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The Caroline Captivity of the Church$

Julian Davies

Print publication date: 1992

Print ISBN-13: 9780198203117

Published to Oxford Scholarship Online: October 2011

DOI: 10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198203117.001.0001

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Arminianism

Arminianism
Chapter:
(p.87) 3 Arminianism
Source:
The Caroline Captivity of the Church
Author(s):

Julian Davies

Publisher:
Oxford University Press
DOI:10.1093/acprof:oso/9780198203117.003.0004

Abstract and Keywords

This chapter discusses that, for revisionist historiography, religion was a factor in the Civil War not because of the rise of Puritanism, but because of the rise of Arminianism, thus offering a convenient explanation for the crisis of the 1640s. It explains that this revisionism is a salutary corrective to traditional historiography in that it has helped to restore religious values to one's perception of the past, has served to reinterpret Puritanism, and has aided the unmasking of the remarkable institution that was the Jacobean Church. The chapter discusses the very eclectic doctrinal position of Laud, who was indicted of Arminianism, and examines the Brownist beliefs that Laud isolated for condemnation. It also discusses the importance of the Montagu case and Charles I's pursuit of peace for the Church.

Keywords:   Religion, Civil War, Arminianism, Puritanism, Brownist beliefs, Church of England, Montagu case

For that Christ died for all men is the universal and constant doctrine of the Catholic Church in all ages, and no ‘error’ of Arminius: and are the express words of Scripture itself, in more places than one. And the Synod of Dort, called principally about the errors of Arminius, allows this for orthodox; ‘Christum mortuum esse pro omnibus’.

(Laud, WWL iii. 304–5.)

I. Doctrinal Arminianism or Doctrinal Puritanism?

In his preface to the Treatise of Liberty and Necessity, Thomas Hobbes remonstrated with those of his contemporaries who sought the origins of the English Revolution in doctrinal issues. As ‘good lawful diversions for the duller sort of citizens who contract disease for want of motion’, they inhibited the study of what he considered to be the true causes of the crisis.1 Today if Hobbes were to return, he would still find doctrinal debate bedevilling historians of the early seventeenth century.2 Although English Arminianism has a respectable pedigree in Stuart historiography, only in recent years has it come to the front stage.3 Dr Tyacke took up the threads of a well-worn theme and (p.88) worked them into a new synthesis which went further than describing the rise of Arminianism. He suggested that under the patronage of Charles I, Laud and his Arminian disciples were able to secure power at the centre and outlaw the Calvinism of the majority, thus effectively bringing to an end the Jacobean consensus which had bound together in one Church those of widely divergent views. Then during the 1630s the king and Laud embarked upon a programme of ‘Arminianization’ in the Church as Arminian doctrine expressed itself in the ecclesiological and sacramental innovations of the 1630s.4 Thus for revisionist historiography, religion was a factor in the Civil War not because of the rise of Puritanism but because of the rise of Arminianisni.5 With the revision of traditional Whig historiography, this thesis offered itself as a convenient explanation of the crisis of the 1640s. In consequence few words have been bandied about with such indiscriminate and frequent application as ‘Arminian’ or ‘Arminianism’. In fact the situation envisaged by Francis Rous of Arminians multiplying spawn upon spawn has veritably come to pass.6

This revisionism is a salutary corrective to traditional historiography in that it has helped to restore religious values to our perception of the past, has served to reinterpret Puritanism, and has aided the unmasking of the remarkable institution that was the Jacobean Church.7 Nevertheless the thesis of a rise of Arminianism is to be criticized not least because, as an explanation for the problems of the Stuart monarchy, it is as reductionist as the thesis of the rise of Puritanism which it has attempted to displace. The first and obvious question one needs to ask is whether Arminianism had to rise within (p.89) what is seen as an unquestionably Calvinist Church? The reformed Church of England, like its Calvinist and Lutheran neighbours on the continent, was not a gathered Church of the elect but a community with multifarious doctrinal views. The work of Kenneth Parker has seriously questioned Tyacke's notion that a specifically Calvinist doctrinal consensus existed in Jacobean England, by showing that Calvinist doctrine did not underwrite the Sabbatarian doctrines shared by hierarchy and Puritan alike. Moreover, the practice of divinity was often far removed from its doctrine. Sir Robert Harley once said of Lord Herbert of Cherbury that ‘my lordship loves a puritan but hates a predestinator’ It was quite possible to believe in one's eternal election without translating that belief into a concrete, systematic doctrine of predestination. In other words it was possible to be reformed in Jacobean England without being Calvinist.8 Certain ideas, which in retrospect can be seen as formative in the later development of a fully ingrained Arminian theology within the eighteenth century, were implicit if not explicit in both the Elizabethan and Jacobean Church, and their successor. They should not be traced to Erasmianism (where Trevor-Roper has located them) since Erasmian ideas are incompatible with a strongly scholastic and fideistic Arminian theology. Rather their origin can be found in the pastoral problem implicit in the reconciliation of free evangelical grace with a rigidly predestinarian theology, a problem which increased across Europe as Calvinist theology was placed on the defensive and required to rationalize its doctrine in the last quarter of the sixteenth century. This was a problem in England during the 1620s and 1630s, but as the thrust of this work suggests, a far greater problem was that of reconciling Anglican free grace with the restrictions of an increasingly authoritarian doctrine of the Church, which placed the evangelical promise under constraint. This is why English Arminianism did not come into its own until after the overthrow of Caroline censorship and why it never developed into the coherent theology which appeared in the Netherlands. It comes as little surprise, therefore, that in contemporary English works Arminianism attained far less importance than in the works of present-day historians.9

(p.90) In the list of doctrinal innovations drawn up by Williams and Ussher for the committee of religion in 1641, out of eighteen points, only the thirteenth explicitly mentioned Arminianism, and only one other, the fourteenth, can be construed as referring to any of the five Arminian heads. The other doctrinal innovations concerned popery, Socinianism, and other heterodox ideas. The committee carefully discriminated between what they considered to be points of popish doctrine and points of Arminianism. None of these popish doctrines are necessarily consequential to an ‘Arminianization’ of the Church but to its catholicization in its widest, patristic sense. Clearly those who sat on the committee for religion believed that there existed a doctrinal and ecclesiological explanation for what had occurred during the previous twenty years which was more embracing than doctrines of free will. Unlike some of their contemporaries, they certainly did not conflate Arminianism with ecclesiological issues, as they singled out separate innovations in discipline.10 In fact when the Short Parliament met in 1640 there was little talk of ‘Arminian’ policies or of ‘Arminian’ doctrine. The perception of Arminianism in the 1620s had succumbed to the perception of popery, and a whole variety of heterodox ideas. The accusations of ‘Arminianism’ continued in occasional petitions and in some of the sessions of the 1640s, but they were insignificant when compared to the anxieties about popery and other doctrinal innovations.11 In fact it is not going too far to suggest that ‘Arminianism’ as perceived by Parliament in the 1620s was to all intents and purposes a dead letter by 1640. It had certainly played a part in 1629, the first occasion when, according to Professor Russell, more than just a minority of members perceived it. The reason why ‘Arminianism’ attained significance in 1629 lies less in the doctrinal issue per se than in its perceived connections with the subversion of the Church, Commonwealth, and property rights.12 ‘Arminianism’ was looked upon as a bridge to popery of which Neile and Weston were the architects. A connection was made with facility between an attack on Calvinist predestination and the growth of ritualism on the one hand, and the undermining of property rights on the other, a conflation occasioned by the concurrency of the liturgical (p.91) practices of the Durham House circle with the king's sponsorship of arbitrary views of kingship. Laud was accused of ‘arminianism’ in the Remonstrance not because of any overt doctrinal statement on his part but because he was believed (incorrectly) to have licensed the sermons of Sibthorpe and Mainwaring, which justified arbitrary taxation.13 Members conveniently chose not to accuse Harsnett of Arminianism, doubtless because he had supported the Petition of Right and had risen to power outside the entourage of Buckingham or Neile.14 Nevertheless, to recognize that the parliamentary perception of Arminianism fluctuated a good deal according to the political index is not to deny the sincerity with which a few members, including Pym and Harley, appreciated the doctrinal credentials of Arminianism.15

The Lords may have been more doctrinally illiterate than their neighbours in the Commons if the York House debates which several of them attended are taken as representative.16 Certainly most did not participate in the theological gymnastics and the game of doctrinal divide and rule, cherished by the likes of Warwick and Saye, who had sponsored the meetings under Buckingham's auspices. Their failure to condemn Montagu as an Arminian stemmed directly from the fact that other peers present did not perceive the issue in such clearly defined terms. When, during the first conference, Saye, supported by Coke, Secretary of State, suggested that the conclusions of the Synod of Dort should be introduced to prevent future Montagus from misinterpreting the articles of religion, Carlisle and Pembroke quickly retorted that the Synod's doctrine was binding only to those who had ‘submitted themselves’ to it.17 Pembroke thought that Morton had gone too far in his objections to Montagu, exclaiming that it was a ‘marvellous thing to me to hear Mr. Montagu accused for popery in saying that a man made just by the grace of God, through faith is also declared to be just by his holy life and conversation’.18 With a measure of self-interested social reserve the (p.92) earls identified the Calvinist opinion that the elect remained justified even in sin as ‘most pernicious’ and ‘unfit for any people to hear’.19 According to Cosin, those peers who attended the second conference a few weeks later were also unconvinced (with the exception of Warwick and Saye) by the bishop's criticism of Montagu's ideas.20 Even if we accept that Cosin's account is the most biased narrative of the York House meetings, it reveals conclusively enough that the peers differed in their opinions about Montagu, and sometimes appeared vague and confused about the subtleties of the doctrinal points in contention. Perhaps this explains why two years later in 1628 Jackson dedicated his near-arminian treatise to Pembroke.21 Doubtless, for many across the social spectrum the doctrinal debate lacked any relevance at all, as Dean Potter believed.22 Certainly the application of Arminianism could be as loose and as indiscriminate as other terms of denomination or abuse. An alteration might be perceived and then without much comprehension identified with a current label, which according to the parishioners of Holdcastle (Lincoln) in 1640 was ‘Ormianism’.23

During the 1630s some ministers took the opportunity to preach fully-fledged Arminianism, and the advocates of true doctrinal Arminianism were possibly greater than the small figures collected by Dr Tyacke on the basis of surviving depositions.24 Yet for many clergy the perception of an Arminian—Calvinist division was not the perception of a simple Weberian polarity between grace and predestination. All divines ostensibly accepted predestination as biblical teaching and as rooted in the articles. As Sir Dudley Digges said, ‘it seems that the arminians do all agree on the article but the difference is on the sense of it.’25 The question was not whether there was predestination, but ‘when’ decreed and in what way, not whether there was a decree, but whether it was absolute or conditional, dependent on the foresight of faith or not. It was less predestination (p.93) per se which was attacked than predestination to reprobation (which was not necessarily synonymous with Calvinist doctrine and certainly alien to Augustinian doctrine).26 As the articles of religion espoused single predestinarianism rather than rigid or double predestinarianism, and as there existed no systematic plan of predestination laid out for human eyes, it was possible to reach a position extraneous to the main Calvinist or Arminian systems, while agreeing in part with them both.27 In this way Sanderson in Pax Ecclesiae and Playfer in Appello Evangelium bypassed the alternative schemata, evolving their own doctrines of predestination and advertising them as consistent with the confession of the Church of England.28

