In the long run, the Navigation Acts would revolutionize English colonial trade by protecting it from foreign competition while breaking the old system of trading monopolies. But in the short run they led to a trade war with the Dutch which the Commonwealth could ill afford, coming on the heels of the expensive Irish and Scottish campaigns. Lawyers and JPs held up legal and Poor Law reform as these promised to adversely affect their interests; while religious reform proved unpopular and unenforceable – the abolition of Christmas because of its pagan trappings was, unsurprisingly, a non-starter. In the end, the Rump’s record left many disillusioned, especially in the army.
In the spring of 1653 the Rump alienated its protectors further by considering a reduction in pay for the New Model Army and taking forever to dissolve itself and call new elections. Finally, on April 20, Oliver Cromwell, exasperated, entered the House with soldiers and dissolved the Rump:
[He] told the House, that they had sat long enough … that some of them were whore-masters … that others of them were drunkards, and some corrupt and unjust men and scandalous to the profession of the gospel, and that it was not fit that they should sit as a parliament any longer.28
Perhaps more telling, no one rose up to defend them; in Cromwell’s stinging recollection “when they were dissolved, there was not so much as the barking of a dog.”29
The Rump’s demise provided the army officers, most of whom were Independents, with the chance to nominate a legislature of their own liking. The result was sometimes called an “Assembly of Saints,” though it has come to be popularly known as “Barebone’s Parliament” after Praise-God Barebone (ca. 1598–1679/80), a London leather-seller and preacher who became a member. As this implies, some of its members belonged to radical sects, including the Baptists and Fifth Monarchy Men, and hoped to usher in God’s kingdom on earth. To the extent that these zealots came to dominate its proceedings, Barebone’s Parliament turned into a disaster, for they were long on ambitious plans, short on practical political experience. For example, following the lead of the Fifth Monarchy Men, one faction advocated replacing English common law with the law of Moses. While this Parliament passed some enlightened legislation to establish new procedures for the registration of births, marriages, and deaths, probate of wills, relief of creditors, and the incarceration of lunatics, its members also offended important segments of the country by seeking to abolish or reform the court of Chancery (upsetting lawyers), lay patronage of Church livings and purchase of tithes (upsetting landowners), and the collection of the Excise and monthly assessments (upsetting army officers). Cromwell, who was by now the most powerful man in the country, reacted with disgust, complaining that where before he had to deal with knaves, now he had to deal with fools. The godly reformer in him had initially welcomed the “Saints.” But the hard-headed country gentleman realized that government required prudence and practicality as well as religious enthusiasm and godliness. The rest of the ruling elite were coming to agree. In December, Cromwell’s supporters in the Assembly engineered their dissolution, fittingly, while the most godly members were attending a prayer meeting!
Plate 17 Oliver Cromwell, by Robert Walker, 1649. National Portrait Gallery, London.
Who would rule next? On December 12, 1653 an army delegation presented to General Cromwell the only written constitution ever implemented in England, the Instrument of Government. This named Cromwell as executive, giving him the title “lord protector.” Who was this man who had begun life “by birth a gentleman, living neither in any considerable height, nor yet in obscurity,” rising – as he saw it, through God’s “dispensations” – to equal any king?30 Oliver (see plate 17), a distant relative of Henry VIII’s minister Thomas Cromwell, was born in 1599 in tiny East Anglian Huntingdonshire. He was educated at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, a hotbed of Puritan thought. Still, he would have spent his life as an anonymous country gentleman of godly propensities and middling estate if the war had not uncovered his leadership ability and tactical skill, propelling him to the center of national affairs. Once it did so, his repeated successes convinced him that God had a special purpose for him. This is not to say that Cromwell was always sure of himself. Over the next decade he would sometimes be torn between the conservative instincts of an English landed gentleman and a Puritan zeal for godly reform in Church and State. However, once his mind was made up, his conviction of being God’s instrument became his greatest strength. Ironically, King Charles had, as we have seen, the same certainty of divine favor and purpose. But there was one significant difference between Charles I and Oliver Cromwell: Cromwell had a killer instinct. It was this killer instinct, along with his propensity for seizing the main chance, that enraged his enemies, whether Royalists, the Irish, or even former allies like the Levellers.
