Your lordships have an _idea_ of the man, what he is in himself, what
in his affections! You have seen his power, and some, I fear, have
felt it. You have known his practice, and have heard the effects.
Being such, what is he in reference to king and state; how compatible
or incompatible with either? In reference to the king, he must be
styled the canker in his treasure; in reference to the state the moth
of all goodness. I can hardly find him a parallel; but none were so
like him as Sejanus, who is described by Tacitus, _Audax; sui
obtegens, in alios criminator; juxta adulatio et superbia_. Sejanus's
pride was so excessive, as Tacitus saith, that he neglected all
councils, mixed his business and service with the prince, seeming to
confound their actions, and was often styled _Imperatoris laborum
socius_. Doth not this man the like? Ask England, Scotland, and
Ireland--and they will tell you! How lately and how often hath this
man commixed his actions in discourses with actions of the king's! My
lords! I have done--you see the man!
The parallel of the duke with Sejanus electrified the house; and, as we
shall see, touched Charles on a convulsive nerve.
The king's conduct on this speech was the beginning of his troubles, and
the first of his more open attempts to crush the popular party. In the
House of Lords the king defended the duke, and informed them, "I have
thought fit to take order for the _punishing some insolent speeches_
lately spoken." I find a piece of secret history enclosed in a letter,
with a solemn injunction that it might be burnt. "The king this morning
complained of Sir John Eliot for comparing the duke to _Sejanus_, in
which he said implicitly he must intend _me_ for _Tiberius_!" On that
day the prologue and the epilogue orators--Sir Dudley Digges, who had
opened the impeachment against the duke, and Sir John Eliot, who had
closed it--were called out of the house by two messengers, who showed
their warrants for committing them to the Tower.[289]
On this memorable day a philosophical politician might have presciently
marked the seed-plots of events, which not many years afterwards were
apparent to all men. The passions of kings are often expatiated on; but,
in the present anti-monarchical period, the passions of parliaments are
not imaginable! The democratic party in our constitution, from the
meanest of motives, from their egotism, their vanity, and their
audacity, hate kings; they would have an abstract being, a chimerical
sovereign on the throne--like a statue, the mere ornament of the place
it fills,--and insensible, like a statue, to the invectives they would
heap on its pedestal!
The commons, with a fierce spirit of reaction for the king's "punishing
some insolent speeches," at once sent up to the lords for the commitment
of the duke![290] But when they learnt the fate of the patriots, they
instantaneously broke up! In the afternoon they assembled in
Westminster-hall, to interchange their private sentiments on the fate of
the two imprisoned members, in sadness and indignation.[291]
The following day the commons met in their own house. When the speaker
reminded them of the usual business, they all cried out, "Sit down! sit
down!" They would touch on no business till they were "righted in their
liberties!"[292] An open committee of the whole house was formed, and no
member suffered to quit the house; but either they were at a loss how to
commence this solemn conference, or expressed their indignation by a
sullen silence. To soothe and subdue "the bold speakers" was the
unfortunate attempt of the vice-chamberlain, Sir Dudley Carleton, who
had long been one of our foreign ambassadors; and who, having witnessed
the despotic governments on the continent, imagined that there was no
deficiency of liberty at home. "I find," said the vice-chamberlain, "by
the great silence in this house, that it is a fit time to be heard, if
you will grant me the patience." Alluding to one of the king's messages,
where it was hinted that, if there was "no correspondency between him
and the parliament, he should be forced to _use new counsels_," "I pray
you consider what these new counsels are, and may be: I fear to declare
those I conceive!" However, Sir Dudley plainly hinted at them, when he
went on observing, that "when monarchs began to know their own strength,
and saw the turbulent spirit of their _parliaments_, they had overthrown
them in all Europe, except here only with us." Our old ambassador drew
an amusing picture of the effects of despotic governments, in that of
France--"If you knew the subjects in foreign countries as well as
myself, to see them look, not like our nation, with store of flesh on
their backs, but like so many ghosts and not men, being nothing but skin
and bones, with some thin cover to their nakedness, and wearing only
wooden shoes on their feet, so that they cannot eat meat, or wear good
clothes, but they must pay the king for it; this is a misery beyond
expression, and that which we are yet free from!" A long residence
abroad had deprived Sir Dudley Carleton of any sympathy with the high
tone of freedom, and the proud jealousy of their privileges, which,
though yet unascertained, undefined, and still often contested, was
breaking forth among the commons of England. It was fated that the
celestial spirit of our national freedom should not descend among us in
the form of the mystical dove!
Hume observes on this speech, that "these imprudent suggestions rather
gave warning than struck terror." It was evident that the event, which
implied "new counsels," meant what subsequently was practised--the king
governing without a parliament! As for "the ghosts who wore wooden
shoes," to which the house was congratulated that they had not _yet_
been reduced, they would infer that it was the more necessary to provide
against the possibility of such strange apparitions! Hume truly
observes, "The king reaped no further benefit from this attempt than to
exasperate the house still further." Some words, which the duke
persisted in asserting had dropped from Digges, were explained away,
Digges declaring that they had not been used by him; and it seems
probable that he was suffered to eat his words. Eliot was made of
"sterner stuff;" he abated not a jot of whatever he had spoken of "that
man," as he affected to call Buckingham.
The commons, whatever might be their patriotism, seem at first to have
been chiefly moved by a personal hatred of the favourite;[293] and their
real charges against him amounted to little more than pretences and
aggravations. The king, whose personal affections were always strong,
considered his friend innocent; and there was a warm, romantic feature
in the character of the youthful monarch, which scorned to sacrifice his
faithful companion to his own interests, and to immolate the minister to
the clamours of the commons. Subsequently, when the king did this in the
memorable case of the guiltless Strafford, it was the only circumstance
which weighed on his mind at the hour of his own sacrifice! Sir Robert
Cotton told a friend, on the day on which the king went down to the
house of lords, and committed the two patriots, that "he had of late
been often sent for to the king and duke, and that the king's affection
towards him was very admirable, and no whit lessened. Certainly," he
added, "the king will never yield to the duke's fall, being a young man,
resolute, magnanimous, and tenderly and firmly affectionate where he
takes."[294] This authentic character of Charles the First, by that
intelligent and learned man, to whom the nation owes the treasures of
its antiquities, is remarkable. Sir Robert Cotton, though holding no
rank at court, and in no respect of the duke's party, was often
consulted by the king, and much in his secrets. How the king valued the
judgment of this acute and able adviser, acting on it in direct
contradiction and to the mortification of the favourite, I shall
probably have occasion to show.
