"When on the problems of the past
A flood of light has come;
When we see the evil that we did,
And the good we might have done."
Cyrus Thornton.
On the 27th of January, Robert and Thomas Winter, Guy Fawkes, John
Grant, Ambrose Rookwood, Robert Keyes, and Thomas Bates were placed upon
their trial at Westminster.
Grant and Bates were really guilty of very little beyond knowing of the
plot and keeping silence. But they all received the same sentence--to
be hung, drawn, and quartered. Sir Everard Digby was tried separately,
but to the same end. He alone pleaded guilty; his principal anxiety
seemed to be to save the priests--a wish wherein all the conspirators
agreed. On leaving the dock, Sir Everard, "bowing himself towards the
Lords, said, `If I may but hear any of your Lordships say, you forgive
me, I shall go more cheerfully to the gallows.' Whereupon the Lords
said, `God forgive you, and we do.'"
Of all the conspirators, Sir Everard won the greatest sympathy, from his
rank, his youth, his accomplishments, and especially his fine person--
which last drew expressions of pity from the Queen, who was afflicted
with that fatal worship of beauty which was the bane of the Stuart race.
Three days later, the scaffold was set up at the west end of Saint
Paul's Cathedral, and four of the traitors were brought forth to die.
They were the four least guilty of the group--Sir Everard Digby, Robert
Winter, John Grant, and Thomas Bates.
As the prisoners were being drawn to the scaffold upon hurdles, a
pathetic incident took place. Martha Bates had followed her husband to
London, and as the procession passed by, she rushed from the crowd of
spectators, and flung herself upon the hurdle in an agony. Bates then
told her of the money entrusted to him by Wright, which he wished her to
keep for her own relief, and it was afterwards granted to her by the
Crown.
Arrived at the place of execution, Sir Everard was the first to ascend
the ladder. Very pale, yet very self-controlled, he spoke to the
people, saying that his conscience had led him into this offence, which
in respect of religion he held to be no sin at all, but in respect of
the law he confessed that he had done wrong; and he asked forgiveness of
God, the King, and the kingdom. He declined the ministrations of the
clergy, and after a few Latin prayers, crossed himself, and so "made an
end of his wicked days in this world,"--an example for all time how
little education and accomplishments can do to keep man from sin, a
martyr to a priest-ridden conscience unenlightened by the Word of God.
Robert Winter followed next. He scarcely spoke, asked no forgiveness,
but after a few silent prayers, passed calmly into the Silent Land.
The next was John Grant. This grave, melancholy man went smiling to his
death. When he was entreated to seek for pardon for his crimes, his
reply was, in a triumphant tone, "I am satisfied that our project was so
far from being sinful, that I rely entirely upon my merits in bearing a
part of that noble action, as an abundant satisfaction and expiation for
all sins committed by me during the rest of my life!" He died thus with
a lie in his right hand, and went to present the filthy rags of his own
righteousness before His eyes in whose sight the heavens are not pure,
and whose command is "Thou shalt do no murder."
Last came poor Bates, who "seemed sorry for his offence," and said that
only his love for his dead master had drawn him to forget his duty to
God, his King and country. And "thus ended that day's business."
In Old Palace Yard, "over against the Parliament House,"--namely, where
now stands the statue of Godfrey de Bouillon--the second scaffold was
erected on the following day. The four prisoners who were now to suffer
were, the priests excepted, the most guilty of those left alive. They
were drawn from the Tower on hurdles, as was usual. As they passed
along the Strand, from an open window the beautiful Elizabeth Rookwood
called to her husband--
"Ambrose, be of good courage! Thou art to suffer for a great and noble
cause."
Raising himself from the hurdle as well as he could, Rookwood answered,
"My dear, pray for me."
"I will, I will!" she cried. "And do you offer yourself with a good
heart to God and your Creator. I yield you to Him, with as full an
assurance that you will be accepted of Him as when He gave you to me."
And so the procession passed on.
The first to suffer of these was Thomas Winter. He was extremely pale,
and seemed sorry for his offence "after a sort;" but he spoke little,
merely protesting that he died "a true Catholic."
