Pilgrim Ways

He did by good example teach...

His sanctity to that degree, As angels live, so liveth he.

In 1678 he was arrested at a house in Littlebeck, near Whitby, while he was baptising a baby.

At the Lenten Assizes in York in March 1679 Father Postgate denied any involvement in the fictitious plot of Titus Oates (the aftermath of which had led to anti-Catholic agitation and a new wave of persecution). He was found guilty of his priesthood and was sentenced to death.

In his dying speech he said: "I die in the Catholic religion, out of which there is no salvation...I die not for the plot, but for my religion...I forgive all who have wronged me, and brought me to this death, and I desire forgiveness of all people." Fr.Postgate's body was quartered by his executioners. His hands are each preserved as relics at Ampleforth Abbey, near York, and at St.Cuthbert's, Old Elvet, Durham. At St.Mary's Convent, York, they preserve a piece of the rope from which he was hanged. His memory is treasured by the people of Yorkshire and is still fresh among his own people in the moorland parishes of Egton Bridge and Ugthorpe.

Dom Bede Camm's work in undertaking his pilgrimage of love has ensured that this generation has a meticulous record, scrupulously documented and authenticated, and which is an excellent basis on which to begin a pilgrimage to the recusant sites. In choosing the name Bede as the name of his religious profession, Father Camm's Edwardian testament makes him a worthy successor of a much earlier Benedictine monk to whom we are also indebted for shedding light on pages of history which would otherwise have remained for ever closed.

A Meditation A hymn attributed to Father Nicholas Postgate, Yorkshire martyr.

O gracious God, O Saviour sweet, O Jesus, think of me; And suffer me to kiss Thy feet Though late I come to Thee.

Behold, dear Lord, I come to Thee With sorrow and with shame For when Thy bitter Wounds I see, I know I caused the same.

O sweetest Lord, lend me the wings Of faith and perfect love, That I may fly from earthly things And mount to those above.

For there is joy both true and fast, And no cause to lament, But here is toil both first and last, And cause oft to repent.

But now my soul doth hate the things In which she took delight,