“Christ’s was the Word that spake it;
He took the bread, and brake it.
And what that Word doth make it,
That I believe, and take it”—
was signally characteristic of the teaching of the Church of England, which claimed primitive Catholicity and unbroken Apostolical succession. The assertion was at once pious and safe, and eminently illustrates the temper of the communion which has embraced within its fold such children as Jeremy Taylor, Burnet, Nicholas Ferrar and his ascetic following, Sherlock, Laud, Stanley, Pusey, the Wilberforces; and whose rebuke to a Sacheverell was administered mainly on the score of good breeding, and, if it lost a Wesley, is not careful to cry mea culpa.
For a generation or two the interest attaching to the new-old teaching of the Church of England, and its general adopting, pretty well absorbed the attention of all classes, more especially of the upper and middle ranks; but the more the doctrines were assimilated, the more they nourished a sense of the need of temporal freedom, and roused speculation in thoughtful minds as to what was most needed and wholesome for the social well-being of the State. The old dogma of kingly supremacy had become, to say the least, unpalatable since the days of the despotic Henry VIII. The English nation had no mind to endure tyranny from the new dynasty; and many had looked with suspicion upon James Stuart, not forgetful that the blood of the papist and haughty Guises ran in his veins, and that he held with marvellous tenacity to the dogma, if in his case one might not call it the hobby, of kingly supremacy. Fond of scribbling, and endowed in his own estimation with surpassing argumentative and theological faculties, he sustained and comforted his bodily and mental timidity by pompous assertion and spiritual aphorism concerning the right of kingly control over everything the sun shone upon within his realm. The dogma of the infallibility of the Pope, James I. matched by his postulate that the king could not merely do no wrong, but that everything he did and willed was to be applauded and obeyed. The difficulty was to impose this view upon a sufficient number of his influential subjects to make it work satisfactorily; those wise and moderate counsellors of Elizabeth’s reign, who survived into James’ time, kept him in check, and their experience of feminine weaknesses and short-comings in Elizabeth’s vigorous mind was further widened by an acquaintance with the depths of folly and of childish self-conceit into which an anointed king could fall. Such men as Lord Chancellor Cecil and John Hampden had troublesome conviction of this; and King James I., whom Sully dubbed the wisest fool that ever lived, and Henri IV. relegated to the grades of “Captain of Arts and Bachelor of Arms,” however strong himself in the comfortable doctrines of the divine right of kings, failed in arresting the growth of the life of political liberty.
With much pompous declaration however, and long-winded argument, James did his best. Warfare of words was better suited to the man who, it is said, was apt to swoon at sight of a naked sword; and when all other argument and precept failed to produce the desired impression, he took refuge in citing the example of his brother monarchs of France and of Spain. “The King of England,” said James, by the mouth of his ministers to the Commons, “cannot appear of meaner importance than his equals.” And in this creed he caused his son to be reared. An early death took the elder and promising Prince Henry from the coming troubles, and the sensitive, proud, obstinate, vacillating Charles was left to struggle with the coil of cruel circumstance already so rapidly beginning to tangle up.
As if to strengthen the effect of this mental sustenance with which Charles had been fed as regularly as he had partaken of daily material food, James sent the young prince—or at least allowed him to go—to Spain with the gay, extravagant, thoughtless Duke of Buckingham. “Baby Charles” and “Steenie,” as the King called the two, travelled incognito upon this romantic pilgrimage, stopping by the way in Paris, to sow the seeds of future mischief at the Court of Louis XIII. in the Duke’s thinly veiled admiration for Anne of Austria. The journey to Madrid however, which was originated for the end of marrying Charles to the Infanta, defeated its own object; but Charles returned to England perfected by what he had seen in his travels—in his lesson of kingcraft. Endowed with a graceful presence, and, despite a certain coldness and reserve, with winning manners, he had a scholarly and thoughtful mind; but both nature and rearing had made him a man only of his day, or, more truly, of the time preceding it. He had no gifts of penetration or of prescience. He could not look into the future, any more than he was able to read the existing signs of the times. He had been to Spain. His eyes had been dazzled by the glitter of spoil from the New World, the splendour and pomp and punctilio of the Court of Madrid, and the magnificence of the Spanish grandees. He had seen with his own eyes the success of Loyola’s scheme of religious and political orthodoxy, and its supreme power of snuffing out obnoxious speculation, theological and scientific; but he could not discern beneath the rich embroidery of the veil its rotten foundation, which in two or three generations was to crumble like the cerements of the grave in the pure light of day, and disclose the corruption and festering beneath. He had witnessed the brilliancy of the afterglow which the memory of the adored soldier Henri Quatre had left, and it was small wonder if his mind’s eye failed to reach across the gulf of coming years to that time when lettres de cachet would make fuel for burning the Bastille, and the yellow sanbenitos of heretics should be changed for bonnets rouges and carmagnoles. The guillotine was to reek with the blood, not alone of aristocrats, but of the sons and daughters themselves, of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. “The Revolution,” said one of its noblest victims, “is devouring its own children”; and the contagion of hatred against kings and queens and all their tribe spread over Europe till confusion grew worse confounded.
Looking back to those early days of Charles’s reign, the question hardly fails to suggest itself, how far the troubles of the time would have been even aggravated had he married the Infanta of Spain instead of the French princess. Protestantism in Spain had been stifled at the birth; but in France it still had healthy breathing-room, tempering the atmosphere of Romanist belief, and influencing even the most devoted and uncompromising of Rome’s adherents. Neighboured by Switzerland, Holland, and Germany, the philosophy of Erasmus, the humanitarianism of Arminius, the teaching of Luther and of Calvin, all mingled with the stream of orthodox theological speculation, till, overflowing into fresh channels, it verged so closely and so frequently on theories of Catholic reform, that Pope Urban made a vigorous attempt to stem the tide by his bull Unigenitus, ostensibly directed against the Jansenists only. Thus, in France, thought and religious speculation were kept not merely from stagnating, but in active ferment; while in Spain, the repressive Jesuit system froze and fossilised religion. Outside passive obedience to dogma, said the disciples of Loyola, could be no salvation; but in France, such cast-iron ruling was gone for ever in Church and State. The white plume in the cap of the Huguenot-reared hero of Ivry brought loyal subjects rallying round him, as entirely as the little leaden images of Our Lady and the saints, with which the bigoted Louis XI. decorated his hat-brims, had repelled his people.
The growing Puritanic spirit in England however, which had but scanty affection for Episcopalianism itself, was not likely to draw fine distinctions. In the popular acceptation of the term, “Catholic” was identical with papist and Romanist; for, with a singular indifference, the papists had been permitted to appropriate the term. The young Queen was a Roman Catholic, greatly attached to the forms and ceremonial of her Church; bringing with her from France a train of Romanist priests and followers. Charles himself was the grandson of the woman who had died kissing the crucifix with her last breath. None of these considerations were lost sight of when the King began to ask subsidies of his faithful Commons, and showed generally a disposition to rule with a high hand.