Rookwood, who came next, made a long speech. He said that he asked
forgiveness of God, whom he had offended in seeking to shed blood, of
the King, and of the people. He prayed for the King and Royal Family,
entreating that the King might become a "Catholic:" [Note 1] and he
besought the King's goodness to his Elizabeth and her children. He was
spared the worst, for he drew his last breath ere it began.
The next to follow was Keyes. He had said on the trial that his
fortunes being desperate, his fate was "as good now as another time, and
for this cause rather than another." In this hardened, reckless spirit,
he flung himself from the ladder, with such force as to break the
halter.
Last came "the great devil of all," Guy Fawkes, who, "being weak with
torture and sickness, was scarce able to go up the ladder." He made no
long speech, but "after a sort, seemed to be sorry" and asked
forgiveness: and "with his crosses and his idle ceremonies" was
cast-off, dying instantaneously.
So ended the awful scenes which were the reward of the Gunpowder Plot.
But not yet had justice overtaken all the perpetrators of this villainy.
Three important traitors were yet at large, and they were all Jesuit
priests. Greenway, who had fled from Holbeach with Robert Winter, had
not continued in his company. For ten days he hid in barns and cottages
in Worcestershire; but when the proclamation was made for his arrest,
thinking it safest to be lost in a crowd in the metropolis, he came to
London. Here he was one day seized by a man, as they stood among others
reading the proclamation for his arrest. Greenway, with artful
composure, denied the identity, but went quietly with his captor till
they reached an unfrequented street, when the priest, who was a very
powerful man, suddenly set upon his companion, and escaping from him,
after a few days' concealment fled to the coast, whence he safely
crossed to the Continent. He afterwards wrote for his superiors a
narrative of the plot, wherein all the conspirators are impeccable
heroes of the romantic novel type, and the plot--which during its
existence he upheld and fervently encouraged--is condemned as a "rash,
desperate, and wicked" piece of business. He succeeded so well in
deceiving his superiors (or else they were equally hypocritical with
himself), that he was appointed Penitentiary to the Pope, and ended his
life in the full favour of that potentate.
Gerard, also, who had originally assisted the plotters in taking their
oath of secrecy, had now disappeared. So excellent an opinion had the
Roman Catholics of him, that many refused to believe "that holy, good
man" could have had any share in the conspiracy. The description of
this worthy, as given in the proclamation for his arrest, is curious in
its detail, and the better worth quoting since it has apparently not
been printed:--
"John Gerrarde the Jesuit is about thirty years old, of a good stature,
something higher than Sir Thomas Leighton [this name is crossed out, and
replaced by the word] ordinary, and upright in his pace and countenance;
somewhat staring in his looke and Eyes, curled headed by Nature, and
blackish, and not apt to have much hair on his beard. His Nose somewhat
wide, and turning up; blebberd lipped [thick-lipped], turning outward,
especially the upper lip, upward toward the Nose. Curious in speech, if
he do continue his custom, and in his speech he flewreth [Note 2] and
smiles much, and a faltering, lisping, or doubling of his tongue in his
speech." [Note 3.] What a picture of a Jesuit! This is the type of
man who practises an art which I never saw to such perfection as once in
the Principal of a Jesuit College--that of:
"Washing the hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water."
Lastly, what had become of Garnet? He had not escaped nor left England,
yet he seemed in some inscrutable manner to have vanished from the face
of the earth, as completely as a morning mist.
The next step was to secure White Webbs. Commissioners were sent down
to Enfield Chase, with directions to search for that undiscoverable
house, to make thorough investigation of it, and to take into custody
every individual therein. They found the place--an old rambling house
in the heart of the Chase, full of trap-doors, passages, unexpected
steps up or down, holes, corners, and cupboards at every turn. But it
had no inhabitants save servants, and they could tell little. Their
mistress was Mrs Perkins, the widowed sister of Mr Mease, a Berkshire
farmer. It was quite true they were Catholics, all allowed; and
Elizabeth Shepherd admitted that mass had been performed in the house.
But what connection could there be between the Gunpowder Plot and worthy
Mr Mease the faimer, or innocent Mrs Perkins the widow?
