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Superscripted text is prefixed by a caret ‘^’ symbol. If the
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—————————————————— Start of Book ——————————————————
THE
POPISH PLOT
A STUDY IN THE HISTORY OF
THE REIGN OF CHARLES II
BY
JOHN POLLOCK
FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
“Some truth there was, but dashed and brewed with lies.”
_Absalom and Achitophel._
“Oh! it was a naughty Court. Yet have we dreamed of it as the period
when an English cavalier was grace incarnate; far from the boor now
hustling us in another sphere; beautifully mannered, every gesture
dulcet. And if the ladies were ... we will hope they have been
traduced. But if they were, if they were too tender, ah! gentlemen
were gentlemen then—worth perishing for!”—_The Egoist._
“Donner pour certain ce qui est certain, pour faux ce qui est faux,
pour douteux ce qui est douteux.”—_Mabillon._
LONDON:
DUCKWORTH AND CO.
MCMIII
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF
LORD ACTON
PREFACE
When I first undertook the study of the Popish Plot the late Lord
Acton wrote to me: “There are three quite unravelled mysteries;—what
was going on between Coleman and Père la Chaize; how Oates got hold
of the wrong story; and who killed Godfrey.” The following book is an
attempt to answer these questions and to elucidate points of obscurity
connected with them.
In the course of the work I have received much kind help from Dr.
Jackson and Mr. Stanley Leathes of this college, from the Rev. J. N.
Figgis of St. Catharine’s College, and from my father; and Mr. C. H.
Firth of All Souls’ College has been exceedingly generous in giving
the assistance of his invaluable learning and experience to a novice
attacking problems which have been left too long untouched by those
better fitted for the task.
It is only as a mark of the deep gratitude I bear him that I have
ventured to dedicate this book to the memory of the illustrious man
whose death has deprived it of its sternest critic. Few can know so
well as myself how far its attainment falls short of the standard which
he set up. With that standard before me I can justify myself only
by the thought that I have tried to follow strictly the injunction:
Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.
J. P.
TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 1903.
CONTENTS
PAGE
TABLE OF SOME EVENTS OCCURRING IN THE HISTORY OF THE
POPISH PLOT xiii
I. DESIGNS OF THE ROMAN CATHOLICS
CHAPTER I
TITUS OATES 3
CHAPTER II
THE NATURE OF THE DESIGNS 15
CHAPTER III
OATES AGAIN 70
II. SIR EDMUND BERRY GODFREY
CHAPTER I
GODFREY 83
CHAPTER II
BEDLOE AND ATKINS 106
CHAPTER III
BEDLOE AND PRANCE 117
CHAPTER IV
PRANCE AND BEDLOE 132
CHAPTER V
THE SECRET 149
III. POLITICS OF THE PLOT
CHAPTER I
THE GOVERNMENT 169
CHAPTER II
THE CATHOLICS 196
CHAPTER III
SHAFTESBURY AND CHARLES 222
IV. TRIALS FOR TREASON
CHAPTER I
MAGISTRATES AND JUDGES 265
CHAPTER II
CRIMINAL PROCEDURE 288
CHAPTER III
TRIALS FOR THE PLOT 304
APPENDICES
APPENDIX A 375
APPENDIX B 382
APPENDIX C 390
APPENDIX D 394
APPENDIX E 400
MATERIALS FOR THE HISTORY OF THE POPISH PLOT 405
INDEX 415
TABLE OF SOME EVENTS OCCURRING IN
THE HISTORY OF THE POPISH PLOT
1677. Ash Wednesday Titus Oates converted to the Church of Rome.
April Enters the English Jesuit college at
Valladolid.
October 30 Expelled from the college at Valladolid.
December 10 Enters the English Jesuit college at St. Omers.
1678. April 24 Jesuit congregation held at St. James’ Palace.
June 23 Oates expelled from the college at St. Omers
June 27 and returns to London.
August 13 Christopher Kirkby informs the king of a plot
against his life.
August 14 Kirkby and Dr. Tonge examined by the Earl
of Danby.
The king goes to Windsor.
August 31 The forged letters sent to Bedingfield at
Windsor.
September 2 Tonge introduces Oates to Kirkby at his
lodgings at Vauxhall.
September 6 Oates swears to the truth of his information
before Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.
September 27 Oates and Tonge summoned before the Privy
Council.
September 28 Oates swears again to the truth of his
information before Godfrey and leaves
a copy with him.
Oates examined at length by the council.
Search for Jesuits begun that night.
Edward Coleman pays a secret visit to Godfrey.
September 29 Sir George Wakeman before the council.
Oates again examined by the council and
continues the search for Jesuits at night.
Warrant issued for the arrest of Coleman
and seizure of his papers.
September 30 Coleman surrenders to the warrant against him
and is placed in charge of an officer. His
house searched and his papers seized.
Oates examined twice by the council and
again searches for Jesuits.
October 1 The king goes to Newmarket.
Coleman’s papers examined by a committee
of the council.
Coleman committed to Newgate.
October 12 Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey missing.
October 15 News of his disappearance published.
October 17 His body found in a field at the foot of
Primrose Hill.
October 18, 19 An inquest held.
October 20 Reward of £500 offered for the discovery of
Godfrey’s murderers.
October 21 Meeting of Parliament (seventeenth session
of Charles II’s second or Long Parliament).
October 23 Oates at the bar of the House of Commons.
October 24 Assurance of protection added to the reward
offered for the discovery of Godfrey’s
murderers.
October 25–31 The Earl of Powis, Viscount Stafford, Lord
Petre, Lord Bellasis, and Lord Arundel of
Wardour surrender to the warrants out
against them as being, on Oates’
information, concerned in the Plot.
October 28 Test Act passes the Commons.
October 30, 31 Oates at the bar of the House of Lords.
November 1 Resolution of both Houses of Parliament
with regard to the Plot.
Funeral of Godfrey.
Proclamation commanding Popish recusants
to depart ten miles from London.
Arrest of Samuel Atkins.
November 5 Bedloe surrenders himself at Bristol.
November 7 Bedloe comes to town and is examined by
the king and secretaries. Examination of
Coleman in Newgate.
November 10, 18 Bedloe at the bar of the House of Commons
November 12 and at the bar of the House of Lords.
November 20 Test Act passed, but with a proviso exempting
the Duke of York.
November 21 Trial and conviction of William Staley for
high treason.
November 24 Oates accuses the queen in examination by
Secretary Coventry.
November 26 Staley executed at Tyburn, denying his guilt.
November 27 Trial and conviction of Coleman for high
treason. Bedloe accuses the queen.
November 28 Oates accuses the queen at the bar of the
House of Commons. He is confined by
the king and his papers are seized.
November 30 The king refuses to pass the Militia bill,
even for half an hour.
December 3 Execution of Coleman.
December 5 The five Popish Lords impeached.
December 16 Supply granted for disbanding the army.
December 17 Trial and conviction of Ireland, Pickering,
and Grove for high treason.
December 19 Montagu’s papers seized. He produces
Danby’s letters to the Commons, revealing
the secret treaty with Louis XIV.
December 21 Miles Prance arrested and recognised by
Bedloe. Impeachment of Danby.
December 23 Prance confesses and accuses Green, Berry,
and Hill of being Godfrey’s murderers.
December 28 Dugdale comes forward as a witness.
December 29 Prance recants.
December 30 Parliament prorogued till February 4.
1679. January 11 Prance retracts his recantation.
January 24 Long Parliament dissolved.
Ireland and Grove executed; Pickering
respited till May 25.
February 5 Trial and conviction of Green, Berry, and
Hill for Godfrey’s murder.
February 8 Atkins is acquitted of the same murder.
February 21 Execution of Green and Hill.
February 28 Execution of Berry.
March 3 The king declares that he was never married
to any woman but Queen Catherine.
March 4 The Duke of York leaves for Brussels by
command of the king.
March 6 The king repeats his declaration.
The third Parliament meets. Edward
Seymour chosen Speaker, and is rejected
by the king.
March 13 Parliament prorogued for two days.
March 15 Serjeant Gregory chosen Speaker.
March 21 Parliament votes the Plot to be read.
Prance’s examination read to the Lords.
March 22 The Commons resolve to proceed with
Danby’s impeachment.
March 24 Danby takes refuge at Whitehall.
March 25 Speech on Scotland by Shaftesbury.
April 1 Bill of attainder voted against Danby.
April 15 Bill of attainder passed.
April 16 Danby surrenders himself and is committed
to the Tower.
A supply voted and appropriated for the
disbandment of the army.
April 21 The king declares a new privy council, devised
by Sir William Temple.
April 24 Trial and conviction of Reading.
April 27 Resolution of Parliament against the Duke
of York.
April 30 The king’s speech concerning the succession.
May 3 Sharp, Archbishop of St. Andrews, murdered.
May 11 The Exclusion bill voted by the Commons.
May 15 The Exclusion bill read for the first time.
May 23, 24 The Commons attack the system of secret
service money.
May 26 The Habeas Corpus Act passed. The
Parliament prorogued to August 14, and
afterwards dissolved against the advice of
the whole council.
May 29 Outbreak of the Bothwell Brigg rebellion.
The Covenant proclaimed in the west of
Scotland.
June 1 Claverhouse defeated at Drumclog.
June Publication of “An Appeal from the City to
the Country.”
June 13 Trial and conviction of Whitebread, Fenwick,
Harcourt, Gavan, and Turner (the five
Jesuits) for high treason.
June 14 Trial and conviction of Richard Langhorn
for high treason.
June 15 Monmouth starts to suppress the rebellion.
June 20 Execution of the Five Jesuits.
June 22 The Covenanters routed by Monmouth at
Bothwell Brigg.
July 9 Samuel Pepys and Sir Anthony Deane, in
prison on account of the Plot, admitted to
bail by Scroggs.
July 14 Execution of Langhorn.
July 17 Sir Thomas Gascoigne committed to the
Tower on a charge of high treason.
July 18 Sir George Wakeman, Marshall, Romney,
and Corker tried for high treason and
acquitted.
August Executions in the provinces of priests on
account of their orders.
August 22 The king ill at Windsor.
August 23 The Duke of York summoned from Brussels.
August 29 The Duke sets out from Brussels
September 2 and reaches Windsor.
September 12 The Duke of Monmouth removed from his
commission of Lord General.
September 24 Monmouth leaves for Holland.
September 27 James leaves for Brussels, thence to Scotland.
October 7 The new Parliament, meeting, is prorogued
by successive stages to October 1680.
October 15 Shaftesbury dismissed from his place at the
council board.
October 20 Dangerfield searches Col. Mansell’s lodgings
and is arrested.
October 27 Dangerfield committed to prison on charge
of high treason.
October 29 Papers found in Mrs. Cellier’s meal tub.
November 9 Dangerfield pardoned.
November 17 First great Pope Burning, organised by the
Green Ribbon Club.
November 19 Laurence Hyde appointed First Commissioner
of the Treasury.
November 25 Trial and conviction of Knox and Lane.
November 27 Monmouth returns to England without leave.
December 6 Archbishop Plunket committed to the castle
at Dublin.
December 9 Petition of seventeen Whig peers for the
sitting of Parliament marks the beginning
of the practice of petitioning.
December 11 Proclamation against petitioning.
1680. January 6 Mowbray and Bolron pardoned.
January 9 Mrs. Cellier accuses Sir Robert Peyton of
high treason.
January 21 Oates and Bedloe exhibit articles against
Lord Chief Justice Scroggs.
January 31 Lord Russell, Lord Cavendish, Sir Henry
Capel, and Mr. Powle resign their places
on the council.
February 5 Benjamin Harris tried and convicted for a
libel in publishing “An Appeal from the
City to the Country.”
February 11 Sir Thomas Gascoigne tried for high treason
and acquitted.
February 24 The Duke of York returns from Scotland.
February 26 Declaration of the Scottish Privy Council of
their abhorrence of tumultuous petitions
published in the _Gazette_ marks the
beginning of the “abhorrers’” addresses.
March 8 The king and the Duke of York entertained
at a banquet by the Lord Mayor.
March 30 Thomas Dare of Taunton fined for seditious
and dangerous words.
April 15 Assault on Arnold.
April 26 and June 7 Declarations published in the _Gazette_
denying all truth in the rumour of the
Black Box.
May 11 Indictment of high treason, on Dangerfield’s
evidence, against the Countess of Powis
ignored by the grand jury of Middlesex.
May 13 The king ill at Windsor.
May 15 “A Letter to a Person of Honour concerning
the Black Box” published.
May 24 Trial and conviction of Tasborough and Price.
June 10 Conclusion of a treaty between England and
Spain to maintain the peace of Nymeguen.
June 11 Mrs. Cellier tried for high treason and
acquitted.
June 23 The Earl of Castlemaine tried for high treason
and acquitted.
June 26 Shaftesbury, with Titus Oates and fourteen
peers and commoners, presents the Duke
of York as a popish recusant.
July 14 Trial and conviction of Giles for an attempt
to murder Arnold.
July 28, 29 Trials for high treason at York. Lady
Tempest, Sir Miles Stapleton, and Mary
Pressicks acquitted, but Thwing, a priest,
convicted.
August–October Western progress of the Duke of Monmouth.
August 20 Death of Bedloe at Bristol.
September 11 Trial and conviction of Mrs. Cellier for
writing and publishing a libel.
October 20 The Duke of York leaves London for
Edinburgh.
October 21 Meeting of Charles II’s fourth Parliament.
October 26 Dangerfield at the bar of the House of
Commons.
October 28 Bedloe’s deathbed deposition read to the
House of Commons. Two members of
the Commons expelled for discrediting the
Plot.
October 30 Archbishop Plunket brought to London and
committed to the Tower.
November 2 The Exclusion bill voted.
November 10 Lord Stafford’s trial resolved on by the
Commons.
November 11 Third reading of the Exclusion bill in the
House of Commons.
November 15 The Exclusion bill rejected by the House
of Lords owing to Lord Halifax.
November 16 Halifax proposes the banishment of the
Duke of York.
November 17 Second great Pope Burning.
The House of Commons proceed against
Halifax.
November 24 The Commons vote the impeachment of
Lord Chief Justice North.
November 30–December 7 Trial and conviction of Lord
Stafford for high treason.
December 15 Sir Robert Peyton expelled from the House
of Commons.
December 29 Execution of Stafford.
1681. January 5 The Commons vote the impeachment of
Lord Chief Justice Scroggs and other
judges.
January 7, 10 The Commons pass resolutions against the
Duke of York, against such as shall lend
money to the crown, against a prorogation.
January 10 Parliament prorogued
January 18 and suddenly dissolved.
January 25 Sixteen Whig peers present a petition against
a parliament being held at Oxford.
February 28 Edward Fitzharris arrested for writing a
treasonable libel.
March 14 The king concludes a secret verbal treaty
with Louis XIV and sets out for Oxford.
March 17 Shaftesbury and other Whig leaders set out
for Oxford with an armed escort.
March 21 Meeting of Charles II’s fifth and last
Parliament at Oxford.
March 25 The Commons impeach Fitzharris.
March 26 The Exclusion bill voted.
The Lords refuse to proceed on Fitzharris’
impeachment.
March 28 The Exclusion bill read the first time in the
House of Commons. Parliament suddenly
dissolved.
May The king’s declaration justifying the
dissolution answered by “A Just and
Modest Vindication of the Proceedings
of the two Last Parliaments.”
May 3 Trial and conviction of Archbishop Plunket
for high treason.
June 9 Trial and conviction of Fitzharris for high
treason.
July 1 Execution of Plunket and Fitzharris.
DESIGNS OF THE ROMAN CATHOLICS
CHAPTER I
TITUS OATES
Titus Oates has justly been considered one of the world’s great
impostors. By birth he was an Anabaptist, by prudence a clergyman, by
profession a perjurer. From an obscure and beggarly existence he raised
himself to opulence and an influence more than episcopal, and, when he
fell, it was with the fame of having survived the finest flogging ever
inflicted. De Quincey considered the murder of Godfrey to be the most
artistic performance of the seventeenth century. It was far surpassed
by the products of Oates’ roving imagination. To the connoisseur of
murder the mystery of Godfrey’s death may be more exhilarating, but in
the field of broad humour Oates bears the palm. There is, after all,
something laughable about the rascal. His gross personality had in it
a comic strain. He could not only invent but, when unexpected events
occurred, adapt them on the instant to his own end. His coarse tongue
was not without a kind of wit. Whenever he appears on the scene, as has
been said of Jeffreys, we may be sure of good sport. Yet to his victims
he was an emblem of tragic injustice. Very serious were his lies to the
fifteen men whom he brought to death. The world was greedy of horrors,
and Oates sounded the alarm at the crucial moment. In the game he went
on to play the masterstrokes were his. Those who would reduce him to
a subordinate of his associate Dr. Tonge, the hare-brained parson
whose quarterly denunciations of Rome failed to arouse the interest of
Protestant London, have strangely misunderstood his character. Tonge
was a necessary go-between, but Oates the supreme mover of diabolical
purpose.
In the year of the execution of King Charles the First Titus Oates was
born at Oakham in the county of Rutland. His father, Samuel Oates,
son of the rector of Marsham in Norfolk, had graduated from Corpus
College, Cambridge, and received orders from the hands of the Bishop of
Norwich. On the advent of the Puritan Revolution he turned Anabaptist,
and achieved fame in the eastern counties as a Dipper of energy and
sanctity. In 1650 he became chaplain to Colonel Pride’s regiment, and
four years later had the distinction of being arrested by Monk for
seditious practices in Scotland. The Restoration returned him to the
bosom of the established church, and in 1666 he was presented by Sir
Richard Barker to the rectory of All Saints’ at Hastings. Shortly
before, his son Titus went his ways to seek education and a livelihood
in the world as a scholar. Ejected in turn from Merchant Taylors’
School and Gonville and Caius, Cambridge, he found a refuge at St.
John’s College, and some three years later was instituted to the
vicarage of Bobbing in Kent. “By the same token,” it was remarked, “the
plague and he visited Cambridge at the same time.”
Oates was a bird of passage. He obtained a license not to reside in
his parish, and went to visit his father at Hastings. Long time did
not pass before he took wing again. He had already once been indicted
for perjury, though no further proceedings were taken in the case.[1]
Now he conspired with his father to bring an odious charge against
the schoolmaster of Hastings, who had incurred his enmity. The charge
fell to the ground, Oates’ abominable evidence was proved to be false,
and he was thrown into gaol pending an action for a thousand pounds
damages.[2] Escape from prison saved him from disaster, and he fled to
London. As far as is known, no attempt was made to prosecute him. The
men of Hastings were probably rejoiced at his disappearance. There was
no profit to be made out of such a culprit as Oates. If he were caught,
it would only bring expense and trouble to the authorities. It was
the business of no one else to pursue the matter. So Oates went free.
Without employment, he managed to obtain the post of chaplain on board
a vessel in the Royal Navy. The calling was rather more disreputable
than that of the Fleet parson of later times. Discipline on board the
king’s ships was chiefly manifest by its absence; under the captaincy
of favourites from court the efficiency of the service was maintained
only by the rude ability of men who had been bred in it; and the
standard expected from the chaplain was “damnably low.” Nevertheless
Oates failed to achieve the required measure of respectability. He was
expelled upon the same grounds as he had formerly urged against the
fortunate schoolmaster.[3]
The mischance marked the beginning of his rise. Again adrift in London,
the tide threw him upon William Smith, his former master at Merchant
Taylors’ School. It was Bartholomew-tide in the year 1676. With Smith
was Matthew Medburne, a player from the Duke of York’s theatre, and
by creed a Roman Catholic. The two made friends with Oates, and on
Medburne’s introduction he became a member of a club which met twice
a week at the Pheasant Inn in Fuller’s Rents. The club contained
both Catholics and Protestants, discussion of religion and politics
being prohibited under penalty of a fine.[4] Here Oates made his
first acquaintance with those of the religion which he was afterwards
to turn to a source of so great profit. The rule which forbade
controversy applied only to the meetings of the club, and beyond its
limits discussion between members seems to have been free. It was
perhaps by the agency of some of these that in the winter of the same
year Oates was admitted as chaplain into the service of the Duke of
Norfolk.[5] Testimony to character on the engagement of a servant in
the seventeenth century was probably not severely examined.
