out for attention and response a public sermon “liberally berating all the liberal arts” (206) and claiming that “humanistic education” is a “trivial, if not positive hindrance to the spiritual life” (207). After dismissing the preacher as motivated by ignorance and “supreme pride,” and pointing out that “no one has ever claimed that a man needed Greek and Latin, or indeed any education in order to be saved” (207), More defends liberal education as being worthwhile, especially insofar as it “prepares the soul for virtue”

140

Chapter 8

through the exercise of study. 29 More points out that, even if students come to Oxford for theology, they do not simply leap into a theology program. Rather, they “first study prudence in human affairs, a thing not useless to theologians,” mainly through close study of the works of “poets, orators, and historians” (208). Finally, More likens the liberal arts to a ladder or way to the study of theology, in certain cases: “there are some who through knowledge of things natural construct a ladder by which to rise to the contemplation of things supernatural; they build a path to theology through philosophy and the liberal arts, which this man condemns as secular” (208). After intervening to stop this spleeny academic war, More concludes with a prayer that God will “grant that [Oxford] flourish continually in virtue and in all the liberal arts” (211). More’s letter, of course, is a striking example of his own prudence, and reflects throughout the depth of his liberal studies and its influence on his wit and judgment. While some approaches to education tend toward a relentless presentism, More’s example and learning suggest that serious study of philosophy and liberal arts—of Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Vergil, Cicero and Seneca, Sallust and the great historians—should be a vital part of the formation and education of any leading citizen and statesman. In a later 1521 letter describing Thomas More as “a man for all seasons” with “the common touch,” Erasmus also describes the many benefits More has gained through his liberal education. According to Erasmus, More owes to his liberal studies “his much better health, his popularity and influence with an excellent prince and all men both friends and strangers, his easier circumstances, his own greater happiness and the happiness he gives his friends, the services he can now render to his country and his relations and his kinsfolk, his increased adaptability to court society, to life among the nobility, and to the whole way of life he now leads, and a greater ease in pleasing heaven.” 30 From Erasmus’ perspective, liberal education turns out to be the most useful undertaking in the world for a leading citizen. Such an education first strengthens the intellectual virtues and equips the leading citizen with a formidable understanding of reality, and then helps one like a lasting friend throughout life. More’s private study of the classics, lasting for nearly two decades after his formal schooling ceased, indicates the extent of his commitment to liberal education and the seriousness of his own intellectual preparation and formation. How many modern statesmen and leading citizens in any age have considered the teachings on virtue, knowledge, tyranny, and the good life found in Plato and Aristotle? Or the rage of Achilles, and the troubled homecoming of Odysseus, in Homer’s probing epics? Or Sallust’s account of Catiline’s conspiracy? Or Vergil’s uneasy meditation on the founding of Rome and the Roman way of life? Or Cicero’s counsel that we examine the images we have in us of greatly lived and greatly led human life? Or Tacitus’ study of the various degeneracies and tyrannies in imperial Rome? Or why

Thomas More

141

More’s great friend Erasmus would counsel that every young aspiring person read De Officiis and commit its contents to memory? Or why he advised the following programme in his influential Education of a Christian Prince: “I would prefer the Lives to be prescribed rather than those of anyone else. The next place after Plutarch I would readily assign to Seneca, for his writings excite and inspire the reader in a wonderful way to cultivate integrity and lift his spirit high above worldly concerns, especially in their repeated denunciations of tyranny”? 31 In the words of More’s Utopia, “well and wisely trained citizens” are quite hard to find “anywhere,” but the chances would perhaps improve with greater attention to their education and formation. More’s life and writings suggest that to recover and offer such education again to leading citizens, a culture needs several things: living examples of well-educated citizens; schools and colleges with an authentic understanding of liberal education and the great good of the humanities; a circle of friends with whom one can build trust and converse seriously on the highest and best things worth living for; and a recommitment to the virtue of studiousness, that temperate habit governing the human desire for knowledge, which may have fled the earth in this, the present age of curiositas unbound. As A. G. Sertillanges observes in The Intellectual Life, Thomas Aquinas “placed studiousness under the heading of the controlling virtue of temperance, to indicate that of itself, knowledge is no doubt always to be welcomed, but that our life is so ordered as to require us to temper, that is, to adapt, to circumstances and to reconcile with our other duties, a thirst for knowing that may easily run to excess.” 32 Without temperance and the habit of studiousness, human nature opens itself to being ruled by curiositas, a vice whereby the soul misleads itself into desiring and pursuing knowledge intemperately or for the wrong reasons—a quest that, at its worst, terminates in “vanity of understanding” and “darkness of mind” for the knower, or in lesser cases undoes internet surfers everywhere, with the simplest of baits. 33 More’s most striking study of this peril of the intellectual life is his first major English publication, The Life of Pico, Earl of Mirandola, More’s account of the life and habits—and premature death—of the famed Renaissance humanist, Pico. Pico is shown to be an astonishingly gifted intellectual, but one who is ruled nevertheless by his intellectual appetites and pleasures in such a way that he neglects rule of his estates, rejects friendship and correction, and “forsloths” the higher purposes he should be living for. The famous author of the “Oration on the Dignity of Men” dies in a fever, perhaps poisoned by his own servants, and the Life of Pico concludes with the intellectual in the “dark fires” of Purgatory because of his desires, habits and decisions during life. As Sertillanges cautioned centuries later, curiositas can “creep in under cover of our best instincts, and vitiate them at the very moment it pretends to satisfy them.” 34 More’s historical example in this regard is particularly valuable: here is a real and robust intellectual life, well lived over decades, in the service of others.

142

Chapter 8

After defending the study of the humanities and the liberal arts as goods in themselves and a preparation for virtue in the letter to Oxford, More defends liberal education again in the 1529 Dialogue of Heresies, a work C. S. Lewis called a “great Platonic dialogue, perhaps the best in English. 35 In this work, More is having a conversation with the “Messenger,” a young man fresh from Cambridge circles. A sharp and merry young fellow, the Messenger is attracted to the new theology of the reformers but remains doubtful of the importance of liberal education. As More and the Messenger discuss the place of liberal education and philosophy, More affirms the goodness of reason and suggests some fruits of a sound education: “Reason is by study, labor, and exercise of logic, philosophy, and the other liberal arts corroborate [i.e., strengthened] and quickened; and the judgment both in them and also in orators, laws, and stories [is] much ripened. And although poets are with many men taken but for painted words, yet do they much help the judgment, and make a man among other things well furnished in one special thing, without which all learning is half lame . . . a good mother wit.” 36 Rather than serving as “the devil’s whore,” as one theologian famously put it, reason requires careful exercise and education, if the faculty is not to “fust in us unused,” in the words of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, another tragic intellectual figure of doubtful wit and darker fire. But what does this curious expression of More’s, “a good mother wit,” mean? According to Alistair Fox, “mother wit” is a form of reason, yes, but reason “fertilized by an accurate perception of things,” a kind of vision essential if one is to prove capable of good, discerning service. 37 Rather like the guardian power of the person, “good mother wit” is “a sense of the realities of the human situation,” a way of seeing the ordinary with insight, a wisdom about “everyday experience,” that is, in particular, “illuminated by poetry.” 38 Poetry delights by its beauties, of course, but it also forms and educates the wit through the experience of careful reflection that it begets in readers. More’s 1516 Utopia is precisely such “poetry,” broadly understood: here is a work that is witty, playful, ironic—and serious. Utopia provokes with wonder and leads the willing reader to reflection on first principles and an examination of his or her own self-understanding. The book sharpens one’s eyes and wit, as More’s art moves readers to consider carefully the sources of their own thinking on the most important matters, such as, “What is the best way to live?” and “What is the best way to order a republic?”, or “What is my own understanding of the good and the good life?” and “Why do I live as I do?” The study and experience of such literature fosters the cardinal virtue of prudence, as one scholar has argued: “Literature helps develop prudence by creating true-to-life situations that pleasantly induce the reader to exercise all those faculties of mind that go into making complex judgments, a process that requires the reconsideration of one’s own highly prized ideas of the good. Because of the ever-present danger of pride, this

Thomas More

143

confrontation with one’s own prejudices constitutes the most difficult aspect of acquiring prudence.” 39 Although there has been a long-standing “quarrel” between poetry and philosophy since the days of Plato, there is great need for a new friendship between these disciplines. Philosophy shouldn’t banish poetry, as Socrates counsels in the Republic, nor should wily poets mock thick-witted philosophy. Rather, the two should, like the blind man and the lame man More wrote about in one of his Epigrams, form an “alliance of firm friendship” and concord, for their own good, and the good of others. 40 The great divorce of former days needs to end, and a new marriage of “wit and wisdom” brought about—a union that the play Sir Thomas More suggests was embodied in Thomas More himself, who was at once poet, philosopher, and leading citizen of England. More not only studied with great care during his formal education, but for seventeen years after his time in Oxford he continued his studies, often rising at 4am to reflect, read, and write, before the duties of the day demanded his attention and service. More was at once immersed in the detailed business of London and the real work of governance, and yet nevertheless established and defended that “zone of silence,” as Sertillanges puts it, that habit of reflection and study, such that the playwrights of The Book of Sir Thomas More would describe his study as the vigilant “watch” of England’s peace, safety, and prosperity. 41 More’s keen study during these quiet, hidden years devoted to smaller duties—to the ordinary offices of family, friendship and work—furnished him with the principles that guided him and gave his political and personal life its striking coherence, unity, and effectiveness. Such a habit of lifelong study and reflection—living, awake, vigilant, free—proved an indispensable help in making him “the one Thomas More” after all, as Travis Curtright has recently put it in his fine defense of More’s public career. In Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons, Thomas More remarks: “God made the angels to show His splendor—as He made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity. But men and women He made to serve Him wittily, in the tangle of their minds.” After his resignation in 1532, Erasmus would write of More’s proven wit and prudence, years after his formal studies had ended: “I have known very well Thomas More’s sincerity, his skill in handling both important and unimportant matters, and his extraordinarily prudent vigilance, which never indulges in secret conniving.” 42 With a certain prophetic irony, given the events to come, Erasmus would add in that same letter: “The king realized full well that the condition of his entire domain depended in great part upon the integrity, the learning, and the wisdom of the chancellor.” 43 The common good depends upon the leading citizen, for whom proper education remains the indispensable first—and lifelong—commitment.

144

Chapter 8

LEARNING AND VIRTUE: RIGHT CONSCIENCE AND PEACE OF SOUL While the above remarks have focused mainly on More’s understanding of literature and prudence, More’s Letter to William Gonell reflects on the relationship between education and virtue, and the vital importance of forming the conscience rightly, so that learners gain the peace of soul they need to work well in a world that tends all too often to war. More begins by warning Gonell, one of the teachers of his children, about the danger of learning without virtue: “Though I prefer learning joined with virtue to all the treasures of kings, yet renown for learning, if you take away moral probity, brings nothing else but notorious and noteworthy infamy . . .” 44 If one adds learning, however, to “eminent virtue of mind,” the results are great: “the reward of wisdom is too solid to be lost with riches or to perish with beauty, since it depends on the inner knowledge of what is right [Latin: recti conscientia], not on the talk of me, than which nothing is more foolish or mischievous.” 45 The person who has a good conscience and “rises to virtue and true goods” gains an invaluable perspective on oneself and human life. From the “contemplation of the sublime” that person may perceive rightly “those shadows of good things which almost all mortals, through ignorance of truth, greedily snatch at as if they were true goods.” 46 After urging Gonell to warn his children about the lure of “empty glory” and “the precipices of pride,” More makes his most direct statement about the relationship between virtue and learning, and the goals of education. His children should be taught “to put virtue in the first place among the goods, learning in the second; and in their studies to esteem most whatever may teach them piety towards God, charity to all, and modesty and Christian humility in themselves.” 47 To the earlier emphasis on prudence and mother wit in the education of a statesman, one must add formation in piety, charity, and humility. Such authentic education yields “solid joy” and “the real and genuine fruits of learning,” in More’s judgment. 48 According to More, “the whole fruit” of learning finally consists “in the testimony of God and a good conscience [et conscientia recti].” 49 Without a well-formed and educated conscience, the person will not be “inwardly calm and at peace” in the ordinary and extraordinary storms of life. Instead, the person will likely be “stirred” by flatterers and “stung” by mockers—or easily moved by “the desire of glory.” 50 Rather than ruling themselves freely and living in accord with conscience, then, the miseducated run the risk of proving slaves to the “pest of pride” and the “plague of vainglory.” 51 It was precisely peace of soul that allowed More to write from his prison cell, “The clearness of my conscience has made my heart hop for joy,” 52 and it was again peace of soul that enabled More to author The Dialogue of Conscience, his masterful Socratic dialogue on why he will not take the oath. More’s conscience was like a true friend in those

Thomas More

145

last years. Unlike Shakespeare’s Macbeth, who longed for “a clearness” but went on to murder and tyranny despite fits of conscience, More’s conscience was clear and at peace because of his lifelong, habitual attention to it, in season and out of season. OMNIA FECIT BENE: THE NEED FOR ORDER AND INTEGRITY By all accounts, Thomas More was an extraordinarily busy man. Father, husband, friend, lawyer, author, thinker, judge, diplomat, member of parliament, Speaker of the House, High Steward of Oxford and Cambridge, Lord Chancellor of England, wretched singer even (on his own testimony) in his local Chelsea church choir—Thomas More is the one who struggled to do all things well, or omnia fecit bene in the words of the Vulgate. 53 To be just to each of one’s commitments, to serve one’s priorities with order and love, to live one’s earthly work with care and personal integrity—how was this possible? How did More learn to “love that well, which thou must leave ere long,” in Shakespeare’s magnificent words? In his prefatory letter to Utopia, More explains the delay in publishing his famous book and, in doing so, he describes his daily struggles vividly. The threat of perpetual fragmentation and the challenge of living otherwise is palpable: Most of my day is given to the law—pleading some cases, hearing others, arbitrating others, and deciding still others. I pay a courtesy call to one man and visit another on business; and so almost all day I’m out dealing with other people, and the rest of the day I give over to my family and household; and then, for myself—that is, my studies—there’s nothing left. For when I get home, I have to talk with my wife, chatter with my children, and consult with the servants. All these matters I consider part of my business, since they have to be done unless a man wants to be a stranger in his own house. . . . And so, amid the concerns I have mentioned, the day, the month, the year slips away. When do I write, then? . . . My own time is only what I steal from sleeping and eating. 54

Of course, More did publish Utopia, and many other works, and he did immerse himself and serve his family and professional duties well, a remarkable account of which may be studied in his complete correspondence and the record of his public career. 55 That More should have succeeded so well in family, literary, political, and spiritual life remains a modern wonder. Living such order would have proven impossible without More’s commitment to personal integrity. More was the first English writer to use the word “integrity,” and the concept has, not surprisingly, both classical and biblical roots. For More, integrity is a real personal “consistency in thought, word, and action,” a demanding but liberating form of life requiring “sure conscience”

146

Chapter 8

and “sure deliberation” as well. 56 It is the struggle to be just “one person,” rather than two or three. Integrity is what makes a person a unity rather than a duplicity. Integrity makes a particular life resemble a good poem rather than a dubious collection of fragments, with doubtful authorship. That integrity was of vital importance to More may be seen in both his writings and his life. Two of More’s best portraits of soul—the famous humanist Pico della Mirandola in Life of Pico and the world wandering Raphael Hythloday from Utopia—notably lack the kind of order, integrity, and clarity of life the author valued most, despite their intellectual virtues. After More’s resignation as Lord Chancellor of England, he wrote a letter to his friend Erasmus with a copy of the epitaph he had prepared for his tomb because “I considered it my duty to protect the integrity of my reputation” (306). In the same letter More notes that, despite the controversy “no one has advanced a complaint against my integrity,” and he adds that King Henry himself had affirmed More’s integrity “at various times, frequently in private, and twice in public.” Looking back at the Letter to William Gonell and the Letter to Oxford University, one may now see more fully that the leading citizen needs prudence, charity, a conscience at peace, and personal integrity to play a part such as More played in his life, let alone to die in the service of that integrity with the words, “I die the King’s good servant, and God’s first,” on one’s lips. FRIENDSHIP AND THE LEADING CITIZEN In his famous 1519 letter to Ulrich von Hutten, Erasmus writes that Thomas More was “born for friendship,” and Erasmus goes so far as to praise More’s friendship in the highest terms: “In a word, whoever desires a perfect example of true friendship, will seek it nowhere to better purpose than in More.” 57 Indeed, friendship is so central to More’s approach to life, authorship and first citizenship that one may justly say: to be a true statesman or first citizen after the Morean pattern, and not know how to be a friend—there is an impossibility. As I have shown elsewhere, 58 More consistently presents his writings as an offer of friendship to the willing reader, and his lifetime of letters demonstrate how many rich friendships he enjoyed. One major Renaissance source on human friendship is Cicero’s De amicitia, which presents friendship as “a bright ray of hope” for the reader, and the future. 59 In this dialogue, Cicero urges that we “put friendship before all things human” (127). He defines friendship as “an accord in all things, human and divine, conjoined with mutual goodwill and affection, and I am inclined to think that, with the exception of wisdom, no better thing has been given to man by the immortal gods” (131). For Cicero, the cause of friendship between persons is amor, or love, the root of amicitia, that emanates from “Nature

Thomas More

147

herself” (139). Without friendship, Cicero argues, human beings—and human communities—cannot achieve their greatest desires: “friendship was given to us by nature as the handmaid of virtue . . . because virtue cannot attain her highest aims unattended, but only in union and fellowship with another” (191). Hence he concludes, “man’s best support is a very dear friend” (195) and he singles out the duties of encouragement and counsel— both giving and receiving—for special mention. Insofar as the statesman or leading citizen is a human being, then, friendship is absolutely necessary. The connection between Cicero’s understanding of friendship and More’s own is clearest in Latin epigram #32. In his original reworking of an ancient poem, More writes: There can be nothing more helpful than a loyal friend [fidus amicus], who by his own efforts assuages your hurts. Two beggars formed an alliance of firm friendship [amicitiae]—a blind man and a lame one. The blind man said to the lame one, “You must ride upon my shoulders.” The latter answered, “You, blind friend, must find your way by means of my eyes.” The love [amor] which unites shuns the castles of proud kings and rules in the humble hut. 60

In the letter to Gonell, More had urged his children’s teacher to educate them in such a way that they avoid the “precipices of pride.” In this poem, More presents friendship as the amor that offers support, works concord, and shuns “the castles of proud kings” through humility. The practice of real friendship, then, offers an alternative model of “rule” for the would be statesman and leading citizen, who shares through nature the frailty and limitations suggested in the figures of the “blind” and the “lame” man, who really do need one another. More’s emphasis here on the power of friendship, along with the repeated presentation of himself as prospective friend of the reader throughout his career, suggest that his writings are one key means by which he works to build a culture of leading citizenship. While tyrants have no friends, it seems More’s hope is that writing and reading can make many princeps, or at least help in the formation of leading citizens for the future. Nowhere is More’s love for friendship more evident than in one of the last letters he wrote from the Tower of London. The addressee is Anthony Bonvisi, More’s lifelong friend, and one of the few men who cared for More when he was imprisoned by sending him a warm camlet gown along with food and wine. From his bare cell, More writes in praise of friendship, and with gratitude for its great gift. Addressing Bonvisi as “amicorum amicissime,” the friendliest of friends, More understands their friendship in both human and divine terms: For the happiness of a friendship so faithful, and so constant against the contrary blast of fortune, is a rare favor, and without a doubt is a higher good, and a more exalted one, arising from a certain special loving-kindness of God.

148

Chapter 8 Certainly I do not otherwise accept or understand it than as something arranged by the unparalleled mercy of God, that among my poor little friends, a person such as you, so great a friend, was prepared so long beforehand, who might assuage and lighten by your consolation a great part of that distress which the weight of fortune rushing headlong against me has brought upon me. 61

While it’s certainly true that the first citizen of England needs prudence, a good mother wit, and a well-formed conscience, at the last what More praises most is real love and friendship. Most significantly, he connects his own experience of friendship with Bonvisi to the love and providence of God, the true friend of the human person, according to scripture (e.g., Ex 33:11, Is 41:8, Wis 7:27, Jn 15:1). More’s linking of human and divine friendship is evident in several of his other later writings as well. In the Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation, for example, More tries to understand how “tribulation” might be seen “as a gracious gift of God, a gift that he gave especially his special friends.” 62 In that same work, which C.S. Lewis thought “should be on every man’s shelf,” More also calls special attention to Christ’s address in Luke 12: “I say to you that are my friends, be not afeard of them that kill the body, and which when that is done, are able to do no more.” 63 In another late work, the scriptural commentary The Sadness of Christ, More gives extended attention to Christ’s address of Judas as “friend.” More argues that Christ’s choice of words here is a call to repentance and remembrance of “their old friendship.” 64 Indeed, his words are those of a “most conscientious physician” and friend of the betrayer. 65 More also imagines Judas’ fear that “Christ used the title ‘friend’ as a severe rebuke for his hostile friendliness” at the moment of his ironic betrayal by a kiss. 66 With some of these prison texts in mind, it’s easier to see how More understood his friendship with Bonvisi as arising from and grounded in a “certain special loving-kindness of God.” In fact, More’s understanding of human and divine friendship makes the best sense out of Cicero’s older insight that “no better thing has been given to man by the immortal gods.” 67 Nature and nature’s God, for Thomas More, are distinctly friendly toward the human being and human desire. Every leading citizen—and not simply Thomas More—is “born for friendship.” THE STATESMAN AND THE SCAFFOLD: OMNIA IN BONUM In his 1516 Utopia, More counsels the rootless intellectual Raphael Hythloday: “Don’t give up the ship in a storm because you cannot hold back the winds.” 68 Little could More know then that nearly two decades later he would find himself imprisoned in the Tower of London and facing trial and death on the charge of malicious treason for opposing Henry’s will. During

Thomas More

149

his imprisonment, More returned again to the image of a ship’s captain to lament those who neglect their offices in a tempest. Such persons are, More writes in Sadness of Christ, “like a cowardly ship’s captain who is so disheartened by the furious din of a storm that he deserts the helm, hides away cowering in some cranny, and abandons the ship to the waves.” 69 As Dante wrote in Paradiso, such difficult seas are “not for pilots that would spare themselves.” The virtue most often associated with More’s last stand as princeps of England is his fortitude or courage, that habitual power of enduring hardship, even death, in the service of high and arduous good. 70 In its most dramatic form, fortitude is the willingness to suffer wounds, the readiness to endure death, for the sake of the good. 71 While More’s imprisonment in the Tower of London and execution on July 6, 1535 suggest that he had extraordinary fortitude, it is worth asking why a leading citizen would be willing to suffer imprisonment and unjust death, such that he could die both peacefully, and perhaps the greatest surprise, merrily, with a good cheer that had deep roots. Though More thought Henry’s new founding of the Church of England illegal and tyrannical; though he thought Henry’s remarriage to Anne Boleyn unlawful; though his conscience ably prevented him from swearing Henry’s oaths—still, More may perhaps be better understood as dying out of charity, out of love for life, love of truth, love for his family and friends, love of his country, love for the Church, and even for love of the old friends who had become his enemies. He loved these things so much he was willing to lose his life for their sake. Rather than cause a shipwreck for himself and those he held dear, More chose to “die the King’s good servant, and God’s first.” In the words of his friend Erasmus, More had learned through a lifetime of education, formation, and reflection to “love whatever occurs that cannot be corrected as if nothing happier could have happened.” This is Erasmus’ version of a scriptural verse More evidently loved, omnia in bonum (Rom 8:28), or “unto good folk, all things turn them to good” as he translates in Dialogue of Comfort. 72 More’s last days—his trial and death in particular— are best understood as his last act of friendship, towards those with whom he hoped to “make merry together in heaven,” despite all controversy. Thomas More was finally a man who knew how to say omnia in bonum to everything. He died as he had lived—free, and England’s first leading citizen. NOTES An earlier version of this essay was first delivered publicly in Washington, DC, at the Kirby Center for Constitutional Studies, as part of the Fusco Lecture Series. I have expanded and revised the original version throughout, though I have chosen to preserve some of its quality as a public address. Special thanks to my research assistant Joshua Benjamins for his help in support of this essay.

