Thomas Weld (1750–1810), of Lulworth in Dorset, is remembered today principally on three counts: his rôle as the founder of Stonyhurst College in 1794; his benefactions to religious orders at the height of the French revolution as they fled from political upheaval and danger in continental Europe; and his friendship with George III, including his hosting of several visits of the king to Lulworth Castle in the 1790s. Weld’s munificence in making available his Lancashire seat, Stonyhurst, to the English ex-Jesuit ‘Gentlemen of Liège’ has received attention from historians. In contrast, his own education as a young man, at the hands of the English and French Jesuits in continental Europe, has hitherto received little more than passing notice.

In the 1740s the English Jesuit house at Liège where students of philosophy and theology were prepared for the priesthood was in financial difficulties. One of the main supports of the college was an annual pension from Bavaria but in the 1740s Bavaria was involved in war and the pension was frequently not paid. The number in the community had to be reduced, many students being charitably welcomed in other Jesuit houses in Europe. It was at this time when the finances of the English province were strained that two plans came up for consideration. One was to extend the apostolate of the Maryland English Jesuit mission in Pennsylvania; the other was to open at Boulogne a preparatory school for St. Omers College. The problem was how to obtain the necessary funds.

Almost a century ago Calthrop recognized that there were important recusants in some Lincolnshire county families. Interest has been revived recently by Martin and Finnis in an article on the Tyrwhitts of Kettleby, and more specifically on Goddard Tyrwhitt, who became a martyr in 1580 (see fig. 1 for location maps). Whilst the Tyrwhitts were at the top of the gentry hierarchy, the Forsetts of Bilsby near Alford, were practically at the bottom, so presenting some social contrasts with the former family. The Forsetts were newcomers to the county sometime in the mid- to late-fifteenth century and were minor manorial lords at Bilsby in the east Lincolnshire Marsh from the time their documentation begins with John Forsett in 1482 down to about 1600.

When J. M. Turner came to make his sketches of Stonyhurst Hall and the neighbouring church at Great Mitton, for the first time in 1799, he was immediately struck by the melancholia and faded splendour of that part of ‘darkest’ rural Lancashire. Perched high upon the brow of Longridge, the mansion commanded sweeping views of the valley beneath, of Pendle Hill and of the distant market town of Clitheroe; while the thirteenth century church of All Hallows—almost lost in the folds of the countryside—sat squatly on the borders of Lancashire and Yorkshire, at the confluence of the Rivers Calder, Ribble and Hodder, and served as a stubborn reminder of an earlier and less secular age. Relatively untouched by the forces of industrialisation, these buildings proved a delight to the Gothic imagination of the young artist.

Another Catholic who for a number of years was in business as a timber merchant, was Robert Watmough, who was born in 1762 or 1763, the son of Thomas Watmough, husbandman of Litherland, a village five miles north of Liverpool. Though much of Watmough’s career as a timber merchant falls into the early nineteenth century, he is mentioned here as he provides a link with another business connected with the operation of the port, namely shipbuilding. He was a partner for a number of years of John Dwerryhouse, who was possibly the leading local Catholic shipbuilder of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

This is the third and (barring further significant discoveries) the final part of my index, the first and second parts of which were published in Recusant History in October 1982 (nos. 1–177) and May 1998 (nos. 178–300). In Part II, for reasons of space and cost, I omitted, unless there was more to report on them, houses mentioned in my Secret Hiding-Places (1989) but not included in Part I. For reference and analysis, however, it is inconvenient to have a numbered list and a book, each including houses not in the other; and in any case there is now more to report on many of these houses. The one hundred houses in Part III (nos. 301–400) therefore include all sixty-nine of those that were mentioned, however briefly, in Hodgetts 1989 and were not included in Parts I or II. Among them is Scotney Old Castle in Kent (no. 320), which is one of only ten houses in the country where there is a surviving hide mentioned in an Elizabethan or Stuart account of a search. Forty-eight of the hundred were in Granville Squiers’ Secret Hiding-Places (1933).

