The 'Glorious' Revolution that never was

NIRAD C. CHAUDHURI

In my student days in Calcutta I was made familiar with the view of the Revolution current at the beginning of this century. Macaulay had created and imposed it on the reading public by means of his great history. Since then, I have heard and read about what the revisionists are doing with it. But they do not seem to have read Chateaubriand's pronouncement on their activity. Here it is:

A fool indeed is he who believes in history. It is pure deception. It is and will always be as it has been painted and fashioned by a great writer. When monographs will demonstrate with facts that Tacitus was retailing false- hoods in describing the virtues of Agricola and the vices of Tiberius, Agricola and Tiberius will remain as Tacitus made them.

In the same way, the 'Glorious Revolu- tion' will remain as it was described by Macaulay, or rather would have remained if all connection between history as written and life as lived in all its aspects had not been severed among educated Englishmen of today. The press, broadcasting, and television have turned their existence into living from day to day. Interest in history is now confined to the 'professional histo- rians' and their students, that is to say, to those who earn money by writing and teaching history and those who are in training to do so.

Nonetheless, if anyone is tempted by the tercentenary of the Revolution to try to understand it, he must begin by not regard- ing it as a revolution in the current accepta- tion of the word. What the word now embodies is a general notion of the violent overthrow of an entire old order and its replacement by an equally comprehensive new order. The content, both semantic and emotional, of the word was widened in this manner by the French Revolution and then firmly established by the Meiji Revolution of 1867 in Japan, the Young Turk Revolu- tion of 1908, the Chinese Revolution of 1911, the Russian Revolution of 1917, the Kemalist Revolution in Turkey after 1922, and the new Chinese Revolution of 1949. All the associations of these revolutions must be forgotten in thinking about the English revolution of 1688.

Before the French Revolution the word `revolution' had a more restricted mean- ing. It only meant a particular and accidental change of government by force. That was why the European statesmen of the 18th century failed wholly to under- stand the nature of the French Revolution until it had run its course. Then, in 1796 to be precise, Joseph de Maistre, the great conservative French political thinker, wrote: 'The French Revolution is a unique event in history.' The previous revolutions were particular events, each with its own character, and thus the word 'revolution' was employed for various kinds of change of government. For instance, the dissolu- tion of the Rump Parliament and the Restoration in 1662 was called the 'Glo- rious Revolution' by a contemporary. Even the dethronement of Siraj-ud-Daulah as Nawab of Bengal and the installation in his place of Mir Jafar Khan by the East India Company was called 'the late revolu- tion in Bengal'. On the contrary, the only real revolution in English history, the `All English parties and politi- cians seem to have acted on Sir Robert Walpole's motto: 'Let sleeping dogs lie.' 9 abolition of the monarchy and the setting up of a republic in the middle of the 17th century, was described as 'the great rebel- lion and civil war', as in the history by Clarendon.

The so-called revolution of 1688' was really the prevention of an attempted revolution by James II, and the reassertion of the status quo in a clearer form. There- fore it had no revolutionaries, but only plotters, who were opportunists without principle. This was, however, quite in character with the established tradition of making lasting changes in the political, economic, religious, and social institutions of the English people. They have never been brought about by men with a sense of mission, not to speak of fanatics. I have never understood why Halifax alone was called the 'Trimmer'. Which successful English political leader was not? On the other hand, the only two English person- ages who thought that they stood for a cause, namely, Queen Mary I and Oliver Cromwell, were the most hated figures of English history. It was as if the English people had given a literal interpretation to Pascal's maxim: 'Evil is never wrought more completely and more joyfully than when it is done for the sake of conscience.'

The 'gang of seven' who brought about the revolution of 1688 were not only no crusaders, they did not even have a formal constitutional status as guardians of the English constitution. They formed a band of ad hoc conspirators, and they would not have succeeded if the idea of ruling by an oligarchy had not been made familiar during the reign of Charles II.

On the opposite side, too, James II was not a Charles I. He was not ready to risk all for his convictions, and his adversity was not like the toad with a jewel in its head. It was only a toad without a jewel. He babbled in so undignified a manner after taking refuge in France that witty French noblemen said that after hearing him they understood why he was in Saint-Germain and William of Orange in St James's.

The only heroine of the revolution was his consort, Mary of Modena, which as a daughter of the house of Este she could be expected to be. Escorted by a French nobleman, who was a bizarrely romantic figure of his times, she left the palace of White Hall at dead of night to step into a skiff on the Thames, and was rowed to the opposite bank near Lambeth Palace, to wait for the coach which was to take her to Gravesend, 26 miles away, so that she might sail for France in a yacht. As the coach was not ready she had to wait, out in the open, cowering in the cold wind with her six-month-old son under the tower of the church of St Mary by Lambeth Palace. She dared not go into the shelter of a house for fear of being recognised. However, she was able to reach the French coast safely. But she would not go to Saint-Germain, where the palace was assigned to her, until she was joined by James. So, she remained in a convent at Boulogne, crying all the time for a husband 25 years older than herself. After James had arrived she went to Saint-Germain, where Madame de Sevigne saw her. This was her description: `The Queen, grown thin; eyes which had wept but were black and beautiful; a slightly pale, lovely complexion; a large mouth with fine teeth; tall stature and a good deal of intelligence; a very calm person who pleases very much.'

