The regent, Mary de Guise, having died in June 1560, while her daughter
Mary, the nominally reigning queen, was still in France, the management
of affairs fell into the hands of the body of nobles, styled Lords
of the Congregation, who had struggled for the establishment of
the Protestant faith. The chief of these was Lord James Stuart, an
illegitimate son of James V., and brother of the queen--the man of by
far the greatest sagacity and energy of his age and country, and a most
earnest votary of the new religion.
Becoming a widow in December 1560, by the death of her husband, Francis
II., Mary no longer had any tie binding her to France, and consequently
she resolved on returning to her own dominions. When she arrived in
Edinburgh, in August 1561, she found the Protestant religion so firmly
established, and so universally accepted by the people--there being
only some secluded districts where Catholicism still prevailed--that,
so far from having a chance of restoring her kingdom to Rome, as
she, ‘an unpersuaded princess,’ might have wished to do, it was with
the greatest difficulty that she could be allowed to have the mass
performed in a private room in her palace. The people regarded her
beautiful face with affection; and, as she allowed her brother, Lord
James, and other Protestant nobles to act for her, her government was
far from unpopular.
Mary’s conduct towards the Protestant cause appeared as that of one who
submits to what cannot be resisted. Before she had been fifteen months
in the country, she accompanied her brother (whom she created Earl of
Moray) on an expedition to the north, where she broke the power of
the Gordon family, who boasted they could restore the Catholic faith
in three counties. What is still more remarkable, she dealt with the
patrimony of the church, accepting part of the spoils for the use of
the state. It is believed, nevertheless, that she designed ultimately
to act in concert with the Catholic powers of the continent for the
restoration of the old religion in Scotland. One obvious motive for
keeping on fair terms with Protestantism for the present, lay in her
hopes of succeeding to the English crown, in the event of the death of
Elizabeth, whose next heir she was.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: 1561.]
A custom, dating far back in Catholic times, prevailed in Edinburgh
in unchecked luxuriance down almost to the time of the Reformation.
It consisted in a set of unruly dramatic games, called _Robin Hood_,
the _Abbot of Unreason_, and the _Queen of May_, which were enacted
every year in the floral month just mentioned. The interest felt by the
populace in these whimsical merry-makings was intense. At the approach
of May, they assembled and chose some respectable individuals of their
number, very grave and reverend citizens perhaps, to act the parts of
Robin Hood and Little John, of the Lord of Inobedience, or the Abbot of
Unreason, and ‘make sports and jocosities’[5] for them. If the chosen
actors felt it inconsistent with their tastes, gravity, or engagements,
to don a fantastic dress, caper and dance, and incite their neighbours
to do the like, they could only be excused on paying a fine. On the
appointed day, always a Sunday or holiday, the people assembled
in their best attire and in military array, and marched in blithe
procession to some neighbouring field, where the fitting preparations
had been made for their amusement. Robin Hood and Little John
robbed bishops, fought with pinners, and contended in archery among
themselves, as they had done in reality two centuries before.[6] The
Abbot of Unreason kicked up his heels and played antics like a modern
pantaloon. The popular relish for all this was such as can scarcely
now be credited. ‘A learned prelate [Latimer] preaching before Edward
VI., observes, that he once came to a town upon a holiday, and gave
information on the evening before of his design to preach. But next day
when he came to the church, he found the door locked. He tarried half
an hour ere the key could be found, and instead of a willing audience,
some one told him: “This is a busy day with us; we cannot hear you. It
is Robin Hood’s day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin
Hood. I pray you let [hinder] them not.” I was fain (says the bishop)
to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been
regarded, though I were not; but it would not serve. It was fain to
give place to Robin Hood’s men.’[7]
[Sidenote: 1561.]
Such were the Robin Hood plays of Catholic and unthinking times. By and
by, when the Reformation approached, they were found to be disorderly
and discreditable, and an act of parliament was passed against
them.[8] Still, while the upper and more serious classes frowned, the
common sort of people loved the sport too much to resign it without a
struggle. It came to be one of the first difficulties of the men who
had carried through the Reformation, how to wrestle the people out of
their love of the May-games.
In April 1561, one George Durie was chosen in Edinburgh as Robin Hood
and Lord of Inobedience, and on Sunday the 12th of May, he and a great
number of other persons came riotously into the city, with an ensign
and arms in their hands, in disregard of both the act of parliament
and an act of the town-council. Notwithstanding an effort of the
magistrates to turn them back, they passed to the Castle Hill, and
thence returned at their own pleasure. For this offence a cordiner’s
servant, named James Gillon, was condemned to be hanged on the 21st of
July.
[Sidenote: 1561.