In the house of the great Catholic noble Oates found himself in the
company of priests of the forbidden church. Conversation turned on the
subject of religion, and Oates lent ear to the addresses of the other
side. Though he wore the gown of an English minister, his faith sat
light upon him, and he did not scruple to change it for advantage.
On Ash Wednesday 1677 he was formally reconciled to the Church of
Rome.[6] The instrument for the salvation of the strayed lamb was one
Berry, alias Hutchinson, a Jesuit whom Oates had afterwards the grace
to describe as “a saintlike man, one that was religious for religion’s
sake.” By others the instrument was thought to be somewhat weak-minded;
at a later date he seceded to the Protestant faith and became curate
in the city, later still to be welcomed back into the bosom of his
previous church; withal a very pious person, removed from politics,
and much given to making converts. Neither conversion nor piety alone
was an end to Oates. He soon made his way to Father Richard Strange,
provincial of the Society of Jesus, and notified him of a desire for
admission into the order. Consulting with his fellows, Strange gave
consent to the proposal, and before the end of April, Oates was shipped
on a Bilboa merchantman with letters to the English Jesuit seminary at
Valladolid.[7]
There was little that Oates could hope from a career as an English
parson. Almost any other calling, especially one that took him abroad,
offered better chances. He probably believed that Jesuit emissaries
led a merry life and a licentious. Perhaps it is true that, as he
said, vague talk in the Duke of Norfolk’s household of the glorious
future for Catholicism had come to his ears. At least the times must
make him credulous of Catholic machinations. To his sanguine mind
the future would present unbounded possibilities. On the other side,
stout recruits for the Catholic cause were not to be despised. Oates’
character was tough, and he was not the man to shrink from dirty work.
Had they known him well, his new patrons would hardly have welcomed
him as a convert. The plausible humility he aired was the outcome of a
discretion which rarely lasted longer than to save him from starvation.
By nature he was a bully, brutal, sensual, avaricious, and gifted with
a greed of adulation which, in a man of less impudence, would have
caused his speedy ruin. From earliest youth he was a liar. Yet he
was shrewd enough, and shrewdness and promptitude were qualities not
without a certain value. His vices had not yet grown to be notorious.
So he was taken to serve masters who generally succeeded in giving
their pupils at least the outward stamp of piety. In person Oates was
hideous. His body was short, his shoulders broad. He was bull-necked
and bow-legged. Under a low forehead his eyes were set small and deep.
His countenance was large and moon-like. So monstrous was his length of
chin that the wide slit mouth seemed almost to bisect his purple face.
His voice rasped inharmoniously, and he could tune it at will to the
true Puritan whine or to scold on terms with such a master of abuse as
Jeffreys. The pen of Dryden has drawn a matchless portrait of the man—
Sunk were his eyes, his voice was harsh and loud,
Sure signs he neither choleric was nor proud:
His long chin proved his wit, his saint-like grace
A church vermilion and a Moses’ face.[8]
This was the tender being whom the Colegio de los Ingleses took to
nurse into a Jesuit.
The project failed of its mark. Five short months completed Oates’ stay
amid the new surroundings. On October 30, 1677 he was expelled the
college and shipped home, reaching London in November.[9] The sojourn
was in after days utilised to elevate him to the dignity of doctor of
divinity. He had obtained the degree at Salamanca, he said. The truth
was more accurately expressed in the lines—
The spirit caught him up, the Lord knows where,
And gave him his Rabbinical degree
Unknown to foreign university;[10]
for none but priests were admitted by the Catholic Church to the
doctorate, Oates was never a priest, and was never at Salamanca in
his life.[11] Though Valladolid had proved no great success, Oates
was unabashed. He returned to Strange and the Jesuits in London.
Protestations were renewed, and the eagerness of the expelled novice
was not to be withstood. The Jesuits afterwards professed that they
simply desired to keep Oates out of the way. Whatever their motive, he
was given a new trial. The society furnished a new suit of clothes and
a periwig, put four pounds into his pocket, and sent him to complete
his education at St. Omers. On December 10 he was admitted into the
seminary.[12] For one ambitious of an ecclesiastical career the venture
was not fruitful. Long evidence was given at a later date descriptive
of Oates’ course in the college. In important points it lies under
strong suspicion,[13] but the picture of his daily doings may be taken
as faithful. Oates was not a congenial companion to his fellows. Though
a separate table was provided for him at meals, he went to school
with the rest and attempted to gain their intimacy. He was the source
of continual quarrels, spoiled sport, tried to play the bully, and
sometimes met with the retribution that falls on bullies. He was reader
in the sodality, and enlivened more serious works, such as Father
Worsley’s _Controversies_, with interludes from that most entertaining
book, _The Contempt of the Clergy_.[14] He had a pan broken over
his head for insisting at a play by the novices on sitting in the
place reserved for the musicians. On another occasion he excited the
amusement of the college by allowing himself to be beaten up and down
by a lad with a fox’s brush. Still nobler was an effort in the pulpit,
where he preached “a pleasant sermon,” expounding his belief that
“King Charles the Second halted between two opinions and a stream of
Popery went between his legs.”[15] Lurid tales of Oates’ conduct were
afterwards published by the Jesuit fathers.[16] What is more certainly
true is the fact that his presence in the seminary rapidly became
embarrassing. On June 23, 1678 he was turned out of doors, and shook
the dust of St. Omers from his feet. On the 27th he reached London.[17]
When Oates formed his alliance with Dr. Ezrael Tonge, rector of St.
Michael’s in Wood Street, is uncertain. The point is not without
importance. If Oates came first to Tonge in the summer of 1678, the
fact would be so far in his favour that he may have sought a good
market for wares which he believed to be in some degree sound. If he
took directions from Tonge before his visit to the Jesuit seminaries,
the chance of his sincerity would be much diminished. Simpson Tonge,
the rector’s son, afterwards composed a journal of these events.
Unhappily his statements are without value. Hoping for reward at one
time from Oates, at another from his enemies, Tonge contradicted
himself flatly, urging for the informer that Oates had sought his
father only after the return from St. Omers; against him, that the two
had, during an intimacy of two years, designed the Popish Plot before
ever Oates went abroad.[18] Judgment must therefore be suspended;
but it is notable that King Charles thought the evidence as to the
intrigue between Oates and Tonge unworthy of credence. Simpson Tonge
was taken to Windsor in the summer of 1680 to reveal his knowledge.
He left there papers in which evidence of the facts was contained.
Charles examined them, and told Sydney Godolphin that “he found them
very slight and immaterial,” and refused to see Tonge again.[19] At
whatever point co-operation began, acquaintance between the two men was
likely enough of long standing. Tonge had been presented to his living
by Sir Richard Barker, the ancient patron of Samuel Oates. A natural
tie thus existed, now to be developed by circumstances into strong
union. The doctor was an assiduous labourer in the Protestant vineyard.
His fear of Popery amounted to mania. Volumes poured from his pen in
denunciation of Catholic conspiracies. A catalogue was afterwards
made of Tonge’s library. Its character may be judged from the titles
of the following works:—_Massacres threatened to Prevent, Temple and
Tabernacle, Arguments to suppress Popery._[20] He had co-operated with
John Evelyn in translating _The Mystery of Jesuitism_, a work which
King Charles said he had carried for two days in his pocket and read;
“at which,” writes Evelyn, “I did not a little wonder.”[21] When fame
overtook him, Tonge raised the ghost of Habernfeld’s Plot and spent
some ingenuity in turning the name of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey to
_Dy’d by Rome’s reveng’d fury_, that of Edward Coleman to _Lo a damned
crew_. Now he passed a bashful and disappointed life. Needy and full of
silly notions, he divided his time between the detection of Jesuitry
and the study of obscure sciences. Here was beyond doubt the man to
interest himself in Oates. For Oates had brought back from beyond seas
a prodigious tale, calculated to set the most unpractical alarmist in
action.
The scope of the disclosure was vast. Written at length and with the
promise of more to come, Oates’ _True and Exact Narrative of the Horrid
Plot and Conspiracy of the Popish Party against the life of His Sacred
Majesty, the Government, and the Protestant Religion_ filled a folio
pamphlet of sixty-eight pages. The Pope, said Oates, had declared
himself lord of the kingdoms of England and Ireland. To the work of
their reduction and government the Jesuits were commissioned by papal
briefs and instructed by orders from the general of the society. Jesuit
agents were at work fomenting rebellion in Scotland and Ireland. Money
had been raised and arms collected. The hour had only to strike for an
Irish port to be opened to a French force in aid of the great scheme.
The Papists had burned down London once and tried to burn it again. A
third attempt would be no less successful than the first. Chief of all,
a “consult” of the English Jesuits had been held on April 24, 1678 at
the White Horse tavern in the Strand, to concert means for the king’s
assassination. Charles was a bastard and an excommunicated heretic.
He deserved death, and the deed was necessary for the Catholic cause.
Want of variety in the instruments chosen should not save him. He was
to be poisoned by the queen’s physician. He was to be shot with silver
bullets in St. James’ Park. Four Irish ruffians were hired to dispatch
him at Windsor. A Jesuit named Coniers had consecrated a knife a foot
in length to stab him. Great sums of money were promised by French
and Spanish Jesuits and by the Benedictine prior to whoever should do
the work. If the Duke of York did not consent to the king’s death,
the same fate lay in store for him. In all this Oates had been a
confidential messenger and an active agent. It was only due to the fact
that he had been appointed for the task of killing Dr. Tonge that the
scheme thus carefully prepared was not put to the test; for Tonge had
moved him to exchange the trade of murderer and incendiary for that of
informer. Thus the great plot was divulged, together with the names of
ninety-nine persons concerned, as well as those nominated for offices
under the prospective Jesuit government, of whom the most prominent
were the Lords Arundel of Wardour, Powis, Petre, Stafford, Bellasis,
Sir William Godolphin, Sir George Wakeman, and Mr. Edward Coleman. The
falsehood of all this has been conclusively demonstrated. Not only did
Oates bear all the marks of the liar and never produce the slightest
evidence for what he announced, but much of his story is contradicted
by the actual conditions of politics at the time. The fact of his
conviction for perjury is widely known and its justice unquestioned. To
rebut his accusations singly would be fruitless, because unnecessary.
Their general untruth has long been known. Much time was occupied
by Oates and Tonge in reducing their bulk to the shape, first of
forty-three, then of eighty-one articles. Oates took a lodging in
Vauxhall, near Sir Richard Barker’s house, where Tonge dwelt. Together
they drafted and copied until all was prepared. Nothing lacked but a
proper flourish for the introduction of so grand an event.
For this a pretty little comedy was arranged. Oates was to keep behind
the scenes while Tonge rang up the curtain. Nor did Tonge wish to
expose himself too soon to vulgar light. He procured an acquaintance,
Mr. Christopher Kirkby, to act as prologue. Kirkby was a poor gentleman
of good family, interested in chemistry, and holding some small
appointment in the royal laboratory. Their common taste for science
probably accounted for his relation with Tonge; and since he was known
to the king, he could now do the doctor good service. On August 11,
1678 Oates thrust a copy of the precious manuscript under the wainscot
of a gallery in Sir Richard Barker’s house. There Tonge found it, and
on the following day read it to Kirkby, who declared in horror at the
contents that the king should be informed. He would take this part upon
himself, he said. Accordingly on August 13, as Charles was starting for
his accustomed walk in St. James’ Park, Kirkby slipped a note into his
hand begging for a short audience on a matter of vital importance. The
king read it and called Kirkby to ask what he meant. “Sire,” returned
the other, “your enemies have a design against your life. Keep within
the company, for I know not but you may be in danger in this very
walk.” “How may that be?” asked the king. “By being shot at,” answered
Kirkby, and desired to give fuller information in some more private
spot. Charles bade him wait in his closet, and finished his stroll with
composure.[22]
CHAPTER II
THE NATURE OF THE DESIGNS
For contemporaries the Popish Plot provided a noble field of battle.
Between its supporters and its assailants controversy raged hotly.
Hosts of writers in England and abroad proved incontestably either
its truth or its falsehood.[23] With which of the two the victory lay
is hard to determine. Discredit presently fell on the Plot, but the
balance was restored by the Revolution, when Oates’ release, pardon,
and pension gave again the stamp of authority to his revelations. From
this high estate its reputation quickly fell. Hume pronounced belief in
it to be the touchstone for a hopelessly prejudiced Whig, Fox declared
the evidence offered “impossible to be true,” and before the end of the
eighteenth century Dalrymple accused Shaftesbury of having contrived
and managed the whole affair. Since that time little serious criticism,
with the notable exception of Ranke’s luminous account, has been
attempted. Historians have generally contented themselves with relying
on the informers’ certain mendacity to prove the entire falsehood of
the plot which they denounced. The argument is patently unsound. As
Charles II himself declared, the fact that Oates and his followers were
liars of the first order does not warrant the conclusion that all they
said was untrue and that the plot was wholly of the imagination.[24]
The grounds upon which judgment must be based deserve to be more
closely considered.
On November 8, 1675 a remarkable debate took place in the House of
Commons. Mr. Russell and Sir Henry Goodrick informed the House of an
outrage said to have been committed by a Jesuit upon a recent convert
from Roman Catholicism. Amid keen excitement they related that one
Luzancy, a Frenchman, who, having lately come over to the Church of
England, had in the French chapel at the Savoy preached a hot sermon
against the errors of Rome, had been compelled at peril of his life
to retract all he had said and sign a recantation of his faith. The
man guilty of this deed was Dr. Burnet, commonly known as Father
St. Germain, a Jesuit belonging to the household of the Duchess of
York.[25] The Commons were highly enraged. “This goes beyond all
precedents,” cried Sir Charles Harbord, “to persuade not only with
arguments but poignards!” He never heard the like way before. Assurance
was given by Mr. Secretary Williamson that strict inquiry was being
made. The king was busy with the matter. Luzancy had been examined
on oath before the council, and a special meeting was now summoned.
A warrant was out for St. Germain, but the Jesuit had fled. The
House expressed its feeling by moving that the Lord Chief Justice be
requested to issue a second warrant for St. Germain’s arrest, and yet
another in general terms “to search for and apprehend all priests and
Jesuits whatsoever.”[26] It was a strange story that Luzancy told. By
Protestants he was said to have been a learned Jesuit, by Catholics
a rascally bastard of a disreputable French actress.[27] The two
accounts are perhaps not irreconcilable. At least he was a convert and
had preached. Thereupon St. Germain, as he said, threatened him and
forced a recantation. Before resorting to this extreme the Jesuit had
tried persuasion. The Duke of York, he told Luzancy, was a confessed
Roman Catholic. At heart the king himself belonged to the same faith
and would approve of all he did. Schemes were afoot to procure an act
for liberty of conscience for the Catholics. That granted, within two
years most of the nation would acknowledge the Pope. It was sometimes
good to force people to heaven; and there were in London many priests
and Jesuits doing God very great service. Others besides Luzancy had
been threatened with tales of Protestant blood flowing in the London
streets; and these, being summoned to the council, attested that the
fact was so. Lord Halifax rose and told the king that, if his Majesty
would allow that course to Protestants for the conversion of Papists,
he did not question but in a very short time it should be effected.[28]
Two days later a proclamation was issued signifying that Luzancy was
taken into the royal protection, and St. Germain, with a price of £200
on his head, fled to France, there to become one of the most active of
Jesuit intriguers.[29] Though the brandished dagger was likely enough
an embellishment of Luzancy’s invention, it is probable that his story
was in substance true. In December St. Germain found himself in Paris
and in close correspondence with Edward Coleman, the Duchess of York’s
secretary. Such a man writing within a month from the catastrophe
would certainly, had he been falsely charged, be loud in vindication
of his innocence and denunciation of the villain who had worked his
ruin. St. Germain merely wrote that his leaving London in this fashion
troubled him much. He had done all that a man of honesty and honour
could; an ambiguous phrase. It was absolutely necessary, more for his
companions and the Catholics’ sake than for his own, that his conduct
should be justified.[30] Evidently St. Germain was less troubled at
the injustice of the charge against him than incensed at its results.
What he wanted was not that his character might be cleared from a false
accusation, but that the tables might be turned on his accuser.[31]
The conduct of St. Germain illustrates well the aims of the Roman
Catholic party in England about the year 1675. Their policy, already
undergoing modification, had root deep in the history of the times.
For the first thirteen years of his reign Catholics looked for
the advancement of their cause to the king. During the Civil War
none had shown a more steadfast loyalty than they, and none hailed
the Restoration with greater eagerness. Half a century earlier a
considerable number of the squires of England had been Catholic.
They were a class bound closely to the royal cause both by tradition
and by personal inclination, and though the operation of the penal
laws effectively prevented their ranks from swelling, they rendered
conspicuous service to the crown in the day of trouble. With their
strength further diminished by death and by confiscation of estates
under the Commonwealth government, their hopes rose higher at the
king’s return. There was much justification for their sanguine view.
The promise of religious liberty contained in the declaration of Breda
was known to be in accord with Charles’ own desires. He was the son
of a Catholic mother and of a father suspected, however unjustly, of
Catholic tendencies. He was himself not free from the same suspicion.
He was under the deepest obligations to his Catholic subjects. They had
risked their persons and squandered their fortunes for him. They had
fought and intrigued for him, and succoured him in distress. He owed
them life and liberty. They had done so much for him that it was not
unreasonable to hope that, as it was not averse to his wishes, he would
do something for them.
The disappointment of the Catholic expectations was not long delayed.
Whatever promises Charles had made, and whatever hopes he had fostered,
were dependent upon others, and not upon himself, for fulfilment.
The Restoration was a national work, and it was not in the power of
the king to act openly in opposition to the nation that had restored
him. Since he was not a Catholic, he was impelled to run no great
risk for the interest of those who were. And it became increasingly
clear that by far the greater part of the nation was in no mind to
tolerate any change which would make for freedom of life and opinion
for the maintainers of a religion which was feared and fiercely hated
by the governing classes and by the church which aspired to govern in
England. Fear of Roman Catholicism was a legacy of the dreadful days
of Queen Mary and of her sister’s Protestant triumph. That legacy was
a possession not of one sect or of one party alone. Cavaliers and
Roundheads, Puritans and high churchmen shared it alike. So long as the
Church of Rome was of a warring disposition, it was vain to expect that
the English people would see in it other than an enemy. The Protestant
religion was too insecurely established in the land and the memory
of sudden changes and violent assaults too recent for Englishmen to
harbour a spirit of liberal charity towards those who disagreed from
them in matters of faith. The Catholic, who cried for present relief
from an odious tyranny, appeared in their eyes as one who, were relief
granted, would seize any future chance to play the tyrant himself.
