THE PAPAL ATTACK: 1570-1583
Sovereigns and statesmen in the sixteenth century are to be honoured or
condemned according to the degree in which they aimed on the one hand at
preserving political order, and on the other at allowing freedom of
opinion. It was not always easy to reconcile these two aims. The first
was a temporary necessity, and yet was the more urgent--as indeed is
always the case with the tasks of the statesman. He is responsible for
the present; it is not for him to attempt to provide for a remote
future. Political order and the material well-being of nations may be
disastrously impaired by the imprudence or weakness of a ruler. Thought,
after all, may be trusted to take care of itself in the long-run.
To the modern Liberal, with his doctrine of absolute religious equality,
toleration seems an insult, and anything short of toleration is regarded
as persecution. In the sixteenth century the most advanced statesmen did
not see their way to proclaim freedom of public worship and of religious
discussion. It was much if they tolerated freedom of opinion, and
connived at a quiet, private propagation of other religions than those
established by law. It would be wrong to condemn and despise them as
actuated by superstition and narrow-minded prejudice. Their motives were
mainly political, and it is reasonable to suppose that they knew better
than we do whether a larger toleration was compatible with public order.
We have seen that under the Act of Supremacy, in the first year of
Elizabeth, the oath was only tendered to persons holding office,
spiritual or temporal, under the crown, and that the penalty for
refusing it was only deprivation. But in her fifth year (1563), it was
enacted that the oath might be tendered to members of the House of
Commons, schoolmasters, and attorneys, who, if they refused it, might be
punished by forfeiture of property and perpetual imprisonment. To those
who had held any ecclesiastical office, or who should openly disapprove
of the established worship, or celebrate or hear mass, the oath might be
tendered a second time, with the penalties of high treason for refusal.
That this law authorised an atrocious persecution cannot be disputed,
and there is no doubt that many zealous Protestants wished it to be
enforced. But the practical question is, Was it enforced? The government
wished to be armed with the power of using it, and for the purpose of
expelling Catholics from offices it was extensively used. But no one was
at this time visited with the severer penalties, the bishops having been
privately forbidden to tender the oath a second time to any one without
special instructions.
The Act of Uniformity, passed in the first year of Elizabeth,
prohibited the use of any but the established liturgy, whether in public
or private, under pain of perpetual imprisonment for the third offence,
and imposed a fine of one shilling on recusants--that is, upon persons
who absented themselves from church on Sundays and holidays. To what
extent Catholics were interfered with under this Act has been a matter
of much dispute. Most of them, during the first eleven years of
Elizabeth, either from ignorance or worldliness, treated the Anglican
service as equivalent to the Catholic, and made no difficulty about
attending church, even after this compliance with the law had been
forbidden by Pius IV. in the sixth year of Elizabeth. Only the more
scrupulous absented themselves, and called in the ministrations of the
“old priests,” who with more or less secrecy said mass in private
houses. Some of these offenders were certainly punished before Elizabeth
had been two years on the throne. The enforcement of laws was by no
means so uniform in those days as it is now. Much depended on the
leanings of the noblemen and justices of the peace in different
localities. Both from disposition and policy Elizabeth desired, as a
general rule, to connive at Catholic nonconformity when it did not take
an aggressive and fanatical form. But she had no scruple about applying
the penalties of these Acts to individuals who for any reason, religious
or political, were specially obnoxious to her.
So things went on till the northern insurrection: the laws authorising a
searching and sanguinary persecution; the Government, much to the
disgust of zealous Protestants, declining to put those laws in
execution. Judged by modern ideas, the position of the Catholics was
intolerable; but if measured by the principles of government then
universally accepted, or if compared with the treatment of persons ever
so slightly suspected of heresy in countries cursed with the
Inquisition, it was not a position of which they had any great reason to
complain; nor did the large majority of them complain.
Pope Pius IV. (1559-1566) was comparatively cautious and circumspect in
his attitude towards Elizabeth. But his successor Pius V. (1566-1572),
having made up his mind that her destruction was the one thing necessary
for the defeat of heresy in Europe, strove to stir up against her
rebellion at home and invasion from abroad. A bull deposing her, and
absolving her subjects from their allegiance, was drawn up. But while
Pius, conscious of the offence which it would give to all the sovereigns
of Europe, delayed to issue it, the northern rebellion flared up and was
trampled out. The absence of such a bull was by many Catholics made an
excuse for holding aloof from the rebel earls. When it was too late the
bull was issued (Feb. 1570). Philip and Charles IX.--sovereigns first
and Catholics afterwards--refused to let it be published in their
dominions.
