1678.
Amongst papers belonging to the Secretary of State at that period are memoranda of strange rumours—one that the progress in rebuilding St. Paul’s Cathedral was suspended, from fear lest it should become a Popish Church. There is also a note, that the Prince of Orange should be written to, or that some communication should be made to him, through the Ambassador at his Court, or through Sir W. Temple, to prevent the publication in Holland of a remonstrance, and of a hellish libel, “destructive to the Royal authority, and the fundamental laws of the nation.” The same Collection includes a letter to the Bishop of London from some zealous Protestant, proposing an attack on the City of Rome, “on that side where the Vatican Palace stands, and bringing away the library.”[8]
POPISH PLOT.
Reviewing the whole of this history, I may remark, that Titus Oates was an utterly worthless character, and that his statements are not entitled to the smallest belief. He had been an Anabaptist under Cromwell, had become an orthodox clergyman at the Restoration, had professed himself a Catholic on the Continent, had been admitted to Jesuit colleges, and had then abjured Popery on his return to England. All this while he conducted himself in so abominable a manner as repeatedly to incur expulsion from the positions in which he was placed. His tale was as absurd and incredible as his conduct was infamous; yet, notwithstanding this circumstance, it is by no means surprising that at the time, the story with its most improbable details should be believed—for Englishmen were filled with alarm at the Romanism of the Royal family, at the manifest signs of revived activity in this island by the Jesuits, at the obvious alliance between spiritual and political despotism, and at the then suspected, and to us, well-known intrigues which were being carried on to overthrow the Protestantism of this country,—and they were therefore prepared to be the dupes of Protestant credulity. An excitement of many years’ accumulation now existed, and rumours and lies of all sorts were as sparks sprinkled over heaps of gunpowder. As we criticize the evidence of the plot, it will not stand for a single second. Yet, however we may at first smile or sneer at the matter, on second thoughts, we shall see that people only did what, probably, we should have done under the influence of strong Protestant convictions, sharpened by terrible memories, and goaded by equally terrible apprehensions. It would be monstrous enough for us now to behave as did our ancestors, but we must judge of their character in that emergency by the standard of their own age, and according to the conditions of their own circumstances.
1678.
Godfrey’s death is one of those mysteries permitted by Providence to baffle our investigation, and to remain inscrutable secrets to the end of time, stimulating a belief in the revelations and judgments of eternity. Whichever hypothesis be adopted—that of murder or that of suicide—grave exceptions to it may be taken. The supposition of his having destroyed himself may be shown to be ridiculous, and also no sufficient motive for a Papist to murder him can be assigned: the argument, that the drops of melted wax found on the clothes of the dead man must have been dropped by Papists, because they are so notorious for using wax candles, is ridiculous enough; yet, as in the case of the plot, so in the case of the death brought into connection with it, we do not wonder at the prevalent idea. All the circumstances and antecedents of the time, the whole spirit of the age, together with the tendencies of human nature, the readiness of men under a pressing excitement to rush to conclusions, to interpret suspicious incidents as demonstrations of guilt, must be taken into account as we reflect upon the common opinion found at that period. Believing Oates’ tale, and knowing both the Protestant zeal of Godfrey, and the consequences to the Catholics of the explosion of the plot, zealots of the day consistently attributed the crime of murder to the same persons to whom they attributed the crime of treason.[9]
POPISH PLOT.
After all, there was a plot, not indeed to murder the King, but to restore Popery. Coleman’s letters render this a fact beyond all question, when we find him declaring “We have here a mighty work upon our hands, no less than the conversion of three kingdoms, and by that perhaps the subduing of a pestilent heresy, which has domineered over great part of this northern world a long time. There never was such hopes of success since the death of Queen Mary, as now in our days.”[10] The designs and intrigues brought to light in this correspondence harmonize with the purpose and spirit of the treaty between Charles and Louis; and, therefore, we cannot wonder at the reluctance of Charles and his brother to enter upon an inquiry into the business, since however false might be the charge of contemplated regicide, they knew too much, not to be aware that awkward facts respecting French, Papal, and Jesuit schemes could be brought into broad daylight, by searching to the bottom of this business. And it is not unlikely that Oates might have heard at St. Omer’s, and at other places, things uttered by some disciples of Ignatius Loyola, indicating dark designs upon English religion and upon English liberty, which he exaggerated immensely, and dressed up in the most frightful colours for purposes of his own.
1678.
Leaving this plot with its mysteries, falsehoods, and alarms, and turning once more to the proceedings of Parliament, we find that the sixteenth session opened on the 21st of October, just at the crisis when the storm raised by Oates had reached its height. The King’s speech touched lightly on the subject. Lord Chancellor Finch noticed it with guarded phraseology, but the House of Commons at once resolved upon an address for removing Popish recusants from the Metropolis, and having appointed a Committee to inquire into Godfrey’s murder, they also agreed with the Lords to request His Majesty to proclaim a national fast.