The difficulty in perceiving a clear Arminian—Calvinist division among the clergy was furthered by the existence of certain Calvinist sublapsarians who subscribed to hypothetical universalism: that Christ had died for the sins of the whole world, even if the divine decree of predestination was efficacious for the elect alone.29 Within this category fell those Calvinists who were influenced most probably by Overall's teaching: Lake of Bath and Wells, Davenant of Salisbury, Hall of Exeter, Ussher of Armagh, and Samuel Ward.30 To some of their contemporaries their position looked analogous to the Arminian view of grace. As early as 1617, Ussher, a Calvinist of impeccable hue, was slandered with the charge of Arminianism.31 That Calvinists might hold neither an exclusive nor a monolithic position on the wider doctrines of authority, the Church, and the sacraments (in particular baptism) meant that some of them might be accused of Arminian heterodoxy, as was Joseph Hall, formerly one of the delegates at Dort. In his Old Religion of 1627, he asserted (p.94) that Rome was a true Church, without sufficiently explaining his definition of truth.32 Consequently, in answer to the accusations of Burton and others, he had to write both the Apologetical Advertisement and the Reconciler in order to vindicate himself from the charge of Arminianism.33

Perhaps because they were more doctrinally sensitive than their lay contemporaries, the clergy appear to have been reluctant to accuse fellow clerics of Arminianism. They realized that however near a doctrinal opinion was to Arminianism it had an indigenous growth in England and stemmed from a possible construction or misconstruction of the articles. John Goodwin, certainly among the most doctrinally literate of clerics, doubted whether those called Arminians by their contemporaries were such, and suggested that if any adopted Arminian tenets, it was less for doctrinal reasons than because they wished to unseat the likes of Abbot and alter the course of the Jacobean Church.34 Thus Goodwin would agree with Collinson but not with Tyacke. Another seventeenth-century commentator, John Walker, believed that ‘few or none’ of the so-called English Arminians ‘held in all the points of it’.35

Neile's defence, drawn up in 1629, reveals that although he might patronize anti-Calvinists, personally he had good grounds for rejecting the accusation of Arminianism.36 Reprobation he believed was merely non eligere, while faith, repentance, and obedience were the effects of election, not its cause, views which were decidedly not Arminian. As Burghley's chaplain thirty-five years earlier, he had written against Baro's contention that God elected on account of foreseen faith. As for the issue of falling from grace, this he had never determined, but believed, that in the end the elect could never fall; if they sinned God would restore them by faith and repentance.37 Thus Neile was not an Arminian, but at most an anti-Calvinist. Others such as Christopher Potter, dean of Worcester, resolved ‘never to be an Arminian and ever to be moderate … to stand fast in that liberty … I love Calvin very well and I must tell you I cannot hate Arminius’.38

(p.95) Some who received preferment from Neile might edge in some respects towards Arminianism, as Dr Tyacke shows, yet to call even these Arminians does not do justice to the eclecticism of their views.39 In spite of Montagu's near-arminian views on foreseen faith and falling from grace, Hall (one of the English delegates at Dort) confessed that he personally did not think that Montagu was Arminian, finding that ‘mistaking was more guilty of this dissension than misbelieving … it plainly appeared to me, that Montagu meant to express not Arminius but Bishop Overall, a more moderate and safe author.’40 Overall had in fact been the former patron of both Montagu and Cosin. To prove his thesis, Hall wrote the Via Media, for ‘I desired to rectify the judgement of men concerning this misapprehended controversy showing them the true party in this unseasonable plea.’ Since Overall went ‘a midway between these two opinions which he held extreme, and must needs therefore somewhat differ from the continually received tenet, in that point’, Hall gathered from Overall and the English delegates at Dort ‘such common propositions concerning these five busy articles as wherein both of them are fully agreed’.41 Given that a distinguished Calvinist did not perceive the controversy in terms of a simplistic polarity between Arminian and Calvinist it seems incongruous for historians to visualize doctrinal positions in terms of opposed camps. It is even more incongruous for them to do so when examining the very eclectic doctrinal position of Laud.

‘I have nothing to do to defend Arminianism, no man having yet charged me with the abetting any point of it,’ Laud testified during his trial.42 Laud was clearly not referring to the charge made against him in the Commons Remonstrance of 1629, which resulted in both Neile and Laud protesting their innocence before the Privy Council and the king, and declaring ‘that they hated such opinions’43 Although some contemporaries were sceptical of this renunciation, there appear to have been sound grounds for Laud's rejection of the charge. The evidence adduced for Laud's doctrine is certainly insufficient to indict him of Arminianism. Rather it places his position on the five points somewhere between the poles of Arminianism and Calvinism. That Laud should urge Vossius to publish a revised (p.96) edition of his History of Pelagianism clearly indicates a dislike of rigid predestinarianism, as the purpose of the work was to show ‘that there was a great difference between a reasonable view of the free-will of man, which the Church had never condemned, and extreme views of human independence which set at nought the grace of God’.44 On the same account it clears him of Arminianism. Vossius, according to Montagu's opponent, Carleton, was wrongly traduced for Arminianism, he being ‘no arminian but a very honest man’. In fact the Dutch allowed him a professorship at Leyden, a bastion of Calvinist orthodoxy, while in his last work, De Scriptoribus Latinis, he reiterated an Augustinian position on predestination.45

Among other evidence cited for Laud's Arminianism is the letter concerning Montagu's opinions, the Lambeth Articles, and the Synod of Dort, which he sent to Buckingham in August 1625. Yet the fact is invariably ignored that in this letter, Laud distinguished between predestination to election and predestination to reprobation: those doctrines of Dort and Lambeth which were ‘fatal’ (i.e., reprobation) and contrary to Montagu's opinions, and those which were not (i.e., election).46 In his History Laud likened his doctrinal position on two of the five points, to that held by James I at the Hampton Court Conference. On the issue of perseverance, the king had determined that ‘we may often depart from grace’ without determining ‘totally’ or ‘finally’, but ‘wished that … doctrine … handled … with great discretion lest on the one side God's omnipotency be called in question by impeaching the doctrine of His eternal predestination; or on the other … a desperate presumption … by inferring the necessary certainty of standing and persisting in grace’.47 But elsewhere Laud was more explicit, asserting that while the elect might fall they would not do so finally. Thus he could personally affirm Calvin's tenet ‘renatosnon posse per finalem impoenitentiam cadere … et hocverum est’. This was a far more moderate and orthodox position than Montagu's.48

(p.97) As for the question of the irresistibility of grace, Laud believed that although man had the will to resist grace, yet if God so wished he could bestow a grace so powerful that man would not resist. In reply to Bellarmine's assertion that ‘potest ille libere gratiam repudiare, sed certum est non repudiaturum’ Laud wrote, ‘possum libere si volo; et tamen certum est me non velle; simul stare possunt’.49 The same notes reveal that Laud had believed in predestination to election, which he later described in a sermon of 1626 as one of the fundamental points of divinity.50 But such a predestination was not inconsistent with human responsibility under God: ‘let every man that calls on the name of Christ, depart from iniquity. If he do not that, he is not Christ's; let him talk of predestination while he will.’51 Such evidence is enough to place Laud within a broad Augustinian tradition, a moderate position that adhered to single predestination to election but one which regarded as anathema the notion that God actively predestines some to reprobation. For Laud this was nothing better than a philosophical intrusion upon orthodox divinity, for the ‘question is not here what God may do by an absolute act of power would he so use it upon the creature which he made of nothing but what he hath done, and what stands with his wisdom, justice and goodness to do’.52 In the last resort an over-scrupulous inquest into the divine decrees was inadvisable, for, as he told Wentworth in 1636, the ‘truth whatsoever it be [with relation to predestination] is not determinable by any human reason in this life. And therefore [it] were far better … to be referred up to the next general known truth in which men might rest, than to distract their conscience and the peace of the Church, by descending into interminable particulars.’53 Thus Laud had no ‘arminian’ confidence in man's nature or in his innate ability.

It has been suggested that when Laud used the terms ‘orthodox’ and ‘puritan’ he meant respectively ‘Arminian’ and ‘Calvinist’, enabling him to overturn the Calvinist orthodoxy of the Church, and smearing Calvinist conformists with the taint of Puritanism.54 In 1625 Buckingham asked Laud to draw up a list of clergy denoted by ‘o’ and ‘p’, representing, it is assumed orthodox and Puritan, so that Charles I could promote only Arminians.55 Yet if orthodox means Arminian here then it makes the preferment of Calvinists after 1625 (p.98) inexplicable. Whatever the term ‘orthodox’ meant, it clearly comprehended some Calvinists as well, as the criterion for preferment after 1625 lay not so much in a particular doctrinal position, as in an ideal of churchmanship. After all, no Calvinist was promoted during the 1630s solely for his doctrine. In 1641 when Saye and Sele accused Laud of promoting only those who held the same doctrinal opinions as himself, Laud showed how he had helped the preferment of ‘many … who yet went not with them which my Lord will needs miscall my party’.56

Only at the cost of the greatest distortion can divines be placed within closed categories of Arminian and Calvinist. Moreover patronage connexions would have transcended such clear lines of demarcation had they in fact existed. Heylyn, an Arminian, for example, was originally affiliated to the Winchester—Wells axis outlined by Professor Collinson. He regarded Arthur Lake as a father of the Church and travelled all the way from Burford to Wells to receive from him ‘fatherly benediction, devout prayers’ and confirmation.57 Dean Young, another member of this connexion, was Heylyn's ‘dear friend’ and one of the first men at court to introduce him to Charles, then prince of Wales.58 On the other side of the spectrum, Bishop Morton, the most prominent Calvinist determinist on the episcopal bench and Montagu's main opponent at York House, was Cosin's foremost patron during the 1630s. In July 1639 he wrote to Laud asking that Cosin, then Master of Peterhouse, be preferred to higher office. Over a year later, Charles I, who had ‘a very good opinion of him’, elevated him to the deanery of Peterborough.59 It is not a little incongruous, therefore, to see both Cosin and Heylyn as among the most important scions of the same ‘arminian faction’. At the same time serious rifts might exist between ‘arminians’ not least within the Durnam House circle itself, most notably between Neile, Howson, and Cosin.60

In the light of much recent historiography it would be naïve to suggest that many Calvinists were promoted during the 1630s. Yet the conclusion is as inescapable as it is unconventional: James I possibly (p.99) elevated more so-called ‘Arminians’ to the higher echelons of the Church than his successor. On the Caroline bench Skinner and Curie were orthodox in a very reformed sense as they were among the clergy who collected over fifty doctrinal errors within contemporary works for the committee of religion.61 Others such as Piers, Howson, Duppa, Warner, and Williams had good Calvinist credentials although they belonged to a more liberal reformed tradition than Hall, Davenant, and Morton,62 who, according to Montagu, were the only bishops ‘violently bent against’ Rome.63 Even Mainwaring spent time delineating and recording the ways of providence in the world.64