After the northern insurrection the Queen issued a remarkable appeal to
her people, which was ordered to be placarded in every parish, and read
in every church. She could point with honest pride to eleven years of
such peace abroad and tranquillity at home as no living Englishman could
remember. Her economy had enabled her to conduct the government without
any of the illegal exactions to which former sovereigns had resorted.
“She had never sought the life, the blood, the goods, the houses,
estates or lands of any person in her dominions.” This happy state of
things the rebels had tried to disturb on pretext of religion. They had
no real grievance on that score. Attendance at parish church was indeed
obligatory by law, though, she might have added, it was very loosely
enforced. But she disclaimed any wish to pry into opinions, or to
inquire in what sense any one understood rites or ceremonies. In other
words, the language of the communion service was not incompatible with
the doctrine of transubstantiation, and loyal Catholics were at liberty,
were almost invited, to interpret it in that sense if they liked.
This compromise between their religious and political obligations had in
fact been hitherto adopted by the large majority of English Catholics.
But a time was come when it was to be no longer possible for them. They
were summoned to make their choice between their duty as citizens and
their duty as Catholics. The summons had come, not from the Queen, but
from the Pope, and it is not strange that they had thenceforth a harder
time of it. Many of them, indignant with the Pope for bringing trouble
upon them, gave up the struggle and conformed to the Established Church.
The temper of the rest became more bitter and dangerous. The Puritan
Parliament of 1571 passed a bill to compel all persons not only to
attend church, but to receive the communion twice a year; and another
making formal reconciliation to the Church of Rome high treason both for
the convert and the priest who should receive him. Here we have the
persecuting spirit, which was as inherent in the zealous Protestant as
in the zealous Catholic. Attempts to excuse such legislation, as
prompted by political reasons, can only move the disgust of every
honest-minded man. The first of these bills did not receive the royal
assent, though Cecil--just made Lord Burghley--had strenuously pushed it
through the Upper House. Elizabeth probably saw that its only effect
would be to enable the Protestant zealots in every parish to enjoy the
luxury of harassing their quiet Catholic neighbours, who attended church
but would scruple to take the sacrament.
The Protestant spirit of this House of Commons showed itself not only in
laws for strengthening the Government and persecuting the Catholics, but
in attempts to puritanise the Prayer-book, which much displeased the
Queen. Strickland, one of the Puritan leaders, was forbidden to attend
the House. But such was the irritation caused by this invasion of its
privileges, that the prohibition was removed after one day. It was in
this session of Parliament that the doctrines of the Church of England
were finally determined by the imposition on the clergy of the
Thirty-nine Articles, which, as every one knows, are much more
Protestant than the Prayer-book. Till then they had only had the
sanction of Convocation.
During the first forty years or so, from the beginning of the
Reformation, Protestantism spread in most parts of Europe with great
rapidity. It was not merely an intellectual revolt against doctrines no
longer credible. The numbers of the reformers were swelled, and their
force intensified by the flocking in of pious souls, athirst for
personal holiness, and of many others who, without being high-wrought
enthusiasts, were by nature disposed to value whatever seemed to make
for a purer morality. The religion which had nurtured Bernard and À
Kempis was deserted, not merely as being untrue, but as incompatible
with the highest spiritual life--nay, as positively corrupting to
society. This imagination, of course, had but a short day. The return to
the Bible and the doctrines of primitive Christianity, the deliverance
from “the Bishop of Rome and his detestable enormities,” were not found
to be followed by any general improvement of morals in Protestant
countries. He that was unjust was unjust still; he that was filthy was
filthy still. The repulsive contrast too often seen between
sanctimonious professions and unscrupulous conduct contributed to the
disenchantment.
In the meanwhile a great regeneration was going on within the Catholic
Church itself. Signs of this can be detected quite as early as the first
rise of Protestantism. It is, therefore, not to be attributed to
Protestant teaching and example, though doubtless the rivalry of the
younger religion stimulated the best energies of the older. No long time
elapsed before this regeneration had worked its way to the highest
places in the Church. The Popes by whom Elizabeth was confronted were
all men of pure lives and single-hearted devotion to the Catholic cause.