Many persons would have resigned the search: but not so Sir William
Wade. Sir William Wade, the Keeper of the Tower, had an uncommonly keen
scent for a heretic which term was in his eyes the equivalent of a
Jesuit. He could see much further than any one else through a
millstone, and detected a Jesuit where no less acute person suspected
anything but a farmer or a horse-dealer. Not only was a Jesuit capable
of every crime that man could commit, but every criminal was pretty
nearly certain to turn out a Jesuit. Moreover, Sir William loved a joke
only less than he bated a Jesuit; and apathy in any pursuit was not one
of his failings who wrote that "he thanked God on the knees of his soul"
for the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot.
Mr Mease was not to escape Sir William's penetration. He was anxious
to see a little more of Mr Mease, and of Mrs Perkins also.
For the moment, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Sturdy James
Johnson, Mrs Perkins' servant, would not betray his employers, even
when put to the rack, until he had suffered appallingly. Half-an-hour
had been sufficient to exhaust Guy Fawkes' endurance, but James Johnson
bore three hours. Even then he could tell little. For his mistress's
brother he knew no name but Mease, except that he had heard him
addressed as "Farmer:" but he did know, and had known for two years,
that the real name of his mistress was Anne Vaux. He could also say
that she had been visited by a Mr and Mrs Skinner, a Mr and Mrs
Thomas Jennings, a Mr Catesby, and a little gentleman whom the latter
called Tom, and whose name he said was Winter. As to himself, Johnson
asserted that he was "a Romishe Catholic," and "never was at church nor
yet at mass in his life." Frightened little Jane Robinson, aged
fourteen, admitted that mass had been said in the house, but when asked
what vestments the priest wore, could only answer that "he was
apparelled like a gentleman."
Sir William Wade went down once more upon the knees of his soul, when
his ears were refreshed by these delightful names. At Harrowden, the
seat of Lord Vaux, the family had already been questioned to no purpose.
Mrs Vaux, the mother of the young Lord, and the sister-in-law of Anne,
was astonished that anybody should suspect her of a guilty knowledge of
the plot. Having previously denied that she knew any such person as
Gerard, she subsequently confessed that Gerard and Garnet had been
frequently at her house, and that she had a vague suspicion that
"something was going to happen." Harrowden must be further
investigated; and admissions were wrung from the servants at White Webbs
which satisfied the commission that the relations between Anne Vaux and
Garnet had been of an intimate character. Sir William Wade was now on
the track of a Jesuit, and might be trusted to pursue that enticing path
with eager and untiring accuracy.
The watch set at Harrowden was removed just too soon. Had it lasted two
days longer, Gerard would have been starved out, for he lay concealed in
the priest's hiding-place. As soon as the watching party took their
leave, he emerged from his refuge, and succeeded through multifarious
difficulties in safely escaping over seas.
About this time--from what source is uncertain--a hint reached the
Government to the effect that Gerard might possibly, and Hall would
probably, be found in one of the priest's hiding-places at Hendlip Hall
in Worcestershire, the residence of Mr Thomas Abington. Edward Hall,
alias Oldcorne, [Note 4] was Mr Abington's private chaplain; and though
there is little evidence extant to connect him with the plot, the
Government appear to have been extremely suspicious of him. When,
therefore, the suggestion reached them that they might as well inspect
the curiosities of Hendlip Hall, the authorities lost no time in sending
down Sir Henry Bromley, of Holt Castle, at the head of a searching
party, for that purpose.
Until 1825 or thereabouts, Hendlip Hall remained standing, on the
highest ground in the neighbourhood between Droitwich and Worcester, and
rather nearer to the latter. A most curious, cunningly-planned,
perplexing house it was--a house of houses wherein to secrete a
political refugee or a Jesuit priest--full of surprises, unexpected
turnings, sliding panels, and inconceivable closets without apparent
entrances. "There is scarcely an apartment," wrote a spectator shortly
before its destruction, "that has not secret ways of going in or going
out; some have back staircases concealed in the walls; others have
places of retreat in their chimneys; some have trap-doors, and all
present a picture of gloom, insecurity, and suspicion." On one side was
a high tower, from which the approach of any enemy could be easily
observed. The house had been built in 1572, by John Abington, cofferer
to Queen Elizabeth; but his son Thomas, the owner in 1605, had added the
hiding-places. Such concealed chambers were very common in houses
belonging to Roman Catholic families; and in the safest of all those at
Hendlip Hall, two priests were at that moment in close confinement. The
Government had been so far truly informed. Hall, too, was one of them:
but Gerard was not the other. Sir William Wade would have danced in
delight, could he have known that his colleagues were on the track of
the great Provincial of the Jesuit Mission to this heathen country of
England, the chief of all the conspirators yet left at large.
