"Carry him forth and bury him. Death's peace
Rest on his memory! Mercy by his bier
Sits silent, or says only these few words--
Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all
Cast the first stone."
Dinah Mulock.
A great crowd had assembled near Whitehall, and was lining Charing Cross
and the Tiltyard below, on the morning of that 13th of February, when
Sir Henry Bromley and his guard, with the prisoners in their midst,
marched down the street to the Palace. Among them were Temperance
Murthwaite and Rachel, and near them was Mrs Abbott. The crowd was
deeply interested in the prisoners, especially the two priests.
"There is a Provincial!" said a respectable-looking man who stood next
to Rachel.
"Ay, and there goeth a young Pope!" returned Temperance, grimly, in
allusion to Hall.
"They bear a good brag, most of 'em," said the man. "Would we were rid
of 'em all, neck and crop!" said another.
"Pack 'em off to the American plantations!" suggested a third.
"If I dwelt there, I shouldn't give you thanks," replied the first.
"Find some land where nought dwelleth save baboons and snakes, and send
'em all there in a lump," was the response.
"What think you, Rachel?" demanded Mrs Abbott, who was not often silent
for so long at once.
"Why, they're men, just like other folks!" was Rachel's contribution.
"Did you think they'd have horns and tails?" said Temperance.
"Well, nay, not justly that," answered Rachel: "but I reckoned they'd
ha' looked a bit more like wastrels [scoundrels]. Yon lad's none so
bad-looking as many a man you may meet i' th' street. And th' owd un's
meterly [middling], too. Happen [perhaps] they aren't any o' the
worst."
"Why, maid," said the man who had first spoken, "that's Father Garnet,
the head of all the Jesuits in this country; there isn't a craftier fox
in all England than he."
"Well, I shouldn't ha' thought it," saith Rachel.
"Faces tell not alway truth," said Temperance.
"He's good eyes, though," remarked Mrs Abbott, "though they be a bit
heavy, as though he'd had a poor night's rest."
"He's one o' them long, narrow faces," said the man; "I never trust
such. And a long nose, too--just like a fox."
"Ay, I'll be bound he's a fause [cunning] un," commented Rachel.
"His mouth's the worst thing about him," said Temperance.
"It's a little un," observed Rachel.
"Little or big, it's a false one," answered Temperance. "There's a
prim, fixed, sanctimonious look about it that I wouldn't trust with
anything I cared to see safe."
"Eh, I'd none trust one o' them--not to sell a pound o' butter," said
Rachel. "And by th' same token, Mrs Temperance, I mun be home to skim
th' cream, or Charity'll take it off like a gaumless [stupid] lass as
hoo [she] is. Hoo can do some things, well enough, but hoo cannot skim
cream!"
"Go, good maid, if thou canst win out of this crowd, but methinks thou
shalt have thy work cut out to do so."
"Eh, she will," said Mrs Abbott. "And mind you, Rachel! if you pull
yourself forth, you'll find your gown in rags by the time you're at
home. I do hope, neighbour, you deal not with Simpkinson, in the
Strand; that rogue sold me ten ells of green stamyn, and charged me
thirty shillings the ell, and I vow it was scarce made up ere it began
a-coming to bits. I'll give it him when I can catch him! and if I serve
not our Seth out for dinting in the blackjack last night, I'm a Dutch
woman, and no mistake! Black jacks are half-a-crown apiece, and so I
told him; but I'll give him a bit more afore I've done with him; trust
me. There is no keeping lads in order. The mischievousness of 'em's
past count. My husband, he says, `Lads will be lads,'--he's that easy,
if a mouse ran away with his supper from under his nose, he'd only call
after it, `Much good may it do thee.' Do you ever hear mice in your
house, Mrs Murthwaite! I'm for ever and the day after plagued wi'
them, and I do wish those lads 'ud make theirselves a bit useful and
catch 'em, instead o' dinting in black jacks. But, dear heart, you'll
as soon catch the mice as catch them at aught that's useful. They'll--"
"My mistress," said Mrs Abbott's next neighbour, "may I ask if your
husband be a very silent man?"
"I'm sure o' that," said the man who followed him.
"Eh, bless you, they all talk and chatter at our house while I can't
slip a word in," was the lady's answer.
"That's why she has so many to let go out o' door," remarked the last
speaker.
"I thought so," observed the neighbour, "because I have marked that men
and women do mostly wed with their contraries."
