<B CEHIST3A>
<Q E3 NN HIST BURNETCHA>
<N HISTORY CHARLES II>
<A BURNET GILBERT>
<C E3>
<O 1640-1710>
<M X>
<K X>
<D ENGLISH>
<V PROSE>
<T HISTORY>
<G X>
<F X>
<W WRITTEN>
<X MALE>
<Y 40-60>
<H HIGH PROF>
<U X>
<E X>
<J X>
<I X>
<Z NARR NON-IMAG>
<S SAMPLE X>


[^BURNET, GILBERT.
BURNET'S HISTORY OF MY OWN TIME.
PART I: THE REIGN OF CHARLES THE SECOND,
VOLS. I-II.
ED. O. AIRY.
OXFORD: CLARENDON PRESS, 1897, 1900.
PART 1, I,  PP. 165.28 - 175.19    (SAMPLE 1)
PART 2, II, PP. 156.1  - 165.14    (SAMPLE 2)^]

<S SAMPLE 1>
<P 1,I,165>
   With the restoration of the king a spirit of extravagant
joy being spread over the nation, that brought on with it 
the throwing off the very professions of virtue and piety:
all ended in entertainments and drunkenness, which overran
<P 1,I,166>
the three kingdoms to such a degree, that it very much
corrupted all their morals. Under the colour of drinking 
the king's health, there were great disorders and much riot
every where: and the pretences to religion, both in those
of the hypocritical sort, and of the more honest but no less
pernicious enthusiasts, gave great advantages, as well as 
they furnished much matter, to the profane mockers at all
true piety. Those who had been concerned in the former
transactions thought they could not redeem themselves
from the censures and jealousies that these brought on 
them by any method that was more sure and more easy,
than by going in to the stream, and laughing at all religion,
telling or making stories to expose both themselves and
their party as impious and ridiculous.
   The king was then thirty years of age, and, as might
have been supposed, past the levities of youth and the
extravagance of pleasure. He had a very good understanding:
he knew well the state of affairs both at home
and abroad. He had a softness of temper, that charmed
all who came near him, till they found how little they could
depend on good looks, kind words, and fair promises, in
which he was liberal to excess, because he intended nothing
by them but to get rid of importunity, and to silence all
further pressing upon him. He seemed to have no sense
of religion: both at prayers and sacrament he, as it were,
took care to satisfy people that he was in no sort concerned
in that about which he was employed: so that he was very
far from being an hypocrite, unless his assisting at those
performances was a sort of hypocrisy, as no doubt it was;
but he was sure not to increase that by any the least
appearance of devotion. He said once to my self, he was
no atheist, but he could not think God would make a man
<P 1,I,167>
miserable only for taking a little pleasure out of the way.
He disguised his popery to the last: but when he talked
freely, he could not help letting himself out against the
liberty that under the Reformation all men took of inquiring
into matters: for from their inquiring into matters of          #
religion,
they carried the humour further, to inquire into matters of
state. He said often, he thought government was a much
safer and easier thing where the authority was believed
infallible, and the faith and submission of the people was 
implicit: about which I had once much discourse with him.
He was affable and easy, and loved to be made so by all
about him. The great art of keeping him long was, the
being easy, and the making every thing easy to him. He
had made such observations on the French government,
that he thought a king who might be checked, or have his
ministers called to an account by a parliament, was but
a king in name. He had a great compass of knowledge,
though he was never capable of great application or study.
He understood the mechanics and physic; and was a good
chemist, and much set on several preparations of mercury, 
chiefly the fixing it. He understood navigation well: but
above all he knew the architecture of ships so perfectly,
that in that respect he was exact rather more than became
a prince. His apprehension was quick, and his memory
good; and he was an everlasting talker. He told his
stories with a good grace: but they came in his way too
often. He had a very ill opinion both of men and women;
and did not think there was either sincerity or chastity in
<P 1,I,168>
the world out of principle, but that some had either the one
or the other out of humour or vanity. He thought that
nobody served him out of love: and so he was quits with 
all the world, and loved others as little as he thought they
loved him. He hated business, and could not be easily
brought to mind any: but when it was necessary, and he
was set to it, he would stay as long as his ministers had
work for him. The ruin of his reign, and of all his affairs,
was occasioned chiefly by his delivering himself up at his
first coming over to a mad range of pleasure. One of the
race of the Villiers, then married to Palmer, a papist, soon
after made earl of Castlemaine, who afterwards, being           #
separated 
from him, was advanced to be duchess of Cleveland,
was his first and longest mistress, by whom he had five
children. She was a woman of great beauty, but most
enormously vicious and ravenous, foolish but imperious,
<P 1,I,169>
ever uneasy to the king, and always carrying on intrigues
with other men, while yet she pretended she was jealous of
him. His passion for her, and her strange behaviour
towards him, did so disorder him, that often he was not 
master of himself, nor capable of minding business, which, in
so critical a time, required great application: but he did then
so entirely trust the earl of Clarendon that he left all to his
care, and submitted to his advices as to so many oracles.