About two months before this, Garnet had come to the conclusion that he
was no longer safe at Coughton, which, as the property of Mr
Throckmorton, and lately in the occupation of Sir Everard Digby, would
be likely to obtain a thorough overhauling. From Mr Hall he had
received a pressing invitation to Hendlip for himself and his
confidential servant, Nicholas Owen, who went by the name of "Little
John." The latter was an old acquaintance at Hendlip, for it was his
ingenuity that had devised the numerous hiding-places which had been
added to the Hall by its present owner. To Hendlip accordingly Garnet
removed from Coughton,--accompanied by Anne Vaux and the Brooksbys,--
about the 16th of December, and for some weeks resided with the family
without concealment. But on Monday, the 20th of January, as the day
broke, Sir Henry Bromley and his troops marched up to and invested
Hendlip Hall.
The Hon. Mrs Abington was a sister of Lord Monteagle, and was quite as
good an actress as her brother was an actor. She possessed the power of
assuming the most complete outward composure, as if nothing whatever
were the matter, however adversely things might be going to her wishes.
She had also a very quiet, very firm, very unmanageable will. Mr
Abington was not at home; but that signified little, for the grey mare
was unquestionably the superior creature of the pair.
If the information imparted to her so early on that morning had been
that the cat had mewed, or that a hen had dropped a feather, the lady of
Hendlip could scarcely have received it with more repose of manner.
"That is what we might look for," said she. "If it please you, holy
Fathers, it might be as well that you should repair to one of your
chambers for a while.--Bid Edward come to me."
Edward, a white-headed confidential servant with an aspect of appalling
respectability, presented himself at once in response to his mistress's
summons.
"Edward," said Mrs Abington, "I would have you, quickly, take up these
holy Fathers to the hole in your chamber, and set Little John and
Chambers in the next safest. There are enemies approaching."
Edward bowed his dignified head, and obeyed.
He led Garnet and Hall up the chief staircase, and into the bedroom
occupied by Edward himself, which stood behind that of his master.
Garnet cast his eyes round the chamber.
"Truly, good Edward," said he, "I scarce see means to hide so much as a
mouse in this chamber, other than in yonder closet, which is as plain as
the door or the window."
Edward replied by an amused smile.
"You've a deal of book-learning, Father Garnet," said he, "but under
your leave, there's a few things you don't know in this world."
He walked into the chimney-corner.
Chimneys, be it remembered, were much wider in the seventeenth century
than they have been since the invention of grates. There was room in
every chimney-corner, not only for the fire, but for one or two chairs
and settles, where people could sit when they wished to warm themselves;
and as there was no fire on Edward's hearth, moving about on it was as
easy as in a closet.
"Are we to fly up the chimney on a pair of broomsticks?" laughed Hall.
Edward only smiled again, and after a moment's feeling with his hand
among the bricks at the side of the chimney, they heard a sound as of
the pushing back of bolts. Slowly, as if it moved with some difficulty,
a square door opened in the chimney, so cleverly concealed that it
required a skilful detective indeed to guess its existence. The door
was of wood, "curiously covered over with brick, mortared and made fast"
to it, "and coloured black like the other parts of the chimney, that
very diligent inquiry might well have past by." Behind it was a very
small square recess, large enough to hold the two, though not
sufficiently high for them to stand upright. A narrow tunnel, in
outward appearance like a chimney, led up to the top of the house,
designed for the admission of light and air to the hiding-place, but
capable of conveying no great quantity of either. Having fetched a
short ladder, Edward placed it in position, so that the priests could
climb up into the chamber.