Given the salient criteria conditioning preferment to the higher echelons during the reign, the episcopal appointments of 1640–1 appear less surprising, although they are usually depicted in terms of a Calvinist reaction.65 The king would not overtly offend parliamentary susceptibilities by choosing bishops who did not appear to be doctrinally orthodox, but at the same time he would not elect nonconformists or those who were not royal chaplains. Perhaps what is most remarkable about these elections (in the light of historiography) is that overtly Calvinist chaplains were overlooked, such as Featley, Bargrave, Young, and Balcanquall. That Hacket was not selected suggests that Williams played little or no part in the elections. In fact the king consulted Juxon and drew up a provisional list of candidates before Nicholas, Secretary of State, advised him to fill the vacancies to strengthen the royal and episcopal voice in the Lords.66 Nor can any of those selected be described fairly as ‘anti-Laudian’, since (p.100) all were implicated to some degree in the changes of the 1630s. Brownrigg had offered constructive bridge-building in the Convocation of 1640.67 Winniffe, dean of St Paul's, and King, archdeacon of Colchester, were the authors of the original capitular order altering the position of the table at St Gregory's, while Westfield was Laud's appointee as archdeacon of St Alban's.68 Prideaux was perhaps most out of tune with the developments of the Personal Rule, but he had lost some of his popularity during the 1630s over the Sabbatarian question (with the help of Heylyn). Perhaps more important was his long-standing acquaintance with Laud, who had saved him from disgrace in 1631 through a timely intercession with the king.69 Another of those selected, Richard Steward (who rejected Chichester, probably on the promise of the deanery of Westminster), was heavily implicated in the changes of the 1630s and had been slandered for ‘Arminianism’.70

If ‘orthodox’ did not mean ‘Arminian’ in the 1630s, then what of its corollary. Was Calvinism a Puritan doctrine? In 1611 Archbishop Abbot wrote that ‘such as you call puritans did never differ from the rest in any part of substance but about circumstances and ceremonies, and about the manner of ecclesiastical regiment’.71 As mentioned earlier, historians in recent years have helped to uncover the reformed doctrinal consensus which bound together in one Church those of differing ecclesiological views,72 and which meant that before the 1620s Puritanism rarely, if ever, had a doctrinal identification separate from the doctrine of the established Church.73 According to Fuller, the identification of a Puritan doctrine was in the first place a Catholic ploy first popularized by Spalato and then adopted by Harsnett and others, not only to bring to an end the policy of occasional conformity tolerated within the Jacobean Church but also to de-Calvinize it.74 As early as the Convocation of 1621 the term of abuse was circulating, when Robert Sanderson noticed the opposition to those who fetched ‘within the company of this title of puritan all (p.101) orthodox divines that oppose against their semi-pelagian ideas, of purpose to make sound truths odious and their own corrupt novelties more … plausible’.75 Certainly the term puritan was sufficiently elastic for its user to bestow upon it whatever meaning he wished. But the extent to which anti-Calvinists invested it with a Calvinist connotation differed considerably in relation to their divergence from Calvinism. Moreover, as was pointed out earlier, the doctrinal consensus of die Jacobean Church was only in some respects Calvinist.76

Whereas Montagu and others may have included under Puritanism much of Calvinism, Laud invested it with far fewer Calvinist connotations. Among Laud's personal reasons for identifying doctrinal Puritanism lay a desire to return a compliment. In his Oxford days some Calvinists had called him a papist; he now retorted by smearing them with the name of puritan. According to Clarendon, ‘as they accused him of popery because he held some doctrinal opinions, which they liked not, though they were nothing allied to popery, so he entertained too much prejudice to some persons, as if they were enemies to the discipline of the Church, because they concurred with Calvin in some doctrinal points.’77 In December 1624 he drew up for the duke of Buckingham a scheme of ‘doctrinal Puritanism’ in ten heads. This has not survived, but a list of Brownism in ten heads, which Laud drew up when replying to Saye and Sele's allegations in 1640, has.78 Although these doctrinal heads were probably not the same substantive points as those presented to Buckingham in 1624, they enable us to ascertain the extent to which Laud would have comprehended the doctrine of predestination within ‘Brownism’ and ‘Puritanism’.

Among those Brownist beliefs which Laud isolated for condemnation were denial of Christ's descent into hell, denial of the universal catholic Church (belief in particular churches only); belief that the Church of England was antichristian; that Christ will live on earth and not depart again; and that it was sinful to use the Lord's Prayer as a prayer. Those doctrinal points within ‘Brownism’ which expressly concerned the doctrine of predestination were that God decrees some to reprobation (double predestination) and its corollary, that God is the author of sin and that he works everything in us, (p.102) including evil. The last point concerned an antinomianism attendant on an over-rigid notion of election; that it was unlawful to pray for forgiveness of sins after conversion and that the elect were saved without repentance.79 These points constitute sufficient evidence that Laud comprehended within Brownism only double or rigid predestinarianism—predestination to reprobation—and its corollaries. Therefore for Laud single predestination to election, interpreted in a Calvinist sense (conditional upon it not being antinomian) could not be a ‘Puritan’ doctrine, as it was not even a Brownist doctrine, Brownism being a more radical position than Puritanism in the eyes of contemporaries. Even so Laud's designation of predestination to reprobation as a Brownist doctrine was extreme by any standards, and smeared a lot of conformist Anglicans, not least a few bishops, with the charge of heterodoxy. Predestination to election, however, was an orthodox tenet, affirmed in the articles and not something which Laud need associate with Calvin in particular, although among reformation theologians Calvin had highlighted it. Thus, as far as Laud is concerned, historians have smothered important doctrinal subtleties in interpreting his understanding of ‘orthodox’ as Arminian and ‘Puritan’ as Calvinist. Moreover Laud's notion of both doctrinal Puritanism and Brownism, as the above shows, accommodated doctrinal views not necessarily associated with predestinarianism.80

Clearly when attempting to define ‘doctrinal Puritanism’ as understood by Laud and others, the elasticity of the designation is all important. It might cover a whole range of reformed doctrinal issues, rather than specifically Calvinist doctrines which might be related or not, depending upon the perception of the beholder—doctrinal issues not just of predestination and grace, but of the Church, authority, and the sabbath. Laud's notion of doctrinal Puritanism, it should be remembered, covered ten doctrinal heads. Giles Widdowes gave a wide range of definitions for the ‘schismaticall puritan’.81 Even the central ideas of the Reformation might be called ‘puritanical doctrine’, as William Gyles called them, regarding all those who ‘taught men to apply Christ to themselves’ as heretics and schismatics.82 Clearly, then, in the designation of ‘Puritan doctrine’ not (p.103) only Calvinist election might be smeared but even the evangelical doctrine of salvation. Although the definition of an identifiably Puritan doctrine is not a sufficient explanation for the reaction against Jacobean Puritanism it was bound to intensify it. In an apology written to a friend at court clearing himself from the aspersions of Puritanism, Hall of Exeter distinguished between ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ Puritanism. Before, Puritanism was understood only as a refractory opposition to the government, rites and customs of the Church but now some were identifying a ‘modern puritanism … more subtle than in former times, and that under the colour of a full outward conformity, there may be nourished some unquiet and pestillent humours which may closely work danger to the churches peace’.83 While Dr Tyacke may have overestimated the importance both of Arminian doctrine and anti-Calvinism in the 1630s, he is certainly correct to underline the significance of marking out a separate doctrinal Puritanism (if incorrect to equate this with Calvinism).84 It implicated those who were tolerant of nonconformity within the Church with the stigma of disaffection and widened the climate of treason.85 This in its own turn served to heighten anti-Puritan invective, and to reinforce Charles I's armoury against Jacobean Anglicanism.

II. The Montagu Case

The importance of the Montagu case was that for the first time, the Crown was seen to redefine Puritanism as a doctrinal system.86 For much of his reign James I had contained a good many of the tensions implicit within Protestantism by defining Puritanism only in terms of nonconformity to matters of discipline and ceremonies.87 At the same (p.104) time he promoted to the higher echelons of the Church many reformed Protestants who shared a common doctrinal base with Puritan nonconformists and who were not keen to unbalance the Jacobean religious settlement by forcing contentious ecclesiological issues.88 This religious peace was placed in question by the European conflagration of the Thirty Years War. The wave of controversial, largely anti-Catholic preaching attendant on the announcement of the Spanish marriage plans and James's increasing overtures to Roman Catholicism (policies designed to achieve a cessation of hostilities and to prevent England's entry to war) resurrected the king's latent fear of Puritanism and its subversive potential, which all too clearly revealed the weaknesses in his eirenic policies.89 Thus after 1618 James may well have been more open to a redefinition of Puritanism which was more attuned to his present predicament. Concurrent with these developments, his doctrinal position may have become less overtly reformed as a result of the death of his confessor, James Montagu, and because of the emergence of a more extreme predestinarian position after the Synod of Dort.90

In two books, the New Gagg and Appello Caesarem, Richard Montagu, a royal chaplain, proceeded to exploit his master's predicament and to redefine Puritanism in terms of doctrine as well as nonconformity. In New Gagg, he reduced the doctrinal points separating the Church of England from Rome to eight, implying that certain reformed doctrines were beyond the pale of orthodoxy. As Drs Fincham and Lake have shown, the prescription was clear: if the Anglican Church was to retain any credible claim to apostolic catholicity and if James was to retain his position as a peacemaker in confessional struggles, then the king had to dissociate himself from a good deal of current reformed doctrine. He implied also that James could not hope to defuse the Puritan threat through the usual policy of incorporation, while at the same time maintaining a moderate and eirenic stand towards Rome. By the time of his death in March 1625, James was converted to Montagu's position, having read over Appello Caesarem and approved it for publication.91

The opposition of prominent clergy, in particular Archbishop (p.105) Abbot, to the king's policies led James increasingly to turn towards the advice and support of those who were committed to the restoration of catholic order with the Church, and who disliked the churchmanship typified by Abbot, regarding it as narrowly Protestant. Historians have identified among these an Arminian party whose existence enabled Montagu to find supporters at court in 1624 and helped to pave the way for the capture of the Church after 1625.92 The problem is that the word ‘Arminian’ confuses more than it clarifies. As suggested above, the doctrinal position of the so-called, ‘Arminians’ is to be found within a spectrum ranging from moderate Calvinism to anti-Calvinism, rather than Arminian. To designate them as Arminians gives their doctrinal opinions a coherence lacking in the extant records, while to visualize a party overlooks those who stood outside Neile's Durham House circle but who possibly welcomed Abbot's predicament, such as Williams of Lincoln, Harsnett of Norwich, and Howson of Oxford.93 Nor did they hold a monolithic position on governmental policy: while Neile was a vigorous proponent of the Spanish war, Andrewes was not.94 Again, the ascendancy of these clergy was relative to the decline in importance of Abbot and the more overtly Protestant presence at court. In fact their patronage by James I did not lead to any significant preferment as he had already promoted them to major appointments within the Church before 1618. The only significant exception to this was Laud, who was elevated to St David's in 1621 at the promptings of Williams, Buckingham, and probably Charles.95 James had finally forgiven Laud for his involvement in the Devon divorce case of 1605, which had so alienated the king that at the time he pledged never to advance Laud. According to Williams, the king ‘was constrained often time to say that he (Laud) would never desire to serve that master, which could not remit one fault unto his servant’.96