Advising Cromwell would be a Council of State, filled by generals and the protector’s nominees, which would share control of the government’s finances and armed forces. Legislation was to be made by a parliament elected every three years by those with estates worth over £200 a year. This was a far stiffer property qualification than the old franchise – an indication of just how conservative the ruling class had grown in the four years since the abolition of the monarchy. In fact, if this constitution looks suspiciously like the old one, with Parliament, Privy Council, and “king” in all but name, that was no accident. The only major difference, apart from the franchise, was that this time the ruler’s power would be backed up by a standing army. It was therefore little wonder that radicals viewed Cromwell’s acceptance of the Instrument of Government as a great betrayal; or that most members of the ruling elite – even Royalists – accommodated themselves to it.
Oliver Cromwell ruled as lord protector of England (and Wales), Scotland, and Ireland for a little under five years. In many ways, his regime contrasted favorably with that of the early Stuarts. It provided rational, efficient government with a minimum of corruption. It launched much needed law reform and sought to make education more accessible. It pursued a broadly tolerant religious policy which prescribed worship according to the Directory, but allowed for much individuality of practice among congregations. (Ironically, this led to great tensions within congregations as each tried to reach consensus on practice.) The regime did not tolerate Anglicans, Ranters, or Catholics, but left adherents of the old Prayer Book and even those of the pope to live in peace if they would live peacefully. The regime also allowed Jews to return to England for the first time since their official expulsion in 1290. It pursued an aggressive and largely successful economic and foreign policy. As we have seen, the Commonwealth’s Navigation Acts provoked a trade war with the Dutch which the Cromwellian regime won in 1654. Convinced of God’s favor, Cromwell next devised the Western Design to “liberate” Spain’s Caribbean colonies. This was, at best, a draw: a crushing defeat at Santo Domingo was only partly balanced by the acquisition of the not-yet-lucrative island of Jamaica in 1655. After striking an alliance with the French in 1657, Anglo- French forces won several victories against Spain in Flanders and at sea. The navy also safeguarded Mediterranean trade by attacking Royalist and Barbary pirates. Thus, English soldiers, sailors, and merchants finally had their aggressive Protestant foreign policy. Altogether, the Protectorate anticipated or pioneered many later developments which would make England the most progressive and powerful state in Europe by 1714.
But there were costs to such “big-government” successes. First, a more efficient government was bound to be more intrusive. The failed Western Design had necessitated the impressment of thousands of unwilling volunteers. In 1655, after an unsuccessful Royalist rising, Cromwell attempted to ensure local control by dividing the country into 12 military districts, each overseen by a major-general. Not unlike lords lieutenant, the major-generals enforced law and order, the Poor Law, and religious toleration; but they also spied on Royalists and Presbyterians, bullied JPs, and purged corporations of anyone suspected of disloyalty to the regime. In keeping with Puritan convictio
n that God’s judgment on the nation could only be averted by its moral reform, many major-generals also fought drunkenness, blasphemy, swearing, gambling, whoring, and indecent fashions wherever they found them. They also suppressed alehouses, playhouses, Sunday sports, and Christmas celebrations. Needless to say, the Protectorate did not succeed in stamping out any of these practices or institutions, but it did leave a lasting impression nevertheless. The major-generals and their Puritan supporters would long be remembered as prudes, kill-joys, and intruders into local communities, while standing armies generally would be associated with the oppression of English liberties, local autonomy, and even harmless fun.
