‘You cannot fail to see her as the criminal she is, that has set her name to every page of this scandalous libel and has, since the indictment, owned, published and put value on herself for being the author of so excellent a book.
‘To the indictment, she has pleaded not guilty, if the king’s evidence prove the charge, you are to find her guilty.’
The prosecution portrayed me a despicable character, a devil’s tool worse than any I had discovered in the Popish Plot. I had seen enough of other trials to expect this and had prepared myself for it but, still, I might have convicted myself on Dormer’s argument. How easily he twisted unwanted truth into evidence of foul play by the bearer of it.
Mr Weston spoke next. It seemed, twice told, he did not think they fully understood as he wished them as to why I stood before them. Next to my book on the table, he placed down a small stack of papers, very likely details he wrote to remind himself of, then picked up my book.
‘Gentlemen, the charge is this. First she is charged with making this book, but there are several clauses in the book she is particularly charged with. The evidence we are about to show will prove, first, the book was owned and published by her, then, that the particulars charged in the indictment were in the book; and finally you will receive the Directions of the Court to sum up the proofs. It is your job to hear the evidence and see the proof.’
Weston returned the book to its place beside the notes.
Mr. Dormer, not the least happy to lose the ears of the court to Mr Weston, roped them back to his side with four words.
‘We call our witnesses.’
The first to enter on behalf of the prosecution was the bone-thin William Downing, my publisher. He was ill at ease in the court and, apart from a quick look that acknowledged me standing at the bar, he was apparently disinterested in who was there, as if he had been interrupted in another dozen things and wished to fast return to them.
I fanned my face and tried to not appear out of sorts. This man took my money. We had passed several deep discussions on all manner of details about my book. I was tarnished with the existence of my book with or without his proof. He could not be my downfall, for what could he tell but that I had employed him!
Beside and slightly behind him, hobbled a man with a hooked gait I had seen before, but could not remember in what place. I knew the third person to approach the stand better than I should have liked. If I had doubted him, as I should have doubted any person coming to the door for my book, I would not be fingering cobwebs this day.
This spider cast his web and made sure I stuck on it. As soon as he had my book in his hand, he wrapped me so tight-bound in my own conceit I could do nothing when he arrived with the law and made sure I came to trial. Catching a Catholic in his threads did not give him a robe of respect to the crowd any more than to me. They watched him with as much distrust as did I, for a spider does not change the way he builds a web and catches prey. Even the Lord Mayor looked at him with undisguised distaste.
The three brought to the front of the court were sworn in: William Downing, John Penny and Robert Stevens. John Penny’s name did little to enlighten me as to where I knew him. He must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked up and his eyes found mine and stayed on them. It was not maliciousness I saw there, only concern. And apology. He would have to speak against me, I knew, else why would he be here, but he was unhappy to do it. Chance was that he had been threatened into being here and saying what they would have him say against me. I swear he nodded so that only I could see.
Mr Dormer opened the questions by asking William Downing, ‘Please tell my Lord, and the jury, what you know of the printing of this libel,’ Mr Dormer held up my publication and then continued, ‘and who bought these sheets to the press.’
Mr Downing started to answer, ‘My Lord, about the 22nd or 23rd of August…’ but was interrupted by that impatient fellow Weston.
‘Begin with Penny first. Mr Penny, tell us what you have to say about this book.’
So, now this man would be revealed to me. He again looked to me before turning back to Weston and answering, ‘My Lord, I was bid to buy a book of that Gentlewoman, and I did so, having asked for her by her name.’ Ah, so he was one of the many who did buy a book from me. For what reason this man stood against me, I did not know. Perhaps he needed none.
‘By what name?’
‘Mrs Cellier.’
Weston pointed towards me. ‘Is that the Gentlewoman?’
Neither pause nor thought entered into the man’s narrative.
‘Yes, that is the Gentlewoman. And she came out of her house and asked what my errand was. I told her it was to have a book. ‘That you may have,’ she said. I asked her, ‘How much is it, Madam?’ She said, ‘Two shillings.’ I asked her if I could not have them any cheaper, and she said, ‘No, I have sold them to shopkeepers for 18 shillings a dozen, and I must not sell them under that price to you.’ Then she went and fetched me a book, and I gave her the two shillings, and then she gave me another little paper.’
Surprising me, because I thought it was the issue, Weston then said, ‘That is not in issue, nor your question now. Did you ask her for the book she published and set out?’
Penny answered, ‘Yes, and she acknowledged it was her book.’
‘So, she owned the book and told you it was hers?’
Mr. Penny held up my book. ‘This is the book I have in my hand, and I read every page of it.’ With which he looked at me and did not hide the respect he had for my writing of it. ‘And she told me there was another little sheet to be added to it, and if any gentleman wanted it sent to the country, it might be put in a letter and sent by post.’