150

Chapter 8

1. 3.2.396–97. All references to Shakespeare are to the second edition of The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans and J.J.M. Tobin (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997). 2. 3.1.131, 132 and 3.2.167–346. I quote the edition of the play found in A Thomas More Source Book, ed. Gerard Wegemer and Stephen Smith (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008). 3. See volume thirteen of Swift’s Prose Works, ed. Herbert Davis (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959), 123. 4. A History of the English Speaking Peoples. The New World. (New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1956), 64. Churchill adds that More and Fisher “saw that the break with Rome carried with it the threat of a despotism freed from every fetter” (64–65). 5. “A Turning Point in History,” in The Fame of Blessed Thomas More (London: Sheed and Ward, 1929), 63. 6. Ibid. 7. Republic, trans. Niall Rudd (New York: OUP, 1998), 18. 8. All references to Plato are from C.J. Rowe’s translation in Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett, 1997). For the sake of simplicity, and at the risk of doing interpretive violence to Plato’s supreme ironies and complexity, I identify the Eleatic Visitor’s positions with Plato’s in this section of the essay. 9. See, for example, Plato’s seventh epistle, addressed to the friends and followers of Dion. In More’s Utopia, Raphael Hythloday affirms the pessimism he sees in the Republic, while More disagrees. 10. CW 3.2, 105/90–91. More also seems to caution Henry by mentioning the example of Achilles. All references, unless otherwise noted, are to the Yale University edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More. Volume number, page numbers, and line numbers (where available) will be provided. 11. A Thomas More Sourcebook, ed. Gerard Wegemer and Stephen Smith (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 231. All references hereafter to this volume will be abbreviated TMSB. 12. TMSB, 232. 13. “More’s Public Life,” The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George Logan (New York: Cambridge UP, 2011), 75. 14. TMSB, 308. 15. TMSB, 239. The epigram reads: “Among kings there will be scarcely one, if there is really one, who is satisfied to have one kingdom. And yet among many kings there will scarcely be one, if there is really one, who rules a single kingdom well.” To use Plato’s language, courageous kings seem to specialize in making war and enemies. 16. TMSB, 209. 17. See Skinner’s “Thomas More’s Utopia and the Virtue of True Nobility” in Visions of Politics, vol. 2, Renaissance Virtues (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 213–44, and Baker’s “First Among Equals: The Utopian Princeps” in Moreana nos. 115–16 (1993), 33–45. For the best account of More’s understanding of “first citizenship,” see Gerard Wegemer’s Young Thomas More (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), especially chapter three, “Cicero’s and More’s First Citizens.” 18. As Cicero writes in De Oratore, “he who understands as well as utilizes the means by which the state’s interests are secured and advanced should be regarded as the helmsman of the state and the author of public policy.” See On the Ideal Orator, trans. James May and Jakob Wisse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 109. 19. De Officiis, trans. Walter Miller (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1913), 1.72. 20. Epistulae ad Familiares, trans. W. G. Williams (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958) 1.12. 21. Young Thomas More, 41. 22. Ibid., 40. 23. In Utopia, the dialogic tension is masterful between the fictional More, who advances the Ciceronian understanding, and Raphael Hythloday, who argues “doubtless Plato was right in foreseeing that unless kings became philosophical themselves the advice of the philosophers would never influence them, deeply immersed as they are and infected with false values from

Thomas More

151

boyhood on. Plato himself had this experience with Dionysius. “If I proposed wise laws to some king, and tried to root out of his soul the seeds of evil and corruption, don’t you suppose I would be either kicked out forthwith, or made into a laughing stock?” See More, Utopia, ed. George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 28. 24. This intellectual connection between More and Cicero makes the best sense out of early biographer Nicholas Harpsfield’s claim that More was “our Christian English Cicero.” See Lives of Saint Thomas More, ed. E. E. Reynolds (London: Everyman, 1963), 174. The sight of More’s severed head on London Bridge, Harspfield writes, was “a ruefull and a pitiful spectacle for all good citizens” of London, who lamented more than Romans did when Cicero’s head was displayed in the “same City and place where he had, by his great eloquent orations, preserved many an innocent from imminent danger and peril, and had preserved the whole City by his great industry from the mischievous conspiracy of Cataline and his seditious accomplices” (174–75). 25. While this essay focuses on the interior attributes of the leading citizen, as More understood them, readers interested in the most recent accounts of the controversies surrounding More’s public career, especially the prosecution of heresy during his tenure as Lord Chancellor, should consult Travis Curtright’s The One Thomas More (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012) and the essays by Eamon Duffy and Richard Rex in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). These three works argue pointedly against the revisionist account of More as, for example, the insane persecutor of heretics. 26. In his letter to Ulrich von Hutten, Erasmus offers a sketch of More and affirms John Colet’s judgment that More is England’s only genius (Latin: “non nisi unicum esse ingenium”). See TMSB, 12. 27. Epistulae Morales, trans. R. M. Gummere (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917), 88.1–2. 28. TMSB, xxi. 29. For the last translation I follow Daniel Kinney’s better rendering of animam ad virtutem praeparat in CW 15, p. 139. 30. TMSB, 223. 31. Education of a Christian Prince, trans. Lisa Jardine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 62. 32. The Intellectual Life, trans. Mary Ryan (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1998), 25. 33. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica 2–2, question 187. 34. The Intellectual Life, 25. 35. English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), 172. 36. CW 6.1, 132. 37. “Thomas More’s Dialogue and the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury: ‘Good Mother Wit’ and Creative Imitation.” Familiar Colloquy: Essays Presented to Arthur Edward Barker, ed. Patricia Bruckmann (Ottawa: Oberon Press, 1978), 22 38. Ibid., 22. 39. Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1998), 83. For his understanding of prudence, More seems to follow Cicero and Aquinas most closely. He appears to refer to Aquinas’s understanding of prudence in CW 12 130/10, for example. According to Aquinas, prudence is “right reason about things to be done” (recta ratio agibilium), as the Yale editors point out. For another example of how More’s writing exercises judgment, see Jeffrey Lehman, “Judgment in Thomas More’s Dialogue Concerning Heresies” in Thomas More Studies 3 (2008), available online at www.thomasmorestudies.org. 40. TMSB, 234. 41. Sertillanges is particularly important for emphasizing that intellectual life does not become impossible after one’s formal education has ended. He addresses those who fear they lack the necessary means to keep their intellectual life alive: “Have you two hours a day? Can you undertake to keep them jealously, to use them ardently . . . Most great men have followed some calling. Many have declared that the two hours I postulate suffice for an intellectual career.

152

Chapter 8

Learn to make the best use of that limited time; plunge every day of your life into the spring which quenches and yet ever renews your thirst” (11). 42. Erasmus and His Age: Selected Letters of Desiderius Erasmus, ed. Hans J. Hillerbrand and trans. Marcus A. Haworth, S. J. (New York: Harper and Row, 1970), 270. 43. Ibid., 271. 44. TMSB, 198. 45. Ibid. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid., 199. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid. 50. Ibid., 200. 51. Ibid. 52. St. Thomas More: Selected Letters, ed. Elizabeth Rogers (New Haven: Yale UP, 1961), 235. 53. Mark 7: 31–37. 54. Utopia, 4. 55. See The Correspondence of Sir Thomas More, ed. Elizabeth Rogers (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947), as well as For All Seasons: The Selected Letters of Sir Thomas More, ed. Stephen Smith (New York: Scepter Publishers, 2013). For the prison letters, see Alvaro Silva’s The Last Letters of Thomas More (Grand Rapids, MD: Eerdmans, 2001). On his public career, see John Guy’s The Public Career of Sir Thomas More (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), and Travis Curtright’s The One Thomas More. See also Cathy Curtis, “More’s Public Life,” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George Logan (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), as well as the concluding section of Wegemer’s Thomas More on Statesmanship, which addresses the issues in More’s career as statesman. 56. Young Thomas More, 17. 57. TMSB, 6. 58. See “Friendship and Tyranny in the Writings of Sir Thomas More,” published in Moreana nos. 193–94 (2013), 9–39. See for example Life of Pico and Utopia as prominent examples of this. The Life of Pico is offered to the reader in the spirit of “ghostly friendship,” while Utopia’s first audience is quite literally More’s friends, such as Peter Giles and the “unusually sharp” reader. 59. All references are to De Senectute, De Amicitia, De Divinatione, trans. William Falconer (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979). In Sovereign Amity: Figures of Friendship in Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002) Laurie Shannon argues that Caxton’s 1481 publication of De Amicitia in English translation “begins a process that will distribute its tropes farther afield and locate it at the heart of a secular public culture” (25). She concludes: “De amicitia plays an astonishingly key role in school curricula formulated by humanist and education writers, where it appears as a gateway text in Latin learning” (26–27). For additional background, see also Lauren Mills’ One Soul in Bodies Twain: Friendship in Tudor Literature and Stuart Drama (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1937). 60. CW 3.2, 121. 61. I quote the translation from Elizabeth McCutcheon in “The Apple of My Eye”: Thomas More to Antonio Bonvisi. Moreana XVIII (Nov. 1981): 37–56. 62. CW 12 303/11. Job is also identified as a friend of God in Dialogue of Comfort (47/11), and authentic human friendship is presented in the context of love of God and care for souls: “And thereunto seemeth me, that if the man of sloth, or impatience, or hope of worldly comfort, have no mind to desire and seek for comfort of God; those that are his friends that come to visit and comfort him must before all things put that point in his mind, and not spend the time (as they commonly do) in trifling and turning him to the fantasies of the world. They must also move him to pray to God to put this desire in his mind . . . a comfort marvelously great.” (CW 12 18/27–28). 63. Ibid 303/11. 64. CW 14.1, 407/2–5. 65. Ibid 403/12.

Thomas More

153

66. Ibid 405/1–3. 67. See More’s early poem, “The Twelve Properties of a Lover” (TMSB, 164–70), for his sense of the human person as friend and “lover of God.” 68. Utopia, 35. 69. CW 14.1, 265/3–5. 70. See Summa Theologica, 2–2, question 183. 71. Josef Pieper, The Four Cardinal Virtues (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1966), 117–121. Pieper argues “all fortitude stands in the presence of death.” 72. Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation, 248/28.

Chapter Nine

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong Louis Karlin

Why consider two works of historical fiction—Robert Bolt’s play A Man for All Seasons and Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, a Novel—in assessing Thomas More’s contribution to ideas of statesmanship? Contemporary literature can shape public understandings. Bolt’s work was key to bringing More to the popular consciousness and it is Bolt’s depiction of the conscientious statesman and defender of rule of law that captured the public imagination. Indeed, so great was Bolt’s impact that jurists continue to quote his More in their decisions and serious historians and literary scholars have found it all but necessary to consider Bolt’s work, even if to “set the record straight” by pointing out the ways in which the twentieth century playwright deviated from the historical record and from More’s own writings. Now, Mantel’s highly acclaimed, best-selling novel presents More as the antithesis of Bolt’s hero and, recently repackaged as a Royal Shakespeare theater production and BBC mini-series, threatens to displace Bolt’s portrayal in the public mind. Mantel depicts More as a hypocritical politician, driven by religious fanaticism to torture and execute those who do not accept the reigning theological dogmas. It would be tempting to dismiss A Man for All Seasons and Wolf Hall as mere fictions and mirror opposites: Where the first magnifies More’s virtues, ignores his failings and recasts him as an exemplar of old fashioned liberal heroism, the second refashions Cromwell into a modern-day man for all seasons and turns More into a Hollywood stock villain—the religious bigot with a deep seated sadism. However, such a simplification obscures the strengths and weaknesses of both contemporary works, while giving the false impression that the historical record is so in-

155

156

Chapter 9

complete that the best we can do is choose the competing legend we find most congenial to our values and prejudices. A Man for All Seasons has been justly criticized for a variety of historical inaccuracies and, more importantly, for scanting the religious dimension of his stand on conscience. 1 Nevertheless, Bolt’s work accurately portrays More’s courageous defense of personal liberty against a tyrannical state. As Gerard B. Wegemer concluded in his essential study of More’s statesmanship, the historical More “maintained that allegiance to one’s conscience takes precedence over allegiance to any state law.” 2 Bolt was also accurate in emphasizing More’s profound respect for the rule of law, which is a crucial aspect of More’s understanding of statesmanship: For More, the state could only exercise coercive power over its citizens when its officers were guided and constrained by established legal authority. In contrast, Mantel’s portrayal of More as a religious fanatic and torturer of suspected heretics lacks any reliable historical foundation. To be sure, Mantel’s work is a novel, not a history. Her readers see More entirely through the eyes of her equally fictionalized Cromwell, who is the moral center of the work. Mantel, however, gives the reader no basis for doubting Cromwell’s perception of More—and it is that thoroughly hateful revision of More that inspires and justifies Cromwell’s clear-eyed, pragmatic statecraft. 3 In terms of history, however, this poses a false dichotomy. This is a shame because Mantel’s artfully drawn portrayal of Cromwell provides serious psychological and political insight into a key question posed by A Man for All Seasons—whether true statesmanship requires a commitment to fundamental moral principles. Wolf Hall, as the first installment of a trilogy, sets the stage for Cromwell’s slow descent into moral indecency, as his success as Henry’s political fixer requires him to wade deeper and deeper into the moral cesspool of court intrigue. Thus, despite their profound differences, Wolf Hall and A Man for All Seasons both serve as serious meditations on the corrupting temptations inherent in political life, asking what it means to be a good statesman and whether political success requires the abandonment of virtue. As I hope to show, the criticism of Bolt for attributing to More an anachronistically modern understanding of conscience can be so overstated that it creates the misimpression that More’s statesmanship was an artifact of premodern Europe, offering little insight or guidance today. In fact, a consideration of the inter-relationship between More’s understanding of conscience and his respect for the rule of law in the contexts of his prosecution of heretics and his refusal of the Oath of Succession will exculpate him of the charge of hypocrisy and provide an instructive model for the contemporary statesman.

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

157

BOLT’S MORE In the preface to A Man for All Seasons, Bolt explains why he anachronistically treated More as a “hero of selfhood.” 4 The post-Christian man, lacking a belief in an objectively comprehensible and binding set of moral prescriptions, finds himself at sea, without a set of truths on which he can frame his identity. The self becomes ungrounded and infinitely malleable: “There are fewer and fewer things which, as they say, we ‘cannot bring ourselves’ to do.” In contrast, the Catholic saint had “an adamantine sense of his own self,” 5 which he courageously asserted against the claims of his king and state, as well as against the “currents” and the “whole movement of the times.” 6 If, for the historical More, refusing to swear a false oath was a refusal to commit a mortal sin, then, mutatis mutandis, for Bolt’s More, it was the means of preserving his integrity and authentic selfhood against the temptation to “sell out” to succeed in the political and social order of the day. Thus, when Cromwell challenges More’s reliance on his private conscience against the public interest, calling it a refuge for criminals and a “noble motive for his self-conceit,” Bolt has More respond, “a man’s soul is his self.” 7 So conceived, More’s principled stand makes him a kind of sixteenth century Camus. 8 However, as Peter Marshall explains, when the historical More referred to conscience, he “did not have in mind the right of individual subjective opinion in any modern relativist sense. Rather, ‘conscience’ was something individuals had a duty to frame in accordance with objective and accepted moral standards, principally the authoritative teaching of the universal Church.” 9 More “certainly did not believe that conscience in itself was sufficient justification for action.” 10 John Guy went further: Bolt’s portrayal of More was “appalling history” because, for More, conscience required not individual judgment, but acceptance of the “common faith” as judged by the Catholic Church. 11 These assessments, while generally accurate, risk misleading overstatement in two senses. First, with regard to the play, they view Bolt’s character as a full-fledged adherent to the modern orthodoxy of the self-generating, autonomous conscience. Leaving Bolt’s own beliefs aside, however, the work itself presents a far more nuanced presentation of More’s understanding of conscience. The play insists that a valid stand on conscience must be grounded on truths existing outside the self, rather than on one’s subjective beliefs and interests. Second, regarding the historical More, there is a danger of ascribing to More a crabbed, sectarian understanding of conscience, when in fact he viewed all persons as radically free and obliged to follow their consciences, even when erroneous. 12 However, this radical freedom entailed a reciprocal responsibility before God, and did not extinguish the citizen’s legal obligations. As Richard Helmholz explains, despite the recognition of

158

Chapter 9

conscience’s legitimate, if limited, claims under common and canon law of the time, no one understood it to “free a man from the law’s commands.” 13 Thus, persons who propagated beliefs in violation of established law as informed by the universal Church, irrespective of their conscientiousness, were subject to punishment in accordance with a state’s settled law. 14 Bolt did not advocate a dislocation between conscience and truth. An oath remained a meaningful test of virtue for the contemporary person because of its orientation to truth. The modern oath-taker “wants to commit himself quite exceptionally to the statement” and “offers himself as a guarantee”— meaning that “he wants to make an identity between the truth of [the statement] and his own virtue.” 15 In the play, More grounds his understanding of conscience on knowable truths. While interrogated in the Tower, More concedes that there is room for doubt on the question of the Oath of Succession. However, when asked why he will not conform his conscience on a doubtful matter to the certain obedience he owes the King, More’s response implies the necessary orientation of an oath to truth: The question of whether the earth is round or flat was disputed and “a matter capable of question. But if it is flat, will the King’s command make it round? And if it is round, will the King’s command flatten it? No, I will not sign.” 16 In contrast, Bolt has Cromwell identify Henry VIII as “man of conscience” in the mistaken sense of a person who equates conscience with his own desires and beliefs. When that kind of conscience is given political authority, the result is tyranny: “If the King destroys a man, that’s proof to the King that it must have been a bad man, the kind of man a man of conscience ought to destroy.” 17 Bolt emphasizes that conscience, properly understood, requires each person to disentangle himself from his desires and interests. When Norfolk challenges More’s refusal of the oath as “disproportionate” and a betrayal of his friendship, More replies, “Is there no single sinew in the midst of this [Norfolk’s body] that serves no appetite of Norfolk’s but is just Norfolk? There is! Give that some exercise, my lord!” 18 Here, Bolt is seeking to encapsulate into a single, straightforward exchange a key idea from the complex, ironical letter of Margaret Roper to Alice Alington of August 1534, generally believed to be of More’s own authorship or a joint endeavor of More and his daughter. 19 In the letter, Meg recounts More’s story of a man named Company who holds out against eleven other jurors. When they attempt to convince him to go along with them “for good company,” Company replies that in matters of conscience fellowship must not prevail against private judgment: “And therefore must ye pardon me from passing as you pass, but [except] if I thought in the matter as you do, I dare not in such a matter pass for good company.” 20 The letter emphasizes the personal nature of such judgments—More’s efforts to inform carefully his own conscience (repeatedly referring to his conscience and his “own self”) on the matter of the Oath of Succession, and his determination

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

159

not to “meddle . . . with the conscience of any man that hath sworn” 21 Unless the question has been finally settled by the Church, “I can see none that lawfully may command and compel any man to change his own opinion, and to translate his own conscience from the one side to the other.” 22 At the same time, as Joshua Avery explains, the letter presents a powerful hypothetical legal argument that would seem to indict many who had taken the oath as doing so for political gain or fear of punishment. While More raises the possibility that others might have cynically rationalized, or “framed,” their consciences, More refuses to judge that they acted out of moral cowardice. “His open-ended language reveals a spirit that neither condones nor condemns.” Employing “the healthy skepticism of Socrates,” More leaves it to each person to answer that question for himself. 23 Again, Bolt’s play is true to More’s spirit. The play’s structure also jibes well with More’s actual understanding of the proper relationship of conscience to statesmanship. It opens with Richard Rich making the seemingly academic argument that “every man has his price.” 24 In the course of the play, the truth of that assertion will be tested against the disputants at the More home—Rich, Norfolk, Dame Alice, Meg and More himself. Significantly, in More’s confrontation with Wolsey, Bolt puts that question in terms of statesmanship. The Cardinal argues that More has derogated from his responsibilities as a statesman through conscientious opposition to a public policy pragmatically designed to secure an heir to the English throne and, thereby, avoid potential civil war. More responds, “when statesmen forsake their own private consciences for the sake of their public duties . . . they lead their country by a short route to chaos.” 25 That understanding finds an historical analogue in the Guildhall report of the treason trial, in which More grounded statesmanship on adherence to conscience. More defended himself against the allegation of malice by saying that his opposition to the King’s “second marriage” was made “at the urging of my conscience. For it did not behoove me, nor did I wish it, to conceal the truth from my prince. If I had not acted so, I would have been an enemy to him, not a faithful servant.” 26 Consistently, in Bolt’s play, More asks, “Can I help my King by giving him lies when he asks for truth? Will you help England by populating her with liars?” 27 Also, where Bolt has More profess that “[i]n matters of conscience, the loyal subject is more bounden to be loyal to his conscience than to any other thing,” 28 the historical More defended his stand on silence in a strikingly similar way. To counter the argument that faithful citizens were obliged to respond when their sovereign demanded a profession of loyalty, More “answer[ed] that there is a much greater obligation on the part of a good man and faithful subject to consult his own conscience and eternal salvation, and to follow the prescriptions of reason, than to take account of any other thing, especially since the kind of conscience that I have offers no

160

Chapter 9

offense and stirs up no sedition.” 29 More’s qualifier is important, for he did not advocate anything like our modern notion of civil disobedience. What then about the arguments that More reserved freedom of conscience for Catholics and that any such “freedom” mandated conformity with Church dogma? In fact, More’s understanding of conscience gave full range of all persons to decide for themselves what is right and true. Nevertheless, where the Church had spoken definitively, it did so through the Holy Spirit, which guaranteed its truthfulness—a contrary judgment must therefore be objectively mistaken. In that case, to put one’s own private judgment against that distilled from the source of truth amounted to egotism, and “[n]othing could be more absurd, in [More’s] view, than to go willing to death on account of a personal opinion.” 30 That did not contradict the fundamental Catholic teaching that a person sins in acting against an erring conscience, for it is the conscience that tells us what is right. To act against it would be to commit a deliberate wrong—even if, objectively, the individual conscience was mistaken. John Boyle provides an incisive account of More’s understanding of conscience through a close reading of More’s two letters to his fellow prisoner, Nicholas Wilson. Before their imprisonment they had carefully researched the merits of the king’s “great matter” and come to the same (negative) conclusion, but Wilson was having second thoughts. In parsing out More’s justifications for asserting, on the one hand, that for him signing the Oath of Succession meant acting against his conscience, while insisting that he would not judge another’s conscience on that matter, Boyle points out that More’s analysis was consistent with traditional Thomist philosophy. St. Thomas Aquinas in the Summa Theologiae explained that a person is bound in conscience to resist human laws when they were contrary to divine law, such as those promoting idolatry. In contrast, while unjust human laws (those contrary to the human good) are not binding in the forum of conscience either, a person could nevertheless submit to such a law to avoid scandal or political upheaval. All persons affected must reason to their own determinations both as to whether the law is contrary to the common good and, if so, whether legitimate political considerations make submission permissible. 31 Here, it is well to recall More’s proviso for choosing conscience over adherence to positive law—that his stand “offers no offense and stirs up no sedition.” 32 For More, a person knew when a law was contrary to the divine good when the question had been settled by a determination of the Church’s general council. With regard to the Oath, “the Church had not spoken with sufficient clarity to bind conscience.” 33 Exercising the legitimate scope for freedom of conscience to resolve such matters, More had implicitly determined that parts of the Act of Succession and its attendant oath were so contrary to the human good that other valid considerations did not justify submission.

