of the Pope in England, and James may have believed that what one
despotic king could do, another could undo. Of three things we hardly
know which most to wonder at:—the daring of the attempt—or, how nearly
he succeeded in his designs—or, that amidst so much apathy, servility,
and corruption, he did not, for a time at least, accomplish his ends.
But the Reformation was, on the face of it, a natural outcome of a new
dawn, after the long night of the dark ages in Europe. It was, with the
revival of letters, the new geographical and scientific discoveries, and
the general spirit of adventure and research, a stepping-stone towards
progress and enlarged political and intellectual freedom; whilst the
proposed retrocession to Rome meant going backwards, and a wilful
surrender to the old bondage and authority.
James publicly attended the rites of his church; he surrounded himself
by Catholic priests, a leading Jesuit, Father Petre, being his political
confidant; he entertained at his court—for the first time in England
since the days of Queen Mary—a papal nuncio. He placed the Church under
the control of a High Commission of seven members, Jeffreys, now Lord
Chancellor, at the head. In chartered towns, Catholics were to be
eligible to serve as mayors and aldermen. He began the formation of a
large standing army, and, in defiance of the Test Act, and in assertion
of his dispensing power, he largely officered this army by Catholics.
The university of Oxford had, in the previous reign, declared that in no
case was resistance to the royal authority justifiable, and it had now
to reap the bitter fruits of its servile declaration. The King appointed
a Roman Catholic to the deanery of Christ Church; another to the
presidency of Magdalen College, and twelve Catholic fellows were
appointed in one day. Oxford now began to see that passive obedience
might well stop short of a surrender of religious principles; it
resisted the royal mandates; and it would not submit, although twenty-
five of its fellows were expelled.
And a contagion of conversion broke out in the higher social ranks.
Noble lords and ladies of fashion went to mass and confession;
processions of Catholic priests were daily met in the streets of London;
Catholic chapels and monasteries were becoming numerous, their service
bells ringing perpetually.
In Scotland, the Chancellorship was bestowed on one of the King’s time-
serving converts, Drummond, Earl of Perth. He co-operated with the Earl
of Sunderland in England, in driving on James to the most extravagant
reactionary measures. By a new court order all persons holding civil
offices in Scotland were ordered to resign, and to resume their offices
without taking the test oath, ordered in 1681, they taking, for thus
breaking the law, a remission of penalties from the Crown; all not
obtaining such remission to be subjected to the said penalties. That
is,—all officials were ordered to break the law, and were to be subject
to penalties for such infringement,—unless by getting the King’s pardon
they acknowledged his power to abrogate the law! And this test oath had
been the contrivance of James himself when in Scotland,—forced upon
Presbyterians at the sword’s point, and held so sacred that Argyle had
been condemned to death for taking it with a slight qualification.
The short reign of James was one of the saddest periods in Scottish
history. He had refused to take the usual coronation oath, which
included the maintenance of the established church. In spite of this
refusal—which impaired the validity of his right to rule—a weakly
compliant parliament expressed the loyalty of absolute submission. The
law against conventicles was extended to the presence of five persons,
besides the family attending domestic worship. If the meeting was held
outside the house—even on the door-step—it was to be considered a field-
conventicle punishable by death. But on the question of repealing the
penal acts against Catholics, Parliament proved refractory, and it was
forthwith dissolved.
