Thomas More - Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation

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But now are we come, uncle, with much work at last unto the last
and uttermost point of the dread that maketh this incursion of this
midday devil--this open invasion of the Turk and his persecution
against the faith--seem so terrible unto men's minds. Although the
respect of God vanquish all the rest of the trouble that we have
hitherto perused (as loss of goods, lands, and liberty), yet, when
we remember the terror of shameful and painful death, that point
suddenly putteth us in oblivion of all that should be our comfort.
And we feel (all men, I fear me, for the most part) the fervour of
our faith wax so cold and our hearts so faint that we find
ourselves at the point of falling even for fear.

ANTHONY: I deny not, cousin, that indeed in this point is the sore
pinch. And yet you see, for all this, that even this point too
taketh increase or diminishment of dread according to the
difference of the affections that are beforehand fixed and rooted
in the mind--so much so, that you may see a man set so much by his
worldly substance that he feareth less the loss of his life than
the loss of lands. Yea, you may see a man abide deadly torment,
such as some other man had rather die than endure, rather than to
bring out the money that he hath hid. And I doubt not but that you
have heard by right authentic stories of many men who (some for one
cause, some for another) have not hesitated willingly to suffer
death, divers in divers kinds, and some both with despiteful rebuke
and painful torment too. And therefore, as I say, we may see that
the affection of the mind toward the increase or decrease of dread
maketh much of the matter.

Now the affections of men's minds are imprinted by divers means.
One way is by means of the bodily senses, moved by such things,
pleasant or unpleasant, as are outwardly offered unto them through
sensible worldly things. And this manner of receiving the
impression of affections is common unto men and beasts. Another
manner of receiving affections is by means of reason, which both
ordinately tempereth those affections that the five bodily senses
imprint, and also disposeth a man many times to some spiritual
virtues very contrary to those affections that are fleshly and
sensual. And those reasonable dispositions are spiritual
affections, and proper to the nature of man, and above the nature
of beasts. Now, as our ghostly enemy the devil enforceth himself to
make us lean to the sensual affections and beastly, so doth
almighty God of his goodness by his Holy Spirit inspire us good
motions, with the aid and help of his grace, toward the other
spiritual affections. And by sundry means he instructeth our reason
to lean to them, and not only to receive them as engendered and
planted in our soul, but also in such wise to water them with the
wise advertisement of godly counsel and continual prayer, that they
may become habitually radicated and surely take deep root therein.
And according as the one kind of affection or the other beareth the
strength in our heart, so are we stronger or feebler against the
terror of death in this cause.

And therefore, cousin, will we essay to consider what things there
are for which we have cause in reason to master the fearful
affection and sensual. And though we cannot clean avoid it and put
it away, yet will we essay in such wise to bridle it at least that
it run not out so far like a headstrong horse that, in spite of our
teeth, it carry us out unto the devil.

Let us therefore now consider and well weigh this thing that we
dread so sore--that is, shameful and painful death.

XXII

And first I perceive well by these two things that you join unto
"death"--that is, "shameful" and "painful"--that you would esteem
death so much the less if it should come along without either shame
or pain.

VINCENT: Without doubt, uncle, a great deal the less. But yet,
though it should come without them both, by itself, I know well
many a man would be for all that very loth to die.

ANTHONY: That I believe well, cousin, and the more pity it is. For
that affection happeth in very few without the cause being either
lack of faith, lack of hope, or finally lack of wit.

Those who believe not the life to come after this, and think
themselves here in wealth, are loth to leave this life, for then
they think they lose all. And thence come the manifold foolish
unfaithful words which are so rife in our many mouths: "This world
we know, and the other we know not." And some say in sport (and
think in earnest), "The devil is not so black as he is painted,"
and "Let him be as black as he will, he is no blacker than a crow!"
with many such other foolish fancies of the same sort.

There are some who believe well enough but who, through lewdness of
living, fall out of good hope of salvation. And then I very little
marvel that they are loth to die. Howbeit, some who purpose to mend
and would fain have some time left them longer to bestow somewhat
better, may peradventure be loth to die also forthwith. And albeit
that a very good will gladly to die and to be with God would be, to
my mind, so thankful that it would be well able to purchase as full
remission both of sin and pain as peradventure he would be like to
purchase, if he lived, in many years' penance, yet will I not say
but what such a kind of lothness to die may be approvable before
God.