The commons did not decline in the subtle spirit with which they had
begun; they covertly aimed at once to subjugate the sovereign, and to
expel the minister! A remonstrance was prepared against the levying of
tonnage and poundage, which constituted half of the crown revenues; and
a petition, "equivalent to a command," for removing Buckingham from his
majesty's person and councils.[295] The remonstrance is wrought up with
a high spirit of invective against "the unbridled ambition of the duke,"
whom they class "among those vipers and pests to their king and
commonwealth, as so expressly styled by your most royal father." They
request that "he would be pleased to remove this person from access to
his sacred presence, and that he would not balance this one man with all
these things, and with the affairs of the Christian world."
The king hastily dissolved this _second_ parliament; and when the lords
petitioned for its continuance, he warmly and angrily exclaimed, "Not a
moment longer!" It was dissolved in June, 1626.
The patriots abandoned their sovereign to his fate, and retreated home
sullen, indignant, and ready to conspire among themselves for the
assumption of their disputed or their defrauded liberties. They
industriously dispersed their remonstrance, and the king replied by a
declaration; but an attack is always more vigorous than a defence. The
declaration is spiritless, and evidently composed under suppressed
feelings, which, perhaps, knew not how to shape themselves. The
"Remonstrance" was commanded everywhere to be burnt; and the effect
which it produced on the people we shall shortly witness.
The king was left amidst the most pressing exigencies. At the
dissolution of the first parliament he had been compelled to practise a
humiliating economy. Hume has alluded to the numerous wants of the young
monarch; but he certainly was not acquainted with the king's extreme
necessities. His coronation seemed rather a private than a public
ceremony. To save the expenses of the procession from the Tower through
the city to Whitehall, that customary pomp was omitted; and the reason
alleged was "to save the charge for more noble undertakings!" that is,
for means to carry on the Spanish war without supplies! But now the most
extraordinary changes appeared at court. The king mortgaged his lands in
Cornwall to the aldermen and companies of London. A rumour spread that
the small pension list must be revoked; and the royal distress was
carried so far, that all the tables at court were laid down, and the
courtiers put on board-wages! I have seen a letter which gives an
account of "the funeral supper at Whitehall, whereat twenty-three tables
were buried, being from henceforth converted to board-wages;" and there
I learn, that "since this dissolving of house-keeping, his majesty is
but slenderly attended." Another writer, who describes himself to be
only a looker-on, regrets, that while the men of the law spent ten
thousand pounds on a single masque, they did not rather make the king
rich; and adds, "I see a rich commonwealth, a rich people, and the crown
poor!" This strange poverty of the court of Charles seems to have
escaped the notice of our general historians. Charles was now to victual
his fleet with the savings of the board-wages! for this "surplusage" was
taken into account!
The fatal descent on the Isle of Rhe sent home Buckingham discomfited,
and spread dismay through the nation. The best blood had been shed from
the wanton bravery of an unskilful and romantic commander, who, forced
to retreat, would march, but not fly, and was the very last man to quit
the ground which he could not occupy. In the eagerness of his hopes,
Buckingham had once dropped, as I learn, that "before Midsummer he
should be more honoured and beloved by the commons than ever was the
Earl of Essex:" and thus he rocked his own and his master's imagination
in cradling fancies. This volatile hero, who had felt the capriciousness
of popularity, thought that it was as easily regained as it was easily
lost; and that a chivalric adventure would return to him that favour
which at this moment might have been denied to all the wisdom, the
policy, and the arts of an experienced statesman.
The king was now involved in more intricate and desperate measures; and
the nation was thrown into a state of agitation, of which the page of
popular history yields but a faint impression.
The spirit of insurrection was stalking forth in the metropolis and in
the country. The scenes which I am about to describe occurred at the
close of 1626: an inattentive reader might easily mistake them for the
revolutionary scenes of 1640. It was an unarmed rebellion.
An army and a navy had returned unpaid, and sore with defeat. The town
was scoured by mutinous seamen and soldiers, roving even into the palace
of the sovereign. Soldiers without pay form a society without laws. A
band of captains rushed into the duke's apartment as he sat at dinner;
and when reminded by the duke of a late proclamation, forbidding all
soldiers coming to court in troops, on pain of hanging, they replied,
that "Whole companies were ready to be hanged with them! that the king
might do as he pleased with their lives; for that their reputation was
lost, and their honour forfeited, for want of their salary to pay their
debts." When a petition was once presented, and it was inquired who was
the composer of it, a vast body tremendously shouted "All! all!" A
multitude, composed of seamen, met at Tower-hill, and set a lad on a
scaffold, who, with an "O yes!" proclaimed that King Charles had
promised their pay, or the duke had been on the scaffold himself! These,
at least, were grievances more apparent to the sovereign than those
vague ones so perpetually repeated by his unfaithful commons. But what
remained to be done? It was only a choice of difficulties between the
disorder and the remedy. At the moment, the duke got up what he called
"The council of the sea;" was punctual at its first meeting, and
appointed three days in a week to sit--but broke his appointment the
second day--they found him always otherwise engaged; and "the council of
the sea" turned out to be one of those shadowy expedients which only
lasts while it acts on the imagination. It is said that thirty thousand
pounds would have quieted these disorganised troops; but the exchequer
could not supply so mean a sum. Buckingham in despair, and profuse of
life, was planning a fresh expedition for the siege of Rochelle; a new
army was required. He swore, "if there was money in the kingdom it
should be had!"