The King issued a proclamation depriving the burghs of the right of
electing their own magistrates. When, to favour Roman Catholicism, he
issued his Declaration of Indulgence, by which there was to be general
liberty of worship; yet—strange anomaly—the laws against field-preaching
continued in full force. Under these laws, James Renwick, a delicate,
but enthusiastic field-preacher, was executed in Edinburgh in February,
1688. He was the last in the fearfully long roll of covenanting martyrs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE COVENANTERS’ MONUMENT IN THE GREYFRIARS’ CHURCHYARD,
EDINBURGH]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Declaration of Indulgence, permitting all professions of religion to
worship in their own ways, was published by James—solely on his own
authority—in April, 1687. At the first blush we may be inclined to call
this general indulgence a step in the right direction,—even although we
know that under the cloak of toleration to all forms of faith, the
King’s main object was to legalise Catholic worship and ritual. We now
say, from the more liberal stand-point of the nineteenth century, that
the penal laws against the exercise of Catholic rites were tyrannical
and unjust. But we have to consider the times in which these laws were
introduced, when after a long and bitter struggle the papal yoke had
been thrown off,—when the severities of Rome against those she termed
heretics were fresh in the memory,—and that she never abates one jot of
her assumption to be the one authoritative church—claiming the entire
submission of Christendom. And Dissenters knew that the King was here
bidding for their support against the established church. They saw that
Tyrconnel, the King’s Viceroy in Ireland—a country where James did not
require to keep up appearances—was fast arming the Catholics,
preparatory to a total subversion of Protestantism; and thus the
Presbyterian and other dissenters saw in the Episcopal Church the
rallying point of religious freedom; they overlooked its past
subserviency to power and its harshness to themselves, in consideration
of its present danger, and the stand it was now preparing to make in the
common cause.
In April, 1688, the king ordered his Declaration to be read in all the
churches. The London clergy met and signed a refusal to comply with the
order, and the primate, Sancroft, and six other bishops, presented a
petition to the king against being compelled to read a document which
assumed the legality of the dispensing power. Only in seven of the
London churches, and a few in the country, was the Declaration read. The
king was furious, and summoned the bishops before the privy council; on
their acknowledging their signatures to the petition, they were
committed to the Tower. Their passage down the Thames was a public
ovation; from crowded quays, bridges, and barges arose enthusiastic
shouts of encouragement; the very officers of the Tower went on their
knees for the episcopal blessing. In their imprisonment, the bishops
were visited daily by nobles and leading men; and—which irritated James
most of all—a deputation of dissenting ministers went and thanked them
in the name of their common Protestantism.
And just at this time an event occurred which had a remarkable bearing
on the history of the period. On June 10th, 1688, James’s queen gave
birth to a son. The news had been circulated that a child was expected;
the faithful ventured to prophesy a prince; a blessing vouchsafed by the
intervention of the Virgin Mary, in response to prayers and pilgrimages.
But Protestant England had both feared and doubted. The Court and its
household were, almost exclusively, composed of Catholics, and when the
birth of a prince was announced, it was generally believed that a
strange child had been smuggled into the palace, and was then being
passed off as the king’s son. There now seems little doubt but that the
infant was really the offspring of the king and queen. Thus, to his
father’s joy, and to Catholic anticipations of the throne being after
him still occupied by a king of the old faith—but with general doubts
and misgivings—with repudiation instead of welcome, came into the world
the ill-fated prince, known in our history as James the Pretender.
On June 20th, the trial of the bishops took place before the Court of
King’s Bench. They were charged with having “published a false,
malicious, and seditious libel.” Of the four judges, two were for the
petition being a libel, and two were against. The jury had to decide the
question, and were locked up during the night. At ten o’clock next
morning, when the Court again met, there was a silence of deep suspense
before the verdict was pronounced. When the words “not guilty” fell from
the foreman’s lips, a great cheer arose, which penetrated into the
crowded street, and was speedily wafted over London, extending even to
the troops on parade at Blackheath. It was a day of general
congratulation and rejoicing; and bonfires and illuminations went far
into the summer night.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Revolution of 1688.
Before the birth of the prince, the general idea had been that the
country should tide over James’s misgovernment as best it could, and
wait patiently for the succession to the throne in natural course of
Mary, Princess of Orange, the elder daughter of the king by his first
marriage. But the situation was now altogether changed; and on the very
day of the acquittal of the bishops, there was sent—signed by the bishop
of London, several noblemen, and others—an invitation to William to come
over with an army to the relief of the country: and the prince at once
commenced his preparations.