"It had been more to your comfort, Fathers, could we have cast forth
some of this furniture," he said, looking round it: "but it were scarce
wise to defer the matter, the house being already invested."
"Let be, we will serve ourselves of it as it is, and well."
The priests mounted into the tiny hiding-place.
"See you, holy Fathers," Edward asked, "a vessel of tin, standing below
a little hole in the wall? Have a care that you move it not without you
first stop the hole, for it runneth through into my mistress's chamber,
and by a quill or reed therein laid can she minister warm drinks unto
you, as broths and caudle. She can likewise speak to you through the
hole, and be heard: but if you hear the noise of feet or strange voices
in that chamber, have a care to lie as squat [quiet] and close as ever
you can. So may you safely hover [lie concealed]; for the cleverest
soldier of them all shall be hard put to it to find you here, if it
please God."
Would it please God? Did no memory come to either of those well-read
priestly refugees of a familiar question--"Shall the throne of iniquity
have fellowship with Thee?"
"A tight fit this, for two!" said Hall.
"Ay, it is. There hath not been above one here aforetime. But it is
the safest hilling [hiding-place] in the house. Good-day, holy Fathers,
and God keep you safe!"
While these scenes were enacting in one part of the house, in another
Sir Henry Bromley was introducing himself to the lady of Hendlip Hall,
and, with plumed hat in hand, apologising for his intrusion, and civilly
requesting her permission to examine the house. A kindly,
tender-hearted man was the commander of this searching party, but at the
same time a conscientious one, and a determined Protestant.
If anything could be more considerate and cordial than Sir Henry's
appeal, it was to all appearances the spirit wherein it was received.
Mrs Abington begged her visitor not to speak of intrusion. His Majesty
the King had no subjects more loyal than every man and woman in that
house. It was really a source of pleasure to her that her abode should
be scrutinised in the most critical manner, and her perfect innocence
and submission to law thus made manifest. The lady at once delivered
her keys--she did not say that a few of them were on a separate bunch--
and requested that no quarter might be given. Appearances were so
charming, and innocence apparently so clear, that they might have
deluded a more astute man than Sir Henry Bromley.
Sir Henry, however, had come to do his duty, and he did it in spite of
appearances. Lord Salisbury had furnished him with minute instructions,
which pointed decidedly to probable need of caution in this respect. He
was to search for a suspected vault at the east end of the dining-room;
for a similar erection beneath the cellars; for ingenious closets
squeezed in between the walls of upper rooms; for possible holes in
corners and chimneys, wainscots which could be pierced by gimlets,
double lofts, and concealed chambers in the rafters. Sir Henry set to
work. "Madam," said he to Mrs Abington, "were it not more to the
conveniency of yourself and these gentlewomen your friends, that you
should take occasion to pay some visit forth of the house? I fear the
noise made by my men, not to speak of the turning about of your chambers
by taking up of boards and trying of wainscots, shall greatly incommode
you if you tarry."
Sir Henry wanted sadly to get the ladies away. But Mrs Abington was
quite as sagacious as himself, and more determined. She assured him
that the noise was nothing, and the little novelties of holes in her
dining-room floor and broken wainscots in her drawing-room would be
rather amusing than otherwise. Poor Sir Henry, baffled by this clever
woman, laments to Lord Salisbury,--"I did never hear so impudent liars
as I find here--all recusants, and all resolved to confess nothing, what
danger soever they incur.--I could by no means persuade the gentlewoman
of the house to depart the house, without I should have carried her,
which I held uncivil, as being so nobly born; as I have and do undergo
the greater difficulties thereby."
The Monday night brought home the master of the house. He answered the
queries of the gentlemen in possession with as much apparent frankness
as his wife, but assured Sir Henry that the persons for whom he was
searching were absolute strangers to him; he had never seen any of them
save Gerard, and him only some five and twenty years before. For
suspecting him of harbouring priests, not to speak of traitors, there
was not a shadow of reason!
Sir Henry went on searching, though he was out of hope. In the first
place, he discovered some parcels of "books and writing," which showed
at that time that "some scholars" must have used them; an ordinary
country gentleman was not expected to have any books, except Bible and
prayer-books, one or two on law, needed in his capacity as a magistrate,
a book on etiquette, and a few dog's-eared plays. On the Wednesday a
discovery of more importance was made, for in three or four places where
boards were uplifted, a quantity of "Popish trash" was brought to light.
