The younger bishops, inflated with vanity, acted towards the Scottish nobility in a manner so insolent, as to rouse the pride of these stern and haughty barons. But the prelates had learned from Laud, what measures would be agreeable to Charles I., who, to all his father’s despotic ideas of royal prerogative, and love of Prelacy, and to at least equal dissimulation, added the formidable elements of a temper dark and relentless, and a proud and inflexible will. The consequences soon appeared. Charles resolved, that the Church of Scotland should not only be episcopalian in its form of government, but also in all its discipline, and in its form of worship. In order to accomplish this long wished for purpose, it was resolved that a Book of Canons, and a Liturgy, should be prepared by the Scottish bishops, and transmitted to those of England, for their revision and approval. The book of Canons appeared in 1635, and was regarded by the nation with the utmost abhorrence, both on its own account, and as intended to introduce innovations still more detested. What was dreaded soon took place. The Liturgy was prepared, sent to England, and revised, several of the corrections being written by Laud himself, all tending to give it a decidedly popish character. Some copies of this production appeared early in the year 1637, and were immediately subjected to the examination of acute and powerful minds, well able to detect and expose their errors, and to resist this tyrannical attempt to do violence to the conscience of a free and religious people. The crisis came. A letter from his Majesty was procured, requiring the Liturgy to be used in all the churches of Edinburgh, and an act of the Privy Council was passed, to enforce obedience to the royal mandate. Archbishop Spotswood summoned the ministers together, announced to them the King’s pleasure, and commanded them to give intimation from their pulpits, that on the following Sabbath the public use of the Liturgy was to be commenced. The 23d day of July, 1637, was that on which the perilous attempt was to be made. In the cathedral church of St. Giles, the Dean of Edinburgh, attired in his surplice, began to read the service of the day. At that moment, an old woman, named Jenny Geddes, unable longer to restrain her indignation, exclaimed, “Villain, dost thou say mass at my lug!” and seizing the stool on which she had been sitting, threw it at the Dean’s head. Instantly all was uproar and confusion. Threatened or assailed on all sides, the Dean, terrified by this sudden outburst of popular fury, tore himself out of their hands and fled, glad to escape, though with the loss of his priestly vestments. In vain did the magistracy interfere. It was impossible to restore sufficient quiet to allow the service to be resumed; and the defeated prelatic party were compelled to abandon the Liturgy, thus dashed out of their trembling grasp by a woman’s hand.