The last two years of the Council of Trent (1562-3) were the
starting-point of the modern Catholic Church. Many proposals had been
made for compromise with Protestantism. But the Fathers of Trent saw
that the only chance of survival for a Church claiming to be Catholic
was to remain on the old lines. By the canons and decrees of the
Council, ratified by Pius IV., the old doctrines and discipline were
confirmed and definitely formulated. One branch indeed of the Papal
power was irretrievably gone. Royal authority had become absolute, and
the kings, including Philip II., refused to tolerate any interference
with it. The Papacy had to acquiesce in the loss of its power over
sovereigns. But as regards the bishops and clergy, and things strictly
appertaining to religion, its spiritual autocracy, which the great
councils of the last century had aimed at breaking, was re-established,
and has continued. The new situation, though it seemed to place the
Popes on a humbler footing than in the days of Gregory VII. or Innocent
III., was a healthy one. It confined them to their spiritual domain, and
drove them to make the best of it.
Until the decrees of the Council of Trent, the split between Protestants
and Catholics was not definitely and irrevocably decided. Many on both
sides had shrunk from admitting it. The Catholic world might seem to be
narrowed by the defection of the Protestant States. But all the more
clearly did it appear that a Church claiming to be universal is not
concerned with political boundaries. The resistance to the spread of
heresy had hitherto consisted of many local struggles, in which the
repressive measures had emanated from the orthodox sovereigns, and had
therefore been fitful and unconnected. But not long after the Tridentine
reorganisation, the Pope appears again as commander-in-chief of the
Catholic forces, surveying and directing combined operations from one
end of Europe to the other. Pius IV. had been with difficulty prevented
by Philip from excommunicating Elizabeth. Pius V. had launched his bull,
as we have seen, a few months too late (1570); and even then it was not
allowed to be published in either Spain or France. The life of that Pope
was wasted in earnest remonstrances with the Catholic sovereigns for not
executing the sentence of the Church against the heretic Queen. Gregory
XIII., who succeeded him just before the Bartholomew Massacre, took the
attack into his own hands. He was a warm patron of the Jesuits, who were
especially devoted to the centralising system re-established at Trent.
He and they had made up their minds that England was the key of the
Protestant position; that until Elizabeth was removed no advance was to
be hoped for anywhere.
The decline of a religion may be accompanied by a positive increase of
earnestness and activity on the part of its remaining votaries, deluding
them into a belief that they are but passing through, or have
successfully passed through, a period of temporary depression and
eclipse. Among the Catholics of the latter part of the sixteenth century
there was all the enthusiasm of a religious revival. In no place did
this show itself more than at Oxford. There the weak points of popular
movements have never been allowed to pass without challenge, and what is
really valuable or beautiful in time-worn faiths has been sure of
receiving fair-play and something more. The gloss of the Reformation was
already worn off. The worldly and carnal were its supporters and
directors. It no longer demanded enthusiasm and sacrifice. It walked in
purple and fine linen. Young men of quick intellect and high aspirations
who, a generation earlier, would have been captivated by its fair
promise and have thrown themselves into its current, yielded now to the
eternal spell of the older Church, cleansed as she was of her
pollutions, and purged of her dross by the discipline of adversity.
The leader of these Oxford enthusiasts was a young fellow of Oriel,
William Allen. In the third year of Elizabeth, at the age of
twenty-eight, he resigned the Principalship of St. Mary Hall. The next
eight years were spent partly abroad, partly in secret missionary work
in England, carried on at the peril of his life. The old priests, who
with more or less concealment and danger continued to exercise their
office among the English Catholics, were gradually dying off. In order
to train successors to them, Allen founded an English seminary at Douai
(1568). To this important step it was mainly due that the Catholic
religion did not become extinct in this country. In the first five years
of its existence the college at Douai sent nearly a hundred priests to
England.
It was the aim of Allen to put an end to the practical toleration
allowed to Catholic laymen of the quieter sort. The Catholic who began
by putting in the compulsory number of attendances at his parish church
was likely to end by giving up his faith altogether. If he did not, his
son would. Allen deliberately preferred a sweeping persecution--one that
would make the position of Catholics intolerable, and ripen them for
rebellion. He wanted martyrs. The ardent young men whom he trained at
Douai and (after 1578) at Rheims, went back to their native land with
the clear understanding that of all the services they could render to
the Church the greatest would be to die under the hangman’s knife.
Gregory XIII. hoped great things from Allen’s seminary, and furnished
funds for its support. In 1579 Allen went to Rome, and enlisted the
support of Mercurian, General of the Jesuits. Two English Jesuits,
Robert Parsons and Edward Campion, ex-fellows of Balliol and St. John’s,
were selected as missionaries. Campion was eight years younger than
Allen. He had had a brilliant career at Oxford, being especially
distinguished for his eloquence. He was at that time personally known to
both Cecil and the Queen, and enjoyed their favour. He took deacon’s
orders in 1568, but not long afterwards joined Allen at Douai, and
formally abjured the Anglican Church. He had been six years a Jesuit
when he was despatched on his dangerous mission to England.