There are some also who are loth to die, who are yet very glad to
die and long for to be dead.

VINCENT: That would be, uncle, a very strange case!

ANTHONY: The case, I fear me, cousin, falleth not very often. But
yet sometimes it doth, as where there is any man of that good mind
that St. Paul was. For the longing that he had to be with God, he
would fain have been dead, but for the profit of other folk he was
content to live here in pain, and defer and forbear for the while
his inestimable bliss in heaven: _"Desiderium habens dissolvi et
esse cum Christo, multo magis melius, permanere autem in carne,
necessarium propter vos."_

But of all these kinds of folk, cousin, who are loth to die (except
for the first kind only, who lack faith), there is I suppose none
who would hesitate, for the bare respect of death alone, unless the
fear of shame or sharp pain joined unto death should be the
hindrance, to depart hence with good will in this case of the
faith. For he would well know by his faith that his death, taken
for the faith, should cleanse him clean of all his sins and send
him straight to heaven. And some of these (namely the last kind)
are such that shame and pain both joined unto death would be
unlikely to make them loathe death or fear death so sore but what
they would suffer death in this case with good will, since they
know well that the refusing of the faith, for any cause in this
world (seemed the cause never so good), should yet sever them from
God, with whom, save for other folk's profit, they so fain would
be. And charity it cannot be, for the profit of the whole world,
deadly to displease him who made it.

Some are these, I say also, who are loth to die for lack of wit.
Albeit that they believe in the world that is to come and hope also
to come thither, yet they love so much the wealth of this world and
such things as delight them therein, that they would fain keep them
as long as ever they can, even with tooth and nail. And when they
can be suffered in no wise to keep it longer, but death taketh them
from it, then, if it can be no better, they will agree to be, as
soon as they be hence, hauled up into heaven and be with God
forthwith! These folk as as very idiot fools as he who had kept
from his childhood a bag full of cherry stones, and cast such a
fancy to it that he would not go from it for a bigger bag filled
with gold.

These folk fare, cousin, as AEsop telleth in a fable that the snail
did. For when Jupiter (whom the poets feign for the great god)
invited all the poor worms of the earth unto a great solemn feast
that it pleased him upon a time--I have forgotten upon what
occasion--to prepare for them, the snail kept her at home and would
not come. And when Jupiter asked her afterward wherefore she came
not to his feast, where he said she would have been welcome and
have fared well, and would have seen a goodly palace and been
delighted with many goodly pleasures, she answered him that she
loved no place so well as her own house. With this answer Jupiter
waxed so angry that he said, since she loved her house so well, she
should never after go from home, but should always afterward bear
her house upon her back wheresoever she went. And so hath she ever
done since, as they say. And at least I know well she doth so now
and hath done so as long as I can remember.

VINCENT: Forsooth, uncle, I should think the tale were not all
feigned, for I think verily that so much of your tale is true!

ANTHONY: AEsop meant by that feigned fable to touch the folly of
such folk as so set their fancy upon some small simple pleasure
that they cannot find it in their heart to forbear it, either for
the pleasure of a better man or for the gaining of a better thing.
For by this foolish froward fashion they sometimes fall in great
disgrace and take by it no little harm.

And surely such Christian folk as, by their foolish affection,
which they have set like the snail upon their own house here on
earth, cannot, for the lothness of leaving that house, find it in
their hearts to go with good will to the great feast that God
prepareth in heaven and of his goodness so graciously calleth them
to--they are, I fear me, unless they mend that mind in time, like
to be served as the snail was, and yet much worse too. For they are
like to have their house here, the earth, bound fast on their backs
for ever, and not to walk with it where they will, as the snail
creepeth about with hers, but to lie fast bound in the midst of it
with the foul fire of hell about them. For into this folly they
bring themselves by their own fault, as the drunken man bringeth
himself into drunkenness, whereby the evil that he doth in his
drunkenness is not forgiven him for his folly, but to his pain is
imputed to his fault.

VINCENT: Surely, uncle, this seemeth not unlikely, and by their
fault they fall in such folly indeed. And yet, if this be folly
indeed, then are some folk fools who think themselves right wise.