Now began that series of contrivances, and artifices, and persecutions
to levy money. Forced loans, or pretended free-gifts, kindled a
resisting spirit. It was urged by the court party, that the sums
required were, in fact, much less in amount than the usual grants of
subsidies; but the cry, in return for "a subsidy," was always "a
Parliament!" Many were heavily fined for declaring that "they knew no
law, besides that of Parliament, to compel men to give away their own
goods." The king ordered that those who would not subscribe to the loans
should not be forced; but it seems there were orders in council to
specify those householders' names who would not subscribe; and it
further appears that those who would not pay in purse should in person.
Those who were pressed were sent to the _depot_; but either the soldiers
would not receive these good citizens, or they found easy means to
return. Every mode which the government invented seems to have been
easily frustrated, either by the intrepidity of the parties themselves,
or by that general understanding which enabled the people to play into
one another's hands. When the common council had consented that an
imposition should be laid, the citizens called the Guildhall the
_Yield-all_! And whenever they levied a distress, in consequence of a
refusal to pay it, nothing was to be found but "Old ends, such as nobody
cared for." Or if a severer officer seized on commodities, it was in
vain to offer pennyworths where no customer was to be had. A wealthy
merchant, who had formerly been a cheesemonger, was summoned to appear
before the privy council, and required to lend the king two hundred
pounds, or else to go himself to the army, and serve it with cheese. It
was not supposed that a merchant, so aged and wealthy, would submit to
resume his former mean trade; but the old man, in the spirit of the
times, preferred the hard alternative, and balked the new project of
finance, by shipping himself with his cheese. At Hicks's Hall the duke
and the Earl of Dorset sat to receive the loans; but the duke
threatened, and the earl affected to treat with levity, men who came
before them with all the suppressed feelings of popular indignation. The
Earl of Dorset asking a fellow who pleaded inability to lend money, of
what trade he was, and being answered "a tailor," said: "Put down your
name for such a sum; one snip will make amends for all!" The tailor
quoted scripture abundantly, and shook the bench with laughter or with
rage by his anathemas, till he was put fast into a messenger's hands.
This was one Ball, renowned through the parish of St. Clement's; and
not only a tailor, but a prophet. Twenty years after, tailors and
prophets employed messengers themselves![296]
These are instances drawn from the inferior classes of society; but the
same spirit actuated the country gentlemen: one instance represents
many. George Gatesby, of Northamptonshire, being committed to prison as
a loan-recusant, alleged, among other reasons for his non-compliance,
that "he considered that this loan might become a precedent; and that
every precedent, he was told by the lord president, was a flower of the
prerogative." The lord president told him that "he lied!" Gatesby shook
his head, observing, "I come not here to contend with your lordship, but
to suffer!" Lord Suffolk then interposing, entreated the lord president
would not too far urge his kinsman, Mr. Gatesby. This country gentleman
waived any kindness he might owe to kindred, declaring, that "he would
remain master of his own purse." The prisons were crowded with these
loan-recusants, as well as with those who had sinned in the freedom of
their opinions. The country gentlemen insured their popularity by their
committals; and many stout resistors of the loans were returned in the
following parliament against their own wishes.[297] The friends of these
knights and country gentlemen flocked to their prisons; and when they
petitioned for more liberty and air during the summer, it was policy to
grant their request. But it was also policy that they should not reside
in their own counties: this relaxation was only granted to those who,
living in the south, consented to sojourn in the north; while the
dwellers in the north were to be lodged in the south!
In the country the disturbed scenes assumed even a more alarming
appearance than in London. They not only would not provide money, but
when money was offered by government, the men refused to serve; a
conscription was not then known: and it became a question, long debated
in the privy council, whether those who would not accept press-money
should not be tried by martial law. I preserve in the note a curious
piece of secret information.[298] The great novelty and symptom of the
times was the scattering of letters. Sealed letters, addressed to the
leading men of the country, were found hanging on bushes; anonymous
letters were dropped in shops and streets, which gave notice that the
day was fast approaching when "Such a work was to be wrought in England
as never was the like, which will be for our good." Addresses multiplied
"To all true-hearted Englishmen!" A groom detected in spreading such
seditious papers, and brought into the inexorable Star-chamber, was
fined three thousand pounds! The leniency of the punishment was rather
regretted by two bishops; if it was ever carried into execution, the
unhappy man must have remained a groom who never after crossed a horse!
There is one difficult duty of an historian, which is too often passed
over by the party-writer; it is to pause whenever he feels himself
warming with the passions of the multitude, or becoming the blind
apologist of arbitrary power. An historian must transform himself into
the characters which he is representing, and throw himself back into the
times which he is opening; possessing himself of their feelings and
tracing their actions, he may then at least hope to discover truths
which may equally interest the honourable men of all parties.
This reflection has occurred from the very difficulty into which I am
now brought. Shall we at once condemn the king for these arbitrary
measures? It is, however, very possible that they were never in his
contemplation! Involved in inextricable difficulties, according to his
feelings, he was betrayed by parliament; and he scorned to barter their
favour by that vulgar traffic of treachery--the immolation of the single
victim who had long attached his personal affections; a man at least as
much envied as hated! that hard lesson had not yet been inculcated on a
British sovereign, that his bosom must be a blank for all private
affection; and had that lesson been taught, the character of Charles was
destitute of all aptitude for it. To reign without a refractory
parliament, and to find among the people themselves subjects more loyal
than their representatives, was an experiment--and a fatal one! Under
Charles, the liberty of the subject, when the necessities of the state
pressed on the sovereign, was matter of discussion, disputed as often as
assumed; the divines were proclaiming as rebellious those who refused
their contributions to aid the government;[299] and the law-sages
alleged precedents for raising supplies in the manner which Charles had
adopted. Selden, whose learned industry was as vast as the amplitude of
his mind, had to seek for the freedom of the subject in the dust of the
records of the Tower--and the omnipotence of parliaments, if any human
assembly may be invested with such supernatural greatness, had not yet
awakened the hoar antiquity of popular liberty.
