Yet, Corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass;
Erect thyself, thou monumental brass,
High as the serpent of thy metal made,
While nations stand secure beneath thy shade.
--ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.
The morning which Charles had spent in visiting the Tower, had been very
differently employed by those unhappy individuals, whom their bad fate,
and the singular temper of the times, had made the innocent tenants of
that state prison, and who had received official notice that they were
to stand their trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench at Westminster, on
the seventh succeeding day. The stout old Cavalier at first only railed
at the officer for spoiling his breakfast with the news, but evinced
great feeling when he was told that Julian was to be put under the same
indictment.
We intend to dwell only very generally on the nature of their trial,
which corresponded, in the outline, with almost all those which took
place during the prevalence of the Popish Plot. That is, one or two
infamous and perjured evidences, whose profession of common informers
had become frightfully lucrative, made oath to the prisoners having
expressed themselves interested in the great confederacy of the
Catholics. A number of others brought forward facts or suspicions,
affecting the character of the parties as honest Protestants and good
subjects; and betwixt the direct and presumptive evidence, enough was
usually extracted for justifying, to a corrupted court and perjured
jury, the fatal verdict of Guilty.
The fury of the people had, however, now begun to pass away, exhausted
even by its own violence. The English nation differ from all others,
indeed even from those of the sister kingdoms, in being very easily
sated with punishment, even when they suppose it most merited. Other
nations are like the tamed tiger, which, when once its native appetite
for slaughter is indulged in one instance, rushes on in promiscuous
ravages. But the English public have always rather resembled what is
told of the sleuth-dog, which, eager, fierce, and clamorous in pursuit
of his prey, desists from it so soon as blood is sprinkled upon his
path.
Men’s minds were now beginning to cool--the character of the witnesses
was more closely sifted--their testimonies did not in all cases
tally--and a wholesome suspicion began to be entertained of men, who
would never say they had made a full discovery of all they knew, but
avowedly reserved some points of evidence to bear on future trials.
The King also, who had lain passive during the first burst of popular
fury, was now beginning to bestir himself, which produced a marked
effect on the conduct of the Crown Counsel, and even the Judges. Sir
George Wakeman had been acquitted in spite of Oates’s direct testimony;
and public attention was strongly excited concerning the event of the
next trial; which chanced to be that of the Peverils, father and son,
with whom, I know not from what concatenation, little Hudson the dwarf
was placed at the bar of the Court of King’s Bench.
It was a piteous sight to behold a father and son, who had been so long
separated, meet under circumstances so melancholy; and many tears were
shed, when the majestic old man--for such he was, though now broken with
years--folded his son to his bosom, with a mixture of joy, affection,
and a bitter anticipation of the event of the impending trial. There was
a feeling in the Court that for a moment overcame every prejudice and
party feeling. Many spectators shed tears; and there was even a low
moaning, as of those who weep aloud.
Such as felt themselves sufficiently at ease to remark the conduct
of poor little Geoffrey Hudson, who was scarcely observed amid the
preponderating interest created by his companions in misfortune, could
not but notice a strong degree of mortification on the part of that
diminutive gentleman. He had soothed his great mind by the thoughts of
playing the character which he was called on to sustain, in a manner
which should be long remembered in that place; and on his entrance, had
saluted the numerous spectators, as well as the Court, with a cavalier
air, which he meant should express grace, high-breeding, perfect
coolness, with a noble disregard to the issue of their proceedings. But
his little person was so obscured and jostled aside, on the meeting of
the father and son, who had been brought in different boats from the
Tower, and placed at the bar at the same moment, that his distress and
his dignity were alike thrown into the background, and attracted neither
sympathy nor admiration.
The dwarf’s wisest way to attract attention would have been to remain
quiet, when so remarkable an exterior would certainly have received in
its turn the share of public notice which he so eagerly coveted. But
when did personal vanity listen to the suggestions of prudence?--Our
impatient friend scrambled, with some difficulty, on the top of the
bench intended for his seat; and there, “paining himself to stand
a-tiptoe,” like Chaucer’s gallant Sir Chaunticlere, he challenged the
notice of the audience as he stood bowing and claiming acquaintance
of his namesake Sir Geoffrey the larger, with whose shoulders,
notwithstanding his elevated situation, he was scarcely yet upon a
level.