Tired of waiting for the initiative of Philip, Gregory XIII. and the
Jesuits had planned a threefold attack on Elizabeth in England,
Scotland, and Ireland. In England a revivalist movement was to be
carried on among the Catholics by the missionaries. Catholic writers
have been at great pains to argue that this was a purely religious
movement, prosecuted with the single object of saving souls. The Jesuits
have always known their men and employed them with discrimination.
Saving of souls was very likely the simple object of a man of Campion’s
saintly and exalted nature. He himself declared that he had been
strictly forbidden to meddle with worldly concerns or affairs of State,
and nothing inconsistent with this declaration was proved against him at
his trial. But without laying any stress on statements extracted from
prisoners under torture, we cannot doubt that his employers aimed at
re-establishing Catholicism in England by rebellion and foreign
invasion. This was thoroughly understood by every missionary who crossed
the sea; and if Campion never alluded to it even in his most familiar
conversations he must have had an extraordinary control over his tongue.
The evidence that the assassination of the Queen was a recognised part
of the Jesuit plan, determined by the master spirits and accepted by all
the subordinate agents, is perhaps not quite conclusive. If proved, it
would only show that they were not more scrupulous than most statesmen
and politicians of the time. Lax as sixteenth century notions were about
political murder, there were always some consciences more tender than
others. It is likely enough that Campion personally disapproved of such
projects, and that they were not thrust upon his attention. But he can
hardly have avoided being aware that they were contemplated by the less
squeamish of his brethren.
Campion and Parsons came to England in disguise in the summer of 1580.
Their mission was not a success. It only served to show how much more
securely Elizabeth was seated on her throne than in the earlier years of
her reign. In his letters to Rome, Campion boasts of the welcome he met
with everywhere, the crowds that attended his preaching, the ardour of
the Catholics, and the disrepute into which Protestantism was falling.
He had evidently worked himself up to such a state of ecstasy that he
was living in a world of his own imagination, and was no competent
witness of facts. He crept about England in various disguises, and when
he was in districts where the nobles and gentry favoured the old
religion, he preached with a publicity which seems extraordinary to us
in these days when the laws are executed with prompt uniformity by means
of railways, telegraphs, and a well-organised police. In the sixteenth
century England had nothing that can be called an organised machinery
for the prevention and detection of crime. If an outbreak occurred the
Government collected militia, and trampled it out with an energy that
took no account of law and feared no consequences. But in ordinary times
it had to depend on the local justices of the peace and parish
constables, and if they were remiss the laws were a dead letter. There
were no newspapers. The high-roads were few and bad. One parish did not
know what was going on in the next. Campion could be passed on from one
gentleman’s house to another on horses quite as good as any officer of
the Government rode, and could travel all over England without ever
using a high-road or showing his face in a town. If he preached to a
hundred people in some Lancashire village, Lord Derby did not want to
know it, and before the news reached Burghley or Walsingham he would be
in another county, or perhaps back in London--then, as now, the safest
of all hiding-places. Thus, though a warrant was issued for his arrest
as soon as he arrived in England, it was not till July in the next year
(1581) that he was taken, after an unusually public and protracted
appearance in the neighbourhood of Oxford.
He had little or nothing to show for his twelve months’ tour, and this
although the Government had, as Allen hoped, allowed itself to be
provoked into an increase of severity which seems to have been quite
unnecessary. The large majority of Catholic laymen would evidently have
preferred that both Seminarists and Jesuits should keep away. They did
not want civil war. They did not want to be persecuted. They were
against a foreign invasion, without which they knew very well that
Elizabeth could not be deposed. They were even loyal to her. They were
content to wait till she should disappear in the course of nature and
make room for the Queen of Scots. Mendoza writes to Philip that “they
place themselves in the hands of God, and are willing to sacrifice life
and all in the service, _but scarcely with that burning zeal which they
ought to show_.”