I remembered that look. It brought to mind when I saw this man before, when he had come to buy my book from our house. It was with respect and goodwill he had looked at me then too, when he had declared himself fortunate to meet the author for, he had said, not many had so little fear for their life that they would lay it down for a book. I had little doubt that spider, Stevens, must have seen him buy it from me and had followed him to make him a witness.
Now I had remembered the meeting, and the words that were spoken, I wondered if I might instil some doubt to my authorship. ‘May I ask him a question?’
Weston said, ‘Tell me your question, and I will ask it.’
Why I could not ask it when the man stood right before me I did not know, but I did know that courts had strange rules from times long gone by, and I did also know that I did not wish to turn Weston any more against me. So, agreeably, I asked, ‘I desire to know if I said any more than you may have a book, or there is a book. And who asked for a book.’
And then, as if I did not longer exist to Weston, he repeated my question to Penny, ‘Did she say any more than you may have a book, or this is the book she had published?’
Mr. Penny looked to the rafters and frowned in thought. ‘When I got the book, and paid for it, I turned back to her and asked her if it was her own book. She told me it was, and more than that, if she had opportunity, she could have put more in it.’
His answer undid me after all. I had hoped to throw doubt on his words, but they had become all too clear.
Weston suddenly addressed me. ‘You did not deny writing this book yesterday, Mrs Cellier. In fact, do you remember when you said, if you could bring in your witnesses, you would prove the truth of it all? Of what you wrote in your book? We told you, the only thing you had to show to prove you were not guilty was that somebody else had published the book, not you. Then you said you had written it yourself, every word with your own hand.’
‘Tis with regret I closed my mouth too late. Would that I had sewn my mouth shut before!
‘My Lord, if I was a foolish, vain woman and spoke vain words about myself, which I did not understand the consequence of, I hope my vanity shan’t be brought against me to convict me of a crime.’
‘Mrs Cellier, I scarcely think you would have been so careless to say that of yourself if it were not true.’
He was right, but then I would not have ‘carelessly’ written any of my book if it had not borne the truth, knowing I would as like find myself in the dungeons as pilloried. My duty was to expose the evil in this city, but I did not want to dwell further in gaol for it. But I would go there, if I must, for the sake of truth and truth alone, though I hoped it would not come to that. My husband, children and customers needed me! I should plead innocence. That was my only chance.
I appealed to them as a woman.
‘But I hope you will not take vain words spoken in that foolish way as evidence against me.’
‘That will depend on whether the proof shows you guilty.’
He did not try to hide his distaste and he wrinkled his nose. His countenance belied him an objective examiner. He had no sympathy for me, and no subjugation would make it otherwise.
I turned from Mr Weston and again asked Penny to remember my exact words. ‘Did I say I wrote it?’
Mr. Penny said, ‘You told me it was your book.’
‘I told you? Please, my Lord,’ I turned back to Weston, ‘ask him on the oath he has taken, did I say any more than it was mine and I sold it, not that I wrote it, nor I was the author of it?’
Weston did not, as I hoped, ask the question. Instead, he lectured me in exasperation.
‘Mrs Cellier, this book is entitled with your name and sold by your self. Now, in anyone’s judgement, this is both an owning of the book, and a publishing of the book. When you sold it, you gave it out as your book, and your name is on the title page as the author of it.’
I could not give up when my fate depended upon it and when I had God and right on my side.
‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘if I could produce my witnesses, I would make my defence, but I am informed that some of them cannot be found. They have looked for them everywhere, all over town, even at Sir Joseph Sheldon’s and a great many other places, all to no avail.’
Truth be told, my man, George Grange, that was paid to find the witnesses, told me moments before the trial that many who would speak in favour of me had disappeared. Why this was so was no mystery; it was common enough during a trial. Either they hid because they wanted no attention brought onto themselves for their involvement, or they were taken by those that had an interest to, far from the city so they could not defend me.
Did Weston know of this? I suspected he did not, because he might have pretended to tell me to bring them, knowing they would not come. Instead, he was as a mule, putting me off having them there.
‘To what purpose should your witnesses come?’
I held up my chin. ‘I should have made my defence with them.’
Again, Weston referred to the previous day. ‘If you had said yesterday you had witnesses to prove someone else wrote the book, we would have put off the trial…’
Crafty fox. He referred only to my having written the book and stayed far from the dangerous contents. If I proved the contents true, then it could no longer be called libel, but if he only proved I had written a book that assumed false contents, it would be called so.
He continued, ‘…but you said you wrote every word of it yourself and so owned the issue. Now you pretend you want witnesses. To what purpose would you have them come?’
His was a bias so clear, it was a wonder he should be allowed to examine me! Surely, he should not be allowed to question a witness when he was so determined to prove them wrong. I barely resisted telling him this.
‘My Lord, it is not for the Bench to give evidence, and I hope you will not take advantage of vain words said out of court.’
Weston did not like my citing of the law to him. If he were weary of this whole conversation, even if he were somewhat peeved that I claim the law do right by me, it was my life, my destiny, in question, not his. Mother Destiny did yet await directions where she might take me.