The extent to which these clergy supported Montagu has certainly been exaggerated. Montagu's main protagonist was Richard Neile, (p.106) clerk of the Closet and bishop of Durham, who carefully examined Montagu's works and smoothed their passage to James I for publication.97 The others were far more cautious. Buckeridge of Rochester was ‘ever … to hold the reins hard that I went not too quick’, while White, later bishop of Carlisle, to whom James I officially delegated the task of examining Appello Caesarem, was ‘timorous … by his crossing out and putting in somewhat’.98 As for Laud, he consistently remained aloof from Montagu throughout James's reign. After all, he was Buckingham's not the king's protégé and on this account alone would be more inclined to stay alongside Charles in the last stages of the reign when ‘reversionary interests’ came into play and Charles fell out with his father.99 Once Charles succeeded, his position would be assured, as was evidenced during 1626 when he succeeded Andrewes as dean of the Chapel, and was probably promised the clerkship of the Closet after Neile and the see of Canterbury after Abbot.100 Initially Montagu received little support from Buckingham. In fact in October 1624 he asked Cosin to approach Laud (then in Buckingham's household) in order to attract the duke's attention: ‘the bishop of St. David's must now and in such cases put for the Church with the duke and use his great credit that we be not swallowed up with a puritan episcopate.’101 Cosin approached Laud, but within six days he had received the reply that Laud was not prepared to help Montagu, causing the disheartened cleric to write ‘for the bishop of St. David's … I smell a rat … I hope to see him one day where he will both do and say for the Church. Interim if he concede, I blame him not.’102 Throughout this time Neile remained ‘the only man that standeth up to purpose in the gapp’. ‘I doubt not of his constancy and continuance,’ wrote Montagu. In December 1624 Neile was still ‘that worthy bishop, still like himself in his thorough courses for right, though alone and left alone’.103

Laud's movements in the last years of the reign reveal that characteristic discretion which accompanied him throughout his life. In August 1628 Edward Kellet, a prebendary of Wells, wrote that ‘Bishop Laud's discreet proceedings, are too wise for me, and did somewhat deject me.’104 Doubdess Montagu felt the same in 1624. Yet there (p.107) can be little doubt that they shared a similar vision of the Church. In 1638 Montagu would inform the archbishop that they both strove towards ‘the same end, though not the same way’.105 Both visualized the Church of England as buffeted on both sides by Puritanism and Rome, and both invested Puritanism with doctrinal connotations, although Laud with fewer Calvinist connotations than Montagu.106 What enabled Laud and other cautious members of the Durham House circle to support Montagu was the projected marriage between Charles and Henrietta Maria, when the reversionary interest itself became reversed and when Charles began to face the opposition which he had previously used against his father. As mentioned earlier, by December 1624 Buckingham was sufficiently interested in the Montagu affair to ask his chaplain, Preston, to examine Appello Caesarem and to ask Laud to draw up in ten heads the content of doctrinal Puritanism for his own use.107 After December 1624 Laud was clearly trying to educate Buckingham in the doctrinal controversy and its implications for the Church. Laud and Buckingham's dislike of Abbot was reciprocal. In the early years of Charles's reign, after the French marriage, Buckingham came to see in Montagu a political tool to beat the opposition posed by Abbot and others to his foreign policy.108 For his own part Laud thought that Abbot's churchmanship was destructive of apostolic catholicity and a sell-out to Puritanism. It is unlikely that he would have been too distressed to see Abbot lose favour, the man whom he recognized from his Oxford days as the ‘original cause of all my troubles’, and who had accused him of being popish.109 Later in 1627 Abbot depicted Laud as the person who had poisoned the duke's mind against him. Buckingham's consistent opposition to Abbot explains why the archbishop failed to solve the Montagu problem after Parliament delegated its resolution to him: ‘three times I complained of it,’ Abbot wrote in his apology of 1627, ‘but he [Montagu] was held up against me, and by the duke, magnified as a clergyman.’110

Although Charles disliked Abbot's politics and his churchmanship, (p.108) he was sufficiently shrewd to leave Buckingham to prosecute the Montagu affair alone. As he told Laud in 1634 he could discriminate between a church cause and a churchman.111 In fact to speak of the king's commitment to Arminianism in 1625 forces upon the king's doctrinal position a strait-jacket which extant evidence will not allow.112 Doctrinally Charles was neither Calvinist nor Arminian. That he disliked the confrontationist dogmatism of Montagu's personal religious opinions goes without question. In fact if support for Arminianism is measured by royal support for Montagu, then there is little evidence of it in the early stages of the reign. Montagu was sufficiently alarmed by the death of James I to anticipate a powerful reaction against himself.113 Yet his perception of the king's motives in the early years of the reign needs to be read with caution. Deprived of preferment and accused of heterodoxy, he exemplified the traits of a marked, paranoid man. Charles's support appears to have waxed and waned in relation to his political requirements. The question in 1625 was not whether Charles would support doctrinal Arminianism (it never arose) but how far he could move against doctrinal Puritanism. As seen above, to this purpose, as early as April 1625, a few days after the accession, Buckingham asked Laud to draw up for the king a list of clergy with their names annotated by ‘o’ and ‘p’ to denote which were ‘orthodox’ and which were ‘Puritan’.114

Montagu harboured fears, shared by Laud and others, that as a result of his appeal, Parliament might attempt to introduce the rulings of the Synod of Dort as a rule for the Church of England. Perhaps Charles decided to issue some statement specifying that Dort had no place in the Anglican confession, or he may have wished to have silenced Montagu altogether, recognizing in him an irritant to peaceful parliamentary proceedings, while at the same time wishing to prefer those opposed to ‘doctrinal Puritanism’. It was clearly to seek advice on these matters that Charles sent Laud in the first few days of the reign to Lancelot Andrewes to ascertain what ‘he would have done in the cause of the Church and bring back his answer especially in the matter of the five articles’ (i.e., the five Arminian heads condemned at Dort). That Charles should refer this problem to Andrewes suggests not only his great respect for the bishop's opinion, but that he was keeping an open mind on the Montagu affair (p.109) and almost certainly distancing himself from the more adversarial line advocated by Neile. Laud, true to character, played the discreet and cautious go-between.115

The first Parliament of Charles I met in June 1625 only to find that Abbot through ‘remissness by command’ had yet again failed to solve the Montagu controversy.116 In order to prevent Montagu's impeachment Charles intervened in July 1625 and claimed that as a royal chaplain, it was for the Crown, not Parliament, to prosecute him.117 Charles then decided to refer the problem to the Church, which was probably the line advocated by Andrewes, who had suggested the same in 1624. As Laud noted, this was for Montagu the first indication of the ‘king's favour [towards] him’.118 Yet this was no guarantee that Charles would continue to shield Montagu from Parliament once it returned after the recess. In August 1625, two days after the conclusion of the first session of the first Parliament, three of Montagu's more reserved supporters, Laud, Howson, and Buckeridge, were sufficiently concerned about this possibility to recommend his cause personally to the king in a letter which they addressed to Buckingham.119 In this private missive they expressed gratitude to Charles for referring the problem to the Church as the correct arena for its resolution, but also stressed the danger of allowing any other judge in doctrinal matters. Their letter had the desired effect in the short run.120 In December 1625 Charles sent Montagu's apology to Neile and White, and at about the same time he invited Andrewes and others to consult again about what should be done about Montagu in the forthcoming second Parliament, due to meet in February.121 On 16 January this group asked Charles not only to prefer Montagu but to prohibit all parties from preaching or writing about the predestinarian controversy (which provided the basis for the June proclamation). However Charles had different ideas, and, as the three bishops had originally feared, he made a conscious decision to distance himself from Montagu and to leave him to his parliamentary accusers.

According to Fuller, early in 1626 the king informed Buckingham (p.110) that because there was a great deal of ill feeling against Montagu he intended to leave him to Parliament ‘to stand or fall according to the justice of his cause’.122 This decision helps to explain Laud's mood of disillusionment on 29 January 1626 when he recorded in his diary that on the basis of the evidence collected by Buckingham concerning ‘the cause, book and opinions of Richard Montagu … King Charles had determined himself therein. I see a cloud arising and threatening the Church of England. God of His Mercy dissipate it.’123 But there were possibly other reasons for this mood of dejection. It seems likely that Charles had recently read Hall's work, Via Media, which attempted to show that the teachings of Dort, like Montagu's doctrinal position, were not irreconcilable with the articles of religion.124 There can be little doubt that this would have appealed to the king's Erasmian temperament and his intense dislike of religious dogmatism. Laud, on the other hand, may have feared a subtle intrusion of Dort's teachings through this channel. Certainly before June 1626 Hall had presented to Montagu and his opponents copies of the work in an attempt to reconcile their differences.125 Hall himself acknowledged that the treatise was presented to the king by Dean Young of Winchester together with a motion to enjoin a general moratorium on all the related points of controversy. Ironically it was the appearance of the proclamation of June 1626 which buried the treatise ‘in a secure silence’.126 In the end the disappearance of the work may have been part of a compromise package: in November 1626 Hall was nominated at the council board for either Ely or Bath and Wells.127 When in 1627 he received Exeter it was with Laud's support and not Buckingham's. He himself wrote years afterwards that had the duke's letters arrived a few hours later from France he would have almost certainly lost the bishopric (possibly to Montagu).128 Charles continued to keep Montagu from high office (p.111) and when he eventually elevated him to Chichester it was a concession to Buckingham, Montagu's main patron after 1626.129 In fact it was the duke rather than the king who surfaced as the main advocate of so-called ‘Arminianism’.

The York House Conferences can be seen as an attempt by the duke to keep the issues open after Charles had decided not to distance himself from Montagu.130 Whatever their main purpose, they did little for Montagu's cause. Although he might take comfort in the fact that some Calvinists present felt that he was more ambiguous than heterodox in his opinions, he was forced to admit that in two crucial areas, the foresight of faith and falling from grace, his views were not orthodox. Nor did the conferences lead to any parliamentary support.131 When Pym announced the decision of the parliamentary committee which had been set up to examine the issue, no one spoke in Montagu's favour.132 Two months after the second Parliament Montagu wrote that the ‘king and God favours us never so little’, while in August 1626 he was led to believe that the king was not yet resolved ‘against the side’ (i.e., doctrinal Puritanism).133 Moreover between 1624 and 1626 eight books appeared against Montagu. He replied to none of these, nor did anyone else on his behalf.134

The intensification of debate outside Parliament, in press and pulpit, provided sufficient justification for the publication of the proclamation of 14 June, silencing the controversy.135 Several drafts for this survive, one with the king's corrections.136 The preamble was drawn up by Laud, but the remainder by one of the Secretaries.137 The entire corrected draft was then referred to Abbot and nine bishops, among them Laud and the Calvinists Felton and Davenant.138 The personal corrections by Charles reveal his interest in the controversy and his desire to neutralize it to his own advantage. He toned down the accusation of ‘Arminianism’ by inserting ‘schism’ (p.112) instead, and altered the phrase ‘opinions have been broached by Richard Montagu’ to ‘opinions seem to have been broached’.139 Charles had little sympathy for Montagu's dogmatism, yet he probably thought that he was not an Arminian. He also altered the phrase stating that he was acting on the advice of his Privy Council to one claiming that it was on the advice of his bishops, since he did not wish to condescend to any recognition that laymen had the right to determine doctrinal issues.140 In fact the proclamation can also be seen as an attempt to undercut the parliamentary bill for ‘peace and unity of Church and Commonwealth’, presented by four members who wished to give the Calvinist Irish Articles of 1615 statutory equality with the Articles of England.141 The proclamation, however, shelved this issue altogether not so much by asserting the articles as the only rule of doctrine as by ordering no one further to controvert the predestinarian question in book, pulpit, or press, and by leaving the interpretation of doctrine in the hands of bishops.142