No less than twelve penal statutes, of tremendous force, existed to
prevent Roman Catholics from exercising influence in the state.[32]
Had they been strictly executed, the Catholic religion must have been
crushed out of England; but they were generally allowed to remain
dormant. Even so they were a constant menace and an occasional source
of more or less annoyance, varying infinitely according to time and
place and the will of the authorities from an insulting reminder of
Catholic inferiority to cruel and deliberate persecution. The tenor
of these laws was so stringent that among moderate Protestants there
were many who believed that the more obnoxious and unjust might be
removed without placing a weapon of serious strength in the hands of
their opponents. In the House of Lords a party was formed in favour
of the Catholic and Presbyterian claims and opposed to the arrogant
pretensions of the Earl of Clarendon and his followers. Clarendon’s
wish was for the supremacy of his own church, but there were already
not a few who had begun to view his position with jealousy. In
June 1661 a committee of prominent Catholics met at Arundel House
to consider their position. They presented a petition to the Lords
protesting against the penalties on the refusal of Catholics to take
the oaths of allegiance and supremacy, but after several debates and
the lapse of more than eighteen months it was resolved that “nothing
had been offered to move their lordships to alter anything in the
oaths.” Nevertheless Colonel Tuke of Cressing Temple was admitted to
the bar and heard against the “sanguinary laws,” and papers on the
subject were laid on the table of the House. The petitioners disclaimed
the Pope’s temporal authority and offered to swear “to oppose with
their lives and fortunes the pontiff himself, if he should ever
attempt to execute that pretended power, and to obey their sovereign
in opposition to all foreign and domestic power whatsoever, without
restriction.” A committee was appointed to deal with the matter,
and acting on its report the Lords resolved to abolish the writ _de
haeretico inquirendo_ and the statutes making it treason to take orders
in the Roman Church, as well as those making it felony to harbour
Catholic priests and præmunire to maintain the authority of the Bishop
of Rome.
At this point, when all seemed going well, misfortune intervened and
the hopes of success were dashed to the ground. It was suggested that
on account of its known activity and powers of intrigue the Society
of Jesus should be excepted from the scope of the proposed measure. A
heated controversy was instantly aroused. While Protestants and many
Catholics demanded that the Jesuits should accept the situation and
retire gracefully to win advantages for their brothers in religion,
members of the society retorted that a conspiracy was on foot to divide
the body Catholic against itself, and that it was not for the general
good to accept favours at the price of sacrificing the most able and
flourishing order of the church. It soon became evident that the
Jesuits were not to be moved. Their struggle in England had been hard.
Their position among English Catholics was one of great importance.
They would not now surrender it for the sake of a partial and
problematical success from the enjoyment of which they were themselves
to be excluded. The time when affairs were still unsettled was rather
one at which they should be spurred to greater efforts.
Without the compliance of the Jesuits the moderate Catholics could do
nothing. A feeling of disgust at the selfish policy of the society
found free expression. It seemed that its members would never consider
the interest of others before their own. Nevertheless there was no
remedy; the committee at Arundel House was dissolved; at the request of
the Catholic peers the progress of the bill of relief in the House of
Lords was suspended, and it was never resumed.[33]
No better fate attended the king’s efforts to make good the promises he
had given at Breda. With the assurance of support from the Independents
and Presbyterians he had issued late in the year 1662 a Declaration of
Indulgence, suspending all penal laws against dissenters, Catholic as
well as others, by virtue of the power which he considered inherent
in the crown.[34] The move called forth a storm of opposition, both
against the dispensing power and against the object for which it
was used. To appease the Commons, Lord Ashley, afterwards Earl of
Shaftesbury, brought in a bill to define and legalise the royal
power to dispense with laws requiring oaths and subscription to the
doctrines of the established church. The answer of the Commons was an
address against the Declaration,[35] in the House of Lords Ashley’s
bill was defeated by Clarendon and the bishops, and on March 31, 1663
Parliament addressed the king for a proclamation ordering all Catholic
priests to leave the realm. Charles never forgave his minister, but
he was powerless to resist. On April 2 he recanted his declaration by
issuing the desired order. A bill to check the growth of popery and
nonconformity passed quickly through the House of Commons, but was
stopped by the influence of the Catholic peers, and an address for the
execution of all laws against dissenters was voted in its place.[36]
Thus the penal laws were retained in their full vigour. And if the
enactments against the Catholics were not removed from the statute
book, still less were the causes which had produced them removed from
men’s minds. Only the establishment of general confidence that the
Catholic religion lacked power to menace the cause of Protestantism in
England and to invade the rights which were dear to Englishmen could be
effective in this; and confidence, so far from becoming general, shrank
to limits that became ever narrower. In the years that followed, fear
of the advance of Catholicism only increased. Fresh laws were passed to
check it. The House of Commons voted address after address that the old
might be put in action, petition after petition for the banishment of
priests and Jesuits from court and capital. To their alarm and chagrin
it appeared that all efforts were in vain, and belief spread that
the failure was chiefly due to opposition emanating from the highest
quarters. Instead of aiding in the accomplishment of the desired
object, the influence of the crown seemed to be directed absolutely to
prevent it. For the king’s policy was one which could only inspire the
nation with a sense of growing distrust.[37]
Though Charles II had ascended the throne on a wave of popular
enthusiasm, his ideas were widely removed from those of his subjects.
By birth and education his mind was drawn towards the aims and methods
of French politics, and he leaned away from the Church of England.
With this bias he inherited for Puritanism and the Presbyterians a
dislike strengthened by personal experience. Coming into England
without knowledge of parliamentary government, his first trial of it
was far from encouraging. He found Parliament intolerant, suspicious,
unstatesman-like. The Commons fenced in the Anglican Church with severe
penal laws against dissent, and gave the king an income less than
the annual expenses of government and the services by half a million
pounds. Charles had been restored to a bankrupt inheritance, and
with every good intention the Commons failed completely to render it
solvent. Soon their good-will ceased. They were jealous of the royal
expenditure. They did not perceive the royal wants. They destroyed
the existing financial arrangements and did not replace them with
better.[38] They desired to carry the Protestant and Parliamentary
system to its logical end in controlling the King’s foreign policy
and directing it against the influence of the Roman Catholic Church.
To Charles this was intolerable. To be forced to act at the bidding
of Parliament was odious to him. He would be no crowned do-nothing.
And here the fortunes of England touched on those of France. The
schemes of Louis XIV for the expansion and consolidation of the
French kingdom made it imperative that he should obtain for their
prosecution the neutrality, if not the assistance, of England. He
could not devote his energy to the settlement of his north-east
frontier and the maintenance of his claims on the Spanish empire with a
Protestant country ever ready to strike at his back. He was therefore
always ready to pay for the concurrence of Charles and with him of
England.[39] The establishment of the Roman Catholic religion, could
it be effected, would be of material assistance to him. Especially
on the religious side of his policy it would be a powerful support.
Charles, on the other hand, desired to free himself from the financial
control of Parliament and to grant toleration to the Catholics. He was
therefore always ready to be bought. He was all the better pleased
since co-operation with France brought him into conflict with the
Dutch republic, which he disliked upon commercial and detested upon
dynastic grounds. Toleration Charles found to be impossible, and he
was subjected to constant annoyance by the attempts of the Commons
to control his dealings. Thus his aims crystallised into a policy of
making the crown supreme in the constitution and establishing the
Roman Catholic faith as the state religion upon the approved model in
France.[40]
The plan undertaken in concert with his great ally was not the first
effort of Charles to give his ideas effect. During his exile on the
continent various tenders had been made for papal support; Charles
promised in return conversion and favour to his Catholic subjects;
and within a few years of the Restoration a serious negotiation was
started with Pope Alexander VII. In 1663 Sir Richard Bellings was sent
on a mission to Rome to beg the bestowal of a cardinal’s hat on the
Abbé d’Aubigny, almoner to the newly-married queen, and cousin to the
king. Charles took the opportunity to propose through Bellings the
formation of an Anglican Roman Church in England. He was to announce
his conversion, the Archbishop of Canterbury was to be patriarch of the
three realms, and liberty of conscience should be assured to remaining
Protestants. Roman Catholicism would become the state religion and Rome
gain the whole strength of the English hierarchy.[41] An understanding
was impracticable and the scheme fell through; but the renewed
solicitations of the English court on Aubigny’s behalf were successful.
In November 1665 he was nominated Cardinal, and died almost immediately
after. To the hopes of the Catholics his death was a terrible blow.
“The clouds,” wrote the general of the Jesuits on hearing of it,
“which are gathering over Holland, Poland, and Constantinople are so
dense that every prudent man must see reason to apprehend enormous
catastrophes and storms that will not be ended without irreparable
disasters. But in my mind all these coming evils are overshadowed by
the death of the Abbé Aubigny, which deprives the Church, for a time at
least, of the joy of beholding an English cardinal of such illustrious
blood, created at the public instances of two queens, and at the secret
request of a king, a prodigy which would, without doubt have confounded
heresy and inaugurated bright fortunes to the unhappy Catholics.”
Three years later a still more remarkable embassy than Bellings’ took
place. It is not even in our own day commonly known that the Duke of
Monmouth, reputed the eldest of the sons of Charles II, had an elder
brother. So well was the secret kept, that during the long struggle to
save the Protestant succession and to exclude the Duke of York from the
throne, no man ever discovered that there was another whose claims were
better than those of the popular favourite, and who had of his free
will preferred the gown of an obscure clerk to the brilliant prospect
of favour at court and the chance of wearing the English crown. For
this son, born to the king in the Isle of Jersey at the age of sixteen
or seventeen years, the child of a lady of one of the noblest families
in his dominions, was named by his father James Stuart, and urged to
be at hand to maintain his rights should both the royal brothers die
without male heirs. He set the dazzling fortune aside and resolved
to live and die a Jesuit. In the year 1668, then being some four and
twenty years old, he entered the house of novices of the Jesuits at
Rome under the name of James de la Cloche. Towards the end of the same
year Charles wrote to Johannes Oliva, the general, desiring that his
son might be sent to England to discuss matters of religion. Assuming
the name of Henri de Rohan, La Cloche made for England. He was received
by the queen and the queen mother, and by them secretly taken to the
king. What passed between father and son has never transpired. La
Cloche was sent back to Rome by the king as his “secret ambassador
to the Father General,” charged with an oral commission and orders
to return to England as soon as it was fulfilled. The nature of that
mission is unknown, and whether or no the young man returned to
England. Trace of embassy and ambassador alike is lost, and the young
prince disappears from history. Yet it may be that his figure can be
descried again, flitting mysteriously across the life of his father. At
the height of the turmoil of the Popish Plot a certain gentleman was
employed to bring privately from beyond seas a Roman Catholic priest,
with whom the king had secret business to transact. The king and the
priest stayed long closeted together. At length the priest came out
with signs of horror and fear on his face. Charles had been seized with
a fit and, when the priest would have called for help, to preserve
their secret summoned strength to hold him till the attack had passed.
On Charles’ death two papers on religion were found in his cabinet
and published in a translation by his brother. The originals were in
French, in the form of an argument addressed by one person to another,
and it is suggested, not without reason, that their author was the same
man as the king’s questionable visitor, and none other than his own
son, who had forgotten his native tongue and had surrendered fame and
country for the good of his soul and of the Catholic Church.[42]
One more negotiation was undertaken directly with Rome. By command of
the pope the papal internuncio at Brussels came to England. He had
sent a confidant to prepare the way, and was assured of welcome at
court. The Venetian envoy offered the hospitality of his house to the
visitor, and arranged an interview with the king. The queen, the Duke
of York, and Lord Arlington were also present, and the nuncio received
promises of the king’s good intentions towards the Catholics.[43] The
fruits of this undertaking, had there been any, were spoiled before
the gathering by the intrigue into which Charles had already entered
with Louis XIV. Only under a Catholic constitution, said Charles,
might a King of England hope to be absolute. He was to live to see the
prophecy falsified, and by his own unaided effort to accomplish what he
believed impossible, but now he showed the courage of his convictions
by attempting to make England Catholic. The scheme was afoot in the
summer of 1669. Nearly a year passed in its completion, and on June 1,
1670 “le Traité de Madame” was signed at Dover. Arlington, Clifford,
Arundel, and Sir Richard Bellings signed for England, and Colbert for
France; and Henrietta of Orleans, to whose skilful management success
was due, returned to her husband’s home to die, leaving a potent
influence to carry on her work—Louise de Kéroualle. Louis’ object in
the treaty was to break the Triple Alliance and carry the war to
a successful conclusion; that of Charles to make himself master of
England once again under the Catholic banner. The two kings were to
aid each other in men and money. “It was in reality,” says Lord Acton,
“a plot under cover of Catholicism to introduce absolute monarchy and
to make England a dependency of France, not only by the acceptance of
French money, but by submission to a French army.”[44] Charles was
to declare himself a Catholic when he thought fit. In the event of
resistance from his subjects he was to receive from Louis the sum of
£150,000 and a force of 6000 men to bring his country under the yoke.
Lauderdale held an army 20,000 strong in Scotland, bound to serve
anywhere within British dominions. Ireland under Lord Berkeley was
steeped in Catholic and loyal sentiment. The garrisons and ports of
England were being placed in safe hands. If the scheme succeeded, the
Anglican Church would be overthrown, Parliamentary government would be
rendered futile, and Charles would be left at the head of a Catholic
state and master of his realm.
Success however was so far from attainment that no attempt was made
to put “la grande affaire” into effect. It was decided that Charles’
declaration of Catholicism should be preceded by his attack in concert
with Louis on the Dutch. War was declared on March 17, 1672. Two days
before, the Declaration of Indulgence, suspending all penal laws
against dissenters, was issued. It sprang from the desire to obtain the
support of dissent for the war and to pave the way for a successful
issue of the Catholic policy at its close. Arms alone could determine
victory or defeat. If Charles thereafter found himself in a position to
dictate to Parliament, the rest might not prove difficult. Otherwise
there would be little hope of success. But the war did not justify
Charles’ expectations. Dutch tenacity and the growing hostility in
England to the alliance with France made it certain that the chief
objects for which Charles had sealed the Dover treaty could not be
achieved. When on February 19, 1674 he concluded peace with the
Republic for 800,000 crowns, the honour of the flag northward from Cape
Finisterre, and the retention of all his conquests outside Europe, the
king seemed to have emerged successfully from the struggle. In fact he
had failed to reach the goal. Unless he gained a commanding position
at home by military success abroad, he could not hope to put into
practice the English part of the programme drawn up at Dover. It was
something that his nephew the Prince of Orange had ousted the odious
republican faction from power in Holland, and much that the Republic
had been for ever detached from its alliance with France; but even this
was hardly sufficient compensation to Charles for the abandonment of
his policy in England. He had planned to restore the monarchy to its
ancient estate by means of Roman Catholicism. He had failed, and now
he turned his back finally upon Catholicism as a political power. He
had already been compelled to cancel the Declaration of Indulgence,
and on March 29, 1673 clearly marked the change by giving the royal
assent to the Test Act. A return to the policy of Anglican Royalism,
which in some ways approached that of Clarendon, was shaped. The Cabal
had been dissipated, the plans of its Catholic members ruined, its
Protestant members driven into opposition. Charles, guiding foreign
policy himself, and Danby as Lord Treasurer managing affairs at home,
determined to draw all stable elements in the kingdom round the Church
and the Crown, and to offer a united opposition to the factions and
the dissenters. The famous Non-Resisting Test was the result.[45] Here
again Charles failed. The opposition of Shaftesbury rendered abortive
the second line of policy by which the king attempted to restore the
full majesty of the crown. There was nothing left him now but a policy
of resistance. The next move in the game must come from his opponents.
Thus the three following years were spent by Charles intriguing first
with Louis, then with William, seeming to be on the brink of war and a
Protestant policy and always drawing back. No decisive step could be
taken until the panic of the Popish Plot gave to the country party an
opportunity, which after a three years’ struggle the king turned to his
own account with signal triumph.
From the moment when he revoked the Declaration of Indulgence the
Catholics had nothing to hope from Charles. Up to that time Roman
Catholic policy in England looked to him; thereafter he stood apart
from it. Throughout his reign the king had been studying to rise to
absolute sovereignty on the ladder of Catholicism. By the treaty
of Dover he was actively concerned in a conspiracy to overturn the
established church and again to introduce the Roman Catholic religion
into England. He had undoubtedly been guilty of an act which in a
subject would have been high treason. Although he now dissociated
himself from his former policy, it was not abandoned by others. The
Catholics had been deceived by Charles. They now fixed their hopes upon
his brother, the Duke of York. Since the king would no longer join with
the Jesuit party, it was determined to go without him. From that time
James became the centre of their intrigues and negotiations. He was the
point round which their hopes revolved.
The foundation of the intrigue was laid in the summer of 1673. Some
eighteen months before the duke had made known to a small circle his
conversion to the Roman Catholic Church.[46] The step was taken in the
deepest secrecy, and even at Rome was not recognised as final until
some years afterwards, for although James laid down his office of
Lord High Admiral in consequence of the Test Act, he still continued
to attend service in the royal chapel.[47] But despite all caution,
enough suspicion was aroused by James’ marriage at the suggestion of
the French court with a Roman Catholic princess, Mary of Modena.
It was a definite sign of his attachment to the French and Catholic
interest, and paved the way for the correspondence which was afterwards
so nearly to procure his downfall. The duke had for secretary a young
man named Edward Coleman, whom mysterious doings and a tragic fate have
invested with not unmerited interest. Coleman was the son of an English
clergyman. At an early age he was converted to the Catholic faith
and educated by the Jesuits, and to the furtherance of their schemes
devoted the rest of his life. To the good cause he brought glowing
ardour and varied talents. He was noted as a keen controversialist and
a successful fisherman of souls. The confidence of three ambassadors
from the court of France argues versatile ability in the man. With
Ruvigny Coleman enjoyed some intimacy; Courtin found him of the
greatest assistance; he discussed with Barillon subjects of delicacy on
his master’s behalf. The ambassadors found him a man of spirit, adept
in intrigue, with fingers on the wires by which parties were pulled.
And they valued him accordingly. For Coleman undertook the difficult
task of agent between Louis XIV and the mercenary Whigs. More than
three thousand pounds can be traced passing through his hands. The
leaders of the opposition had their price at some five hundred guineas;
but these took their money direct from the ambassador. Coleman dealt
with the rank and file, and here the gold, which among the more exalted
would have soon been exhausted, probably went far. He kept a sumptuous
table for his friends and laid up for himself what he gained by way of
commission. Knowledge of foreign languages, a ready pen, and his Jesuit
connection marked Coleman as the man for the duke’s service. He had
all the talents for the post save one. James’ want of discretion was
reflected in his secretary. Twice Coleman was dismissed; the dismissal
was apparent only, and he continued work as busily as before. He had
occupied himself in writing seditious letters to rouse discontent in
the provinces against the government. Complaint was made. Coleman was
discharged from his place by the duke. He was immediately taken into
the service of the duchess in the same capacity. Some years later his
zeal brought him into collision with the Bishop of London. Compton went
to the king and obtained an order to the duke to dismiss his wife’s
secretary. The French ambassador was much perturbed and pressed James
to afford protection, Coleman received his dismissal and took ship to
Calais. His Jesuit friends sent the news sadly one to another. His very
talents, it was said, had destroyed him. He was too much in the duke’s
counsels. His enemies could not countenance the presence of a man of
such parts. The duchess chose a new secretary. Within a fortnight
Coleman returned, and in secret resumed his office. He was in the
duke’s confidence and necessary to him.[48] Altogether Coleman was not
quite the innocent lamb that he has often been painted.
