Charles, on his way to England, had reason for anxious care and steady forethought. Never had an English Prince come to the throne under such circumstances. A civil war was just over—the swelling of the storm had hardly ceased; a party adverse to that which the King regarded as his own remained still in power; many were expecting at his hand favour for recent services, notwithstanding former offences; Presbyterians looked at least for comprehension within the Establishment. Independents, Baptists, Quakers, asked for toleration, and Roman Catholics, who had been friends to the beheaded father and the exiled son, thought themselves entitled to some measure of religious liberty. The Episcopal Church claimed the new Monarch as her own; her prelates and ministers were waiting to welcome him—to open in the parish churches once more the beautiful old Prayer Book, with its litanies and collects for the King and Royal family. They sought exclusive re-establishment; they would cast out all Presbyterian intruders—they would tolerate no Sectaries. Here were perplexing circumstances to be encountered. The Breda Declaration had bound Charles to be considerate in dealing with religious matters, to show respect for tender consciences. Comprehension, toleration—he stood pledged to promote. But how were the problems to be solved? He was a Constitutional King. He was to rule through Parliaments. Should bigotry arise and carry all before it in the Commons' House, as elsewhere, what was he to do? Should his Ministers differ from him, how then? Such possibilities gazed at by a thoughtful man might well have made him anxious, if not alarmed. Who would not sympathize with any conscientious prince under such circumstances? Charles possessed certain intellectual and social qualities which fitted him for the task he had now to perform; for he had common sense—was keen and clever, with quick insight into character, made still more so by large acquaintance with human nature,—he knew how to put unpleasant things in a pleasant way,—could command considerable powers of persuasion when he liked, and was courteous, affable, and of winning manners. But he was not thoughtful—not conscientious; he lacked the two things which alone could enable him to turn his abilities and experience to good account. The crown was to him a toy; the throne a chair of pleasure, at best, of pompous state. The heedless, folly-loving prince takes himself quite out of the range of our sympathies, and leaves us to condemn the breach of his plighted faith, and all the intolerance incident to his return. A useless controversy was once carried on as to whether he was really a Papist at the time of the Restoration. It is idle to dispute respecting the theological opinions of a man so utterly destitute of religious feeling and thoughtfulness. That he was not a Protestant at the time—meaning by the word a person attached to the Reformed faith—is plain enough from what is said by those who knew him best. Probably Buckingham, who calls him a Deist, is nearest the truth.[89] But that he had sympathies with the Roman Catholic party, and considered their Church as the most convenient for an easy-living gentleman like himself, there can be no doubt. Had death stared him in the face just after his return, he would probably have sought refuge in confession and priestly absolution, as he did twenty-five years later. Yet he professed to be a Protestant by solemn kingly acts, and in other ways when he thought it politic. Charles was a dissembler.[90] He had, with all his occasional rollicking frankness, an almost equal mastery over his conversation and his countenance. His face, encompassed by flowing black locks, illuminated by lustrous eyes, was said to be as little a blab as most men's: it might tell tales to a good physiognomist, but it was no prattler to people in general. If he had a wish to conceal his purpose, he could do it effectually. Lord Halifax apologized for him by saying, that if he dissembled it is to be remembered "that dissimulation is a jewel of the crown," and that "it is very hard for a man not to do sometimes too much of that which he concludeth necessary for him to practise."[91]
Monk proceeded to Dover May the 22nd.[92] Numbers of the nobility and gentry wished to follow him, and he arranged that they should march in companies, in differently-coloured uniforms, under certain noblemen, who were to act as captains of these loyal bands. They had not fought any of Monk's battles; they came in now to swell Monk's triumph. As the General was standing at a window in the City of Canterbury, while they marched by gaily with green scarfs and feathers, a friend observed: "You had none of these at Coldstream, General; but grasshoppers and butterflies never come abroad in frosty weather, and, at the best, never abound in Scotland."
THE KING'S RETURN.
On Friday, the 25th of May, at one o'clock, Charles landed at Dover; and, notwithstanding his levity, his heart surely must have been touched as the Castle guns gave him welcome; and another and far more gladdening demonstration proceeded from the ten thousands of his subjects, who lined the pebbly beach, or looked down from the old chalk cliffs, waving their broad-brimmed and feathered hats, and giving the home-bound exile right hearty cheers such as only Englishmen can give. General Monk, with all the nobility and gentry present, prostrated themselves before the Prince as he stepped ashore, with his plumed beaver in his hand; and some rushed forward to kiss the hem of his garment, whilst he gracefully raised from his knees, and embraced the soldier, who whatever might be his character in other respects, had certainly proved the star of his master's fortune. A canopy was ready for His Majesty, as he walked to the town; and the Mayor and Aldermen made obeisance as their chaplain placed in the Royal hands a gold-clasped Bible. No Bishop was present.
1660.