   The earl of Clarendon was bred to the law, and was like
to grow eminent in his profession. When the wars began
he distinguished himself so in the house of commons, that
he became considerable, and was much trusted all the
while the king was at Oxford. He stayed beyond sea
following the king's fortunes, till the restoration; and
was now an absolute favourite, and the chief or the only
minister, but with too magisterial a way. He was always
pressing the king to mind his affairs, but in vain. He
was a good chancellor, only a little too rough, but 
very impartial in the administration of justice. He
never seemed to understand foreign affairs well: and yet
he meddled too much in them. He had too much levity
in his wit, and did not always observe the decorum of his
post. He was haughty, and was apt to reject those who
addressed themselves to him, with too much contempt.
He had such regard to the king, that when places were 
disposed of, even otherwise than as he advised, yet he
would justify what the king did, and disparage the pretensions
of others, not without much scorn; which created
him many enemies. He was indefatigable in business,
<P 1,I,170>
though the gout did often disable him from waiting on the
king: yet, during his credit, the king came constantly to
him when he was laid up by the gout.
   The man next to him in favour with the king was the
duke of Ormond: a man every way fitted for a court, of
a graceful appearance, a lively wit, and a cheerful temper:
a man of great expense, decent even in his vices, for he 
always kept up the forms of religion. He had gone through
many transactions in Ireland with more fidelity than success.
He had made a treaty with the Irish, which was broken
by the great body of them, though some few of them
adhered still to him. But the whole Irish nation did still
pretend, that, though they broke the agreement first, yet he,
or rather the king in whose name he had treated with them,
was bound to perform all the articles of the treaty. He
had miscarried so in the siege of Dublin that it very much 
lessened the opinion of his military conduct: yet his constant
attendance on his master, his easiness to him, and his
great sufferings for him, raised him to be lord steward of
the household, and lord lieutenant of Ireland. He was firm 
to the protestant religion, and so far firm to the laws that
he always gave good advices: but even when bad ones were
followed, he was not for complaining too much of them.
   The earl of Southampton was next to these. He was 
a man of great virtues, and of very good parts: he had a 
lively apprehension, and a good judgment. He had merited
much by his constant adhering to the king's interests during
the war, and by the large supplies he had sent him every
year during his exile; for he had a great estate, and only
three daughters to inherit it. He was made lord treasurer:
but he grew soon weary of business; for as he was subject
to the stone, which returned often and violently upon him,
so he retained the principles of liberty, and did not go in to
the violent measures of the court. When he saw the king's
temper, and his way of managing, or rather of spoiling,
<P 1,I,171>
business, he grew very uneasy, and kept himself more out
of the way than was consistent with that high post. The
king stood in some awe of him, and saw how popular he
would grow if put out of his service: and therefore he chose
rather to bear with his ill humour and contradiction, than to
dismiss him. He left the business of the treasury wholly in
the hands of his secretary, sir Philip Warwick, who was an
honest but a weak man; he understood the common road
of the treasury; but, though he pretended to wit and politics,
he was not cut out for that, and least of all for writing of
history. But he was an incorrupt man, and during seven 
years management of the treasury he made but an ordinary
fortune out of it. Before the restoration the lord treasurer
had only a small salary, with an allowance for a table, but
he gave, or rather sold, all the subaltern places, and made
great profits out of the estate of the crown: but now, that
being gone, and the earl of Southampton disdaining to sell
places, the matter was settled so, that the lord treasurer
was to have +L8000 a year, and the king was to name all the
subaltern officers. And it continued to be so all his time:
but since that time the lord treasurer has both the +L8000
and a main hand in the disposing of those places.