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

161

But he could not settle that question for Wilson, and he would not presume to do so: “Henry may be a usurper of the Church’s authority; Thomas More will not be. This is not a refusal to speak his mind; it is a refusal to define and determine, which is the Church’s alone to do.” 34 More therefore gave Wilson “not the counsel that he seeks but the comfort that he needs.” 35 The reason that Bolt gets at a fundamental truth about More’s understanding of conscience is that Bolt’s More and the More of history died for the belief that a person’s conscience takes precedence over the laws of the state. True, for More, the Church could exercise that authority on matters of faith. And to the extent that the state was aligned with the Church and enforced its teachings, an individual was bound, assuming the state acted in accord with well-established laws. But the sticking point for More was that the state lost its competency to compel consciences in matters of faith once it severed the connection with the Church and acted contrary to its teachings. 36 Of course, More, as a true Augustinian, well understood that there was no way to compel the civil government to remain within its legitimate bounds and no reason to expect it would always do so—the person of conscience must therefore accept that the demands of virtue might entail punishment and even death. If the Oath of Succession admitted of legitimate moral debate, the same was not true when the crown demanded an affirmation of the Supremacy. More made that point implicitly during his final interrogation, when Lord Chancellor Audley and Cromwell threatened that the King’s laws might compel him to give a “plain answer” to the validity of the Supremacy “one way or the other.” More responded that, having done or said nothing “against the statute, it were a very hard thing to compel me to say either precisely with it against my conscience to the loss of my soul, or precisely against it to the destruction of my body.” In response, Cromwell drew an analogy to instances in which the bishops under prior law had compelled those accused of heresy to acknowledge the Pope: Why was it any different for the King, having been made Supreme Head, to compel an acknowledgment of his supremacy? For Cromwell, “they were as well burned for the denying of that as they be beheaded for denying of this, and therefore as good reason to compel them to make precise answer to the one as to the other someone to answer as to the Pope’s authority.” 37 More saw a fundamental difference. In the first case, the state was acting pursuant to a law recognized by “the whole corps of Christendom . . . in [a] matter touching belief” under authority of traditional law; in the latter, a single state was acting under its own, contrary authority. 38 The Church was universal because it was true and true because it was universal. Once it became an English church and put a layperson at its head, it could no longer compel consciences because it could no longer lay a plausible claim of access to universal truth. As More argued to Roper, in the latter case, the proper political solution would be a system of peaceful coexistence in which Catho-

162

Chapter 9

lics would “be at league and composition with [heretics], to let them have their churches quietly to themselves, so that they would be content to let us have ours quietly to ourselves.” 39 And at trial, More “reiterated his conviction that neither individuals nor national states were competent to decide what others should believe in ‘conscience.’” 40 This distinction was central to More’s understanding and highlights an essential difference between his political thought and that of Christopher St. German, the legal scholar whose defense of Parliamentary power “virtually amounted to a full-blown theory of Parliamentary sovereignty: ‘The king in his Parliament [is] the high sovereign over the people, which has not only charge on the bodies but also on the souls of his subjects.’” 41 Through the Act of Supremacy, however, Henry’s Parliament went even further than St. German advocated by making the English king’s spiritual sovereignty absolute and not subject to Parliament. 42 As More recognized—but Mantel overlooks—the Act of Supremacy did not merely disestablish the Catholic Church and preempt the Pope’s authority. Nor did it leave English citizens free to form and express their own religious convictions based on their personal encounter with the Bible. The Act substituted king for pope, and gave Henry “full power and authority . . . to . . . reform, order, correct, restrain and amend all such errors, heresies, abuses, offenses, contempts and enormities, whatsoever they be, which by any manner spiritual authority or jurisdiction ought or may lawfully be reformed, repressed, ordered, redressed, corrected, restrained or amended, most to the pleasure of Almighty God.” 43 More’s crucial distinction yields insight into the vexed question of what More told Rich during their trading of hypothetical questions—the “putting of cases”—in More’s cell on June 12, 1535. Historians dispute whether Rich plainly perjured himself by testifying that More had denied Parliament’s authority to make the king “supreme head of the Church,” when More had only denied its authority to make Henry the “Pope.” 44 But it is certain that Rich understood that More had not made an inculpatory statement. According to Rich’s original notes, which survive in a damaged state, Rich ended the conversation by acknowledging that More’s mind had “not change[d]” and warning More that his “concealment” to the question posed would be deemed “as high offence as other that hath denied it.” 45 Because the Latin indictment closely tracks Rich’s notes, it is reasonable to infer, as Henry Ansgar Kelly does, that More responded to Rich’s question about Parliament’s making Henry Supreme Head on earth of the Church of England by avoiding a direct refutation of Parliament’s authority. More’s use of the term “primacy,” reasonably understood as a reference to the Pope, made the uncontroversial point that Parliament could not make Henry (or any king) a pope. Such an interpretation fits with More’s further explanation that “although the king were generally accepted as such in England, yet most outer parts do not affirm it.” 46 It simply would make no sense to say that

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

163

Henry’s supremacy could be a “primacy” in that sense: As Christianity is by definition unrestricted by political lines, why would Parliament’s enactment cause anyone outside of England to consider himself bound? One may therefore question Guy’s assertion that Bolt “got things backwards” in acclaiming More for his supposed personal conscientious objection when it was actually King Henry whose Protestant understanding championed an individual’s right to act in conformity with his conscience against public law, while More’s Catholic understanding of conscience eschewed recourse to personal belief. 47 Whatever Henry’s conscience told him about the legitimacy of his first marriage, the Act of Supremacy made him the voice of conscience for all of his subjects. 48 That is, if Henry believed that the Holy Spirit could directly inform a person’s conscience such that he was set free to act against public law, he did not understand that Protestant teaching to apply to his subjects’ obligations to conform their consciences to Parliament’s law. Indeed, in 1539, Henry would have Parliament enact a statute “abolishing diversity in opinions,” compelling his subjects’ adherence (on pain of burning) to six articles of conservative Catholic doctrine. 49 Given More’s stand against the Supremacy, it should be no surprise that Jonathan Swift considered More as a champion of liberty against tyranny, despite Swift’s contempt for More’s faith. 50 When Gulliver is granted the boon of calling up spirits from the dead, he “fed [his] eyes with beholding the Destroyers of Tyrants and Usurpers, and the Restorers of Liberty to oppressed and injured Nations.” More was the sole Englishman among the “Sextumvirate” of champions of liberty that included Socrates and Cato the Younger. 51 Swift explained his choice in the May 24, 1736 essay, “Concerning That Universal Hatred, Which Prevails Against The Clergy.” For him, Henry’s status as a tyrant was as clear as was More’s defense of liberty— “while [Henry] put people to death for denying him to be head of the church, he burned every offender against the doctrines of the Roman Faith; and cut off the head of Sir Thomas More, a person of the greatest virtue this kingdom ever produced, for not directly owning him to be head of the church.” 52 Thus, when placed in the modern political context, in which the state typically does not pretend to exercise divine authority, Bolt portrays More as he understood himself—as promoting the claims of conscience against the civil state. Bolt was also accurate in portraying More’s opposition to tyranny as being integrally bound up with his respect for the rule of law. When Rich reveals himself as a likely spy with malevolent designs on More, Roper insists that More use his legal authority to have him arrested, despite the absence of evidence that Rich has committed a crime. In a passage that has been quoted at least thirty times in decisions of state and federal court opinions, including the United States Supreme Court, More concedes that, as a judge, he would give the devil “benefit of law.” 53 When Roper asserts that he

164

Chapter 9

would cut down “a great road through the law to get after the Devil,” More responds: And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? ... This country’s planted thick with laws from coast to coast—Man’s laws, not God’s—and if you cut them down . . . d’you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? . . . Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake. 54

As Wegemer points out, Bolt’s script “respect[s] the depth and even the metaphors of More’s position.” 55 Indeed, the historical Roper reported that More, in a discussion with a different son-in-law, said, “this one thing, son, I assure thee on my faith, that if the parties will at my hands call for justice, then, all were it my father stood on the one side and the devil on the other, his cause being good, the devil should have right.” 56 As I discuss below, More defended himself against allegations of torture and abuse of process against heretics as having proceeded in the same manner. WOLF HALL At the turn of the millennium, John Guy sought to separate fact from fiction and discover the historical Thomas More by careful examination of the empirical sources and objective consideration of More’s own writings as well as those of his biographers. 57 He concluded his rigorous, tough-minded examination by voicing his concern that the popular preference for an idealized portrait of More as moral paragon was so great that there would be no receptivity for anything in the historical record that might deface that portrayal. Indeed, after A Man for All Seasons, “More’s reputation is unassailable”—“Posterity now insists that we are told the ‘story’ that matches the man to the legend.” 58 Enter Hilary Mantel. Wolf Hall won the Man Booker Prize for fiction and has received near unanimous acclaim, despite her iconoclastic depiction of More. As Ross King put it in his Los Angeles Times review: “So, you thought More was the valiant, dignified saint from ‘A Man for All Seasons,’ the hero of conscience prepared to stand up to secular powers and die for his faith? Alas, no. Mantel presents him as a self-flagellating Catholic zealot who beats his servants, bullies his wife and tortures Protestants in horrible ways. He is not a man of conscience but a creature of worldly vanity, more interested in keeping face than keeping faith.” 59 With rare exceptions, the historicity of her portrayal has gone unchallenged. 60 If Wolf Hall’s popularity challenges Guy’s perspicuity as to More’s reputation, his worry about posterity’s lack of interest in historical accuracy re-

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

165

mains justified. To some extent, readers and critics are correct in leaving aside concerns of historicity. Writing for the New Yorker, Joan Acocella points out that the work “is a novel, not a history book. We have no reason, without external evidence, to believe that any of it is true—though Mantel makes us want to believe.” 61 Indeed, Wolf Hall offers an epistemological justification for fictionalizing the past. Her Cromwell, while ruminating on the inherent limitations of extant maps to guide contemporary travelers, perceives an indeterminacy that implicitly blurs the lines between historians and novelists. Maps are unreliable because they “are always last year’s. England is always remaking herself, her cliffs eroding, her sandbanks drifting, spring bubbling up in dead ground. They regroup themselves while we sleep, the landscapes through which we move, and even the histories that trail us; the faces of the dead fade into other faces, as a spine of hills into the mist.” 62 As a child, her Cromwell believed the myth that coffins were nailed shut to keep the dead from escaping. Now, having witnessed the deaths of those most dear and most hated, he voices an understanding that could serve as the novel’s epigraph: “It’s the living that turn and chase the dead. . . . [W]e edit their writings, we rewrite their lives.” 63 Stephen Greenblatt put it this way in his favorable review, “Historical accuracy is not the issue”—“What matters is the illusion of reality, the ability to summon up ghosts.” 64 Nevertheless, regardless of Wolf Hall’s novelistic virtues (and they are real and impressive), her readers cannot help but ask: Was More really like that? Did he really say or do those things? In this discussion, I do not assume that Wolf Hall represents Mantel’s views. Her expertly crafted novel is told in the third person from Cromwell’s eyes and with very little if any authorial perspective or comment. Mantel gives us a More as seen by her fictive Cromwell—but there is nothing in the novel that causes us to doubt the veracity of Cromwell’s description of More as a religious fanatic, whose dogmatic commitment to Catholicism makes him tyrannical to his family, divided in his loyalty to England and cruel in his treatment of suspected heretics. Consideration of More’s historical record, however, provides a startlingly different portrait. The historical record of Cromwell’s non-public life is sparse, providing great scope for Mantel’s imagination to work. Indeed, she cleverly weaves this informational gap into the novel’s fabric: Historical personages repeatedly question Cromwell about the rumors surrounding his ancestry and doings before entering Cardinal Wolsey’s service, and Cromwell is happy to let them believe whatever version best suits the situation. The novel opens with the young Cromwell suffering the latest in a series of cruel, near-fatal beatings by his father. He will run away to the Continent where he will learn the wool trade and become a soldier, before returning to England and becoming a successful lawyer. The savage beating is not merely to engender sympathy. It explains Cromwell’s aversion to authoritarian humiliation and violence—

166

Chapter 9

and More will come to embody those vices in his political and personal acts. We first hear of More when Wolf Hall’s gentle and urbane Cardinal Wolsey warns of the need to persuade suspected heretics toward a “better state of mind” and “mend their manners . . . or Thomas More will get hold of them and shut them in his cellar. And all we will hear is the sound of screaming.” 65 Essential to Mantel’s depiction of More as arch-bully is his mean-spirited rule over his children and second wife, Alice Middleton, and—more spectacularly—his personal recourse to torture against those he suspects of heresy. In the traditional view, More’s Chelsea home was a cheerful place filled with a humanist library, musical instruments and exotic pets. More was the loving father and husband, devoted to classical learning for both sexes, and fond of good food and conversation. Wolf Hall, extrapolating dramatically from revisionist scholarship exemplified in Richard Marius’s 1984 biography, explodes that picture. More’s excessive piety casts a pall; he humiliates his children to teach dour lessons; he insults Alice into submission. Holbein’s iconic portrait of the beautifully dressed, closely knit family sitting down in their tastefully appointed home is revealed as a deception. As a dinner guest, Cromwell sees the shabby appointments and clothes and can barely stomach the terrible food, as he witnesses More browbeat his family. More’s father, the respected judge, John More, turns out to be a nearly senile bore. 66 In 2000, Guy tested both the traditional and the revisionist models against the historical sources and found neither compelling. The former was too perfect and lacking reliable support, the product of More’s friends and allies who had an interest in positive myth-making. The latter account—which is quite tame when compared to Mantel’s—“is spoilt by overstatement.” 67 He concluded that the historical record is too sparse to resolve the question, and historians have used it as “a source of plunder appropriated indiscriminately to bolster guesswork.” 68 Even if the true nature of More’s family life remains impenetrable, there is strong reason to doubt, if not reject, Mantel’s version. Alice Middleton was independently wealthy and had known More for years before their marriage, so there is every reason to infer that she had a good measure of the man she chose to marry. 69 In his recent double-biography of More and Margaret Roper, Guy largely rejects the revisionist account, presenting a balanced view in which Alice is nothing like the cowed victim of an oppressive husband. Rather, she “gave as good as she got.” The two shared a love of comedy, and she “enjoyed repartee and banter as much as her husband.” 70 Giving full measure to the passages from More’s works and letters that revisionist scholars relied on to infer misogyny and a sexless marriage, Guy points out that, from their comedic context, they were likely meant to be understood in terms of ancient stereotypes. His most reasonable conclusion is that More loved Alice “in his own way and she him.” 71 This inference is bolstered by the fact that Alice agreed to More’s request that she be buried in

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

167

the same tomb with him and his first wife, Joanna, with an inscription to honor all three—despite the fact that a space had been reserved for Alice next to her prior husband. As for the depiction of John More as a doddering fool, that must be viewed as purest fiction as it is established that he sat as a judge until his final illness, dying within approximately one month. 72 What about More as a torturer of suspected heretics? In Wolf Hall, More’s religious fanaticism is so ingrained that he believes that those challenging the Catholic faith have forfeited their right to legal protection. More’s self-justifying hatred flares up against them. Torture gives More a perverse pleasure. In a key passage, Cromwell reflects on the fate of English Protestants under More’s chancellorship: “More says it does not matter if you lie to heretics, or trick them into a confession. They have no right to silence, even if they know speech will incriminate them; if they will not speak, then break their fingers, burn them with iron, hang them up by their wrists. It is legitimate, and indeed More goes further; it is blessed.” 73 So much for Bolt’s portrayal of the man who venerated and trusted in the impartial application and protection of the law. In fact, More never said anything like that. He swore and professed the opposite. As Louis Martz explained, More understood a primary aspect of his role as striving to save the souls of those professing heretical beliefs by persuading them to renounce those views. 74 As More explained in his Dialogue Concerning Heresies, a confession could only be salutary if it was true. 75 Obviously, a contrived or coerced confession would be ineffective spiritually and, of course, inconsistent with More’s detestation for perjury. In The Apology of Sir Thomas More (April 1533), More responded directly to allegations of torture and misuse of the law in heresy prosecutions. In Chapter 35, More denied using torture against suspected heretics. He denounced as shameless lies that while Chancellor he “used to examine them with torments, causing them to be bound to a tree in my garden, and there piteously beaten.” 76 Nor did he ever cause officers to administer any kind of torture. More admitted two instances in which he ordered whipping. In the first, he had a household servant whipped “like a child before mine household” for teaching another child in his house a “heresy against the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar.” 77 The second concerned a neighborhood heretic who would sneak behind female worshippers during the Mass and, at the elevation of the host, lift their dresses over their heads. More swore to God that apart from those two instances he “had never any of them any stripe or stroke given them, so much as a fillip on the forehead.” 78 Modern scholarship has not discovered any reliable basis for disputing More’s profession of innocence on this point. 79 As Guy explains, the main source for the torture allegations is John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments (first ed. 1563), the definitive work of Protestant history and martyrology. “Foxe himself later conceded that a number of these charges were false.” 80 Mantel

168

Chapter 9

does not mention More’s denial from the Apology, nor does she identify her historical sources. Instead, her Cromwell explodes in righteous indignation when More professes that he has harmed no one, charging that More was present during the torture of Protestant martyr John Bainham. 81 She also contrasts More’s mercilessness with the forgiving nature of those he prosecuted by having Bainham call out while burning, “The Lord forgive Sir Thomas More.” 82 It appears that this was another instance in which Foxe had second thoughts. Foxe’s hearsay reminiscence was included in earlier editions, but he omitted it from the 1583 version. My point is not in any way to denigrate Bainham’s undoubted good faith and courage. There is no reason to doubt that he genuinely forgave those responsible for his death (just as More would do). The point is to show the lengths to which Mantel went to fictionalize More into a monster. More also denied any knowledge of legal abuses in heresy prosecutions while he was Chancellor. In the Apology, More expressed his belief that it could easily be proved that the prelates involved in the prosecutions “used no rigour . . . against the law, nor omitted no charitable means unto him that came to their minds.” 83 As Henry Ansgar Kelly and other scholars have documented, heresy prosecutions were subject to elaborate procedural protections whereby questioning and compelled answers were permitted only after a finding of evidence to support a specific heretical act, and then only as to questions bearing on that specific charge. According to More, those laws were well established “through the whole corps of Christendom, both temporality and spirituality, by long usage and custom ratified, agreed, and confirmed.” 84 To More’s knowledge, the prosecutions had been conducted with “full faith and credence” to “all the laws both spiritual of the whole Church and temporal of this realm,” and he challenged St. German to substantiate a single instance of legal abuse. 85 St. German did not respond to his rejoinder. Similarly, as More wrote to Erasmus in 1533, after resigning the Chancellorship, he gave his enemies the opportunity to support their allegations, “and, so far, no one has advanced a complaint against my integrity.” 86 Although there was no well-established right against self-incrimination at the time under canon or English common law, 87 Kelly’s review of heresy convictions of the time found that they were based on “past deeds, such as the preaching or teaching of condemned propositions.” 88 Although it should be obvious, Wolf Hall is completely ahistorical in painting Cromwell as an opponent of heresy prosecutions. The post-enlightenment understanding of toleration, understood as essential to a republican or democratic state, was foreign to statesmen and political thinkers of More’s day. They understood that “religious uniformity was crucial to the political stability and social order of a state as well as to its spiritual welfare.” 89 There is no reason to doubt that Cromwell, like More, would have “accepted the

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

169

stern theory, then held by every civil lawyer in Christendom, that in a Catholic State obstinate heresy should be punishable by death—and that death by burning. For the civil law in those days held heresy to be the worst kind of sedition against the State, since, as was known by experience, it was the most disturbing.” 90 Parliament confirmed heresy as a capital offense in 1401; it was More’s duty as Chancellor to enforce the law. “More’s Tudor critics mostly censured him not for persecution as such but for persecuting the wrong people, namely Protestants.” 91 “When the tables were turned, the persecuted became persecutors, who vigorously defended their right to restrain their erstwhile oppressors”—this was not viewed as hypocritical, but “grew out of an environment hostile to the modern idea that individuals are entitled to hold beliefs at odds with those espoused by the established Church and state.” 92 However, More’s insistence that a person’s conscience must remain free of state coercion except when well-established law, enacted in conformity with the universal Church’s teachings on matters of faith, prescribed otherwise, provides the political means for the transition from the medieval to the modern liberal state. As Richard Rex concludes in his landmark essay on the subject in the Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, “the accumulation of evidence regarding the seriousness with which Thomas More addressed the issue of heresy show precisely, notwithstanding the judgments of his modern critics, that he was not a fanatic but a statesman.” 93 Wolf Hall culminates with More’s trial and execution. Mantel depicts Cromwell as the insightful and restrained lawyer-statesman with More as the self-righteous and emotionally unhinged instrument of his own downfall. The deviations from the historical record necessary to accomplish this feat are so outrageous as to justify a detailed analysis. In Wolf Hall, More’s conviction is not presented as being rigged. Cromwell genially advised the jury of his willingness to exert pressure to reach the desired result, but had no need to follow through—the jurors plainly perceived More’s guilt because of More’s missteps. The fact that one of More’s enemies, John Parnell, sat on the jury could not be helped. Mantel’s Cromwell explains that More had so alienated the London populace by his anti-heretical actions and publications that the entire jury pool was similarly tainted. No serious historian disputes that the trial was rigged: “It cannot be denied that the king considered the outcome of the trial to be a foregone conclusion. As James Gairdner, in calendaring the state papers of Henry VIII’s reign, pointed out long ago, the king issued a circular letter on June 25, 1535 ordering the treasons of Bishop John Fisher and Sir Thomas More to be set forth to the people. This was after Fisher had been convicted and executed, but before More had gone to trial.” 94 This could not have been done without Cromwell’s knowledge and likely approval. Cromwell’s own notes show that in the week before More’s trial, he planned to find out the King’s “pleasure

170

Chapter 9

touching Master More” and “to declare the opinion of the judges thereon, & what shall be the king’s pleasure.” 95 Mantel misleadingly presents Parnell’s presence on the jury as yet another way in which More receives his just comeuppance. When the Lord Chancellor voices his concern that it might look like bias to have someone sit on the jury who’s “been after More since he gave judgment against him in Chancery,” Cromwell responds that he “know[s] the case. More botched it,” adding with a sneer that More must have been too busy writing love letters to Erasmus or locking “some poor Christian soul in his stocks at Chelsea” 96 John Guy, who actually is familiar with the Parnell litigation, explains in detail how More disentangled the complex civil dispute and rendered a split decision that “must appear to represent the height of fairness.” 97 Nor was Parnell merely “going after” More; he had brought a false claim of bribery against More. 98 There is no historical source for the fictional Cromwell’s claim that More was unpopular among Londoners. To the contrary, as Gerard B. Wegemer explains, More had earned the love and respect of the city’s commoners when, as Speaker, he stood up to Wolsey’s attempt to bully the Commons in violation of the House’s ancient liberties. 99 The biographical play Sir Thomas More, written in 1592 by a team of playwrights that included Shakespeare and the notorious anti-Catholic, Anthony Mundy, supports a strong inference that he remained highly esteemed even in Elizabethan England. While the play carefully side-steps sectarian controversy, More is presented in a highly positive light and described as “the best friend the poor ever had.” 100 Next, Mantel credits Cromwell with the understanding that the Treasons Act required a separate finding that the denial of Supremacy be malicious. In fact, Cromwell almost certainly believed the contrary—that any denial was malicious per se, 101 and he may well have been correct as a matter of law (e.g., Bellamy, 32–33). 102 He was undoubtedly correct as a matter of fact, given that the defense was rejected in the trial of Prior Houghton and the Carthusians, as well as in that of Fisher, both of which took place before More’s. 103 But Mantel’s chief innovation comes in the conduct of the trial when, after Rich testifies, Mantel has More lose his composure, “his voice dripping with contempt,” and attack Rich’s character for his youthful gambling. More’s tirade is so extraordinary that the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, Lord FitzJames, utters his trademark oath and then whispers to Cromwell, “Will he gain by this?” Indeed, Lord Norfolk has to order More to desist from his distasteful ad hominem, and to answer the relevant question—did he make the statement that Rich attributed to him? Mantel’s Cromwell explains that More lost the jury at that point, having “played one trick too many.” He reflects ruefully that the jury might have believed More and found for him,