"Why, what mean you?" inquired Mrs Abbott, turning round to look him in
the face.
"That my way lieth down this by-street," said he, working himself out of
the crush into Channon Row, "and so I bid you all good-morrow."
Temperance Murthwaite laughed to herself, as she let herself in at the
door of the White Bear, while Mrs Abbott hurried into the Angel with a
box on the ear to Dorcas and Hester, who leaned upon the gate watching
the crowd.
"Get you in to your business!" said she. "Chatter, chatter, chatter!
One might as well live in a cage o' magpies at once, and ha' done with
it. Be off with the pair of ye!"
Garnet's admissions in answer to the questions put to him were few and
cautious. He allowed that for twenty years he had been the Superior of
the English Jesuits, but denied any knowledge of the negotiations with
Spain, carried on before the death of Queen Elizabeth. As to Fawkes, he
had never seen him but once in his life, at the previous Easter.
Questioned about White Webbs, he flatly denied that he ever was there,
or anywhere near Enfield Chase "since Bartholomewtide." He was not in
London or the suburbs in November. The Attorney-General was very kind
to the prisoner, and promised "to make the best construction that he
could" of his answers to the King; but Sir William Wade was not the man
to accept the word of a Jesuit, unless it should be the word "Guilty."
He accused Garnet of wholesale violation of the Decalogue in the
plainest English, and coolly told him that he could not believe him on
his oath, since the Pope could absolve him for any extent of lying or
equivocation. It was plainly no easy matter to beguile Sir William
Wade.
The next day, February 14th, Garnet and Hall were removed to the Tower
of London, where the former found himself, to his satisfaction, lodged
in "a very fine chamber," next to that of his brother priest. Here, as
he records in a letter to his friends, he received the best treatment,
being "allowed every meal a good draught of excellent claret wine," as
well as permitted to send for additional sack out of his own purse for
himself and the keeper: and he was suffered to vegetate as he thought
proper, with only one sorrow to vex his soul--Sir William Wade.
Sir William Wade, the Lieutenant of the Tower, constituted himself the
torment of poor Garnet's life. He was perpetually passing through his
room, or at the furthest, loitering in the gallery beyond. Sometimes he
treated the prisoner as beneath contempt, and would not utter a word to
him; at other times he sat down and regaled him with conversation of a
free and easy character. The scornful silence was bad enough, but the
conversation was considerably worse. Whatever else Garnet was, he was
an English gentleman, as his letters testify; and Sir William Wade was
not. He was, on the contrary, one of those distressing people who pride
themselves on being outspoken, and calling a spade a spade, which they
do in the most vulgar and disagreeable manner. He favoured the prisoner
with his unvarnished opinion of the Society to which he belonged, and
with unsavoury anecdotes of its members, mingled with the bitterest
abuse: and the worthy knight was not the man to spare his adjectives
when a sufficient seasoning of them would add zest to a dish of nouns.
At other times Sir William dipped his tongue in honey, and used the
sweetest language imaginable. It is manifest from the manner in which
Garnet mentions him, that the smallest of his trials was not Sir William
Wade.
Mr Garnet's first act, on being inducted into these comfortable
quarters in his Majesty's Tower, was to bribe his keeper to wink at his
peccadilloes. A few cups of that supernumerary sack, and an occasional
piece of silver, were worth expending on the safe carriage of his
letters and other necessities which might in time arise. He made
affectionate inquiries as to the keeper's domestic relations, and
discovered that he was blessed with a wife and a mother. To the wife he
despatched a little of that excellent sack, and secured permission for
his letters to be placed in the custody of the mother, who dwelt just
outside the walls. But he was especially rejoiced when, a few days
after his incarceration, the keeper sidled up to him, with a finger on
his lips and a wink in his eye, and beckoned him to a particular part of
the room, where with great parade of care and silence he showed him a
concealed door between his own cell and that of Hall, intimating by
signs that secret communications might be held after this fashion, and
he, the keeper, would take care to be conveniently blind and deaf.