The Protectorate was also expensive. A more efficient government, policing the nation at home and prosecuting war abroad via a standing army and permanent navy, had to be paid for. The average annual expenditure of the Cromwellian administration was nearly £2 million – far greater than that of Elizabeth I, James I, or Charles I at their respective heights. This necessitated, in turn, very high tax rates. Naturally, Cromwell continued the lucrative but unpopular Excise and monthly assessments and even extended the former. His government also sequestered Royalist lands, selling some and forcing proprietors to compound for (pay a high fee to reoccupy) others.31 None of this did anything for the regime’s popularity or the protector’s ability to get along with a parliament full of landowners who had to answer to other landowners back home. As a result, like his royal predecessors, he frequently found it necessary to prorogue or dismiss the Honorable Gentlemen.
This should sound familiar. If Oliver Cromwell looks, in retrospect, very much like a king without a crown, his followers would have agreed. In 1657 they sought, via a document entitled The Humble Petition and Advice, to rectify the omission by offering him the title of king and the power to appoint both his successor and the members of an “Other” or “Upper House,” obviously resembling the House of Lords. Cromwell refused the title but accepted the powers along with reinstallation as protector, complete with a gold scepter and purple and ermine robe. It should be obvious that after nearly 30 years of constitutional experimentation, 10 of them without a king, many in the ruling elite longed for the old structures (and strictures). This became even clearer after Cromwell’s sudden death from pneumonia and overwork on September 3, 1658. Like a king, he was given an elaborate State funeral patterned on that of his Stuart predecessors. Like a Crown prince, his eldest surviving son, Richard (1626–1712), was allowed to succeed to the position of lord protector.
The Restoration, 1658–60
Richard Cromwell’s smooth accession suggested that Oliver had left the Protectorate secure. But the new protector inherited three peoples divided in politics and religion and a regime both financially exhausted and increasingly unpopular. The nobility and gentry, in particular, resented not only the Protectorate’s tax burden but also the usurpation of their former place as the State’s representatives in the localities by Puritan nonentities. When not oppressed by the major-generals, they feared the breakdown of social and religious order described in the previous section. In short, the ruling elite had had their fill of godly reformation, whether purveyed by wild-eyed preachers, independent congregations, saintly parliaments, or oppressive armies. Increasingly, and somewhat myopically, the country – or at least the traditional ruling class – began to long for the good old days under the Stuarts. Only a man of strength and conviction like Oliver Cromwell could have held the nation together and maintained his regime in power under such circumstances.
Unfortunately for that regime, Richard was no Oliver. Richard Cromwell was, in fact, an intelligent, amiable, thoroughly decent man who would soon lose control of events. In the spring of 1659 Parliament attempted to assert its authority over the Council of the Army. This led the army to force another dissolution of parliament, banish Richard into retirement, and recall the 78 surviving members of the Rump. The Rump, quite naturally, also sought to control the army, which, true to form, sent it packing on October 13, 1659. The diarist John Evelyn (1620–1706) expressed the general feeling of uncertainty when he wrote: “The army now turned out the Parliament…. We had now no government in the nation, all in confusion; no magistrate either owned or pretended, but the soldiers and they not agreed: God Almighty have mercy on, and settle us.”32 In late October, a Committee of Public Safety headed by General Charles Fleetwood (ca. 1618–92) established, in effect, rule by the Grandees. But most of the generals appointed didn’t even bother showing up. By Christmas Fleetwood had thrown up his hands and resigned power back to the Rump. At this point, General George Monck (1608–70), the ranking commander in Scotland, began to march south with the only fully paid army in the British Isles. No one knew what he would do but each group – Republican, Royalist, Presbyterian, Independent – seems to have hoped that he was one of them.
He reached London in February 1660. After some vacillation, on February 11 he ordered the Rump to call for immediate elections, thereby dissolving itself, with or without the return of the members secluded in 1648. The populace greeted this news with joy – expressed that night by the roasting of rump steaks in the streets of London. The secluded members returned on February 21 and, on March 16, the full Long Parliament ordered new elections and dissolved itself. Simultaneously, the exiled Prince Charles, sensing his moment, and hoping to sway the election, issued from the continent the Declaration of Breda. This promised amnesty to all who had participated in the Civil Wars apart from those to be excepted by Parliament; liberty “to tender consciences” (freedom of religion), also subject to parliamentary approval; and the recognition of all land sales since 1642. These provisions were designed to allay fears that a restoration would bring political, religious, or economic revenge. Thus, Charles sought to begin the healing of old wounds and to present himself as a consensus choice who would be fair to all, not just former Royalists.