By the bull of Pius V., Englishmen were forbidden to acknowledge
Elizabeth as their Queen; in other words, they were ordered to expose
themselves to the penalties of treason. If the Pope would be satisfied
with nothing less than this, it was quite certain that he would alienate
most of his followers in England. Gregory XIII. therefore had authorised
the Jesuits to explain that although the Protestants, by _willingly_
acknowledging the Queen, were incurring the damnation pronounced by the
bull, Catholics would be excused for _unwillingly_ acknowledging her
until some opportunity arrived for dethroning her. Protestant writers
have exclaimed against this distinction as treacherous. It was perfectly
reasonable. It represents, for instance, the attitude of every Alsatian
who accords an unwilling recognition to the German Emperor. But the
English Government intolerantly and unwisely made it the occasion for
harassing the consciences of men who were most of them guiltless of any
intention to rebel.
Amongst other persecuting laws passed early in 1581, was one which
raised the fine for non-attendance at church to twenty pounds a month.
Such a measure was calculated to excite much more wide-spread
disaffection than the hanging of a few priests. It was not intended to
be a _brutum fulmen_. The names of all recusants in each parish were
returned to the Council. They amounted to about 50,000, and the fines
exacted became a not inconsiderable item in the royal revenue. That
number certainly formed but a small portion of the Catholic population.
But if all the rest had been in the habit of going to church, contrary
to the Pope’s express injunction, rather than pay a small fine, the
Government ought to have seen that they were not the stuff of which
rebels are made.
Campion, after being compelled by torture to disclose the names of his
hosts in different counties, was called on to maintain the Catholic
doctrines in a three days’ discussion before a large audience against
four Protestant divines, who do not seem to have been ashamed of
themselves. He was offered pardon if he would attend once in church. As
he steadfastly refused, he was racked again till his limbs were
dislocated. When he had partially recovered he was put on his trial,
along with several of his companions, not under any of the recent
anti-catholic laws but under the ordinary statute of Edward III., for
“compassing and imagining the Queen’s death”--such a horror had the
Burghleys and Walsinghams of anything like religious persecution! Being
unable to hold up his hand to plead Not Guilty, “two of his companions
raised it for him, first kissing the broken joints.” According to
Mendoza (whom on other occasions we are invited to accept as a witness
of truth), his nails had been torn from his fingers. Apart from his
religious belief nothing treasonable was proved against him in deed or
word. He acknowledged Elizabeth for his rightful sovereign, as the new
interpretation of the papal bull permitted him to do, but he declined to
give any opinion about the Pope’s right to depose princes. This was
enough for the judge and jury, and he was found guilty. At the place of
execution he was again offered his pardon if he would deny the papal
right of deposition, or even hear a Protestant sermon. He wished the
Queen a long and quiet reign and all prosperity, but more he would not
say. At the quartering “a drop of blood spirted on the clothes of a
youth named Henry Walpole, to whom it came as a divine command. Walpole,
converted on the spot, became a Jesuit, and soon after met the same fate
on the same spot.”
Mr. Froude’s comment is that “if it be lawful in defence of national
independence to kill open enemies in war, it is more lawful to execute
the secret conspirator who is teaching doctrines in the name of God
which are certain to be fatal to it.” It would perhaps be enough to
remark that this reasoning amply justifies some of the worst atrocities
of the French Revolution. Hallam and Macaulay have condemned it by
anticipation in language which will commend itself to all who are not
swayed by religious, or, what is more offensive, anti-religious
bigotry.[4]
Cruel as the English criminal law was, and long remained, it never
authorised the use of torture to extract confession. The rack in the
Tower is said to have made its appearance, with other innovations of
absolute government, in the reign of Edward IV. But it seems to have
been little used before the reign of Elizabeth, under whom it became the
ordinary preliminary to a political trial. For this the chief blame must
rest personally on Burghley. Opinions may differ as to his rank as a
statesman, but no one will contest his eminent talents as a minister of
police. In the former capacity he had sufficient sense of shame to
publish a Pecksniffian apology for his employment of the rack. “None,”
he says, “of those who were at any time put to the rack were asked,
during their torture, any question as to points of doctrine, but merely
concerning their plots and conspiracies, and the persons with whom they
had dealings, and _what was their own opinion_ as to the Pope’s right to
deprive the Queen of her crown.” What was this but a point of doctrine?