This was a comfort indeed, for the imprisoned priests could now mutually
forgive each others' sins. There was a little cranny in the top of the
door, which might be utilised for a mere occasional whisper; but when a
regular confession was to be made, the door of communication could be
opened for an inch or two. The one drawback was that the vexatious door
insisted on creaking, as if it were a Protestant door desirous of giving
warning of Popish practices. But the Jesuits were equal to the
difficulty. When the door was to be shut, the unemployed one either
fell to shovelling coals upon the fire, or was suddenly seized with a
severe bronchial cough, so that the ominous creak should not be heard
outside. The comfort, therefore, remained; and heartily glad were the
imprisoned Jesuits to have found this means of communication by the kind
help of their tender-hearted keeper.
Alas, poor Jesuits! They little knew that they were caught in their own
trap. The treacherous keeper drank their sack, and pocketed their
angels, but their letters rarely went further than my Lord of
Salisbury's desk; and in a convenient closet unseen by them, close to
the creaking door, Mr Forset, a Justice of the Peace, and Mr
Locherson, Lord Salisbury's secretary, were listening with all their
ears to their confidential whispers, and taking thereby bad "coulds"
which they subsequently had to go home and nurse. It was fox _versus_
fox. As soon as the door was closed under cover of cough or coals, the
hidden spies came quickly forth, and in another chamber wrote down the
conversation just passed for the benefit of his Majesty's Judges.
Benighted Protestants were evidently Messrs. Forset and Locherson, for
the "Catholic practice" of auricular confession was to them a strange
and perplexing matter. They innocently record that "the confession was
short, with a prayer in Latin before they did confess to each other, and
beating their hands on their breasts." The Confiteor was succeeded by
the whispered confession, in such low tones that scarcely anything
reached the disappointed spies. Hall made his confession first, and
Garnet followed. The subsequent conversation was in louder tones,
though still whispered. Garnet informed his fellow-conspirator that he
was suspicious of the good faith of some one whose name the spies failed
to hear--to which frailty he allowed that he was very subject; that he
had received a note from Thomas Rookwood, who told him of Greenway's
escape, and from Gerard, who therefore was evidently in safety, though
"he had been put to great plunges;" that he believed Mrs Anne was in
the Town, and would let them hear from their friends; that the keeper
had accepted an angel, and sundry cups of sack for himself and his wife,
and taken them very kindly,--recommending similar treatment on Hall's
part; that Garnet was very much afraid he should be driven to confess
White Webbs, but if so, he would say that he "was there, but knew
nothing of the matter." Then Hall made a remark lost by the spies, to
which Garnet answered, with a profane invocation--too common in all
ranks at that day--"How did they know that!" If he were pressed as to
his treasonable practices before the Queen's death, he would admit them,
seeing that he held a general pardon up to that time. Garnet bemoaned
himself concerning Sir William Wade, and expressed his annoyance at the
persistent questioning of the Court touching White Webbs.
"I think it not convenient," said he, "to deny that we were at White
Webbs, they do so much insist upon that place. Since I came out of
Essex I was there two times, and so I may say I was there; but they
press me to be there in October last, which I will by no means confess,
but I shall tell them I was not there since Bartholomewtide."
He expressed his apprehension lest the servants at White Webbs should be
examined and tortured, which might "make them yield to some confession;"
a fear which made him more resolute to admit nothing concerning the
place. He was also very much afraid of being asked about certain
letters which Lord Monteagle had written.
"But in truth I am well persuaded," he concluded, "that I shall wind
myself out of that matter; and for any former business, I care not."
Just as Garnet whispered these words, footsteps were heard approaching
the chamber.
"Hark you, hark you, Mr Hall!" cried Garnet in haste; "whilst I shut
the door, make a hawking and a spitting."
Mr Hall obediently and energetically cleared his throat, under cover of
which Garnet closed the door, and presented himself the next moment to
the edified eyes of Sir William Wade in the pious aspect of a priest
telling his beads.
Another conference through the door was held on the 25th of February,
wherein Garnet was heard to lament to Hall that he "held not better
concurrence"--namely, that he did not use diligence to tell exactly the
arranged falsehoods on which the two had previously agreed. The poor
spies found themselves in difficulties on this occasion through "a cock
crowing under the window of the room, and the cackling of a hen at the
very same instant." Hall, however, was heard to undertake a better
adherence to his lesson. It is more than once noted by the spies that
in these conferences the prisoners "used not one word of godliness or
religion, or recommending themselves or their cause to God; but all hath
been how to contrive safe answers."
During Garnet's imprisonment in the Tower, if his gaolers may be
trusted, his consumption of that extra sack was not regulated by the
rules of the Blue Ribbon Army. They averred that he was "indulgent to
himself" in this particular, and "daily drank sack so liberally as if he
meant to drown sorrow."