It is debatable, however, to what extent the proclamation enabled the king to appear as mediator. On 25 June 1625 Ussher suggested in the king's audience that it might lead to a decline in predestinarian orthodoxy.143 Davenant feared that Durham House would exploit the ruling for their own interests, a fear which, as events turned out, was well founded, although Neile and his circle used the proclamation not (as has been asserted) to outlaw Calvinism on a national basis but to subtly prevent the publication of double predestinarian (reprobation) doctrine.144 Shortly after its appearance Neile sent a copy to Cambridge almost certainly to thwart the attempt of some dons to proscribe the opinions of those opposed to double predestinarian beliefs.145 Within a fortnight of the publication's appearance, the High Commission at Lambeth called the stationers and printers before them and charged them not to print or sell any of the books which had appeared against Montagu during the Parliament.146 In the course of 1627 Neile and Laud strengthened their position at court, and thereafter exploited their position to further undermine (p.113) the doctrine of the reformed Jacobean Church.147 As clerk of the Closet Neile secured a pulpit for anti-Puritan invective. In November 1627 he effectively prevented Preston from preaching a sermon which depicted the rout at the Îie de Rhé as providential judgement against a corrupt nation.148 Some of the sermons preached before the king were abusive and sour, such as that given in 1628 by Matthew Wren, dean of Windsor, who compared Puritans to the assassin of Buckingham.149 Neile also persuaded Montaigne of London to publish a book which was almost as provocative, if not as politically important, as Appello Caesarem: Jackson's Treatise of Divine Essence and Attributes.150 Later, Laud, as bishop of London, used his own position as licenser to censor statements favourable to Dort and rigid predestinarianism.151

III. The Peace of the Church

The idea of a pardon for Montagu was first aired by Laud and other bishops as early as January 1626, but not until June 1628 after his third Parliament did Charles ask Attorney Heath to draw one up, and not until December 1628 did he issue a warrant for it.152 Laud (p.114) himself continued to distance himself from Montagu, and when the Commons investigated the granting of the pardon, it was Neile, not Laud, whom they implicated in its procurement.153 The question remains why the king chose not to grant a pardon earlier than the last month of 1628. As late as October 1628 Heath, the Attorney-General, informed Montagu that, although the king had asked him to draw up a pardon, he had not given the warrant for its publication. However Heath promised Montagu that he would ask the king for a warrant on condition that he would ‘review his book and take away things doubtful’.154 Although Heath declined to advise Montagu in ‘knotty points of controverted questions’, he suggested that ‘a sober ignorance may be safer and more valuable than a curious knowledge’. Heath wished Montagu to realize that if he refused to comply he would almost certainly not receive a pardon and would remain in the clutches of Parliament.155 There can be little doubt that Heath spoke on behalf of the king and Privy Council, who were trying to secure more peaceful proceedings in the second session of the third Parliament, for at a meeting on 28 November 1628 the king informed the council that he wished the bishops in London to examine Montagu's book for any ‘Arminianism’.156 At the same time the assassination of Buckingham in the previous August meant that Montagu had lost his main supporter. Laud and Neile may also have been hoping for a more peaceful session as only five months before the Commons had voted them Arminians in the Remonstrance.157 In November 1628 Montagu was informed that ‘his great friends at court would take no blows for him’, which is clear evidence that the court bishops wished him to relinquish his high parliamentary and public profile.158 Moreover, given the fact that Laud's doctrinal position was more orthodox than Montagu's, it seems almost certain that he wished Montagu finally to come clean on his ambiguous statements by clarifying his doctrinal position precisely on those two crucial areas where he had failed to give satisfaction: the foresight of faith and falling from grace.159 This interpretation receives support from a conversation (p.115) between Samuel Ward and White of Carlisle in which the bishop made it clear that those who had originally countenanced Montagu's book had ‘scrutinised it further’ and ‘had found in it some parts flat opposed to the received doctrine of our Church [arid] are desirous to have those parts buried hereafter in silence’. White, in fact, had been one of the debaters at York House where he had revealed his doctrinal difference with Montagu precisely on these two issues.160

Thus in the last days of 1628, as the king looked for a more peaceful Parliament, pressure was brought to bear upon Montagu to alter his opinions.161 With his position looking increasingly untenable, shortly before 12 December Montagu sent a letter to Abbot renouncing some of his opinions and clarifying his doctrinal position. It was even reported that Montagu had assented to Dort, but it is more probable that propositions, similar to Hall's Via Media, which interpreted Dort in the sense of Overall, were offered to Montagu for assent. The importance of Montagu's capitulation should not be underestimated. It took even the king by surprise, who as soon as he heard of the letter, summoned Secretary Coke to procure it from Abbot so that he could examine its authenticity.162 Within ten days Abbot had convened the bishops at Lambeth to draw up the declaration for the peace of the Church.163 In response to these developments, on 28 December Charles dispatched to Dorchester, Secretary of State, the royal warrant for the pardon which was then forwarded to Heath.164 Finally on 17 January 1629 Charles published a proclamation authorizing the withdrawal of Appello Caesarem from the press.165 Thus the events of December 1628 and January 1629 appear to have behind them an overall (p.116) strategy not only to secure a peaceful Parliament but to stifle further doctrinal controversy.166

Possibly very few Calvinists saw the royal policy as an attempt to introduce Arminianism under the guise of pacifying predestinarian disputes. When Potter, provost of The Queen's College, praised the declaration in a sermon of March 1629, among those who congratulated his efforts were the Calvinists Morton, Winniffe, Young, and Goad (one of the delegates at Dort).167 The events of winter 1628/9 appear to have convinced many that the king was not Arminian. The author of the ‘reasons for the suppression of arminianism’ was comforted by the proclamation for the withdrawal of Appello Caesarem, ‘from whence we cannot but in reason presume that his highness utterly dislikes the doctrine therein contained, as being scandalous and repugnant to the most usually received and current doctrine of our divines’.168

The part played by Laud in the formulation of the declaration is not clear, but he was probably responsible for prefixing it to the articles, as Robert Baron of Aberdeen congratulated him for so doing.169 To Laud was also delegated the task of answering the Commons vote (in reply to the declaration) that only Parliament could determine the doctrine of the Church, and that Arminianism was entirely incompatible with the articles.170 Perhaps no document better reveals the principles which underlay Laud's attitudes and actions in the Arminian controversy. If the Articles admitted more than a single interpretation, then it was perfectly lawful for anyone to choose the sense he so wished, so long as it was consistent with ‘the analogy of faith’. This opinion he might peaceably hold until the Church made an official interpretation of the same, for the ‘wisdom of the Church hath been in all ages, or the most to require consent to articles in general, as much as maybe, because that is the way of unity’.171 At the same time this policy necessitated the toning down (p.117) of some excesses, namely rigid predestinarianism. Consequently, for Laud, an Arminianization of the Church was an evil equal only to its Calvinization. Laud was not an Arminian, but his liberal interpretation of the Articles was bound to admit the airing of some arminian ideas. He attacked also the Commons' claim that the only interpretation of the Articles permissible was according to recent works of divinity. For Laud, on the other hand, commentaries could offer at the most only a ‘probable’ interpretation. Moreover, like Davenant, he believed that Parliament had no right to make an official interpretation of doctrine, ‘for this belongs to them only that have power to make it’. In fact the Commons had contravened the recent declaration which had asked them to accept the Articles in their ‘plain and literal sense’.172

The declaration asked no one to print or preach on the controversy, nor were the universities to dispute the issues in ways other than already approved by Convocation.173 It did not proscribe single predestinarian Calvinism as it was still possible to receive article 17 in a single predestinarian sense.174 In fact as the article endorsed predestination, the declaration called for a literal acceptance of predestination to election:

Predestination to life is the everlasting purpose of God, whereby … he hath constantly decreed by his counsel secret to us, to deliver from curse and damnation those whom he hath chosen in Christ out of mankind … As the godly consideration of predestination, and our election in Christ is full of sweet, pleasant and unspeakable comfort to godly persons and … as feel in themselves the working of Christ … for curious and carnal persons, lacking the spirit of Christ, to have continually before their eyes the sentence of God's predestination, is a most dangerous downfall.175

That the declaration should actually reinforce predestination to election suggests that behind its publication lay an attempt to undermine predestination to reprobation (otherwise known as rigid or double predestination): the opinion that God had irrevocably condemned some men to eternal damnation, and its corollaries, that Christ had not died for all men but only for the elect, that God wills all sin and that man cannot attain to grace if once he falls. At the same time the declaration would undermine the opinions of those (p.118) denied that the Arminian points could be, if only in some respects, compatible with the articles. Of course some Calvinists might object to such intentions. They might interpret an attack on predestination to reprobation as an attack on predestination per se, while an attempt to neutralize anti-arminian opinions would be construed as a subtle way of introducing Arminianism en tout. Even if Prynne and Burton misrepresented Laud's theological position and the rationale behind the declaration, their fears can be understood. They would meet any claims that the declaration was being pressed impartially with the objection that it should be used rather to protect rigid predestinarian teaching and to proscribe Arminianism.176

Apart from the fact that the declaration endorsed predestination to election, its limited circulation casts doubt on Dr Tyacke's assertion that it led to the proscription of predestinarian teaching in the 1630s. Whether it was known in the parishes depended on whether the clergy had bought an edition of the Articles after 1628 (to which it was prefixed) or successive editions of the Prayer Book which contained the Articles. Many parishes became aware of the declaration only through the Instructions of 1629 which reinforced it. When in 1636 the churchwardens of Walton, in the peculiar of the Sokens in Essex, were asked to certify whether or not their parish observed instruction 3 relating to the declaration, they confessed that they were unable to answer because ‘we have not his Majesty's Declaration’.177

To what extent was the contemporary perception true that the declaration was not pressed impartially? Certainly on the basis of surviving evidence, very few preachers fell foul of Laud during the 1630s for breach of the declaration.178 This does not mean that Laud was lax in its enforcement but that we have misinterpreted his intentions in applying it. Laud reproached only preachers who stressed predestination to reprobation, and who applied it to particular persons or to the nation. In 1629 Laud cited Daniel Votier of St Peter Cheapside for preaching that as some were condemned to reprobation, Christ had not died for the sins of the world.179 On 20 December 1630 he called into court John Archer for depicting God as the author of sin. The views of John Vicars of St Mary, Stamford, (p.119) whom he interrogated in October 1628, clearly fell within the exclusion zone laid down within the declaration, for he had to submit that he held ‘no man by relapses to be made incapable of grace and repentance, whilst his soul is in his body, and so detest from my heart the heresy of the novations in this point’.180 William Mady similarly fell into trouble with Laud in March 1631 for preaching on the decree of reprobation. Possibly many of those who preached predestination to reprobation remained undetected by informers or the London courts. The likelihood of detection increased when the preacher applied his teaching to the congregation by ‘particularizing’ in the pulpit.181 When Votier was called into court a second time in 1637 it was because he had identified the elect and the reprobate among the pews, hardly a sop for the troubled conscience or for the parishioner who demanded respect from his social inferiors. One of the offended congregation reported Votier's sermon to Laud, who then summoned him to the High Commission.182 Several others, such as Stephen Dennison of St Katherine, Cree, were similarly cited for particularizing in the pulpit.183

Apart from the fact that the number of ministers who fell foul was relatively small and that he attempted to curb rigid predestinarianism and its antinomian implications, Laud's application of the declaration has been misinterpreted in another way. It would appear that if Laud censured ministers who preached predestination to reprobation, then he did so because they were, in the first case, nonconformist to the Book of Common Prayer or canons, or particularized to such an extent that they questioned authority. Such a minister was Henry Burton of St Matthew, Friday Street, who marked out the bishops as reprobates, portrayed the country as on the road to apostasy, and vilified the Book of Common Prayer.184 The reason for Archer's suspension was his failure to catechize properly, a suspension which lasted for only three months until April 1631.185 Mady's predestinarian views fell into insignificance when compared to his anti-Trinitarian beliefs, for which he lost his licence to preach.186 Votier's singular censure was to suffer Laud to dispute with him for one hour to try to make him see the error of his ways; then Laud, ‘fearing (p.120) the clamours of the world’, merely dismissed him, and without censure.187

