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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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