On the 26th, Garnet knew that one of his apprehensions was verified,
when he was confronted with poor James Johnson, who had borne the
torture so bravely, and who now admitted that the prisoner thus shown to
him was the man whom he had known at White Webbs as Mr Mease, the
supposed brother of his mistress, Mrs Perkins. He confessed that he
had seen him many times. After this, it was useless to deny White Webbs
any longer. Hall was examined on the same day; but being ignorant of
the evidence given by Johnson, he audaciously affirmed that he had not
visited White Webbs, and knew of no such place.
That evening, Garnet gave a shilling to his keeper, with a request to
have some oranges brought to him. This fruit, first introduced into
England about 1568, was at that time very cheap and plentiful, about
eighteen-pence the hundred being the usual price. Sir William Wade,
lounging about the gallery as usual, met the keeper as he came out of
the cell with the money in his hand.
"What would the old fox now?" demanded he.
"An 't please you, Sir, Mr Garnet asked for oranges."
"Oh, come! he may have an orange or two--he can't do any harm with them
without he choke himself, and that should spare the King the cost of a
rope to hang him," said shrewd Sir William.
But he was not quite shrewd enough, for it never occurred to his
non-Jesuitical mind that one of those innocent oranges was destined to
play the part of a traitorous inkstand by the Reverend Henry Garnet.
A large sheet of paper, folded letter-wise, came out of the prison in
the keeper's hand an hour later. It was addressed to the Reverend
Thomas Rookwood, and contained only--in appearance--the following very
unobjectionable words. They were written in ink, at the top of the
first page:--
"Let these spectacles be set in leather, and with a leather case, or let
the fould be fitter for the nose.--Yours for ever, Henry Garnett."
Who could think of detaining so innocent a missive, or prevent the poor
prisoner from obtaining a pair of comfortable spectacles? But when the
sheet of paper was held to the fire, a very different letter started
out, in faint tracings of orange-juice:--
"This bearer knoweth that I write thus, but thinks it must be read with
water. The papers sent with bisket-bread I was forced to burn, and did
not read. I am sorry they have, without advise of friends, adventured
in so wicked an action.--I must needs acknowledge my being with the two
sisters, and that at White Webbs, as is trew, for they are so jealous of
White Webbs that I can no way else satisfy. My names I all confesse but
that last... I have acknowledged that I went from Sir Everard's to
Coughton... Where is Mrs Anne?"
A few days later, on the 2nd of March, after a careful reconnoitre to
avoid the ubiquitous Sir William, Garnet applied his lips to the cranny
in the door.
"Hark you! is all well? Let us go to confession first, if you will."
The spies, ensconced in secret, confess that they heard nothing of
Hall's confession, but that Garnet several times interrupted it with
"Well, well!"
Garnet then made his own confession, "very much more softlier than he
used to whisper in their interloqucions." It was short, but unless the
spy was mistaken, "he confessed that he had drunk so extraordinarily
that he was forced to go two nights to bed betimes." Then something was
said concerning Jesuits, to which Garnet added--
"That cannot be; I am Chancellor. It might proceed of the malice of the
priests."
The conversation on this occasion was brought to a hasty close by
Garnet's departure to read or write a letter; Mr Hall being requested
to "make a noise with the shovel" while he was shutting the door.
The second letter to Mr Thomas Rookwood followed this interview. It
was equally short in its ostensible length, and piously acknowledged the
receipt of two bands, two handkerchiefs, one pair of socks, and a Bible.
Beneath came the important postscript "Your last letter I could not
read; the pen did not cast incke. Mr Catesby did me much wrong, and
hath confessed that he asked me the question in Queen Elizabeth's time
of the powder action, and I said it was lawfull: all which is most
untrew. He did it to draw in others. I see no advantage they have
against me for the powder action." [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 242.]
Garnet added that his friend might communicate with him through letters
left in charge of the keeper's mother; but he begged him not to pay a
personal visit unless he could first make sure that the redoubtable Wade
was absent.
An answer from the Reverend Thomas consisted, to all appearance, of a
simple sheet of writing-paper, enclosing a pair of spectacles in their
case, and bearing the few words written outside--"I pray you prove
whether the spectacles do fit your sight." Inside, in orange-juice, was
the real communication, from Anne Vaux, wherein she promised to come to
the garden, and begged Garnet to appoint a time when she might hope to
see him. [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 243.] This seems to show that
Garnet was sometimes allowed the liberty of the Tower garden.