And meantime, James, his purposes and hopes of success strengthened by
the birth of a son, was indignant at his defeat in the trial of the
bishops, and, goaded on by the French minister and his inner circle of
advisers, he resolved to crush the spirit of the nation by force of
arms. He brought over several regiments of Tyrconnel’s Irish troops, and
their menacing presence, as strangers and Catholics, was hateful to the
English people. A derisive doggrel ballad, called from its burden
_Lilliburelo_, was sung and whistled all over the land.
And now the king was told that his Dutch son-in-law was making great
preparations for invasion. He knew that he had lost the best safeguard
of his throne—the confidence and affection of his subjects—and whilst
adopting means for defence, he hastened to retract all the measures
which had made him unpopular. He threw himself in feigned repentance on
the advice of the bishops, and they, in plain words, like the prophets
of old, told him of his injustice and oppression, and advised him at
once to call a Parliament. He dismissed his priestly adviser Father
Petre, and the renegade Lord Sunderland. He restored its fellows to
Oxford, and their franchises to the corporations. But the precipitation
of fear was so evident in his concessions, that there was no reaction of
confidence. The people were watching the weathercocks, and praying for a
north-east, or, as it was called “a Protestant” wind.
After waiting some weeks for a favourable wind, and with an after-delay
from storms, by the end of October, William was fairly at sea. He first
sailed up the North Sea, as if he intended a landing on the Yorkshire
coast; but changed his course for the Channel. The wind and tide
prevented the royal fleet from attacking him in the Straits of Dover.
From the opposite coasts his fleet presented a magnificent sight. There
were sixty men-of-war and seven hundred transports, extending twenty
miles in length.
It was just a hundred years since such another magnificent spectacle had
been seen in the Channel—the Spanish Armada—also bent upon the invasion
of England. _Then_, the great fleet meant papal aggression, and priestly
domination; _now_, it meant deliverance from this aggression, and
freedom of the conscience; _then_, beacon fires on mount and headland
flashed danger to the lives and liberties of Englishmen; _now_ the
tidings that a foreign fleet was skirting the coast were of glad and
hopeful assurance.
On the 5th of November—the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot—the fleet
anchored at Torbay, in Devonshire. With his army of fifteen thousand
men, William marched to Exeter, where he was enthusiastically received.
But the memory of Jeffreys’ “bloody assize” was still fresh in the
western shires, and for several days there were few signs of
encouragement; it is said that he even meditated returning to Holland.
But bye-and-bye one nobleman after another, and several officers of
James’s army, entered the camp. The north of England began to stir in
raising and disciplining revolutionary troops, and the Earl of Bath put
Plymouth into William’s hands.
The King hastened down to Salisbury, resolved to stake his kingdom on
the issue of a battle; but William, although a thorough captain in war,
wished to avoid bloodshed; he trusted to the increasing stream of
desertion from the king rendering a great battle unnecessary. And so it
turned out. The sagacious lieutenant-general of the king’s army, Lord
Churchill, the Dukes of Grafton and Ormond, even the king’s younger
daughter Anne, with her husband, Prince George of Denmark, and many
other persons of note, joined the Prince of Orange.
James went back to London, and sent away the queen and her five-months’
old child to France. When he knew of their safety he left London at
night, by the river. He threw the great seal into the Thames, and
proceeded to Sheerness, where a small vessel was waiting for him.
Boarding the vessel he attracted the attention of some Kentish
fishermen, who, in hopes of reward, made him prisoner. Released, by an
order of the Lords, he returned to London, and passed thence to
Rochester. William wanted him out of the country; so facilities were
made for his escape, and he was soon at St. Germains, where Louis gave
him a friendly reception; and at St. Germains he made his home. Assisted
by Louis, he made, next year, an attempt for the recovery of Ireland. In
that essentially Catholic country, it seemed at first that he would
there be able to retain one of the three kingdoms, but his defeat by
William, at the Boyne, compelled his return to France. He died September
16th, 1701, aged 68 years.