At the outbreak of the second Dutch war an English cavalry regiment
was sent for the French service under the command of Lord Duras. Among
the officers was Sir William Throckmorton, an intimate of Coleman and
converted by him to the Catholic faith. Throckmorton left the regiment
and settled in Paris as his friend’s agent. The two corresponded at
length, and by Throckmorton’s means Coleman was put in communication
with Père Ferrier, Louis XIV’s Jesuit confessor. Ferrier was assured
by Coleman that parliament would force Charles II to break with France
and make peace with the Dutch. The accuracy of his prophecy gained
the confessor’s confidence. Letters were exchanged and the means to
advance the Duke of York and the Catholic cause in England debated.
Ferrier was the first of Louis’ confessors to play an important part
in politics, and his alliance was an achievement to be counted to
the duke.[49] Coleman proceeded to extend his connection in other
quarters. Under the assumed name of Rice the Earl of Berkshire was in
communication with him, urging with doleful foreboding the overthrow of
parliament and the Protestant party.[50] Berkshire was Coleman’s sole
correspondent known in England, but on the continent others took up the
thread. In France the Jesuit Sheldon was high in praise of Coleman and
his design. From Brussels the papal internuncio Albani discussed it
somewhat coolly. Meanwhile Coleman’s relations with Paris had undergone
a change. In May 1675 Sir William Throckmorton died disreputably of a
wound received in the course of his too eager courtship of a certain
Lady Brown, while his wife yet lived,[51] and in December St. Germain,
banished from England, took up his place. More important was the death
of Père Ferrier in September of the same year, for Louis XIV chose as
his confessor Père de la Chaize, the famous Jesuit whose dealings with
Coleman subsequently formed the heaviest part of the proof against
the unlucky intriguer.[52] Finally to the list of his political
correspondents whose names are known Coleman added that of Cardinal
Howard, better known as Cardinal Norfolk, at the Roman court.[53]
Of this correspondence nearly two hundred letters have been preserved.
The insight which they give into the minds and intentions of their
writers is invaluable. They throw a strong light upon the undercurrent
of political movement at a time when politics were perhaps more
complicated and their undercurrents more potent than at any time
before or after. From them might be detailed the tenor of the designs
undertaken by a great religious party during a period of fierce
struggle. Such reconstruction from a fragmentary correspondence must
always be difficult. In the case of the Coleman correspondence the
difficulty would be great. That the letters can be read at all is
due to the fact that the key to the cipher in which they are written
was found with them. Not only were they written in an arbitrary
cipher, not to be elucidated without the key, but in such guarded and
metaphorical language that the meaning can often be caught only by
chance or conjecture.[54] Parables can easily be understood after the
events to the arrangements for which they refer; but when no effect
follows, the drift is more obscure. When before the Spanish Armada an
English agent writes from Spain that bales of wool are being stored in
large quantities, muniments of war may be read between the lines. When
Jacobites give notice to their exiled king that Mr. Jackson need only
appear in Westminster Hall to recover his estate, or that a cargo of
the right sort, now in great demand, must be shipped at once, their
meaning is transparent. But to the obscure terms used by Coleman and
his friends after events afford a slighter clue. No notion discussed by
them was ever tested as a practicable scheme in action. Neither success
nor exposure sheds light whereby to read their letters. Whatever is
in them must be painfully read as intention alone, and as intention
abandoned. The general ideas however are plain, and an admirable
exposition by Coleman himself saves the necessity of piecing them
together from small fragments.
On September 29, 1675 he wrote a long letter to Père de la Chaize
relating in some detail the history of the intrigues of the previous
years.[55] Catholic ascendency in England and a general peace in
favour of France were the objects for which he had worked. For these
the dissolution of Parliament and money were necessary, money both to
dissolve Parliament and to supply the king’s wants. Next to Parliament
Lord Arlington was the Duke of York’s greatest enemy; for Arlington was
the supporter, if not the promoter of the Test Act.[56] In response
to this beginning Père Ferrier had sent a note to the duke through
Sir William Throckmorton. In agreement with James it was Louis XIV’s
opinion that Arlington and the Parliament formed a great obstacle to
their joint interest; and if the duke could succeed in dissolving the
present Parliament, he would lend the assistance of his power and purse
to procure another better suited to their purpose. The duke replied
to Ferrier in person, and Coleman answered too. Their letters were
to the same effect. The French king’s offer was most generous and
highly gratifying, but money was needed at the moment as urgently as
thereafter, for without money a dissolution could not be obtained, and
without a dissolution everything done so far would be nugatory. So
far as money went it was possible to consult Ruvigny, the ambassador
in England; further not, for Ruvigny was a Protestant. Eulogies of
Throckmorton and Coleman passed from Ferrier to James and back, each
expressing to the other his confidence in their agents.[57] At this
time, said Coleman, Charles II was undecided and felt the arguments
for and against dissolution equally strong. But if a large sum such
as £300,000 had been offered to him on condition that Parliament
should be dissolved, he would certainly have accepted both money and
condition. Peace would then be assured, with other advantages to
follow. Logic built upon money, wrote Coleman, had more charms at the
court of St. James than any other form of reasoning.[58] To obtain this
money Coleman and his associates had worked hard. Not only did Coleman
write to Ferrier about it and talk to Ruvigny about it in London, but
he made Throckmorton press for it in Paris, and press Pomponne, the
French secretary of state, as well as the confessor. Twice Throckmorton
persuaded Pomponne to speak particularly to Louis on the subject, and
once he sent a memoir for the king’s perusal. Louis returned it with
expressions of great interest in the duke’s cause and the message “that
he should always be ready to join and work with him.” Also Pomponne was
bidden to say that he had orders to direct Ruvigny “that he should take
measures and directions from the duke,” especially in what concerned
the dissolution of Parliament, Louis, he said, was most sensible of the
need for energy and caution and gave the greatest consideration to the
matter.[59] At the same time Sheldon was pressing the French king’s
confessor.[60] Still the money did not come. One excuse after another
was made. Pomponne declared that so great a sum as that demanded could
not possibly be spared by Louis; and Throckmorton believed that this
was so; but he was compelled to admit that another campaign would
cost perhaps ten times as much. The foreign secretary also complained
that the duke did not appear sufficiently in the movement himself.
He was answered by Coleman that James had ceased negotiating with the
ambassador as Ruvigny gave so little help, but he was in communication
with Ferrier. Coleman thought that Ruvigny’s backwardness was
deliberate. Sheldon and Throckmorton were of the same opinion, and
Throckmorton suggested as an alternative that a subscription should be
raised from the Catholics; £50,000 he thought might be promised from
France, and he hoped for twice that sum in England.[61]
While Coleman was begging from the French court and declaring his
exclusive devotion to the interests of France, he was at the same time
urging the papal nuncio to obtain money from the Pope and the Emperor
and renouncing all designs except that of forwarding the Catholic cause
in the Pope’s behalf. Albani was moderately enthusiastic. The Emperor
commanded him to assure the Duke of York of the passionate zeal he
entertained for his service and the Catholic cause. The Pope too would
assist in matters in which he might properly appear. But James must
himself point the direction of the assistance to be granted. Coleman
replied that he had already shewn the way. Money alone was needed to
procure the dissolution of Parliament. Dissolution would mean peace
abroad and Catholic ascendency in England to the great advantage of
the Pope, the Emperor, and the whole Church. It was incumbent on the
Emperor and more especially on the Pope to open wide the purse for so
fair a prospect.[62] The nuncio was not however to be carried away
by emotion. Money could not be expended by the Pope upon such vague
expectation. He had others to think of in greater straits than the
English Catholics. Before the matter could be submitted to Rome more
definite guarantees must be given that the Catholic cause would really
be served. In any case what the Pope could afford would be nothing in
comparison to what was needed.[63] Coleman continued to press, even to
the point of Albani’s annoyance.[64] Repetition of the same arguments
merely met the same reply; and when by command of the Duke of York
Coleman paid a secret visit to Brussels to interview the nuncio, the
result was no better.[65]
So the shuttlecock was beaten backwards and forwards between London,
Paris, and Brussels. Writing to La Chaize Coleman naturally made no
mention of his correspondence with the nuncio. Different arguments
had to be used in the two quarters. To Albani Coleman vowed his
undying affection for the Pope, to the Jesuit an extremity of
devotion for French interests. Neither the one nor the other had the
desired effect. Advice and encouragement were forthcoming, but not
pistoles. The bashfulness of Coleman’s correspondents is not hard to
understand. Albani gave his reasons brutally enough. Those at the court
of Versailles were probably of the same nature. And here they had
additional force, for if on general grounds the French were unlikely
to pay, they were still less likely to support the Duke of York with
doubtful advantages at a time when they could obtain their chief object
by subsidising his brother the king. No one of business habits would
pour his gold into English pockets without reasonable expectation of a
proportionate return. The English pocket had the appearance of being
constructed upon a principle contrary to that of Fortunatus’ purse.
The scheme for which support was thus begged from whoever seemed likely
to give was not promising to any but an enthusiast. Money was wanted
certainly to bring Charles to the dissolution of Parliament, an idea
which was constantly in the air at court. The Cavalier Parliament
was an uncompromising opponent of Popery, and the Catholics bore it
a heavy grudge. But dissolution in itself would hardly improve their
own position. The design reached considerably farther than that. It
was no less than to bribe the king to issue another declaration of
indulgence, appoint the Duke of York again to the office of Lord High
Admiral, and leave the whole management of affairs to his hands.[66]
In the course of the next year a new parliament should be assembled,
bribed to support the French and Catholic interest, and the Catholic
position in England would be assured. James was an able and popular
officer and enjoyed great authority in the navy. Supposing the stroke
could be effected, he would occupy a position not only of dignity but
of power to meet any attack that might be made upon his new state. The
scheme was so far advanced that Coleman drew up a declaration for the
king to issue setting forth his reasons for a dissolution, and solemnly
protesting his intention to stand by the Protestant religion and the
decisions of the next parliament. That was to be before the end of
February 1675.[67]
Although Coleman wrote to the nuncio that the Catholics had never
before had so favourable an opportunity, the design was shortly
modified and deferred.[68] In its present shape the possibility of
putting it to the test depended upon the good-will of the ministers.
After the dissolution of Parliament their assistance would be
necessary. Without it nothing could be done. If Parliament were
dissolved and the ministers stopped the execution of all that was
to follow, the last state would be worse than the first. And it now
became evident that matters were in just that case. Whatever the Cabal
might have done, it was certain that those who followed would have no
hand in exalting the Duke of York’s power. Danby, whose watchword was
Monarchy and No Toleration, was now firmly fixed in authority. Early
in February a proclamation was issued ordering the execution of the
penal laws, whetted against Roman Catholics by the promise of reward
to informers; young men were to be recalled from Catholic seminaries
abroad, subjects were forbidden to hear mass in the chapels of foreign
ambassadors, all English priests were banished from the kingdom.[69]
The effect of the proclamation was chiefly moral; but the worst
consequences might be expected from the Non-Resistance bill, now in
active preparation for the April session. Should this be passed,
Catholic, Presbyterian, and Whig alike would be excluded from all part
in the management of affairs, and the royal Church of England would
triumph. The Duke of York’s party veered round and adopted the cause
of parliament as a bulwark for themselves against the ministerial
attack. The moment was critical for all concerned. A golden age seemed
to have arrived for the Commons. Money was showered lavishly on them.
Fortune rained every coinage in Europe. Danby, the Bishops, the Dutch,
and the Spanish ambassador did battle with their rouleaux against the
Catholics, the Nonconformists, the French ambassador and theirs. The
scenes in Parliament were unprecedented, and have since scarcely been
surpassed. Swords were drawn and members spat across the floor of
the House. In the House of Lords the king appeared regularly at the
debates to exert a personal influence on his peers, and was likened
to the sun, scorching his opponents. Here Charles and Danby had the
advantage, and after seventeen days the bill was sent down to the
Commons; but Shaftesbury, who had fought with the utmost resolution,
seized his opportunity to foment the old dispute between the Houses as
to the right of appeal to the Lords, with such success that the session
had to be closed before the bill could be introduced, Parliament was
prorogued, and the Test vanished for ever.[70] Coleman and his friends
breathed again and proceeded to adapt their programme to the new
situation. Since dissolution would not help them, they would mould
Parliament to their design. At the moment the Duke of York’s position
was as precarious as before; but, wrote Coleman to La Chaize, “if he
could gain any considerable new addition of power, all would come over
to him as the only steady centre of our government, and nobody would
contend with him further. Then would Catholics be at rest and his most
Christian Majesty’s interest be secured with us in England beyond all
apprehensions whatsoever. In order to this we have two great designs
to attempt the next sessions. First, that which we were about before,
viz. to put Parliament upon making it their humble request to the king
that the fleet may be put in his royal highness’ care.[71] Secondly,
to get an act for general liberty of conscience.” Coleman had already
spoken to Ruvigny on the subject; the ambassador was not enthusiastic,
but he admitted the advantages that would ensue to France. Twenty
thousand pounds, thought Coleman, would ensure success; and success
would be “the greatest blow to the Protestant religion here that ever
it received since its birth.”[72] La Chaize answered briefly, promising
to give the matter consideration and desiring to hear more from his
correspondent.[73] Coleman rejoined in his last letter to the confessor
that has been preserved. He engaged to write whenever occasion arose,
and sent La Chaize a cipher for use between themselves; and for greater
security he would write between lines of trivial import in lemon
juice, legible when held to the fire. Only that part of the business
not relating to religion could be discussed with Ruvigny, continued
Coleman; and then, coming to the point, “We have here a mighty work
upon our hands, no less then the conversion of three kingdoms, and by
that perhaps the subduing of a pestilent heresy, which has domineered
over great part of this northern world a long time; there were never
such hopes of success since the death of Queen Mary as now in our days,
when God has given us a prince who is become (may I say, a miracle)
zealous of being the author and instrument of so glorious a work....
That which we rely upon most, next to God Almighty’s providence and the
favour of my master the duke, is the mighty mind of his most Christian
Majesty.”[74]
The significance of this is beyond doubt. It has been the custom of
historians, quoting the last passage alone, to belittle its importance
as the exaggerated outpouring of a zealot’s fancy. Taken with the
context it is seen to be something very different. The words only
express more clearly what was often hinted at and half outspoken in the
correspondence which led up to this point. Jesuit agents and the Duke
of York’s confidential secretary, for such in fact Coleman was, had
something more to do than to entertain themselves by writing at length
and in cipher to all parts of Europe with no other intention than to
express their hopes for the propagation of the Catholic faith in a
manner quite detached from politics, or to discuss political schemes
as matters of speculative interest; such things are not done for
amusement. Coleman’s phrases are pregnant with real meaning. They are
to be understood literally. The design which his letters sketch was in
substance the same as that afterwards put into practice when the Duke
of York ascended the throne as James II. Under the guise of a demand
for liberty of worship, it was a design to turn England into a Roman
Catholic state in the interest of France and the Jesuits, and by the
aid of French money. The remark of Halifax that dissenters only plead
for conscience to obtain power was eminently true of his own time. No
less true was it that those who separated themselves from the religion
of the state aimed at the subversion of it.[75]
High treason, be it remarked, is the only crime known to the law
in which the intention and not the act constitutes the offence.
The famous statute of Edward III had defined as the most important
treasons the compassing or imagining of the king’s death, the levying
of war against the king, and adherence to the king’s enemies within
the realm or without.[76] An act passed at the height of power of
one of the most powerful monarchs who have reigned in England was
insufficient for the needs of those whose position was less secure.
The severity of repeated enactments under Henry VIII to create new
treasons, and perhaps the difficulty of meeting attempts against the
crown by statutory definition, rendered this method of supplying the
want unpopular and unsatisfactory. So in the reign of Queen Elizabeth
the extension of the statute of Edward III by construction became
the settled mode of procedure. With the lapse of time the scope of
constructive treason was extended. Coke laid down that an overt act
witnessing the intention to depose or imprison the king or to place
him in the power of another was sufficient to prove the compassing and
imagining his death. Conspiracy with a foreign prince to invade the
realm by open hostility, declared by an overt act, is evidence of the
same.[77] Hale held conspiracy, the logical end of which must be the
death or deposition of the king, even though this were not the direct
intention, to be an act of high treason. To levy war against the king
is an overt act of treason; conspiracy to levy war is thus an overt
act of treason by compassing the king’s death. To restrain the king by
force, to compel him to yield certain demands, to extort legislation by
terror and a strong hand, in fact all movements tending to deprive him
of his kingly government, whether of the nature of personal pressure or
of riot and disturbance in the country, are acts of treason. To collect
arms, to gather company, to write letters are evidence of the intention
of the same.[78] Treason by adherence to the king’s enemies was equally
expansive. Thus it has been held, says Sir James Stephen, “that to
imagine the king’s death means to intend anything whatever which under
any circumstances may possibly have a tendency, however remote, to
expose the king to personal danger or to the forcible deprivation of
any part of the authority incidental to his office.”[79] In 1678 a
question was put to the judges by the Attorney-General: “Whether it be
not high treason to endeavour to extirpate the religion established
in this country, and to introduce the Pope’s authority by combination
and assistance of foreign power?” The judges were unanimous in their
opinion that it was treason.[80] And in the case of Lord Preston in
1691 it was held that taking a boat at Surrey Stairs in Middlesex in
order to board a ship off the coast of Kent, and convey to the French
king papers containing information on the naval and military state
of England, with the purpose of helping him to invade the realm, was
an overt act of treason by compassing and imagining the death of the
king.[81]
Doubt cannot exist as to the dangerous consequence of the
correspondence carried on by Coleman. Under the most favourable
interpretation it reveals a design to accomplish again by means of
bribery what the English nation had already rejected as illegal and
unconstitutional, a deed which was said to have broken forty acts of
Parliament,[82] to give the sanction of authority to a religion which
was banned and to priests who were under doom of high treason. And the
most favourable interpretation is certainly not the most just. Those
“great designs ... to the utter ruin of the Protestant party,” which
should “drive away the Parliament and the Protestants ... and settle
in their employments the Catholics,” refuse such a colouring.[83] At
Coleman’s subsequent trial the Lord Chief Justice told him, “Your
design was to bring in Popery into England and to promote the interest
of the French king in this place.... Our religion was to be subverted,
Popery established, and the three kingdoms to be converted”;[84] and
what the Chief Justice said was true. Coleman and the party to which
he belonged had designed “to extirpate the religion established in
this country” by the assistance of money given by a foreign power.
Such an endeavour could not be undertaken without the commission of
high treason. By the theory of the constitution the king can do no
wrong. Much less can he do wrong to himself. He cannot be persuaded
to perform an act directed against his own person. Great persuasion
or importunity addressed to the king, says Hale, cannot be held an
act of treason, since an intention must be manifested to restrain or
influence him by force.[85] But the king cannot be supposed of his
free will to undertake measures having their end, according to the
construction of the statute, in the compassing of his own death. Nor
can he be supposed to be persuaded to such measures, for both cases
involve a contradiction of himself. No king can be guilty of high
treason. Except by Act of Parliament none in England can divest his
office of any of the full authority pertaining thereto. Persuasion of
the king to do so is by the nature of the case impossible, whether
it be in the form of money or other. Any one who plans a fundamental
change of the constitution, to be effected by money or other means
except by the constitutional action of Parliament, falls under the
penalty for treason none the less because he may hope for assistance
from the man who is king, since the king cannot be considered to assist
an unconstitutional change. Any one planning such a change, though
he intends to obtain the king’s assistance, acts against the king’s
authority as much as if he did not so intend, and is therefore guilty
of high treason. Of such possible changes the overthrow of the Church
of England is one, for the king cannot otherwise than constitutionally
join in the subversion of the church of which he is head, and which he
has sworn to maintain. If he is successfully persuaded to take part in
such an act, the persuasion must be regarded as tantamount to force,
for persuasion of the king to commit treason against himself is absurd.
