THE PRESBYTERIANS

SAMUEL BUTLER

(From "Hudibras," Part I)

THE serious-minded clergy of Scotland had been cordially disliked by James I. from his boyhood. To his son they were still more obnoxious. Charles I. undertook to force the use of the English ritual upon the Scotch church and provoked a general rebellion (1639). Men of all classes entered into a solemn covenant to defend the Presbyterian faith against corruption. The Covenanters had many sympathizers in England. The Puritans, who protested against the king's evident leaning toward Rome, and the Parliamentarians, who steadily opposed the doctrine of divine right, were ready to join with the Scotch in the struggle against arbitrary government. The Presbyterians were, however, detested as breeders of dissension by the king's party and by the adherents of the established church. They were lampooned by Samuel Butler in the satirical poem, "Hudibras."

That stubborn crew
Of errant saints whom all men grant

To be the true Church Militant.
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;

And prove their doctrine orthodox
With apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation
A godly, thorough Reformation,
Which always must be going on,
And still be doing, never done,
As if Religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended:

A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd, perverse antipathies,
In falling out with that or this
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic
Than dog distract or monkey sick :
That with more care keep holyday
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to
By damning those they have no mind to.
Still so perverse and opposite

As if they worshipped God for spite,
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way and long another for;
Freewill they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow;
All piety consists therein

In them, in other men all sin.
Rather than fail they will defy

That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with mince-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend plum-porridge;

Fat pig and goose itself oppose,

And blaspheme custard through the nose.

STRAFFORD

ROBERT BROWNING

SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH was one of the English statesmen who opposed the doctrine of divine right. He believed that the life and liberty of the subject must be guarded against arbitrary power, but he was unwilling to follow the men who were aiming to render the king subordinate to Parliament. On the passing of the Petition of Right (1629), he broke with the reform party and offered his services to Charles. Wentworth was sent to Ireland as Lord Deputy, but returned to the king's side (1641) when the Covenanters were threatening an invasion of England. Finding that the Parliamentarians were carrying on negotiations with the Scotch, he offered to bring a loyal Irish army to the defence of the king. Charles rewarded his devotion by creating him Earl of Strafford and appointed him Lieutenant General of the English army with orders to suppress rebellion in any of the king's dominions. Indignant because of his treason to the popular cause, Pym and the reform party charged Strafford with attempting to "introduce an arbitrary and tyrannical government against law," and succeeded in forcing a bill of attainder through Parliament. Charles had promised Strafford upon the honor of a king "that he should not suffer in life, honor, or fortune," yet he signed the bill, hoping thus to avoid further trouble.

ACT I

SCENE I. A House near Whitehall. Hampden, Hollis, the younger Vane, Rudyard, Fiennes, and many of the Presbyterian Party; Loudon and other Scots Commissioners.

Vane.

Now, by Heaven

They may be cool who can, silent who will --
Some have a gift that way! Wentworth is here,
Here, and the King's safe closeted with him

Ere this. And when I think on all that's past
Since that man left us, how his single arm
Rolled the advancing good of England back
And set the woful past up in its place,
Exalting Dagon where the Ark should be-
How that man has made firm the fickle King
(Hampden, I will speak out!) — in aught he feared
To venture on before; taught Tyranny

Her dismal trade, the use of all her tools,

To ply the scourge yet screw the gag so close
That strangled agony bleeds mute to death-
How he turns Ireland to a private stage
For training infant villainies, new ways
Of wringing treasure out of tears and blood,
Unheard oppressions nourished in the dark
To try how much man's nature can endure

If he dies under it, what harm? if not,
Why, one more trick is added to the rest.

Worth a king's knowing, and what Ireland bears
England may learn to bear: how all this while
That man has set himself to one dear task,
The bringing Charles to relish more and more
Power, power without law, power and blood too -
Can I be still?

Hamp.

For that you should be still.

Vane. O Hampden, then and now! The year he

left us,

The People in full Parliament could wrest
The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King;
And now, he'll find in an obscure small room

A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men
That take up England's cause: England is here!
Hamp. And who despairs of England?
Rud.

That do I,
If Wentworth comes to rule her. I am sick
To think her wretched masters, Hamilton,
The muckworm Cottington, the maniac Laud,
May yet be longed-for back again. I say,
I do despair.

Vane.

And, Rudyard, I'll say thisWhich all true men say after me, not loud But solemnly and as you'd say a prayer! This King, who treads our England under foot, Has just so much it may be fear or craft As bids him pause at each fresh outrage; friends, He needs some sterner hand to grasp his own, Some voice to ask, "Why shrink?-am I not by?" Now, one whom England loved for serving her, Found in his heart to say, "I know where best The iron heel shall bruise her, for she leans Upon me when you trample." Witness, you! So Wentworth heartened Charles, and England fell. But inasmuch as life is hard to take

From England —

Many Voices. Go on, Vane! 'Tis well said, Vane! Vane. Who has not so forgotten Runnymead! Voices. 'Tis well and bravely spoken, Vane! Go on!

Vane. There are some little signs of late she knows The ground no place for her! She glances round,