A general spirit of insurrection, rather than insurrection itself, had
suddenly raised some strange appearances through the kingdom. "The
remonstrance" of parliament had unquestionably quickened the feelings of
the people; but yet the lovers of peace and the reverencers of royalty
were not a few; money and men were procured to send out the army and the
fleet. More concealed causes may be suspected to have been at work. Many
of the heads of the opposition were pursuing some secret machinations;
about this time I find many mysterious stories--indications of secret
societies--and other evidences of the intrigues of the popular party.
Little matters, sometimes more important than they appear, are suitable
to our minute sort of history. In November, 1626, a rumour spread that
the king was to be visited by an ambassador from "the President of the
Society of the Rosycross." He was indeed an heteroclite ambassador, for
he is described "as a youth with never a hair on his face;" in fact, a
child who was to conceal the mysterious personage which he was for a
moment to represent. He appointed Sunday afternoon to come to court,
attended by thirteen coaches. He was to proffer to his majesty, provided
the king accepted his advice, three millions to put into his coffers;
and by his secret councils he was to unfold matters of moment and
secrecy. A Latin letter was delivered to "David Ramsey of the clock," to
hand over to the king: a copy of it has been preserved in a letter of
the times; but it is so unmeaning, that it could have had no effect on
the king, who, however, declared that he would not admit him to an
audience, and that if he could tell where "the President of the
Rosycross" was to be found, unless he made good his offer, he would hang
him at the court-gates. This served the town and country for talk till
the appointed Sunday had passed over, and no ambassador was visible!
Some considered this as the plotting of crazy brains, but others
imagined it to be an attempt to speak with the king in private, on
matters respecting the duke.
There was also discovered, by letters received from Rome, "a whole
parliament of Jesuits sitting" in "a fair-hanged vault" in
Clerkenwell.[300] Sir John Cooke would have alarmed the parliament, that
on St. Joseph's day these were to have occupied their places; ministers
are supposed sometimes to have conspirators for "the nonce;" Sir Dudley
Digges, in the opposition, as usual, would not believe in any such
political necromancers; but such a party were discovered; Cooke would
have insinuated that the French ambassador had persuaded Louis that the
divisions between Charles and his people had been raised by his
ingenuity, and was rewarded for the intelligence; this is not unlikely.
After all, the parliament of Jesuits might have been a secret college of
the order; for, among other things seized on, was a considerable
library.
When the parliament was sitting, a sealed letter was thrown under the
door, with this superscription, _Cursed be the man that finds this
letter, and delivers it not to the House of Commons_. The
Serjeant-at-Arms delivered it to the Speaker, who would not open it till
the house had chosen a committee of twelve members to inform them
whether it was fit to be read. Sir Edward Coke, after having read two or
three lines, stopped, and according to my authority, "durst read no
further, but immediately sealing it, the committee thought fit to send
it to the king, who they say, on reading it through, cast it into the
fire, and sent the House of Commons thanks for their wisdom in not
publishing it, and for the discretion of the committee in so far
tendering his honour, as not to read it out, when they once perceived
that it touched his majesty."[301]
Others, besides the freedom of speech, introduced another form, "A
speech without doors," which was distributed to the members of the
house. It is in all respects a remarkable one, occupying ten folio pages
in the first volume of Rushworth.
Some in office appear to have employed extraordinary proceedings of a
similar nature. An intercepted letter written from the archduchess to
the King of Spain, was delivered by Sir H. Martyn at the council-board
on New Year's-day, who found in it some papers relating to the navy. The
duke immediately said he would show it to the king; and, accompanied by
several lords, went into his majesty's closet. The letter was written in
French; it advised the Spanish court to make a sudden war with England,
for several reasons; his majesty's want of skill to govern of himself;
the weakness of his council in not daring to acquaint him with the
truth; want of money; disunion of the subjects' hearts from their
prince, &c. The king only observed, that the writer forgot that the
archduchess writes to the King of Spain in Spanish, and sends her
letters overland.
I have to add an important fact. I find certain evidence that the heads
of the opposition were busily active in thwarting the measures of
government. Dr. Samuel Turner, the member for Shrewsbury, called on Sir
John Cage, and desired to speak to him privately; his errand was to
entreat him to resist the loan, and to use his power with others to
obtain this purpose. The following information comes from Sir John Cage
himself. Dr. Turner "being desired to stay, he would not a minute, but
instantly took horse, saying he had more places to go to, and time
pressed; _that there was a company of them had divided themselves into
all parts, every one having had a quarter assigned to him, to perform
this service for the commonwealth_." This was written in November, 1626.
This unquestionably amounts to a secret confederacy watching out of
parliament as well as in; and those strange appearances of popular
defection exhibited in the country, which I have described, were in
great part the consequences of the machinations and active intrigues of
the popular party.[302]
The king was not disposed to try a _third_ parliament. The favourite,
perhaps to regain that popular favour which his greatness had lost him,
is said in private letters to have been twice on his knees to intercede
for a new one. The elections, however, foreboded no good; and a
letter-writer connected with the court, in giving an account of them,
prophetically declared, "we are without question undone!"
The king's speech opens with the spirit which he himself felt, but which
he could not communicate:--
"The times are for action: wherefore, for example's sake, I mean not
to spend much time in words! If you, which God forbid, should not do
your duties in contributing what the state at this time needs, I
must, in discharge of my conscience, _use those other means_ which
God hath put into my hands, to save that, which the follies of some
particular men may otherwise hazard to lose." He added, with the
loftiness of ideal majesty--"Take not this as a threatening, for I
scorn to threaten any but my equals; but as an admonition from him,
that, both out of nature and duty, hath most care of your
preservations and prosperities:" and in a more friendly tone he
requested them "To remember a thing to the end that we may forget it.
You may imagine that I come here with a doubt of success, remembering
the distractions of the last meeting; but I assure you that I shall
very easily forget and forgive what is past."
A most crowded house now met, composed of the wealthiest men; for a
lord, who probably considered that property was the true balance of
power, estimated that they were able to buy the upper-house, his majesty
only excepted! The aristocracy of wealth had already begun to be felt.
Some ill omens of the parliament appeared. Sir Robert Philips moved for
a general fast: "we had one for the plague which it pleased God to
deliver us from, and we have now so many plagues of the commonwealth
about his majesty's person, that we have need of such, an act of
humiliation." Sir Edward Coke held it most necessary, "because there
are, I fear, some devils that will not be cast out but by fasting and
prayer."