Mary Ward was born in 1585 near Ripon, eldest child of a recusant family. She spent her whole life until the age of 21 in the intimate circle of Yorkshire Catholics, with her parents, her Wright grandparents at Ploughland in Holderness, Mrs. Arthington, née Ingleby, at Harewell Hall in Nidderdale, and finally with the Babthorpes of Babthorpe and Osgodby. Convinced of her religious vocation, but of course unable to pursue it openly in England, she spent some time as a Poor Clare in Saint-Omer in the Spanish Netherlands, first in a Flemish community, then in the English house that she helped to found. She was happy there, but was shown by God that he was calling her to ‘some other thing’. Exactly what it was to be was not yet clear, so she returned to England, spent some time in London working for the Catholic cause, and discovering that there was much for women to do—then returned to Saint-Omer with a small group of friends, other young women in their 20s, to start a school, chiefly for English Catholic girls, and through prayer and penance to find out more clearly what God was asking. Not surprisingly, given her early religious formation in English Catholic households, served by Jesuit missionaries, and her desire to work for her own country, the guidance that came was ‘Take the same of the Society’. She spent the rest of her life trying to establish a congregation for women which would live by the Constitutions of St. Ignatius, be governed by a woman general superior, under the Pope, not under diocesan bishops or a male religious order, and would be unenclosed, free to be sent ‘among the Turks or any other infidels, even to those who live in the region called the Indies, or among any heretics whatsoever, or schismatics, or any of the faithful’. There were always members working in the underground Church in England, and in Mary Ward's own lifetime there were ten schools, in Flanders and Northern France, Italy, Germany and Austria-Hungary. But her long struggle for approbation met with failure—Rome after the Council of Trent, which had insisted on enclosure for all religious women, was not yet ready for Jesuitesses. In 1631 Urban VIII banned her Institute by a Bull of Suppression, imprisoning Mary Ward herself for a time in the Poor Clare convent on the Anger in Munich. She spent the rest of her life doing all she could to continue her work, but when she died in Heworth, outside York, in 1645 and was buried in Osbaldwick churchyard, only a handful of followers remained together, some with her in England, 23 in Rome, a few in Munich, all officially laywomen. It is owing to these women that Mary Ward's Institute has survived to this day.

Historians have paid little attention to the controversy provoked when Edward VII, in conformity with the Bill of Rights (1689) and Act of Settlement (1701) made the ‘Declaration against Transubstantiation’ which grossly insulted the Roman Catholic faith. Angry protests by Catholics in England were replicated even more strongly throughout the empire and issues of constitutional importance were raised which remain alive to the present day. The records of the lengthy parliamentary debates on this matter between 1901 and 1910 show that despite lingering suspicion of the Roman Catholic Church, and determination that no one professing that faith should ever occupy the throne, most members of both houses regarded Catholics as loyal citizens who should no longer be affronted at the beginning of the sovereign's reign by language born of a bygone age. Even so, to devise a formula which while removing what gave offence could satisfy the diverse interests involved when the religious and political spheres impinged on each other proved extremely difficult. The difficulty was increased because a large proportion of the general public regarded the declaration as a vital safeguard to the Protestant succession to the throne which made politicians hesitant to tamper with what had become ‘woven into the very texture of religious belief and adhesion’ in the country. It is worthwhile, therefore, to examine the various attempts to deal with this ‘thorny and difficult question’, which finally led to a revised declaration being forced in great haste through the House of Commons amid loud protests at what was considered unprecedented procedure.

The imaginative life of Robert Southwell in Rome as a student and in England as a mission priest was energized by the figure of Mary Magdalen. From the translation of a Franciscan sermon to an extended meditative prose work, in poems and illustrative reference, he explored the complexity of her life, finding in it a depth of emotional experience in which he himself was immersed. Her torment of sorrow was seen reflected in the life of Catholics in England, in their suffering and in the strain of endless endurance. It is an irony that through his writing on Mary Magdalen’s witness to the Resurrection in the garden, Southwell’s message of comfort and hope introduced England to the ‘literature of tears’.