It was perhaps less in his capacity as bishop of London than as chancellor of Oxford that Laud had occasion to press the declaration.188 Shortly after his election, information reached him that John Tooker of Oriel had preached Arminianism in its five points, and had publicly cast aspersions upon the Synod of Dort. Laud was swift to inform the provost of Oriel that Tooker should have been reprimanded for his impertinence, because ‘I would not have sermons of such ill example lead the way into my government there,’ and suggested that any who disobeyed the king's moratorium in future should be more severely reprimanded.189

Apart from Laud's personal intentions in pressing the declaration, his policy was conditioned also by the king's views. Charles I required him to keep the doctrinal peace and strictly laid down that he wished neither ‘side’ in the controversy to feel that they were prejudiced or favoured. The king informed Davenant in 1630 that his intention was not to have ‘this high point meddled withall or debated, either one way or the other’.190 As early as December 1630, when asked to publish what appears to have been a reasonably inoffensive tract on predestination, Laud replied that he much doubted whether the king would ‘take any man's judgement so far, as to have (these) controversies any further stirred which God be thanked begin to be at more peace’.191 Laud's communications to Oxford dons in the 1630s reveal an almost paranoid fear that this policy of impartiality would be unsettled by some hot-head and that the king would get to know about it. In 1630 he told Dr Tolson that ‘the blame will fall on me more than upon another man, if such things as these pass without censure … be careful to maintain my honour in upholding the peace and government of the university.’ In the summer of 1631 that very event occurred, when students at Magdalen Hall and Exeter broke the declaration and accused Laud and other bishops of bias towards (p.121) Arminianism. So bitter did the controversy become that the king personally heard their case at Woodstock on 23 August and then adjudicated between the various parties.192 This Woodstock meeting has been ignored, yet its significance was greater than the York House Conferences because it was chaired by the king and established on even clearer principles than the declaration of 1628 the king's policy towards Arminianism. Charles reiterated his desire that the declaration be pressed impartially without favouring either interpretation.193 This in itself is hardly sufficient to substantiate the king's doctrinal neutrality but the matter did not rest there. Charles personally and publicly embarrassed Laud by suggesting that his policy was not as impartial as he claimed. The king announced that he had been informed that Potter, provost of The Queen's College, had preached in favour of some Arminian heads without reprimand while the mouths of others had been stopped. As it turned out, the fellows of Potter's college were able to clear him from the charge, but henceforth Laud can have harboured no false illusions about the king's categorical requirements.194 In the future he would have to exercise even greater discretion in pursuing his delicate policy of discriminating between single and double predestination, and in safeguarding a liberal interpretation of the Articles. Laud regarded the incident as so important that he inserted 23 August, ‘the great hearing of the disorders at Woodstock’, in the front of his diary among the very select dates which he observed as special days of remembrance. These included the dates of his parents’ death, the Devon divorce case, the assassination of Buckingham, and of the audience which determined his election to the presidency of St John's, Oxford.195

In the immediate term the Woodstock meeting occasioned Laud's letter to the vice-chancellor in September 1631, beseeching him ‘to proceed impartially against delinquents … that neither one nor the other may have cause to say that you favour a party’.196 As a result of the royal statement, the bishops were far more careful about what came under their censure. In the longer term the Woodstock meeting (p.122) occasioned not just a greater scrupulosity but caused a distinct moderation of the programme of anti-Calvinism. On Christmas Day 1632 both Laud and White of Ely preached at court ‘in favour of Calvin’,197 and directly against Arminianism which confuted ‘the opinions of the vulgar’.198 To suggest that a volte-face occurred in 1631–2 in Laud's doctrinal position does not do justice to the eclecticism of his opinions before, or to the fact that (as he informed Vossius) in these matters he had always counselled moderation.199 But it does reveal how misleading is the current depiction of the ‘rise of Arminianism’ during the 1630s.

In terms of policy the Woodstock meeting certainly occasioned a distinct alteration. Henceforth there were no more Montagus or Jacksons, and a concurrent decline in predestinarian controversy occurred. As early as January 1633 Archbishop Abbot could inform the king that ‘of the arminian points there is no dispute’.200 Such an impartial testimony questions the notion that doctrinal controversy over the predestinarian question was endemic in the 1630s and that we should see the decade through spectacles of Arminian versus Calvinist, or a simple Weberian polarity of predestination versus grace. Nor, as the rest of this work reveals, were there clear ‘Calvinist versus Arminian’ divisions over the ecclesiological and Sabbatarian issues of the Personal Rule. While some Arminian doctrine spread during the 1630s, the Arminianization of the decade is a myth. Moreover, as the first two chapters suggest, the reasons for the ecclesiological shift of the period are very different from those given in textbooks.201 Another contributory factor to the peace of the Church was the parliamentary situation, or the lack of it, as doctrine ceased to have the same relevance as in the politically volatile situation of 1628–9. The Accounts of the Province reveal that there was no ostensible intensification of the predestinarian controversy during the 1630s.202 Only once in the Accounts did Laud inform the king of any significant controversy, in 1638, when some clergy in the diocese of St David's breached the declaration, ‘meddling in those points which your Majesty hath forbidden’. Other doctrinal controversies arose which Laud reported to the king, but their inclusion is not to be attributed to Laud's application of the declaration to cover all (p.123) doctrinal controversies but to his response to the additional instruction of 1634 which asked the bishops to report any major doctrinal disorders within their sees.203

During the metropolitical visitation, the declaration was republished and Brent asked to ascertain whether some ministers (whose names had been supplied by informers) at Gloucester and other places had preached against it.204 Information collected by Lambe for the visitation of Peterborough also noted the same offence, such as that of Price of Brigstock, who preached for four hours on the theme that God ‘created the greater part of the world of purpose to damn them’.205 Perhaps the last occasion when Laud pressed the observance of the declaration in Oxford was after John Johnson of Magdalen preached universal grace in September 1640 and (on Laud's personal testimony) in contravention of the declaration.206 Thus although Laud shared with Johnson a belief in universal grace (which many Calvinists also shared), he was prepared to suppress his own opinions under obedience to the king's moratorium. To this purpose, only four months earlier, he had prevented the publication of the works of Thomas Jackson, president of Corpus Christi. ‘Both in regard of the duty which we owe his Majesty, and the peace of the Church,’ Laud informed the vice-chancellor, ‘no man should presume to print any [matter] which might break the rule given in his Majesty's declaration one way or the other.’207 The situation was markedly different from that in 1628 and 1629, when Neile had published the very controversial and near-Arminian works of Jackson.208

As a result of instruction 3 of 1629, bishops and archdeacons encouraged the observation of the declaration through their visitations, and some expressly enquired into the declaration in their articles. Yet the attempt to pacify the predestinarian controversy of the 1630s should be seen in context. For both canonical and pastoral reasons clergy were obliged to curtail doctrinal controversy. Moreover James I's directions of 1622 foreshadowed the proclamation of 1626 and the declaration of 1628. Long before the reign of Charles I courts were engaged in the pacification of the predestinarian controversy (p.124) and were attempting to neutralize the more unfortunate pastoral consequences resulting from the preaching and application of double predestinarian opinions.209 In 1623 Professor Collinson's archetypal evangelical Calvinist, Arthur Lake, bishop of Bath and Wells, preached that ‘the world is much troubled now about universal grace, the resolution in short may be this, that (forbearing to be over busy with God's predestination, who is not pleased to acquaint us with his counsell in distinguishing persons), in a minister's commission grace is universal: we should labour the conversion of all and every one: neither should any man except himself, but to be in the number of that to whom God sendeth.’ ‘How absurd then are they that make this prophane collection,’ he declared later in a sermon at St Paul's Cross, ‘I am elected, therefore it skilleth not whether I serve God.’210

Court records are not the best means of measuring the extent of the episcopal promotion and the clerical observance of the declaration. Levels of detection probably varied from diocese to diocese, depending on the significance of the controversy and the interests of the diocesan. Some bishops, faced by a dispute, might attempt to defuse it and stress its anti-pastoral effects, others might stay clear altogether for fear that involvement would be construed as an attack on ‘orthodox’ doctrine and preaching. Ultimately the offence was in the hearer's ear. Goodman of Gloucester was offended by the claim of the rector of Little Dean that ‘if we are saved, then all papists are damned,’ and eventually suspended him.211 In 1638 Juxon cited the near-Arminian, John Goodwin, of St Stephen, Coleman Street, for preaching universal redemption and breaking the declaration. In both accounts for 1638 and 1639, Juxon and Laud informed the king of his misdemeanours, which again reveals their impartial application of the declaration.212 Like Goodman of Gloucester, Piers of Bath and Wells personally interviewed those whom he suspected of breaking the declaration, in order to convince them of the error of their ways. In October 1634 Richard Barnard of Batcombe appeared before him for preaching on ‘apostasy and falling from grace’, and received a reprimand for exercising (what he considered to be) his ministerial (p.125) duty ‘to reprove general nations, cities, towns (and) particular persons, as by the example of Nathan to David’.213 In neighbouring Exeter, Hall also interviewed suspects in audience and actually prosecuted (through personal suit) in consistory more cases over these issues than did his chancellor through parish presentments.214

Yet throughout the 1630s probably many engaged in doctrinal controversy and remained undetected. As the petitions of 1640s, sermons and reports of scandalous ministers reveal, clergy could advocate extremely controversial doctrines.215 Some clergy, and even some surrogates, might interpret the declaration as an invitation to curtail Calvinist preaching altogether.216 Some ministers took the opportunity to preach fully-fledged Arminianism, although on the basis of surviving depositions their numbers are small.217 Significance, however, is not proportionate to quantity and such examples served to provide extra fuel against the Caroline Church in the 1640s. Certainly, reformed preachers were more wary of how they handled the question of predestination. Some of them even found it difficult to get their works published, as the king watered down the reformed orthodoxy of the Jacobean Church.218 Thus it was singularly ironic that as Charles I strictly forced others to press the declaration impartially, he unwittingly bottled up Calvinist resentment, fermenting for change in 1640, while Unconsciously fanning the flame of emergent free-will doctrine. In this respect, English Arminianism was less a cause of the anti-Calvinism of the Caroline Church than one of its consequences.

Notes:

(1) The English Works of Thomas Hobbes, ed. Sir William Molesworth, 11 vols. (1840), iv. 233.

(2) See for example the exchanges in Past and Present: P. White, ‘The Rise of Arminianism Reconsidered’, 101 (1983), 34–54; W. Lamont, ‘The Rise of Arminianism Reconsidered’, 107 (1988), 227–32; P. Lake, ‘Calvinism and the English Church, 1570–1635’, 114 (1987), 32–77; N. Tyacke, ‘The Rise of Arminianism Reconsidered’, and P. White, ‘A Rejoinder’, 115 (1987), 201–29. The best review of Tyacke's work is Anthony Milton's in the Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 39/4 (1988), 613–16. For the five Articles: P. Schaff, The Creeds of the Evangelical Protestant Churches (1877), 549.

