the petition to find loopholes to exploit, a legitimate but politically foolhardy impulse. He pounced on two significant omissions. First, he now claimed the right to go ahead and impose those âtonnage and poundageâ customs duties without waiting for parliamentary permission. Still more controversially, his appointment of Montague to the bishopric of Chichester and Laud to that of London said as loudly as possible that the king had no intention of conceding anything about his monopoly of wisdom and power in matters spiritual. Like his father, he thought of himself as Godâs âlieutenant on earthâ.
But the norms of politics and what could or could not be legitimately accepted as sovereign authority were changing under him even as Charles reiterated what he assumed to be the self-evident truths of his sovereignty. Yet even if he were incapable of compromising those principles, the arts of political management called for something other than noble obstinacy. The parliamentary moderates, who had cobbled together an artful resolution of conflict the previous year, were prepared to try again and were called to a negotiation with the king, however bleak the prospects. In the meantime, though, Charles had ordered a suspension of parliamentary proceedings to allow discussions to proceed without further public polarization. The order, of course, was construed as an enforced shut-down, and the militants in the House of Commons loudly advertised it as an infringement of their rights to debate. On 2 March 1629 the Speaker, Sir John Finch, attempted to adjourn proceedings in compliance with the kingâs order but was told that he was the Commonsâ servant, not the kingâs, and would not be allowed to suspend debates until a resolution attacking and condemning âinnovations in religionâ and extra-parliamentary taxes had been read. In an awkward bind, Speaker Finch replied, rather pathetically: âI am not the less the kingâs servant for being yours. I will not say I will not put it to the question but I must say I dare not.â He had no choice. Sir Miles Hobart had locked the door of the House and kept the key. With the kingâs officer hammering on the door and Denzil Holles, the member for godly Dorchester (and a big man), pushing the Speaker down in his chair and making sure he stayed there, the most eloquent leader of the radicals, Sir John Eliot, held the floor, warning that ânone had gone about to break parliaments but in the end parliaments have broken themâ. Resolutions of startling fierceness were then read, declaring âwhoever should bring innovation of religion . . . advise the taking and levying of subsidies not granted by parliamentâ to be âa capital enemy of the kingdom and Commonwealth and everysubject voluntarily complying with illegal exactions a betrayer of the liberties of England and an enemy to the sameâ. Shouts of acclamation, âAye, Aye, Ayeâ, rang through the battle-hot House. Two days later Hobart, Holles, Eliot and six others were arrested and sent to the Tower. Parliament dissolved on 10 March.
It is not much, is it, this shift from speaking to shoving and shouting? On the other hand, itâs everything: a startling violation of decorum in an age when body language spoke volumes about authority and its vulnerability. Hollesâs roughness and his evident contempt for polite procedure presuppose a collapse of deference that was genuinely ominous for the status quo. And along with it came something equally pregnant with consequences for the future â the creation of a public sphere of politics, the birth, in fact, of English public opinion. Although debates in parliament were still largely supposed to be confidential, lengthy, detailed reports were being written by specialist scriveners, sometimes on commission, sometimes for a news-hungry market, and reproduced in multiple copies. Thus the great theatre of debate
But the norms of politics and what could or could not be legitimately accepted as sovereign authority were changing under him even as Charles reiterated what he assumed to be the self-evident truths of his sovereignty. Yet even if he were incapable of compromising those principles, the arts of political management called for something other than noble obstinacy. The parliamentary moderates, who had cobbled together an artful resolution of conflict the previous year, were prepared to try again and were called to a negotiation with the king, however bleak the prospects. In the meantime, though, Charles had ordered a suspension of parliamentary proceedings to allow discussions to proceed without further public polarization. The order, of course, was construed as an enforced shut-down, and the militants in the House of Commons loudly advertised it as an infringement of their rights to debate. On 2 March 1629 the Speaker, Sir John Finch, attempted to adjourn proceedings in compliance with the kingâs order but was told that he was the Commonsâ servant, not the kingâs, and would not be allowed to suspend debates until a resolution attacking and condemning âinnovations in religionâ and extra-parliamentary taxes had been read. In an awkward bind, Speaker Finch replied, rather pathetically: âI am not the less the kingâs servant for being yours. I will not say I will not put it to the question but I must say I dare not.â He had no choice. Sir Miles Hobart had locked the door of the House and kept the key. With the kingâs officer hammering on the door and Denzil Holles, the member for godly Dorchester (and a big man), pushing the Speaker down in his chair and making sure he stayed there, the most eloquent leader of the radicals, Sir John Eliot, held the floor, warning that ânone had gone about to break parliaments but in the end parliaments have broken themâ. Resolutions of startling fierceness were then read, declaring âwhoever should bring innovation of religion . . . advise the taking and levying of subsidies not granted by parliamentâ to be âa capital enemy of the kingdom and Commonwealth and everysubject voluntarily complying with illegal exactions a betrayer of the liberties of England and an enemy to the sameâ. Shouts of acclamation, âAye, Aye, Ayeâ, rang through the battle-hot House. Two days later Hobart, Holles, Eliot and six others were arrested and sent to the Tower. Parliament dissolved on 10 March.
It is not much, is it, this shift from speaking to shoving and shouting? On the other hand, itâs everything: a startling violation of decorum in an age when body language spoke volumes about authority and its vulnerability. Hollesâs roughness and his evident contempt for polite procedure presuppose a collapse of deference that was genuinely ominous for the status quo. And along with it came something equally pregnant with consequences for the future â the creation of a public sphere of politics, the birth, in fact, of English public opinion. Although debates in parliament were still largely supposed to be confidential, lengthy, detailed reports were being written by specialist scriveners, sometimes on commission, sometimes for a news-hungry market, and reproduced in multiple copies. Thus the great theatre of debate
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