The King, having fled, and no parliament sitting, William was advised to
claim the kingdom by right of conquest. But both from principle and
sound policy he held that this would be a less secure right of
possession than would be the choice—as formal as under the circumstances
it could be made—of the English people. So he summoned a Convention of
the States of the Realm,—irregularly convoked in the emergency, but
elected in the usual manner. The Convention met on 22nd February—six
weeks after the King’s flight.
The debates were long and stormy; the two Houses disagreed,—the Lords
could hardly bring themselves to declare for the deposition of the King;
but the Commons were firm, and at length this resolution was passed in
both houses: “That James, having violated the fundamental laws, and
withdrawn himself from the kingdom, has broken the original contract
between king and people, has abdicated the government, and therefore the
throne has become vacant.”
And then came the questions,—Who was to reign? and what was to be the
order of succession? Here there was a division of opinion. Was James’s
infant son to be acknowledged as King—with William as Regent? or, Should
the crown be conferred on Mary in her own right? William was not a man
of many words, but he now got together a few of the leading men, and to
them he spoke very plainly: he would not interfere with the right of the
Convention to settle its own affairs as it thought best; but for himself
he would not accept any regency, nor—much as he loved his wife—would he
remain in England as her gentleman-usher. In a few hours his words were
all over London, and it was known that he would be King.
So the Convention passed a number of resolutions, embodied in what was
termed a Declaration of Rights,—defining the royal prerogative, and the
powers of parliament; and the Prince and Princess, having signified
their adhesion thereto, it was resolved that William and Mary be jointly
King and Queen of England, Ireland, and the dominions belonging thereto;
the administration to rest in William. The crown was settled,—first on
the survivor of the royal pair,—then on the children of Mary, then on
those of her sister Anne, and next on the children of William by any
other wife. The son of James and his posterity were thus shut out
entirely from the succession.
The Scottish Convention of Estates passed resolutions nearly similar to
those in the English Declaration of Rights, closing with a declaration
against Prelacy, asserting that there was no higher office in the Church
than presbyter.
On the leading question then before the country, their resolution had a
more decided tone than that of the English Convention. They declared
that James had assumed the throne without taking the oaths prescribed by
law, that he had proceeded to subvert the constitution of the country
from a limited monarchy to an absolute despotism; that he had employed
the powers thus usurped for violating the laws and liberties, and
altering the religion of Scotland; for doing these things he had
_forfeited_ his right to the crown, and the throne had thereby become
vacant. The Scottish royalty was conferred on William and Mary, in like
terms as that of the English Convention.
BATTLE OF KILLIECRANKIE.
In the crisis of his affairs, James had summoned his Scottish troops to
England. Their commander, Lord Douglas, went over to William; but the
second in command, John Graham of Claverhouse—now Viscount Dundee—had an
interview with the King—assured him of the loyalty of his troops, about
6,500 well disciplined men, advised the King either to hazard a battle,
or to fall back with these troops into Scotland. On the King declining
both propositions, Lord Dundee took up a position at Watford, about
eighteen miles north-west of London, expecting an attack by William. But
Dundee had served his early campaigns under the Prince, having in one
engagement rescued him from imminent danger. So the Prince now sent him
a message that he had no quarrel with him. Then came James’s flight, and
the Prince’s entry into London; and Dundee seeing he could do nothing
more to help James in England, rode back with about twenty-five of his
dragoons into Scotland. The Scottish army was placed under General
Mackay, one of William’s adherents, and he was shortly after sent as
commander of the royal forces into Scotland.
Lord Dundee came to Edinburgh, for some time hovering like a hawk over
the then sitting Convention. The Duke of Gordon still held the Castle
for King James; Dundee had an interview with the Duke and advised “no
surrender,” he then, with a few horsemen, left the city. (We all know
the ringing song in which Sir Walter Scott narrates his departure.) Like
a fiery-cross he went through the highlands, rousing the clansman to
battle for the fallen Stuart King. The man must have had a dominating
personality; in a short time he had assembled an army, feeble in
discipline and cohesion no doubt; but, as it proved, good for the kind
of work it befell them to do.
