The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

Bedlow’s evidence, as usual, was mainly confirmatory of the statements of Oates, embellished by such new incidents as his feebler powers of invention could frame. He was, however, not quite satisfied with this subordinate part; and therefore at the close of his evidence pretends to recollect that he had omitted one thing very material: ‘At the same time that there was a discourse about these three gentleman being to destroy the king at New-Market, there was a discourse of a design to kill several noble persons, and the several parts assigned to every one. Knight was to kill the Earl of Shaftsbury, Pritchard, the Duke of Buckingham, Oniel, the Earl of Ossory, Obrian, the Duke of Ormond,’ An assassination of noblemen on a truly magnificent scale!

Nothing appearing in Bedlow’s evidence to implicate Fenwick and Whitebread, and two witnesses being necessary to prove the charge, they were sent back to prison. When they were subsequently brought up for trial for the same offence, and pleaded that they could not a second time be tried, their plea was overruled, although founded on one of the commonest principles of law, and sanctioned by a thousand precedents. The reasoning of Scroggs and North, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, is so curious that it is worth quoting. Whitebread, after objecting that he is informed that no man can be put in jeopardy of his life the second time for the same cause: ‘I speak it not for my sake only, but for the sake of the whole nation; no man should be tried twice for the same cause; by the same reason a man may be tried twenty or one hundred times.’

Scroggs. ‘You say well, it is observed, Mr. Whitebread; but you must know that you were not put in jeopardy of your life for the same thing, for first the jury were discharged of you; it is true, it was supposed when you were indicted that there would be two witnesses against you, but that fell out otherwise, and the law of the land requiring two witnesses to prove you guilty of treason, it was thought reasonable that you should not be put upon the jury at all, but you were discharged, and then you were in no jeopardy of your life.’

‘Under favor, my lord, I was in jeopardy, for I was given in charge to the jury; and ’tis the case in Seyer, 31 Eliz., he was indicted for a burglary committed the 31st of August, and pleaded to it, and afterward another indictment was preferred, and all the judges did declare that he could not be indicted the second time for the same fact, because he was in jeopardy of his life again.’

C. J. North. ‘The oath the jury take is, that they shall well and truly try, and true deliverance make of such prisoners as they shall have in charge; the charge of the jury is not full ‘till the court give them a a charge at last, after evidence had; and because there was a mistake in your case, that the evidence was not so full as might be, the jury before they ever considered concerning you at all they were discharged, and so you were not in jeopardy; and, I in my experience, know it to be often done, and ’tis the course of law.’

In this opinion all the judges coincided. Sad indeed was the condition of things in poor England when all her judges could resort to such miserable quibbles; or worse than this, could deliberately falsify the law, to condemn to an ignominious death two defenceless prisoners!

To return from this digression. The three remaining prisoners were found guilty. The Chief Justice in charging the jury was even more violent against the Papists than in his charge at Coleman’s trial: ‘Some hold that the pope in council is infallible; and ask any Popish Jesuit of them all and he will say the pope is himself infallible in council or he is no true Jesuit; and if so, whatever they command is to be justified by their authority; so that if they give a dispensation to kill a king, that king is well killed. They indulge all sorts of sins, and no human bonds can hold them.

‘They have some parts of the foundation ’tis true, but they are adulterated and mixed with horrid principles and impious practises. They eat their God, they kill their king, and saint the murderer. This is a religion that quite unhinges all piety, all morality, all conversation, and to be abominated by all mankind.

‘I return now to the fact which is proved by two witnesses, and by the concurrent evidence of the letter and the maid; and the matter is as plain and notorious as can be, that there was an intention of bringing in popery by a cruel and bloody way; for I believe they never could have prayed us into their religion. I leave it therefore for you to consider whether you have not as much evidence from these two men as can be expected in a case of this nature; and whether Mr. Oates be not rather justified by the testimony offered against him, than discredited. Let prudence and conscience direct your verdict, and you will be too hard for their art and cunning.

‘Gentlemen, if you think you shall be in long we will adjourn the court till the afternoon and take your verdict then.’

Jury. ‘No, my lord, we shall not be long.’

After a very short recess the jury returned with a verdict of guilty against all.

C. J. ‘You have done, gentlemen, like very good subjects and very good Christians; that is to say, like very good Protestants. And now, much good may their thirty thousand masses do them!’

Before the court pronounced sentence Ireland loudly complained that he had had no time to call his witnesses: ‘So that we could have none but only those that came in by chance, and those things they have declared, though true, were not believed.’ His objection was overruled, and the Recorder, Sir George Jeffries, proceeded to pass sentence. The spirit that pervaded his speech may be seen in this extract: ‘I am sure this was so horrid a design, that nothing but a conclave of devils in hell, or a college of such Jesuits as yours on earth, could have thought upon.’