Many of the speeches in "this great council of the kingdom" are as
admirable pieces of composition as exist in the language. Even the
court-party were moderate, extenuating rather than pleading for the late
necessities. But the evil spirit of party, however veiled, was walking
amidst them all: a letter-writer represents the natural state of
feelings: "Some of the parliament talk desperately; while others, of as
high a course to enforce money if they yield not!" Such is the perpetual
action and reaction of public opinion; when one side will give too
little, the other is sure to desire too much!
The parliament granted subsidies.--Sir John Cooke having brought up the
report to the king, Charles expressed great satisfaction, and declared
that he felt now more happy than any of his predecessors. Inquiring of
Sir John by how many voices he had carried it? Cooke replied, "But by
one!"--at which his majesty seemed appalled, and asked how many were
against him? Cooke answered, "None! the unanimity of the House made all
but _one voice_!" at which his majesty wept![303] If Charles shed tears,
or as Cooke himself expresses it, in his report to the House, "was much
affected," the emotion was profound: for on all sudden emergencies
Charles displayed an almost unparalleled command over the exterior
violence of his feelings.
The favourite himself sympathised with the tender joy of his royal
master; and, before the king, voluntarily offered himself as a
peace-sacrifice. In his speech at the council-table, he entreats the
king that he, who had the honour to be his majesty's favourite, might
now give up that title to them.--A warm genuine feeling probably
prompted these words:--
"To open my heart, please to pardon me a word more; I must confess I
have long lived in pain, sleep hath given me no rest, favours and
fortune no content; such have been my secret sorrows, to be thought
the man of separation, and that divided the king from his people, and
them from him; but I hope it shall appear they were some mistaken
minds that would have made me the evil spirit that walketh between a
good master and a loyal people."[304]
Buckingham added, that for the good of his country he was willing to
sacrifice his honours; and since his plurality of offices had been so
strongly excepted against,[305] that he was content to give up the
Master of the Horse to Marquess Hamilton, and the Warden of the Cinque
Ports to the Earl of Carlisle; and was willing that the parliament
should appoint another admiral for all services at sea.
It is as certain as human evidence can authenticate, that on the king's
side all was grateful affection; and that on Buckingham's there was a
most earnest desire to win the favours of parliament; and what are
stronger than all human evidence, those unerring principles in human
nature itself, which are the secret springs of the heart, were working
in the breasts of the king and his minister; for neither were
tyrannical. The king undoubtedly sighed to meet parliament with the love
which he had at first professed; he declared that "he should now rejoice
to meet with his people often." Charles had no innate tyranny in his
constitutional character; and Buckingham at times was susceptible of
misery amidst his greatness, as I have elsewhere shown.[306] It could
not have been imagined that the luckless favourite, on the present
occasion, should have served as a pretext to set again in motion the
chaos of evil! Can any candid mind suppose that the king or the duke
meditated the slightest insult on the patriotic party, or would in the
least have disturbed the apparent reconciliation! Yet it so happened!
Secretary Cooke, at the close of his report of the king's acceptance of
the subsidies, mentioned that the duke had fervently beseeched the king
to grant the house all their desires! Perhaps the mention of the duke's
name was designed to ingratiate him into their toleration.
Sir John Eliot caught fire at the very name of the duke, and vehemently
checked the secretary for having dared to introduce it; declaring, that
"they knew of no other distinction but of king and subjects. By
intermingling a subject's speech with the king's message, he seemed to
derogate from the honour and majesty of a king. Nor would it become any
subject to bear himself in such a fashion, as if no grace ought to
descend from the king to the people, nor any loyalty ascend from the
people to the king, but through him only."
This speech was received by many with acclamations; some cried out,
"Well spoken, Sir John Eliot!"[307] It marks the heated state of the
political atmosphere, where even the lightest coruscation of a hated
name made it burst into flames!
I have often suspected that Sir John Eliot, by his vehement personality,
must have borne a personal antipathy to Buckingham. I have never been
enabled to ascertain the fact; but I find that he has left in manuscript
a collection of satires, or Verses, being chiefly invectives against the
Duke of Buckingham, to whom he bore a bitter and most inveterate enmity.
Could we sometimes discover the motives of those who first head
political revolutions, we should find how greatly personal hatreds have
actuated them in deeds which have come down to us in the form of
patriotism, and how often the revolutionary spirit disguises its private
passions by its public conduct.[308]
But the supplies, which had raised tears from the fervent gratitude of
Charles, though voted, were yet withheld. They resolved that grievances
and supplies go hand in hand. The commons entered deeply into
constitutional points of the highest magnitude. The curious erudition of
Selden and Coke was combined with the ardour of patriots who merit no
inferior celebrity, though not having consecrated their names by their
laborious literature, we only discover them in the obscure annals of
parliament. To our history, composed by writers of different principles,
I refer the reader for the arguments of lawyers, and the spirit of the
commons. My secret history is only its supplement.
The king's prerogative, and the subject's liberty, were points hard to
distinguish, and were established but by contest. Sometimes the king
imagined that "the house pressed not upon the abuses of power, but only
upon power itself." Sometimes the commons doubted whether they had
anything of their own to give; while their property and their persons
seemed equally insecure. Despotism seemed to stand on one side, and
Faction on the other--Liberty trembled!
The conference of the commons before the lords, on the freedom and
person of the subject, was admirably conducted by Selden and by Coke.
When the king's attorney affected to slight the learned arguments and
precedents, pretending to consider them as mutilated out of the records,
and as proving rather against the commons than for them, Sir Edward Coke
rose, affirming to the house, upon his skill in the law, that "it lay
not under Mr. Attorney's cap to answer any one of their arguments."
Selden declared that he had written out all the records from the Tower,
the Exchequer, and the King's Bench, with his own hand; and "would
engage his head, Mr. Attorney should not find in all these archives a
single precedent omitted." Mr. Littleton said, that he had examined
every one _syllabatim_, and whoever said they were mutilated spoke
false! Of so ambiguous and delicate a nature was then the liberty of the
subject, that it seems they considered it to depend on precedents!