<P 1,I,172>
   The man that was in the greatest credit with the earl of 
Southampton was sir Anthony Ashley Cooper, who had
married his niece, and became afterwards so considerable,
that he was raised to be earl of Shaftesbury. Since he came
to have so great a name, and that I knew him for many
years, and in a very particular manner, I will dwell a little
longer on his character; for it was of a very extraordinary
composition. He began to make a considerable figure
very early. Before he was twenty, he came into the house
of commons, and was on the king's side, and undertook to 
get Wiltshire and Dorsetshire to declare for him, but he
was not able to effect it. Yet prince Maurice breaking
articles to a town that he had got to receive him, furnished
him with an excuse to forsake that side, and to turn to the
parliament. He had a wonderful faculty in speaking to 
a popular assembly, and could mix both the facetious and
the serious way of arguing very agreeably. He had
a particular talent of making others trust to his judgment,
and depend on it: and he brought over so many to a submission
to his opinion, that I never knew any man equal
to him in the art of governing parties, and of making
himself the head of them. He was, as to religion, a deist
at best. He had the dotage of astrology in him to a high
<P 1,I,173>
degree: he told me, that a Dutch doctor had from the stars
foretold him the whole series of his life. But that which
was before him, when he told me this, proved false, if he
told true: for he said he was yet to be a greater man than
he had been. He fancied that after death our souls lived
in stars. He had a general knowledge of the slighter
parts of learning, but understood little to bottom: so he
triumphed in a rambling way of talking, but argued slightly
when he was held close to any point. He had a wonderful
faculty at opposing, and running things down; but had not
the like force in building up. He had such an extravagant
vanity in setting himself out, that it was very disagreeable.
He pretended that Cromwell offered to make him king.
He was indeed of great use to him, in withstanding the 
enthusiasts of that time. He was one of those who pressed
him most to accept of the kingship, because, as he said
afterwards, he was sure it would ruin him. His strength
lay in the knowledge of England, and of all the considerable
men in it. He understood well the size of their understanding
and their tempers: and he knew how to apply
himself to them so dexterously, that, though by his
changing sides so often it was very visible how little he was
to be depended on, yet he was to the last much trusted by
all the discontented party. He had no sort of virtue, for
he was both a lewd and corrupt man and had no regard
either to truth or justice. He was not ashamed to reckon 
up the many turns he had made: and he valued himself
on the doing it at the properest season, and in the best
manner: and was not out of countenance in owning his
<P 1,I,174>
unsteadiness and deceitfulness. This he did with so much
vanity, and so little discretion, that he lost many by it, and
his reputation was at last run so low that he could not have
held much longer, had not he died in good time, either for
his family or for his party. The former would have been
ruined if he had not saved it by betraying his party.
   Another man very near of the same sort, who passed
through many great employments, was Annesley, advanced
to be earl of Anglesea; who had much more knowledge, 
and was very learned, chiefly in the law. He had a faculty
of speaking indefatigably upon every subject: but he spoke
ungracefully, and did not know that he was ill at raillery, 
for he was always attempting it. He understood our
government well, and had examined far into the original
of our constitution. He was capable of great application,
and was a man of a grave deportment, but stuck at nothing,
and was ashamed of nothing. He was neither loved nor
trusted by any man or any side: and he seemed to have
no regard to the common decencies of justice and truth,
but sold every thing that was in his power: and sold himself
so often, that at last the price fell so low that he
grew useless, because he was so well known that he was
universally despised.
<P 1,I,175>
   Holles was a man of great courage, and of as great
pride. He was counted for many years the head of the
presbyterian party. He was faithful and firm to his side,
and never changed through the whole course of his life.
He engaged in a particular opposition to Cromwell in the
time of the war. They hated one another equally. Holles
seemed to carry this too far: for he would not allow Cromwell
to have been either wise or brave; but often applied
Solomon's observation to him, (^that the battle was not to the
strong, nor favour to the men of understanding, but that
time and chance happened to all men^) . He was well versed
in the records of parliament, and argued well, but too
vehemently; for he could not bear contradiction. He had
the soul of an old stubborn Roman in him. He was
a faithful but a rough friend, and a severe but fair enemy.
He had a true sense of religion, and was a man of an
unblameable course of life, and of a sound judgment when 
it was not biassed by passion. He was made a lord for
his merit in bringing about the restoration.

<S SAMPLE 2>
<P 1,II,156>
[}CHAPTER IX.}]

[}THE POPISH TERROR AND THE IMPEACHMENT OF 
DANBY. DISSOLUTION OF THE PENSIONARY 
PARLIAMENT.}]

   Three days before Michaelmas Dr. Tonge came to me.