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

171

despite Cromwell’s subtle insinuations to the jury the morning before the trial as to the verdict expected of them. 104 This is nonsense historically. Since the only account of More’s response to Rich’s testimony is contained in Roper’s Life, Mantel’s alterations are easy to identify. Nothing in Roper’s account supports an inference of More’s loss of control or even a hint of anger. More began his argument by unconditionally swearing that he never made the statements Rich attributed to him. After that, he apologized for referring to Rich’s reputation, but points out that it would be surprising to think that he would confide in Rich the very thing he had withheld from his interrogators for over a year. 105 Nor did Roper relate that Lord FitzJames interjected at that point. Rather, that came after the verdict had been rendered and in response to More’s legal attack on the indictment. FitzJames’s oath was not the reaction of impatient displeasure about More’s conduct. Rather, it introduced his less than emphatic rejection of More’s complex, potentially viable legal challenge—“‘by St. Julian’ (that was ever his oath), ‘I must needs confess that if the act of Parliament be not unlawful, then is not the indictment in my conscience insufficient.’” 106 Additionally, in Roper’s account, the reaction was the opposite from that offered by Mantel: “Master Rich, seeing himself so disproved, and his credit so foul defaced, caused Sir Richard Southwell and Master Palmer, that at the time of their communication were in the chamber, to be sworn what words had passed between them. Whereupon Master Palmer, upon his deposition, said that he was so busy about the trussing up of Sir Thomas More’s books in a sack, that he took no head to their talk.” Southwell testified that he “gave no ear” to Rich’s conversation with More. 107 As Marshall points out, Roper’s version has the ring of truth: “Given his extraordinary care, over many months of intense pressure, in choosing non-incriminatory words and formulations, it does seem unlikely that he would have unbuttoned himself to the solicitor general, and false swearing is hardly inconsistent with everything else we know about the unsavoury course of Rich’s self-serving career.” 108 Not only does Mantel reconfigure the only historical source as to the More/Rich trial confrontation to give a diametrically opposed version, but she invents another set of events to provide additional justification for Cromwell at More’s expense. After the execution, Mantel’s Cromwell is presented with More’s prayer book. His examination reveals More’s interlineations and the words, “Remember not the sins of my youth.” Cromwell reflects, “What a pity he remembered Richard Rich’s.” 109 Mantel has rewritten More’s own words to fit her story. Eamon Duffy has undertaken a close reading of More’s prayer book, actually a Book of Hours with attached Latin Psalter that contains his interlineations, handwritten notes and a prayer that “miraculously survives in the Beinecke Library at Yale.” 110 The contents are available for all to read. In his handwritten prayer, More did not hypocritically repent for the sins of his

172

Chapter 9

“youth,” the word that exposed More’s hypocrisy. Rather, More entreats God for the grace “To bewalyle my synnes passed / forr the purging of them patiently to suffer adversite.” 111 Moreover, neither Cromwell nor the jury would have seen anything personal in More’s “utterly conventional Tudor prayer,” which invoked verse 7 of Psalm 24 [25:7] (“Delicta juventutis meae, et ignorantias meas ne memineris”). 112 Mantel also overlooks More’s invocation “To thynke my moost enemyes my best frendys.” 113 Mantel’s refashioning of the historical record does not end there. Her Cromwell knows that Margaret will seek to retrieve her father’s boiled and tarred head from the pole on London Bridge where it will be spiked. Cromwell charitably orders that the bridge-master not be impeded in providing it to her. 114 In fact, Margaret did retrieve the head, but not with Cromwell’s intercession. She had to beg or bribe the bridge-master for it after watching the due succession of the various traitors’ heads move along the bridge until it was time for her father’s to be tossed into the Thames. When Cromwell heard “of her visit to the bridge-master, he summoned Margaret before the Privy Council, where she was accused of attempting to propagate a cult and concealing her father’s papers.” 115 At the start of my discussion of Wolf Hall, I used weaving as a metaphor to describe Mantel’s literary approach because one of the most plausible ways to understand Wolf Hall is as an elaborate post-modern fabrication. Almost every scene in the novel reconfigures or parodies a famous artistic portrayal, whether it’s a Holbein portrait, an episode from Roper’s Life of More or a scene from the film of Bolt’s play. 116 And Mantel’s Cromwell is repeatedly shown to draw on his expertise in the cloth trade, whether it’s estimating to the penny Wolsey’s finery or mentally noting More’s poor taste in a tapestry or his shabby dress. It seems to me that Mantel is winking at her historically-informed readers to signal that her beautifully constructed novel is made of whole cloth—with that phrase understood in all its ambiguity, both in its modern sense of something without factual basis and in its original, opposite sense of integrity or wholeness. 117 Nevertheless, as to the strands of the novel involving More, it is important to understand that they are productions of Mantel’s imagination. COMPARATIVE VERSIONS OF STATESMANSHIP The More of history advocated a statesmanship grounded in personal virtue, freedom under law, and friendship. More lived out the advice he gave to Cromwell—in giving counsel to his prince “ever tell him what he ought to do, but never what he is able to do. So shall you show yourself a true faithful servant and worthy Counselor.” 118 As a friend, More strove to persuade Henry not to disestablish the Catholic Church, both for the common good

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

173

and for Henry’s soul. But, when the Submission of the Clergy made it impossible for him to support the crown, More resigned his office. As a private citizen, he was careful not to violate even those laws that he considered unjust. Instead, More published writings with the aim of using reason to influence and moderate the political debate. This is the More of A Man for All Seasons. Notwithstanding her one-dimensional presentation of More as a stock villain, 119 Mantel gives the reader a compellingly complex anti-hero in her Cromwell. Wolf Hall ends with Cromwell at the top of his game, having expertly managed Henry’s divorce and remarriage, Anne’s spectacular coronation, and More’s conviction. But the careful reader may perceive that Cromwell’s service to the king, and especially his expert manipulation of the moral lepers threatening Henry’s interests, may have infected him with a slow moral poison. When confronted with a particularly depraved example of Henry’s sexual appetite, Cromwell justifies his support for the king in a manner that calls to mind the contemporary defense of President Clinton’s moral lapses. Cromwell explains that it would be surprising if Henry “were a model of conduct in his private life,” but Cromwell “can only concern [him]self with his kingship.” Because Henry does not oppress or override Parliament, and does not ignore the Commons in favor of his own desires, Cromwell asserts, he will not concern himself “with how he behaves to his women.” 120 But it will not be long before Cromwell accedes to Henry’s order to include More in a bill of attainder for supporting the Nun of Kent, despite Cromwell’s knowledge that there is no evidence to support it. In Wolf Hall, this ethical lapse and betrayal of the rule of law (just as his readiness to coerce More’s jury), is justified from Cromwell’s perspective by More’s own treacheries. Cromwell opposes craven courtiers, prejudiced aristocrats and hypocritical ideologues like More by keen pragmatism. If the means that Cromwell employs to achieve his ends sometimes require illegal pressure, his adversaries can hardly complain, given their iniquitous conduct. Any discomfort the reader might feel about Cromwell is washed over by the pleasure in seeing a hateful opponent fall. In Wolf Hall, even the dismal weather finally clears with More’s execution. “Turnabout is fair play” is a kind of justice, but it is hardly a liberal one. There is a danger inherent in the kind of statesmanship embodied by Mantel’s Cromwell—it justifies his legal murders by demonizing the victims. By the same token, her reductionist portrayal of More mars Wolf Hall because it provides simplistic answers and prevents the reader from thinking deeply about Cromwell. One of the most profound humanists of our time, Leszak Kolakowski, wrote movingly about the corrosive effect of employing hatred as a political weapon. A typical tool of totalitarian states, it results in a kind of spiritual suicide. Humanity is sustained and nourished by friendship, while hatred’s “all-consuming energy . . . renders any interchange impossible; and thus it

174

Chapter 9

disintegrates me spiritually, even before I am able to disintegrate my enemy.” 121 Kolakowski readily admitted that history is beset with hateful actors, but he cautioned against a political unity formed around hatred of a common foe: “Hating includes nothing like solidarity; haters do not become friends because they share a detested enemy. . . . And to say that hatred must be repaid with hatred is to say that in order to win in a just struggle, one must first lose the reasons for the legitimacy of this struggle.” 122 More never spoke hatefully of Henry or Cromwell; he never advocated illegal means against his foes. Even at the end, despite his opposition to the Acts of Succession and Supremacy, he refused to advocate disobedience and he prayed for his judges and the King. Bolt’s play was historically accurate in rendering More’s statesmanship as being grounded on a commitment to virtue that gave him the courage to say “no” and to oppose the prevailing ethos at great personal cost. There is a final way that A Man for All Seasons remains true to More. Bolt did not set out to create a realistic historical drama. Rather, Bolt intentionally relied on heightened, poetic language and “the most notorious of [Brechtian] alienation devices, an actor who addresses the audience and comments on the action”—the Common Man character—who speaks to the audience “from within the play.” 123 The Common Man challenges the audience to consider whether More’s actions were worthy—or even possible—of emulation. 124 Bolt’s use of literary devices to encourage the audience to think critically and self-critically, finds a fascinating parallel in More’s own great humanist works, Life of Pico, Utopia and the History of Richard III, all of which drew imaginatively on literary devices for those purposes. 125 More believed the study of good letters (literature, history, philosophy) was essential to improving political life because it quickened the desire for personal virtue and cultivated the refined discernment needed for prudence. Serious literature placed abstract ideas of good and evil in realistic contexts, and challenged superficial or mistaken beliefs by using techniques such as irony that force the reader to see things from divergent points of view. In this way, literary study fostered what More termed “a good mother wit.” 126 It is a fascinating irony that Mantel’s Cromwell, despite his keen appreciation of literature and love of Petrarch, completely misses the ironic and ambiguous structure of Utopia. The island of Utopia—literally, No-Place while suggesting Good-Place 127—like the Platonic politeia to which it corresponds, exists as a locus for reasoned inquiry into the best state, not the wished-for place itself. But in Cromwell’s bone-headed understanding, More fashioned a world out of his own ideals and to which he longed to escape. More’s Utopia challenges political intellectual complacency, but in Wolf Hall, it is merely a work of escapist fiction. This leads to a final irony about the deracinated More of Mantel’s novel. Mantel employs the historical fiction genre to draw the reader deeply, but

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

175

uncritically, into her version of the sixteenth century in which the historical personalities think like we do—a world in which More’s complex psychology and beliefs, so much a product of the late-Medieval, early-modern mindset, would not comfortably fit. Wolf Hall, if iconoclastic in its use of historical sources, plays comfortably into the fashionable beliefs, especially those of politics and religion, held by the author’s contemporaries. Nevertheless, her Cromwell finds a literary analogue in Utopia’s Raphael Hythlodaeus, who justifies his ideas not by reasoned argument but ultimately by his personal witness of the Utopians. The Wolf Hall reader who takes Mantel’s More for truth on the eyewitness report of a fictional character would be just as naïve as the reader of Utopia who relies on Raphael’s report for the last word on the best republic. In contrast, those inspired by Bolt’s ideal of virtue-based statesmanship will not be disappointed if they turn to the work of serious historians like Guy and Rex and, most essentially, to More’s own writings. As Clarence Miller put it: “But above all, in his writings, I repeat, in his writings, you stand the best chance of finding and feeling the man for all seasons.” 128 NOTES 1. For the most extensive discussions, see John Guy, Thomas More (London: Arnold, 2000); Clarence H. Miller, “Thomas More, a Man for all Seasons: Robert Bolt’s Play and the Elizabethan Play of Sir Thomas More,” Moreana 27 (Dec. 1990): 101–110; and Peter Marshall, “Saints and Cinemas: A Man for All Seasons,” in Tudors and Stuarts on Film, ed. Susan Doran and Thomas S. Freeman (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). 2. Gerard B. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 183. 3. A recent article on Mantel’s collaboration with the Royal Shakespeare Company’s adaptation of Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies, focuses on her overarching concern for historical accuracy, with the truth of “More’s torture of anti-Catholic heretics” accepted at face value. Patrick Healy, “A King’s Counselor, Whittled to Size,” New York Times, Jan. 6, 2014. 4. Bolt, preface to A Man for All Seasons, xiv. 5. Ibid., xii. 6. Bolt, A Man for All Seasons, 81, 114. 7. Ibid., 153. 8. Ibid., preface, xiv. 9. Peter Marshall, “The Last Years,” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, ed. George M. Logan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 124. In a similar vein, John Finnis criticizes Bolt for attributing to More an understanding of conscience informed by a Protestant appeal to inner experience and a post-Enlightenment “conception of a world in which the only source of meaning and value is the human mind, which settles meaning and value by its own, autonomous, self-constituting and self-constituted act, an act expressive of its own inner experience, its sense of individuality and selfhood.” John Finnis, “Faith, Morals and Thomas More,” in Vol. 5 of Collected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 169. As More understood it, a person seeking to inform his conscience would not be engaged in selffashioning or in “securing one’s personal integrity and authenticity.” Rather, he would attempt to “discern the truth about the meaning and worth which human existence is meant by its divine author to have . . .” Ibid., 171. 10. Marshall, “Saints and Cinemas,” 55. 11. John Guy, Thomas More, 199–200.

176

Chapter 9

12. Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship, 211. Marshall makes the point this way: “While it was always wrong to act against conscience, to act in accordance with it was not necessarily right, for one’s moral convictions might be erroneous, as those of heretics were.” Marshall, Saints and Cinemas, 55. 13. R. H. Helmholz, “Natural Law and the Trial of Thomas More in Thomas More’s Trial by Jury: A Procedural and Legal Review with a Collection of Documents, eds. Henry Ansgar Kelly, Louis W. Karlin, and Gerard B. Wegemer (Suffolk, U.K>: Boydell Press, 2011), 65. 14. At his trial, More did not rely on adherence to conscience as a kind of affirmative defense. Rather, he argued that his silence should not be construed as supporting malice because following one’s conscience without causing scandal provided a non-malicious motivation. See Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, doc. 17 [Guildhall Report], 189). 15. Bolt, preface to A Man for All Seasons, xiii–xiv. 16. Bolt, A Man for All Seasons, 133. 17. Ibid., 119. 18. Ibid., 123–24. 19. Wegemer refers to the letter as the Dialogue of Conscience. See Wegemer, Statesmanship, 210, and 235, fn. 14. Guy makes a compelling case for More and Margaret’s joint authorship. See John Guy, A Daughter’s Love: Thomas More and His Dearest Meg (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2008), 239–42. 20. Alvaro De Silva, ed., The Last Letters of Thomas More (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 2000), 81. 21. Ibid., 81, 86. The deliberately “obscure” explanation of his adherence to the doctrine of apostolic succession by Bolt’s More—“what matters to me is not whether it’s true or not but that I believe it to be true, or rather, not that I believe it, but that I believe it” (Bolt, A Man for All Seasons, 91)—is often criticized as misrepresenting the historical More’s understanding of conscience. However, in the context of the play, it is not so much the assertion of the autonomous self, but a recognition that all statements of belief are ineluctably personal and that all judgments are to some extent subjective. 22. De Silva, ed., Last Letters, 83. 23. Joshua Avery, “‘Irony and Charity Are Met Together’: A puzzle in Margaret Roper’s Letter to Alice Alington.” Moreana, Vol. 46 (2009), 65–75. 24. Bolt, A Man For All Seasons, 4. 25. Ibid., 22. 26. Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 187. 27. Bolt, A Man for All Seasons, 154. 28. Ibid., 153. 29. Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 189. 30. Richard Rex, “Thomas More and the Heretics: Statesman or Fanatic?” in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, 97. Rex is correct to note that, to the extent that Bolt’s More equates such recourse to personal opinion with conscience, the play “fails in historical terms.” Ibid., 113, fn. 7. 31. John F. Boyle, “Counsel, Comfort, and Conscience in More’s Letter to Fellow Prisoner Nicholas Wilson,” Moreana 46 (2009), 61–62. 32. Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 189. 33. . Boyle, “Counsel, Comfort, and Conscience,” 63. 34. Ibid., 62–63. 35. Ibid., 59. 36. Consistent with Boyle’s analysis, More would also recognize other ways in which the state’s competence to compel consciences would be compromised, such as by abusing its authority, violating its own laws or fostering division by promoting sectarian hatred. 37. De Silva, ed., Last Letters, 120. 38. Ibid. 39. William Roper, The Life of Thomas More, Knight, in A Thomas More Source Book, Gerard B. Wegemer and Stephen W. Smith, eds. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 33–34. 40. Guy, A Daughter’s Love, 261.

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

177

41. John Guy, Tudor England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 127. See Wegemer, Thomas More on Statesmanship, 202, and Travis Curtright, The One Thomas More (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), 149. 42. Guy, Tudor England, 129, 133–36. 43. 26 Henry VIII (Nov.-Dec. 1534, c. 1) in Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 137. 44. Roper, Life of Thomas More, 57. Guy provides an objective comparison of the various alternative explanations, including Bolt’s version. See John Guy, Thomas More (London: Arnold, 2000), 191–95. 45. Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 159, 185. 46. Mantel misleadingly eliminates the ambiguity by having More reply that Parliament exercises only a “temporal jurisdiction,” not a “spiritual jurisdiction.” Mantel, Wolf Hall, 517–18. By eliding More’s key distinction between the traditionally recognized jurisdictional reach of a pope, on the one hand, and state sovereign, on the other, she credits Cromwell with an unwarranted exercise of legal acumen at More’s expense. 47. Guy, Thomas More, 205. 48. Shakespeare’s Henry V would take a position aligned with More’s: “Every subject’s duty is the King’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.” Henry V, The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Vol. 3, ed. David Bevington, (New York: Bantam, 1988), 4.1.176–77. 49. 31 Henry VIII c. 14. Alexandra Walsham points out the “hideous symmetry” of a collective execution under Henry in 1540, “when three papists were hung on a gibbet erected alongside a pyre lit to consume the bodies of three Protestant reformers.” Alexandra Walsham, Charitable Hatred: Tolerance and Intolerance in England, 1500-1700 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006), 77. 50. As Guy explains: “[F]or a former Lord Chancellor to defy the King and claim freedom of conscience against the State was a revolutionary step by the standards of the sixteenth century. More stood at the crossroads of history. It is not for nothing that he became a paragon for those who later sought to emulate his stand even if they abhorred his Catholicism” Guy, Thomas More, 182–83. 51. Jonathan Swift, Gullliver’s Travels, ed. Robert A. Greenberg (New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1970), Bk. 3, ch. 7,167–68. 52. Swift, “Concerning That Universal Hatred, Which Prevails Against The Clergy” (May 24, 1736), Jonathan Swift Archive [http://jonathanswiftarchive.org.uk/], 259. Wegemer’s assessment is consistent with Swift’s: Once Henry “claim[ed] an absolute imperial jurisdiction based on his alleged divine right,” More saw fit “to die for his respectful but unyielding opposition to Henry’s imperial tyranny.” Wegemer, Statesmanship, 204. 53. Bolt, A Man for All Seasons, 66. 54. Ibid. Contemporary legal citations to the passage include Tennessee Valley Authority v. Hill, 437 U.S. 153, at 195 (U.S. 1978); National Ass’n of Home Builders v. Defenders of Wildlife, 551 U.S. 644 at 695 (U.S. 2007) (Stevens, J., dissenting); Gibson v. Florida Legislative Investigation Committee, 372 U.S. 539, 575 (Douglas, J., dissenting); Abdisalan v. Holder, 728 F.3d 1122, 1129, 1135 (9th Cir. 2013) (quoting Bolt in refutation of dissent’s reliance on Felix Frankfurter’s conception of law “‘as the effort of reason to discover justice’”). Interestingly, it is reputed that when Justice Frankfurter attended the play, he “enthusiastically whispered, ‘That’s it! That’s it!’” when More’s character stated those lines. Florida v. Drowne, 436 So.2d 916, 921 (Fla. App. 1983). 55. Wegemer, Statesmanship, 236, fn. 22. 56. William Roper, The Life of Sir Thomas More, Knight, in Wegemer and Smith, eds., A Thomas More Source Book, 36. 57. Guy, Thomas More, ix. 58. Ibid., 224. 59. Ross King, review of Wolf Hall: A Novel, Los Angeles Times, Oct. 8, 2009. 60. Peter Iver Kaufman’s perspicacious, fair-minded, historically-informed essay is an important—an unjustly overlooked—exception. “Dis-Manteling More,” Moreana 47 (June 2010), 165-80. Others include Curtright’s study, The One Thomas More, 8–14, 175–82, and Laura

178

Chapter 9

Keynes’s review of the second novel in Mantel’s trilogy. Keynes, “A Man for Our Season,” review of Bring up the Bodies, Standpoint, June 2012. 61. Joan Acocella, “Tudor Tales,” review of Wolf Hall: A Novel, New Yorker, October 19, 2009. 62. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 531. 63. Ibid. 64. Stephen, Greenblatt, “How it Must Have Been,” Review of Wolf Hall: A Novel, New York Review of Books, November 5, 2009. 65. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 18. 66. Ibid., 189–90. 67. Guy, Thomas More, 79–80. 68. Ibid. Guy concluded: “The greatest riddle of all is More’s family and domestic life.” Ibid., 216. 69. . Peter Ackroyd, The Life of Thomas More (London: Nan A. Talese, 1998),143. See Guy, Thomas More, 40–41. 70. Guy, Daughter’s Love, 43–44. 71. Ibid., 46. 72. Ibid., 203. 73. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 296. Even leaving aside the absence of reliable evidence for More’s advocating the torture of suspected heretics, Cromwell’s remark misunderstands the fundamental mindset at the time the novel takes place: “Coercion was a bitter but efficacious medicine; its purpose was to cure and educate, to liberate individuals from bondage to falsehood, rather than to erase and exterminate. To persecute was to display a charitable hatred: a charity towards the sinner that was inextricable from a fervent hatred of the sin that endangered his or her salvation.” Walsham, Charitable Hatred, 2. 74. Louis L. Martz, Thomas More: The Search for the Inner Man (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 22-23. Martz cited to Thomas More, The Apology of Sir Thomas More, ed. J. B. Trapp, Complete Works of Thomas More, vol. 9 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979), 122, 167. Hereafter, CW 9. 75. See Thomas More, A Dialogue Concerning Heresies, ed. Thomas M.C. Lawler, Germain Marc’hadour, and Richard C. Marius, Complete Works of Thomas More (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 3.5, 3.7. Hereafter CW 6. David R. Oakley discusses this question in terms of perjury in “English Heresy Procedures in Thomas More’s Dialogue Concerning Heresies,” Thomas More Studies 3 (2008), http://www.thomasmorestudies.org/tmstudies/ DCH_Oakley.pdf, 77–80. 76. CW 9, 117. 77. Ibid. Mantel embellishes this incident to have the punishment administered in a manner so as to sexually humiliate the boy. Wolf Hall, 523. 78. CW 9, 117–18. 79. W. E. Campbell concluded, “there is not a shred of evidence to prove that More himself ever exercised cruelty in his treatment of heretics.” W. E. Campbell, “The Spirit and Doctrine of the Dialogue,” in English Works of St. Thomas More, ed., with A. W. Reed, vol. 2, (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1931), 78. 80. Guy, Thomas More, 13, 108. 81. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 514. 82. Ibid., 299. 83. CW 9, 89. 84. CW 9, 99. 85. Ibid., 94. Henry Ansgar Kelly’s research uncovered two questions as to the Pope’s supremacy administered to Protestant martyr John Lambert, who was executed in 1538 under Cromwell’s Chancellorship. Kelly, however, “found no instance in which anyone was actually prosecuted for their responses to such questions.” Kelly, “A Procedural Review of Thomas More’s Trial,” in Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 30. 86. Wegemer and Smith, eds., A Thomas More Source Book, 306. 87. Kelly, Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 23–30 (detailing the ramifications of More’s reliance on silence under canon and common law). See Helmholz, “Natural Law and the Trial of