The taller Knight, whose mind was occupied in a very different manner,
took no notice of these advances upon the dwarf’s part, but sat down
with the determination rather to die on the spot than evince any
symptoms of weakness before Roundheads and Presbyterians; under
which obnoxious epithets, being too old-fashioned to find out party
designations of newer date, he comprehended all persons concerned in his
present trouble.
By Sir Geoffrey the larger’s change of position, his face was thus
brought on a level with that of Sir Geoffrey the less, who had an
opportunity of pulling him by the cloak. He of Martindale Castle,
rather mechanically than consciously, turned his head towards the
large wrinkled visage, which, struggling between an assumed air of easy
importance, and an anxious desire to be noticed, was grimacing within a
yard of him. But neither the singular physiognomy, the nods and smiles
of greeting and recognition into which it was wreathed, nor the strange
little form by which it was supported, had at that moment the power of
exciting any recollections in the old Knight’s mind; and having stared
for a moment at the poor little man, his bulky namesake turned away his
head without farther notice.
Julian Peveril, the dwarf’s more recent acquaintance, had, even amid
his own anxious feelings, room for sympathy with those of his little
fellow-sufferer. As soon as he discovered that he was at the same
terrible bar with himself, although he could not conceive how their
causes came to be conjoined, he acknowledged him by a hearty shake of
the hand, which the old man returned with affected dignity and real
gratitude. “Worthy youth,” he said, “thy presence is restorative, like
the nepenthe of Homer even in this syncopé of our mutual fate. I am
concerned to see that your father hath not the same alacrity of soul as
that of ours, which are lodged within smaller compass; and that he hath
forgotten an ancient comrade and fellow-soldier, who now stands beside
him to perform, perhaps, their last campaign.”
Julian briefly replied, that his father had much to occupy him. But the
little man--who, to do him justice, cared no more (in his own phrase)
for imminent danger or death, than he did for the puncture of a flea’s
proboscis--did not so easily renounce the secret object of his ambition,
which was to acquire the notice of the large and lofty Sir Geoffrey
Peveril, who, being at least three inches taller than his son, was in so
far possessed of that superior excellence, which the poor dwarf, in
his secret soul, valued before all other distinctions, although in
his conversation, he was constantly depreciating it. “Good comrade and
namesake,” he proceeded, stretching out his hand, so as to again to
reach the elder Peveril’s cloak, “I forgive your want of reminiscence,
seeing it is long since I saw you at Naseby, fighting as if you had as
many arms as the fabled Briareus.”
The Knight of Martindale, who had again turned his head towards the
little man, and had listened, as if endeavouring to make something out
of his discourse, here interrupted him with a peevish, “Pshaw!”
“Pshaw!” repeated Sir Geoffrey the less; “_Pshaw_ is an expression of
slight esteem,--nay, of contempt,--in all languages; and were this a
befitting place----”
But the Judges had now taken their places, the criers called silence,
and the stern voice of the Lord Chief Justice (the notorious Scroggs)
demanded what the officers meant by permitting the accused to
communicate together in open court.
It may here be observed, that this celebrated personage was, upon the
present occasion, at a great loss how to proceed. A calm, dignified,
judicial demeanour, was at no time the characteristic of his official
conduct. He always ranted and roared either on the one side or the
other; and of late, he had been much unsettled which side to take, being
totally incapable of anything resembling impartiality. At the first
trials for the Plot, when the whole stream of popularity ran against the
accused, no one had been so loud as Scroggs; to attempt to the character
of Oates or Bedloe, or any other leading witnesses, he treated as a
crime more heinous than it would have been to blaspheme the Gospel
on which they had been sworn--it was a stifling of the Plot, or
discrediting of the King’s witnesses--a crime not greatly, if at all,
short of high treason against the King himself.