A startling message, on the 12th of April, was sent by the king for
despatch of business. The house, struck with astonishment, desired to
have it repeated. They remained sad and silent. No one cared to open
the debate. A whimsical politician, Sir Francis Nethersole,[309]
suddenly started up, entreating leave to tell his last night's dream.
Some laughing at him, he observed, that "kingdoms had been saved by
dreams!" Allowed to proceed, he said, "he saw two good pastures; a flock
of sheep was in the one, and a bell-wether alone in the other; a great
ditch was between them, and a narrow bridge over the ditch."
He was interrupted by the Speaker, who told him that it stood not with
the gravity of the house to listen to dreams; but the house was inclined
to hear him out.
"The sheep would sometimes go over to the bell-wether, or the
bell-wether to the sheep. Once both met on the narrow bridge, and the
question was who should go back, since both could not go on without
danger. One sheep gave counsel that the sheep on the bridge should lie
on their bellies, and let the bell-wether go over their backs. The
application of this dilemma he left to the house."[310] It must be
confessed that the bearing of the point was more ambiguous than some of
the important ones that formed the matters of their debates. _Davus sum,
non Oedipus!_ It is probable that this fantastical politician did not
vote with the opposition; for Eliot, Wentworth, and Coke, protested
against the interpretation of dreams in the house!
When the attorney-general moved that the liberties of the subject might
be moderated, to reconcile the differences between themselves and the
sovereign, Sir Edward Coke observed, that "the true mother would never
consent to the dividing of her child." On this, Buckingham swore that
Coke intimated that the king, his master, was the prostitute of the
state. Coke protested against the misinterpretation. The dream of
Nethersole, and the metaphor of Coke, were alike dangerous in
parliamentary discussion.
In a manuscript letter it is said that the House of Commons sat four
days without speaking or doing anything. On the first of May, Secretary
Cooke delivered a message, asking whether they would rely upon the
_king's word_? This question was followed by a long silence. Several
speeches are reported in the letters of the times, which are not in
Rushworth. Sir Nathaniel Rich observed that, "confident as he was of the
royal word, what did any indefinite word ascertain?" Pym said, "We have
his majesty's coronation oath to maintain the laws of England; what need
we then take his word?" He proposed to move "Whether we should take the
king's word or no." This was resisted by Secretary Cooke; "What would
they say in foreign parts, if the people of England would not trust
their king?" He desired the house to call Pym to order; on which Pym
replied, "Truly, Mr. Speaker, I am just of the same opinion I was; viz.,
that the king's oath was as powerful as his word." Sir John Eliot moved
that it be put to the question, "because they that would have it, do
urge us to that point." Sir Edward Coke on this occasion made a
memorable speech, of which the following passage is not given in
Rushworth:--
"We sit now in parliament, and therefore must take his _majesty's
word no otherwise than in a parliamentary way_; that is, of a matter
agreed on by both houses--his majesty sitting on his throne in his
robes, with his crown on his head, and sceptre in his hand, and in
full parliament; and his royal assent being entered upon record, _in
perpetuam rei memoriam_. This was _the royal word of a king in
parliament_, and not a word delivered in a chamber, and out of the
mouth of a secretary at the second hand; therefore I motion, that the
House of Commons, _more majorum_, should draw up a petition, _de
droict_, to his majesty; which, being confirmed by both houses, and
assented unto by his majesty, will be as firm an act as any. Not that
I distrust the king, but that I cannot take his trust but in a
parliamentary way."[311]
In this speech of Sir Edward Coke we find the first mention, in the
legal style, of the ever-memorable "Petition of Right," which two days
after was finished. The reader must pursue its history among the writers
of opposite parties.
On Tuesday, June 5, a royal message announced that on the 11th the
present sessions would close. This utterly disconcerted the commons.
Religious men considered it as a judicial visitation for the sins of the
people; others raged with suppressed feelings; they counted up all the
disasters which had of late occurred, all which were charged to one man:
they knew not, at a moment so urgent, when all their liberties seemed
at stake, whether the commons should fly to the lords, or to the king.
Sir John Eliot said, that as they intended to furnish his majesty with
money, it was proper that he should give them time to supply him with
counsel: he was renewing his old attacks on the duke, when he was
suddenly interrupted by the Speaker, who, starting from the chair,
declared that he was commanded not to suffer him to proceed; Eliot sat
down in sullen silence. On Wednesday, Sir Edward Coke broke the ice of
debate. "That man," said he of the duke, "is the grievance of
grievances! As for going to the lords," he added, "that is not _via
regia_; our liberties are impeached--it is our concern!"
On Thursday, the vehement cry of Coke against Buckingham was followed
up; as, says a letter-writer, when one good hound recovers the scent,
the rest come in with a full cry.[312] A sudden message from the king
absolutely forbade them to asperse any of his majesty's ministers,
otherwise his majesty would instantly dissolve them.
This fell like a thunderbolt; it struck terror and alarm; and at the
instant the House of Commons was changed into a scene of tragical
melancholy! All the opposite passions of human nature--all the national
evils which were one day to burst on the country seemed, on a sudden,
concentrated in this single spot! Some were seen weeping, some were
expostulating, and some, in awful prophecy, were contemplating the
future ruin of the kingdom; while others, of more ardent daring, were
reproaching the timid, quieting the terrified, and infusing resolution
into the despairing. Many attempted to speak, but were so strongly
affected that their very utterance failed them. The venerable Coke,
overcome by his feelings when he rose to speak, found his learned
eloquence falter on his tongue; he sat down, and tears were seen on his
aged cheeks. The name of the public enemy of the kingdom was repeated,
till the Speaker, with tears covering his face, declared he could no
longer witness such a spectacle of woe in the commons of England, and
requested leave of absence for half an hour. The speaker hastened to the
king to inform him of the state of the house. They were preparing a vote
against the duke, for being an arch-traitor and arch-enemy to king and
kingdom, and were busied on their "Remonstrance," when the Speaker, on
his return, after an absence of two hours, delivered his majesty's
message, that they should adjourn till the next day.