On the 5th of March, Hall and Garnet were re-examined, when Hall
confessed the truth of the conversations through the door, and Garnet
denied them. The same day, the latter wrote a long letter, addressed to
Mrs Anne Vaux or any of his friends, giving a full account of his
sufferings while in "the hoale" at Hendlip Hall, and of his present
condition in the Tower. Remarking that he was permitted to purchase
sherry out of his own purse, Garnet adds--
"This is the greatest charge I shall be at, for fire will soon be
unnecessary, if I live so long, whereof I am very uncertain, and as
careless... They say I was at White Webbs with the conspirators; I
said, if I was ever there after the 1st of September, I was guilty of
the powder action. The time of my going to Coughton is a great
presumption, but all Catholics know it was necessary. I thank God, I am
and have been _intrepidus_, wherein I marvail at myself, having had such
apprehension before; but it is God's grace."
On the third examination, which was on the 6th of March, both Garnet and
Hall confessed White Webbs at last,--the former, that he had hired the
house for the meetings of the conspirators, the latter that they had met
there twice in the year. Garnet also allowed that Perkins was the alias
of the Hon. Anne Vaux, to avoid whose indictment he afterwards said his
confession had been made. It is evident, from several allusions in his
letters, that Garnet was terribly afraid of torture, and almost equally
averse to confronting witnesses. The first was merely human nature; the
second speaks ill for his consciousness of that innocence which he
repeatedly asserts.
But not yet had the Gunpowder Plot secured its latest or its saddest
victim. Soon after Sir Henry Bromley's departure from Hendlip, Mrs
Abington came to London, bringing Anne Vaux with her, and they took
lodgings in Fetter Lane, then a more aristocratic locality than now.
Here they remained for a few weeks, doing all that could be done to help
Garnet, and poor Anne continually haunting the neighbourhood of his
prison, and trying to catch glimpses of him, if not to obtain stolen
interviews, at the garden gate. But on the 10th of March the
authorities interfered, and Anne Vaux was a prisoner of the Tower.
Examined on the following day, she deposed that she "kept the house at
White Webbs at her own charge;" that she was visited there by Catesby,
Thomas Winter, Tresham, and others, but said that she could not remember
dates nor further names. She refused to admit that Garnet had been
there, but she allowed that she had been among the party of pilgrims to
Saint Winifred's Well, in company with Lady Digby and others whom she
declined to name. Lastly, she persisted in saying that she had known
nothing of the plot.
She was told--not improbably by Sir William Wade, and if so, we may be
sure, not very tenderly--that Garnet had been one of the chief
criminals. A few sorrowful lines remain showing the spirit in which she
heard it. They were written on the 12th of March.
"I am most sore to here that Father Garnet shoulde be ane wease pryue to
this most wicked actione, as himselfe euer cauled it, for that hee made
to mee maney greate prostertations to the contrari diuers times sence.
"Anne Vaux." [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 201.]
After this, Garnet gave up the fiction of his total ignorance of the
conspirators' object. In his fourth examination, on the 13th of March,
he said that on the demise of Queen Elizabeth, he had received a letter
from the General of the Jesuits, stating that the new Pope Clement had
confirmed the order of his predecessor that no such plot should be set
on foot, and that Garnet had accordingly done what in him lay to turn
Catesby from the idea. Catesby, however, thought himself authorised by
two briefs received by Garnet about twelve months earlier, commanding
the Roman Catholics of England not to consent to any successor of
Elizabeth who should refuse to submit to Rome. These Garnet had shown
to Catesby before destroying them. It is evident from these admissions,
not only that Garnet had been privy to the plot from the first, but also
that it was known at Rome, and controlled from the Vatican--forbidden
when success appeared unlikely, and smiled on as soon as it seemed
probable.
Shortly after this, a letter came from Anne Vaux--a letter which sadly
reveals the character of its writer, and shows how different life might
have been for this poor passionate-hearted woman, had she not been
crushed under the iron heel of Rome.
"To live without you," she writes to Garnet, "it is not life, but death!
Now I see my los. I am and euer will be yours, and so I humbly beseche
you to account me. O that I might see you!"