I had known him at Sir Robert Moray's. He was a gardener
and a chemist, and was full of projects and notions. 
He had got some credit in Cromwell's time, and that kept
him poor. He was a very mean divine, and seemed credulous
and simple, but I had always looked on him as a 
sincere man. At this time he told me of strange designs
against the king's person; and that Coniers, a Benedictine,
had provided himself of a poniard, with which he undertook
to kill him. I was amazed at all this, and did not 
know whether he was crazed, or had come to me on design
to involve me in a concealing of treason. So I went to
Lloyd, and sent him to the secretary's office with an 
account of that discourse of Tonge's, since I would not be
guilty of misprision of treason. He found at the office that
Tonge was making discoveries there, of which they made
no other account but that he intended to get himself to be 
made a dean. I told this next morning to Littleton and
Powle, and they looked on it as a design of Danby's, to be
laid before the next session, thereby to dispose them to 
keep up a greater force, since the papists were plotting
against the king's life. This would put an end to all 
jealousies of the king, now the papists were conspriring
against his life. But lord Halifax, when I told him of it,
had another apprehension of it. He said, considering the
suspicions all had of the duke's religion, he believed every
discovery of that sort would raise a flame which the court
<P 1,II,157>
would not be able to manage. Two days after that,
Titus Oates was brought before the council. He was the
son of an anabaptist teacher, who afterwards conformed
and got into orders, and took a benefice, as this his son
did. He was proud and ill natured, haughty, but ignorant.
He conversed much with Socinians, and had been complained
of for some very indecent expressions concerning
the mysteries of the Christian religion. He was once presented
for perjury, but he got to be a chaplain in one of the
king's ships, from which he was dismissed upon a complaint
of some unnatural practices, not to be named. He got 
a qualification from the duke of Norfolk as one of his 
chaplains: and there he fell into much discourse with the 
priests that were about that family. He seemed inclined
to be instructed in the popish religion. One Hutchinson,
a Jesuit, had that work put on him. He was a weak and 
light-headed man, and afterwards came over to the church
of England. He was a curate about the city near a year, and
came oft to me, and preached once for me. He seemed to
be a sincere, devout man, who did not at all love the order, 
for he found they were a crafty, deceitful and meddling 
sort of people. They never trusted him with any secrets, but 
employed him wholly in making converts. He went afterwards
back to that church. So all this was thought a 
juggle only to cast an odium upon Oates. He told me
that Oates and they were always in ill terms. They did
not allow him above ninepence a day, of which he complained
<P 1,II,158>
much, and Hutchinson relieved him often. They
wished they could be well rid of him, and sent him beyond
sea, being in very ill terms with him. This made him
conclude, that they had not at that time trusted him with
their secrets. He was kept for some time at S. Omer's,
and from thence sent through France into Spain, and was
now returned into England. He had been long acquainted
with Tonge, and made his first discovery to him, and by
the means of one Kirby a chemist, that was sometimes in
the king's laboratory, they signified the thing to the king.
So Tonge had an audience, and told the king a long thread
of many passages, all tending to the taking away his life;
of which the king, as he afterwards told me, knew not what
it could amount to, yet among so many particulars he did
not know but there might be some truth. So he sent him
to Danby, who intended to make some use of it, but could
not give much credit to it, and handled the matter too
remissly: for, if at first the thing had been traced quick,
either the truth or the imposture of the whole affair might
have been made appear. The king ordered Danby to say
nothing of it to the duke. In the mean while some letters
of an odd strain relating to plots and discoveries were sent
by the post to Windsor, directed to Bedingfield, the duke's
confessor; who, when he read them, carried them to the
duke, and protested he did not know what they meant, nor
from whom they came. The duke carried them to the
king: and he fancied they were writ either by Tonge or
Oates, and sent on design to have them intercepted for
giving credit to the discovery. The duke's enemies on the
other hand gave out that he had got some hints of the           #
discovery,
and brought these as a blind to impose on the king.