But, of late, a new light had begun to glimmer upon the understanding
of this interpreter of the laws. Sagacious in the signs of the times, he
began to see that the tide was turning; and that Court favour at least,
and probably popular opinion also, were likely, in a short time, to
declare against the witnesses, and in favour of the accused.
The opinion which Scroggs had hitherto entertained of the high respect
in which Shaftesbury, the patron of the Plot, was held by Charles,
had been definitely shaken by a whisper from his brother North to the
following effect: “His Lordship has no more interest at Court than your
footman.”
This notice, from a sure hand, and received but that morning, had
put the Judge to a sore dilemma; for, however indifferent to actual
consistency, he was most anxious to save appearances. He could not but
recollect how violent he had been on former occasions in favour of these
prosecutions; and being sensible at the same time that the credit of
the witnesses, though shaken in the opinion of the more judicious, was,
amongst the bulk of the people out of doors, as strong as ever, he had a
difficult part to play. His conduct, therefore, during the whole trial,
resembled the appearance of a vessel about to go upon another tack,
when her sails are shivering in the wind, ere they have yet caught the
impulse which is to send her forth in a new direction. In a word, he was
so uncertain which side it was his interest to favour, that he might be
said on that occasion to have come nearer a state of total impartiality
than he was ever capable of attaining, whether before or afterwards.
This was shown by his bullying now the accused, and now the witnesses,
like a mastiff too much irritated to lie still without baying, but
uncertain whom he shall first bite.
The indictment was then read; and Sir Geoffrey Peveril heard, with some
composure, the first part of it, which stated him to have placed his son
in the household of the Countess of Derby, a recusant Papist, for the
purpose of aiding the horrible and bloodthirsty Popish Plot--with having
had arms and ammunition concealed in his house--and with receiving
a blank commission from the Lord Stafford, who had suffered death on
account of the Plot. But when the charge went on to state that he had
communicated for the same purpose with Geoffrey Hudson, sometimes called
Sir Geoffrey Hudson, now, or formerly in the domestic service of the
Queen Dowager, he looked at his companion as if he suddenly recalled him
to remembrance, and broke out impatiently, “These lies are too gross
to require a moment’s consideration. I might have had enough of
intercourse, though in nothing but what was loyal and innocent, with my
noble kinsman, the late Lord Stafford--I will call him so in spite of
his misfortunes--and with my wife’s relation, the Honourable Countess
of Derby. But what likelihood can there be that I should have
colleagued with a decrepit buffoon, with whom I never had an instant’s
communication, save once at an Easter feast, when I whistled a hornpipe,
as he danced on a trencher to amuse the company?”
The rage of the poor dwarf brought tears in his eyes, while, with an
affected laugh, he said, that instead of those juvenile and festive
passages, Sir Geoffrey Peveril might have remembered his charging along
with him at Wiggan Lane.
“On my word,” said Sir Geoffrey, after a moment’s recollection, “I will
do you justice, Master Hudson--I believe you were there--I think I heard
you did good service. But you will allow you might have been near one
without his seeing you.”
A sort of titter ran through the Court at the simplicity of the larger
Sir Geoffrey’s testimony, which the dwarf endeavoured to control, by
standing on his tiptoes, and looking fiercely around, as if to admonish
the laughers that they indulged their mirth at their own peril. But
perceiving that this only excited farther scorn, he composed himself
into a semblance of careless contempt, observing, with a smile, that
no one feared the glance of a chained lion; a magnificent simile, which
rather increased than diminished the mirth of those who heard it.
Against Julian Peveril there failed not to be charged the aggravated
fact, that he had been bearer of letters between the Countess of Derby
and other Papists and priests, engaged in the universal treasonable
conspiracy of the Catholics; and the attack of the house at Moultrassie
Hall,--with his skirmish with Chiffinch, and his assault, as it
was termed, on the person of John Jenkins, servant to the Duke of
Buckingham, were all narrated at length, as so many open and overt acts
of treasonable import. To this charge Peveril contented himself with
pleading--Not Guilty.
