by John Buchan
During the absence of the royal commissioner from Scotland in July, the Tables made a great effort to win Aberdeen and the Gordon country to the Covenant’s side. Huntly himself would have none of it. His house might be perverse and uncertain, but it never lacked a high spirit and a wild chivalry, and he went his own way contemptuous of Lowland fashions. The Tables sent Colonel Robert Monro, an old soldier of Gustavus, to ask him to subscribe the Covenant, promising to give him first place in the command of their forces; but Huntly replied nobly that his family had risen by the kings of Scotland, and that if the king were to fall he was resolved to bury his life, honour, and estate under the rubbish. But something might be done in the city and its environs, though Knox’s disputation in 1561 with the Aberdeen professors was not an encouraging precedent. Montrose, with three ministers in his suite — Mr. Alexander Henderson, Mr. David Dickson, and Mr. Andrew Cant — arrived on 20th July, bearing a letter from Rothes to his cousin the provost, Patrick Leslie. “Do ye all the good ye can in that town and in the country about — ye will not regret it — and attend my Lord Montrose, who is a noble and true-hearted cavalier.” Montrose had been made a burgess of Aberdeen nine years before, and he and his retinue were hospitably welcomed. But he seems to have been in an unbending humour. He declined the proffered banquet until the authorities submitted to the Covenant, whereupon the provost and the bailies distributed the wine among the poor. On the Sunday the three ministers proposed to occupy the city pulpits, but the Aberdeen clergy were not to be ousted. The missionaries were accommodated in a yard attached to the Earl Marischal’s town-house, where his sister, Lady Pitsligo, was then dwelling. The three preached in turn from a wooden gallery, and on the Monday repeated the performance, amid the ribaldry of certain scoffers in an adjoining building.
Thereafter the envoys proceeded into the neighbouring villages, where they met with more success. The Aberdeen ministers presented fourteen “demands,” and there followed a wordy warfare of “answers,” “replies,” and “duplies,” in which the Covenant champions did not get the best of the argument. Aberdeen declared that it adhered to the discipline of the reformed Kirk of Scotland, but refused to condemn episcopacy or admit “the immutability of presbyterial government.” It is to be noted that, in asking for subscriptions to the Covenant, Montrose drew up and made his colleagues sign an emphatic declaration “that we neither had nor have any intention but of loyalty to his Majesty, as the Covenant bears.” He was interpreting what he then believed — and the bulk of Scotland with him — to be its spirit. But the incident is piquant when we remember who were his ministerial companions. Henderson, the wisest head and the purest character in the Kirk, was five years later to make the last attempt to hold him to the Covenant’s side, and Dickson and Cant were to be the central pillars of the theocracy which he sought to overthrow. Perhaps on that northern journey he may have found in their hearts that which gave his enthusiasm pause, and developed those scruples which made Baillie complain that he was “hard to be guided,” and “capricious for his own fancies.” He returned to Edinburgh at the end of July with but little to show for his labours. His future visits to Aberdeen were to be to better purpose.
II
1638
The Assembly which met in Glasgow in November was a legal gathering, sanctioned by the king, and duly presided over by Hamilton, the royal commissioner. The issues between sovereign and people had been narrowed. Charles had surrendered all the earlier objects of strife — the liturgy, the book of canons, and an irresponsible episcopate. It appeared that he was prepared to accept a moderate episcopacy responsible to a General Assembly, the original constitution of the Reformed Kirk in Scotland. But with the people at large the controversy had now gone far beyond the articles of the National Covenant. Episcopacy in any form had become suspect, because it had been made the instrument of an assault upon both civil and religious freedom. To Charles, as to Hamilton, some form of episcopate was an essential corollary of a monarchy. To them it appeared that the control over the Kirk given by bishops appointed by the king was the only safeguard against an anarchical theocracy; to the Scottish people it seemed that so long as this channel for arbitrary government was left unblocked there was no security against further encroachments upon their liberties. The historian may admit that there was reason in both views, but it was certain that the Assembly, the first held for twenty years, would demand the complete removal of the latter menace.
It met on the 21st day of November, in the old Cathedral of Glasgow, one of the few ancient churches in Scotland which had escaped the destroying zeal of the Reformers. Glasgow was then a clean little city of some 12,000 inhabitants, clustered about its college and cathedral above the shining links of the Molendinar burn. The Assembly was a packed one, since the Tables, as appeared during the proceedings, had exercised a rigorous veto over the delegates. Of these there were some 240, 142 being ministers, and 98 laymen, ruling elders appointed by presbyteries. The Privy Council attended, and there were numerous assessors. Hamilton had striven to regulate the body by a proclamation — completely disregarded — against the presence of retainers and the bearing of arms. The nobles and barons appeared each with his usual “tail,” and not a few of the clerical members had swords and pistols, ostensibly to defend themselves on the journey against a certain John Macgregor, a bandit who professed a distaste for the Covenant and a liking for the king.