(3) C. V. Wedgwood, The King's Peace (1955), 90; Clarendon, i. 123–4; G. Davies, ‘Arminian versus Puritan in England, c. 1620–1640’, Huntington Library Bulletin, 5 (1934); J. W. Allen, English Political Thought 1603–1644 (1938), 159–60; H. C. Porter, Reform and Reaction in Tudor Cambridge (Camb., 1958), 281, 330; G. Cragg, Freedom and Authority (Philadelphia, 1975), ch. 4; T. M. Parker, ‘Arminianism and Laudianism in Seventeenth Century England’, in C. Dugmore and C. Duggan (eds.), Studies in Church History (1964).

(4) Tyacke, AC; and his, ‘Puritanism, Arminianism and Counter-Revolution’, in C. S. R. Russell (ed.), The Origins of the English Civil War (1973), 119–43.

(5) Tyacke, ‘Puritanism, Arminianism and Counter-Revolution’, 132.

(6) Commons Debates for 1629, ed. W. Notestein (Minneapolis, 1921), 12–15; Tyacke, AC, passim which employs the word very loosely throughout; C. S. R. Russell, The Crisis of Parliaments (Oxford, 1971), 216–17; A. Fletcher, A County Community in Peace and War: Sussex 1600–1660 (1975), 74–94; A. G. R. Smith, The Emergence of a Nation State (1984), 282, 289; A. Foster, ‘Church Policies of the 1630s’, in R. Cust and A. Hughes (eds.), Conflict in Early Stuart England: Studies in Religion and Politics 1603–1642 (1989), 193–224; D. MacCulloch, ‘Arminius and the Arminians’, History Today, 39 (Oct. 1989), 33; S. Doran and C. Durston (eds.), Princes, Pastors and People: The Church and Religion in England 1529–1689 (1991), 196.

(7) The works of Patrick Collinson; Kenneth Fincham; Peter Lake; John Morrill; and Kenneth Parker (all listed in the bibliography) in particular. For the contribution of literary historians see ch. 1 n. 10.

(8) Parker, ES 178; HMC Portland iii, 30; Lake, ‘Protestants, Puritans and Laudians’, 618 ff.

(9) Porter, Reform and Reaction chs. 15–17; O. O'Donovan, On The Thirty-Nine Articles: A Conversation with Tudor Christianity (1986); CCO 288/364–5. H. R. Trevor-Roper, Catholics, Anglicans and Puritans (1987); R. T. Kendall, Calvin and English Calvinism to 1649 (Oxford, 1979).

(10) Bodl. Eng. misc. c. 92/39.

(11) The Short Parliament Diary of Sir Thomas Aston, ed. J. D. Maltby (Camden, 4th ser., 1988).

(12) C. S. R. Russell, Parliaments and English Politics 1621–1629 (Oxf., 1979), 31, 207, 233, 298, 345, 396–404, 415–16.

(13) Ibid. 396, 404, 415–16; Bodl. Tanner MS 72/329, Bodl. MS Eng. hist, d. 222/20 Jan. 1629; Ch. 1 section iii.

(14) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 31; Bodl. MS Rawl. A 441/28.

(15) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 29–32, 404; Tyacke, AC 125–63.

(16) T. Ball, The Life of … Dr Preston, ed. E. W. Harcourt (Oxf., 1885), 126–30; WJC ii. 17–71. For a recent treatment see B. Donagan, ‘The York House Conference Revisited: Laymen, Calvinism and Arminianism’, Bulletin of (Institute of) Historical Research, 64/155 (Oct. 1991), 312–31.

(17) WJC ii. 65, 63–4.

(18) WJC ii. 49.

(19) WJC ii. 58–9.

(20) WJC ii. 74.

(21) T. Jackson, A Treatise of Divine Essence and Attributes (1628), epistle dedicatory.

(22) Dr Potter's Vindication of Himself … 1629 (1651). Nor should we forget that even noted reformed ministers such as Robert Jennison and Paul Micklewaite sought clarification on the doctrinal subtleties in question: Bodl. Tanner MS 72/294. Micklewaite consulted Ward, Brownrigg, Sanderson, Laney, and Cotton of Boston: Bodl. Tanner MS 71/53.

(23) J. Walker, The Sufferings of the Clergy (1714), i. 93.

(24) Tyacke, AC 188–99; Bodl. MS Carte 103/62–5; SRO D/D/Ca 282/236.

(25) Commons Debates for 1629, ed. Notestein, 122.

(26) A. McGrath, ‘Reformation to Enlightenment’ in P. Avis (ed.), The Science of Theology, (1986), 157–8; Kendall, Calvin and English Calvinism to 1649, 13–42; and for a reply, P. Helm, Calvin and the Calvinists (Edinburgh, 1982). Calvin, Institutes 3, i. 1.

(27) O'Donovan, On The Thirty-Nine Articles, 85.

(28) J. Playfer, Appello Evangelium (1652); CCO MS D288/358; BL Add. MS 5783; Bodl. Rawl. MS A 419, C 167.

(29) J. E. Piatt, ‘Eirenical Anglicans at the Synod of Dort’, Reform and the Reformation: England and the Continent c. 1500–1750, ed. D. Baker (Oxford, 1979); see also Richard Sibbes' introduction to Paul Baynes's Commentary on the First Chapter of Ephesians (1618).

(30) Playfer, Appello Evangelium (1652) ‘third opinion’; LJU 49–51; WRS v. 308; M. Fuller, The Life, Letters and Writings of John Davenant (1897), 221; Bodl. MS Tanner 71/148, Tanner 80/137. For their differences with others, in particular Twiss over predestinarian issues see Bodl. Tanner MS 71/146–8.

(31) LJU 49.

(32) WJH viii. 631–718; Fuller, John Davenant, 243–6.

(33) WJH viii. 719–57; vol. i, p. xlv.

(34) J. Goodwin, Redemption Redeemed (1651), 170–1. I owe this reference to the kindness of Miss Elaine Walker.

(35) Walker, Sufferings of the Clergy, i. 42.

(36) DCL MS Hunter 67/14.

(37) DCL Hunter 67/14.

(38) C. Potter, Vindication of Himself … 1620 (1651), 2.

(39) Tyacke, AC 106–24.

(40) WJH i, pp. xliii–xliv, which implicitly questions Professor Collinson's assertion that Hall saw an Arminian threat to the Church of England in 1626; TLS 489 (13 May 1983) and RP 90.

(41) WJH ix. 488–519; i, pp. xliii–xliv.

(42) WWL iv. 267.

(43) Birch, i. 439.

(44) G. Vossius, Historiae de controversiis quas Pelagius ejusque reliquiae moverunt (1618); Bodl. Tanner MS 314/55.

(45) Dr Potter His Vindication of Himself … 1629.

(46) WWL vi. 244–6. For the controversy surrounding the Lambeth Articles see Porter, Reform and Reaction, 314–40; P. Lake, Moderate Puritans and the Elizabethan Church (Camb., 1982), 209–26.

(47) WWL iv. 267, 453, 267–8; R. G. Usher, The Reconstruction of the English Church, 2 vols. (New York, 1910), ii. 344–5.

(48) WWL vi. 704.

(49) WWL vi. 699; PRO SP 16/4/20.

(50) WWL i. 130; vi. 607–708.

(51) WWL i. 131.

(52) WWL vi. 133.

(53) WWL vii. 275.

(54) Tyacke, AC 167 ff.

(55) WWL iii. 159.

(56) WWL vi. 92.

(57) Collinson, RP 85; Heylyn, CA 159.

(58) Barnard, TH 94; Heylyn's main patrons were the earls of Danby and Ancram: G. Vernon, The Life of Heylyn (1682), 35–6.

(59) DPD Mickleton and Spearman MS 20/11; also DPD Cosin Letter Book 1A/27. Cosin became a chaplain in ordinary only in April 1636 (PRO LC5/134/168). See also Bodl. Tanner MS 70/105; PRO SP 16/382/31.

(60) CC i. 200–10.

(61) BL Harl. MS 6424/84.

(62) Tyacke, AC, 60; Bodl. MS Eng. Misc. MS fos. 49/24–24v; F. L. Huntley, Jeremy Taylor and the Great Rebellion (Michigan, 1970), 64, 76, 89, 91; NNRO Lee Warner MS 1/6; Bodl. MS Cherry 2/5; WWL iv. 297.

(63) J. Berington (ed.), The Memoires of Gregorio Panzani (Birmingham, 1793), 246. Montagu assured Panzani that all the other bishops were ‘very moderate’ in their attitude to Rome; two were ‘almost catholic’—Goodman and Wright; G. Albion, Charles I and the Court of Rome (1935), 412–14.

(64) E. Yardley, Menevia Sacra, ed. F. Green (1927), 111; Walker, Sufferings of the Clergy, i. 42.

(65) C. S. R. Russell, The Fall of the British Monarchies 1637–1642 (Oxford, 1991), 411–12, et passim.

(66) The Memoirs of John Evelyn, 2 vols., ed. W. Bray (1819), 21–2, 28, 31–2. These elections were made personally by Charles I who had already consulted with Juxon about the most suitable candidates before the Secretary of State, Nicholas, approached the king on September 1641 to fill the vacant sees. Hacket appears to have crossed the king on a number of occasions: BL Sloane MS 4177; LPL MS 1030/65–7; Parentalia, 45–7, 49–50.

(67) See p. 264.

(68) DNB; WWL iv. 297; Bodl. MS Walker c. 3/341.

(69) Vernon, Life of Heylyn, 63; Parker, ES 314–26; Bodl. MS Jones 17/309v; WWL v. 165.

(70) Memoirs of John Evelyn, ii. 31–2; CC i. 228; Tyacke, AC 241.

(71) P. A. Welsby, Archbishop Abbot: The Unwanted Archbishop (1962), 25.

(72) Collinson, RP; Lake, AP; Tyacke, AC; Parker, ES.

(73) Lake, ‘Puritan Identities’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 35/1 (1984), 112–23.

(74) Fuller, CH 418.

(75) WRS ii. 32.

(76) Even Heylyn did not think Calvinism and Puritanism were equatable: Tyacke, AC 8.

(77) My italics. Clarendon, i. 121.

(78) WWL iii. 155–6; vi. 130–3.

(79) WWL vi. 130–3.

(80) Tyacke, AC 186.

(81) G. Widdowes, The Schismaticall Puritan (Oxford, 1631), ‘the preface’.

(82) HLRO Pet./Dec. 1640/Scotherne v. Gyles of Elm and Emneth; Hacket, SR ii. 39: the ‘good office of preaching, performed often by a bishop was called Puritanism by some in those times … that made the name of Puritan the very inquisition of England’; H. Parker, A Discourse Concerning Puritans (1641): ‘If any preach constantly twice a Sabbath, this is enough to make him accounted a puritan,’ J. Geree, The Downfall of Antichrist and the Power of Preaching to pull down popery (1641).

(83) SRO DD/PH 221/40.

(84) Tyacke, AC 7–8, 184–5, et passim.

(85) PRO SP 16/177/8; Jackson, A Treatise of Divine Essence, epistle dedicatory; Birch, i. 408.

(86) K. Fincham and P. Lake, ‘The Ecclesiastical Policy of James I’, Journal of British Studies, 24 (1985), 202–7.

(87) Ibid. 169–207.

(88) Ibid.; Collinson, RP 1–2.

(89) Ibid. 198–207.

(90) Ibid. 207.

(91) Ibid.; CC i. 37, 24, 21. The king asked White to scrutinize the work: Bodl. MS Rawl. c. 573.

(92) Tyacke, AC 106–24, 8.