ANTHONY: Who think themselves wise? Marry, I never saw a fool yet
who thought himself other than wise! For as it is one spark of
soberness left in a drunken head when he perceiveth himself to be
drunk and getteth himself fair to bed, so if a fool perceive
himself a fool that point is no folly but a little spark of wit.

But now, cousin, as for these kind of fools, who are loth to die
for the love that they bear to their worldly fancies which they
would, by their death, leave behind them and forsake: Those who
would for that cause rather forsake the faith than die, would
rather forsake it than lose their worldly goods, though there were
no peril of death offered them at all. And then, as touching those
who are of that mind, we have, you know, said as much as you
yourself thought sufficient this afternoon here before.

VINCENT: Verily, uncle, that is very true. And now have you
rehearsed, as far as I can remember, all the other kinds of them
that would be loth to die for any other respect than the grievous
qualities of shame and pain joined unto death. And of all these
kinds, except the kind of infidelity--when no comfort can help, but
only counsel to the attaining of faith, for faith must be
presupposed to the receiving of comfort and had ready before, as
you showed in the beginning of our communication the first day that
we talked of the matter. But else, I say, except that one kind,
there is none of the rest of those that were before untouched who
would be likely to forsake their faith in this persecution for the
fear and dread of death, save for those grievous qualities--pain, I
mean, and shame--that they see well would come with it.

And therefore, uncle, I pray you, give us some comfort against
those twain. For in good faith, if death should come without them,
in such a case at this is, in which by the losing of this life we
should find a far better, mine own reason giveth me that, save for
the other griefs going before the change, no man who hath wit would
anything stick at all.

ANTHONY: Yes, peradventure suddenly they would, before they gather
their wits unto them and well weigh the matter. But, cousin, those
who will consider the matter well, reason, grounded upon the
foundation of faith, shall show they very great substantial causes
for which the dread of those grievous qualities that they see shall
come with death--shame, I mean, and pain also--shall not so sore
abash them as sinfully to drive them to that point. And for the
proof thereof, let us first begin at the consideration of the shame.

XXIII

How can any faithful wise man dread death so sore, for any respect
of shame, when his reason and his faith together can shortly make
him perceive that there is no true shame in it at all? For how can
that death be shameful that is glorious? Or how can it be anything
but glorious to die for the faith of Christ, if we die both for the
faith and in the faith, joined with hope and charity? For the
scripture plainly saith, "Precious in the sight of God is the death
of his saints." Now if the death of his saints be glorious in the
sight of God, it can never be shameful in very deed, however
shameful it seem here in the sight of men. For here we may see and
be sure that not only at the death of St. Stephen, to whom it
pleased him to show himself with the heaven open over his head, but
at the death also of every may who so dieth for the faith, God with
his heavenly company beholdeth his whole passion and verily looketh
on.

Now if it were so, cousin, that you should be brought through the
broad high-street of a great long city; and if, all along the way
that you were going, there were on one side of the way a rabble of
ragged beggars and madmen, who would despise and dispraise you with
all the shameful names that they could call you and all the
villainous words that they could say to you; and if there were
then, all along the other side of the same street where you should
come by, a goodly company standing in a fair range, a row of wise
and worshipful folk, lauding and commending you, more than fifteen
times as many as that rabble of ragged beggars and railing
madmen--would you willingly turn back, thinking that you went unto
your shame, for the shameful jesting and railing of those mad
foolish wretches? Or would you hold on your way with a good cheer
and a glad heart, thinking yourself much honoured by the laud and
approbation of that other honourable company?

VINCENT: Nay, by my troth, uncle, there is no doubt but that I
would much regard the commendation of those commendable folk, and
regard not a rush the railing of all those ribalds.

ANTHONY: Then, cousin, no man who hath faith can account himself
shamed here, by any manner of death that he suffereth for the faith
of Christ. For however vile and shameful it seem in the sight here
of a few worldly wretches, it is lauded and approved for very
precious and honourable in the sight of God and all the glorious
company of heaven, who as perfectly stand and behold it as those
foolish people do. And they are in number more than a hundred to
one; and of that hundred, every one a hundred times more to be
regarded and esteemed than a hundred such whole rabbles of the
other.