The wretched victim who conscientiously believed it (as all Christendom
once did), but wished to save himself by silence, was driven either to
tell a lie or to consign himself to rope and knife. “The Queen’s
servants, the warders, whose office and act it is to handle the rack,
were ever, by those that attended the examinations, specially charged to
use it in so charitable a manner as such a thing might be.” It may be
hoped that there are not many who would dissent from Hallam’s remark
that “such miserable excuses serve only to mingle contempt with our
detestation.” He adds: “It is due to Elizabeth to observe that she
ordered the torture to be disused.” I do not know what authority there
is for this statement. Three years later the Protestant Archbishop of
Dublin was puzzled how to torture the Catholic Archbishop of Cashel,
because there was no “rack or other engine” in Dublin. Walsingham, on
being consulted, suggested that his feet might be toasted against the
fire, which was accordingly done. Some of the Anglican bishops, as might
be expected from fanatics, were forward in recommending torture. But
Cecil was no more of a fanatic than his mistress. What both of them
cared for was not a particular religious belief--they had both of them
conformed to Popery under Queen Mary--but the sovereign’s claim to
prescribe religious belief, or rather religious profession, and they
were provoked with the missionaries for thwarting them. Provoking it
was, no doubt. But everything seems to show that it would have been
better to pursue the earlier policy of the reign; to be content with
enacting severe laws which practically were not put into execution.
The English branch of the Jesuit attack was, for political purposes, a
dead failure. A few persons of rank, who at heart were Catholics before,
were formally reconciled to the Pope. Mendoza claims that among them
were six peers whose names he conceals. These peers, if he is to be
believed, were treasonable enough in their designs. But, even by his
account, they were determined not to stir unless a foreign army should
have first entered England.
How far Mendoza’s master was from seeing his way to attack England at
this time was strikingly shown by his behaviour under the most audacious
outrage that Elizabeth had yet inflicted on him. Some twelve months
before (October 1580), Drake had returned from his famous voyage round
the world. That voyage was nothing else than a piratical expedition, for
which it was notorious that the funds had been mainly furnished by
Elizabeth and Leicester. On sea and land Drake had robbed Philip of
gold, silver, and precious stones to the value of at least £750,000. In
vain did Mendoza clamour for restitution and talk about war. Elizabeth
kept the booty, knighted Drake, and openly showed him every mark of
confidence and favour. When Mendoza told her that as she would not hear
words, they must come to cannon and see if she would hear them, she
replied (“quietly in her most natural voice”) that, if he used threats
of that kind, she would throw him into prison. The correspondence
between the Spanish ambassador and his master shows that, however big
they might talk about cannon, they felt themselves paralysed by
Elizabeth’s intimate relations with France. She had managed to keep free
from any offensive alliance with Henry III. But at the first sound of
the Spanish cannon she could have it. She was, therefore, secure.
Probably the whole history of diplomacy does not show another instance
of such a complicated balance of forces so dexterously manipulated.
The Irish branch of the Papal attack, the landing of the legate Sanders,
the insurrection of Desmond (1579-1583), the massacre of the Pope’s
Italian soldiers at Smerwick (1580), must be passed over here. It is
enough to say that, in Ireland, too, the Catholics were beaten. We turn
now to their attempt to get hold of Scotland (1579-1582).
Scotland was in a state of anarchy, from which it could only be rescued
by an able and courageous king. The nobles, instead of becoming weaker,
as elsewhere, had acquired a strength and independence greater even than
their fathers had enjoyed. Thirty years earlier, the Church had
possessed quite half the land of the country, and had steadily supported
the crown. Almost the whole of this wealth had been seized in one form
or another by the nobles. And though, as compared with English noblemen,
they were still poor in money, they were much bigger men relatively to
their sovereign. The power of the crown was extensive enough in theory.
What was wanted was a king who should know how to convert it into a
reality. That was more than any regent could do. Even Moray had not
succeeded. The house of Douglas was one of the most powerful in
Scotland, and Morton, who had been looked on as its head during the
minority of the Earl of Angus, was an able and daring man. But he had
not the large views, the public spirit, or the integrity of Moray. He
was feared by all, hated by many, respected by none. As a mere party
chief, no one would have been better able to hold his own. As
representing the crown, he had every man’s hand against him. To
subsidise such a man was perfectly useless. If Elizabeth was to make his
cause her own, she might just as well undertake the conquest of Scotland
at once.
The essence of the good understanding between England and France was
that both countries should keep their hands off Scotland. Elizabeth,
knowing that if worst came to worst, she could always be beforehand with
France in the northern kingdom, could afford to respect this
arrangement, and she did mean to respect it. France, on the other hand,
being also well aware of the advantage given to England by geographical
situation, was always tempted to steal a march on her, and even when
most desirous of her alliance, never quite gave up intrigues in
Scotland. This was equally the case whatever party was uppermost at the
French court, whether its policy was being directed by the King or by
the Duke of Guise.