He peevishly asserted, ‘It is the honour of the Bench to repeat what you say, when you asked to put off your trial so you can find witnesses, and when the Court asked if you could prove someone else wrote the book you renounced that and admitted to having written it yourself!’
He took himself so serious I could not resist cheeking him. I smiled sweet as honey and said, ‘But I hope that is no evidence.’
He puffed out his chest like a cock for a fight.
‘It was spoken openly in the Court; everybody heard it.’
There was no point continuing in this vein since he was not at all susceptible to a woman’s charms, so I only said, ‘I am only surprised it is allowed. I have no witnesses.’
Cross, Weston dogged the answer to his question. ‘It was easy to pretend you wanted witnesses, but I ask again, for what purpose would you have had them called?’
I did not wish to anger the examiner further, if it may hinder my case, so I turned to Mr Attorney General. ‘My Lord, I hope you will please remember, he swore I said only it was mine, not that I was the author.’
Then the Attorney General interrupted, equally exasperated, ‘If you sold it, that is a publishing in law and is within the indictment.’
Even then, I did not clam my mouth shut. ‘But he did not say I wrote it.’
Weston came to the end of his tether then, and interjected, ‘Do not be so sure of that, Mrs Cellier. He said that after he had asked you, ‘Is this your book?’ you said, ‘yes, it is my book and, if I had been aware, I could have put a great deal more in it than I have done.’
‘But I did not say I wrote it.’
If I had already lost, it was not for me to admit it. None had told me the very selling of the book was proof of publishing. Too many hours in Newgate I had practiced proving how I had not written the book. My very stubbornness would not have me let it go now, though it might be my downfall. And it surely would be.
Then, Penny spoke, ‘You said if it were to be written again, you could put more in it.’ He looked at me satisfied as if he had helped me, but I had sooner done without such assistance.
To Weston I repeated, ‘I said it was my book, and so it was, because it was my possession, but I did not say I wrote it. This is my fan, but it does not follow I made it.’
If my wit pleased me it counted for nothing to the man before me. Weston frowned that I was not as demure as every woman should be.
‘But the question concerned the author of the book,’ he said.
He did keep coming back to that. Did he not see that if I had misunderstood the question at the time he could not prove otherwise!
‘He asked me no such question.’ I said. Then I asked Penny again, ‘Did you ask me if I was the author?’
‘No, I did not,’ he said.
Gratified, I turned raised eyebrows to Weston.
Weston said, ‘But what did you ask her? ‘
‘I asked her whether it was her book.’
‘And did she own it?’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Penny.
‘So it was mine, in possession,’ I stated confidently, as though that was my original meaning.
Still chasing the answer he sought, that dog Weston did not have any of it. ‘Did you mean by your question whether that book was hers in property, or that she were the author and publisher of it?’
Penny replied, ‘I wanted to know whether it was hers or not.’
Frustrated, Weston growled, ‘But what was your intention in asking? Was it whether she or any other person had made the book?’
I nearly laughed at Penny’s answer, for it only made Weston madder.
‘I do not know who made it. She told me it was hers,’ he said.
Weston said, ‘But what was your meaning in it?’
‘My intentions was for fear she should give me another book, to know whether she wrote it or no
t.’
‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘I am not to be judged by his meaning, but by his question, and my answer, and the time.’
Then Mr. Attorney General intervened with a more specific question. ‘Did she tell you she sold more of them?’
Penny said, ‘I turned about when I had the book and asked her, if occasion be, could I have any more? She said she had but four or five hundred left, and in a few days she would have more.’
The Attorney General then stated, ‘You told us that, she told you how much she sold them for by the dozen.’
‘Yes, eighteen shillings the dozen, to the shopkeepers.’
Damned by my own pride; no person would believe I kept more than one or two for my own reading!
Then they swore in Downing, the publisher. Over his skinny bones, he still wore his stained work apron, a sign he was but an unwanted prisoner to the court and would return to his press the moment he was released. I suspected he did not eat not for want of food, but for the want of his body’s memory of it. Even as he spoke, his hands shifted and fiddled with the air as if he placed print blocks for each and every spoken word. His eyes did not see the court, but followed his ink-stained fingers, checking for mistakes.
Equally mesmerised by the fidgets of the skinny man, Weston watched them set his next question for some future ghost book.
‘Mr Downing,’ said Weston, ‘pray look upon that book and the title of it.’ Downing did so. ‘Have you examined that book?’
Mr Downing looked briefly at my book then recorded his answer with his fingers.
‘Sir, I printed part of it.’
‘But have you examined that very pamphlet?’ said Weston.
‘Yes, I know it well.’
‘Did you Print part of it?’
‘Yes, I did,’ muttered Downing’s fingers.
‘Who brought it to you to be printed?’
‘Mrs Cellier.’
‘She herself?’ Weston dragged his eyes from Downing’s hands and marked the answer by raising eyebrows to several persons in the jury and the judges. But Downing’s talking fingers pulled them back as he went on.
The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal Page 29