It worked. The Parliament elected in April 1660, known as the Convention Parliament because no monarch had convened it, was overwhelmingly moderate in composition. That is, it was dominated by Royalists and Presbyterians, the latter of whom now supported the Stuarts as their best hope to restore order and good government. When Parliament met at the end of the month, it issued an invitation for the exiled prince to return as sovereign. It proclaimed him on 8 May and dispatched a fleet to bring the nation’s favorite son home. On May 29, 1660, coincidentally his birthday, King Charles II (reigned 1660–85) entered London accompanied by Monck, newly created duke of Albemarle and master of the Horse, as well as aristocratic supporters, both old and new. This time, Evelyn wrote far more optimistically, even triumphantly:
This day came in his Majesty, Charles the 2d to London after a sad and long exile, and calamitous suffering both of the King and Church: being 17 years. This was also his birthday, and with a triumph of above 20,000 horse and foot, brandishing their swords and shouting with unexpressable joy: the ways strewed with flowers, the bells ringing, the streets hung with tapestry, fountains running with wine: the mayor, aldermen, and all the companies in their liveries, chains of gold, banners; Lords and nobles, cloth of silver, gold, and velvet everybody clad in, the windows and balconies all set with ladies, trumpets, music, and myriads of people flocking the streets and was as far as Rochester, so as they were 7 hours in passing the city.
As described above and depicted in a contemporary print (see plate 18), it was as if the Great Chain of Being had not only been restored but was laid out in person, horizontally, end to end, from Rochester to London, in all its glory. No wonder that Evelyn, a devout member of the Church of England and a landed gentleman who had lost much during the preceding revolution, wrote, “I stood in the Strand, and beheld it, and blessed God.”33 The old order was restored, the clock turned back. The people of England had experienced a long national nightmare, a winter of profound discontent which had reached its nadir on a cold January day in 1649. They now awakened in springtime to find themselves in love with their new, young sovereign of the old Stuart
line.
Or did they? Could the English really “go home again”? Could either Charles Stuart or the people who now embraced him with open arms ever entirely forget that they had publicly vilified and executed the last Charles Stuart, his father; broken the Great Chain; smashed the Tudor–Stuart constitution in Church and State; tried out several new forms of government, a free press, and religious toleration; and considered unorthodox social and religious systems? Could the English constitution and the people it was meant to govern really go back to 1603, or 1625, or even 1641? Could they forget the many years when the House of Commons had ruled on its own – effectively, if tyrannically – without king, lords, or bishops? Put another way, had the Civil Wars and Restoration really done anything to solve the problems that had led to them, those of sovereignty, finance, foreign policy, religion, and local control? The answers to these questions were uncertain on that brilliant May day in 1660. In fact, they would take most of the next half-century to be resolved.
Plate 18 The entrance of Charles II at the Restoration, 1660. Mary Evans Picture Library.
CHAPTER NINE
Restoration and Revolution, 1660–1689
At first glance, the Interregnum and Restoration seem to have resolved none of the questions over which the British Civil Wars had been fought. Rather, after so many bloody battles, revolutions in government and religion, the deposition and beheading of a king, and an experiment with a republic, in 1660 the English people appear to have opted to go back to square one: the restoration of the constitution in Church and State more or less as they were before the Civil Wars. In fact, the Restoration settlements only seemed to turn the clock back. This appearance of déjà vu sometimes left contemporaries confused – and, increasingly, bitterly divided – about the meaning of the dramatic events through which they had just lived.
Early Modern England 1485-1714: A Narrative History Page 44