This was an awful interval of time; many trembled for the issue of the
next morning: one letter-writer calls it "that black and doleful
Thursday!" and another, writing before the house met, observes, "What we
shall expect this morning, God of heaven knows; we shall meet
timely."[313]
Charles probably had been greatly affected by the report of the Speaker,
on the extraordinary state into which the whole house had been thrown;
for on Friday the royal message imported that the king had never any
intention of "barring them from their right, but only to avoid scandal,
that his ministers should not be accused for their counsel to him; and
still he hoped that all Christendom might notice a sweet parting between
him and his people." This message quieted the house, but did not suspend
their preparations for a "Remonstrance," which they had begun on the day
they were threatened with a dissolution.
On Saturday, while they were still occupied on the "Remonstrance,"
unexpectedly, at four o'clock, the king came to parliament, and the
commons were called up. Charles spontaneously came to reconcile himself
to parliament. The king now gave his second answer to the "Petition of
Right." He said--"My maxim is, that the people's liberties strengthen
the king's prerogative; and the king's prerogative is to defend the
people's liberties. Read your petition, and you shall have an answer
that I am sure will please you."[314] They desired to have the ancient
form of their ancestors, "Soit droit fait come il est desyre," and not
as the king had before given it, with any observation on it. Charles now
granted this; declaring that his second answer to the petition in nowise
differed from his first; "but you now see how ready I have shown myself
to satisfy your demands; I have done my part; wherefore, if this
parliament have not a happy conclusion, the sin is yours,--I am free
from it!"
Popular gratitude is at least as vociferous as it is sudden. Both houses
returned the king acclamations of joy; everyone seemed to exult at the
happy change which a few days had effected in the fate of the kingdom.
Everywhere the bells rung, bonfires were kindled, an universal holiday
was kept through the town, and spread to the country: but an ominous
circumstance has been registered by a letter-writer; the common people,
who had caught the contagious happiness, imagined that all this public
joy was occasioned by the king's consenting to commit the duke to the
Tower!
Charles has been censured, even by Hume, for his "evasions and delays"
in granting his assent to the "Petition of Right;" but now, either the
parliament had conquered the royal unwillingness, or the king was
zealously inclined on reconciliation. Yet the joy of the commons did not
outlast the bonfires in the streets; they resumed their debates as if
they had never before touched on the subjects: they did not account for
the feelings of the man whom they addressed as the sovereign. They sent
up a "Remonstrance" against the duke,[315] and introduced his mother
into it, as a patroness of popery. Charles declared, that after having
granted the famous "Petition," he had not expected such a return as this
"Remonstrance." "How acceptable it is," he afterwards said, "every man
may judge; no wise man can justify it." After the reading of the
Remonstrance, the duke fell on his knees, desiring to answer for
himself; but Charles no way relaxed in showing his personal favour.[316]
The duke was often charged with actions and with expressions of which,
unquestionably, he was not always guilty; and we can more fairly decide
on some points relating to Charles and the favourite, for we have a
clearer notion of them than his contemporaries. The active spirits in
the commons were resolved to hunt down the game to the death: for they
now struck at, as the king calls it, "one of the chief maintenances of
my crown," in tonnage and poundage, the levying of which, they now
declared, was a violation of the liberties of the people. This subject
again involved legal discussions, and another "Remonstrance." They were
in the act of reading it, when the king suddenly came down to the
house, sent for the Speaker, and prorogued the parliament. "I am forced
to end this session," said Charles, "some few hours before I meant,
being not willing to receive any more Remonstrances, to which I must
give a harsh answer." There was at least as much of sorrow as of anger
in this closing speech.
Buckingham once more was to offer his life for the honour of his
master--and to court popularity! It is well known with what exterior
fortitude Charles received the news of the duke's assassination; this
imperturbable majesty of his mind--insensibility it was not--never
deserted him on many similar occasions. There was no indecision--no
feebleness in his conduct; and that extraordinary event was not suffered
to delay the expedition. The king's personal industry astonished all the
men in office. One writes that the king had done more in six weeks than
in the duke's time had been done in six months. The death of Buckingham
caused no change; the king left every man to his own charge, but took
the general direction into his own hands.[317] In private, Charles
deeply mourned the loss of Buckingham; he gave no encouragement to his
enemies: the king called him "his martyr," and declared "the world was
greatly mistaken in him; for it was thought that the favourite had ruled
his majesty, but it was far otherwise; for that the duke had been to him
a faithful and an obedient servant."[318] Such were the feelings and
ideas of the unfortunate Charles the First, which it is necessary to
become acquainted with to judge of; few have possessed the leisure or
the disposition to perform this historical duty, involved as it is in
the history of our passions. If ever the man shall be viewed, as well as
the monarch, the private history of Charles the First will form one of
the most pathetic of biographies.[319]
All the foreign expeditions of Charles the First were alike disastrous:
the vast genius of Richelieu, at its meridian, had paled our ineffectual
star! The dreadful surrender of Rochelle had sent back our army and navy
baffled and disgraced; and Buckingham had timely perished, to save one
more reproach, one more political crime, attached to his name. Such
failures did not improve the temper of the times; but the most brilliant
victory would not have changed the fate of Charles, nor allayed the
fiery spirits in the commons, who, as Charles said, "not satisfied in
hearing complainers, had erected themselves into inquisitors after
complaints."
Parliament met. The king's speech was conciliatory. He acknowledged that
the exaction of the duties of the customs was not a right which he
derived from his hereditary prerogative, but one which he enjoyed as the
gift of his people. These duties as yet had not indeed been formally
confirmed by parliament, but they had never been refused to the
sovereign. The king closed with a fervent ejaculation that the session,
begun with confidence, might end with a mutual good understanding.[320]
The shade of Buckingham was no longer cast between Charles the First and
the commons. And yet we find that "their dread and dear sovereign" was
not allowed any repose on the throne.