What Bolt Got Right and What Mantel Got Wrong

179

Thomas More,” in Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 56–58 (explaining limitations and exceptions to basic natural law principle accepted under English common law that no person should be punished for his thoughts). In terms of canon law, Kelly explains that the right to refuse to answer questions was really a right to be formally charged with specific offenses before being subject to questioning. Henry Ansgar Kelly, “The Right to Remain Silent: Before and After Joan of Arc,” Speculum 68 (1993), 1000, 1022. 88. Kelly, Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 30. In contrast, John Forrest, a Franciscan friar, “went to the stake for upholding the jurisdictional claims of the vicar of Rome—the only man to be burnt for this offence by any Tudor regime.” Walsham, Charitable Hatred, 51. As Walsham explains, under Elizabeth, Catholic priests and recusants were executed for treason (by hanging, drawing and quartering), not for heresy. 89. Walsham, Charitable Hatred, 2. 90. Campbell, English Works of St. Thomas More, vol. 2, 78, 107. 91. Rex, “Thomas More and the Heretics,” in CCTM, 93. 92. Walsham, Charitable Hatred, 3. 93. Rex, “Thomas More and the Heretics,” in Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, 112. 94. Kelly, Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 1. 95. Ibid., 168 (spelling modernized). 96. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 522. 97. John Guy, The Public Career of Sir Thomas More (New Haven : Yale University Press, 1980), 75–76. 98. Ibid., 76–77. 99. Wegemer, Statesmanship, 189. 100. Wegemer and Smith, eds., A Thomas More Source Book, 145. 101. Kelly, Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 11–16. 102. John G. Bellamy, The Tudor Law of Treason (London: Routledge, 1979), 32–33. Sir Michael Tugendhat provides a detailed analysis of the use of “maliciously” in the Act of Treasons, concluding that it was conventionally understood as a term of art meaning an intent to do the proscribed act. Kelly, et al., eds., Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 111–16. 103. Guy, Tudor England, 139; Kelly, Thomas More’s Trial by Jury, 13–16. Cromwell’s swipe at the Carthusian monks, dismissing them as incorrigible traitors, is particularly unfair. See Mantel, Wolf Hall, 509. Their only offense was refusing to swear to the Supremacy, while relying on the no-malice defense. 104. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 525–26. 105. Wegemer and Smith, eds., A Thomas More Source Book, 58. 106. Ibid., 61. 107. Ibid., 59. 108. Marshall, “The Last Years,” in Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, 131. 109. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 529. 110. Eamon Duffy, Marking the Hours: English People and Their Prayers 1240–1570 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 108. 111. Ibid., 114. 112. Ibid., 116. 113. Ibid., 114. 114. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 529. 115. Guy, Daughter’s Love, 2–4, 266. 116. Such a reading is consistent with Colin Burrow’s elegant and insightful (and mainly favorable) review, “How to Twist a Knife,” review of Wolf Hall: A Novel, London Review of Books, April 30, 2009. 117. William Safire, “On Language; Out of the Whole Cloth,” New York Times Magazine, 19 July 1998 (web and print). 118. Roper, “Life of Sir Thomas More,” in Wegemer and Smith, eds., A Thomas More Source Book, 43. 119. As Burrow points out, despite Mantel’s wonderfully complex characterizations of other personages, she “really can’t stick” Thomas More. Burrow, “How to Twist a Knife.”

180

Chapter 9

120. Mantel, Wolf Hall, 366. In fact, Henry was notorious for his disdain for Parliament. More was instrumental in facing down Wolsey when the king had Wolsey intrude upon the traditional freedom of the Commons. Wegemer, Statesmanship, 188–89. In the face of parliamentary opposition to the Restraint of Annates Act, “Henry forced a division of the Commons, a flagrant violation of Parliament’s traditional liberty rarely seen before that time.” Ibid., 198–99, citing Guy, Public Life, 184–85. 121. Kolakowski, Epilogue to Modernity on Endless Trial, 258. 122. Ibid., 259. 123. Bolt, preface to A Man for All Seasons, xix. 124. The Common Man is absent from the screenplay, but retained in the made-for-television version in 1988, directed and starring Charlton Heston as More, with Roy Kinnear as the Common Man. 125. For example, in The Life of Pico, More added numerous original, ironic additions to his “translation,” thereby emphasizing the ambiguities in Pico’s character as a way of calling upon his readers “to look at themselves in Pico’s light, with a view to perceiving how true virtue stands in their own lives.” Louis W. Karlin, “Translation as Conversion: Thomas More’s Life of John Picus,” Moreana, Vol. 47:176 (June 2010), 70. 126. Thomas More, Dialogue Concerning Heresies, ed. Mary Gottschalk (New York: Scepter, 2006), 160. 127. George M. Logan explains that More coined “utopia” from the Greek adverb, ou [not], fused to the noun, topos [place], with a Latin ending. The readers who picked up on the etymology noticed how it “puns on another Greek compound, eutopia—‘happy’ or ‘fortunate’ place.” Introduction to Utopia, George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams, eds. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), xi. In Clarence H. Miller’s translation, the Utopian Poet Laureate (and Hythloday’s sister), Anemolius, contended “‘No-place” should “by rights” by called, “‘Good-place’” because it was “in fact” the best state, perhaps surpassing Plato’s. Thomas More, Utopia, trans. Clarence H. Miller (New Haven: Yale University Press), 1. 128. Miller, “Thomas More, a Man for All Seasons,” 108.

Chapter Ten

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy A Reflection on A Man for All Seasons James V. Schall, S. J.

Political philosophy as such begins with the deaths of Socrates and Christ in famous trials before the leading cities of their time, cities known for law, justice, and philosophy. The issue was first formulated by Plato: “Was it necessary for Socrates to die in Athens?” “Does a city exist in which the philosopher could live?” “What is the relation of philosophy, poetry, and politics to each other?” Both trials, moreover, had to do with the things that were Caesar’s and those that were God’s, to use the innovative terms found in the New Testament (Matthew 22:22). The death of Socrates asked whether a philosopher could live in even the best existing city of men, in Athens, the city of philosophers. The death of Christ asked whether the Man-God could live in either the Holy City or the Eternal City, either Jerusalem or Rome. Both deaths implied the existence of a city that was not, as Augustine was to say, an “earthly” city. Though Aristotle did not know of a Church or a purely temporal order, he did distinguish a practical and a theoretical order, a distinction of vast importance when it came both to the “reasonableness” of revelation and to the “practicality” of Machiavelli, the ancients and the moderns. In a series of famous executions from Socrates, to Cicero, to Christ, to Seneca, to Justin Martyr, to Boethius, and to Thomas More, we find the same basic issue at stake. It is not a question of how religion or philosophy limits the civil power. Rather we want to know how the civil power is to understand the place of religion and philosophy relative to the temporal realm for which it is primarily responsible. 1 We seek a balance that does not destroy the 181

182

Chapter 10

existing city, or the things shared by both city and philosophy, or the things beyond Caesar. Political philosophy is nonetheless philosophy. It seeks and is open to the truth that is found in pursuing action to the limits of things political. It is precisely these limits of political things, their inability to explain everything about themselves, that leave us open to what is beyond politics, though, for all that, no less real, no less belonging to the order of being, than the things found in the city. 2 The central question that More faced—and died for—was whether anything existed beyond the civil power, that power in his time just beginning to be designated, after Machiavelli, as lo stato, “the state,” something quite different from Aristotle’s polity of practical virtues. If nothing is beyond the political order, the whole endeavor to limit Caesar seems illusory, hardly worth making the effort to account for it. The return, or, perhaps better, the full establishment, of the absolute or totalitarian state was not merely the work of a line of thought from post-Aristotelian philosophy to nominalism, to Descartes, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Kant, and Hegel to the French Revolution and the twentieth century ideologies, but, in a more democratic and graphic form, of the twenty-first century. The Abolition of Man, 1984, and Brave New World are much more visible in the twenty-first century than they were in the twentieth century, when they mainly existed in books. Coming together in these considerations, then, are how philosophy, poetry, revelation, and politics are to be related in a coherent, non-contradictory whole. In this light, I want to reconsider Robert Bolt’s most influential play, A Man for All Seasons. I will understand this reflection to be an exercise in precisely political philosophy. The sub-context of the play, to be sure, is the classic one from Plato’s Thrasymachus and Machiavelli, namely, “Does might make right?” To all outward appearances, in the case of More, “might” did successfully overrule “right,” unless what More died for was true. In that case, the violation of justice in More’s trial will, if not forgiven, be requited, though not in this life. More was not just a noble man of law and literature, though he was that also. He held that Peter, the “Bishop of Rome,” the Pope, held authority from God, the origin of all order. This authority covered only what was given to it. But it knew what it was given. It was an active authority. It knew that no temporal power, whose own authority is likewise from God, could replace or overrule divine authority, though many tried, particularly in More’s case, the Tudor king. Authority was given in the Church to the papacy and bishops to uphold and teach what was handed down. That same authority is to be understood, to be thought about, and, when reasonable, to be acted upon. Civilization is defined by what is or is not maintained within its confines. The word “barbarian,” by contrast, means no law. No formally established procedure is found to requite injustices. In this sense, what More upheld was precisely civilization, the order of human relationships directed to what is. He contin-

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

183

ued, or better re-established, at the beginning of modernity, the great Socratic principle that “It is never right to do wrong.” Erasmus was right to see Socrates in More, though More, in his action, saw more than Socrates but nothing against Socrates. Why this coherence is so is what political philosophy should be about. In More’s death, we see both Socrates and Christ as if one leads to the other. Athens and Jerusalem came together in the Tower of London. As Benedict XVI said, also in London, in Westminster Hall where More was tried, that More was the King’s “good servant” because he was God’s servant first. In the play itself, More, reacting to Cardinal Wolsey’s effort to place the King first, replied: “When statesmen forsake their own private conscience for the sake of their public duties . . . they lead their country by a short route to chaos.” 3 The public order is basically upheld by the private conscience of the statesman acknowledging true reason and authority, not merely whatever it is the prince wants. The contrary is true also, the “chaos” does follow in the public order when the order of reason is not upheld by those who are called statesmen. Bolt wrote an elegant preface to the play in which he tried to explain More’s life as if the specific cause for which he died (that is, the Catholic understanding of things) was not objectively true. Nor were the transcendent consequences (heaven and hell) true that More, following both Plato and the Gospels, envisioned and understood to flow from violations of God’s laws. Bolt leaves us with a Camus-type feeling that the “action” of More’s execution must be meaningful even though we do not know why it makes sense in its own terms. Thus, Bolt writes, “I think the paramount gift our thinkers, artists, and, for all I know, our men of science, should labor to get for us is a sense of selfhood without resort to magic. Albert Camus is a writer I admire in this connection.” 4 More’s own reasons are passed off as “magic.” More, in Bolt’s view, really died for something called “selfhood,” whatever that might mean. More, however, did not die “true to himself.” He died true to his oath, true to the God he served in serving his King according to law. In the end, the King was logically forced to use power and not law against More. Ultimately, this fact is why More is both a philosopher and a martyr, while Henry is but a tyrant, not a real King. Bolt explains himself by making all of us like unto himself: “We [moderns] no longer have, as past societies have had, any picture of individual Man (Stoic Philosopher, Christian Religious, Rational Gentleman) by which to recognize ourselves and against which to measure ourselves; we are anything. But if anything, then nothing, and it is not everyone who can live with that, though it is our true present position. Hence our willingness to locate ourselves from something that is certainly larger than ourselves, the society that contains us.” 5 Bolt thinks that More had such an understanding of himself. Bolt wants to preserve More’s nobility for us as if More’s reasoning is

184

Chapter 10

not true, though some other explanation, that of Bolt, makes some sense of him. More is thus pictured as a member of the English polity, which he was, but not primarily a member of the City of God, which was, in Bolt’s phrase, “magic.” More “hides” in society as a last resort defense of his “selfhood.” What does Bolt’s world look like according to which he tries to make sense of More’s murder? It does not look like the world that More saw and in which he explained his actions. “More was an orthodox Catholic and for him an oath was something perfectly specific; it was an invitation to God, an invitation God would not refuse, to act as a witness, and to judge; the consequence of perjury was damnation, for More another perfectly clear concept.” 6 Thus Bolt, from the outside, could understand More’s position in More’s own terms. But since Bolt himself cannot accept this explanation, More’s nobility must be explained in other figures—other “magic.” To illustrate this point, Bolt continues: “But I am not a Catholic nor even in the meaningful sense of the word a Christian. So by what right do I appropriate a Christian saint to my purposes? Or to put it in the other way, why do I take as my hero a man who brings about his own death because he can’t put his hand on an old black book and tell an ordinary lie?” 7 Bolt proceeds to tell us why he finds More worthy even if he (Bolt) does not accept More’s theology. This is the explanation. A man takes an oath to establish a relation between his words and his actions. We suspect most men would guarantee their words with “cash” rather than with themselves. “We feel—we know—the self to be an equivocal commodity. There are fewer and fewer things which, as they say, we ‘cannot bring ourselves’ to do. We can find almost no limits for ourselves other than the physical, which, being physical, are not optional.” 8 The oath, in Bolt’s mind, then, is a self-imposed norm to prevent us from being just anything at all. But this oath is not addressed to “anyone.” For most of the play, as Bolt understands it, More is confident that at some point the law will protect him if he is careful to follow it strictly. In the end, More is broken by Cromwell’s perjury, his corruption of the law. Why did More not do as most other English prelates and aristocracy did and go along with Henry? In Bolt’s view, More’s answer was this: The English Kingdom, his immediate society, was subservient to the larger society of the Church of Christ, founded by Christ, extending over Past and Future, ruled from Heaven. There are still some for whom that is perfectly simple, but for most it can only be a metaphor . . . for a larger context which we all inhabit, the terrifying cosmos. Terrifying because no laws, no sanctions, no mores obtain there; it is either empty or occupied by God and the Devil nakedly at war. 9

Bolt passes off any rational foundation of faith as “simple.” He sees a universe that more and more reveals order as chaos. 10 He concludes that More

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

185

“will gratefully accept the shelter of his society. This was certainly More’s intention.” 11 More’s “intention” certainly was to depend on English law and society if he could. But More did not do what his fellow Englishmen did. He did not submit to Henry or renounce the Church’s central jurisdiction. He did not approve what was against God’s law. More believed for as long as he could that the English would observe their own laws. But when they did not, with Cromwell’s perjury under Henry’s iron will, More knew that the world he in fact lived in was that of the transcendent order in which the statesman followed his conscience to do God’s will and to prevent chaos in his earthly kingdom. For More, to be English was to observe the higher law when the civil law failed, in his case, to be just. Indeed, when he can speak his mind freely, knowing that he would die, More even cites the Magna Carta and the Coronation oath: The King in Parliament cannot bestow the Supremacy of the Church because it is a Spiritual Supremacy! And more to this the very immunity of the Church is promised both in Magna Carta and the King’s own Coronation Oath! 12

More understood the nature of both the temporal and the spiritual powers, made even more poignant when we realize that the papacy was governed during his lifetime by some less than stellar men. I have spent some time on Bolt’s efforts to be a modern man and still account for the nobility of Thomas More’s action. In the end, More’s “magic” is more reasonable than Bolt’s “common sense.” Bolt does give us, however, a fair understanding of More’s own reasoning. It is of some importance, moreover, to recognize that More’s “magic” is Plato’s (and Aristotle’s) kingdom of “prayer.” That is, when the practical limits of rule were reached and the question of a better regime still came up, both classic philosophers would say that this best kingdom is something we could “pray for.” The same words are striking in More. Wolsey says to More: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To govern the country by prayers?” More responds: “Yes, I should.” 13 More understood the limits of human rule in a way Cardinal Wolsey did not. Bolt’s “common sense,” however, is not that of Aquinas, Aristotle, or Chesterton, but that of Machiavelli. The “common sense” to which More is urged to accept in the play by both his friends and those surrounding the king is that of capitulation, of violating both his conscience and the objective order just to stay alive at whatever cost. Thus, early in the play itself, Wolsey says to More: “You’re a constant regret to me, Thomas. If you could just see facts flat on, without that horrible moral squint, with just a little common sense, you could have been a statesman.” 14 The irony is that More was the great statesman. Wolsey’s own philosophy would not let him admit this with More standing there before him. This incident again recalls Socrates’ “no

186

Chapter 10

evil can come to a good man,” that “death is not the worst evil.” More’s conscience is freely conformed to an order that governs the universe. He is not a modern man who first empties the universe of finality and meaning only then to put his own unrestricted mind, will, and desire in its place. As I have said, the beginnings and formulations of political philosophy relate to the trials of Socrates and Christ. More himself refers to Christ’s Crucifixion in the light of his own execution. In the end, More is offered a goblet of wine. He replies: “My Master had easel and gall, not wine, given him to drink.” 15 I conceive the trial of Thomas More to “complete” what was, as it were, lacking in the earlier trials, however much they established the basic principle at issue concerning the superiority of the transcendent order. What the trial of More adds to the trials of Socrates, Christ, Cicero, Seneca, Justin Martyr, and Boethius is precisely that it is a trial of a statesman about statesmanship and law. The earlier trials, with the possible exception of Cicero, whose death is rather more of a political assassination than a trial, were of philosophers and prophets before the politicians. These trials had to do with the limits of the city before the transcendent order. More himself, when the Erasmus comparison is mentioned, says: “Socrates! I’ve no taste for hemlock.” 16 More’s hemlock was his beheading for treason. He did have a taste for the integrity of politics. In More, thus, we have the trial of the politician before the politicians about the limits of politics within politics. It is true that More was also a philosopher, but his trial was not about this side of his career, even though, like Plato, he is known for the “city in speech,” for “utopia.” More’s trial was about whether politics itself reaches limits within its own order when it contradicts what it is. To be sure, when it does so contradict itself so that it acts on power alone, we face the question of the reasonableness of politics before the transcendent order. That is, we must take a position on whether revelation itself is addressed to reason and whether reason can remain itself if it rejects the reasonableness found in revelation. The alternative, as we see all through A Man for All Seasons, is Machiavelli, the raison d’êtat, power calculus. In reading A Man for All Seasons, we cannot help but see intimations of the trials of Socrates and Christ reflected in the Westminster trial. Harry Jaffa has remarked that the greatest of the English Kings was Lear, a fictional king. 17 And, of course, even Lear, in Jaffa’s view, confused the order of politics with the order of love that transcended it. That was the essence of Lear’s tragedy even though in the end Lear and Cordelia died together. In the case of More, Alice, More’s wife, and Margaret, his daughter, are closer to Xantippe and the potential philosophers present on the last day of Socrates’ life. Alice, like Xantippe, simply cannot understand why her husband had to die. In the dramatic scenes near the end, More tells his wife that he does not

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

187

want to go unless she understands. She replies that she cannot understand, but still she knows that he is “the finest man” she ever knew. 18 More’s love of his daughter did not show any of this confusion between politics and the transcendent order that Lear showed. In their meeting, Henry VIII thought Margaret rather too bookish. Thus, Henry said to Thomas (regarding Margaret): “Take care, Thomas: ‘too much learning is a weariness of the flesh, and there is no end to the making of books.’” The King then asks Margaret if she can dance. “Not well,” she replies. 19 But Margaret too wants to understand why More is doing what he does. In this sense, she is analogous to the potential philosophers in the Phaedo, who need to be shown why Socrates is not afraid of death, why he is not really abandoning them. More accepts the Christian version of the immortality of the soul. 20 The immortality of the soul is the context of Socrates’ reasoning on the topic. Plato wanted to know if the world is created in injustice. It is so created if the crimes in actual cities are not punished or the good deeds occurring in them not rewarded. More, like Socrates, saw that there was no inner-worldly solution to this problem, only a transcendent one. Hence, we have the last judgment in both the Republic and in the Gospels. When Rich is arrested, Margaret says: “Father, that man is bad.” More replies: “There is no law against that.” Roper intervenes: “There is! God’s law!” More: “Then let God arrest him. . . . The law, Roper, the law. I know what’s legal, not what’s right. And I’ll stick to what’s legal.” 21 Notice that More does not say whatever is legal is right in the positivist sense. More thinks that English common law is indeed based on reason, to which he clings in the hope that it still is so based even under Henry. This consideration touches our argument that More is using the law against the lawlessness of the King. For most of the trial, More is confident that the law will protect him if he carefully observes it, even in silence. 22 He is in danger only if the King himself, through Cromwell, Rich, and Norfolk, breaks the law of England. He initially does not expect this rejection, but as the play progresses it becomes obvious that breaking it is Henry’s only alternative. More is right on the law itself and he knows it. More is even accused of giving the Devil the “benefit of the law.” But we do not “cut . . . down” law to get at evil. 23 More tells Roper: “God or the Devil . . . will find me hiding in the thickets of the law.” 24 More informs his daughter that he is safe because he is not on the wrong side of the law. We see what More is about when he tells Roper: “Will, I’d trust you with my life, but not your principles.” 25 It is the law and its consistent principles that More upholds. In a famous scene near the end of the play, when Alice and Margaret, not unlike when Xantippe and the children visited Socrates, are allowed to visit More in his cell, More continues to teach Margaret: “When a man takes an oath, Meg, he’s holding his own self in his own hands.” 26 More in other

188

Chapter 10

contexts says rather his own “soul.” Margaret responds, almost in frustration, that her father should be a hero in any just land. This remark brings More to one of the most profound insights in all of political philosophy, one tinged with the Christian understanding of original sin and its scope also in politics. This is the ultimate answer to political utopianism, stated by the author of Utopia himself. More tells Margaret: If we lived in a State where virtue was profitable, common sense would make us good, and greed would make us saints. And we’d live like animals or angels in the happy land that needs no heroes. But since in fact we see that avarice, anger, envy, pride, sloth, lust, and stupidity commonly profit far beyond humility, chastity, fortitude, justice, and thought, and have to choose to be human at all . . . why then perhaps we must stand fast a little—even at the risk of being heroes. 27

We have to choose to be human at all. We do not escape death by failing to be heroes. If we do fail, our reward is an ignominious death sooner or later and its eternal consequences. Thus, More tells Margaret: “Death comes to us all; even at our birth.” 28 The great question is not whether, but how we live and how we die. The trial of More, as I have indicated, clarifies the conflict between ancients and moderns. It does so both by exemplifying what Machiavellianism means in terms of politics itself and in terms of the revelational response to it, the only one that really makes sense of all factors. Constantly, throughout the play, More is chided at being against the spirit of the times. This emphasis on the “now” is what we have come to call “historicism.” Morality is not universal in all times and in all places, but what people of a given time do or do not do. Cromwell at one point tells More that he was once up-to-date, but now he opposes “the whole movement of the times.” 29 Cromwell offers him the highest posts if he recants. Norfolk, whose own corruption by Cromwell and Henry is part of the tragedy, tries to convince More of the same thing on the grounds of friendship. Norfolk to More: “Can’t you do what I did, and come with us, for fellowship?” More: “And when we stand before God, and you are sent to Paradise for doing according to your conscience, and I am damned for not doing according to mine, will you come with me, in fellowship?” 30 Again this passage is a key to understanding More. His integrity as a statesman lies in his loyalty to what he holds to be true. Thus, More says to Norfolk: “But what matters to me is not whether it’s true or not, but that I believe it to be true . . .” 31 More cannot be properly explained outside his understanding of revelation. Thus, the overtones of true friendship are also, as in Aristotle, found in the trial of More. True friendship, friendship in the highest things, includes truth.