Her second examination took place a few days later, on the 24th of
March. She now acknowledged that Tresham Catesby, and Garnet, used to
meet at her house at Wandsworth: and that Garnet was wont to say to
them, when they were engaged in discussion,--"Good gentlemen, be quiet;
God will do all for the best; and we must get it by prayer at God's
hands, in whose hands are the hearts of princes." The confession was
carried to Garnet. Poor frail, loving heart! she meant to save him, and
he knew it. He wrote calmly underneath--
"I do acknowledge these meetings.--H. Garnett." [Gunpowder Plot Book,
article 212.]
Even her very gaolers dealt pitifully with Anne Vaux. "This
gentlewoman," said Lord Salisbury to Garnet, "hath harboured you these
twelve years last past, and seems to speak for you in her confessions; I
think she would sacrifice herself for you to do you good, and you
likewise for her."
Garnet made no answer.
Letters continued to pass between the cells. A remarkable one was sent
to Anne on the 2nd of April, written principally in orange-juice, on the
question which she had submitted to Garnet as to her living abroad after
her release.
"Concerning the disposal of yourself, I give you leave to go over to
them. The vow of obedience ceaseth, being made to the Superior of this
Mission: you may, upon deliberation, make it to some there. If you like
to stay here, then I exempt you, till a Superior be appointed, whom you
may acquaint: but tell him that you made your vow yourself, and then
told me; and that I limited certain conditions, as that _you are not
bound to sin [Note 1] except you be commanded in virtute obedientiae_.
We may accept no vows, but men may make them as they list, and we after
give directions accordingly. Mr Hall dreamed that the General...
provided two fair tabernacles or seats for us: and this he dreamed
twice." [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 245.]
The sentence in italics is terrible. No Protestant ever penned a darker
indictment against Popery.
Anne Vaux received this letter, for she answered it at once. She speaks
of her "vow of poverty," and adds--
"Mr Haule his dreame had been a great cumfert, if at the fute of the
throne there had bin a place for me. God and you know my unworthenes.--
Yours and not my own, Anne Vaux." [Gunpowder Plot Book, article 246.]
On the following day, Garnet wrote again--eight closely covered pages,
in his own hand throughout. I append a few extracts from this pathetic
letter.
"My very loving and most dear Sister,--I will say what I think it best
for you to do, when it please God to set you at liberty. If you can
stay in England, and enjoy the use of the Sacraments as heretofore, it
would be best: and then I wish that you and your sister live as before
in a house of common repair of the Society, or where the Superior of the
Mission shall ordinarily remain: or if this cannot be, then make choice
of some one of the Society, as you shall like, which I am sure will be
granted you. If you like to go over, stay at Saint Omer, and send for
Friar Baldwin, with whom consult where to live: but I think Saint Omer
less healthy than Brussels. In respect of your weakness, I think it
better for you to live abroad, and not in a monastery. Your vow of
obedience, being made to the Superior of the Mission here, when you are
over, ceaseth: and then may you consult how to make it again. None of
the Society can accept a vow of obedience of any; but any one may vow as
he will, and then one of the Society may direct accordingly."
Garnet proceeds to say that the vow of poverty was to cease in like
manner, and might be similarly renewed. "All that which is for
annuities" he had always meant to be hers, in the hope that she would
afterwards leave it to the Jesuit Mission: but she is at liberty, if she
wish it, to alienate a third of this, or if she should desire at any
time to "retire into religion,"--i.e., to become a nun--and require a
portion, she is to help herself freely. He "thanks God most humbly that
in all his speeches and practices he has had a desire to do nothing
against the glory of God." He was so much annoyed by having been
misunderstood by the two spies that he "thought it would make our
actions much more excusable to tell the truth, than to stand to the
torture, or trial by witnesses." As to his acquaintance with the plot,
he sought to hinder it more than men can imagine, as the Pope can tell:
how could he have dissuaded the conspirators if he had absolutely known
nothing? But he thought it not allowable to tell what he knew. None of
them ever told him anything, though they used his name freely--he
implies, more freely than truth justified them in doing: "yet have I
hurt nobody." He ordered the removal of certain books which he does not
further describe; if they be found, "you can challenge them as your own,
as in truth they are." He will "die not as a victorious martyr, but as
a penitent thief:" but "let God work His will." The most touching words
are the last. Up to this point, the spiritual director has been
addressing his subject. Now the priest disappears, and the man's heart
breaks out.