The matter lay in a secret and remiss management for six
<P 1,II,159>
weeks. At last, on Michaelmas eve, Oates was brought
before the council, and entertained them with a long relation
of many discourses he had heard among the Jesuits, of 
their design to kill the king. He named persons, places, 
and times, almost without number. He said many Jesuits
had disguised themselves, and were gone to Scotland, and
held field conventicles, on design to distract the government
there. He said he was sent first to St. Omer's, then to
Paris, and from thence to Spain, to negotiate this design;
and that upon his return, [{that{] he brought many letters
and directions from beyond sea, there was a great meeting
of the Jesuits held in London, in April last, in different
rooms in a tavern near St. Clement's; and that he was 
employed to convey the resolutions of those in one room to
those in another, and so to hand them round. The issue
of the consultation was, that they came to a resolution to
kill the king by shooting, stabbing, or poisoning him. That
several attempts were made, all which failed in the execution,
as shall be told when the trials are related. While
he was going on, waiting for some certain evidence to
accompany his discovery, he perceived they were jealous of
him, and so he durst not trust himself among them any
more. In all this there was not a word of Coniers, of
which Tonge had spoke to me: so that was dropped.
This was the substance of what he told the first day.
Many Jesuits were upon this seized on that night, and the 
next day, and their papers were sealed up. Next day he
accused Coleman of a strict correspondence with P. de la
Chaise, whose name he had not right, for he called him
<P 1,II,160>
Father le Shee: and he said in general that Coleman was
acquainted with all their designs. Coleman had a whole
day to make his escape, if he had thought he was in any
danger. And he had conveyed all his papers out of the
way: only he forgot a drawer under a table, in which the
papers relating to 74, 75, and a part of 76 were left: and
from these I drew the negotiations that I have formerly
mentioned as directed by him. If he had either left all his
papers or withdrawn all, it had been happy for his party.
Nothing had appeared if all had been destroyed: or if all 
had been left, it might have been concluded that the whole
secret lay in them. But he left enough to give great
jealousy, and no more appearing all was believed that the
witnesses had deposed. Coleman was out of the way the
second day, but hearing that there was a warrant out 
against him, he delivered himself next day to the secretary
of state. When Oates and he were confronted, Oates did
not know him at first: but he named him when he heard
him speak, yet he only charged him upon hearsay: so he
was put in a messenger's hands. Oates named Wakeman,
the queen's physician, but did not know him at all, and
being asked if he knew anything against him, he answered
he did not, adding, God forbid he should say any thing
more than he knew, he would not do that for all the world.
Nor did he name Langhorn, the famous lawyer, that
indeed managed all their concerns. The king found him
out in one thing: he said, when he was in Spain, he was
carried to Don John, who promised great assistance in the
execution of their designs. The king, who knew Don John
well, asked him what sort of a man he was: he answered, 
he was a tall lean man: now Don John was a little fat man.
At first he seemed to design to recommend himself to the 
duke and the ministers: for he said he heard the Jesuits oft
<P 1,II,161>
say, that the duke was not sure enough to them: and they
were in doubt whether he would approve of their killing the
king: but they were resolved if they found him stiff in that
matter to despatch him likewise. He said they had oft
made use of his name, and counterfeited his hand and seal
without his knowledge. He said the Jesuits cherished the 
faction in Scotland against Lauderdale; and intended to 
murder the duke of Ormond, as a great enemy to all their 
designs: and he affirmed he had seen many letters in
which these things were mentioned, and had heard them oft
spoke of. He gave a long account of the burning of
London, at which time he said they intended to have killed
the king: but they relented when they saw him so active
in quenching the fire, that, as he said, they had kindled.
   The whole town was all over inflamed with this discovery.
It consisted of so many particulars that it was
thought to be above invention. But when Coleman's
letters came to be read and examined, it got a great
confirmation; since by these it appeared that so many
years before, they thought the designs for the converting
the nation, and rooting out the pestilent heresy that had
reigned so long in these northern kingdoms, was very near
its being executed: mention was oft made of the duke's 
great zeal for it: and as many indecent reflections were
made on the king, for his unconstancy, and his disposition
to be brought to anything for money. They depended
upon the French king's assistance: and therefore were
earnest in their endeavours to bring about a general peace,
as that which must finish their design. On the second
day after this discovery, the king went to Newmarket.
<P 1,II,162>
This was censured as a very indecent levity in him, to go
and see horse races, when all people were so much possessed
with this extraordinary discovery, to which Coleman's
letters had gained an universal credit. While the king 
was gone, Tonge desired to speak with me. So I went to 
him to Whitehall, where both he and Oates were lodged 
under a guard. I found him so lifted up, that he seemed
to have lost the little sense he had. Oates came in and
made me a compliment, that I was one that was marked
out to be killed. He had before said the same of Stillingfleet,
but he made that honour he did us too cheap, when 
he said Tonge was to be served in the same manner,
because he had translated the Jesuits' morals into English.