And the position of a man declaring his intention to accomplish this
change is exactly that of Coleman and the Jesuit party in England.
There can be no doubt that the subjects who took part with Charles
II in the treaty of Dover were guilty of high treason, none the less
because the man who was king acted in concert with them. And similarly,
none the less because they expressed the intention of bribing the
king to assist their design, no doubt can exist that Coleman and his
associates were brought by their schemes under the penalty of the same
crime.
Such was the state of the Roman Catholic designs—the real Popish
Plot—in England at the close of the year 1675. The direction in
which they turned during the next three years is now to seek. At the
outset the chief part of the evidence fails. Until his arrest in
September 1678 Coleman continued his foreign correspondence,[86] but in
comparison with the letters of earlier date the portion of it preserved
is meagre indeed. Above all, no such exposition of his schemes as
Coleman sent to La Chaize exists to afford a clue to the tangled and
mysterious allusions with which his letters abound. The only two of
Coleman’s later correspondents whose letters are extant were St.
Germain and Cardinal Howard. The last written by St. Germain from
Paris bears the date October 15, 1678, but with this exception all his
letters belong to the year 1676. They are partly occupied with business
of slight connection with politics. A scheme of the Duchess of York for
the increase of an English Carmelite convent at Antwerp was pressed
upon the French court. Rambling intrigues undertaken for the purpose
finally succeeded in breaking down Louis XIV’s reluctance, the convent
was allowed to plant colonies in the French Netherlands, and the
irritation caused to the duchess by the delay was allayed by a splendid
present of diamonds made her in secret by the King of France.[87] St.
Germain’s letters also show that intrigues were being ceaselessly
carried on in the French and Jesuit interest throughout the year 1676
by Coleman and his party. They do not show at all clearly of what
nature those intrigues were. After the failure in England caused by
his indiscretion Coleman probably did not accord him full confidence.
St. Germain’s complaints of his treatment were constant; and he was
always in want of money.[88] Nor does the Italian correspondence throw
much greater light. Cardinal Howard’s letters extend with somewhat
longer intervals from January 1676 to the end of the following year.
They tell still less of the political intrigues. The business passing
through Howard’s hands was considerable. He was concerned with the
difficult business of keeping the Duke of York on good terms with the
Pope. Coleman’s endeavours to keep up the pretence that James was not
engaged to French schemes were not uniformly successful, and on the
death of Clement X Howard received definite orders from home to vote
in the conclave with the French party. Yet the task was accomplished
with some adroitness. Howard was able to persuade the Pope that the
marriage of Mary of York to the Prince of Orange was not due to her
father’s fault, and on another occasion obtained a letter from James
to Innocent XI of such sweetness that “the good man in reading it
could not abstain from tears.” Sinister rumours were afloat at Rome of
the duke’s Jesuit connection, and repeated warnings were sent that,
if they proved true, his cause would be ruined. There were even grave
doubts as to the genuine character of his faith. For some time the
troublesome conduct of an English Protestant agent at Florence occupied
Howard’s attention. The Inquisition bestirred itself in the matter. A
triangular correspondence between Howard, Coleman, and Lord Arundel
resulted in the man’s recall and led them to debate the possibility of
a match between the Princess Anne and the son of the Duke of Florence.
Another source of continual trouble was Prince Rinaldo d’Este in his
quest for a cardinal’s hat. While his niece, the Duchess of York,
backed by a special envoy from the court of Modena, was worrying the
French ambassador in London for Louis XIV’s support, Coleman applied
directly to Howard at Rome. Promises of consideration for the matter
were all that could be obtained. The prince, who had no claims
other than those of family, afterwards gained his object by constant
importunity. Courtin had information that the Spanish ambassador had
offered the Duke of York the whole credit of Spain for the prosecution
of Rinaldo’s suit if he would quit the French interest, and therefore
could not risk the result of a definite refusal; but neither Paris nor
Rome manifested at this time the slightest intention to support the
Modenese pretensions.[89] Cardinal Howard was in fact the official
correspondent of the English Catholic party at Rome, and beyond the
general business of helping in the amelioration of Catholic conditions
and the improvement of the relations between different sections of the
party, had little to do with particular schemes that might be fostered
by one or another. Thus the literary evidence on the development of
Roman Catholic policy in England is of the slightest. Accessible
documents give little information. Nothing can be known exactly. The
course of events between the years 1675 and 1678 cannot be elucidated
by aid of the evidence of those who shaped it. The argument must be
from the known to the unknown.
To start with, it is known that Coleman’s correspondence did not cease,
as he stated, in the year 1675. On the contrary, it was maintained down
to the day of his arrest and even beyond.[90] Among others it is almost
certain that he continued his negotiation with Père de la Chaize.[91]
The subject of this later correspondence is debatable. It may have
been concerned with a design again to establish the Roman Catholic
religion in England. Or it may not; and in this case Coleman’s letters
may have been filled with matters of less importance, such as are to
be found in those of Cardinal Howard. This alternative however is
hardly tenable. Not only are there allusions in St. Germain’s letters
inexplicable except on the supposition that they refer to the hopes
of the Catholics for the re-establishment of their religion, but the
position of Coleman and the Jesuits rendered a continuance of their
schemes virtually necessary. Early in 1676 St. Germain wrote that he
had urged on La Chaize the absolute necessity of “vigorous counsels
... to produce success in the traffic of the Catholics”; in these, he
said, the Duke of York took the lead, and that by the inspiration of
Coleman. A month later he added that Coleman was incurring reproof
at Paris on account of the violent measures he was said to advocate.
The secretary of the English ambassador tried to ingratiate himself
with the Jesuit by professing great zeal for the duke; was he sincere,
asked St. Germain, and “has the duke all along trusted him with the
secret of his affair”? On Ruvigny’s return to Paris from his embassy
St. Germain had an interview with him. Ruvigny expressed the opinion
that the intrigues of Coleman and the Jesuits would prove fatal to
James. Their conduct was detestable not only to Protestants and the
government, but to a certain section of the Catholics also, “because,”
said the ambassador, “they would introduce an authority without limits
and push Mr. Coleman to make such strange steps which must precipitate
them into destruction.”[92] Had the policy of which St. Germain was
an agent been wholly without reproach, it would be hard to ascribe
an adequate meaning to expressions like these. Coleman’s anxiety to
deny his correspondence would be equally difficult of explanation.
Curious too would be the comment of Pomponne, the French minister for
foreign affairs; for he undertook to prove the absurdity of the charges
against Coleman by remarking in ridicule that he had even been accused
of intriguing with Père de la Chaize, a fact the truth of which was
perfectly known to him.[93] The situation of affairs argues with still
greater force. The Jesuits were beyond all others the most militant
order of the church. They formed the advance guard in the march against
heresy. They had already borne, and were again to bear, the brunt of
the battle. It was their particular business to carry war into the
enemy’s camp, for this was the reason as well as the excuse for their
existence. They must work, fight, intrigue against the heretic and the
heretic state, or leave their mission unfulfilled. And Coleman was in
the same position. He was a pupil of the Jesuits, and under the guise
of secretary to the Duchess of York maintained an active correspondence
with agents abroad in the interest of their chief hope, the duke.
Intrigue was his business, and his conduct of it was made more eager
by the keenness of a convert. No one in the least acquainted with the
history of the Jesuits and with the writings of their apologists can
believe that their method of procedure was by conversion of individuals
alone. The society has always been in its essence political, and in
the troubled times of the seventeenth century political action of the
exiled, the feared, the reputed traitor was seldom calculated to avoid
the retribution of the laws by which those against whom it was directed
were fenced. The penal laws were harsh, but harshness was of necessity;
and the very necessity of their harshness begot retaliation; while
retaliation completed the circle by driving into conflict with the law
many who would have been glad to obey in peace and nurse conscience in
quiet.
The class of Catholics whom Ruvigny found opposed to the Jesuit
policy was large. At the close of the seventeenth century it probably
comprised a majority of Roman Catholics in England. These were they
who would take the oath of allegiance to their sovereign, holding it
no bar to their faith, the followers of Blackloe, of Peter Walsh, of
John Sergeant, the men who thought it no shame to liberalise belief
by divorcing it from statecraft, the adherents of the church but not
of the court of Rome.[94] The Jesuits had already once in the reign
of Charles II interposed to prevent Roman Catholics in England from
bettering their position, and when persecution fell on these in the
evil days of Oates’ grandeur, they showed to the astonishment of the
society that it had earned small gratitude from them.[95] On the
question of the oath of allegiance the English Catholic body was
divided throughout the century. Catholics were willing to prove their
loyalty by taking the oath, but this proof they were not allowed
to give. The fruitless concessions offered by Charles I showed
conclusively that despite all protestations the papal party would not
abandon the deposing power. Whenever the movement in favour of the
oath seemed to be gaining strength, the whole weight of the papal
court and of the Society of Jesus was thrown into the scale against
it. It was probably the only point upon which the two were at this
time in agreement. The Earls of Bristol, Berkshire, Cardigan, Lord
Stafford, and Lord Petre actually took the oath, and of these, horrid
thought to the Jesuits, two had for their confessors Benedictines; Lord
Arundel, and for a time the Duke of York, stood firm in refusal.[96]
The division between the Catholics was purely political; it marked
those on whose loyalty reliance could be placed from those who must
be suspected of disloyalty; and the former class suffered for what
the latter alone undertook. The line lay between the Catholic and the
Jesuit parties, between those who would be satisfied with liberty of
conscience and those who would not. Undoubtedly the Catholic body in
England was much weakened thereby, and government owed not a little
to the moderate Catholics; but however much the execution of Catholic
policy was hampered, its direction was not diverted. Abstinence
from political action was the basis of the pure Catholic position.
The Jesuits held the wires of politics in their hands and directed
the policy. They too affirmed purity of faith to be their motive.
“Prosecution for matters of conscience,” remarks Halifax, “is very
unjust; but great care ought to be taken that private conscience is
not pleaded against the security of the public constitution. For when
private conscience comes to be a justifiable rule of action, a man may
be a traitor to the state and plead conscience for treason.”[97]
Thus it may be accepted that Coleman’s correspondence between the
years 1675 and 1678 was not of an entirely innocent character, but was
concerned with matters of perilous import for the prosperity of the
government and of the Church of England. Since it was not dropped, the
negotiation must have proceeded either in the same line as that in
which it lay at the end of 1675 or in another. Did the design drag on
a weary course in the feeble hope of finding a parliament congenial
to Roman Catholic ideas and of obtaining the king’s support in return
for a substantial sum of money: or did the Catholic politicians change
their tactics to discover a better opening? If the argument is thus
far sound, answer can be made without hesitation. Early in that year
Coleman and his party had found that in the event of a dissolution of
Parliament they could not hope for a third declaration of indulgence
and the reappointment of the Duke of York to the offices which he had
formerly held. The design was thereupon altered to a scheme for bribing
the existing parliament to petition for the recall to office of James,
and to pass an act for general liberty of conscience. Coleman’s ideas
were based on two miscalculations. He understood neither the temper of
the English people nor the character of Charles II. The king was to him
an amiable debauchee, caring only for his pleasures and his pocket.
A sufficient present of money would induce him to retire from the
management of affairs and console himself with his mistresses, leaving
the reins of power for his brother to handle. As most men of his own
and after times have thought the same, Coleman’s mistake is perhaps
excusable. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not money, but
power was what Charles wanted, and in the use of power, not of money,
he was skilled. Any plan grounded upon this conception of his character
was foredoomed to failure. Equally grave was the other miscalculation,
and in this too Coleman was not peculiar. A man looking back on the
history of the seventeenth century, and guided by the story of the
Revolution, can say with assurance that any attempt in its latter half
to restore Catholicism in England must have been hopeless of success.
The nation which drove out James II would have driven out another
for the like cause. Charles himself had learnt this in the best of
schools. The fact may have been plain to clear-sighted statesmen, but
to the mass a restoration of the old religion was looked on as among
events that were more than possible. Here was the root of the deep
hatred of Catholicism cherished by the English nation. Not only was
the event hoped by the one side, but it was feared by the other. And
the hopeful party had more reason to hope than the fearful to fear.
Englishmen might with justice anticipate intrigues and even plots, but
never their success. But the Jesuit, whose education was continental
and whose ideas were traditional, was unaware of the change that had
passed over England. He was still inspired by the genius and followed
the example of the dead Robert Parsons. His mind was filled with the
great instances of past times. Henry VIII, Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth
had drawn their subjects with them like sheep from one church into
another. Within the memory of man a wave of Puritanism had swept over
the country, tottered, and broken. There followed a loyal reaction and
a court in which strong elements were Catholic. The people who had so
willingly followed their leaders before might be expected to do so
again. The hope of rebuilding the ruins of Jerusalem was strong in the
belief of its possibility.[98] Such notions render the undertaking
of Coleman and his party intelligible. But they were not blinded by
prejudice to the obvious meaning of facts passing within range of their
own observation. One scheme had already been abandoned: the second was
to be abandoned now. For if the former had proved impracticable, much
more so was the latter. To ask the House of Commons in the year 1676
to pass an act of religious toleration and to petition in favour of
the Duke of York was to suggest that it should contradict its nature.
The strongest characteristic of the Cavalier Parliament was its hatred
of Roman Catholicism. It had already forced the retractation of two
declarations of indulgence, and had on several occasions instituted
proceedings against the Catholics. Coleman’s experience perhaps
led him to ascribe an undue importance to the influence of money.
Dishonest members of the country party might accept bribes from the
French king when the course which they were asked to take would be to
the embarrassment of government, but not all the gold of France would
induce them to put a weapon of such strength into the grasp of the
court as to petition for what they had repeatedly prevented it from
accomplishing. Popery and tyranny, it was said, went hand in hand. It
must soon have been seen by the Catholic managers that such a policy
was hopeless. If this was not evident at first, it must have become
more than plain when early in April 1676 the Duke of York took the
momentous step of ceasing to go to the royal chapel, and all England
knew that he was a Catholic. It was the first occasion for a long
time on which he had acted not in consonance with the ideas of France.
Rome was delighted and recognised him as a true son, but elsewhere the
news was not hailed with such joy. James had obtained his brother’s
consent only with difficulty. Pomponne marked the withdrawal of the
declaration of indulgence as the beginning of the troubles that crowded
on the royal authority in England. The duke’s declaration created a
notable addition. The effect of his move was instantaneous. Throughout
the country the feeling roused was intense, the penal laws were once
more put into execution, and Charles told the French ambassador that if
he were to die the duke would not be allowed to remain in the country
eight days.[99] It is perhaps to this time that the abandonment of the
second scheme sketched by Coleman to La Chaize should be referred.[100]
There can at all events be no doubt that its impracticable nature soon
became manifest. It was therefore along another line that the design
proceeded from the summer of 1676 onwards.
Since the year 1670 various ways of procuring success for the Catholic
religion have thus been considered, adopted, and abandoned. The policy
of the Dover treaty had been led by Charles. Had it been successful
he would have been left at the head of a Catholic state, controlled
and compact. That had been blown to the winds. The declaration of
indulgence, faint resemblance of the plan which was to have been
put into execution, was the direct result of royal authority. With
its failure the king’s leadership in the last movement of the
counter-reformation ceased. Then followed the two schemes which Coleman
related to La Chaize. In the one the motive power was to be the king,
backed by the ministers and Parliament; in the other Parliament,
working on the king and supported by him. When these were deserted,
practically every arrangement in which the king could figure as chief
had been tried. The game of the Dover treaty had been opened by the
king, backed by French force; that of the declaration by the king’s
move alone; Coleman had suggested action by the king and Parliament,
by Parliament and the king. Unless one of these moves was made again,
Charles would stand in the background of the game; none would be made
again, for each had been proved ineffective. Even by the last two the
object had been to raise the authority not of the king, but of the Duke
of York. The only remaining possibility was that the duke should be
not only the object, but the leader of the game. He was the piece with
which the move had to be made.
In what direction then could the move be made? So far from being an
assistance to the Catholic movement, Charles was now a direct hindrance
to it. He had abandoned the Catholic interest as a political weapon,
and had engaged in a policy of Anglican predominance. Undoubtedly
the design must be conducted behind his back, but it was impossible
not to take count of his position and influence in the state. Three
courses were left open to the managers of the movement. The king
might be forced to take action on their side, or he might be thrust
away from it, or he might be gradually elbowed into a position where
his personal action would be negligible. The last course had already
been considered. During the winter of 1674 and spring of the next
year Lord Berkshire and Sir William Throckmorton had submitted the
advisability of adopting a platform, the chief planks in which should
be the debauchery and political profligacy of the king and the sobriety
and ability of the Duke of York. By this means they hoped that all
the supporters of order and moderation would be drawn to the duke,
James would be surrounded by a compact and influential party composed
of Catholics and Protestants alike, the whole management of affairs
would eventually fall into his hands, and the king would be left beyond
the range of politics, ousted from their control, contented with the
otiose life of a peaceful rake.[101] This however had been discarded
for the plans submitted by Coleman to Père de la Chaize, in turn to
be relegated to the domain of untried political suggestion. The scope
for the design was therefore reduced to the alternatives: Charles must
either be thrust on one side or be compelled to take action in it
himself. As he had already been tried as a leader and had failed, the
latter course would mean that the plan should run without him, until at
the moment of success he should be forced by the necessity of events to
throw in his lot with the movement. In the former case the course of
events would be exactly similar, save that the king would not be taken
into the scheme at any point, and the movement would be carried to
completion without him. That both of these courses involved treasonable
schemes is hardly open to doubt. The logical end of the negotiations
in either case was a _coup d’état_, in whatever degree, a revolutionary
measure.
In March of the year 1679 the Earl of Berkshire lay dying in Paris.
A month later a man passing under the name of John Johnson landed at
Folkestone, and was arrested at Dover on his way to London. He was a
certain Colonel John Scott, for whose arrival the authorities had been
on the watch for some time past. Whether or no he was the same Colonel
Scott who acted as an English spy in Holland during the second Dutch
war it is impossible to say. Latterly he had been attached to the
household of the Prince de Condé, and had commanded a troop of horse
in the French service.[102] Subsequent events make it seem likely that
orders for the Colonel’s apprehension were issued by the secretary
of state, owing to the belief that he had information of value to
impart. To the officers at Dover he ascribed his return to England to a
desire to see his native country, but when he reached London he told a
different tale. As the Earl of Berkshire lay on his deathbed, he sent
for Colonel Scott, who had vainly called a famous physician to his
aid, and bade him take a message to the king. There had been a foolish
and an ill design carried on in England, he said. He was a good Roman
Catholic, and in the Catholic religion he was minded to die; but some
of his faith were swayed by a giddy madness, and this he blamed. He was
neither a contriver nor a great supporter of the business. He would
not have had a hand in it but that Lord Arundel, Coleman, and others
had told him that it could not miscarry, and that, if he did not stand
with them, evil would be thought of him. That he ought long before to
have disclosed what he knew he was well aware; personal duty and the
allegiance of every man to his sovereign should have constrained him
to speak; there were bad men in the matter, Lord Bellasis and others,
who spoke ill of the king and very irreverently. But to his knowledge
there was never talk of killing the king; if there had been, he would
have spoken out. Then Colonel Scott asked who those others were; but
Lord Berkshire begged for no questions, repeating, “If I had known of
approaching dangers to the king, I should have told him.” Presently the
sick man began to sigh and to weep. “Friend,” said he, “I see things
will go as you will. For God’s sake promise me you will find some way
to tell the king every word I say, and that though some passages in
letters of mine may look a little oddly, I would have run any hazard
rather than have suffered any injury to have been done to his Majesty’s
person. ’Tis true I would have been glad to see all England Catholic,
but not by the way of some ill men.” Let the king have nothing to do
with those he had named, nor with Stafford, nor Powis, nor Petre. Yet
he hoped and believed that matter would not be found against them to
take away their lives.[103] If Colonel Scott spoke truth, then the
foregoing argument is certainly not quite baseless. And reason may be
given for supposing this to be the case. At the time when Scott gave
his information the fact of Berkshire’s correspondence with Coleman
was not publicly known. Coleman had already been tried and executed,
and at the trial a number of his letters were read as evidence against
him, but among them none from Lord Berkshire. Until the publication of
the correspondence by order of the House of Commons this was the only
channel by which particular knowledge of it reached the world at large.