"Howsoever I shall die a thief, yet you may assure yourself your
innocence is such, that but if you die by reason of your imprisonment,
you shall die a martyr. [From this point the letter is in Latin.] `The
time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God.' Farewell,
my ever beloved in Christ, and pray for me." [Domestic State Papers,
James the First, volume 20, article 11.]
Yet a few words were to be written before the end. The execution of
Hall, which took place at Worcester on the 7th of April, unnerved Garnet
as nothing else had done. He wrote, a fortnight later, to her who was
his last and had always been his truest friend--a few hurried,
incoherent words, which betray the troubled state of his mind.
"It pleaseth God daily to multiply my crosses. I beseech Him give me
patience and perseverance to the end. I was, after a week's hiding,
taken in a friend's house, where our confessions and secret conferences
were heard, and my letters taken by some indiscretion abroad;--then the
taking of yourself;--after, my arraignment;--then the taking of Mr
Greenwell;--then the slander of us both abroad;--then the ransacking
anew of Erith and the other house;--then the execution of Mr Hall;--and
now, last of all, the apprehension of Richard and Robert: with a cipher,
I know not of whose, laid to my charge, and that which was a singular
oversight, a letter in cipher, together with the ciphers--which letter
may bring many into question.
"`The patience of Job ye have heard, and have seen the end of the
Lord,--that the Lord is very pitiful, and of tender mercy.' Blessed be
the name of the Lord! [These quotations are in Latin]--Yours,
eternally, as I hope, H.G."
"_21st April_--I thought verily my chamber in Thames Street had been
given over, and therefore I used it to save Erith; but I might have done
otherwise."
At the end of the letter is a symbolic sketch. The mystic letters
I.H.S. within a circle, are surmounted by a cross, and beneath them is a
heart pierced by three nails. Underneath is written, in Latin--"God is
[the strength] of my heart, and God is my portion for ever."
So end the last words which passed between the unhappy pair.
In his sixth examination, four days later, Garnet admitted that as often
as he and Greenway had met, he had asked concerning the plot, "being
careful of the matter;" and that "in general" he had inquired who was to
be chosen protector after the explosion; Greenway having answered that
this "was to be deferred until the blow was passed, and then the
protector to be chosen out of the noblemen that should be saved." This
completely settles the question as to Garnet's guilty knowledge of the
plot before he received Digby's letter. Greenway is here shown to be
Garnet's informant; whereas the letter was addressed to Garnet himself,
and the occasion on which he received it was the last time that he ever
saw Greenway!
A few days before his execution, the prisoner received a visit from
three Deans, who essayed to converse with him upon various points of
doctrine. Garnet, however, declined any discussion, on the ground that
"it was unlawful for him." He was asked whether he thought that he
should die a martyr.
"I a martyr!" exclaimed Garnet, with a deep sigh. "Oh, what a martyr
should I be! God forbid! If, indeed, I were really about to suffer
death for the sake of the Catholic religion, and if I had never known of
this project except by the means of sacramental confession, I might
perhaps be accounted worthy of the honour of martyrdom, and might
deservedly be glorified in the opinion of the Church. As it is, I
acknowledge myself to have sinned in this respects and deny not the
justice of the sentence passed upon me." Then, after a moment's pause,
he added with apparent earnestness, "Would to God that I could recall
that which has been done! Would to God that anything had happened
rather than that this stain of treason should hang upon my name! I know
that my offence is most grievous, though I have confidence in Christ to
pardon me on my hearty penitence: but I would give the whole world, if I
possessed it, to be able to die without the weight of this sin upon my
soul."
The 1st of May had been originally fixed for the execution, but it was
delayed until the 3rd. To the last moment, when he received notice of
it, which was on the 29th of April, Garnet fully expected a reprieve.
He "could hardly be persuaded to believe" in approaching death. Yet
even then, on the very night before his execution--if we may believe the
testimony of his keepers--he drank so copiously that the gaoler thought
it necessary to inform the Lieutenant, who came to see for himself, and
was invited, in thick and incoherent accents, to join Garnet in his
potations. Sir William Wade was not the man to allow such a fact to
rest in silence; and Garnet is neither the first nor the last whose
words have been better than his actions.