A new demon of national discord, Religion, in a metaphysical garb,
reared its distracted head. This evil spirit had been raised by the
conduct of the court divines, whose political sermons, with their
attempts to return to the more solemn ceremonies of the Romish church,
alarmed some tender consciences; it served as a masked battery for the
patriotic party to change their ground at will, without slackening their
fire. When the king urged for the duties of his customs, he found that
he was addressing a committee sitting for religion. Sir John Eliot threw
out a singular expression. Alluding to some of the bishops, whom he
called "masters of ceremonies," he confessed that some ceremonies were
commendable, such as "that we should stand up at the repetition of the
creed, to testify the resolution of our hearts to defend the religion we
profess, and in some churches they did not only stand upright, but _with
their swords drawn_." His speech was a spark that fell into a well-laid
train; scarcely can we conceive the enthusiastic temper of the House of
Commons at that moment, when, after some debate, they entered into _a
vow_ to preserve "the articles of religion established by parliament in
the _thirteenth year of our late Queen Elizabeth_!" and this _vow_ was
immediately followed up by a petition to the king for _a fast_ for the
increasing miseries of the reformed churches abroad. Parliaments are
liable to have their passions! Some of these enthusiasts were struck by
a panic, not perhaps warranted by the danger, of "Jesuits and
Armenians." The king answered them in good-humour; observing, however,
on the state of the reformed abroad; "that fighting would do them more
good than fasting." He granted them their fast, but they would now grant
no return; for now they presented "a Declaration" to the king, that
tonnage and poundage must give precedency to religion! The king's answer
still betrays no ill temper. He confessed that he did not think that
"religion was in so much danger as they affirmed." He reminds them of
tonnage and poundage; "I do not so much desire it out of greediness of
the thing, as out of a desire to put an end to those questions that
arise between me and some of my subjects."
Never had the king been more moderate in his claims, or more tender in
his style; and never had the commons been more fierce, and never, in
truth, so utterly inexorable! Often kings are tyrannical, and sometimes
are parliaments! A body corporate, with the infection of passion, may
perform acts of injustice equally with the individual who abuses the
power with which he is invested. It was insisted that Charles should
give up the receivers of the customs, who were denounced as capital
enemies to the king and kingdom; while those who submitted to the duties
were declared guilty as accessories. When Sir John Eliot was pouring
forth invectives against some courtiers--however they may have merited
the blast of his eloquence--he was sometimes interrupted and sometimes
cheered, for the stinging personalities. The timid Speaker, refusing to
put the question, suffered a severe reprimand from Selden: "If you will
not put it, we must sit still, and thus we shall never be able to do
anything!" The house adjourned in great heat; the dark prognostic of
their next meeting, which Sir Symonds D'Ewes has remarked in his Diary
as "the most gloomy, sad, and dismal day for England that happened for
five hundred years!"
On this fatal day,[321] the Speaker still refusing to put the question,
and announcing the king's command for an adjournment, Sir John Eliot
stood up! The Speaker attempted to leave the chair, but two members,
who had placed themselves on each side, forcibly kept him down--Eliot,
who had prepared "a short declaration," flung down a paper on the floor,
crying out that it might be read! His party vociferated for the
reading--others that it should not. A sudden tumult broke out; Coriton,
a fervent patriot, struck another member, and many laid their hands on
their swords.[322] "Shall we," said one, "be sent home as we were last
sessions, turned off like scattered sheep?" The weeping, trembling
Speaker, still persisting in what he held to be his duty, was dragged to
and fro by opposite parties; but neither he nor the clerk would read the
paper, though the Speaker was bitterly reproached by his kinsman, Sir
Peter Hayman, "as the disgrace of his country, and a blot to a noble
family." Eliot, finding the house so strongly divided, undauntedly
snatching up the paper, said, "I shall then express that by my tongue
which this paper should have done." Denzil Holles assumed the character
of Speaker, putting the question: it was returned by the acclamations of
the party. The doors were locked and the keys laid on the table. The
king sent for the serjeant and mace, but the messenger could obtain no
admittance--the usher of the black rod met no more regard. The king then
ordered out his guard--in the meanwhile the protest was completed. The
door was flung open, the rush of the members was so impetuous that the
crowd carried away among them the serjeant and the usher in the
confusion and riot. Many of the members were struck by horror amidst
this conflict, it was a sad image of the future! Several of the patriots
were committed to the Tower. The king on dissolving this parliament,
which was the last till the memorable "Long Parliament," gives us, at
least, his idea of it:--"It is far from me to judge all the House alike
guilty, for there are there as dutiful subjects as any in the world; it
being but some few vipers among them that did cast this mist of
undutifulness over most of their eyes."[323]
Thus have I traced, step by step, the secret history of Charles the
First and his early Parliaments. I have entered into their feelings,
while I have supplied new facts, to make everything as present and as
true as my faithful diligence could repeat the tale. It was necessary
that I should sometimes judge of the first race of our patriots as some
of their contemporaries did; but it was impossible to avoid correcting
these notions by the more enlarged views of their posterity. This is the
privilege of an historian and the philosophy of his art. There is no
apology for the king, nor any declamation for the subject. Were we only
to decide by the final results of this great conflict, of which what we
have here narrated is but the faint beginning, we should confess that
Sir John Eliot and his party were the first fathers of our political
existence; and we should not withhold from them the inexpressible
gratitude of a nation's freedom! But human infirmity mortifies us in the
noblest pursuits of man; and we must be taught this penitential and
chastising wisdom. The story of our patriots is involved; Charles
appears to have been lowering those high notions of his prerogative,
which were not peculiar to him, and was throwing himself on the bosom of
his people. The severe and unrelenting conduct of Sir John Eliot, his
prompt eloquence and bold invective, well fitted him for the leader of a
party. He was the lodestone, drawing together the looser particles of
iron. Never sparing, in the monarch, the errors of the man, never
relinquishing his royal prey, which he had fastened on, Eliot, with Dr.
Turner and some others, contributed to make Charles disgusted with all
parliaments. Without any dangerous concessions, there was more than one
moment when they might have reconciled the sovereign to themselves, and
not have driven him to the fatal resource of attempting to reign without
a parliament![324]