His little companion was not satisfied with so simple a plea; for when
he heard it read, as a part of the charge applying to him, that he had
received from an agent of the Plot a blank commission as Colonel of a
regiment of grenadiers, he replied, in wrath and scorn, that if Goliath
of Gath had come to him with such a proposal, and proffered him the
command of the whole sons of Anak in a body, he should never have had
occasion or opportunity to repeat the temptation to another. “I would
have slain him,” said the little man of loyalty, “even where he stood.”
The charge was stated anew by the Counsel for the Crown; and forth came
the notorious Doctor Oates, rustling in the full silken canonicals
of priesthood, for it was a time when he affected no small dignity of
exterior decoration and deportment.
This singular man, who, aided by the obscure intrigues of the Catholics
themselves, and the fortuitous circumstance of Godfrey’s murder, had
been able to cram down the public throat such a mass of absurdity as his
evidence amounts to, had no other talent for imposture than an impudence
which set conviction and shame alike at defiance. A man of sense
or reflection, by trying to give his plot an appearance of more
probability, would most likely have failed, as wise men often to do
in addressing the multitude, from not daring to calculate upon the
prodigious extent of their credulity, especially where the figments
presented to them involve the fearful and the terrible.
Oates was by nature choleric; and the credit he had acquired made him
insolent and conceited. Even his exterior was portentous. A fleece of
white periwig showed a most uncouth visage, of great length, having the
mouth, as the organ by use of which he was to rise to eminence, placed
in the very centre of the countenance, and exhibiting to the astonished
spectator as much chin below as there was nose and brow above the
aperture. His pronunciation, too, was after a conceited fashion of his
own, in which he accented the vowels in a manner altogether peculiar to
himself.
This notorious personage, such as we have described him, stood forth on
the present trial, and delivered his astonishing testimony concerning
the existence of a Catholic Plot for the subversion of the government
and murder of the King, in the same general outline in which it may be
found in every English history. But as the doctor always had in reserve
some special piece of evidence affecting those immediately on trial, he
was pleased, on the present occasion, deeply to inculpate the Countess
of Derby. “He had seen,” as he said, “that honourable lady when he was
at the Jesuits’ College at Saint Omer’s. She had sent for him to an inn,
or _auberge_, as it was there termed--the sign of the Golden Lamb; and
had ordered him to breakfast in the same room with her ladyship; and
afterwards told him, that, knowing he was trusted by the Fathers of the
Society, she was determined that he should have a share of her
secrets also; and therewithal, that she drew from her bosom a broad
sharp-pointed knife, such as butchers kill sheep with, and demanded of
him what he thought of it for _the purpose_; and when he, the witness,
said for what purpose she rapt him on the fingers with her fan, called
him a dull fellow, and said it was designed to kill the King with.”
Here Sir Geoffrey Peveril could no longer refrain his indignation and
surprise. “Mercy of Heaven!” he said, “did ever one hear of ladies of
quality carrying butchering knives about them, and telling every scurvy
companion she meant to kill the King with them?--Gentleman of the Jury,
do but think if this is reasonable--though, if the villain could prove
by any honest evidence, that my Lady of Derby ever let such a scum as
himself come to speech of her, I would believe all he can say.”
“Sir Geoffrey,” said the Judge, “rest you quiet--You must not fly
out--passion helps you not here--the Doctor must be suffered to
proceed.”
Doctor Oates went on to state how the lady complained of the wrongs the
House of Derby had sustained from the King and the oppression of
her religion, and boasted of the schemes of the Jesuits and seminary
priests; and how they would be farthered by her noble kinsman of the
House of Stanley. He finally averred that both the Countess and the
Fathers of the seminary abroad, founded much upon the talents and
courage of Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son--the latter of whom was a
member of her family. Of Hudson, he only recollected of having heard one
of the Fathers say, that although but a dwarf in stature, he would prove
a giant in the cause of the Church.
When he had ended his evidence, there was a pause, until the Judge,
as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him, demanded of Dr. Oates,
whether he had ever mentioned the names of the Countess of Derby in
any of the previous informations which he had lodged before the Privy
Council, and elsewhere, upon this affair.