Thus encouraged, the searchers resolved to continue their work, which
they were on the point of giving up. Mr Abington continued to protest
his supreme innocence of all knowledge or connivance. The books were
none of his; the "Popish stuff" astonished him as much as it did the
searchers. This assumption of exquisite stainlessness lasted until one
day a hiding-place was discovered, which contained his family muniments
and the title-deeds of his estate. After that, Mr Abington protested
no more; and it was needless, for he would not have been believed had he
done so. Sir Henry at once despatched him to Worcester to be taken care
of by a magistrate; and "being much wearied," on Wednesday night
returned to his own house to take rest, leaving his brother Sir Edward
in charge.
On the Thursday morning, when he returned to Hendlip, he was met by two
wan, gaunt men, whose countenances showed privation and suffering. They
gave their names as William Andrews and George Chambers.
By some unexplained want of care or foresight, these two unfortunate men
had been suffered to secrete themselves without provisions, and had
nothing but one apple between them from Monday to Thursday.
Sir Henry was delighted, for at first he thought he had secured Greenway
and Hall. A little further examination, however, showed him that his
captives were only the priests' servants; yet he shrewdly surmised that
the servants being there, the masters in all probability were not far
away.
For four days more the search was pursued in vain: but on the 27th news
came that not only was Hall certainly concealed in the house, but that
the most important of all the implicated Jesuits, Garnet, would probably
be found by a diligent continuance of the search. It came from an
unexpected quarter--no other than Red Humphrey Littleton.
Justice had not been slow in overtaking the harbourers of Robert Winter
and Stephen Littleton. White and his brothers had got clear away; but
Smart, Hollyhead, Perks, and Burford, suffered the last penalty of the
law. Margaret Perks was pardoned, though condemned to death. Humphrey
Littleton received the torture; and when apparently at the point of
death, entreated permission to confess important facts, which he
promised to do if his life might be spared. His appeal was granted, and
he then told the authorities that the most important criminal still at
large would be found in the priest's hiding-place at Hendlip Hall.
Fortified by this encouraging news, though the prisoners already taken
denied all knowledge of any others being hidden in the house, Sir Henry
pushed on his search; and at last, on the 28th, eight days after his
arrival, one of his men broke into the cunningly contrived hiding-place
in the chimney of Edward's room. This brave discoverer was so terrified
by his own success that he ran away lest the priests should shoot him;
but others coming rapidly to his assistance, the priests offered to come
out if they might do so with quietude. "So they helped us out," says
Garnet, "very charitably."
Garnet's account of their experiences in "the hoale," as he terms it, is
not suggestive of an inviting place. "We were in the hoale seven days
and seven nights and some hours, and were well wearied;" the place was
so encumbered with books and furniture that they "could not find place
for their legs" even when seated; and the cramped positions which they
were compelled to assume caused their legs to swell greatly. Garnet
seems to have suffered more of the two. Yet he adds that they were
"very merry and content," and could have stayed three months, though
when they came out at last, "we appeared like two ghosts."
Sir Henry Bromley at once recognised the Provincial of the Jesuit
Mission; but which of his various aliases really belonged to him puzzled
his captor not a little, and Garnet declined to enlighten him.
"Call me as you will," said he; "I refer all to my meeting with my Lord
of Salisbury, and he will know me. In truth, I say not thus for any
discourtesy, but that I will not, in the places we are, be made an
obloquy: but when I come to London, I will not be ashamed of my name."
Sir Henry now marshalled his prisoners for transport to Worcester. He
described them to the authorities as "Humphrey Phillips alias Henry
Garnet; John Vincent alias Hall; Thomas Abington, Esquire; William
Androwes alias Nicholas Owen, either a priest or servant to Garnet;
George Chambers, servant of Hall; Edward Jarrett, servant of Mrs
Dorathie Abington; William Glandishe, servant of Mr Abington." [Note
5.] Mr Abington and the priests were taken to Worcester in Sir Henry's
coach. The mind of that gentleman was somewhat exercised as to what he
was to do with them when he got them there. Before leaving Hendlip he
had promised to place them in the house of some bailiff or citizen; but
as they were driving into Worcester, he said uneasily--
"My masters, I cannot do for you as I would; I must needs send you to
the gaol."