At the trial of Berry, Green and Hill, for the murder of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, the improbabilities of the testimony and the contradictions of the witnesses were so glaring that it seems incredible that any man could believe them. As a specimen: Praunce, the chief witness, said that the body was taken to Hill’s lodgings where it remained two days in a certain room he mentioned. In defence, it was shown by all the family, that that room was an open one; that scarcely an hour passed but some one went through it. But instead of receiving this testimony, the Chief Justice told the witnesses that it was very suspicious they had not seen the body, and that it was well for them they were not indicted. But we have not space to quote further. The extracts we have already made will be sufficient to show Scrogg’s utter contempt for those duties which the law imposed upon him as the counsel for the prisoners; his abusive and threatening demeanor toward their witnesses; his appeals to the passions of the jury, their bigotry and their fears; and in a word, his total destitution of every quality that marks the honest, fair-minded, and impartial judge.

We intended to speak of the disgraceful and cowardly part which Charles the Second bore in these proceedings. Convinced that the Plot was a mere fiction, he saw day by day his innocent and faithful subjects led to the gallows without making an effort for their safety, or giving utterance to a word of disapprobation. It was not until the Queen was attacked, that the selfish monarch interfered. A word from him turned the abuse of Scroggs into an opposite channel, and Oates and Bedlow were now as bitterly reviled as the Jesuits had been before. We believe that Charles was a willing spectator if not an active promoter of these legal butcheries, hoping that thereby a vent would be given to the popular fury, and he himself, by such a sacrifice, regain the lost affections of his people.

We intended also to speak of the conduct of the leading English statesmen during this period; of Lauderdale, of Shaftsbury, of Danby, and of Buckingham; but our limits are already overpassed. We can only say that the character of the monarch was truly reflected in the character of his counsellors; that as England has never had so faithless and profligate a king, she has never been disgraced by such unscrupulous, despicable, and short-sighted ministers.

THE INFANT’S BURIAL

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA

‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

I

‘Dust unto dust!’ Sweet child!Was that dark sentence ever meant for thee?For that bright form, that tablet undefiled,Creation’s mystery?No no, it could not be, for God is just;That beauteous brow! oh, who could call that dust?And yet methought I heardThose words slow uttered o’er thy tiny grave,As though that Eden-calm had e’er been stirredBy Passion’s stormy wave.It should have been, ‘Angels an Angel meet;Seraphs on high a sister-seraph greet!’

II

‘Earth unto earth;’ ’tis wellThat sordid earth should pass to earth again:In those dark fanes where truth has ceased to dwell,Why should the shrine remain?Deep in the dust let all such pass away;Why should they not?—clay mingles but with clay:Such is dark Manhood’s prime,From whose high nature all of Heaven has past,Whose once pure mould is deeply dyed with crime;Bound down with fetters fast:Gone, gone is all of holiness and worth,And what remains is naught indeed but earth.

III

‘Ashes to ashes?’ Yes!Let it be thus with those whom age has chilled,Whose life is but the dying ember’s glow—There let it be fulfilled!Say, ‘When the altar-fires but dimly burn,‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ return!’And with that aged band,The blackened craters of whose hearts are charredBy scathéd hopes and Hate’s undying brand;Let not this fate be marred:Ope wide thy portals, Grave! Death, pass them down!For these, and such as these, are all thine own.

IV

But oh, my beauteous one!This gloomy path should not by thee be trod;The grave, the worm, should not by thee be known—Go thou direct to God!Thy passport white at Heaven’s gate unroll,(No dark hand-writing e’er hath soiled that scroll.)’Twas thus the Saviour spoke:‘Those little children; suffer them to come.’The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters brokeWhich kept thee from thy home:Awhile life’s threshhold thou didst press with glee,Then turned away; this life was not for thee!

A PISCATORIAL ECLOGUE

VEL ISAACUS WALTON IN NOVAM SCALAM REDIVIVUSBY PETER VON GEIST

Piscator. You are happily met, my fair young lady!

Discipula. A very good morrow to you, Mr. Piscator. You are early a-foot, with your rod and lines.

Piscator. A veteran of the angle will be stirring early; there is a brace of fish waiting for my hook on the other side of our lake. But you, my gentle maiden, have you come down to the beach to see the sun rise? and mayhap to pluck a rose with the dew on’t? I think you have found it; for I think I can see the rose on your cheek, and the dew in your eye. It is sweet to be up betimes in the morning, when the air and the new sunlight are as clear and calm as your own thoughts.

Discipula. It is even so, as you and I know right well. A pleasant sail to you; God send a dozen fish, and may you kill them merrily. But honest Mr. Piscator, do you go alone to-day?

Piscator. I think so to do; for you are to note, a companion of patience and sober demeanor, free from profane jests and scurrilous discourse, is worth gold, but is not so easy to be come at. And none other than such jumps with my humor.

