wives to them in all but name; indeed in Friesland the laity for obvious reasons insisted upon this violation of clerical vows.  A letter from Zwingli, the Reformer, written in 1518 when he was parish priest of Glarus, gives an astonishing view of his own practice.  Under such circumstances we need not wonder that the standards of the laity were low.  The highest record that I have met with is that of a Flemish nobleman, who in addition to a large family including a Bishop of Cambray and an Abbot of St. Omer, is said to have been also the father of 36 bastards.  Thomas More as a young man was not blameless.  But it is surprising to find that Erasmus in writing an appreciation of More in 1519, when he was already a judge of the King’s Bench, stated the fact in quite explicit, though graceful, language; and further, that More took no exception to the statement, which was repeated in edition after edition.  We can hardly imagine such a passage being inserted in a modern biography of a public character, even if it were written after his death.  Just about the same time More published among his epigrams some light-hearted Latin poems—­doubtless written in his youth—­such as no public man with any regard for his character would care to put his name to to-day.

There is another matter to which some allusion must be made, the grossness of the age, though here again detail is scarcely possible.  The conditions of life in the sixteenth century made it difficult to draw a veil over the less pleasant side of human existence.  The houses were filthy; the streets so disgusting that on days when there was no wind to disperse the mephitic vapours, prudent people kept their windows shut.  Dead bodies and lacerated limbs must have been frequent sights.  Under these circumstances we need not be surprised that men spoke more plainly to one another and even to women than they do now.  Sir John Paston’s conversations with the Duchess of Norfolk would make less than duchesses blush now.  The tales that Erasmus introduces into his writings, the jests of his Colloquies, are often quite unnecessarily coarse; but one which will illustrate our point may be repeated.  One winter’s morning a stately matron entered St. Gudule’s at Brussels to attend mass.  The heels of her shoes were caked with snow, and on the smooth pavement of the church she slipped up.  As she fell, there escaped from her lips a single word, of mere obscenity.  The bystanders helped her to her feet, and amid their laughter she slunk away, crimson with mortification, to hide herself in the crowd.  Nowadays great ladies have not such words at command.