(93) Hacket, SR i. 63; C. Dent, Protestant Reformers in Elizabethan Oxford (1983), 209–10; ‘John Howson's Answers’, in Camden Miscellany, ed. N. R. N. Cranfield and K. Fincham (Camden, 4th ser., 29, 1987), 319–43; Fuller, CH 418; Bodl. MS Rawl. D. 1349/156; Bodl. MS Rawl. C 573); K. Fincham, Prelate as Pastor: The Episcopate of James I (Oxford, 1990), 278.

(94) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 163.

(95) Hacket, SR i. 63; see ch. 1 section iii for preferment policy.

(96) Hacket, SR i. 64; Rushworth, i. 440.

(97) CC i. 66, 49.

(98) CC i. 49; Bodl. MS Rawl. C. 573.

(99) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 144–203.

(100) WWL iii. 161, 196.

(101) CC i. 24.

(103) CC i. 34, 21,65.

(104) Bodl. Tanner MS 72/292.

(105) PRO SP 16/383/63.

(106) See ch. iii nn. 47–50, 159–60; PRO SP 16/4/20 are possibly some of Laud's exceptions.

(107) WWL ii. 155–6; Ball, Life of … Dr Preston, 114 (Preston also consulted Davenant).

(108) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 13 et passim; see ch. 1 n. 159.

(109) WWL iii. 135.

(110) Rushworth, i. 449–57, in particular 439, 453.

(111) WWL, vi. 338.

(112) See Chapter 1 nn. 34–7.

(113) CC i. 67–8.

(114) WWL iii. 159.

(115) WWL iii. 160; CC i. 42.

(116) Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 232; Tyacke, AC 116.

(117) Tyacke, AC 117; Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 234; PRO SP 16/4/ 29; the king consulted the Solicitor-General before taking this action.

(118) WWL iii. 167–8.

(119) WWL vi. 244–6.

(120) WWL vi. 245.

(121) WWL iii. 178.

(122) WWL vi. 249; BL Harl. MS 7000/193; Fuller, CH iii 380.

(123) WWL iii. 179–80. Laud's words probably allude to Hall's introduction in Via Media: ‘there need no prophetical spirit to discern by a small cloud that there is a storm coming towards our Church’ (WJH ix. 489).

(124) WJH ix. 488–519.

(125) WJH i, p. xliv; PRO SP 16/20/23: in February 1626 Rudyerd informed Nethersole that ‘My lord hath read the discourse concerning the Arminians, likes it very well and thinks it fit to be taken into particular consideration.’ He was possibly referring to Pembroke and the Via Media.

(126) WJH i, p. xliv.

(127) PRO SP 16/525/21, 23.

(128) CC i. 103; WJH i, p. xlv; WWL iv. 297.

(129) The royal assent for Montagu to receive Chichester was procured by Endymion Porter, Buckingham's associate: PRO SP 16/38/14/182v.

(130) WJC ii. 1–81, esp. 56–9, 64, 71; Ball, Life of … Dr. Preston, 126–30; Bodl. Tanner MS 303/32v; Fuller, CH 387.

(131) Ball, Life of … Dr. Preston, 126–34.

(132) Fuller, CH 380; Birch, i. 96.

(133) CC i. 90, 103.

(134) Fuller, CH 380.

(135) Stuart Royal Proclamations, ii, ed. J. F. Larkin (Oxf., 1984), 90–3.

(136) PRO SP 16/29/78–9.

(137) PRO SP 16/540/404.

(138) PRO SP 16/29/78–9.

(139) PRO SP 16/29/79. The personal reference to Montagu was eventually dropped, see Stuart Royal Proclamations, ii. 90–3.

(140) PRO SP 16/29/79.

(141) Tyacke, AC 154–5, 228–9, 23.

(142) Stuart Royal Proclamations, ii. 90–3.

(143) The Whole Works of James Ussher, ed. C. R. Ellington (Dublin, 1847–64), xiii. 351; LJU 368.

(144) Fuller, John Davenant, 167.

(145) Tyacke, AC 48–9.

(146) Birch, i. 116.

(147) Rushworth, i. 436, 445–56.

(148) Ball, Life of … Dr. Preston, 154–7, 158–61. Bodl. Tanner MS 72/269: on 21 Apr. 1628 the king ordered the ministers of London not to take note of the duke's defeat in France in their sermons.

(149) Birch, i. 408: ‘a most pernicious sect, and dangerous to a monarch: as bad as Jesuits in their opinions. That they held the same tenet that their head fellow Felton doth … that it is lawful to kill any man that is opposite to their party and that all their whole doctrine and practice tendeth to anarchy.’ (This could also have been a slur on Bishop Felton of Ely, a Calvinist). See also The Confessions of John Bastwick (1641): ‘I have heard many sermons at the court yet never did I hear any, wherein I saw not the Puritans brought up with … some notorious lies told of them.’

(150) Jackson, A Treatise of Divine Essence and Attributes (1628), which caused a considerable parliamentary stir (Bodl. MS Tanner 72/150; MS Rawl. D 1347/114). It was published against the wishes of both Davenant and Morton, who examined it (Bodl. Tanner MS 290/84; The Life of … James Ussher (1686), 394; Bodl. Tanner MS 72/150.

(151) PRO SP 16/499/51; Bodl. Tanner MS 71/7; Tyacke, AC 151; Stationers' Hall: Company Records: Ct. Bk. ‘C’ 1602–54/7 Dec. 1628. The relationship between censorship and ‘Arminianism’ is examined by S. Lambert, ‘Richard Montagu, Arminianism and Censorship’, Past and Present, 124 (Aug. 1989).

(152) PRO SP 16/118/33; BL MS Harl. 7000/193; DCL Hunter MS 67/14/16—in June 1628 the king contemplated issuing pardons to Cosin, Sibthorpe, Mainwaring, and Montagu. Mainwaring received his in July 1628 (Birch, i. 379).

(153) DCL Hunter 67/14/16–17. The king asked the Attorney-General to consult Neile about the form of the pardon.

(154) PRO SP 16/118/33; DCL Hunter 67/14/16.

(155) PRO SP 16/118/33; Russell, Parliaments and English Politics, 404.

(156) Birch, i. 436–8. A few days after this council meeting the king asked Neile to procure the pardon from the Attorney-General.

(157) WWL vii. 632.

(158) CC i. 152.

(159) Ball, Life of … Dr. Preston, 126–34; see p. in; PRO SP 16/4/18–20.

(160) Bodl. MS Tanner 72/298; Ball, Life of … Dr. Preston, 126–8.

(161) Barrington Family Letters 1628–1632, ed. A. Searle (Camden, 4th ser., 28, 1983), 40. On 4 Dec. 1628 Sir Thomas Barrington heard a rumour that Montagu had converted from his former opinions, although he doubted its veracity.

(162) Birch, i. 449, 451; ii. 3–5; HMC Cowper i, 273 (in the same letter Coke referred to Montagu's retraction as a ‘recantation or desertion of those opinions wherewith he hath been charged’).

(163) Birch, ii. 3–5.

(164) DCL Hunter 67/14/17. After the warrants for the pardons were ingrossed, the Attorney-General sent those for Cosin and Sibthorpe to Neile in order to obtain the final signature from the signet office, but the two other pardons (Mainwaring and Montagu) were, according to Neile, ‘never sent to me neither doth I know who got his Majesty's hand to them’.

(165) Stuart Royal Proclamations, ii. 218.

(166) Articles agreed upon and reprinted by His Majesty's Command (1628). See WWL i. 154 for an attempt to date the declaration. It appeared sometime between 24 Dec. 1628 and 7 Jan. 1629 (Birch, i. 449, 457; ii. 3–5); Documentary Annals, i. 43.

(167) Potter, Vindication of Himself.

(168) Bodl. MS Rawl. D. 1247/114.

(169) PRO SP 16/266/3.

(170) WWL vi. 11–12; PRO SP 16/499/45 (SP 16/108/66–7) reveals that this was never presented, causing Laud to write ‘who altered the king's mind in this God knoweth’).

(171) WWL vi. 11–12.

(172) Ibid.; Bodl. Tanner MS 290/84.

(173) For a discussion of the doctrine of the Thirty-nine Articles see O'Donovan, On the Thirty-Nine Articles (for the single predestinarianism of article 17, ibid. 85).

(174) Contrary to Tyacke, AC 157, 49, 181.

(175) Synodalia, i. 43.

(176) Burton, For God and the King (1636), 114.

(177) Tyacke, AC 181; ERO D/APs VI/E6 1636; according to Heylyn, CA 120, the proclamation of 1626 had a similarly low circulation.

(178) Fuller, CH 415; Burton, For God and the King, 114, 116–22; Bodl. Tanner MS 71/66, 109.

(179) PRO SP 16/499/35.

(180) Bodl. MS Tanner 71/66; GL 9531/15/22–3; PRO SP 16/176/63, SP/16/ 187/17, SP/16/186/75–6; BL Add. MS 34217/53.

(181) PRO SP 16/186/41, 75–6.

(182) PRO SP 16/499/35.

(183) CSPD 1634–1635, 144, 318.

(184) GL 9531/15/21.

(185) PRO SP 16/176/63, SP/16/187/17.

(186) PRO SP 16/186/75–6.

(187) PRO SP 16/499/35.

(188) For Oxford University see K. Sharpe, ‘Archbishop Laud and the University of Oxford’, in H. Lloyd-Jones, V. Pearl, and B. Worden (eds.), History and Imagination: Essays presented to Lord Dacre (1981).

(189) WWL v. 15–16; v. 48, 56, 78, 287–8.

(190) Bodl. Tanner MS 290/86v.

(191) WWL v. 15–16; PRO SP 16/176/46 (for context see SP 16/175/69 and SP 16/177/8). PRO SP 16/175/69 shows the king's displeasure over Brooke's previous discussion of the predestinarian question.

(192) Bodl. MS Jones 17/300–310; WWL v. 50–71.

(193) Bodl. MS Jones 17/303.

(194) Ibid. 17/303–4; WWL v. 48–9. This possibly explains why Potter did not receive higher preferment.

(195) WWL iii. 130.

(196) WWL v. 48: followed by the king's personal letters to Laud and the university to put their affairs in order, WWL v. 72–8.

(197) Birch, ii. 213–14; i. 439.

(198) QCO MS 390/63.

(199) WWL vi. 265–6.

(200) WWL v. 309.

(201) See esp. ch. 2 section i.

(202) WWL v. 309–70.

(203) WWL v. 358, 311–14.

(204) PRO SP 16/260/471.

(205) PRO SP 16/308/52.

(206) WWL v. 287–8.

(207) WWL v. 268. But of course neither Laud nor Calvinist ‘hypothetical universalists’ believed in a universal saving grace.

(208) See ch. 3 n. 150.

(209) Documentary Annals, ii. 203; Hacket, SR i. 89.

(210) Sermons with some religious and divine meditations by Arthur Lake, Bishop of Bath and Wells (1629), 228, 259.

(211) GROGDR 195/209.

(212) WWL v. 356, 362; WWL iii. 304–5.

(213) SRO D/D/Ca 319/87v, D/D/Ca 299/56v, 61.

(214) SRO DD/PH 221/40, WJH i, p. xlvi; PRO SP 16/531/135.

(215) HLRO 1641 Feb. 23/20; Bodl. MS Eng. th./20; Bodl. MS Carte 103/64–5; SRO D/D/Ca 282/236.

(216) PRO SP 16/408/170.

(217) Tyacke, AC 185–99; SRO D/D/Ca 282/236.

(218) Tyacke, AC 248–65.