Discipula. And when, my good Mr. Piscator, will you give me another lesson in the art of angling? For you must know the last has only increased my desire to learn something more of it. Or do you think that we women can never attain skill in that noble and gentle art?

Piscator. That it is a noble and a gentle art I am ready to maintain; and that women have attained skill in it is not to be doubted; as you will read in books of old time, that ladies both hunted, and hawked, and fished.

Discipula. But the lesson, my honest master? When shall I have another lesson?

Piscator. You shall even suit your own convenience. And some fine morning, when you are so disposed, we will take a walk down the river; when I will teach you to cast your line for trout; for indeed, it requires a sharp wit and much practice to throw your fly so that the trout will rise at it.

Discipula. Not in the river, if it please you, good Mr. Piscator, not in the river! Teach me to fish in the lake.

Piscator. Without doubt, my fair young lady, it must be as you desire. And yet, it is not every woman that would have the courage to cross the pond in a skiff that rocks to every ripple.

Discipula. Trust me for that. You should know that I am not wont to be frightened at trifles.

Piscator. Truly, it is so; and I do not question your courage. Then on any day that you will appoint, God willing, I will give you a sail; or indeed, this morning, if duty does not incline you in another direction, and you will step with me into my little boat yonder.

Discipula. That shall I with right good will. But I shall have to make you wait while I get my fishing tackle.

Piscator. Of necessity you shall not do that; for I remember now, I can fit you with a spare harness of my own.

Discipula. Then let us be going, say I. And is this the skiff? What a painted little cockle-shell of a boat, with its two masts! I suppose it will bear us both?

Piscator. It will bear twenty like you and me. Please let me help you to step in; and though you feel it to give under your feet, and as it were, slide away from beneath you, yet now when you are set down on the bench, you perceive it is perfectly steady.

Discipula. Oh, I shall not be in the least afraid. What a tiny little schooner! But is it not bold to spread both sails? And see, now that we come round to the wind, how the skiff keels over.

Piscator. It is entirely safe, my fair scholar; for since you have chosen me to be your instructor and master in the science of the angle, you must be content to be called my scholar. It is entirely safe; and you must observe, that however much it may keel over, it cannot upset; for if struck by a sudden squall, or flaw of the wind, the masts will go by the board, and so it will right.

Discipula. Excellently well contrived. But has not the breeze suddenly died away? Yet the sails are distended, and miniature waves are thrown off from either side of the bow.

Piscator. The breeze seems to have decreased, because we are moving in the same direction with it; and you will see, now when I bring the boat more toward the wind, that it blows as strong as before, and our motion is well nigh stopped.

Discipula. That I can very well see; and I pray you, my master, not to bring the skiff so far into the wind to prove your proposition to me as to capsize it. The masts bend over toward the water more than it is pleasant to see.

Piscator. There is no danger; and after half an hour’s experience you will become used to it, and lose all apprehension. I think I will alter our course a couple of points; so if you have a mind, since I cannot well leave the tiller, you may unloose the cord that fastens the forward sail to the side of the boat; wait a moment till we come round, and the sail hangs loose in the wind; now loose the rope, and let it out about a foot; so, wind it round as it was before. Neatly done! Next, let out the other sail in the same way and to the same length. It was well executed! Really, you are destined to become a sailor’s wife after all.

Discipula. Marry, I hope so. But why ‘after all?’

Piscator. Nay, I meant nothing; except, that whereas I formerly thought you rather affected the land, now I find that you are courageous on the water; and therefore, I say you deserve a Commodore. Observe now, we are running more nearly with the wind, and move faster. It is a favorable breeze; for our fishing-ground is in the south-eastern corner of the lake, behind that highland which you see yonder; and this blows from the western quarter. We shall soon be there.

Discipula. Be in no hurry; I am in none. Is it not a fine morning? Those white, high-flying clouds, rolled up into fleeces like wool, with ragged patches of the sky between them, above us, and the broad blue bosom of the lake, with the multitude of little waves leaping up and dancing all over its surface beneath us, and our boat, in the midst of both sky and water, gliding calmly along like a bird with his wings spread floating in the air! Is it not a lovely morning? Yes, yes; I must be a sailor’s wife, and live on the ocean! Or perhaps, rather, a fisherman’s wife, and sail on a lake like this. If I should happen to meet with one of the latter class, of approved character, somewhat mature in years and grave in demeanor, kind of disposition and manly of countenance, one who would let me go sailing with him every day, (of course I am not describing you, Mr. Piscator,) I think—yes, I am quite certain, that he would content me.

Piscator. Nay, nay, my fair young lady, you are pleased to mock! ‘Mature in years and grave in demeanor,’ said you? A gallant young sailor for you, say I! There are many who sigh for the favor which you have so freely granted me to-day. Ah, you should not jeer.