It was from Madame de Sevigne's vivid letters that Macaulay gave his account of the reception of James by Louis XIV. But he never drew attention to one feature of Louis' behaviour. Towards James he was generous and courteous, yet formal; but to Mary of Modena he was affectionate and almost tender. This seemed to me to need an explanation, and I thought I had found a clue when I came accidentally upon a picture of Maria Mancini, Cardinal Mazar- in's niece, who was the object of Louis' first and most ardent love. He even asked for her hand in marriage, but the Cardinal refused for fear of rousing hostility in France. Louis never ceased to regret the loss of his first love. There was a very close resemblance in features between Maria Mancini and Mary of Modema. So, I wondered if she could be Maria's daughter. But I found that Maria was married to a Colonna, and so that was not possible. Nonetheless, I made the discovery that Mary was a niece of Maria, and was like her, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed as reported. To make sure, I had the colour of her eyes and hair checked from the portrait in the Natioinal Portrait Gallery by a friend, who informed me that the de- scription was correct. So, Louis must have been reminded of his lost love by Mary of Modena.

Now, to revert to the public aspect of the Revolution. The English politicians who brought it about did not like to dwell on its immediate results, for these were very much the products of sedition and treachery. Therefore they put out an apo- logia in the form of the famous Declaration Of Rights, which was both doctrinally and historically sound. Through that Declara- tion, the Revolution was affiliated to the established tradition of English political life. On the Continent, however, and more especially in France, its immediate charac- ter was much more noticed and discussed. Nobody summarised these discussions with greater intelligence and gusto than Madame de Sevigne, and that, too, in a gossipy way in her letters to her daughter. In one of the very first of them, written on 5 January 1689 (NS) she wrote:

The politicians are arguing whether it would be more of an advantage for this king [James II] to be in France: some are saying 'Yes', because he will be safe here, no one will compel him to give up his wife and son, and he will not risk his head. Others say, 'No', because thereby he will make the Prince of Orange his protector, and also loved, which he is becoming and is being naturally, without committing any crime.'

After that, in the same letter, Madame de Sevigne took up the European aspect of the Revolution, and wrote:

This much is true, however, that war will jolly well be declared, and perhaps we shall declare it first. If we can ensure peace in Italy and Germany we shall be able to conduct the war with the English and the Dutch with greater attention; at least I hope so, for it will be too much to have enemies on all sides.

After showing an awareness of the dan- ger of a war on two fronts, equalling that of von Moltke and von Schlieffen, Madame de Sevigne had a sudden qualm whether she was not being too much of a politician or even a warmonger, and so she apolo- gised to her daughter: 'Just think of it a little bit — where the libertinage of my pen is carrying me. But you may be sure that all conversation here is full of those big happenings.' The immediate results of the Revolution were indeed, as Madame de Sevigne antici- pated, an increase of prestige and power for William of Orange as well as wars in Scotland, Ireland, and Europe. None- theless, the historical character which the English revolutionists sought to impose on their revolution was not a mere plaidoyer. It belonged to the event in fact, and had a deep significance. Macaulay perceived it with his historical insight. He said that the continental revolutions of the 18th and 19th centuries took place where all trace of the limited monarchy of the middle ages had been effaced. In England alone it had come down intact from the 13th century. Thus the removal of James only main- tained the continuity. England, said Macaulay, did not need a new constitution.

But he did not perceive that the political continuity was part of a larger continuity. That was perceived by Alexis de Toc- queville, and set down in his L'Ancien Regime et la Revolution, published in 1856. He said that the feudal system of the middle ages had at first created an aris- tocracy which was a ruling order. But everywhere in Europe the feudal system had ended by changing the aristocracy into a caste, i.e., a nobility based on birth. In England, however, this did not happen, and the creation of a caste system was not permitted. What was retained and de- veloped was an aristocracy which ruled and was open. This, said Tocqueville, had made England utterly different in its social structure from the countries of Europe, so much so indeed that Montesquieu, visiting England in 1739, declared: 'Here, I am in a country which in no way resembles any country in Europe.'

