“And because the passion and uncharitableness of the times have produced several opinions in Religion by which men are engaged in parties and animosities against each other (which, when they shall hereafter unite in a freedom of conversation, will be composed or better understood) we do declare a liberty to tender Consciences, and that no man shall be disquieted or called in question for differences of opinion in matters of Religion which do not disturb the peace of the Kingdom; and that we shall be ready to consent to such an Act of Parliament as upon mature deliberation shall be offered to us for the full granting of that indulgence.”
It is only doing the king bare justice to say that he was always ready and willing to keep this part of his royal word—but it proved an impossibility.
A Roman Catholic as a matter of creed, a Hobbist in conversation, a sensualist in practice, and the shrewdest though most indolent of cynics in council, Charles, in this matter of religious toleration, would gladly have kept his word, not indeed because it was his word, for on the point of honour he was indifferent, but because it jumped with his humour, and would have mitigated the hard lot of the Catholics. Charles was not a theorist, all his tastes being eminently practical, not to say scientific. He was not a tyrant, but a de facto man from head to heel. For the jure divino of the English Episcopate he cared as little as Oliver had ever done for the jure divino of the English Crown. Oliver once said, and he was not given to braggadocio, that he would fire his pistol at the king “as soon as at another if he met him in battle,” and the second Charles would have thought no more of beheading an Anglican bishop than he did of sending Sir Harry Vane to the scaffold. Honesty and virtue, on the rare occasions Charles encountered them, he admired much as a painter admires the colours of a fine sunset. Above everything else Charles was determined never again, if he could help it, to be sent on his travels, to be snubbed and starved in foreign courts.
Sir Thomas Urquhart of Cromartie, the first and best translator of Rabelais, is said to have died of laughing on hearing of the Restoration; Charles did not die, but he must have laughed inwardly at the spectacle that met his eyes everywhere as he made his often-described progress from Dover to London, and examined the gorgeous beds and quilts, fine linen and carpets, couches, horses and liveries, his faithful Commons had been at the pains and at the expense of providing for his comfort.
A few years afterwards Marvell wrote the following lines:—
“Of a tall stature and of sable hue,
Much like the son of Kish, that lofty Jew;
Twelve years complete he suffered in exile
And kept his father’s asses all the while.
At length, by wonderful impulse of fate,
The people called him home to help the state,
And what is more they sent him money too
To clothe him all from head to foot anew;
Nor did he such small favours then disdain,
Who in his thirtieth year began his reign.”[1]
The “small favours” grew in size year by year.
Why it was impossible for Charles to keep his word may be read in Clarendon’s Life, and in the history of the Savoy Conference, and need not be restated here. In the opinion of the Anglican clergy, the king’s divine right stood no higher than their own. They too had suffered in exile. They had been “robbed” of their tithes, and turned out of their palaces, rectories and vicarages, and excluded from the churches they still called “theirs.” Their Book of Common Prayer was no longer in common use, having been banished by the “Directory of Public Worship” since 1645. So late as July 1, 1660, Pepys records attending a service in the Abbey, and adds “No Common Prayer yet.” If we find ourselves wondering why the Anglican party should have been so powerful in 1660, our wonder ought not to be greater than is excited by the power of the Puritan party when Laud was put to death. Both parties were, on each occasion, in a minority. Though England has never been long priest-ridden, it has often been priest-led.
The Convention Parliament did all that was expected of it. It was, however irregularly summoned, a truly representative assembly. Its members all swore—what will not members of Parliament swear?—that the king was supreme in Church and State, the only rightful king of the realm and of all other his dominions, and that from their hearts they abhorred, detested, and abjured the damnable doctrine that princes, excommunicated or deprived of the Pope, might be murdered by their subjects. They proceeded to pass a very useful Act of Indemnity and Oblivion, agreeing to let bygones be bygones, except in certain named cases. They ordered Mr. John Milton to be taken into custody, and prosecuted (which he never was) by the Attorney-General. Later on the poet was released from custody, and we find Mr. Marvell complaining to the House that their sergeant had extracted £150 in fees before he would let Mr. Milton go. On which Sir Heneage Finch, afterwards Lord Chancellor, laconically observed that Milton deserved hanging. He certainly got off easily, but, as he lived to publish Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes, he may be said to have earned his freedom. All his poetry put together never brought him in a third of the sum the sergeant got for letting him out of prison. General Monk, the man-midwife, who so skilfully assisted at that great Birth of Time, the Restoration, was made a duke, and Cromwell’s army, so long the force behind the supreme power, was paid its arrears and (two regiments excepted) disbanded. “Fifty thousand men,” says Macaulay, “accustomed to the profession of arms, were thrown upon the world ... in a few months there remained not a trace indicating that the most formidable army in the world had just been absorbed in the mass of the community.”[1]
After this the House of Commons fell to discussing religion, and made the sad discovery that differences of opinion still existed. In these circumstances they decided to refer the matter to their pious king, and to such divines as he might choose. They then voted large sums of money for the royal establishment, and, it being the very end of August, adjourned till the 6th of November. As for making constitutional terms with the king, they never attempted it, though Sir Matthew Hale is credited with an attempt to induce them to do so. Any proposals of the kind must have failed. The people were in no mood for making constitutions.