The crowd at the opening was so great that the town guard had the utmost difficulty in opening a way for the members to their seats. The Glasgow populace attended in great numbers, and their behaviour in the kirk shocked the decorous soul of Mr. Robert Baillie. “It is here alone where, I think, we might learn from Canterbury, yea, from the Pope, from the Turks, or pagans, modesty and manners. . . . Our rascals without shame, in great numbers, made such dinn and clamour in the house of the true God, that if they minted to use the like behaviour in my chamber, I could not be content till they were down the stairs.” Hamilton sat uneasily on a high chair of state, and below him the Lords of the Privy Council — conspicuous among them the lean aquiline face and the red hair of Lorn, now, by his father’s death, Earl of Argyll, and a figure of interest to every man, since he had not declared himself. In front of them was a chair for the Moderator, and a table for the Clerk. Then came a long bench at which were seated the nobles and barons elected by the presbyteries, and at which sat Montrose as an elder, representing his own presbytery of Auchterarder. At the end of the church a platform had been erected for the eldest sons of peers, and in tiers on both sides were the seats of the clerical and burgess members. The “rascal multitude,” including many women, occupied the aisles and galleries. It was a strange form of ecclesiastical assembly, for among the black gowns of the ministers were the slashed and laced doublets of the laity, and the gleam of many swords.
Alexander Henderson was unanimously elected Moderator, and Wariston, Clerk. The first step was to verify the commissions of the members, and Hamilton found cause to question the legality of many. His objection to the presence of laymen was without substance, as their admission was in accordance with the letter and spirit of Presbyterianism. With better reason he protested against the method of electing these laymen, and the way in which the Tables had supervised the appointments. A test case was that of Lord Carnegie, Montrose’s brother-in-law, who had been nominated by the presbytery of Brechin, but disallowed by the Tables, and Erskine of Dun named in his stead. Montrose had been the chief mover in the matter, and, when Wariston inadvertently read the letter of the Tables, Hamilton seized upon the irregularity. Montrose hotly defended it, and thereby came into conflict not only with Southesk, his father-in-law, but with Mr. David Dickson, who questioned his action. The young man was in a high temper, and in the cause he had chosen was prepared to respect neither kinsman nor cleric.
The Assembly waved aside the royal commissioner’s doubts as to its competence and constitution, and proceeded to the business at the back of every member’s head —
the abolition of episcopacy. The bishops had refused to acknowledge the court or to appear before it, and, when their formal declinature had been handed in, Hamilton decided to dissolve the Assembly. On the morning of 28th November, after recapitulating the king’s concessions, he declared the Assembly illegal owing to the method of its election, and “discharged their further proceedings under pain of treason.” He was answered in moderate language by Rothes and Henderson, but the latter refused to accept the dissolution. “All that are here know the reasons of the meeting of this Assembly, and, albeit we have acknowledged the power of Christian kings for convening of Assemblies, yet that may not derogate from Christ’s right; for He has given divine warrants to convoke Assemblies whether magistrates consent or not.” Then arose Mr. David Dickson, who said, looking towards Hamilton, “that that nobleman was very much to be commended for his zeal and faithfulness to his master the king, and sticking close by what he thought for his credit and interest; and he craved leave to propose his example for the Assembly’s imitation. They had a better master, Christ the King of Kings, to serve, and his credit and honour to look after according to their commission and trust; and therefore he moved that, having this in their eye, they might sit still and do their Master’s work faithfully.” In this high mood the Assembly saw Hamilton depart. It was a moment which von Ranke has compared to that scene a century and a half later, when the new French National Assembly for the first time withstood the commands of its king.
Before leaving for the south, Hamilton summoned the members of the Privy Council together and counselled them to do their duty by the king. One or two withdrew, declaring that they were on the popular side, and among them was Argyll, who, the day before, when Hamilton dissolved the Assembly, had defended the legality of the lay element and announced his adhesion to the Covenanting cause. Hamilton wrote to Charles and to Laud announcing the failure of his mission, and urging the necessity of speeding on the armed preparations. In his letter to the king of 27th November he provided his master with certain character-studies of the Scots nobility. Two of his comments are worth noting: Argyll “will prove the dangerousest man in this state”; of the Covenanting leaders there was “none more vainly foolish than Montrose.”
The Assembly resumed its sittings on the 29th, with Argyll as the solitary Privy Councillor. It sat till 20th December, and, says Burnet, “went on at a great rate, now that there were none to curb them.” It pronounced the last six General Assemblies invalid; condemned the service book, the book of canons, and the Court of High Commission; annulled the Articles of Perth; declared episcopacy to be utterly abjured and cast out of the Kirk; established a press censorship, under the control of Wariston; and, in a mood of startling enlightenment, prohibited salmon-fishing on Sundays.