Oates seemed rather surprised at the question, and coloured with anger,
as he answered, in his peculiar mode of pronunciation, “Whoy, no, maay
laard.”
“And pray, Doctor,” said the Judge, “how came so great a revealer of
mysteries as you have lately proved, to have suffered so material a
circumstance as the accession of this powerful family to the Plot to
have remained undiscovered?”
“Maay laard,” said Oates, with much effrontery, “aye do not come here to
have my evidence questioned as touching the Plaat.”
“I do not question your evidence, Doctor,” said Scroggs, for the time
was not arrived that he dared treat him roughly; “nor do I doubt the
existence of the _Plaat_, since it is your pleasure to swear to it. I
would only have you, for your own sake, and the satisfaction of all good
Protestants, to explain why you have kept back such a weighty point of
information from the King and country.”
“Maay laard,” said Oates, “I will tell you a pretty fable.”
“I hope,” answered the Judge, “it may be the first and last which you
shall tell in this place.”
“Maay laard,” continued Oates, “there was once a faux, who having to
carry a goose over a frazen river, and being afraid the aice would not
bear him and his booty, did caarry aaver a staane, my laard, in the
first instance, to prove the strength of the aice.”
“So your former evidence was but the stone, and now, for the first time,
you have brought us the goose?” said Sir William Scroggs; “to tell us
this, Doctor, is to make geese of the Court and Jury.”
“I desoire your laardship’s honest construction,” said Oates, who saw
the current changing against him, but was determined to pay the score
with effrontery. “All men knaw at what coast and praice I have given my
evidence, which has been always, under Gaad, the means of awakening this
poor naation to the dangerous state in which it staunds. Many here knaw
that I have been obliged to faartify my ladging at Whitehall against the
bloody Papists. It was not to be thought that I should have brought
all the story out at aance. I think your wisdome would have advised me
otherwise.” [*]
[*] It was on such terms that Dr. Oates was pleased to claim the
extraordinary privilege of dealing out the information which he
chose to communicate to a court of justice. The only sense in
which his story of the fox, stone, and goose could be applicable,
is by supposing that he was determined to ascertain the extent of
his countrymen’s credulity before supplying it with a full meal.
“Nay, Doctor,” said the Judge, “it is not for me to direct you in this
affair; and it is for the Jury to believe you or not; and as for myself,
I sit here to do justice to both--the Jury have heard your answer to my
question.”
Doctor Oates retired from the witness-box reddening like a turkey-cock,
as one totally unused to have such accounts questioned as he chose to
lay before the courts of justice; and there was, perhaps, for the first
time, amongst the counsel and solicitors, as well as the templars
and students of law there present, a murmur, distinct and audible,
unfavourable to the character of the great father of the Popish Plot.
Everett and Dangerfield, with whom the reader is already acquainted,
were then called in succession to sustain the accusation. They were
subordinate informers--a sort of under-spur-leathers, as the cant term
went--who followed the path of Oates, with all deference to his superior
genius and invention, and made their own fictions chime in and harmonise
with his, as well as their talents could devise. But as their evidence
had at no time received the full credence into which the impudence of
Oates had cajoled the public, so they now began to fall into discredit
rather more hastily than their prototype, as the super-added turrets of
an ill-constructed building are naturally the first to give way.
It was in vain that Everett, with the precision of a hypocrite,
and Dangerfield, with the audacity of a bully, narrated, with added
circumstances of suspicion and criminality, their meeting with Julian
Peveril in Liverpool, and again at Martindale Castle. It was in vain
they described the arms and accoutrements which they pretended to have
discovered in old Sir Geoffrey’s possession; and that they gave a most
dreadful account of the escape of the younger Peveril from Moultrassie
Hall, by means of an armed force.
