nd said that whatever John
Frith believed _he_ believed, were burnt in Smithfield--to show what a
capital Christian the King was.

But, these were speedily followed by two much greater victims, Sir Thomas
More, and John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester. The latter, who was a
good and amiable old man, had committed no greater offence than believing
in Elizabeth Barton, called the Maid of Kent--another of those ridiculous
women who pretended to be inspired, and to make all sorts of heavenly
revelations, though they indeed uttered nothing but evil nonsense. For
this offence--as it was pretended, but really for denying the King to be
the supreme Head of the Church--he got into trouble, and was put in
prison; but, even then, he might have been suffered to die naturally
(short work having been made of executing the Kentish Maid and her
principal followers), but that the Pope, to spite the King, resolved to
make him a cardinal. Upon that the King made a ferocious joke to the
effect that the Pope might send Fisher a red hat--which is the way they
make a cardinal--but he should have no head on which to wear it; and he
was tried with all unfairness and injustice, and sentenced to death. He
died like a noble and virtuous old man, and left a worthy name behind
him. The King supposed, I dare say, that Sir Thomas More would be
frightened by this example; but, as he was not to be easily terrified,
and, thoroughly believing in the Pope, had made up his mind that the King
was not the rightful Head of the Church, he positively refused to say
that he was. For this crime he too was tried and sentenced, after having
been in prison a whole year. When he was doomed to death, and came away
from his trial with the edge of the executioner's axe turned towards
him--as was always done in those times when a state prisoner came to that
hopeless pass--he bore it quite serenely, and gave his blessing to his
son, who pressed through the crowd in Westminster Hall and kneeled down
to receive it. But, when he got to the Tower Wharf on his way back to
his prison, and his favourite daughter, MARGARET ROPER, a very good
woman, rushed through the guards again and again, to kiss him and to weep
upon his neck, he was overcome at last. He soon recovered, and never
more showed any feeling but cheerfulness and courage. When he was going
up the steps of the scaffold to his death, he said jokingly to the
Lieutenant of the Tower, observing that they were weak