The whole Scottish hierarchy was deposed, and most of its members excommunicated as well. The bishops had declined to appear, so there was no defence; the Aberdeen doctors were not there to raise their voices, which Baillie thought might have induced a more moderate temper. Undoubtedly there had been much laxness of conduct on the part of the bishops, and certain scandals; but many of the charges were absurd, and few were supported by evidence which would have satisfied a court of law. The fact of holding episcopal office was held sufficient to afford presumptive proof of moral delinquencies. Episcopacy and its ministrants were abolished root and branch, and certain dubious historical dogmas were affirmed, against which Baillie, to his honour, protested. He had been impressed by Hamilton’s conduct in the commissioner’s chair, and had wept at his withdrawal; he may be taken as the type of the moderate Covenanter, who was against episcopacy as a system, but did not think it necessarily forbidden by the reformed faith. But the ministerial leaders, with the support of the lay members, would be content with no half-hearted condemnation. On the day when the prelates were sentenced, Henderson preached the sermon, long known as “The Bishops’ Doom”; but the passage of Scripture selected by the reader may have had an ominous ring in other ears than Mr. Robert Baillie’s. “These things I have spoken to you that you should not be offended. They shall put you out of the synagogue; yea, the time cometh that whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service.”
The Assembly had clearly gone beyond its legal powers. When the king’s commissioner dissolved it, under the Act of 1582, it ceased to exist at law. Henderson’s act had all the significance which von Ranke has claimed for it; in the words of his most recent biographer, it “spelt revolution.” The Assembly claimed to repeal the laws of the land, and it proceeded to carry its edicts into action. The treatment of the bishops was as harsh as it was irregular, but revolutions are not considerate of individual rights. Our judgment of its doings must be based upon the assumption that it was a definite revolt against the king’s authority. It sought, indeed, to be a modified revolution. A treasonable sermon by Mr. George Gillespie was condemned by implication by the Moderator; Argyll warned them, and Henderson repeated his warning, against any disrespect to “so good and gracious a prince”; and at the end an address was drawn up to his Majesty, humbly asking him to confirm their acts in the Parliament presently to be summoned. But a revolution is a hard thing to delimit, and it has a fatal habit of producing a reaction in kind. The doings of 1638 were exactly paralleled by the Act Rescissory of 1661, which blotted out twenty-three years of legislation and re-established episcopacy. One form of violence was to be matched by another.
“The Gods alone
Remember everlastingly; they strike
Remorselessly, and ever like for like.
By their great memories the Gods are known.”
Yet to judge the protagonists at Glasgow with the cold-blooded retrospective reason of history is to do grave injustice. The implications of their actions were not present to the minds of the best of the clergy and laity. These revolutionaries were still royalists almost to a man. They opposed, not the monarchy, but the dogma of “no bishop, no king,” which would impair the royal authority by making it dependent upon a particular ecclesiastical form. Their mark was Laud rather than Charles. Among them were many fanatics of Presbytery, but there were also those who were lukewarm enough towards Presbyterian claims, but enthusiastic for Scottish liberties, and who considered that the people should have the church they wanted. Such men had a well-founded distrust of an episcopate as the gate by which autocracy had often entered the sheepfold. It is to be remembered that few Scots believed in divine right, that the nation had never known an unquestioned monarchy like that of the Tudors in England, and that they had been in the habit of frequently taking up arms to read their kings a lesson. While professing in all honesty their love for Charles, they were prepared to chasten him. They demanded that the nation’s liberties should be safeguarded, and the proof of that would be the grant of the Kirk the nation preferred. On such a policy it was possible to unite for the moment the gross and wary sagacity of Rothes, the young enthusiasm of Montrose, and the profound and subtle ambition of the latest convert, Argyll.
III
To one who studies such portraits as exist of the chief figures in the Scotland of that epoch, there must come a sense of disappointment. Few convey the impression of power which is found among the Puritans and Cavaliers of England. There is Hamilton, self-conscious, arrogant, and puzzled; Lanark, his brother, dark, sullen, and stupid; Huntly, a peacock head surmounting a splendid body; Rothes, heavy-chinned, goggle-eyed, Pickwickian; Glencairn, weak and rustical; old Leven, the eternal bourgeois; the Border earls, but one remove from the Border prickers; Wariston, obstinate and crack-brained; James Guthrie, lean and fanatical. But there are three exceptions. One is the haunting face of Montrose, whose calm eyes do not change from the Jameson portrait of his boyhood to the great Honthorst of his prime. The second is the face of Alexander Henderson, yellow from the fevers of the Leuchars marshes, lined with thought, and burning with a steady fire. The third is that of Archibald, eighth Earl of Argyll. We see him at nineteen, in his marriage clothes, his reddish hair falling
over his collar, his grey-blue eyes with ever so slight a cast in them; we see him in his twenty-fourth year, with the air and accoutrements of a soldier; in the Castle Campbell portrait, unfortunately burned in the Inveraray castle fire of 1877, he is in armour, but the face has a scholar’s pallor and a curious melancholy; in the familiar Newbattle picture, painted in his late forties, he is in sober black with the skull-cap of a divine on his head, the features are drawn with ill-health and care, the mouth is compressed and secret, the nose is pendulous, and the cast in the eyes has become almost a deformity. But at whatever period we take it, it is a face of power, with intellect in the broad brow, and resolution in the tight lips and heavy chin.