A State coach stood in waiting, in which the King seated himself, the Duke of York by his side, and opposite, the Duke of Gloucester; General Monk and the Duke of Buckingham occupying the boot. Thus they travelled two miles out of Dover, when they mounted horse, and so proceeded the rest of the way to Canterbury,—where speeches were made, and a gold tankard was presented to the King; on the following day several persons were knighted by him, and Monk, the real hero of the hour, was invested with the Order of the Garter. All went to the Cathedral on Sunday, when the Liturgy was used; and on Monday they proceeded to Rochester, where a basin and ewer, silver-gilt, were loyally given, and graciously accepted. Between four and five o'clock on Tuesday morning, they started again, "the militia forces of Kent lining the ways, and maidens strewing herbs and flowers, and the several towns hanging out white sheets." At Dartford, certain regiments of cavalry presented an address, and at Blackheath, the old Army appeared drawn up to meet the very Monarch against whom so many of them had been fighting. The vexation felt at this termination of the great change inaugurated by the Civil Wars must have touched many a Republican to the quick; and at the moment of their chagrin rapturous feelings filled many a noble Royalist, like those which inspired the Nunc dimittas of Sir Henry Lee, so touchingly described on the last page of Scott's Woodstock.
THE KING'S RETURN.
At St. George's-in-the-Field the Corporation of London waited in a tent to receive their Sovereign, where the Lord Mayor presented the City sword, and then the procession slowly moving from Southwark, passed through the City Gates, crossed the pent-up alley of London Bridge, and marched on through Cheapside, Fleet-street, and the Strand, the houses all the way adorned with tapestry;—the train bands lining the streets on one side, and the livery companies on the other. A troop of 300 men, in cloth of silver doublets, led the van; then came 1200 in velvet coats, with footmen in purple; followed by another troop in buff and silver, and rich green scarfs; then 150 in blue and silver, with six trumpeters and seven footmen in sea-green and silver; then a troop of 220, with 30 footmen in grey and silver; then other troops in like splendour. The Sheriff's men in red cloaks, to the number of fourscore, with half-pikes—and hundreds of the companies on horseback in black velvet with golden chains followed in due order. Preceded by kettle-drums and trumpets, came twelve London ministers, their Genevan gowns and bands looking "sad" amidst the glaring colours. The Life Guards followed: more trumpeters appeared in satin doublets; and next, the City Marshal, attended by footmen in French green trimmed with white and crimson. The City Waits succeeded, and next the Sheriffs and the Aldermen, with their footmen in scarlet, and with heralds. The Lord Mayor carried the Sword of State, and close by him rode Monk and the Duke of Buckingham. Then appeared the King, accompanied by his brothers York and Gloucester: the Royal eyes, black and keen, looking out with gracious smiles from a sallow face on the gathered thousands, who, with awe and delight, returned the gaze. Troops, with white flags, brought up the rear; and thus the gaudy and imposing pageant filed under the very window, where fourteen years before had stood the scaffold of Charles I.[93]
1660.
As soon as Charles II. had taken his seat on the throne addresses flowed in from all quarters—from the nobility, the gentry, and the militia of counties; from the Corporations and inhabitants of towns, and from divers religious bodies. The time had not yet come for Episcopalians to address His Majesty. Presbyterianism, recognized by the Convention as the established religion, had not been dethroned from its supremacy; and it was not quite safe at present for its great rival ecclesiastical power prominently to show itself. Their silence just then is very significant. The Roman Catholics, many of whom had sacrificed much for the sake of the Stuart family, assured the King of their attachment; and distinctly repudiated the doctrine, that the Pope can lay any commands upon English Catholic subjects in civil and temporal matters; also the "damnable and most un-Christian position,"—these are the very words—"that kings or absolute princes, of what belief soever, who are excommunicated by the Pope may be deposed, killed, or murthered by their subjects."[94] Presbyterian ministers expressed the warmest loyalty. "Such," they said, "of late days, have been the wonderful appearances of God towards both your Royal self and the people, that (when we feared our quarrels should be entailed and bound over to posterity) we hope they all are miraculously taken up in your Majesty's restoration to your Crown and imperial dignity. It cannot be denied, but that Providence was eminently exalted in the work of your protection for many years; but it seems to avail to the efficacy of that grace, which hath prevented you from putting forth your hands unto iniquity, and sinful compliances with the enemies of the Protestant, and in disposing of the hearts of your subjects to receive you with loyalty and affection." With this expression of loyalty is combined the utterance of hope. "We beseech you not to give Him less than He requires by way of gratitude, of which we are the more confident, when we consider your Majesty's gracious letters to both Houses of Parliament, with the enclosed Declaration, wherein we see your zeal for the Protestant religion, with a pitiful heart toward tender consciences, wherein we have assurance that the hail of your displeasure shall not fall on any who have (upon the word of Moses) betaken themselves to yourself as a sanctuary. And now, most gracious Sovereign, what remains for us to do? We are not fit to advise you, but give us leave to be your remembrancers before the Lord." They conclude with devout aspirations for His Majesty's spiritual welfare: "May you never see the handwriting on the wall that your kingdom is divided, but let this be your motto—'Not by power, not by might, but by the Spirit.' May you rejoice in this, that you have better chariots and horsemen (in the many of your subjects who are faithful, chosen, and true) than other princes can boast of. And still, may your tenderness be found, that of a nursing father towards the young and weak of the flock that cannot pace it with their elder brethren, and yet are God's anointed, nay, God's jewels, the apple of His eye, His children, they for whom Christ died, and is now an Intercessor."[95]