This article illustrates and describes in detail a fine central European chasuble of the late c17 which, together with two dalmatics, ‘The Fetternear Vestments,’ were bequeathed to the Diocese of Aberdeen, in 1921 by the Leslie family, many of whom had been distinguished soldiers on the continent and especially in the Empire. After some contextual discussion of the alleged origins of the Leslie family and of their success in Imperial service, the article examines the traditional belief that the vestments, now at the Blairs Museum, Aberdeen, were made for Count James Leslie (c.1621-1694) partly out of Turkish textiles captured in 1683 at the Siege of Vienna. Detailed analysis of the embroidery on the chasuble, especially of the use of metal thread and ‘plate,’ demonstrates that the gold work is indeed of Turkish origin, the rest of the needle work central European, and thus makes the case that this extraordinary hybrid object is indeed a votive vestment made for the Catholic Leslies partly from captured Turkish work.

In early 1687, an unnamed Jesuit enthusiastically wrote to a colleague at the Jesuit college in Fribourg about the influence of the Society of Jesus at the court of King James II, and of the wonderful progress of Catholicism in the kingdom. The letter merits re-publication:

This article revisits a locus classicus of British Catholic History, the interpretation of the coin-hoard found in 1611 by the Lancashire squire William Blundell of Little Crosby.1 This article offers new information, approaching the Harkirk silver from several perspectives: Mark Blundell offers a memoir of his ancestor William Blundell, as well as lending his voice to the account of the subsequent fate of the Harkirk silver; Professor Jane Stevenson and Professor Peter Davidson reconsider the sources for William Blundell’s historiography as well as considering wider questions of memory and the recusant community; Dr Dora Thornton analyses the silver pyx made from the Harkirk coins in detail, and surveys analogous silverwork in depth.

In 1815 the Vicar Apostolic of the London District, William Poynter, became embroiled in a case of alleged demonic possession. In the face of considerable pressure from the family of Peter Moore, the alleged demoniac, Poynter prevented a proposed exorcism on the grounds that it would bring adverse publicity to the still fragile Catholic Church in England. Drawing on the surviving correspondence between Poynter and his officials and Peter Moore’s family, this article examines the stance adopted by Poynter on the issue of exorcism within the wider context of ‘Catholic Enlightenment’ thought on demonic possession, and argues that the political circumstances of Catholics in England ensured that Poynter’s cautious approach to exorcism ultimately won out against the desire of other Catholics—including another Vicar Apostolic, John Milner—to publicise the rite as a means of promoting the Catholic faith.

At the Reformation, three possibilities faced English Catholics. They could continue to be Catholics and so suffer the penalties of the penal laws; they could conform to the Church of England; or they could adopt a middle course and become Church Papists. The Nevills of Nevill Holt, near Market Harborough in Leicestershire, went through all three phases. In the reign of Edward VI, Thomas Nevill I became a Protestant. His grandson, Thomas Nevill II, became a Church Papist under James I; and Thomas II’s son, Henry Nevill I, continued to be one at the time of the Civil War. But Henry l’s son William was definitely a Catholic and went into exile with King James II, while William’s son, Henry Nevill II, was an open Catholic under Charles II. Henry Nevill II’s descendants continued to be Catholics throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries until they left Nevill Holt in the late nineteenth century.

WHEN Philip II of Spain sent his Armada to invade England in an attempt to cut off support for the Dutch rebels, he did so in the name of God and the Catholic faith. Elizabeth, in turn recognised the propaganda value of an identification of monarch, country and Protestant church at times of national crisis. It was widely believed that, as the Spaniards wanted to overthrow the Protestant church, the English Catholics must have been pro-Spain. Elizabeth had always regarded the Catholics as a danger to her government; it was now easy for her to portray them as traitors to their country. The attempts by Catholics to claim to be patriotic were, understandably, treated with scepticism. But this had not always been the case. The purpose of this article is to outline the struggle to monopolise patriotic propaganda which took place between the government and the English Catholics throughout Elizabeth’s reign.