The Jury listened coldly, and it was visible that they were but little
moved by the accusation; especially as the Judge, always professing his
belief in the Plot, and his zeal for the Protestant religion, was ever
and anon reminding them that presumptions were no proofs--that hearsay
was no evidence--that those who made a trade of discovery were likely to
aid their researches by invention--and that without doubting the
guilt of the unfortunate persons at the bar, he would gladly hear some
evidence brought against them of a different nature. “Here we are told
of a riot, and an escape achieved by the younger Peveril, at the house
of a grave and worthy magistrate, known, I think, to most of us. Why,
Master Attorney, bring ye not Master Bridgenorth himself to prove the
fact, or all his household, if it be necessary?--A rising in arms is
an affair over public to be left on the hearsay tale of these two
men--though Heaven forbid that I should suppose they speak one word more
than they believe! They are the witnesses for the King--and, what is
equally dear to us, the Protestant religion--and witnesses against a
most foul and heathenish Plot. On the other hand, here is a worshipful
old knight, for such I must suppose him to be, since he has bled often
in battle for the King,--such, I must say, I suppose him to be, until he
is proved otherwise. And here is his son, a hopeful young gentleman--we
must see that they have right, Master Attorney.”
“Unquestionably, my lord,” answered the Attorney. “God forbid else!
But we will make out these matters against these unhappy gentlemen in
a manner more close, if your lordship will permit us to bring in our
evidence.”
“Go on, Master Attorney,” said the Judge, throwing himself back in his
seat. “Heaven forbid I hinder proving the King’s accusation! I only
say, what you know as well as I, that _de non apparentibus et non
existentibus eadem est ratio_.”
“We shall then call Master Bridgenorth, as your lordship advised, who I
think is in waiting.”
“No!” answered a voice from the crowd, apparently that of a female; “he
is too wise and too honest to be here.”
The voice was distinct as that of Lady Fairfax, when she expressed
herself to a similar effect on the trial of Charles the First; but
the researches which were made on the present occasion to discover the
speaker were unsuccessful.
After the slight confusion occasioned by this circumstance was abated,
the Attorney, who had been talking aside with the conductors of the
prosecution, said, “Whoever favoured us with that information, my lord,
had good reason for what they said. Master Bridgenorth has become, I am
told, suddenly invisible since this morning.”
“Look you there now, Master Attorney,” said the Judge--“This comes of
not keeping the crown witnesses together and in readiness--I am sure I
cannot help the consequences.”
“Nor I either, my lord,” said the Attorney pettishly. “I could have
proved by this worshipful gentleman, Master Justice Bridgenorth, the
ancient friendship betwixt this party, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, and the
Countess of Derby, of whose doings and intentions Dr. Oates has given
such a deliberate evidence. I could have proved his having sheltered
her in his Castle against a process of law, and rescued her, by force of
arms, from this very Justice Bridgenorth, not without actual violence.
Moreover, I could have proved against young Peveril the whole affray
charged upon him by the same worshipful evidence.”
Here the Judge stuck his thumbs into his girdle, which was a favourite
attitude of his on such occasions, and exclaimed, “Pshaw, pshaw, Master
Attorney!--Tell me not that you _could_ have proved that, or that, or
this--Prove what you will, but let it be through the mouths of your
evidence. Men are not to be licked out of their lives by the rough side
of a lawyer’s tongue.”
“Nor is a foul Plot to be smothered,” said the Attorney, “for all the
haste your lordship is in. I cannot call Master Chiffinch neither, as
he is employed on the King’s especial affairs, as I am this instant
certiorated from the Court at Whitehall.”
“Produce the papers, then, Master Attorney, of which this young man is
said to be the bearer,” said the Judge.
“They are before the Privy Council, my lord.”
“Then why do you found on them here?” said the Judge--“This is something
like trifling with the Court.”
“Since your lordship gives it that name,” said the Attorney, sitting
down in a huff, “you may manage the cause as you will.”
“If you do not bring more evidence, I pray you to charge the Jury,” said
the Judge.
“I shall not take the trouble to do so,” said the Crown Counsel. “I see
plainly how the matter is to go.”
“Nay, but be better advised,” said Scroggs. “Consider, your case is
but half proved respecting the two Peverils, and doth not pinch on
the little man at all, saving that Doctor Oates said that he was in
a certain case to prove a giant, which seems no very probable Popish
miracle.”