"In God's name!" [Note 6] responded Garnet. "But I hope you will
provide we have not irons, for we are lame already, and shall not be
able to ride after, to London."
Sir Henry's tender heart was touched at once.
"Well," said he, "I will think of it."
He thought of it to such purpose, that when they reached the inn, he
placed Garnet in a private room, with a guard--his Reverence says, "to
avoid the people's gazing;" Sir Henry would probably have added that it
was also in order to prevent the prisoner's disappearance. After
despatching his business he ordered his coach, and took his prisoners
home with him to Holt Castle. Here, on their own testimony, they were
"exceeding well used, and dined and supped with him and his every
day,"--not without some apprehension on the part of their kindly gaoler
that they might reward him by perverting his young daughters from the
Protestant faith.
When Candlemas Day came, Sir Henry "made a great dinner to end
Christmas," and sent for wine to drink the King's health. It was then
customary for gentlemen always to dine with their hats on, and to
uncover when a royal toast was proposed. The hats were doffed
accordingly. The wine came in, and with it a wax candle, lighted--a
blessed candle taken at Hendlip, among the "Popish trash," and destined
for use on the services of that very day, having "Jesus" painted on one
side of it, and "Maria" on the other. Garnet's heart leaped at the
familiar sight, and he begged leave to take the candle in his hand.
Passing it to Mr Hall, he said, half joyfully, half sadly--
"I am glad yet, that I have carried a holy candle on Candlemas Day."
Restoring the holy wax to the unholy candlestick, the priests drank the
King's health in what Mr Garnet is kind enough to tell us was "a
reasonable glass"--a piece of information the more valuable, since this
adjective was not always applicable to his Reverence's glasses.
When they came to leave Worcester, the parting between Garnet and the
ladies was almost affectionate. The priest was evidently possessed of
that strong personal magnetism which some men and women have, and which
is oftener exercised for the purposes of Satan than in the service of
God.
"Madam," he said to Lady Bromley, "I desire you all to think well of me
till you see whether I can justify myself in this cause."
The journey to London took longer than would otherwise have been needed,
on account of the condition of the prisoners. Garnet, whose sufferings
had been the more severe, was also the one in whom their results lasted
longest; and on the 5th of February, Sir Henry wrote that he was "but a
weak and wearisome traveller." He was, however, "passing well used at
the King's charge, and that by express orders from my Lord Salisbury,"
and "had always the best horse in the company." Garnet adds, "I had
sorde bickering with ministers by the way. Two very good scholars, and
courteous, Mr Abbott and Mr Barlow, met us at an inn; but two other
rude fellows met us on the way, whose discourtesy I rewarded with plain
words, and so adieu." The Jesuit Superior apparently rather enjoyed a
little brisk brushing of wits with well-educated gentlemanly clerics,
but felt some disgust of abuse which passed for argument with others.
On the evening of the 6th of February they reached London, where they
were lodged in the Gate-house, and Garnet was "very sick the first two
nights with ill lodging." It was not until the 13th that the first
examination took place before the Privy Council at Whitehall.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. To which the reporter adds, "otherwise a Papist, which God for
His mercy ever forbid!"
Note 2. To flewer or fleer is to smile in that grinning manner which
shows all the teeth. Our forefathers considered it a mark of a
sneering, envious man.
Note 3. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume eighteen,
article 20.
Note 4. This most untruthful gentleman asserted that "his true name was
Oldcorne;" but Garnet and Anne Vaux both call him Hall in writing to
each other.
Note 5. Domestic State Papers, James the First, volume 18, article 64.
Mrs Dorathie Abington was Mr Abington's maiden sister, who lived at
Hendlip Hall, and had a priest of her own, a Jesuit, named Butler or
Lyster. He does not appear in this narrative, and was very likely
absent.
Note 6. This was not meant profanely, but was simply equivalent to
saying, "God's will be done!"