The other letters were not published until December 1680. It must
therefore be supposed that Scott obtained his knowledge of the earl’s
correspondence privately. The only persons who had private knowledge
on the subject were Lord Berkshire, the officials in whose custody
the letters lay, and Coleman. Coleman was dead before Colonel Scott
came into England, and the secretary of state by whom he was examined
would have been most unlikely to furnish him with materials. It must
therefore have been from Lord Berkshire himself that he obtained his
information. But, it may be suggested, Scott may have drawn his bow at
a venture, knowing merely that Berkshire was a prominent Catholic, and
using his name as likely to gain credence for his story. The weight
against this suggestion is heavy. If Scott had been for all he knew
inventing the letters of which he spoke, he would surely have said more
about them than he did. To mention them in so casual a manner would
have been useless. The simplicity and directness of his relation points
in this matter to its substantial truth. Another proof of genuineness
has still greater force, the extreme moderation of the whole narrative.
A scoundrel following in the track of Oates and Bedloe would never
have concocted such a story. So far from being to his advantage, what
Scott said might actually put him into a most unpleasant predicament.
The chief point of the plot which Oates had discovered was the king’s
assassination. The chief agents in it were said to be the Jesuits.
All the informers who came after spoke to the same effect and tried
to spice their tales still more highly. Scott said not a word about
the Jesuits. He stated on his sole authority, one of the men who might
be expected to know, that no harm was intended to the king. To some
extent what he said is borne out by Berkshire’s letters. Passages in
them must certainly have looked “a little oddly” to the government, and
perhaps contained matters technically treasonable, but in nothing do
they suggest any personal danger to the king. No one looking for the
rewards of a professional informer would have acted as Colonel Scott.
Nor did he ever seek these. He never came forward to give evidence
against those condemned for the Plot. His name does not appear in the
list of secret service money, doled out to the shameless witnesses for
the crown. Nothing more is known of him.[104] His information may be
accepted as genuine. Clearly then there was some truth in the discovery
of a Roman Catholic conspiracy in the year 1678. What Lord Berkshire
said sketches its essence. Oates was not after all aiming shafts
entirely at random. During his stay in the Jesuit seminaries in Spain
and Flanders he must have obtained an inkling of what was in the air,
and proceeded to act upon the information to his best advantage. That
the whole truth had little resemblance to his tale of fire and massacre
is certain, but the tale was not wholly devoid of truth. His vast
superstructure of lies was not without a slight basis of solid fact.
This conclusion can in some degree be supported from other sources.
Any attempt to reconstruct the part played by the Catholic reformation
in the years preceding the appearance of Oates must be chiefly
conjectural. Scarcely any evidence on the subject is known, but what
more comes to hand points in the same direction. In December 1680, as
he lay in the Tower under sentence for high treason, Lord Stafford
sent a message by Dr. Burnet and the Earl of Carlisle to the House of
Lords that he would confess all he knew of the Catholic intrigues. He
was admitted to speak from the bar of the House. Unfortunately his
statement does not refer at all to the later years of the movement,
for when he came to describe the project debated between Shaftesbury
and the Duke of York for a coalition between the Catholic and country
parties to obtain a dissolution of Parliament and general toleration,
Stafford was stopped hastily at the mention of the great Whig leader’s
name. To a few more questions put he simply answered no, and was
presently sent back to the Tower. Cut short as it was, his account
is of some value. He admitted that he had endeavoured to alter the
established faith, and gave some details of the meeting held early
in Charles II’s reign at the Earl of Bristol’s house to discuss the
oath of allegiance. He had always disapproved the policy of the
declarations of indulgence, and marked them as causes of the downfall
of his religion. At one time he almost decided to leave England and
live beyond sea. Others however were not of his opinion. The Papists
and Jesuits had been far too open in their conduct, he said, and
he had even seen a priest in the House of Lords standing below the
bar. All his fellow peers, excepting the Earl of Bristol, were in
favour of toleration for the Catholics. There was even talk of a
restitution of the church lands, but Stafford warned the Duke of York
that they were in so many hands as to render any attempt of the kind
impracticable.[105] All this does not amount to much; nevertheless
it shows a drift in one direction. Other straws are floated down the
same stream. In the summer of 1678, when it was doubtful whether or
no England would declare war on Louis XIV, Catholics in Ireland were
discussing the chances in that event of a rebellion in their country
aided by France. Calculations were made on the strength of the French
navy, and there was talk of a rising in Scotland as well.[106] There
were Jesuit missioners in Scotland, poor and hard worked, and it is
possible that Jesuit influence had been concerned in organising the
rebellion there in the year 1666;[107] while in 1679 there was serious
consideration of a movement in Ireland under Colonel Fitzpatrick, who
crossed to Brussels during the Duke of York’s exile there to consult
with him.[108] More definite information can be obtained from the
case of Père de la Colombière. The celebrated Jesuit preacher, famed
for his propagation of the cult of the Sacred Heart, was living in
England at the time of the Popish Plot panic, and acting as confessor
to the Duchess of York, Two Frenchmen, Olivier du Fiquet or Figuère and
Francois Verdier, accused him to the House of Lords of extraordinary
activity in spreading the Catholic religion. La Colombière had
concealed himself, but was discovered, arrested, and shipped out of
the country. Besides the general charge of caring for the growth of
his faith, he was accused of a close connection with Coleman and
Père de la Chaize. In attempting the conversion of Fiquet, who was
a Protestant, he had used as an argument that the Duke of York was
openly, and the king in secret, Catholic by faith. Parliament, he
said, should not always be master; in a short time all England would
be changed.[109] Supposing that these men had wished to make their
accusation a source of gain, they would have charged the confessor with
being a party to the king’s assassination, or at least to the plot in
general. Since they did not, their statements may be taken as true.
Nothing dishonourable was alleged against La Colombière, but he plainly
harboured the expectation of seeing England before long Catholic. His
hope was shared by others; for in advising on the establishment of a
nunnery by the Yorkshire baronet, Sir Thomas Gascoigne, the Jesuit John
Pracid wrote on June 9, 1678 to suggest the insertion of a clause in
the deed, depending on the condition: “If England be converted.”[110]
At most the evidence is slight, but it seems clear that the Jesuit
party was indulging in hopes considerably more active than they could
naturally have been if wholly unsupported by any plan of action.
While the schemes of which these traces are to be found were in
the air, Oates was studying and being expelled from Valladolid
and St. Omers. There were in Flanders twenty-seven English Roman
Catholic seminaries; five belonged to the Jesuits, and of these the
establishment at St. Omers was the largest. It contained some thirty
professed fathers and a hundred and twenty scholars.[111] Probably the
best education in Europe was provided for the boys, and life there
was comfortable; but to the unwilling the seminary became a prison.
Pressure was put upon them to become priests, and communication with
the outside world was carefully restricted. In a letter preserved
from this time a Welsh boy, placed in the college by a wicked uncle,
wrote secretly to his father begging piteously to redeem him from his
great captivity.[112] Here, unless he made a prodigious guess, the
most fortunate in history, Oates must have acquired hints dropped on
the subject of the movement in England. It is not very profitable to
speculate on the question exactly how much truth his vivid imagination
concealed. Possibly a demonstration of force was suggested, organised
by the great Catholic nobles and relying on support for the Duke of
York to be gained in the navy. The fleet was at the moment being
strengthened by the addition of several capital ships, and in the
spring of 1678 was at full strength in sea service, with complete
stores for six months.[113] If this were the case, if Arundel,
Bellasis, and Stafford were implicated in the affair, but nothing
definitely arranged so soon as the autumn of 1678, Oates’ diffident
denunciation of these peers and the evident falsehoods which he,
Bedloe, and Dugdale afterwards told in their statements regarding
the Popish army, would be sufficiently accounted for. Or again, it
is possible that the design included help from France in money, and
perhaps the use of the English regiments employed in the French
service. Many of their officers were Irishmen, and most Catholics.[114]
For this it would be necessary to wait until peace was definitely
concluded in order that both men and money might be liberated from the
calls on them. Such a supposition would go some way to explain the
“dark, suspicious letter” seized at Coleman’s house after his arrest,
and bearing the date September 18, 1678. The writer, posting from
Paris, informed Coleman that the peace had broken all their plans, for
the French pretended that since its conclusion they had no need of his
party. Yet there was hope from another quarter. Let an agent known to
him be sent over. “To put our traffic afoot,” continues the letter,
“it’s absolutely necessary that my friend come speedily over to you,
to converse with you and our other friends, because his measures are
so well taken in Italy, that we can’t miss to establish this commodity
better from those parts than from any here at present, tho’ hereafter
we may find means and helps from hence too. But it’s most certain,
now is the time or never to put things in order to establish it with
you.”[115] The letter seems to point to hopes of early aid from
France, since disappointed. In this case Père de la Chaize, or whoever
managed the affair in France, may have thought that the gold of French
Catholics could be put to better purpose than to assist their fellows
of the faith in England in a forlorn hope. The likelihood of such a
desertion is to some extent supported by the refusal of the French
government in November 1678 to take any steps to assist the Duke of
York or his party.[116] But from the scraps of evidence obtainable it
is plain that the design, supposing it to have been such as is here
sketched, had not advanced beyond the stage of negotiation, ready to be
construed into immediate action.
According to the information which Lord Berkshire gave to Colonel
Scott, no harm was intended to the king; at least he knew of none. This
may well have been; but at the same time it is necessary to remember
that Charles was at the moment the greatest impediment to the chance
of Catholic success. He was little older than his brother, and enjoyed
far better health. As far as could be judged, he was by no means likely
to be the first to die. He had definitely adopted a policy adverse to
the Catholics. If he were to die, the charge of revolutionary dealing
would lie at the door of those who should attempt to keep the Duke of
York from the throne. So long as he lived, any attempt to restore the
Roman Catholic religion in England, certainly any attempt made behind
his back, would be a matter of high treason and against the interests
of peace and established order. This much only can be said with safety,
that the brothers hated each other,[117] that the death of the king was
talked of in Jesuit seminaries on the continent,[118] and that James
was not above tolerating, if he did not direct, an attempt to murder
the husband of his daughter.[119]
CHAPTER III
OATES AGAIN
Thus the Popish Plot was introduced to the world, “a transaction which
had its root in hell and its branches among the clouds.”[120] While
Charles proceeded on his walk, Chiffinch, his confidential valet,
refused Kirkby admittance into the royal bedchamber, not knowing his
business. Kirkby therefore waited in the gallery till Charles returned
and summoned him to ask the grounds of such loyal fears. Kirkby
replied that two men, by name Pickering and Grove, were watching for
an opportunity to shoot him, and that should they fail, Sir George
Wakeman, the queen’s physician, was employed to use poison.[121] Oates
and Tonge had committed this piece of information to paper for him the
day before. Asked how he knew this, Kirkby answered that he had the
news from a friend, who was ready to appear with his papers whenever
the king should command. He had waited to give his warning the day
before, but had failed. Charles ordered him to return with his friend
in the evening. Accordingly between eight and nine o’clock Kirkby
escorted Dr. Tonge to Whitehall. The doctor brought with him a copy of
the forty-three articles and solemnly presented it to the king, with a
humble request for its safe keeping. He entreated that only the “most
private cabinet” should be acquainted with the contents; otherwise the
secret would leak out, full discovery of the plot would be prevented,
and the lives of the discoverers put in hazard. But if under the
guise of chemical students they might have access to his Majesty until
seizure of the conspirators’ letters showed beyond doubt the truth of
their story, all would be well. Tonge afterwards complained that full
discovery was rendered impossible because the king did not take his
advice. Charles was too busy or too apathetic to attend to the matter
himself. He was going to Windsor on the morrow, he said, and would
leave the inquiry to Lord Treasurer Danby, on whose ability and honour
he placed all reliance.[122] Whence did the papers come to Tonge? he
asked. The doctor returned he had found them under the wainscot in
Sir Richard Barker’s house; he did not know the author, but suspected
him to be a man who had once or twice been there in his absence and
had formerly discoursed with him on such matters as appeared in the
articles. Of his condition too Tonge was uncertain, but thought he had
been among the Jesuits; perhaps, he suggested, the man had been set
on by secular priests or the Jansenists.[123] Much the same story was
told next day to the Earl of Danby. Tonge and Kirkby called on him
in the afternoon, and Kirkby, introducing the doctor, was requested
to leave. The Lord Treasurer had read the information overnight and
proceeded to examine Tonge on the subject. Were the papers originals?
No, they were copies of the doctor’s writing, the originals being in
his custody. He did not know the author, but guessed who he was. Did
he know where to find this man? No, but he had lately seen him two or
three times in the street and thought it likely they might meet again
before long.[124] Many were Dr. Tonge’s falsehoods in order to raise
an air of sufficient mystery. Three or four days later he returned to
Danby with the information that his guess at the authorship of the
papers was correct; nevertheless for secrecy’s sake he was not to give
the name, since if the fact were to become known the informer would be
murdered by the Papists. Danby asked some more particulars. Did the
doctor know Pickering and honest William, as Oates had called Grove,
who were named as the king’s assassins? Certainly; he could point them
out waiting their murderous chance in St. James’ Park. He did not know
their lodging, but would find it out and inform the earl; for Danby
insisted that they should be arrested forthwith. Leaving a gentleman of
his household in London in communication with Tonge, Danby drove down
to Windsor and told the king all that had passed. He urged that one of
the secretaries of state should issue a warrant for the apprehension
of the dangerous persons and that the whole matter should be brought
before the council, but Charles would not hear of it. On the contrary,
he commanded Danby not even to mention the affair to the Duke of
York, only saying that he would take great care of himself till more
was known. The Treasurer left Windsor for his house at Wimbledon and
sent directions that Lloyd, the gentleman whom he had trusted, should
bring him whatever news occurred.[125] Meanwhile Oates was consorting
with his Jesuit acquaintances, and even obtained supplies from them;
somewhat to their discredit, seeing that he had twice been expelled
from Jesuit colleges.[126] In the intervals he concocted additional
information, which Tonge took to Kirkby to copy and Kirkby gave to
Lloyd for Danby’s perusal.
Despite Tonge’s assurance that Pickering and Grove might be captured
in St. James’ Park with their guns, the inquiry seemed as far from
reaching solid ground as ever. All that the doctor could do was to
point out Pickering to Lloyd in the chapel at Somerset House. It was
offered as an excuse for Grove’s absence that he had a cold. Something
better than this was obviously required. So one night Tonge went to
Wimbledon himself and informed Danby that the assassins were bound for
Windsor the next morning; he would arrange for Lloyd to travel in the
same coach with them and procure their arrest on arrival. The Treasurer
started at once and slept that night at Windsor, laying his plans for
the capture; but when the coach drove in, lo! Danby’s gentleman stepped
out alone. The others had been prevented from coming by an unforeseen
accident. Within two days at furthest however, as Lloyd brought word
from Tonge, they would be sure to come. Curiously enough the ruffians
failed a second time. On this occasion they were riding and one of the
horses had hurt his shoulder. The most that Tonge could manage was by
way of addition to the information already lodged. Although Pickering
and Grove had been stopped from attacking the king at Windsor, they
had all but made the attempt in London. Unfortunately the flint of
Pickering’s pistol was loose and he dared not fire: and for this he
suffered a penance of thirty lashes. The story was afterwards improved,
for Pickering had missed a rare chance not only once, but three times.
Now his flint was loose, on another occasion he had no powder in the
pan, on a third he had loaded with bullets only and no powder. It might
be suspected too that the discovery of the plot was no longer a secret;
for Oates, going one day to see Whitebread, the Jesuit provincial,
had been met with abuse as a traitor and even with blows. Clearly
the Duke of York, who had seen Kirkby come from his first interview
with the king, had mistaken him for Oates and told his confessor of
the accident.[127] The doctor’s efforts were vain. By no device could
Charles be moved to take interest in the matter. Danby was alarmed by
the idea that he was the only man beside his master to whom Tonge’s
disclosures were known, thinking perhaps that if ill came it might go
hard with himself, and urged that they might be communicated to others;
but the king had already come to the conclusion that the conspiracy
was fictitious, and after the ridiculous excuses offered by Tonge for
the absence of the supposed assassins was all the more positive in his
refusal to order a formal inquiry. He should alarm all England, he
said, and put thoughts of killing him into the minds of people who had
no such notions before.[128]
Oates and Tonge now planned a bolder stroke. On August 30 Danby
received news from Tonge, for Oates was at this time still unknown
to him, that letters telling of treasonable designs had been sent to
Father Bedingfield, the Duke of York’s Jesuit confessor, and might
be intercepted at the Windsor post-office. Danby instantly returned
to Windsor and showed Tonge’s letter to the king. He was met by the
announcement that Bedingfield had already been at the post-office.
The confessor had found a packet awaiting him. It contained four
letters, ostensibly from priests of his order known to him but not
in their hands, and a fifth in the same style. All were apparently
of dangerous concern, full of mysterious phrases which seemed of no
good meaning. Bedingfield took the letters to the duke, who showed
them to the king. Thus when Danby arrived at Windsor his news was
stale. Charles believed still less in the existence of a real plot.
The letters were transparent forgeries. Purporting to be written by
different persons, from different places, at different dates, they bore
a curious likeness one to another. The paper on which they were written
bore the same watermark and appeared to have been cut from one sheet.