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

189

Actually, the King understands that this integrity of More is the major obstacle to his achieving the divorce. Thus, More says to Cromwell: “It is not for the Supremacy [of the King over the Church] that you have sought my blood—but because I would not bend to the marriage.” 32 This moral witness of More is the real reason why he is killed. Henry pleads his own conscience about the marriage to Catherine. He does not need a pope to tell him that he (Henry) sinned. More asks then: “Why then does Your Grace need my poor support?” Henry replies: “Because you are honest.” Others follow for base motives. 33 So Henry has to corrupt More as precisely an honest man whom people respect. If More yields, Henry’s path will be clear. But Henry says that he will “have no opposition.” 34 More insists that “I am your Grace’s loyal minister.” 35 But only in the things that belong to the king. Henry asks More to agree to the divorce. More replies that, if he cannot come along, he will not think about it. More vividly makes clear the distinction between his loyalty to the King and to God: “Take your dagger and saw it [right arm] from my shoulder, and I will laugh and be thankful, if by that means I can come with your Grace with a clear conscience.” 36 His conscience he cannot so easily “saw off.” The play shows a constant search for More’s weak spot. The view of human nature in those surrounding the King makes it certain that one can be found. Early in the play, the steward observes: “My master Thomas More would give anything to anyone. Some say that’s good and some say that’s bad, but I say he can’t help it—and that’s bad . . . because some day someone’s going to ask him for something that he wants to keep; and he’ll be out of practice. There must be something that he wants to keep. 37 Thus Alice at one point tells her husband: “Be ruled! If you won’t rule him, be ruled!” More replies: “I neither could nor would rule my King. But there’s a little . . . little, area . . . where I must rule myself.” 38 The play, of course, inevitably takes us to this one thing that More keeps. We see both the Machiavellian and Christological dimensions of this one thing that More keeps. Rich broaches the issue: “But every man has his price! . . . Titles, women, bricks and mortar, there’s always something.” More: “Childish.” Rich: “Well, in suffering certainly.” More: “Buy a man with suffering?” Rich: “Impose suffering, and offer him—escape.”

Chapter 10

190

More: “Oh, for one moment I thought you were being profound”…. Rich: “No, not a bit profound; it then becomes a purely practical question of how to make him suffer sufficiently.” More: “And . . . who recommended you to read Signor Machiavelli? . . .” Rich: “Master Cromwell.” More: “He’s a very able man.” 39 The real Machiavellian figure in the play is Cromwell. Machiavelli is said to be the founder of specifically “modern” political philosophy. This is the philosophy that rejects Aristotle. A Man for All Seasons is a working out of the logic of Machiavelli as it brings about the execution of More. In doing so, it restores the integrity of classical and medieval political philosophy. At one point, Norfolk says (to Rich): “I’ve never found much use in Aristotle myself, not practically. Great philosopher, of course. Wonderful mind.” . . . More: “Master Rich is newly converted to the doctrine of Machiavelli.” . . . Rich: “The doctrines of Machiavelli have been largely mistaken, I think; indeed, properly apprehended, he has no doctrine. Master Cromwell has the sense of it, I think. . . .” 40 Both the politics of Aristotle and that of Machiavelli are called “practical.” What makes Aristotle’s politics “practical” is its prudent application of the first principles of morality to each particular situation, neither too much or too little. What makes Machiavelli’s politics “practical” is whether they “work,” no matter what the first principles might imply. We notice how Cromwell reduces the status of More from that of good man to that of mere man so that he can better deal with him: Cromwell: “When the King wants something done, I do it.” .... “Meanwhile, I do prepare myself for higher things. I stock my mind.” .... Chapuys: “Sir Thomas is a good son of the Church.” Cromwell: “Sir Thomas is a man.” 41 For Cromwell, the “highest things” are not metaphysics and the things of God but precisely practical politics. This passage recalls Aristotle’s seminal teaching that “[i]f man were the highest being, politics would be the highest

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

191

science.” 42 But since man was not the highest being, politics was not the highest science. When politics is made to be the highest science, unrelated to any transcendent order, we have “modern” politics where the prince, lo stato, is the highest law, grounded in nothing but itself. Ironically, Cromwell, who was himself executed by Henry’s orders on July 28, 1540, seems to understand the fate he himself is caught in by pursuing his own politics. Cromwell says: “He [More] must submit, the alternatives are bad. While More’s alive the King’s conscience breaks into fresh stinking flowers every time he gets from bed. And if I bring about More’s death—I plant my own, I think.” 43 “The End of Machiavellianism,” as Maritain once called it, does not exempt the greatest of the Machiavellians from its logic. 44 How does this Machiavellianism work? At the end of the first act of the play, Cromwell tells Rich that after the first betrayal of his own conscience that he will find the next time “easier.” 45 Cromwell explains the logic of dealing with an honorable man: “But Sir Thomas has plenty of sense; he could be frightened.” Cromwell, to illustrate his point, burns his own finger in the fire. 46 More, Cromwell is certain, will yield under torture and threat of death. But can More be “frightened?” Is the theory valid? Cromwell understands why More must be dealt with. Norfolk asks: Why do we not leave More “silent”? Cromwell replies that More is a man of letters, his silence is heard throughout Europe. But to try to frame More won’t work. “He was the only judge since Cato who didn’t accept bribes.” 47 Another way then? Cromwell tells a reluctant Norfolk that he has “no choice” but to be part of More’s trial. Cromwell threatens to tell the king of Norfolk’s tenuous friendship with More. 48 Fear works with Norfolk. How to approach More? Cromwell tells Rich: “It must be done by law. It’s just a matter of finding the right law. Or making one.” 49 This passage again explains why the trial of More is a trial of the politician by the politician, but of opposing conceptions of what it is to be political. All tyrants, if they can, want the cover of law even if they have to make it up themselves. This is what Henry does with the Act of Supremacy whereby he becomes the head of the Church in England. Cromwell sees the alternatives. What is to be done? “Whatever is necessary. The King’s a man of conscience and he wants either Sir Thomas More to bless his marriage or Sir Thomas More destroyed.” 50 More does not see himself as a hero itching to be a martyr. “But Man he made to serve him wittily, in the tangle of his mind! . . . And no doubt it delights God to see splendor where He only looked for complexity. But it’s God’s part, not our own, to bring ourselves to that extremity! Our natural business lies in escaping . . .” 51 More sticks to the letter of the law. He knows that silence legally is not guilt. He knows that if he approves the King’s

192

Chapter 10

divorce, he lies since he knows that it is not in his power to grant it. More asks: “Can I help my King by giving him lies when he asks for truth? Will you help England by populating her with liars?” 52 These are the words of a statesman in the classic sense. The point is made even more graphically when Rich finally perjures himself to testify against More as someone who committed treason. More tells him: “In good faith, Rich, I am sorrier for your perjury than for my peril.” 53 More denied what Rich said is true. “If what Master Rich has said is true, then I pray I may never see God in the face!” 54 More continues by addressing Norfolk and Cromwell: “For first men will disclaim their hearts and presently they will have no hearts. God help the people whose Statesmen walk your road.” 55 This is the teaching of ancient and medieval political philosophy to the moderns who break the bond of reason and power. God help the people whose statesmen walk your path. Cromwell threatens “harsher punishments,” by implication torture and death as certain to make More yield. 56 At this, More chides Cromwell. He is talking like a “dockside bully.” Cromwell retorts: “How should I threaten?” More replies, in the name of true political philosophy, “[l]ike a Minister of State, with justice.” Cromwell: “Oh, justice is what you’re threatened with.” And to this More simply replies: “Then I am not threatened.” 57 The two equivocal meanings of justice, the Aristotelian and the Machiavellian, are contained within this exchange. The true minister of state is responsible for justice, not naked power as if it alone were just. This classical idea of justice is why More sees himself to be secure, even when power comes to be used against him. He understands Socrates’ “a good man cannot be harmed either in life or in death” and “doing what’s unjust is worse than suffering it.” 58 The point is brought out graphically in the final scene of the play. More goes to the block. He says to the Headsman: “Friend, be not afraid of your office. You send me to God.” Cranmer who has accompanied More to his end, says to him, as the notes say, in a manner “envious rather than waspish”: “You’re very sure of that, Sir Thomas.” 59 The Headsman, after the deed, then announces to the attendees: “Behold—the head—of a traitor.” With these ironic words, we also recall the words at the end of the Phaedo, after Socrates has drunk the hemlock, words reminiscent of those of Margaret about her father: “And such was the end of our comrade, Echecrates, a man who, we would say, of all those we have known the best, and also the wisest and the most upright” (118a). Socrates too was tried for not believing in the gods of the local city and for disobeying its laws. On this scene in the play the Common Man has the final word: “It isn’t difficult to keep alive, friends— just don’t make trouble—or if you must make trouble, make the sort of trouble that’s expected.” 60 Sir Thomas More made the sort of trouble that was not expected. This is his place in political philosophy.

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

193

In conclusion, I would like to turn to the remarks of Chesterton in 1929 about More. He began an essay by stating that More was more important at that time than he had been since his death, but that he would be more important still in another hundred years. The hundred years have almost passed. We must ask ourselves what Chesterton had in mind. More, he thought, could become the greatest historical figure in English history if the European civilization crisis continued. This estimate of More follows the line of argument I have presented here. More stood for what England ought to be, but chose not to be. The English are said to be pragmatic. But it was precisely this pragmatism, cut off from a principled end that made the means intelligible, if they were intelligible, that killed More. Modern England exists on the firm foundation of Henry’s power, not on the better foundation of More’s principles. But more than England is at issue. More stood for what Europe ought to have known about itself but rejected. In our time, when Europe finally thought to unite itself, it did so by rejecting its connection with its Christian origins. More saw that Rome and reason are one. Modern Europe wanted to make a groundless reason its foundation. The Enlightenment on its political side, as we see more clearly now, was not an elevation of reason but of will to power. Reason has become simply the tool of power, not its judge and justification. The execution of More is in the line of the executions of Socrates and Christ. Jerusalem and Athens need Rome. Rome stands for the transcendent reason that is directed to the human mind wrestling with itself about what it can know and do. What revelation finds is a reason already in things that itself seeks to explain its own curious existence. It is in this sense that modern science has Christian origins. There really is something there to be discovered, something that reveals intelligibility in its tiniest and most expanded parts, but especially in ourselves. The execution of More justified itself by following that line of thought that elevated will and power to the center of political life. Reason was merely an instrument in its goal. More showed that reason in politics so understood must contradict itself and proceed as pure will when the law is not consistent with reason based at every step on what is. More’s place in political philosophy is that, by his execution, he upheld the transcendent order from within politics itself. In the hundred years after Chesterton’s observation, we can see clearly that the rationale that executed him has finally turned on man himself. As Chesterton already said at the end of his Heretics in 1905 the day will come when it is only those who believe that will be able to say that the grass is green. It will be only those who have made an act of faith who will be able to say of what is that it is, as Plato put it.

194

Chapter 10

NOTES 1. See Leo Strauss, “What Is Political Philosophy?” What Is Political Philosophy and Other Studies (Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1959), 9–55. 2. See James V. Schall, At the Limits of Political Philosophy (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996). 3. A Man for All Seasons, 22. 4. Ibid., xiv. 5. Ibid., xi. 6. Ibid., xiii. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid., xiii–xiv. 9. Ibid., xv–xvi. 10. See Robert Spitzer, New Proofs for the Existence of God (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010). 11. A Man for All Seasons, ibid. xvi. 12. Ibid., 159. 13. Ibid., 22. See Josef Pieper, Platonic Myths (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2011). 14. Ibid., 19. 15. Ibid., 161. 16. Ibid., 84. 17. Allan Bloom and Harry Jaffa, Shakespeare’s Politics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 113–38. 18. Ibid., 145. 19. A Man for All Seasons, 49. 20. See James V. Schall, Reason, Revelation, and the Foundations of Political Philosophy (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1987). 21. A Man for All Seasons, 65 22. Ibid., 150. 23. Ibid., 66. 24. Ibid., 67. 25. Ibid., 69. 26. Ibid., 140. 27. Ibid., 140–41. 28. Ibid., 161. 29. Ibid., 114. 30. Ibid., 132. 31. Ibid., 91. 32. Ibid., 160. 33. Ibid., 55. 34. Ibid., 56. 35. Ibid., 57. 36. Ibid., 53. 37. Ibid., 17. 38. Ibid., 59. 39. Ibid., 4–5. 40. Ibid., 12–13. 41. Ibid., 38–39. 42. Find Aristotle’s teaching in James V. Schall, The Mind that is Catholic: Philosophical & Political Essays (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2008), 225. 43. Ibid., 137. 44. Jacques Maritain, “The End of Machiavellianism,” in Social and Political Ideas of Jacques Maritain (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1976), 292–325. 45. A Man for All Seasons, 76. 46. Ibid., 77.

The Place of Sir Thomas More in Political Philosophy

195

47. Ibid., 98-99. 48. Ibid., 102-03. 49. Ibid., 104. 50. Ibid., 119. 51. Ibid., 126. 52. Ibid., 154. 53. Ibid., 156. 54. Ibid. 55. Ibid., 157. 56. Ibid., 133. 57. Ibid., 134. 58. Socrates is quoted from the Apology, trans. G. M. A. Grube, at 41c, and the Gorgias, trans. Donald J. Zeyl, at 473a, in Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper (Indianapolis/ Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 1997). 59. Ibid., 162. 60. Ibid., 162–63.

Appendix Apostolic Letter

ISSUED MOTU PROPRIO PROCLAIMING SAINT THOMAS MORE PATRON OF STATESMEN AND POLITICIANS POPE JOHN PAUL II FOR PERPETUAL REMEMBRANCE 1. The life and martyrdom of Saint Thomas More have been the source of a message which spans the centuries and which speaks to people everywhere of the inalienable dignity of the human conscience, which, as the Second Vatican Council reminds us, is “the most intimate centre and sanctuary of a person, in which he or she is alone with God, whose voice echoes within them” (Gaudium et Spes, 16). Whenever men or women heed the call of truth, their conscience then guides their actions reliably towards good. Precisely because of the witness which he bore, even at the price of his life, to the primacy of truth over power, Saint Thomas More is venerated as an imperishable example of moral integrity. And even outside the Church, particularly among those with responsibility for the destinies of peoples, he is acknowledged as a source of inspiration for a political system which has as its supreme goal the service of the human person. Recently, several Heads of State and of Government, numerous political figures, and some Episcopal Conferences and individual Bishops have asked me to proclaim Saint Thomas More the Patron of Statesmen and Politicians. Those supporting this petition include people from different political, cultural and religious allegiances, and this is a sign of the deep and widespread interest in the thought and activity of this outstanding Statesman. 197

198

Appendix

2. Thomas More had a remarkable political career in his native land. Born in London in 1478 of a respectable family, as a young boy he was placed in the service of the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Morton, Lord Chancellor of the Realm. He then studied law at Oxford and London, while broadening his interests in the spheres of culture, theology and classical literature. He mastered Greek and enjoyed the company and friendship of important figures of Renaissance culture, including Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam. His sincere religious sentiment led him to pursue virtue through the assiduous practice of asceticism: he cultivated friendly relations with the Observant Franciscans of the Friary at Greenwich, and for a time he lived at the London Charterhouse, these being two of the main centres of religious fervour in the Kingdom. Feeling himself called to marriage, family life and dedication as a layman, in 1505 he married Jane Colt, who bore him four children. Jane died in 1511 and Thomas then married Alice Middleton, a widow with one daughter. Throughout his life he was an affectionate and faithful husband and father, deeply involved in his children’s religious, moral and intellectual education. His house offered a welcome to his children’s spouses and his grandchildren, and was always open to his many young friends in search of the truth or of their own calling in life. Family life also gave him ample opportunity for prayer in common and lectio divina, as well as for happy and wholesome relaxation. Thomas attended daily Mass in the parish church, but the austere penances which he practised were known only to his immediate family. 3. He was elected to Parliament for the first time in 1504 under King Henry VII. The latter’s successor Henry VIII renewed his mandate in 1510, and even made him the Crown’s representative in the capital. This launched him on a prominent career in public administration. During the following decade the King sent him on several diplomatic and commercial missions to Flanders and the territory of present-day France. Having been made a member of the King’s Council, presiding judge of an important tribunal, deputy treasurer and a knight, in 1523 he became Speaker of the House of Commons. Highly esteemed by everyone for his unfailing moral integrity, sharpness of mind, his open and humorous character, and his extraordinary learning, in 1529 at a time of political and economic crisis in the country he was appointed by the King to the post of Lord Chancellor. The first layman to occupy this position, Thomas faced an extremely difficult period, as he sought to serve King and country. In fidelity to his principles, he concentrated on promoting justice and restraining the harmful influence of those who advanced their own interests at the expense of the weak. In 1532, not wishing to support Henry VIII’s intention to take control of the Church in England, he resigned. He withdrew from public life, resigning himself to suffering pover-

Appendix

199

ty with his family and being deserted by many people who, in the moment of trial, proved to be false friends. Given his inflexible firmness in rejecting any compromise with his own conscience, in 1534 the King had him imprisoned in the Tower of London, where he was subjected to various kinds of psychological pressure. Thomas More did not allow himself to waver, and he refused to take the oath requested of him, since this would have involved accepting a political and ecclesiastical arrangement that prepared the way for uncontrolled despotism. At his trial, he made an impassioned defence of his own convictions on the indissolubility of marriage, the respect due to the juridical patrimony of Christian civilization, and the freedom of the Church in her relations with the State. Condemned by the Court, he was beheaded. With the passing of the centuries discrimination against the Church diminished. In 1850 the English Catholic Hierarchy was re-established. This made it possible to initiate the causes of many martyrs. Thomas More, together with fifty-three other martyrs, including Bishop John Fisher, was beatified by Pope Leo XIII in 1886. And with John Fisher, he was canonized by Pius XI in 1935, on the fourth centenary of his martyrdom. 4. There are many reasons for proclaiming Thomas More Patron of statesmen and people in public life. Among these is the need felt by the world of politics and public administration for credible role models able to indicate the path of truth at a time in history when difficult challenges and crucial responsibilities are increasing. Today in fact strongly innovative economic forces are reshaping social structures; on the other hand, scientific achievements in the area of biotechnology underline the need to defend human life at all its different stages, while the promises of a new society—successfully presented to a bewildered public opinion—urgently demand clear political decisions in favour of the family, young people, the elderly, and the marginalized. In this context, it is helpful to turn to the example of Saint Thomas More, who distinguished himself by his constant fidelity to legitimate authority and institutions precisely in his intention to serve not power but the supreme ideal of justice. His life teaches us that government is above all an exercise of virtue. Unwavering in this rigorous moral stance, this English statesman placed his own public activity at the service of the person, especially if that person was weak or poor; he dealt with social controversies with a superb sense of fairness; he was vigorously committed to favouring and defending the family; he supported the all-round education of the young. His profound detachment from honours and wealth, his serene and joyful humility, his balanced knowledge of human nature and of the vanity of success, his certainty of judgement rooted in faith: these all gave him that confident inner strength that sustained him in adversity and in the face of death. His sanctity

200

Appendix

shone forth in his martyrdom, but it had been prepared by an entire life of work devoted to God and neighbour. Referring to similar examples of perfect harmony between faith and action, in my Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation Christifideles Laici I wrote: “The unity of life of the lay faithful is of the greatest importance: indeed they must be sanctified in everyday professional and social life. Therefore, to respond to their vocation, the lay faithful must see their daily activities as an occasion to join themselves to God, fulfil his will, serve other people and lead them to communion with God in Christ” (No. 17). This harmony between the natural and the supernatural is perhaps the element which more than any other defines the personality of this great English statesman: he lived his intense public life with a simple humility marked by good humor, even at the moment of his execution. This was the height to which he was led by his passion for the truth. What enlightened his conscience was the sense that man cannot be sundered from God, nor politics from morality. As I have already had occasion to say, “man is created by God, and therefore human rights have their origin in God, are based upon the design of creation and form part of the plan of redemption. One might even dare to say that the rights of man are also the rights of God” (Speech, 7 April 1998). And it was precisely in defence of the rights of conscience that the example of Thomas More shone brightly. It can be said that he demonstrated in a singular way the value of a moral conscience which is “the witness of God himself, whose voice and judgment penetrate the depths of man’s soul” (Encyclical Letter Veritatis Splendor, 58), even if, in his actions against heretics, he reflected the limits of the culture of his time. In the Constitution Gaudium et Spes, the Second Vatican Council notes how in the world today there is “a growing awareness of the matchless dignity of the human person, who is superior to all else and whose rights and duties are universal and inviolable” (No. 26). The life of Saint Thomas More clearly illustrates a fundamental truth of political ethics. The defence of the Church’s freedom from unwarranted interference by the State is at the same time a defence, in the name of the primacy of conscience, of the individual’s freedom vis-à-vis political power. Here we find the basic principle of every civil order consonant with human nature. 5. I am confident therefore that the proclamation of the outstanding figure of Saint Thomas More as Patron of Statesmen and Politicians will redound to the good of society. It is likewise a gesture fully in keeping with the spirit of the Great Jubilee which carries us into the Third Christian Millennium. Therefore, after due consideration and willingly acceding to the petitions addressed to me, I establish and declare Saint Thomas More the heavenly Patron of Statesmen and Politicians, and I decree that he be ascribed all the

Appendix

201

liturgical honours and privileges which, according to law, belong to the Patrons of categories of people. Blessed and glorified be Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of man, yesterday, today and for ever. Given at Saint Peter’s, on the thirty-first day of October in the year 2000, the twenty-third of my Pontificate. IOANNES PAULUS PP. II

Bibliography

Ackroyd, Peter. The Life of Thomas More. London: Chatto & Windus, 1998. Acocella, Joan. “Tudor Tales.” The New Yorker, October 19, 2009. André, Prevost. Thomas More et la Crise de la Pensée Européenne. Paris: Mason Mame, 1969. “Apostolic Letter Issued Motu Proprio: Proclaiming Saint Thomas More Patron of Statesman and Politicians,” October 31, 2000. http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/motu_ proprio/documents/hf_jp-ii_motu-proprio_20001031_thomas-more_en.html. Aquinas, Thomas. Scriptum Super Libros Sententiarum Magistri Petri Lombardi Episcopi Parisiensis. Vol. 4. Paris: P. Lethielleux, 1947. ———. Summa Theologiae. Lander, WY: Aquinas Institute, 2012. ———. Summa Theologiae. Edited by T. Gilby, OP. London: Blackfriars, 1963. Arieti, James A. Interpreting Plato: The Dialogues as Drama. (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 1991). Aristotle. “Nichomachean Ethics.” In The Basic Works of Aristotle. Edited by Richard McKeon. New York: Random House, 1941. ———. The Politics. Translated by Carnes Lord. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985. Augustine. Confessions. Edited by Michael P. Foley. Translated by F. J. Sheed. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2006. ———. “De Doctrina Christiana.” In Patrologiae Cursus Completus: Series Latina. Edited by Jacques-Paul Migne. Paris, 1844. Avery, Joshua. “‘Irony and Charity Are Met Together:’ A Puzzle in Margaret Roper’s Letter to Alice Alington.” Moreana 46 (2009): 65–75. Baker, David. “First Among Equals: The Utopian Princeps.” Moreana 30, no. 115–16 (December 1993): 33–45. Baker-Smith, Dominic. More’s Utopia. New York: HarperCollins, 1991. Bellamy, John G. The Tudor Law of Treason. London: Routledge Press, 1979. Benedict XVI, Pope. “Address at the Inaugural Session of the Fifth General Conference of the Bishops of Latin America and the Caribbean, May 13, 2007,” http://www.vatican.va. ———. God Is Love: Deus Caritas Est : Encyclical Letter. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2006. ———. In the Beginning: A Catholic Understanding of the Story of Creation and the Fall. Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans, 1995. ———. “Meeting and Celebration of Vespers with the Bishops of Brazil, May 11, 2007,” http:/ /www.vatican.va. ———. Spe Salvi: Saved in Hope: Encyclical Letter of the Supreme Pontiff Benedict XVI. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008.