And now, if a man would be so mad as to be ashamed, for fear of the
rebuke that he should have of such rebukeful beasts, to confess the
faith of Christ, then, with fleeing from a shadow of shame, he
would fall into a true shame--and a deadly painful shame indeed!
For then hath our Saviour made a sure promise that he will show
himself ashamed of that man before the Father of heaven and all his
holy angels, saying in the ninth chapter of Luke, "He who is
ashamed of me and my words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed
when he shall come in the majesty of himself and of his Father and
of his holy angels." And what manner of shameful shame shall that
be, then? If a man's cheeks glow sometimes for shame in this world,
they will fall on fire for shame when Christ shall show himself
ashamed of them there!

The blessed apostles reckoned it for great glory to suffer for
Christ's faith the thing that we worldly wretched fools think to be
villainy and shame. For they, when they were scourged, with despite
and shame, and thereupon commanded to speak no more of the name of
Christ, "went their way from the council joyful and glad that God
had vouchsafed to do them the worship to suffer shameful despite
for the name of Jesus." And so proud were they of the shame and
villainous pain put unto them, that for all the forbidding of that
great council assembled, they ceased not every day to preach out
the name of Jesus still--not only in the temple, out of which they
were set and whipped for the same before, but also, to double it
with, they went preaching the name about from house to house, too.

Since we regard so greatly the estimation of worldly folk, I wish
that we would, among the many wicked things that they do, regard
also some such as are good. For it is a manner among them, in many
places, that some by handicraft, some by merchandise, some by other
kinds of living, arise and come forward in the world. And commonly
folk are in their youth set forth to suitable masters, under whom
they are brought up and grow. But now, whensoever they find a
servant such that he disdaineth to do such things as his master did
while he was himself a servant, that servant every man accounteth
for a proud unthrift, never like to come to good proof. Let us, lo,
mark and consider this, and weigh it well withal: Our master Christ
(who is not only the master, but the maker too, of all this whole
world) was not so proud as to disdain for our sakes the most
villainous and most shameful death, after the worldly count, that
then was used in the world. And he endured the most despiteful
mocking therewith, joined to the most grievous pain, as crowning
him with sharp thorn, so that the blood ran down about his face.
Then they gave him a reed in his hand for a sceptre, and kneeled
down to him and saluted him like a king in scorn, and beat then the
reed upon the sharp thorns about his holy head. Now our Saviour
saith that the disciple or servant is not above his master. And
therefore, since our master endured so many kinds of painful shame,
very proud beasts may we well think ourselves if we disdain to do
as our master did. And whereas he through shame ascended into
glory, we would be so mad that we would rather fall into
everlasting shame, both before heaven and hell, than for fear of a
short worldly shame to follow him to everlasting glory.

XXIV

VINCENT: In good faith, uncle, as for the shame, you shall need to
take no more pains. For I suppose surely that any man who hath
reason in his head shall hold himself satisfied with this.

But, of truth, uncle, all the pinch is in the pain. For as for
shame, I perceive well now that a man may with wisdom so master it
that it shall nothing move him at all--so much so that it is become
a common proverb in almost every country that "shame is as it is
taken." But, by God, uncle, all the wisdom in this world can never
so master pain but that pain will be painful, in spite of all the
wit in this world!

ANTHONY: Truth it is, cousin, that no man can, with all the reason
he hath, in such wise change the nature of pain that in the having
of pain he feel it not. For unless it be felt, perdy, it is no
pain. And that is the natural cause, cousin, for which a man may
have his leg stricken off at the knee and it grieve him not--if his
head be off but half an hour before!

But reason may make a reasonable man not to shrink from it and
refuse it to his more hurt and harm. Though he would not be so
foolish as to fall into it without cause, yet upon good
causes--either of gaining some kind of great profit or avoiding
some kind of great loss, or eschewing thereby the suffering of far
greater pain--he would be content and glad to sustain it for his
far greater advantage and commodity.

And this doth reason alone in many cases, where it hath much less
help to take hold of than it hath in this matter of faith. For you
know well that to take a sour and bitter potion is great grief and
displeasure, and to be lanced and have the flesh cut is no little
pain. Now, when such things are to be ministered either to a child
or to some childish man, they will by their own wills let their
sickness and their sore grow, unto their more grief, till it become
incurable, rather than abide the pain of the curing in time. And
that for faint heart, joined with lack of discretion. But a man who
hath more wisdom, though without cause he would no more abide the
pain willingly than would the other, yet, since reason showeth him
what good he shall have by the suffering, and what harm by refusing
it, this maketh him well content and glad also to take it.