In every case the name signed was misspelt. Throughout, the writing
was disfigured by the same blemishes of style and spelling. Only one
of the letters contained a single stop, and that seemed to have been
made accidentally. Oates professed afterwards that the handwriting was
disguised and that the writers made mistakes on purpose, should the
letters be intercepted, to lull the reader to false security. A Jesuit
in London, who scented the discovery of the plot, had sent warning to
Bedingfield, and the confessor had handed his letters to the duke with
the express intention of showing them to be counterfeit and himself
to be innocent. Thus, declared the informer with indignation, they
had been made to appear the work of forgery. So far as the last goes,
Oates spoke the truth. They were patently the composition of himself
and his confederate. A tribute to the unscrupulous energy of those who
adopted the plot for political purposes is paid by the fact that these
letters were suppressed and never brought forward as evidence, although
three of the men who were supposed to have written them were afterwards
tried for treasons of which, had they been genuine, the letters would
have afforded strong proof. Oates met the rebuff by going at Kirkby’s
instigation to swear to the truth of his story before a London
magistrate. But at court the intriguers were badly received. Kirkby
and Tonge called several times on the Treasurer, only to be refused
admittance, and when Charles met his old acquaintance he passed by him
without word or look.[129]
At this moment a sudden move of the Duke of York threw the game
into the hands of Oates. With his usual want of tact James demanded
an inquiry into the matter by the privy council. What difference
this actually made to the course of subsequent events it is hard to
calculate, for Oates was clever enough to place himself in a position
not wholly dependent on the action of government, but at least it
smoothed his way at the moment. The act of the duke was that of
applying the bellows to the seed of a mighty conflagration. At the
meeting of Parliament Danby was accused of having tried to stifle the
plot; unjustly, for he too had urged investigation. For some time
Charles withstood their instance. Danby alone he could have resisted,
but when James, whose occasions for importunity were better than those
of the Treasurer, added his demand, the king gave way and, against his
better judgment, consented. Oates was still occupied in enlarging and
copying his information when on the evening of September 27 Kirkby
brought word from Lloyd that Tonge was summoned to go with him to
the council. The council had already risen and their appearance was
postponed till the next morning. Tonge asserted that he would have
been better pleased had the inquiry been longer delayed that yet more
of the plot might have been discovered. His feelings must really
have been of some relief at the opportunity afforded, tempered with
suspicion of the council’s intention towards himself. Taking the
precaution to place his information beyond reach of danger by leaving
a sworn copy with the magistrate who had attested his oath, Oates
accompanied his friend to Whitehall. Some ten days earlier Charles
had been made acquainted with the informer’s name. The opinion of the
government was that Tonge had no other end in view than to obtain
a deanery. That notion must have been rudely dispelled by Oates’
appearance at the council board.[130]
Dr. Tonge was the first to enter and, kneeling, handed a petition for
pardon for himself and Oates, together with a list of the plotters and
their lodging. He was asked who Oates was. An acquaintance of short
standing, he answered. He had been a chaplain in the navy on board Sir
Richard Ruth’s ship, but having given information of some miscarriages
had received hard dealing from the privy council. In point of fact this
was the occasion when he had been summarily ejected from the service.
As Tonge begged excuse from reciting what he knew further of the plot,
an abstract he had made of Oates’ information was read. Oates was
called and examined on the contents of the papers. The council sat
long, and he was heard at length. His statements were of so general
a character that little criticism could be made, but the board was
sufficiently satisfied to authorise the informer to search for the men
he had named as conspirators. As night fell, he issued forth armed with
warrants and officers. Before morning Father Ireland, procurator of the
province of the Society of Jesus, Fenwick, agent for the college at St.
Omers, Pickering, and other Jesuits were in Newgate. Oates returned to
the council on the morning of Sunday, being Michaelmas day, to continue
his examination. This time the king was present. Oates was made to
repeat all he had said the day before. He had named in his narrative
Don John of Austria as not only cognizant of the plot, but active in
it. What was he like? asked Charles. Tall and graceful, with fair hair,
Oates replied promptly. Charles had seen Don John and knew him to be
short, fat, and dark. Oates said that he had seen Père de la Chaize pay
in Paris ten thousand pounds as the price for the king’s death. The
victim now asked in what part of Paris. In the Jesuits’ house close
to the Louvre, was the answer. Again Oates had committed himself,
for there was no such house in that position. The letters sent to
Bedingfield at Windsor were produced. Oates skated over the thin ice as
best he could, declaring that Jesuits used to make their letters appear
foolish to conceal their meaning. He pursued his tale with unbroken
confidence. Arundel and Bellasis were mentioned. Charles remarked that
those lords had served him faithfully, and that without clear proof he
would not credit anything against them. Oates protested to God that
he would accuse none falsely; he did not say that they were partners
in the plot, only that they were to have been acquainted with it. His
whole behaviour was of a piece with this. Loud in general accusations,
he refused to bring particular charges against persons who might appear
to contradict him successfully. Whenever he was pressed, he drew back
and hedged. The king ended the meeting by exclaiming that he was a most
lying knave.[131]
Oates’ credit was rudely shaken. Nevertheless the matter could not be
dropped without further investigation. The informer managed to cover
his mistakes by the suggestion that he had himself been deceived. He
had misspelt the name of Louis XIV’s confessor, calling him Le Shee;
but in an age of loose spelling, when Barillon wrote of Shaftesbury
as Schasberi, and Cardinal Howard’s name was spelt Huart by a papal
nuncio, this was not of great weight. Oates had evidently lied, but
perhaps he had spoken some truth. His assurance and readiness had
been such as to amaze the council. Charles himself was taken aback,
and though he gave no credence to the informer’s story, felt that
great care was necessary for the discovery of the truth. Falsehood
has not been unknown in the seventeenth and other centuries as a prop
to even a good cause. At all events persons, against whom serious
charges, not disproved, had been made, could not be allowed to remain
at large. So on the second night in succession Oates was sent his
rounds with a guard, sleepless and defying the stormy weather. Before
dawn most of the Jesuits of eminence in London lay in gaol. At one
point the party encountered a check. Oates led his men to arrest
Whitebread, the provincial, at the residence of the Spanish ambassador.
The ambassador’s servants resisted the intrusion, and the next day
Count Egmont and the Marquis Bourgemayne lodged a complaint with the
secretary of state. Material compensation was not to be had, but an
ample apology; and the soldiers with Oates were said to have been
drunk and were punished.[132] Of greater importance than persons was a
find of papers. A warrant had been signed at the council board for the
arrest of Coleman. When the meeting rose the Earl of Danby noticed that
direction for seizing his papers had been omitted. He hastily caused
another warrant for this purpose to be drawn, and obtained the five
requisite signatures just in time that a messenger might be dispatched
the same evening. Coleman’s house was searched, and, besides others, a
deal box containing the most important of his letters was found in a
secret recess behind a chimney. Danby could boast with justice, when
he was accused of having acted in the French and papist interest, that
but for his action the chief evidence of the schemes of both in England
might never have come to hand. The Duke of York, against whom they
told heavily, would never forgive him, he said. Coleman surrendered
himself on Monday morning, and was put under the charge of a messenger
with only Oates’ accusation against him. He managed to send word to
the French ambassador that nothing would be found in his papers to
embarrass him. A cruel awakening from the dream was not long delayed.
When his letters came to be read, the lords of the council looked grave
and signed a warrant for his commitment. Coleman disappeared into
Newgate.[133]
On Monday, September 30, Oates was again examined before the council,
and again coursed London for Jesuits. The town was by this time
thoroughly alarmed. Coleman’s papers were regarded by the council as
of high importance. They shewed at any rate that Oates had known of
his correspondence with La Chaize, and seemed evidence of a serious
state of affairs. In the streets they were taken as proof of his every
statement. Catholics who had sneered at the disclosure began to realise
that the charges against Coleman were heavy and that he was in danger
of his life.[134] The Protestant mob of London was convinced that the
charges against all accused were true. The Duchess of York started on
a visit to the Princess of Orange in Holland. It was said that she
was smuggling guilty priests out of the country. A fever seemed to be
in men’s minds. Freedom of speech vanished. To doubt the truth of the
discovery was dangerous. Opinions favourable to the Catholics were
not to be uttered without risk. The household of the Duke of York was
in consternation, and James himself gloomy and disquiet. Orders were
sent into the country to search the houses of Catholics for weapons.
Sir John Reresby hurried to town with his family to be on the scene
of a ferment the greatness whereof none but an eye-witness could
conceive. “In fine,” wrote Lord Peterborough, “hell was let loose;
malice, revenge, and ambition were supported by all that falsehood and
perjury could contrive; and lastly, it was the most deplorable time
that was ever seen in England.” Oates was hailed as the saviour of
the nation and was lodged with Dr. Tonge in Whitehall under a guard.
“One might,” exclaimed North, “have denied Christ with less contest
than the Plot.” To add to the general confusion the king left for the
races at Newmarket, scandalising all by his indecent levity. During his
absence Dr. Burnet paid Tonge a visit in his lodgings at Whitehall. He
found the poor man so much uplifted that he seemed to have lost the
little sense he ever had. Oates appeared and was introduced. He had
already received a visit from Evelyn. The courtier found him “furiously
indiscreet.” Burnet received the flattering intelligence that he had
been specially marked by the Jesuits for death; the same had been said
of Stillingfleet; but the divines thought the compliment cheap when
they found that it had been paid also to Ezrael Tonge. The informer
burst into a torrent of fury against the Jesuits and swore he would
have their blood. Disliking the strain, Burnet turned the conversation
to ask what arguments had prevailed upon him to join the Church of
Rome. Whereupon Oates stood up and, laying his hands on his breast,
declared: God and his holy angels knew that he had never changed, but
that he had gone over to the Roman Catholics to betray them.[135] The
perjurer might well triumph. The days of his glory were beginning. On
October 21 Parliament met. Before that time Godfrey, the magistrate
before whom Oates had sworn to the truth of his deposition, was dead
amid circumstances of horror and suspicion, and the future of the
informer with his hideous accusations was assured.
SIR EDMUND BERRY GODFREY
CHAPTER I
SIR EDMUND BERRY GODFREY
The death of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey has passed for one of the most
remarkable mysteries in English history. The profound sensation which
it caused, the momentous consequences which it produced, the extreme
difficulty of discovering the truth, have rendered Godfrey’s figure
fascinating to historians. Opinion as to the nature of his end has been
widely different. To the minds of Kennet, Oldmixon, and Christie the
Catholics were responsible. North declared that he was murdered by the
patrons of Oates, to give currency to the belief in the Plot. Sir James
Fitzjames Stephen hazards that Oates himself was the murderer, and is
supported by Mr. Traill and Mr. Sidney Lee. L’Estrange was positive
that he committed suicide. Lingard and Sir George Sitwell have given
the same verdict. Ralph, Hallam, Macaulay, Ranke, and Klopp pronounce
the problem unsolved. Hume has pronounced it insoluble. All have
admitted the intricacy of the case and its importance. None has been
able without fear of contradiction to answer the question, “What was
the fate of Sir Edmund Godfrey?” On the answer to this question depends
to a great extent the nature of the final judgment to be passed upon
the Popish Plot. If Godfrey met his death at the hands of political
assassins, the weight of the fact is obvious. If he was murdered by
the Roman Catholics, much of the censure which has been poured on
the Protestant party misses the mark; if by Protestant agents, that
censure must be redoubled before the demands of justice are satisfied.
If he committed suicide, or was done to death in a private cause, the
criminal folly of many and the detestable crime of a few who in the
cause of religious intolerance fastened his death upon the innocent
were so black as to deserve almost the same penalty.
Scarcely ever has a fact so problematical been attended by such weighty
results. Sir Edmund Godfrey left his house on October 12, 1678. On
October 17 his corpse was found in the fields at the foot of Primrose
Hill. From that moment belief in the Popish Plot was rooted in the
mind of the nation. The excitement throughout the country rose to the
mark of frenzy. Godfrey’s death seemed clear evidence of the truth
of Oates’ sanguinary tales, and the prelude to a general massacre of
Protestants. It became an article of faith that he had been murdered
by the Catholics. To deny it was to incur the most awkward suspicion.
No man thought himself safe from the same fate. Every householder laid
in a stock of arms. Posts and chains barricaded the streets of the
city. Night after night the Trained Bands stood to arms and paraded
the town as if an insurrection were expected before morning. During
the winter which followed, wrote Shaftesbury, “the soberest and most
peaceable of the people have, either in town or country, hardly slept
for fear of fire or massacring by the Papists.” Alderman Sir Thomas
Player declared that when he went to bed “he did not know but the next
morning they might all rise with their throats cut.” And this state
of things continued, as sober Calamy remarked, “not for a few weeks
or months only, but for a great while together.” It was regarded as
most fortunate that the Protestants did not seek to avenge Godfrey and
anticipate their own doom by exterminating the Roman Catholics.[136]
Upon the death of a London magistrate was grounded the firm conviction
of the reality of the Popish Plot, under cover of which the Whig party
was all but successful in deranging the legitimate succession to the
throne, and even perhaps in overturning the monarchy itself. Of the
instruments by which Shaftesbury turned the Plot to this end, none was
more powerful than the belief in Godfrey’s murder. In one connection
or another that event appeared in almost all the state trials of the
two following years, in the debates in Parliament, in the pulpit, on
the stage.[137] The part which it played in the electioneering methods
of the Whigs was still more formidable, and Godfrey’s corpse was a
central figure in the grand annual ceremonies of Pope Burning, which
were arranged by the Green Ribbon Club.[138] Without the mystery of
Godfrey’s death it is possible that the agitation of the plot would
have burnt itself out in the course of a few months. As it was, the
fuel was fanned into a blaze of unexampled fierceness, which did not
die down until nearly three momentous years in English history had
passed.
No one undertaking the study of this problem is likely to underrate the
difficulty of the task. To find a solution is obviously a matter of
great importance; but it is also a matter in which small success may
reasonably be expected. The door of the secret has remained unopened
for so long. The door is not one which can be forced, and the key is
missing. It would be worse than sanguine to hope for its discovery
after a light search. Nevertheless there is some hope. “When a door-key
is missing,” says Dr. Gardiner, “the householder does not lose time in
deploring the intricacy of the lock; he tries every key at his disposal
to see whether it will fit the wards, and only sends for the locksmith
when he finds that his own keys are useless. So it is with historical
inquiry.... Try, if need be, one hypothesis after another.... Apply
them to the evidence, and when one fails to unlock the secret, try
another. Only when all imaginable keys have failed, have you a right
to call the public to witness your avowal of incompetence to solve
the riddle.”[139] In the case of the Gunpowder Plot Dr. Gardiner
tried the key afforded by the traditional story and found that it
fitted the lock. With the secret of Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death the
method must be different. There is no traditional story to test. What
seems more remarkable is that no determined attempt has been made to
construct a consistent theory to fill the empty place. Contemporaries
who approached the question answered it according to their prejudice,
and selected only such evidence as would support their preconceptions.
Later historians who have answered definitely have arrived at their
conclusions by considering the balance of general probability in the
matter, and have supported them from the contemporaries whose evidence
lies on the side to which the balance seems to them to fall. No one
has formed a hypothesis to explain the facts and tested it by all the
evidence, in whatever direction it seems to point. The following study
is an attempt to accomplish this. It would be impertinent to suppose
that it offers a perfect key to fit the lock. But it offers a key
with which trial may be made, and which may not be found altogether
of the wrong size and shape. There is at least a hypothesis to be
tested. If it jars with established fact, this will be detected. If
the test reveals assumptions which are beyond the scope of legitimate
imagination, it must be discarded. At least its abandonment will be
because it has been shown to be inconsistent with the facts of the
case. It will then leave the way clear for the same test to be applied
to another theory.
Sir Edmund Berry—and not Edmundbury—Godfrey was a justice of the peace
for the county of Middlesex and the city of Westminster. He came of a
Kentish family of some wealth and of good repute in the county. His
elder brother, father, and grandfather had all been justices of the
peace before him, and he was popularly said himself to be “the best
justice of the peace in England.” He had been educated at Westminster
and Christ Church, Oxford, had spent some time in travelling abroad,
was a member of Gray’s Inn, and owned a prosperous business as merchant
of wood and coal in Hartshorn Lane, near Charing Cross.[140] To the
public he had long been known. During the ghastly year when London
was in the grip of the plague and all who could fled to the pure
air of the country, Godfrey stayed at his post in town. London was
given up to the dying, the dead, and their plunderers. In the midst
of the chaos Godfrey went about his duties with redoubled energy and
conspicuous gallantry. Numerous thefts from corpses were traced to
a notorious ruffian. A warrant was issued for his apprehension. The
wretch took refuge in the pest-house, whither none would follow him.
Godfrey himself entered the forbidden spot and took the man alone. As
an appropriate punishment he sentenced him to be whipped round the
churchyard which he had robbed. It was of this time that his friend Dr.
Lloyd spoke: “He was the man (shall I say the only man of his place?)
that stayed to do good, and did the good he stayed for.... His house
was not only the seat of justice, but an hospital of charity.”[141]
The king was not slow to recognise good service, especially when
the recognition was not expensive. Charles gave Godfrey a knighthood
and a silver tankard, inscribed with an eulogy of the service which
he had done during the plague and the great fire.[142] Three years
later Godfrey roused sentiments of a less grateful character in his
sovereign. Sir Alexander Frazier, the king’s physician, owed the
justice £30 for firewood. Godfrey issued a writ against the debtor; but
Frazier took the matter before the king, the bailiffs were arrested,
and together with the magistrate were committed to the porter’s lodge
at Whitehall. Charles was so much angered at the interference with his
servant that he had the bailiffs flogged, and was scarcely restrained
from ordering the infliction of the same punishment on Godfrey himself.
“The justice,” writes Pepys, “do lie and justify his act, and says
he will suffer in the cause for the people, and do refuse to receive
almost any nutriment.” To the great wrath of the king, Godfrey was
supported by the Lord Chief Justice and several of the judges. After an
imprisonment of six days Charles was forced to set the magistrate at
liberty and to restore him to the commission of the peace from which
his name had been struck off.[143]
A portrait of Godfrey belongs to the parish of St. Martin in
the Fields.[144] It shows the bust of a spare man, dressed in a
close-fitting coat of dark material, a high lace collar, and a
full-bottomed wig. The head is large, the forehead wide and high, the
nose hooked, the chin strong and prominent. The frank eyes and pleasant
expression of the firm lips belie the idea of melancholy. Godfrey’s
height was exceptional, and his appearance made more striking by a
pronounced stoop. He commonly wore a broad-brimmed hat with a gold
band, and in walking fixed his eyes on the ground, as though in deep
thought. Now and again he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “He was
a man,” writes Roger North, “so remarkable in person and garb, that,
described at Wapping, he could not be mistaken at Westminster.”[145]
Godfrey moved in good society. He numbered the Earl of Danby among his
acquaintance, was on terms of friendship with Sir William Jones and the
Lord Chancellor, and counted Gilbert Burnet and Dr. Lloyd among his
intimates.
Early in 1678 he was ordered to the south of France for the benefit of
his health. He stayed for some months at Montpellier, and there admired
the construction of the great canal which Louis XIV was undertaking to
connect the Mediterranean and the Atlantic.[146] Late in the summer
Godfrey returned to England and resumed his magisterial duties in
London. It was scarcely beyond the ordinary scope of these when on
September 6 three men entered his office and desired him to swear one
of them to the truth of certain information which he had committed to
writing. The three were Titus Oates, Dr. Tonge, and Christopher Kirkby.
The paper contained Oates’ famous information drawn up in forty-three
articles. Oates made affidavit to the truth of the contents, and his
oath was witnessed by his two friends and attested by Godfrey. They
refused however to allow the magistrate to read the information in
detail, “telling him that his Majesty had already a true copy thereof,
and that it was not convenient that it should be yet communicated to
anybody else, only acquainting him in general that it contained matter
of treason and felony and other high crimes.” Godfrey was satisfied,
and the three men departed without more ado.[147] Oates professed
afterwards to have taken this course as a safeguard for himself and his
discovery from the vengeance of the Jesuits. His motive was far more
probably to form a connection apart from the court, where he had been
poorly received. At this point, so far as Godfrey was concerned, the
matter rested. He was relieved of responsibility by the fact that the
information had been forwarded to the king, and there were no steps
for him to take. But on the morning of Saturday, September 28, Oates
appeared before him again. Kirkby and Tonge had been summoned to the
council the previous evening, but before they could be fetched the
council had risen after giving orders that they should attend the next
day. During the last three weeks the informer and his allies had felt
their distrust of the council become more acute. While Oates had been
engaged in writing copies of his information, Tonge had on several
occasions been refused admittance to the Lord Treasurer. They believed
that the discovery was neglected, and probably suspected that the
summons to Whitehall was the prelude to discredit and imprisonment.