203

204

Bibliography

Benestad, J. Brian. Church, State, and Society: An Introduction to Catholic Social Doctrine. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011. Bernanos Georges. Diary of a Country Priest. New York: Macmillan, 1970. Bernard, G.W. Anne Boleyn: Fatal Attractions. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010. ———. The King’s Reformation: Henry VIII and the Remaking of the English Church. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007. Bloom, Allan David. The Closing of the American Mind: How Higher Education Has Failed Democracy and Impoverished the Souls of Today’s Students. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987. Bloom, Allan David, and Harry V. Jaffa. Shakespeare’s Politics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981. Bolt, Robert. A Man for All Seasons: A Play in Two Acts. New York: Vintage Books, 1990. Boyle, John F. “Counsel, Comfort, and Conscience in More’s Letter to Fellow Prisoner Nicholas Wilson.” Moreana 46 (2009): 49–64. Burrow, Colin. “How to Twist a Knife.” London Review of Books, April 30, 2009. Buxton, R.G.A., ed. From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Chambers, R. W. Thomas More. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1958. Chesterton, G. K., Ronald Knox, Hilaire Belloc, and R. W. Chambers. The Fame of Blessed Thomas More: Being Addresses Delivered in His Honour in Chelsea, July 1929. London: Sheed & Ward, 1929. Churchill, Winston S. A History of the English Speaking Peoples: Volume Two, the New World. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1956. Cicero. Cicero on the Ideal Orator (De Oratore). Translated by James May and Jakob Wisse. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. ———. De Senectute, De Amicitia, De Divinatione. Translated by William A. Falconer. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979. ———. De Officiis. Translated by Walter Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913. ———. Epistulae Ad Familiares. Translated by W. G. Williams. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958. ———. The Orator. Translated by H. M. Hubbell. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952. ———. Pro Quinctio. Pro Roscio Amerino. Pro Roscio Comoedo. On the Agrarian Law. Translated by J. H. Freese. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1930. ———. The Republic and The Laws. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Clark, Donald Lemen. John Milton at St. Paul’s School: A Study of Ancient Rhetoric in English Renaissance Education. Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1964. Colet, John. Enarratio in Primam Epistolam S. Pauli Ad Corinthios: An Exposition of St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians. London: G. Bell, 1874. ———. Opuscula: Ioannis Coleti Opuscula Quaedam Theologica. Edited by J. H. Lupton. London: George Bell and Sons, 1876. Cuomo, Mario M. “A Personal Appreciation.” In Interpreting Thomas More’s Utopia. Edited by John C. Olin. New York: Fordham University Press, 1989. Curtright, Travis. The One Thomas More. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012. Doran, Susan, and Thomas S. Freeman, eds. Tudors and Stuarts on Film: Historical Perspectives. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Duffy, Eamon. Marking the Hours: English People and Their Prayers 1240–1570. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006. Elton, G. R. Studies in Tudor and Stuart Politics and Government. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. ———. The Tudor Constitution: Documents and Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. ———. “Review of the Yale Confutation.” English Historical Review 89, no. 351 (April 1974): 386.

Bibliography

205

———. “The Evolution of a Reformation Statute.” English Historical Review 64, no. 251 (April 1949): 174–97. Erasmus, Desiderius. The Education of a Christian Prince. Translated by Lisa Jardine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Erasmus, Desiderius, and P. S. Allen. Opus Epistolarum Des Erasmi Roterodami. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Finnis, John. “Faith, Morals and Thomas More.” In Religion and Public Reasons: Collected Essays Volume V. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. Fisher, John. Assertionis Lutheranae Confutatio. Antwerp, 1523. Fox, Alistair. Thomas More: History and Providence. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983. ———. “Thomas More’s Dialogue and the Book of the Tales of Canterbury: ‘Good Mother Wit’ and Creative Imitation.” In Familiar Colloquy: Essays Presented to Arthur Edward Barker. Edited by Patricia Brückmann. Ottawa: Oberon Press, 1978. Gairdner, James, ed. Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Vol 6: 1533. British History Online, 1882. http://www.british-history.ac.uk/source.aspx?pubid=846. Greenblatt, Stephen. “How It Must Have Been.” The New York Review of Books, November 5, 2009. Guy, John. A Daughter’s Love: Thomas and Margaret Roper. London: Fourth Estate, 2008. ———. The Public Career of Sir Thomas More. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980. ———. Thomas More. London: Hodder Education Publishers, 2000. ———. Tudor England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988. Harmon, A. M., trans. Lucian. Volume V. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936. Harpsfield, Nicholas. Life and Death of Sir Thomas Moore. London: Early English Text Society, 1932. ———. Life and Death of Sir Thomas Moore, Knight, Sometymes Lord High Chacellor of England. London: Oxford University Press, 1963. Harpsfield, Nicholas, and William Roper. Lives of Saint Thomas More. Edited by E. E. Reynolds. London: Everyman’s Library, 1963. Headley, John. “More Against Luther: On Laws and the Magistrate.” Moreana 15–16 (November 1967): 211–24. Healy, Patrick. “A King’s Counselor, Whittled to Size.” The New York Times, January 6, 2014. Hillerbrand, Hans J., ed. Erasmus And His Age: Selected Letters Of Desiderius Erasmus. Translated by Marcus A. Haworth. New York: Harper and Row, 1970. Ives, E. W. The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell Pub., 2005. John Paul II, Pope, and André Frossard. Be Not Afraid: André Frossard in Conversation with Pope John Paul II. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984. John Paul II, Pope. “Jubilee of Government Leaders, Members of Parliament and Politicians: Homily,” http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/homilies/2000/documents/hf_jpii_hom_20001105_jubilee-gover_en.html. ———. The Splendor of Truth: Veritatis Splendor: Addressed by the Supreme Pontiff John Paul II to All the Bishops of the Catholic Church Regarding Certain Fundamental Questions of the Church’s Moral Teaching. Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference, 1993. Karlin, Louis W. “Liberated by Conscience.” Library of Law and Liberty, May 12, 2013. http:// www.libertylawsite.org/book-review/liberated-by-conscience/. ———. “Translation as Conversion: Thomas More’s Life of John Picus.” Moreana 47 (June 2010): 64–84. Kaufman, Peter Iver. “Dis-Manteling More.” Moreana 47 (June 2010): 165–80. Kelly, Henry Ansgar. “Thomas More on Inquisitorial Due Process.” English Historical Review CXXIII, no. 503 (August 1, 2008): 847–94. Kelly, Henry Ansgar, Louis W. Karlin, and Gerard Wegemer, eds. Thomas More’s Trial by Jury: A Procedural and Legal Review with a Collection of Documents. Rochester, NY: Boydell Press, 2011. Keynes, Laura. “A Man for Our Season.” Standpoint Magazine, June 2012. http:// standpointmag.co.uk/node/4507.

206

Bibliography

King, Ross. “Review of Wolf Hall: A Novel.” The Los Angeles Times, October 8, 2009. Kinney, Arthur F. Rhetoric and Poetic in Thomas More’s Utopia. Malibu, CA: Undena Publications, 1979. Kołakowski, Leszek. Modernity on Endless Trial. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Lehman, Jeffrey. “Judgment in Thomas More’s Dialogue Concerning Heresies.” Thomas More Studies, Volume 3 (2008). http://www.thomasmorestudies.org/tmstudies/DCH_Lehman. pdf. Lewis, C. S. English Literature in the Sixteenth Century, Excluding Drama. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1954. Lincoln, Abraham. Lincoln: Speeches and Writings 1859–1865. New York: Library of America, 1989. Logan, George. “Utopia and Deliberative Rhetoric.” Moreana 31, no. 118–19 (June 1994): 103–20. Logan, George M. The Cambridge Companion to Thomas More. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. ———. The Meaning of More’s Utopia. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983. Lupton, J. H. A Life of John Colet. London: George Bell and Sons, 1887. Luther, Martin. “Predigten Und Schriften 1523.” In D. Martin Luthers Werke. Vol. 11. Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachf, n.d. ———. “Schriften, Predigten, Disputationen 1519/20.” In D. Martin Luthers Werke. Vol. 6. Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1888. ———. “Schriften, Predigten, Disputationen 1520/21.” In D. Martin Luthers Werke. Vol. 8. Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1888. ———. The Bondage of the Will: A New Translation of De Servo Arbitrio (1525) Martin Luther’s Reply to Erasmus of Rotterdam. Edited by J. I. Packer and O. R. Johnston. Fleming Revell Co., 1957. MacCulloch, Diarmaid. Thomas Cranmer: A Life. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996. Mantel, Hilary. Bring up the Bodies: A Novel. New York: Picador, 2013. ———. Wolf Hall: A Novel. New York: Picador, 2010. Manzoni, Alessandro. The Betrothed. New York: Viking Penguin, 1987. Marc’hadour, Germain. Essential Articles for the Study of Thomas More. Edited by Richard S. Sylvester. Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977. Maritain, Jacques, Joseph William Evans, and Leo R. Ward. “The End of Machiavellianism.” In The Social and Political Philosophy of Jacques Maritain: Selected Readings. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1976. Marius, Richard. Thomas More: A Biography. New York: Vintage Books, 1985. McCutcheon, Elizabeth. “‘The Apple of My Eye:’ Thomas More to Antonio Bonvisi, A Reading and a Translation.” Moreana XVIII, no. 71–72 (November 1981): 37–56. Miller, Clarence H. “Thomas More, a Man for All Seasons: Robert Bolt’s Play and the Elizabethan Play of Sir Thomas More.” Moreana 27 (December 1990): 101–10. Mills, Lauren J. One Soul in Bodies Twain: Friendship in Tudor Literature and Stuart Drama. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1937. More, Thomas. St. Thomas More: Selected Letters. Edited by Elizabeth Frances Rogers. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961. ———. The Correspondence of Sir Thomas More. Edited by Elizabeth Frances Rogers. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947. ———. The Four Last Things; The Supplication of Souls; A Dialogue on Conscience. Translated by Mary Gottschalk. Princeton: Scepter Publishers, 2002. ———. The History of King Richard III and Selections from the English and Latin Poems, Edited by Richard Sylvester. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. ———. The Last Letters of Thomas More. Edited by Alvaro De Silva. Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 2001. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 1: English Poems, Life of Pico, The Last Things. Edited by Anthony S. G. Edwards, Katherine Gardiner Rodgers and Clarence Miller. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997.

Bibliography

207

———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 2: The History of King Richard III. Edited by Richard S. Sylvester. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 3, Part 1: Translations of Lucian. Edited by Craig R. Thompson. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 3, Part 2: The Latin Poems. Edited by Clarence H. Miller, Leicester Bradner, Charles A. Lynch, and Revilo P. Oliver. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984. ———. The Yale Edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 4: Utopia. Edited by J. H. Hexter. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 5: Responsio Ad Lutherum. Edited by John Headley. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969. ———. The Yale Edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 6, Part 1: A Dialogue Concerning Heresies. Edited by Thomas M. C. Lawler, Germain Marc’hadour, and Richard C. Marius. New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1981. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 7: Letter to Bugenhagen, Supplication of Souls, Letter Against Frith. Edited by Frank Manley, Germain Marc’hadour and Richard Marius. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 8, Parts I–III, The Confutation of Tyndale’s Answer. Edited by Louis A. Schuster, Richard C. Marius and James P. Lusardi. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 9: The Apology. Edited by J. B. Trapp. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979. ———. The Yale Edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More Volume 10: The Debellation of Salem and Bizance. Edited by John Guy, Clarence H. Miller, and Ralph Keen. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988. ———. The Yale Edition of The Complete Works of St. Thomas More Volume 11: The Answer to a Poisoned Book. Edited by Clarence H. Miller and Stephen M. Foley. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985. ——–. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 12: A Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation. Edited by Louis L. Martz and Frank Manley. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 13: Treatise on the Passion, Treatise on the Blessed Body, Instructions and Prayers. Edited by Garry E. Haupt. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 14, Part 1: De Tristitia Christi. Edited by Clarence H. Miller. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976. ———. The Yale Edition of the Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Volume 15: In Defense of Humanism: Letters to Dorp, Oxford, Lee, and a Monk. Edited by Daniel Kinney. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986. ———. Utopia. Edited by George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. ———. Utopia. Translated by Clarence Miller. New Haven: Yale UP, 2001. ———. William Edward Campbell, and William Rastell. “The Spirit and Doctrine of the Dialogue.” In The English Works of Sir Thomas More, Vol. 2, edited by A. W. Reed. London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1931. http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001017373. Morgan, Kathryn A. Myth and Philosophy from the Presocratics to Plato. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. O’Sullivan, Richard, ed. The King’s Good Servant: Papers Read to the Thomas More Society of London. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1948. Pieper, Josef. The Four Cardinal Virtues. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1966. ———. The Platonic Myths. South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2011. Pinckaers, Servais, O. P. The Sources of Christian Ethics. Translated by Mary Thomas Noble. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1995. Plato. Phaedrus. Translated by Harold Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914.

208

Bibliography

Plato. Timaeus. Translated by Donald J. Zeyl. Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2000. Plato. Timaeus. Critias. Cleitophon. Menexenus. Epistles. Translated by R. G. Bury. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929. Plato, and Allan David Bloom. The Republic of Plato. New York: Basic Books, 1991. Plato, John M. Cooper, and D. S. Hutchinson. Complete Works. Translated by C. J. Rowe. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub., 1997. Plutarch. Solon. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928. Plutarchus. Lives: Agis. Translated by Bernadotte Perrin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1988. Press, Gerald A., ed. Who Speaks for Plato?: Studies in Platonic Anonymity. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000. Rummel, Erika. The Humanist-Scholastic Debate in the Renaissance & Reformation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Safire, William. “On Language; Out of the Whole Cloth.” The New York Times Magazine, July 19, 1998. Scarisbrick, J. J. Henry VIII. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968. Schall, James V. At the Limits of Political Philosophy: From “Brilliant Errors” to Things of Uncommon Importance. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996. ———. Reason, Revelation, and the Foundations of Political Philosophy. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1987. Seigel, Jerrold E. Rhetoric and Philosophy in Renaissance Humanism: The Union of Eloquence and Wisdom, Petrarch to Valla. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968. Seneca, Lucius Annaeus. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales: Volume III, Books XCIII–CXXIV (English and Latin Edition). Translated by R. M. Gummere. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917. Sertillanges, A. G. The Intellectual Life: Its Spirit, Conditions, Methods. Translated by Mary Ryan. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1998. Shakespeare, William. The Norton Shakespeare. Edited by Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean E. Howard, and Katharine Eisaman Maus. New York: Norton, 2008. Shakespeare, William, G. Blakemore Evans, and J. J. M. Tobin. The Riverside Shakespeare. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997. Shannon, Laurie. Sovereign Amity: Figures of Friendship in Shakespearean Contexts. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Skinner, Quentin. Reason and Rhetoric in the Philosophy of Hobbes. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1997. ———. Visions of Politics, Vol 2, Renaissance Virtues. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Smith, Stephen W. For All Seasons: Selected Letters of Thomas More. New York: Scepter Publishers, 2013. ———. “Friendship and Tyranny in the Writings of Sir Thomas More.” Moreana 50, no. 193–94 (December 2013): 9–39. Spitzer, Robert J. New Proofs for the Existence of God: Contributions of Contemporary Physics and Philosophy. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2010. Stapleton, Thomas. Tres Thomae ; Seu, Res Gestae S.Thomae Apostoli. S.Thomae Archiepiscopi Cantuariensis & Martyris. Thomae Mori Angliae Quondam Cancellarii. Cologne: Lutetiae Parisiorum, 1612. Strauss, Leo. What Is Political Philosophy? And Other Studies. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1959. Suetonius Tranquillus, C. Lives of the Caesars. Translated by John C. Rolfe. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Surtz, Edward L. The Works and Days of John Fisher: An Introduction to the Position of St. John Fisher (1469–1535), Bishop of Rochester, in the English Renaissance and the Reformation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967.

Bibliography

209

Swift, Jonathan. “Concerning That Universal Hatred, Which Prevails against the Clergy.” Jonathan Swift Archive, 259, May 24, 1736. ———. Gulliver’s Travels. Edited by Robert A. Greenberg. New York: W. W. Norton & Co., 1970. ———. The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, Volume 13. Edited by Herbert Davis. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1959. Sylvester, Richard S., and Ian Harris. “Si Hythlodaeo Credimus: Vision and Revision in Thomas More’s Utopia.” In More, vol. 1. Great Political Thinkers Series. Edited by John Dunn. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1997. Tolkien, J. R. R. The Return of the King, Part Three of the Lord of the Rings. New York: Ballantine Books, 1994. ———. The Tolkien Reader. New York: Ballantine Books, 1966. Tyndale, William. An Answere Vnto Sir Thomas Mores Dialoge. Edited by Anne M. O’Donnell and Jared Wicks. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2000. ———. The Obedience of a Christian Man. Edited by Henry Walter. Cambridge: Parker Society, 1848. ———. The Works of the English Reformers: William Tyndale and John Frith, Vol. 1. Edited by Thomas Russell. London: E. Palmer, 1831. Walsham, Alexandra. Charitable Hatred: Tolerance and Intolerance in England 1500–1700. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006. Wegemer, Gerard. Thomas More on Statesmanship. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996. ———. Young Thomas More and the Arts of Liberty. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Wegemer, Gerard, and Stephen W Smith. A Thomas More Source Book. Washington, D. C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2008. Welliver, Warman. Character, Plot and Thought in Plato’s Timaeus-Critias. Leiden, Netherlands: Brill, 1977. White, Thomas I. “Pride and the Public Good: Thomas More’s Use of Plato in Utopia.” Journal of the History of Philosophy 20, no. 4 (October 1982): 329–54. Wilson, N. G. “The Name Hythlodaeus.” In More, vol. 2: Great Political Thinkers Series. Edited by John Dunn and Ian Harris. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 1997.

Index

The Abolition of Man (Lewis), 182 abortion, 86, 89 Acocella, Joan, 165 Act in Restraint of Appeals, 111, 122, 124, 125 Act of Succession, 113, 174 Act of Supremacy, 162, 163, 170, 174, 191 Acts and Monuments (Foxe), 167 Adeimantus, 32 Against Latomus (Luther), 100 Agis IV, King of Sparta, 67 Albert the Great, 99 Alington, Alice, 158, 159, 186 Ambrose, St., 98 anger, 21, 81, 171, 188 anti-clericalism, 122, 124 The Apology of Sir Thomas More, Knight (More), 111, 121–125, 125, 167, 168 Aponix Calumniarum (Morison), 120 Aquinas, St. Thomas, 3, 91, 96–97, 97, 99, 100, 102, 104, 107, 141, 160, 185 Arieti, James, 57 Aristotle, 20, 43, 55, 58, 84, 91, 95, 96, 100, 106, 126, 140, 181, 182, 185, 188, 190 Armed Freedom, 5 asceticism, 198 Assertio septem Sacramentorum (Henry VIII), 118 Athens, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 65, 69 Atlantis, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 69

Augustine, St., 44, 87, 91, 98, 101, 181 Avery, Joshua, 159 Babylonian Captivity (Luther), 105 Bacon, Francis, 91 Bainham, John, 168 Baker, David, 137 Baker-Smith, Dominic, 65 Benedict XVI, Pope, 88, 90, 91, 92, 183 Benestad, J. Brian, 2 Bennet, Elizabeth, 133 Bernanos, George, 86 The Betrothed (Manzoni), 87 Bible, 162 Bloom, Allan, 33n2 Boethius, 181, 186 Boleyn, Anne, 111, 111–114, 115, 119, 126, 149, 173 Bolt, Robert, 3, 4, 17, 143, 155–164, 167, 175, 182, 183–184, 184, 185 Bonaventure, 99 Bondage of the Human Will (Luther), 103 Bonvisi, Anthony, 147 “Book of Fortune” (More), 6 The Book of Sir Thomas More, 133, 143 Borromeo, Federigo, 87 Borromeo, St. Charles, 87 Boyle, John, 160 Brave New World (Huxley), 182 Caesar, 182 211

212

Index

Cambridge Companion to Thomas More, 169 Camus, Albert, 183 capitalism, 91 Carthusians, 170 Catherine, Queen, 111, 112, 114, 121, 122, 126, 189 Catholic Church, Catholicism, 30, 162; authority and, 161, 182; order and, 86; papacy and, 116, 117, 118; reason and, 88; social doctrine and, 2, 85–92 Cato the Younger, 163, 191 Cavendish, George, 114 Chapuys, Eustace, 113, 114, 190 charity, 100, 104, 105 Charles, Prince of Castille, 38, 77 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, 112, 114, 115 Chesterton, G. K., 133, 185, 193 Christ, 42, 84, 89, 91, 95, 96, 100, 103, 148, 181, 183, 186, 189, 193 Christianity, 45, 50, 96 Church. See Catholic Church, Catholicism Church Fathers, 95, 96, 97, 98 Churchill, Winston, 133 Cicero, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 42, 51, 55, 99, 125, 126, 134, 137–139, 140, 146, 148, 181, 186 Clement, John, 78 Clement VII, Pope, 112, 115 clergy, 114, 122, 123, 163, 173 Colet, John, 97, 99 Colt, John, 198 common good, 85, 89, 135, 143, 160, 172 compromise,. See also indirect method 2, 38, 199 Confessions (Augustine), 87 Confutation of Tyndale (More), 111, 115, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 125 conscience, 9, 12, 86, 144, 148, 186; dignity of, 197; education and, 144; formation of, 3; liberty and, 160, 169; statesmanship and, 159; truth and, 158 consent, 2, 11, 134 “The Consent of the People Both Bestows and Withdraws Sovereignty” (More), 11 contraception, 89 Cordelia, 186

corruption, 30, 43, 50 cosmology, 56, 60, 61 counsel, 38–42 courage, 3, 135, 149 Cranmer, Thomas, 112, 114, 121 Critias, 56 Critias (Plato), 2, 55, 56, 56–62, 64, 65, 69 Cromwell, Oliver, 114, 117, 119, 122, 124, 126, 136, 155, 156, 157, 161, 165, 167, 168, 170, 172, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190 Curtis, Cathy, 136 Curtwright, Travis, 82, 143 Dante, 149 De amicitia (Cicero), 146 De libero arbitrio (Erasmus), 103 De Officiis (Cicero), 138, 141 De Republica (Cicero), 134, 137 De Themsecke, Georges, 38, 39 death penalty, 40, 80, 81, 112 Debellation of Salem and Bizance (More), 125 Declamation in Response to Lucian’s The Tyrannicide (More), 2, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, 32, 33 decorum, 125 Defense of the Church (Henry VIII), 119 democracy, 86, 88 Democracy in America (Tocqueville), 88 Demosthenes, 126 Denis the Areopagite, 97 Descartes, Rene, 182 desire, 20–24, 26, 32 Deus caritas esti (Benedict XVI), 88 dialectics, 2, 55, 56, 56–62, 61, 62, 62–69, 63, 66, 70n4, 98, 99 Dialogue concerning Heresies (More), 101, 102, 103, 116, 142, 167 Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation (More), 99, 148, 149 The Dialogue of Conscience (More), 144 The Diary of a Country Priest (Bernanos), 86 “The Difference between a Tyrant and a Leading Citizen [Princeps] (Epigram 109) (More), 8 Dignitatis humanae (Declaration on Religious Freedom) (Vatican Council