Now then, if reason alone be sufficient to move a man to take pain
for the gaining of worldly rest or pleasure and for the avoiding of
another pain (though the pain he take be peradventure more, yet to
be endured but for a short season), why should not reason, grounded
upon the sure foundation of faith, and helped toward also with the
aid of God's grace--as it ever is, undoubtedly, when folk for a
good mind in God's name come together, our Saviour saying himself,
"Where there are two or three are gathered together in my name,
there am I also even in the very midst of them." Why should not
then reason, I say, thus furthered with faith and grace, be much
more able first to engender in us such an affection, and afterward,
by long and deep meditation thereof, so to continue that affection
that it shall turn into a habitual purpose, fast-rooted and deep,
of patiently suffering the painful death of this body here in earth
for the gaining of everlasting wealthy life in heaven and avoiding
of everlasting painful death in hell?

VINCENT: By my troth, uncle, I can find no words that should have
any reason with them--faith being always presupposed, as you
protested in the beginning, for a ground--words, I say, I can find
none with which I might reasonably counter-plead this that you have
said here already.

But yet I remember the fable that AEsop telleth of a great old hart
that had fled from a little bitch, which had made pursuit after him
and chased him so long that she had lost him, and (he hoped) more
than half given him over. Having then some time to talk, and
meeting with another of his fellows, he fell into deliberation with
him as to what it were best for him to do--whether to run on still
and fly farther from her, or to turn again and fight with her. The
other hart advised him to fly no farther, lest the bitch might
happen to find him again when he would be out of breath by the
labour of farther fleeing, and thereby all out of strength too, and
so would he be killed lying where he could not stir himself.
Whereas, if he would turn and fight, he would be in no peril at
all. "For the man with whom she hunteth," he said, "is more than a
mile behind her. And she is but a little body, scant half so much
as thou, and thy horns can thrust her through before she can touch
thy flesh, by more than ten times her tooth-length." "By my troth,"
quoth the other hart, "I like your counsel well, and methinketh
that the thing is even soothly as you say. But I fear me that when
I hear once that cursed bitch bark, I shall fall to my feet and
forget all together. But yet, if you will go back with me, then
methinketh we shall be strong enough against that one bitch between
us both." The other hart agreed, and they both appointed them
thereon. But even as they were about to busk them forward to it,
the bitch had found the scent again, and on she came yalping toward
the place. And as soon as the harts heard her, off they went both
twain apace!

And in good faith, uncle, even so I fear it would fare by myself
and many others too. Though we think it reason, what you say, and
in our minds agree that we should do as you say--yea, and
peradventure think also that we would indeed do as you say--yet as
soon as we should once hear those hell-hounds the Turks come
yalping and howling upon us, our hearts should soon fall as clean
from us as those other harts fled from the hounds.

ANTHONY: Cousin, in those days that AEsop speaketh of, though those
harts and other brute beasts had (if he say sooth) the power to
speak and talk, and in their talking power to talk reason too, yet
they never had given them the power to follow reason and rule
themselves thereby. And in good faith, cousin, as for such things
as pertain to the conducting of reasonable men to salvation, I
think that without the help of grace men's reasoning shall do
little more. But then are we sure, as I said before, that if we
desire grace, God is at such reasoning always present and very
ready to give it. And unless men will afterward willingly cast it
away, he is ever ready still to keep it and glad from time to time
to increase it. And therefore our Lord biddeth us, by the mouth of
the prophet, that we should not be like such brutish and
unreasonable beasts as were those harts, and as are horses and
mules: "Be not you like a horse and a mule, that hath no
understanding." And therefore, cousin, let us never dread but what,
if we will apply our minds to the gathering of comfort and courage
against our persecutions, and hear reason and let it sink into our
heart and cast it not out again (nor vomit it up, nor even there
choke it up and stifle it with pampering in and stuffing up our
stomachs with a surfeit of worldly vanities), God shall so well
work with it that we shall feel strength therein. And so we shall
not in such wise have all such shameful cowardous hearts as to
forsake our Saviour and thereby lose our own salvation and run into
eternal fire for fear of death joined therein--though bitter and
sharp, yet short for all that, and (in a manner) a momentary pain.

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