All of it was due to a mode of bringing about changes in human societies which was peculiar to England. I cannot describe it in a clearer way than by quoting from the preface of the Book of Common Prayer of 1662. The divines who compiled it wrote: It hath been the wisdom of the Church of England, ever since the first compiling of the Publick Liturgy, to keep the mean between two extremes, of too much stiffness in refusing, and of too much easiness in admit- ting any variation from it.

They went on to say that a change 'in things advisedly established (no evident necessity requiring it) has resulted in in- conveniences many times more and greater than the evils that were intended to be remedied by such changes'.

On the other hand, they added:

It is but reasonable, that upon weighty and important considerations, according to the various exigency of times and occasions, such changes and alterations should be made therein, as, to those that are in place of Authority, should from time to time seem either necessary or expedient.

They emphasised that it was due to this attitude to changes that 'the main body and essentials of the religious rites in England had stood firm and unshaken.' In contrast, their condemnation was for 'those who were given to change', and these men, they said, 'always discovered a greater regard to their private fancies and interests than to that duty they owed to the publick.'

Here was a particular application of a general doctrine of change, which was applied in all spheres of English life. That life was all of a piece and indivisible. Therefore, the authority of the doctrine as a general principle was great. But when pleaded in order to oppose James II it could not by itself have been strong enough to bring about his deposition. The weight of the tradition embodied in the doctrine was like that of the heavy flywheel in an engine. It operated through 'the force of inertia', as defined in mechanics. It could keep up the momentum created by a posi- tive force, but if checked by an external obstacle could not overcome its resistance without the injection of an external and powerful force.

Such a force was all the more necessary because in England the monarchy had become as strong personally as it was institutionally. This was due to the Re- formation. English Protestantism was En- glish nationalism in a religious disguise. Thus, the English people, having won their independence from Rome through the leadership of their king, gave him almost absolute power so that he might defend it. The same feeling was responsible for the imposition of royal supremacy on the Anglican Church, formally set forth in the Thirty-Nine Articles of 1562. On account of this double authority, it was impossible to remove an English monarch without abolishing the monarchy. This was done to dethrone Charles I. In 1688 there could be no question of doing away with the monar- chy in order to remove a king. So, the King had to be separated from his office.

This was made possible by the strongest political passion which existed in England at the end of the seventeenth century: namely, hatred of both Pope and Popery. Being a political passion it was, like all political passions, as irrational as it was ineradicable. At that particular juncture it was as crude and vulgar as the hatred of communism in present-day Americans. Thus the ferociously malicious caricatures which were published on both James and Miry of Modena were quite natural. Even after 1688 the hatred did not disappear, but remained sleeping and watchful at the same time like a great English mastiff sleeping in his kennel in the farmyard. It must not be forgotten that at the time of the Catholic Emancipation Act of 1829 the hatred even in its residual form was so virulent that the Duke of Wellington had to fight the only duel of his life with an anti-Catholic fanatic.

James drew this hatred on himself, not only because he was a Catholic but also because he wanted to reimpose Catholic- ism on the English people. In their eyes, this was betraying the very function for which he was king. So, he was regarded as a traitor. Without this feeling the English people would never have tolerated an invasion of their country by a Dutch army. Actually, if contemporary handbills are to be trusted, they welcomed William and his soldiers.

In England this special form of nationa- listic hatred remained quiescent, and, in any case, all English parties and politicians being aware of its strength seem to have acted on Sir Robert Walpole's motto: let sleeping dogs lie.' And the English Roman Catholics were too small and demoralised a minority to be makers of trouble. In any case, they were always better nationalists than Catholics. So, in England the Augus- tan Age was the natural sequel to the Revolution of 1688, and it could legiti- mately be called the 'Glorious Revolution.' But in Ireland the legacy of that Revolu- tion was quite the opposite, because there Catholicism was nationalism as well as religion. So, the Revolution, followed by the battle of the Boyne, consolidated the already established hatred between the English people and the Irish. It was never to die out, in spite of the Act of Union of 1801 or the Partition of 1922. Today, it is as living as ever, being in three-quarters of it like a benign tumour, and for the rest like malignant cancer. One can risk the forecast that it will never disappear. Political friendships die, but political hatreds never. Life-long fami- liarity with political hatred in India has convinced me that this hatred is like lust, which is made more active by indulgence. Just as erotomaniacs rape and kill, in the same way political maniacs murder. The English 'wets' who want to have the principles of justice established by English liberties applied to terrorists, do not realise that the rapist-murderers and the terrorists are only different species in the same genus of animals.

So, in summing up the historical legacy of the Revolution of 1688, one is faced with a strange paradox: the independence from the Papacy won by that Revolution is disappearing before a new economic in- carnation of the Papacy — the EEC. But the hatred consolidated by the same Re- volution remains as living as ever.

Nirad C. Chaudhuri was born in Bengal in 1897 and now lives in Oxford. His latest book is Thy Hand, Great Anarch! (Chatto and Windus)