The Jesuits looked on Guise as their fighting man, who was to do the
work which they could not prevail on crowned heads to undertake. James,
though only thirteen, had been declared of age. It was too late to think
of deposing him. If his character was feeble, his understanding and
acquirements were much beyond his years, and his preferences were
already a force to be reckoned with in Scotch politics. His interests
were evidently opposed to those of his mother. But the Jesuits hoped to
persuade him that his seat would never be secure unless he came to a
compromise with her on the terms that he was to accept the crown as her
gift and recognise her joint-sovereignty. This would throw him entirely
into the hands of the Catholic nobles, and would be a virtual
declaration of war against Elizabeth. He would have to proclaim himself
a Catholic, and call in the French. It was hoped that Philip, jealous
though he had always been of French interference, would not object to an
expedition warranted by the Jesuits and commanded by Guise, who was more
and more sinking into a tool of Spain and Rome. A combined army of
Scotch and French would pour across the Border. It would be joined by
the English Catholics. Elizabeth would be deposed, and Mary set on the
throne.
It was a pretty scheme on paper, but certain to break down in every
stage of its execution. James might chaffer with his mother; but, young
as he was, he knew well that she meant to overreach him. He would be
glad enough to get rid of Morton, but he did not want to be a puppet in
the hands of the Marians. He did not like the Presbyterian preachers;
but the young pedant already valued himself on his skill in confuting
the apologists of Popery. He resented Elizabeth’s lectures; but he knew
that his succession to the English crown depended on her good will, and
he meant to keep on good terms with her. No approval of the scheme could
be obtained from Philip, and if he did not peremptorily forbid the
expedition, it was because he did not believe it would come off. If a
French army had appeared in Scotland, it would have been treated as all
foreigners were in that country. And finally, if, _per impossibile_, the
French and Scotch had entered England, they would have been overwhelmed
by such an unanimous uprising of the English people of all parties and
creeds as had never been witnessed in our history.
Historians, who would have us believe that Elizabeth was constantly
bringing England to the verge of ruin by her stinginess and want of
spirit, represent this combination as highly formidable. It required
careful watching; but the only thing that could make it really dangerous
was rash and premature employment of force by England--the course
advocated not only by Burghley, but by the whole Council. Elizabeth
seems to have stood absolutely alone in her opinion; but here, as
always, though she allowed her ministers to speak their minds freely,
she did not fear to act on her own judgment against their unanimous
advice.
To carry out their schemes, Guise and the Jesuits sent to Scotland a
nephew of the late Regent Lennox, Esmé Stuart, who had been brought up
in France, and bore the title of Count d’Aubigny (September 1579). He
speedily won the heart of the King, who created him Earl, and afterwards
Duke of Lennox. Elizabeth soon obtained proof of his designs, and urged
Morton to resist them by force. But the favourite, professing to be
converted to Protestantism, enlisted the preachers on his side, and, by
this unnatural coalition, Morton was brought to the scaffold (June
1581). During the interval between his arrest and execution, the English
Council were urgent with Elizabeth to invade Scotland, rescue the
Anglophile leader, and crush Lennox. She went all lengths in the way of
threats. Lord Hunsdon was even ordered to muster an army on the Border.
But this last step at once produced an energetic protest from the
French ambassador; and in Scotland there was a general rally of all
parties against the “auld enemies.” Elizabeth had never meant to make
her threats good, and Morton was left to his fate. She was quite right
not to invade Scotland; but, that being her intention, she should not
have tempted Morton to treason by the promise of her protection. No male
statesman would have been so insensible to dishonour.
The death of the man who, next to Moray, had been the mainstay of the
Reformation and the scourge of the Marian party, was received with a
shout of exultation from Catholic Europe. Already in their heated
imaginations the Jesuits saw the Kirk overthrown and the vantage ground
gained for an attack on England. Some modern historians--with less
excuse, since they have the sequel before their eyes--make the same
blunder. The situation was really unchanged. Morton, who had the true
antipathy of a Scottish noble to clerics of all sorts, had plundered the
Kirk ministers, and tried to bring them under the episcopal yoke. He had
quarrelled with most of his old associates of the Congregation. It was
their enmity quite as much as the attack of Lennox that had pulled him
down. When he was out of the way they naturally reverted to an
Anglophile policy. The weakness of the Catholic party was plainly shown
by the fact that Lennox himself, the pupil of the Jesuits, never
ventured to throw off the disguise of a heretic.