Index II), 90 Dionysius, 57 Divine Revelation. See Revelation divorce, 45, 101, 114, 115, 119 Dominicans, 96 Dropides, 57 Duffy, Eamon, 171 Dun Scotus, John, 96, 99 duty, 6, 7, 8, 9 Echecrates, 192 education: conscience and, 144; humanism and, 139; liberal, 3, 51, 139–143; moral corruption in, 80; statesmanship and, 51, 144; virtue and, 144; of women, 11 Egyptians, 45, 102 Elizabeth, Queen, 11 Elton, G. R., 120, 124 Enlightenment, 193 Epicureanism, 42 Epigram 198, 10 Epistuale ad Familiares (Cicero), 138 equity, 3, 10, 95, 104–107 Erasmus, 10, 11, 37, 95, 96, 97, 103, 121, 139, 140, 141, 146, 149, 168, 183 Ethics (Aristotle), 96 euthanasia, 101 Evangelium Vitae (John Paul II), 86 evangelization, 2, 90 Everyman, 12 evil, 86, 104, 105 Exodus, 81 faith, 91; feeling, 119–121; justification by, 103; philosophy and, 100; reason and, 3, 33, 95, 100–102 fame, 22, 25 fideism, 104 Fisher, John, 97, 99, 113, 133, 169, 170, 199 FitzJames, Lord, 170, 171 Fortune, 6 Fowler, H. W., 70n8 Fox, Alistair, 120, 122, 125, 142 Foxe, John, 167 Francis, Pope, 91 Franciscans, 96, 198 freedom. See liberty free speech, 10

213

free will. See will friendship, 3, 7, 9, 24, 91, 136, 146–148, 147, 172, 188 Froben, J., 76, 77 Gaudium et Spes (Vatican Council II), 200 Giles, Peter, 37, 39, 43, 51, 63, 64, 64–65, 66, 67, 75, 76, 77, 79, 89 God, 7, 9, 12, 13, 41, 44, 50, 90, 91, 95, 96, 97, 101, 182 “The Good Leading Citizen [Princeps] Is a Father Not a Master (Epigram 111) (More), 8 good works, 100 Gospels, 183, 187 governing. See leadership grace, 96, 101, 105, 172 Greco-Persian Wars, 62 greed, 21, 25 Greeks, 44 Greenblatt, Stephen, 165 Gregg, Samuel, 3 Gregory of Rimini, 99 gubernator (helmsman), 1 Guy, John, 113, 157, 163, 164, 166, 167, 170, 175 Hall, Edward, 12 happiness, 24, 31, 32, 33, 38, 50, 96, 103, 136 Harris, John, 99 Headley, John, 105, 106 Hegel, Georg Wihelm Friedrich, 182 Helmholz, Richard, 157 Henry V, King, 123, 136 Henry VII, King, 40 Henry VIII, King, 3, 10, 38, 77, 89, 100, 122, 123, 136, 162, 198; Catholic Church and, 172; conscience and, 158, 191; marriage to Anne Boleyn of, 111–114; More’s opposition to, 3, 111–127, 148–149; More’s resistance to, 30; papacy and, 114, 115–118; tyranny and, 18, 30, 133 heresy, 99, 102, 103, 111, 122, 123, 124, 125, 156, 167–168 Heretics (Chesterton), 193 Hermocrates, 58, 60, 72n33 Herodotus, 55

214

Index

heteronomy, 34n41 Hexter, J. M., 76 History of Richard III (More), 10, 174 Hobbes, Thomas, 182 Holloway, Carson, 2 Homer, 140 hope, 100 Houghton, Prior, 170 human nature, 6, 7, 24, 29; liberty and, 5; philosophy and, 46; sin and, 104; tyranny and, 26–28, 28 humanism, humanists, 3, 51, 52, 75, 97–99, 100, 139 humility, 7, 9, 13, 199 humor, 12, 13, 84, 200 Hythlodaeus, Raphael, 38, 39–42, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 55, 56, 62–69, 75–85, 87, 88, 89, 146, 148 indirect method,. See also compromise 2, 85–92 integrity, 3, 13, 145–146, 188–189 The Intellectual Life (Sertillanges), 141 irony, 42, 43, 55, 56, 61, 62, 66, 68, 70n8, 143, 174, 185 Isocrates, 125, 126 Ives, Eric, 113 Jaffa, Harry, 186 Jerome, St., 98, 102 Jesus Christ. See Christ John Paul II, Pope St., 12, 32, 86, 134; promulgation of Thomas More as Patron Saint of Statesmen and Politicians by, 1, 12, 17, 37, 139, 197–201 Judas, 148 judgment, 2, 6, 56, 61, 62, 79 justice, 8, 13, 26, 32, 88, 89, 91, 105, 199; courage and, 3; duty and, 6; equity and, 3, 95; law and, 6, 41; war and, 48 Justin Martyr, 181, 186 Kant, Immanuel, 182 Karlin, Louis, 3, 4 Katharine of Aragon, 115 Kelly, Henry Ansgar, 162, 168 King, Ross, 164 King Henry the Eighth (Shakespeare), 133

Kinney, Arthur, 65 knowledge: of good, 18; leadership and, 1; of truth, 21 Kolakowski, Lezak, 173 law, 4, 8, 9, 13; common, 106; duty and, 6; freedom and, 12; of God, 12; justice and, 6, 41; liberty and, 2, 5–6, 6, 9, 10, 172; religion and, 49; statesmanship and, 186; tyranny and, 6, 24, 27, 29; will and, 6 Law of Nations (ius gentium), 99 Laws (Plato), 55, 69 leadership: knowledge and, 1; liberty and, 2; piloting metaphors for, 1; in Utopia, 1. See also statesmanship leading citizen (princeps), 6, 8, 10, 11, 13, 137–139; friendship and, 146–148; liberal education and, 139–143; philosophy and, 140; prudence and, 148 Lear, King, 186 learning. See virtue Lehman, Jeffrey S., 2 Leo XIII, Pope, 91, 199 Letter to Bugenhagen (More), 102, 103 Letter to Dorp (More), 98 Letter to Oxford University (More), 146 Letter to Ulrich von Hutten (Erasmus), 146 Letter to William Gonell (More), 144, 146 Lewis, C. S., 142, 148 liberty, 8, 11, 13, 89, 100; conscience and, 160, 169; defense of, 9; definition of, 5; duty and, 6, 7; human nature and, 5; individual, 2; law and, 2, 5–6, 6, 9, 10, 12, 172; leadership and, 2; people and, 2; protection of, 2; real vs. imagined, 3; society and, 2; tyranny and, 2, 6, 24–25 Life of More (Roper), 171, 172 The Life of Pico, Earl of Mirandola (More), 141, 146, 174 Lincoln, Abraham, 5 Locke, John, 182 Logan, George, 40 Logan, George M., 75 Lollards, 122 The Lord of the Rings (Tolkein), 86 Los Angeles Times, 164 love, 7, 89, 105, 146, 147 Lucian, 2, 21, 26, 28, 29, 30, 55, 65, 66

Index Luther, Martin, 3, 95, 96, 97, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 120 Lycurgus of Sparta, 48

also More, St. Thomas Moses, 41 Munday, Anthony, 11, 170

Macarians, 43 Macbeth, 145 Machiavelli, Niccoló, 4, 91, 182, 185, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191 Magna Carta, 185 A Man for All Seasons (Bolt), 3, 17, 143; political philosophy and, 181–193; statesmanship and, 155–164 Manichaeism, 87 Mantel, Hilary, 3, 155, 156, 164–172 Manzoni, Alessandro, 87, 88, 90 Maritain, Jacques, 95, 191 Marius, Richard, 107, 120, 166 marriage, 45, 89, 90 Marshall, Peter, 126, 157 martyrdom, 2, 90, 197 Martz, Louis, 167 Marx, Karl, 91 Marxism, 91 Mayor of Bruges, 38 Middleton, Alice, 166, 198 Miller, Clarence, 175 monarchy, 10, 38 monotheism, 48, 50 More, John, 167 More, St. Thomas, 85, 87, 89; as “Christian English Cicero”, 2, 6; execution of, 4, 12, 13, 113, 149, 169, 182, 183, 190, 193, 199, 200; Henry VIII, opposition to of, 111–127, 148–149; heresy prosecutions and, 167–168; impact of, 133–134; imprisonment of, 12, 148, 149, 199; literary depictions of, 3, 155–175; natural law and, 95–107; as Patron Saint of Statesmen and Politicians, 1–4, 12, 13, 17, 37, 139, 197–201; sources of, 2, 3, 55–69; trial of,. See also Morus 4, 12, 113, 148, 149, 162, 169–171, 182, 186, 188, 191, 199 Morison, Richard, 120 Morton, John, 38, 40, 41, 42, 46, 50, 51, 79–80, 81, 82, 198 Morus, 38, 39, 40, 43, 46, 55, 63, 67, 68, 75–76, 77–79, 82, 84, 86, 88, 90. See

natural law, 95, 96, 99, 104–107 New Testament, 181 New Yorker, 165 1984 (Orwell), 182 nominalism, 96, 182 nuclear weapons, 92

215

Oath of Succession, 126, 156, 158, 160, 161 Obedience of a Christian Man (Tyndale), 104 Old Testament, 101 On Duties (Cicero), 7 On Friendship (Cicero), 7 On Leading Citizens, Good and Bad (Epigram 115) (More), 8 On the Good King and his People (Epigram 112) (More), 7 “On Two Beggars, One Lame, One Blind” (More), 6–7 Osiander, Andreas, 121 papacy, 105, 115–118, 122, 126, 127, 162, 182 Paradise, 91 Parnell, John, 169, 170 Paul, St., 90, 97, 100, 101 Pelagianism, 104 Peloponnesian War, 62 people, 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 perfectionism, 42 Persians, 62 Peter, St., 117, 182 Petrarch, 174 Phaedo (Plato), 187, 192 philosophy, 48, 100; Catholic, 3; civil, 3, 52; civil order and, 4, 181; faith and, 100; human nature and, 46; leading citizen (princeps) and, 140; political, 2, 4, 52, 84; statesmanship and, 41–42, 43–44; theology and, 2, 52; truth and, 102 physician-assisted suicide, 89 Pico della Mirandola, 146 piety, 31–33

216

Index

Pinckaers, Servais, 96 Pius XI, Pope, 13, 199 Plato, 2, 3, 7, 20, 21, 22, 23, 32, 38, 39, 42, 43, 44, 51, 56, 57, 59, 61, 62, 63, 65, 67, 69, 78, 83, 84, 91, 106, 134–136, 138, 140, 181, 182, 183, 185 Plutarch, 10, 55, 141 political philosophy, 2, 4, 52, 84; A Man for All Seasons (Bolt) and, 181–193; politics and, 4 politicians: indirect method and, 85–92; literary statesmanship and, 2 politics, 43; compromise and, 2; corruption and, 30; political philosophy and, 4; success in, 3, 156; virtue and, 3, 156 Politics (Aristotle), 20 politikos, 3 The Practice of Prelates (Tyndale), 119 Prévost, André, 98 pride, 22, 70n7, 85, 89 princeps, 3, 6 private property, 43, 44, 84, 85, 89, 91 Protestantism, Protestants, 96, 102 prudence, 2, 11, 30, 41, 55, 56, 61, 62, 69, 76, 77, 79, 82, 87, 89, 148 Psalms, 77, 172 public square, 2, 75 Quintilian, 125 Rastell, William, 113, 115, 119, 121 reason, 8, 13, 21, 26, 142; Church and, 88; civilizing potential of right, 3; faith and, 33, 95, 100–102; right, 3; truth and, 99, 101; tyranny and, 29; will and, 95, 96, 102–104 redemption, 91 Reformation, 95, 97 relativism, 83 religion, 3, 4, 19, 44, 48, 49–50, 75, 121, 175, 181 religious toleration, 49–50 Renaissance, 10, 95, 97, 99, 106 Republic (Plato), 2, 20, 21, 23, 32, 43, 44, 55, 57, 58, 63, 67, 69, 143, 187 responsibility, 5, 11, 38, 41 Responsio ad Lutheram (More), 104 Revelation, 95, 97, 101, 102 Rex, Richard, 123, 169, 175

Rich, Richard, 159, 162, 163, 170, 171, 187, 190, 192 Richard III, King, 19 Roman Republic, 2, 5 Romans, 10, 39, 45 Roper, Margaret, 158, 159, 166, 186, 187, 188 Roper, William, 99, 136, 172 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 182 Rowe, Christopher, 70n8 sacraments, 45, 96 The Sadness of Christ (More), 148, 149 Sallust, 140 salvation, 100, 103, 104 Satan, 103 Scarisbrick, J. J., 125 Schall, James V., 4 scholasticism, scholastics, 3, 41, 52, 75, 83, 95–102, 97–99, 98, 100, 102, 106 Schuster, Louis A,, 120 Scipio Africanus, 137 Scriptures, 9, 95, 96, 97, 98, 101, 105 Second Vatican Council, 90, 197, 200 self-determination, 5 self-government, 5, 10, 11, 12 Seneca, 55, 140, 141, 181, 186 Sertillanges, A. G., 141, 143 sexual morality, 120–121 Shakespeare, William, 11, 114, 133, 142, 145, 170 sin, 101, 103, 104 Sirach, 9 Sir Thomas More, 11, 170 skepticism, 99 Skinner, Quentin, 137 slavery, 5, 6, 10, 45 sloth, 85 Smith, Stephen W., 3 Socrates, 6, 43, 44, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 70n11, 159, 163, 181, 183, 185, 186, 187, 193 solafideism, 100, 103, 107 Solon of Athens, 48, 57, 59 sophism, sophists, 60, 100 Southwell, Sir Richard, 171 Spartans, 59 Spe salvi (Benedict XVI), 91 spiritedness, 21, 22–23, 26, 28, 40

Index Stapleton, Thomas, 99 The Statesman (Plato), 1, 134–136 statesmanship: anti-, 42–46; attributes of, 3; Cicero and, 137–139; conscience and, 159; Critias (Plato) and, 56–62; definition of, 3, 37, 134; dialectics and, 56; education and, 51, 144; friendship and, 172; good and, 55; indirect method and, 85–92; law and, 186; literary, 2, 50–51; A Man for All Seasons (Bolt) and, 155–164; peace-making and, 137; philosophy and, 41–42, 43–44, 101; piety and, 31–33; Plato and, 134–136, 138; practice of, 3; prudence and, 55; reason and, 101; raditional, 38–42, 51, 52; truth and, 55; tyranny and, 17–33; in Utopia (More), 2, 37–52, 46–50, 62–69; virtue and, 172; wisdom and, 68; Wolf Hall: A Novel (Mantel) and, 155, 156, 164–172 St. German, Christopher, 111, 121–122, 123, 125, 162, 168 Stoicism, 42 Stoner, James R., Jr., 1, 2 Submission of the Clergy, 173 Summa Theologiae (Aquinas), 96, 99, 160 Supplication of Souls (More), 123 Swift, Jonathan, 133, 163 Sylvester, R. S., 64 Tacitus, 55, 140 Tempier, Étienne, 96 term limits, 10 terrorism, 92 theology, 2, 52, 96, 97, 98 thievery, 40, 80, 81 Thomas Aquinas, St.. See Aquinas, St. Thomas Thomas More on Statesmanship (Wegemer), 75 Thrasymachus, 182 Tiberius, 112 Timaeus (Plato), 2, 55, 56, 57, 59, 69 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 88 Tolkien, J. R. R., 34n38, 86 Tower of London, 147, 148, 158, 183, 199 Treasons Act, 170 A Treatise Concerning the Division between the Spirituality and

217

Temporality (St. German), 122 truth, 5, 13, 69, 90; conscience and, 158; knowledge of, 21; philosophy and, 102; reason and, 99, 101; statesmanship and, 55 Tunstall, Cuthbert, 38, 77 Tyndale, William, 100, 103, 104, 111, 115–117, 119 The Tyrannicide (Lucian), 18–33 tyranny, 6, 47, 100; dealing with, 2, 18, 19, 28–30; desire and, 20–24, 32; Henry VIII, King and, 18; human nature and, 26–28, 28; law and, 6, 24, 27, 29; liberty and, 2, 6, 24–25; nature and origins of, 20–25; reason and, 29; spiritedness and, 22–23, 26, 28; statesmanship and, 18, 29–33 Ulysses, 39, 78 United States, 5, 87 Utopia (More), 4, 9, 101, 139, 141, 142, 148, 174; Catholic social doctrine and, 85–92; dialectics and, 2, 55, 62–69; leadership and, 1; prudential judgment and, 62–69; sources for, 2, 55–69; statesmanship and, 2, 30, 37–52, 62–69; tyranny and, 19 Vatican Council II, 90, 197, 200 Vergil, 140 Vespucci, Amerigo, 39, 64, 67, 78, 84 virtue, 2, 6; education and, 144; friendship and, 147; political philosophy, 69; politics and, 3, 156; statesmanship and, 172 war, 48, 50, 68 Wegemer, Gerard, 2, 39, 42, 70n8, 75, 101, 137, 138, 156, 164, 170 will: character of, 3, 95; of God, 96; law and, 6; reason and, 95, 96, 102–104 William of Ockham, 96 William of Paris, 99 Wilson, Nicholas, 160, 161 wisdom, 6, 9, 11, 68, 79, 102, 125 wit, 11, 142, 148 Wolf Hall: A Novel (Mantel), 3, 155, 156, 164–172

218 The Works of Sir Thomas More (Rastell), 115

Index Xantippe, 186, 187 Zeyl, Donald, 57

About the Contributors

J. Brian Benestad received a PhD from Boston College in Boston, MA, an STL from the Gregorian University in Rome, Italy, and BA from Assumption College in Worcester, MA. His teaching and research interests include basic moral theology, bioethics, Catholic social thought, St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Thomas More, the Italian novelist Alessandro Manzoni, and the writings of Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI) and Avery Dulles. He has authored over sixty-five articles for various journals and magazines, written numerous book reviews, and edited four books. His most recent book is Church, State, and Society: An Introduction to Catholic Social Doctrine, published by Catholic University of America Press in February of 2011. Professor Benestad enjoys cycling, studying languages, spending time on Cape Cod, and visiting his four children and four grandchildren. Travis Curtright, PhD, is a research fellow of the Center for Thomas More Studies and associate professor of humanities and literature at Ave Maria University, where he directs The Humanities and Liberal Studies Program and the productions of Shakespeare in Performance. He is author of The One Thomas More (2012), numerous articles and reviews on the English Renaissance, and is co-editor of Shakespeare's Last Plays: Readings in Literature and Politics with Stephen W. Smith. Samuel Gregg is director of research at the Acton Institute. He has written and spoken extensively on questions of natural law theory, political economy, and ethics in finance and on the thought of St. Thomas More. He has an MA in political philosophy from the University of Melbourne, and a Doctor of Philosophy degree in moral philosophy and political economy from the University of Oxford. He is the author of many books, including On Ordered Liberty (2003), his prize-winning The Commercial Society (2007), The Modern Papacy (2009), and Wilhelm Röpke’s Political Economy (2010), and 219

220

About the Contributors

Becoming Europe (2013), as well as monographs such as A Theory of Corruption (2004), and Banking, Justice, and the Common Good (2005). He has also co-edited books such as Christian Theology and Market Economics (2008), Profit, Prudence and Virtue: Essays in Ethics, Business and Management (2009), Natural Law, Economics and the Common Good (2012). In 2001, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, and a Member of the Mont Pèlerin Society in 2004. In 2008, he was elected a member of the Philadelphia Society, and a member of the Royal Economic Society. Carson Holloway is associate professor of political science at the University of Nebraska at Omaha, where he teaches political philosophy and American constitutional law. In 2005–2006 he was a visiting fellow in Princeton University’s James Madison Program in American Ideals and Institutions. He is the author of The Way of Life: John Paul II and the Challenge of Liberal Modernity, The Right Darwin? Evolution, Religion, and the Future of Democracy, and All Shook Up: Music, Passion, and Politics, and the editor of a collection of essays titled Magnanimity and Statesmanship. His articles have appeared in the Review of Politics, Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy, Perspectives on Political Science, and First Things. He received his PhD in political science from Northern Illinois University in 1998. Louis W. Karlin is a fellow of the Center for Thomas More Studies, and co-editor of Thomas More’s Trial by Jury. Jeffrey S. Lehman holds a PhD in philosophy from the Institute of Philosophic Studies at the University of Dallas. In addition to serving on the board of the Institute for Catholic Liberal Education and as a moderator for the Fides et Ratio Seminars of the Faith and Reason Institute, he is a founding fellow of the Center for Thomas More Studies and executive director of the Arts of Liberty Project (http://www.artsofliberty.org), an initiative to provide resources for teachers and students of the liberal arts and liberal education. Lehman has published on several authors including Plato, Aristotle, Virgil, Augustine, Boethius, and Thomas More. He has taught at the Torrey Honors Institute of Biola University and at Thomas Aquinas College; he currently teaches at Hillsdale College in Michigan. James V. Schall, S.J., taught political science at Georgetown University and is author or editor of over twenty-five books. His most recent is Political Philosophy and Revelation: A Catholic Reading, which was published by Catholic University of America Press in 2013. Stephen W. Smith is Dean of Faculty and Temple Family Chair of English Literature at Hillsdale College, and research fellow at the Center for Thomas More Studies. He recently published For All Seasons: The Selected Letters of Sir Thomas More. He is co-editor of A Thomas More Source Book (third printing, 2013) with Gerard Wegemer and co-editor of Shakespeare’s

About the Contributors

221

Last Plays: Readings in Literature and Politics with Travis Curtright. He has published essays and reviews in a number of periodicals. James R. Stoner, Jr., is professor of political science at Louisiana State University. He is the author of Common-Law Liberty: Rethinking American Constitutionalism (Kansas, 2003) and Common Law and Liberal Theory: Coke, Hobbes, and the Origins of American Constitutionalism (Kansas, 1992), as well as a number of articles and essays. A Senior Fellow of the Witherspoon Institute, he has co-edited two books Witherspoon published, The Social Costs of Pornography: A Collection of Papers (with Donna M. Hughes, 2010), and Rethinking Business Management: Examining the Foundations of Business Education (with Samuel Gregg, 2007). Stoner served on the National Council on the Humanities from 2002 to 2006, chaired his department at LSU from 2007–2013, and served as acting dean of the LSU Honors College in Fall, 2010. In 2013–2014 he was Garwood visiting professor and fellow in the James Madison Program at Princeton University. He earned his PhD at Harvard University. Gerard B. Wegemer is professor of English and director of the Center for Thomas More Studies at the University of Dallas, and author of Thomas More: A Portrait of Courage (1995), Thomas More on Statesmanship (1996), Young Thomas More and the Arts of Liberty (2011), and co-editor of A Thomas More Source Book (2004).