The highlanders were posted on an open slope at the head of the pass of
Killiecrankie in the north Perthshire hills. To give them battle,
Mackay, on 17th June, 1689, advanced up the pass. When the royal troops
entered the defile, no enemy was to be seen,—only the pines towering
high upon the cliffs on either hand, and the river Garry rushing swiftly
by the narrow pathway through the pass. To the Lowland and Dutch
soldiers, who composed the royal army, it was a scene novel and
magnificent, but bewildering, awe-inspiring.
Dundee allowed the whole of Mackay’s army to emerge from the pass, and
even to form in order of battle, before he began the attack. It was an
hour before sunset that the highlanders advanced. They fired their
muskets only once, and throwing them away, with fierce shouts they
rushed down with broadsword and target. Mackay’s line was broken by the
onset. When it came to disordered ranks, and the clash of hand to hand
combats, the superior discipline of the royal troops was of no account.
Agility, hardihood, and the confidence of assured victory were on the
side of the clansmen. It was soon a rout; but with such a narrow gorge
for retreat it became a massacre. Two thousand of Mackay’s troops were
slain. The highlanders’ loss was eight hundred; but amongst these was
their gallant leader. Near the end of the battle, Dundee, on horseback,
was extending his right arm to the clan Macdonald, as directing their
movements, when he was struck by a bullet under the arm-pit, where he
was unprotected by his cuirass. With him perished the cause of King
James in Scotland. After his death his army melted away, and both
highlands and lowlands submitted to the Government of William.
General lenity and toleration were the watchwords of William’s policy.
The episcopal church was to be maintained in England, and the
presbyterian in Scotland; but neither were to ride rough-shod over
dissenters. In Scotland, much against the desires of the more rigid, as
the Cameronians, there were to be no reprisals for former persecution
and oppression. Even obnoxious officials were maintained in their old
places. When the Jacobite rising in Ireland was quelled by the surrender
of Limerick, a treaty was there made by which Catholics were to be
allowed the free exercise of their religion. William endeavoured to get
parliament to ratify this treaty, but two months after it had been
entered into, the English Parliament imposed a declaration against
Transubstantiation on members of the Irish parliament, and this
parliament, entirely composed of Protestants, whilst giving nominal
confirmation, really put the Catholics in a worse condition than they
were before. The Irish Catholics have since then called Limerick, “the
town of the broken treaty.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Massacre of Glencoe.
To counteract the spirit of disloyalty which was still lurking amongst
the Highland clans, the Earl of Breadalbane, cousin to the Duke of
Argyle, was entrusted with £16,000, to be distributed among the various
chieftains, conditionally on their making submission to William and
Mary. The Earl did not make an impartial distribution of the money; the
leading chiefs were bought off, the lesser were intimidated by threats.
A branch of the clan MacDonald were settled in a wild valley, Glencoe,
in north Argyleshire; a small river, the Coe (the Cona of Ossian—a name
which sounds musically sweet—calling up thoughts of serenity and peace,)
runs through the valley towards Lochleven—the arm of the sea which
separates Argyleshire from Inverness-shire. The valley spreads flatwise
to the bases of the surrounding hills, which seem to stand as fortressed
walls to guard it from all danger. But in this secluded spot—shut off as
it seemed from the outer world—was enacted the basest of all the acts of
treachery and barbarity which disgrace this seventeenth century.
MacIan, the chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe, was an old man, stately,
venerable, sagacious. He now charged Breadalbane with having defrauded
him of his share of the government money; the earl retorted that MacIan
and his tribe had been persistent marauders over his Campbell clansmen’s
lands round Glencoe, which was probably true enough, as there had been a
feud of long standing between the clans. A proclamation had been issued
that—under severe penalties for non-compliance—submission had to be made
before the 1st of January, 1692; MacIan, out of a spirit of
contrariness, put off taking the oath, and the Secretary of State for
Scotland, the Master of Stair, a friend of Breadalbane’s, reported
officially to the government that the MacDonalds were not making
submission, and that they were an incorrigibly lawless tribe of thieves
and murderers.