This sally occasioned a laugh in the Court, which the Attorney-General
seemed to take in great dudgeon.
“Master Attorney,” said Oates, who always interfered in the management
of these law-suits, “this is a plain an absolute giving away of the
cause--I must needs say it, a mere stoifling of the Plaat.”
“Then the devil who bred it may blow wind into it again, if he lists,”
answered the Attorney-General; and, flinging down his brief, he left the
Court, as if in a huff with all who were concerned in the affair.
The Judge having obtained silence,--for a murmur arose in the Court when
the Counsel for the prosecution threw up his brief,--began to charge the
Jury, balancing, as he had done throughout the whole day, the different
opinions by which he seemed alternately swayed. He protested on his
salvation that he had no more doubt of the existence of the horrid and
damnable conspiracy called the Popish Plot, than he had of the treachery
of Judas Iscariot; and that he considered Oates as the instrument
under Providence of preserving the nation from all the miseries of his
Majesty’s assassination, and of a second Saint Bartholomew, acted in the
streets of London. But then he stated it was the candid construction of
the law of England, that the worse the crime, the more strong should
be the evidence. Here was the case of accessories tried, whilst
their principal--for such he should call the Countess of Derby--was
unconvicted and at large; and for Doctor Oates, he had but spoke of
matters which personally applied to that noble lady, whose words, if
she used such in passion, touching aid which she expected in some
treasonable matters from these Peverils, and from her kinsmen, or her
son’s kinsmen, of the House of Stanley, may have been but a burst of
female resentment--_dulcis Amaryllidis ira_, as the poet hath it. Who
knoweth but Doctor Oates did mistake--he being a gentleman of a
comely countenance and easy demeanour--this same rap with the fan as
a chastisement for lack of courage in the Catholic cause, when,
peradventure, it was otherwise meant, as Popish ladies will put, it is
said, such neophytes and youthful candidates for orders, to many severe
trials. “I speak these things jocularly,” said the Judge, “having no
wish to stain the reputation either of the Honourable Countess or the
Reverend Doctor; only I think the bearing between them may have related
to something short of high treason. As for what the Attorney-General
hath set forth of rescues and force, and I wot not what, sure I am, that
in a civil country, when such things happen such things may be proved;
and that you and I, gentlemen, are not to take them for granted
gratuitously. Touching this other prisoner, this _Galfridus minimus_, he
must needs say,” he continued, “he could not discover even a shadow of
suspicion against him. Was it to be thought so abortive a creature would
thrust himself into depths of policy, far less into stratagems of war?
They had but to look at him to conclude the contrary--the creature was,
from his age, fitter for the grave than a conspiracy--and by his size
and appearance, for the inside of a raree-show, than the mysteries of a
plot.”
The dwarf here broke in upon the Judge by force of screaming, to assure
him that he had been, simple as he sat there, engaged in seven plots in
Cromwell’s time; and, as he proudly added, with some of the tallest men
of England. The matchless look and air with which Sir Geoffrey made this
vaunt, set all a-laughing, and increased the ridicule with which the
whole trial began to be received; so that it was amidst shaking sides
and watery eyes that a general verdict of Not Guilty was pronounced, and
the prisoners dismissed from the bar.
But a warmer sentiment awakened among those who saw the father and son
throw themselves into each other’s arms, and, after a hearty embrace,
extend their hands to their poor little companion in peril, who, like
a dog, when present at a similar scene, had at last succeeded, by
stretching himself up to them and whimpering at the same time, to secure
to himself a portion of their sympathy and gratulation.
Such was the singular termination of this trial. Charles himself was
desirous to have taken considerable credit with the Duke of Ormond for
the evasion of the law, which had been thus effected by his private
connivance; and was both surprised and mortified at the coldness with
which his Grace replied, that he was rejoiced at the poor gentleman’s
safety, but would rather have had the King redeem them like a prince, by
his royal prerogative of mercy, than that his Judge should convey them
out of the power of the law, like a juggler with his cups and balls.