Queen Mary Tudor died on the night of 17 November 1558. A few hours later, across the river at Lambeth, her cousin, Reginald Pole, Cardinal Archbishop of Canterbury, followed her, victim of the ague which he had contracted in the summer. England again had a change of monarch, the third in less than twelve years. What was not clear at the time was whether there would be another change in religion. With hindsight, it is clear that the programme of reform which sought to reunite the English Church with the see of Rome and to revivify it with the Tridentine reforms with which Pole had been so closely involved, had died also on that November night. Parliament was in session when Mary died, and immediately Elizabeth was proclaimed queen by Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York, in his capacity as Lord Chancellor; there was no dissent such as had accompanied the accession of the new Queen's half-sister. It soon became clear, however, that the daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn was unlikely to retain the settlement of religion in the precise form in which it had been left by the daughter of Katharine of Aragon. On Christmas Day, the Queen ordered that the elevation of the Blessed Sacrament was not to take place during the Mass to be celebrated in her chapel by the Bishop of Carlisle, Owen Oglethorpe. His refusal to obey this command led the Queen to leave the chapel after the gospel had been read. Two days later, a royal proclamation restored the first liturgical changes of Henry VIII, ordering that the epistle and gospel of the Mass were thenceforward to be read in English, along with the litany which usually preceded the service. The coronation of Elizabeth should have been conducted by the senior surviving churchman, Heath of York; he had resigned the Chancellorship before the end of 1558, and declined to conduct the service. It was Oglethorpe, as bishop of a suffragan see of the Northern Province, who crowned the new Queen, with no other diocesan bishops present. The coronation Mass was sung by one of the Reformers, Dr. George Carewe, who omitted the elevation, and another Reformer preached the sermon.

This article examines the involvement of young people in recusancy in Elizabethan England. It explores how two issues – the meaning of recusancy and the appeal of religion (specifically Catholicism) to youth – can illuminate each other. After looking at some of the evidence for the role of recusancy in juvenile experiences of Catholicism, the article focuses on three contrasting cases which illustrate young people's engagement with recusancy and Catholicism, and how it was interpreted by adult authorities, Catholic and Protestant: a case of recusant proselytising by the young men of a gentry household, as reported to the Privy Council; the alleged visions of fourteen-year-old Elizabeth Orton in Flintshire in 1581; and the autobiographical testimony of Robert Colton, a recusant youth imprisoned in London's Bridewell in 1595–6. It is argued that including recusancy will help us to better understand the complexity of youthful engagement with religion in early modern England, and also to appreciate the implications of recusancy.

Although Catholics were marginalized and strongly associated with Jacobitism under the early Hanoverians, the reign of George III saw a gradual assimilation of Catholics into mainstream political culture. The Vicars Apostolic of Great Britain played a key role in this process by emphasizing passivity and loyalty. The bishop who most strongly personified this Jacobite to loyalist transition was George Hay (1729-1811). A convert to Catholicism from the Scottish Episcopalian faith, Hay served the Jacobite Army as a medic in 1745 and was imprisoned following that conflict. After his conversion and subsequent ordination, Hay became coadjutor of the Lowland District of Scotland in 1769 and was promoted to the Apostolic Vicarate in 1778. Hay actively engaged with many high-profile statesmen and political thinkers, including Edmund Burke. Most notably, he constructively utilized Jacobite political theology to criticise revolutionary ideology. His public involvement in politics was most remarkable during the American and French Revolutions, when he confidently deployed the full force of counterrevolutionary doctrines that formerly alienated Catholics from the Hanoverian state. However, since the Age of Revolution presented a stark duality between monarchy and republicanism, Hay’s expressions of passive obedience and non-resistance endeared him and the Catholic Church to the British establishment.

Despite receiving particular praise from a range of early modern commentators, from Nicholas Sander to Pedro de Ribadeneyra, most historians have seen the Italian merchant Antonio Buonvisi playing a fairly negligible role in the history of mid-Tudor Catholicism. This article challenges this interpretation. After reassessing some rather simplistic assessments of Buonvisi’s religious beliefs, this article explores his actions and activities following his self-imposed exile from England in 1549. Using research conducted in both the State Archives of Lucca and the Vatican City, it suggests that Buonvisi played a far more significant role in ensuring the survival of English Catholicism over the first decades of the Reformation than is usually acknowledged. Indeed, it argues that Buonvisi may have helped lay core foundations for the Catholic restoration of Mary I’s reign, the success of which has recently been highlighted by historians such as Eamon Duffy.