Thus spoke Charles I, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, just before agents of his archenemy Oliver Cromwell chopped off his head 376 years ago this month, on January 30, 1649.
Personal, political, and religious modesty wasn’t his jam, as even a momentary examination of Charles’s life will demonstrate.
He had, during his years of sparring with Parliament, proven himself to be an inept politician and leader of men, being–for better or worse–all wrapped up in his divine right to rule, and apparently sure that no matter what, the Lord would lead him to victory.
It’s a great profession of faith, this idea that–if you just submit to what you’ve convinced yourself is God’s will, and if you regularly bray your accordance with it–all will be well and you will prevail against no matter what odds, and no matter the actual rightness of your cause.
Personally though, I think God is quite busy, that He doesn’t have all the time in the world to give me His undivided attention, and that He very likely appreciates a bit of help and a leg up in the Let’s Get This Done in Your Name department, whenever we’re able to provide it.
Unfortunately, Charles I found himself at the head (for a short while, anyway, before they lopped his off) of a line of Stuarts who–once they’d united the nations of England and Scotland–proved themselves largely incompetent rulers and campaigners, and not even terribly effective Servants of God. His one son, Charles II, who was restored to the throne a decade or so after the regicide of his father, by which time Parliament and the public had become increasingly dissatisfied with Cromwell’s mirthless Puritan rule, wasn’t particularly energetic other than in his dalliances with actresses and orange sellers. Another son, James II (previously the Duke of York), was overthrown in the Glorious Revolution of 1688 which installed James’s daughter Mary onto the throne as co-ruler along with her foreign-born husband William of Orange. (LOL. Sometimes the jokes just write themselves.)
The only stable and effective monarch in the Stuart House seems to have been “Good Queen Anne,” also James II’s daughter and Mary’s and Charles’s sibling through James’s first wife, Anne Hyde. Anne inherited the throne in 1702, and ruled till 1714. Unfortunately, although Anne endured eighteen pregnancies, only one child–a girl–barely survived to adulthood, and so after Anne’s death the throne then passed to the German House of Hanover in the person of George I.
Lord. I think I’ve got all these relationships right.
Never say die, though. James Francis Edward Stuart, at one time the Prince of Wales and yet another of James II’s issue, also known as “The Old Pretender” spent decades trying to take the throne back after the Glorious Revolution. He failed, despite support from the French, who encouraged him because he was a Catholic, and who thus recognized him as the rightful ruler of England, Ireland and Scotland. He was less popular in Great Britain, though, where his titles were removed after an attainder for treason was imposed. Shortly thereafter, the 1701 Act of Settlement was passed by Parliament, ensuring–among other things–that a Catholic could never, ever, inherit the throne.
One of his sons, Charles Edward Stuart, “The Young Pretender,” was born in Rome in 1720 and destined to be the last of the well-known Stuart claimants to the throne. He also failed, as anyone who’s either read the early books, or seen the first few seasons of Outlander can attest. IMHO, they’re the best of both the books and the TV series, and they don’t sugar-coat the incompetence and narcissism of “Bonnie Prince Charlie,” or the greediness of the corrupt Scottish Lairds who betrayed their people in so many ways. The end of the Jacobite dream at the Battle of Culloden in 1746 is both heartbreaking, inevitable, and not all the fault of the English.
And its ramifications still haven’t settled all that well.
Still, as remarkable as all that is, when I got my notifications as to this week’s interesting historical happenings, I was transported for a moment back about sixty years to a boarding school in Malvern Wells, England. I was a Girl Guide (Swallow Troop IIRC), and we’d been on a hike through the countryside, ending up at a splendid local manor house and its grounds, both of which had a great many historical artifacts on display.
Among them was one of the several original copies of the death warrant issued against Charles I on January 27, 1649.
At the time, we were only something like 316 years after Charles’s death, and I felt the insult keenly. Still, as was common at the time, I and my classmates and fellow troop members reflected on how far we’d come, how much progress we’d made, and what the march of history had meant for us.
It was a lovely feeling, even at the young age of about twelve. The bad guys lost. The good guys eventually won. And kept going.
And I daresay the thought that “I belong to a long line of the good guys” has had quite a salutary effect on me ever since.
I wish such a moment for my friends in these United States in the twenty-first century
You’re doing OK. You’re not the perfect guys, but you’re not the bad guys. You just might be the good guys. And don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.
Keep going.
Such kind words of encouragement! Thank you!