On the 3rd of May, he was drawn on a hurdle to the west end of Saint
Paul's Churchyard, where the first conspirators had suffered, and where
the scaffold was again set up. His conduct on the scaffold was
certainly not that of a martyr, nor that of a penitent thief: the
impenitent thief appeared rather to be his model. Advised by the
attendant Deans of Saint Paul's and Winchester to "prepare and settle
himself for another world, and to commence his reconciliation with God
by a sincere and saving repentance," Garnet answered that he had already
done so. He showed himself very unwilling to address the people; but
being strongly urged by the Recorder, he uttered a few sentences, the
purport of which was that he considered all treason detestable; that he
prayed the King's pardon for not revealing that of which he had a
general knowledge from Catesby, but not otherwise; that he never knew
anything of the design of blowing up the Parliament House. The Dean of
Winchester reminded him that he had confessed that Greenway told him all
the circumstances in Essex. "That was in secret confession," said
Garnet, "which I could by no means reveal." The Dean having reminded
him that he had already allowed the contrary, the Recorder was about to
read his written confessions to the people--a course commanded by the
King if Garnet should deny his guilt upon the scaffold: but Garnet
stopped this conviction from his own mouth, by telling the Recorder that
he might spare himself that trouble; he would stand to the confessions
he had signed, and acknowledge himself justly condemned for not having
declared his general knowledge of the plot. He then spoke of Anne Vaux,
and denounced as slander all the injurious reports concerning his
relations with her: then he asked what time would be permitted him for
prayer. He was told that he should choose his own time, and should not
be interrupted. Kneeling down at the foot of the ladder, Garnet
proceeded to his devotions in such a manner as to show that they were to
him the purest formalities: as the words fell from his lips, he was
gazing at the crowd, listening to the attendants, sometimes even
replying to remarks they made. When he rose from his knees, he was
urged once more to confess his guilt in plain terms. He answered that
he had no more to confess; his guilt had been exaggerated. As he
undressed for execution, he said in a low voice to those nearest to him,
"There is no salvation for you, unless you hold the Catholic faith."
Their reply was that they were under the impression they did hold it.
"But the only Catholic faith," responded Garnet, "is that professed by
the Church of Rome." Having ascended the ladder, he addressed the
people. He expressed in these closing words his grief that he had
offended the King, and that he had not used more diligence in preventing
the execution of the plot; he was sorry that he had dissembled with the
Lords of the Council, and that he did not declare the truth until it was
proved against him: "but," he said, "I did not think they had such sure
proofs against me"! He besought all men "not to allow the Catholics to
fare worse for his sake," and bade the latter keep out of sedition.
Then he crossed himself, and added--"Jesus Maria! Mary, mother of
grace, mother of mercy! Save me from mine enemies, and receive me in
the hour of death. In Thine hands I commend my spirit: Thou hast
redeemed me, O Lord God of truth!" Crossing himself once more, he
added--always in Latin--"By this sign of the cross, may all evil things
be dispersed. Plant Thy cross, Lord, in mine heart!" But his last
words were, "Jesus Maria! Mary, mother of grace!" Then the ladder was
drawn away, and Henry Garnet, the conspirator and liar, stood before
that Lord God of truth who will by no means clear the guilty. By
express command of the King, the after-horrors of a traitor's death were
omitted.
Three months after that sad close of life, the Tower gates opened
again--this time to release a prisoner. The Hon. Anne Vaux was bidden
to go whither she would. Whither she would!--what a mockery to her to
whom all the earth and the heavens had been made one vaulted grave--who
had no home left anywhere in the world, for her home had been in the
heart of that dead man. To what part of that great wilderness of earth
she carried her bitter grief and her name of scorn, no record has been
left to tell us, except one.
Thirty years later, in 1635, a Jesuit school for "Catholic youths of the
nobility and gentry" was dispersed by authority. It was at Stanley, a
small hamlet about six miles to the north-east of Derby, a short
distance from the Nottingham road. The house was known as Stanley
Grange, and it was the residence of the Hon. Anne Vaux.
So she passes out of our sight, old and full of days, true to the end to
the faith for which she had so sorely suffered, and to the memory of the
friend whom she had loved too well.
"O solitary love that was so strong!"
Let us leave her to the mercy of Him who died for men, and who only can
presume to sit in judgment on that faithful, passionate, broken heart.
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Note 1. This word is plainly _sin_, though Mr Lemon in his copy tried
to read it _him_--an interpretation which he was obliged to abandon.