He broke out into great fury against the Jesuits, and said
he would have their blood: but I, to divert him from that
strain, asked him, what were the arguments that prevailed
on him to change his religion, and to go over to the church
of Rome? He upon that stood up, and laid his hands on
his breast, and said, God and his holy angels knew that he
had never changed, but that he had gone among them on
purpose to betray them. This gave me such a character of 
him, that I could have no regard to anything that he either
said or swore after that.
   A few days after this a very extraordinary thing happened,
that contributed more than any other thing to the
establishing the belief of all this evidence. Sir Edmund
Berry Godfrey was an eminent justice of peace, that lived
near Whitehall. He had the courage to stay in London,
and keep things in order, during the plague, which gained
him much reputation, and upon which he was knighted.
He was esteemed the best justice of peace in England, and
kept the quarter where he lived in very good order. He 
was then entering upon a great design of taking up all
beggars, and putting them to work. He was thought vain
and apt to take too much upon him: but there are so few 
men of public spirits, that small faults, though they lessen
them, yet ought to be gently censured. I knew him well,
<P 1,II,163>
and never had reason to think him faulty that way. He
was a zealous protestant, and loved the church of England,
but had kind thoughts of the nonconformists, and was not
forward to execute the laws against them: and he, to avoid
the being put on doing that, was not apt to search for
priests or mass-houses: so that few men of his zeal lived in
better terms with the papists than he did. Oates went to
him the day before he appeared at the council board; and
made oath of the narrative he intended to make, which he
afterwards published. This seemed to be done in distrust
of the privy council, as if they might stifle his evidence;
which to prevent, he put it in safe hands. Upon that
Godfrey was chid for his meddling in so tender a matter;
and it was generally believed that Coleman and he were
long in a private conversation, between the time of his
[{Coleman's{] being put in the messenger's hands and his
being made a close prisoner: which was done as soon as
report was made to the council of the contents of his
letters. It is certain Godfrey grew apprehensive and
reserved: for meeting me on the streets, after some discourse
of the present state of affairs, he said he believed he 
himself should be knocked on the head. Yet he took no
care of himself, and went about, according to his own
maxim, still without a servant, for he used to say that the
servants in London were corrupted by the idleness and ill
company they fell into while they attended on their masters.
On that day fortnight in which Oates had made his discovery,
being a Saturday, he went abroad in the morning, 
and was seen about one o'clock near S. Clement's church,
but was never seen any more. He was a punctual man to
good hours: so his servants were amazed when he did not
come home: yet, he having an ancient mother that lived
at Hammersmith, they fancied he had heard she was dying,
and so was gone to see her. Next morning they sent
thither, but heard no news of him. So his two brothers,
who lived in the city, were sent to. They were not 
acquainted with his affairs: so they did not know whether
<P 1,II,164>
he might not have stepped aside for debt, since at that time
all people were calling in their money, which broke a great
many: but no creditor coming about the house, they on 
Tuesday published his being thus lost. The council sat
upon it, and were going to order a search of all the houses
about the town; but were diverted from it, by many stories
that were brought them by the duke of Norfolk: sometimes
it was said he was indecently married, and the scene
was often shifted of the places where it was said he was.
Norfolk's officiousness in this matter, and the last place he
was seen at being near Arundel house, brought him under
great suspicion. On Thursday one came into a bookseller's
shop after dinner, and said he was found thrust
through with a sword. That was presently brought as 
news to me, but the reporter of it was not known. That
night late his body was found in a ditch, about a mile out
of town, near St. Pancras church. His sword was thrust
through him, but no blood was on his clothes or about
him. His shoes were clean, his money was in his pocket:
but nothing was about his neck, and a mark was all round
it, an inch broad, which shewed he was strangled. His 
breast was likewise all over marked with bruises, and his
neck was broken. All this I saw; for Lloyd and I went
to view his body. There were many drops of white waxlights
<P 1,II,165>
on his breeches; which he never used himself; and
since only persons of quality or priests use those lights,
this made all people conclude in whose hands he must have
been. And it was visible he was first strangled, and then
carried to that place, where his sword was run into his dead
body. For a while it was given out that he was a                #
hypochondriacal
man, and had killed himself. Of this the
king was possessed, till Lloyd went and told him what he
had seen. The body lay two days exposed, many going
to see it, who went away much moved with the sight.
And indeed men's spirits were so sharpened upon it, that 
we all looked on it as a very great happiness that the
people did not vent their fury upon the papists about
the town.