The further development of the Jesuit scheme met with difficulties on
all sides. Most even of the Catholic lords were alarmed by the
suggestion that James should hold the crown by the gift of his mother,
because it would imply that hitherto he had not been lawful King; and
this would invalidate their titles to all the lands they had grabbed
from Church and crown during the last fourteen years. It would seem
therefore that, if they had harassed the Government during all that
time, it was from a liking for anarchy rather than from attachment to
Mary. Two Jesuits, Crichton and Holt, who were sent in disguise to
Scotland, found Lennox desponding. He was obliged to confess that,
greatly as he had fascinated the King, he could not move him an inch in
his religious opinions. On the contrary, James imagined that his
controversial skill had converted Lennox, and was extremely proud of the
feat. The only course remaining was to seize him, and send him to France
or Spain, Lennox in the meantime administering the Government in the
name of Mary. But to carry out this stroke, Lennox said he must have a
foreign army. In view of the mutual jealousy of France and Spain it was
suggested that, if Philip would furnish money underhand, the Pope might
send an Italian army direct to Scotland, _viâ_ the Straits of Gibraltar.
Crichton went to Rome to arrange this precious scheme, and Holt was
proceeding to Madrid. But Philip forbade him to come. If Lennox could
convert James, or send him to Spain, well and good. But until one of
these preliminaries was accomplished he was to expect no help from
Philip. Nor were prospects more hopeful on the side of France. Mary from
her prison implored Guise to undertake the long-planned expedition. But
he would not venture it without the assent of his own sovereign and the
King of Spain. While he was hesitating, the Anglophiles patched up their
differences and got possession of the King’s person (Raid of Ruthven,
August 1582). His tears were unavailing. “Better bairns greet,” said the
Master of Glamis, “than bearded men.” The favourite fled to France,
where he died in the next year.
Thus once more had it been clearly shown that if the Anglophiles were
left to depend on themselves they would not fail to do all that was
necessary to safeguard English interests. “Anglophiles” is a convenient
appellation. But, strictly speaking, there was no party in Scotland that
loved England. There was a religious party to whom it was of the highest
importance that Elizabeth should be safe and powerful. She was therefore
certain of its co-operation. This party would not be always uppermost;
for Scottish nobles were too selfish, too treacherous, too much
interested in disorder to permit any stability. But, whether in power or
in opposition, it would be able and it would be obliged to serve English
interests. There was only one way in which it could be paralysed or
alienated, and that was by a recurrence on the part of England to the
traditions of armed interference inherited by Elizabeth’s councillors
from Henry VIII. and the Protector Somerset.
Such is the plain history of this Jesuit and Papal scheme which we are
asked to believe was so dangerous to England and so inadequately handled
by Elizabeth. She had not shown much concern for her honour. But her
coolness, her intrepidity, her correct estimate of the forces with which
she had to deal, her magnificent confidence in her own judgment, saved
England from the endless expenditure of blood and treasure into which
her advisers would have plunged, and prolonged the formal peace with her
three principal neighbours, a peace of already unexampled duration, and
of incalculable advantage to her country.
The policy which Elizabeth had thus deliberately adopted towards
Scotland she persisted in. The successful Anglophiles clamoured for
pensions, and her ministers were for gratifying them. She was willing to
give a moderate pension to James, but not a penny to the nobles. “Her
servants and favourites,” she said, “professed to love her for her high
qualities, Alençon for her beauty, and the Scots for her crown; but they
all wanted the same thing in the end; they wanted nothing but her money,
and they should not have it.” She had ascertained that James regarded
his mother as his rival for the crowns of both kingdoms, and that,
whatever he might sometimes pretend, his real wish was that she should
be kept under lock and key. She had also satisfied herself that the
Scottish noblemen on whom Mary counted would, with very few exceptions,
throw every difficulty in the way of her restoration, out of regard for
their own private interests--the only _datum_ from which it was safe to
calculate in dealing with a Scottish nobleman. She therefore felt
herself secure. By communicating her knowledge to Mary she could show
her the hopelessness of her intrigues in Scotland; while a resumption of
friendly negotiations for her restoration would always be a cheap and
effectual way of intimidating James. Thus she could look on with
equanimity when his new favourite Stewart, Earl of Arran,[5] again
chased the Anglophiles into England (December 1583). Arran himself
urgently entreated her to accept him and his young master as the genuine
Anglophiles. Walsingham’s voice was still for war. But, with both
factions at her feet and suing for her favour, Elizabeth had good reason
to be satisfied with her policy of leaving the Scottish nobles to worry
it out among themselves.