To guard against this they determined to remove the matter from the
discretion of the council. Two copies of the information, now in the
form of eighty-three articles, were laid before Godfrey, who attested
Oates’ oath to the truth of their contents. One Godfrey retained
in his possession, the other was taken by Oates to the council at
Whitehall.[148]
Godfrey was now in the centre of the intrigue. His eminence and
reputation for the fearless performance of his duty had no doubt
directed Oates to select him as the recipient of the discovery. The
fact that he was known to have resisted pressure from court with
success on a former occasion made it likely that he would not submit
to be bullied or cajoled into suppressing the information if, as Oates
feared, the court had determined on this. He would certainly insist
upon making the facts public and would force an inquiry into the
matter. As a matter of fact Oates and Tonge were mistaken, for the
council proposed to investigate the case thoroughly. Even so, it was
from their point of view a good move to lay the information before
Godfrey. It would appear to be evidence of Oates’ desire to act in
a straightforward manner and frankly according to the law. But in
doing so they introduced a complication of which they were probably
unaware. Godfrey was not only remarkable for his ability as justice
of the peace, but for the tolerance with which he dealt between the
parties and creeds with which the business of every magistrate lay.
He was credited with sound principles in church and state, but he did
not find it inconsistent with these to allow his vigilance to sleep on
occasion. The penal laws against dissenters were not to his mind, and
he refrained from their strict execution. He “was not apt to search
for priests or mass-houses: so that few men of his zeal lived upon
better terms with the papists than he did.” Dr. Lloyd put the matter in
his funeral sermon: “The compassion that he had for all men that did
amiss extended itself to all manner of dissenters, and amongst them he
had a kindness for the persons of many Roman Catholics.” Among these
was Edward Coleman, secretary of the Duchess of York, who was now
accused by Oates of high treason.[149] The intimacy between the two
men exercised a profound influence upon the course of after events,
which Oates could not have foreseen. After Godfrey’s disappearance
his connection with Coleman became known; but at the time it was only
apparent that Godfrey was an energetic magistrate who possessed the
somewhat rare quality of being impervious to court influence. That
he was upon friendly terms with the Roman Catholics was, for the
informer’s purpose, of little moment. Oates was in search of support
outside the council-chamber, and Godfrey offered exactly what he
wanted. In case the government wished to suppress the discovery of the
plot, Godfrey was not the man to acquiesce in such a design on account
of private considerations.
On Saturday, October 12, Sir Edmund Godfrey left his house in Hartshorn
Lane between nine and ten o’clock in the morning. That night he did
not return home. The next day Godfrey’s clerk sent to inquire at his
mother’s house in Hammersmith. Obtaining no news there, the clerk
communicated with his master’s two brothers, who lived in the city.
They sent word that they would come to Hartshorn Lane later in the day,
and enjoined the clerk meanwhile to keep Godfrey’s absence secret. In
the evening Mr. Michael and Mr. Benjamin Godfrey appeared at their
brother’s house, and set out in company with the clerk upon a round of
inquiry. That night and all Monday they continued the search, but could
nowhere obtain tidings of the missing man. On Tuesday the brothers
laid information of Godfrey’s absence before the Lord Chancellor, and
in the afternoon of the same day the clerk publicly announced his
disappearance at a crowded funeral.[150] Up to this time the fact
was unknown except to Godfrey’s household and near relatives. It was
afterwards asserted by those who wished to prove his suicide that the
secret had been kept in order to prevent discovery of the manner of his
death. The law directed that the estate of a person dying by his own
hand should be forfeited to the crown, and to prevent the forfeiture
Godfrey’s family concealed the fact. Sir Roger L’Estrange devoted some
effort to establish this.[151] He was however so unwise as immediately
to demolish his case by collecting evidence to show that the dead man’s
brothers had approached the Lord Chancellor, “to beg his lordship’s
assistance to secure their brother’s estate, in case he should be
found to have made himself away.”[152] Certainly, if the Godfreys
had known his suicide and had been moved to conceal it in order to
save his estate, the last person in the world to whom they would have
admitted their motive was the Lord Chancellor. L’Estrange’s sense of
the contradictory was small. Not only did he commit this blunder,
but he was at considerable pains to show that the fact of Godfrey’s
disappearance was never concealed at all; on the contrary, the news was
bruited about the town as early as the afternoon of the day on which
Sir Edmund left his house, in order to raise a cry that he had been
murdered by the Roman Catholics.[153] He did not consider that, as the
only persons who had first-hand news of Godfrey’s absence were members
of his family, the rumour must have emanated from themselves; whereas
he persisted at the same time that their one object was to keep the
fact secret. There was good reason why the family should be unwilling
to publish Sir Edmund’s disappearance until they had, if possible,
some clue to his whereabouts or his fate. A man of his prominence and
consideration could not vanish from the scene without giving rise to
reports of an unpleasant nature. When for expedience sake his brothers
announced that he was missing and brought the matter to the notice of
government, there sprang into being tales which any persons of repute
would have been glad to avoid, none the less because they perhaps
believed that some of them might be true. On the Wednesday and Thursday
following stories of Godfrey’s adventures were rife. He had chosen to
disappear to escape creditors, to whom he owed large sums of money.
As no creditors appeared this notion was exploded.[154] He had been
suddenly married in scandalous circumstances to a lady of fortune. He
had been traced to a house of ill repute, now in one part of the town,
now in another, and there found in the midst of a debauch. With one of
these last stories the Duke of Norfolk went armed to Whitehall, and was
so ill-advised as to announce it for a fact. But gradually, as none of
them gained support, the rumour spread that Godfrey had been murdered.
It was reported that he had been last seen at the Cock-pit, the Earl of
Danby’s house; then at the Duke of Norfolk’s residence, Arundel House;
then at St. James’, the Duke of York’s palace; even Whitehall, it was
said, was not spared.[155] The general belief was, “the Papists have
made away with him.” Everywhere the missing magistrate afforded the
main topic of conversation. The government was occupied with the case.
Michael and Benjamin Godfrey were summoned before the council, and
there was talk of a proclamation on the subject.[156]
Before further steps could be taken definite news came to hand. On
Thursday, October 17, a man, who could never afterwards be found,
came into the shop of a London bookseller in the afternoon with the
information that Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey had been found dead near St.
Pancras’ Church with a sword thrust through his body. A Scotch minister
and his friend were in the shop and carried the news to Burnet.[157]
The report was correct. At two o’clock in the afternoon two men were
walking across the fields at the foot of Primrose Hill, when they saw,
lying at the edge of a ditch, a stick, a scabbard, a belt, and a pair
of gloves. Pushing aside the brambles, they found a man’s corpse in
the ditch, head downwards. With this discovery they proceeded to the
Whitehouse Inn, which stood in a lane not far off. John Rawson, the
innkeeper, offered them a shilling to fetch the articles which they
had seen on the bank, but rain had begun to fall, and they decided to
wait till it should cease. By five o’clock the rain had stopped, and
Rawson, with a constable and several of his neighbours, set out, guided
by the men who had brought the news. They found the body at the bottom
of the ditch resting in a crooked position; “the left hand under the
head upon the bottom of the ditch; the right hand a little stretched
out, and touching the bank on the right side; the knees touching the
bottom of the ditch, and the feet not touching the ground, but resting
upon the brambles”: through the body, which hung transversely, a sword
had been driven with such force that its point had pierced the back
and protruded for the length of two hand-breadths. In the ditch lay
the dead man’s hat and periwig. The constable called the company to
notice particularly the details of the situation. They then hoisted
the corpse out of the ditch, and to facilitate the carriage withdrew
the sword; it was “somewhat hard in the drawing, and crashed upon the
bone in the plucking of it forth.” The body was set upon two watchmen’s
staves and carried to the Whitehouse Inn, where it was placed upon a
table. As they came into the light the men recognised, what they had
already guessed, that the dead man was Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey. A note
of the articles found was taken. Besides those brought from the bank
and the ditch, a large sum of money was found in the pockets.[158] On
the fingers were three rings. Leaving two watchmen to guard the body,
the constable and half a dozen others rode off to Hartshorn Lane. There
they found Godfrey’s brothers and his brother-in-law, Mr. Plucknet.
Towards ten o’clock at night the constable returned to the inn with
Plucknet, who formally identified the body. Rawson and Brown, the
constable, then took him to view the place where it had been found, by
the light of a lantern. The same night the brothers Godfrey sent to
Whitehall to notify what had passed, and a warrant was issued for the
summons of a jury to take the inquest.[159]
On the following morning a jury of eighteen men and Mr. Cooper, coroner
of Middlesex, met at the Whitehouse. At the instance of some officious
tradesmen the coroner of Westminster offered his services also, but
they were properly refused.[160] The jury sat all day, and as the
evidence was unfinished, adjourned in the evening. On Saturday, October
19, the inquest was continued at the Rose and Crown in St. Giles’ in
the Fields, and late at night the verdict was returned: “That certain
persons to the jurors unknown, a certain piece of linen cloth of no
value, about the neck of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, then and there,
feloniously, wilfully, and of their malice aforethought, did tie and
fasten; and therewith the said Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, feloniously,
wilfully, and of their malice aforethought, did suffocate and strangle,
of which suffocation and strangling he, the said Sir Edmundbury
Godfrey, then and there instantly died.”[161] Stripped of its cumbrous
verbiage the jury gave a verdict of murder by strangling against some
person or persons unknown. They were determined in this chiefly by
the medical evidence.[162] Testimony was given at great length on the
position and appearance of the corpse in the ditch. A number of people
had examined the body and the spot where it was found. Five surgeons
and two of the king’s apothecaries formed professional opinions on the
subject. At the inquest only two of the surgeons gave evidence, but
the testimony of the others, taken at a later date, entirely supported
their judgment. To points of fact there was no lack of witnesses.
Godfrey’s movements were traced to one o’clock on the afternoon of
Saturday, October 12. At nine o’clock in the morning one of the jurymen
had seen him talking to a milk-woman near Paddington; at eleven another
had seen him returning from Paddington to London; at one Radcliffe,
an oilman, had seen him pass his house in the Strand, near Charing
Cross.[163] It was proved that on Tuesday there had been nothing in
the ditch where Godfrey’s corpse was found two days later.[164] Further
evidence of this was given at the trial of Thompson, Pain, and Farwell
in 1682 for a libel “importing that Sir Edmund Bury Godfrey murdered
himself,” Mr. Robert Forset was then subpœnaed to appear as a witness,
but was not called. He deposed before the Lord Mayor that on Tuesday,
October 15, 1678 he had hunted a pack of harriers over the field where
the body was found, and that his friend Mr. Harwood, lately deceased,
had on the next day hunted the hounds over the same place and along
the ditch itself; on neither occasion was anything to be seen of cane,
gloves, or corpse.[165] An examination of the body revealed remarkable
peculiarities. From the neck to the top of the stomach the flesh was
much bruised, and seemed to have been stamped with a man’s feet or
beaten with some blunt weapon.[166] Below the left ear was a contused
swelling, as if a hard knot had been tied underneath. Round the neck
was a mark indented in the flesh, merging above and below into thick
purple creases. The mark was not visible until the collar had been
unbuttoned. The surgeons’ opinion was unanimous to the effect that it
had been caused by a cloth or handkerchief tightly tied, and that the
collar had been fastened over it.[167] The neck was dislocated.[168]
The body was lissom, and in spots on the face and the bruised part of
the chest showed signs of putrefaction. Two wounds had been inflicted
on the breast. One pierced as far as a rib, by which the sword had been
stopped. From the other, which was under the left breast, the sword
had been extracted by the constable; it had been driven through the
cavity of the heart and had transfixed the body.[169] These facts were
suggestive, but the point which deservedly attracted most attention
was the striking absence of blood from the clothes of the dead man and
the place where his corpse had been found. In spite of the rain the
ditch, which was thickly protected by brambles and bushes, was dry,
and would certainly have shewn marks of blood if any had been there.
The evidence is positive that there was none. Brown, the constable,
Rawson, and Mr. Plucknet examined the spot with lanterns on the night
of Thursday, October 17. Early the next morning the ditch was searched
by several other persons. At no time did it contain traces of any blood
whatever. A few yards to the side of the ditch the grass was stained
with blood and serum which had oozed from the wound in the back after
the withdrawal of the sword. Some stumps, over which the men carrying
the body to the inn had stumbled, were stained in the same way. As they
had entered the house the body had been jerked against the doorpost;
similar marks were found there; and when it was set on the table there
was a further effusion of blood and serum which dripped upon the
floor of the inn parlour. With the exception of the part of the shirt
which covered the wound at the back, the clothes of the dead man were
without any stain of blood.[170] The importance of this is obvious. A
sword driven through the living heart must produce a great discharge of
blood. The clothes of a man thus killed would be saturated with blood.
The ground on which he lay would be covered with it. Only in one case
would this not happen. If the sword plugged the orifice of the wound in
such a way as wholly to stop the flow of blood from it, the quantity
which escaped would be inconsiderable. In the case of Sir Edmund
Godfrey this could not have taken place. L’Estrange says: “The sword
stopped the fore part of the wound, as tight as a tap.”[171] But the
only manner in which he could suggest that Godfrey committed suicide
was by resting his sword on the edge of the bank beyond the ditch and
falling forward on it.[172] It is impossible to believe that if he had
killed himself in this manner the sword should not have been disturbed
or twisted by his fall. As he fell, it must have been violently
wrenched, the wound would have been torn, and the ensuing rush of
blood have flooded the ditch and his body lying in it.[173] Apart from
L’Estrange’s bare word, there is no reason to believe that the wound
was plugged by the blade of the sword. This would have been in itself
a remarkable circumstance; and the fact that there is no evidence to
the point, when every other detail was so carefully noted, raises a
presumption that the statement was untrue. Even if it had been the
case, the second wound would still afford matter for consideration. It
would be sufficiently strange that a man wishing to end his life should
bethink himself of falling on his sword only after bungling over the
easier way of suicide by stabbing himself. But it is hardly credible
that a considerable flesh wound should be made and the weapon withdrawn
from it without some flow of blood resulting; and there was no blood
at all on the front of Godfrey’s body or on the clothes covering the
two wounds. The surgeons and the jury who trusted them were perfectly
right in their conclusion. There can be no substantial doubt that the
wounds found on Godfrey’s body were not the cause of his death, but
were inflicted at some time after the event. As a dead man cannot be
supposed to thrust a sword through his own corpse, he had certainly
been murdered. When this point was reached, the nature of his end was
evident. The neck was dislocated and showed signs of strangulation.
Clearly the magistrate had been throttled in a violent struggle, during
which his neck was broken and his body hideously bruised. The clerk
proved that when his master went out on the morning of October 12 “he
had then a laced band about his neck.” When the body was found, this
had disappeared. Presumably it was with this that the act had been
accomplished.
That the murder was not for vulgar ends of robbery was proved by the
valuables found upon the body. Another fact of importance which came
to light at the inquest shewed as clearly that it was dictated by some
deeper motive. The lanes leading to the fields surrounding Primrose
Hill were deep and miry. If Godfrey had walked thither to commit
suicide, his shoes would have told a tale of the ground over which he
had come. When his body was found the shoes were clean.[174] Upon this
was based the conclusion that Godfrey had not walked to Primrose Hill
on that day at all. It was clear that he had been murdered in some
other place, that the murderers had then conveyed his body to Primrose
Hill, had transfixed it with his sword, and thrown it into the ditch,
that the dead man might seem to have taken his own life.
The result of the inquest was confirmed by what passed some years
later. In the course of the year 1681 a series of letters were
published in the _Loyal Protestant Intelligencer_, purporting to prove
that Sir Edmund Godfrey had committed suicide. Thompson, Pain, and
Farwell, the publisher and authors of the letters, were tried before
Chief Justice Pemberton on June 20, 1682 for libel and misdemeanour.
The accused attempted to justify their action, but the witnesses whom
they called gave evidence which only established still more firmly the
facts elicitated at the inquest. Belief in the Popish Plot was at this
time on the wane throughout the country, and at court was almost a
sign of disloyalty. The men were tried in the fairest manner possible,
and upon full evidence were convicted. Thompson and Farwell were
pilloried and fined £100 each, and Pain, whose share in the business
had been less than theirs, escaped with a fine.[175] None but those
who were willing to accept L’Estrange’s bad testimony, assertions, and
insinuations could refrain from believing that Godfrey’s death was a
cold-blooded murder. Even some who would have been glad to credit his
suicide were convinced. The king certainly could not be suspected of a
desire to establish belief in the murder. When news of the discovery
of the body first reached him, he thought that Godfrey had killed
himself.[176] But when Dr. Lloyd, who went with Burnet to view the body
at the Whitehouse Inn, brought word of what they had seen, Charles was,
to outward appearance at all events, convinced that this could not have
been the case. He was open enough in his raillery at the witnesses of
the plot, but he never used his witty tongue to turn Godfrey’s murder
into a suicide.[177]
The rumours which had before connected the magistrate’s disappearance
with the Roman Catholics were now redoubled in vigour.[178] Conviction
of their truth became general. The Whig party under the lead of
Shaftesbury boomed the case. Portrait medals of Godfrey were struck
representing the Pope as directing his murder. Ballads were composed
in Godfrey’s memory. Sermons were preached on the subject. Dr.
Stillingfleet’s effusion ran into two editions in as many days, and ten
thousand copies were sold in less than a month.[179] An enterprising
cutler made a special “Godfrey” dagger and sold three thousand in one
day. On one side of the blade was graven: Remember the murder of Edmond
Bury Godfrey; on the other: Remember religion. One, ornamented with
a gilt handle, was sent to the Duke of York. Ladies of high degree
carried these daggers about their persons and slept with them beneath
their pillows, to guard themselves from a similar doom. Others as
timid followed the lead of the Countess of Shaftesbury, who had a set
of pocket pistols made for her muff.[180] The corpse of the murdered
magistrate was brought to London in state, and lay exposed in the
street for two days. A continual procession of people who came to gaze
on the sight passed up and down. Few who came departed without rage,
terror, and revenge rooted in their hearts. On October 31 the body was
borne to burial at St. Martin’s in the Fields. Seventy-two clergymen
walked before; above a thousand persons of distinction followed after.
The church was crowded. Dr. Lloyd, afterwards Dean of Bangor and
Bishop of St. Asaph, himself a friend of Godfrey, preached a funeral
sermon from the text: “Died Abner as a fool dieth?” It consisted of an
elaborate eulogy of the dead man and an inflammatory attack upon the
Roman Catholics. To crown the theatrical pomp of this parade, there
mounted the pulpit beside the preacher two able-bodied divines, to
guard his life from the attack which it was confidently expected would
be made. “A most portentous spectacle, sure,” exclaims North. “Three
parsons in one pulpit! Enough of itself, on a less occasion, to excite
terror in the audience.”[181] There was one thing still lacking. As
yet no evidence had appeared to connect any one with the crime. On
October 21 a committee of secrecy was appointed by the House of Commons
to inquire into the Popish Plot and the murder of Sir Edmund Berry
Godfrey. On the 23rd a similar committee was established by the House
of Lords.[182]
The secretaries of state and the privy council were already
overwhelmed with work which the investigation of the plot had thrown
upon their shoulders. For ten days the committees laboured at the
inquiry, and examined some dozens of witnesses without drawing nearer
to the desired end. Nothing appeared to throw light upon the subject.
Every clue which was taken up vanished in a haze of rumour and
uncertainty. There seemed every probability that the murderers would
escape detection. But information was soon to be forthcoming to shed a
ray of light upon the scene.