Discipula. I tell you, Mr. Piscator, none but you for me this day! I am not going to think of any body but you; for I tell you plainly, I like you very much.

Piscator. Ah, yes, yes; certainly—without doubt, I hope so; surely, why should you not?

Discipula. And what a beautiful island! The grass grows down almost to the water’s edge, leaving a narrow belt of white sand; how it glistens in the sun-light! and those half-a-dozen tall trees in the centre, how do you suppose they came to grow there alone so?

Piscator. That is a question which I have often asked, but have never been able to satisfy myself, as to how they came there. They have stood for more generations than one, and will cast their shadows on the water when other boats than ours sail past them, and other eyes than ours wonder at them. Now we are nearly at our journey’s end; when we pass through the opening between that island ahead of us, and the main land, we shall be on our fishing-ground.

Discipula. Is it possible that we have reached here so quick? It is not half so far as I thought it was. And yet, on looking back, there is a wide waste lying between us and the cove from which we started. How diminutive the house on the high ground back of the landing-place looks; like a mole-hill, and the trees around it like shrubs! Well sped, little bark! A swift and an easy-paced courser are you; steadily now, through this narrow strait; steadily and gently, for your race is almost run.

Piscator. The channel begins to widen again; and lo! here we are in a lake by itself as it were; a sheet of water full a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. And herein the fish mostly do congregate. I will hold on to near the middle, and then drop the anchor.

Discipula. It is indeed a fine sheet; smooth as any mirror; clearer than glass. I suppose the fish assemble here when they get tired of the roughness and commotion of the lake without, because it is so calm and still. Is it not so?

Piscator. It may be so; it is a good reason, and I will believe that it is so, since you have supposed it. This is as good a place as any, and here we will cast our lines; and there is so little wind stirring, that we shall only need to furl our sails, and the boat will remain at rest. Now then, here is your rod, nicely put together, with a fly on the hook. A pike will rise as quick at an artificial fly as at a live one; a greedy fish is that pike; and if we should have occasion, I have other kinds of bait. Take it, and throw your line out as I taught you before. But what are you regarding so intently?

Discipula. I am looking at the shadow of the trees in the water; an inverted forest in the lake. Fish a little while alone, and let me look.

Piscator. It has become so late in the day that I have not much hope of taking many now. However, I can but try. This same rod and line have done me good service in this same place, before to-day. Ah, I see a pike! I’ll have him! Look! look how slowly and warily he comes up toward the bait! When he gets within a few feet of it, he will make a dash, and gorge it without stopping to think. Ah, there he goes with it; and here he comes back with it, straight up into the boat. Upon my word, a reasonable fish; he wont weigh short of three pounds.

Discipula. Oh, Mr. Piscator! here’s a new heaven and a new earth beneath us! Waving trees with birds flitting among their branches, and far down below, flying clouds and blue sky. A perfect hemisphere, and we are hanging over it, without any thing to support us! I shouldn’t be surprised, to feel myself this minute tumbling down into it, down to the new heaven! I have been expecting to, for some time past; and what a fall would that be! Do you suppose we should stop when we got there?

Piscator. If we did not, where should we go to?

Discipula. Ah, where!

Piscator. These fish do not seem inclined to bite this morning. Yet there is one larger than that I caught before. I must have him, too. Observe how wistfully he eyes the bait; let the fly skim slowly along the water, just over him; that is the way, Sir, to swallow a hook; and now come up, and slide into the basket, out of sight, and keep your brother company.

Discipula. Mr. Piscator, when you make such a splashing in the water, you ruffle and wrinkle my submarine prospect. Please don’t.

Piscator. I think it will be profitless trying to take any more this forenoon; toward night they will bite again. And what shall we do in the mean time? Usually, when I come out here alone, I go ashore, and rest myself during these hours, amid the fragrant shades of the thick trees, that screen me from the mid-day heat. Would you like to take such a ramble?—or are you inclined to stay here, and gaze into the water?

Discipula. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.

Piscator. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.

Discipula. Yes, yes; let us go!

Piscator. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?

Discipula. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet, under this shade, for a few minutes.

Piscator. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to acknowledge, that a little dinner would not be unacceptable.

Discipula. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?

Piscator. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket, containing–

Discipula. Why in the world!—why didn’t you let me know that before? Let us have it as quick as possible!

Piscator. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring it up here.

Discipula. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!—as quick as you can!

Piscator. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we might dispense with knives and– Right, scholar, put your hand into the basket and help yourself.

Discipula. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough of it?

Piscator. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me on this beach, after a morning’s sail and ramble.

Discipula. Most excellent! I’ll come out here every time I can get a chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.

Piscator. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now, scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.