In 1531, the public Exchange was erected, the finest building of its kind at that time anywhere to be seen. The city, indeed, was filled with stately edifices, the largest of which, the great cathedral, having been nearly destroyed by fire, soon after the opening of the Exchange, was rebuilt, and still remains{153} a noble specimen of the architectural science of the time. Another age was to see the walls of the same cathedral adorned with those exquisite productions of Rubens and his disciples, which raised the Flemish school to a level with the great Italian masters.

The rapidly increasing opulence of the city was visible in the luxurious accommodations and sumptuous way of living of the inhabitants. The merchants of Antwerp rivalled the nobles of other lands in the splendor of their dress and domestic establishments. Something of the same sort showed itself in the middle classes; and even in those of humbler condition, there was a comfort approaching to luxury in their households, which attracted the notice of an Italian writer of the sixteenth century. He commends the scrupulous regard to order and cleanliness observed in the arrangement of the dwellings, and expresses his admiration, not only of the careful attention given by the women to their domestic duties, but also of their singular capacity for conducting those business affairs usually reserved for the other sex. This was particularly the case in Holland.[384] But this freedom of intercourse was no disparagement to their feminine qualities. The liberty they assumed did not degenerate into licence; and he concludes his animated portraiture of these Flemish matrons by pronouncing them as discreet as they were beautiful.

The humbler classes, in so abject a condition in other parts of Europe at that day, felt the good effects of this general progress in comfort and civilization. It was rare to find one, we are told, so illiterate as not to be acquainted with the rudiments of grammar; and there was scarcely a peasant who could not both read and write;[385]—this at a time when to read and write were accomplishments not always possessed, in other countries, by those even in the higher walks of life.

It was not possible that a people so well advanced in the elements of civilization should long remain insensible to the great religious reform which, having risen on their borders, was now rapidly spreading over Christendom. Besides the contiguity of the Netherlands to Germany, their commerce with other countries had introduced them to Protestantism as it existed there. The foreign residents, and the Swiss and German mercenaries quartered in the provinces, had imported along with them these same principles of the Reformation; and lastly the Flemish nobles, who, at that time, were much in the fashion of going abroad to study in Geneva, returned from that stronghold of Calvin well fortified with the doctrines of the great Reformer.[386] Thus the seeds of the Reformation, whether in the Lutheran or the Calvinistic form, were scattered wide over the land, and took root in a congenial soil. The phlegmatic temperament of the northern provinces, especially, disposed them to receive a religion which addressed itself so exclusively to the reason, while they were less open to the influences of Catholicism, which, with its gorgeous accessories, appealing to the passions, is better suited to the lively sensibilities and kindling imaginations of the south.{154}

It is not to be supposed that Charles the Fifth could long remain insensible to this alarming defection of his subjects in the Netherlands; nor that the man whose life was passed in battling with the Lutherans of Germany could patiently submit to see their detested heresy taking root in his own dominions. He dreaded this innovation no less in a temporal than in a spiritual view. Experience had shown that freedom of speculation in affairs of religion naturally led to free inquiry into political abuses; that the work of the reformer was never accomplished so long as anything remained to reform, in state as well as in church. Charles, with the instinct of Spanish despotism, sought a remedy in one of those acts of arbitrary power in which he indulged without scruple when the occasion called for them.

In March, 1520, he published the first of his barbarous edicts for the suppression of the new faith. It was followed by several others of the same tenor, repeated at intervals throughout his reign. The last appeared in September, 1550.[387] As this in a manner suspended those that had preceded it, to which, however, it substantially conformed, and as it became the basis of Philip's subsequent legislation, it will be well to recite its chief provisions.

By this edict, or "placard," as it was called, it was ordained that all who were convicted of heresy should suffer death "by fire, by the pit, or by the sword;"[388] in other words, should be burned alive, be buried alive, or be beheaded. These terrible penalties were incurred by all who dealt in heretical books, or copied or bought them, by all who held or attended conventicles, by all who disputed on the Scriptures in public or private, by all who preached or defended the doctrines of reform. Informers were encouraged by the promise of one half of the confiscated estate of the heretic. No suspected person was allowed to make any donation, or sell any of his effects, or dispose of them by will. Finally, the courts were instructed to grant no remission or mitigation of punishment under the fallacious idea of mercy to the convicted party, and it was made penal for the friends of the accused to solicit such indulgence on his behalf.[389]

The more thoroughly to enforce these edicts, Charles took a hint from the terrible tribunal with which he was familiar in Spain,—the Inquisition. He obtained a bull from his old preceptor, Adrian the Sixth, appointing an inquisitor-general, who had authority to examine persons suspected of heresy, to imprison and torture them, to confiscate their property, and finally sentence them to banishment or death. These formidable powers were intrusted to a layman,—a lawyer of eminence, and one of the council of Brabant. But this zealous functionary employed his authority with so good effect, that it speedily roused the general indignation of his countrymen, who compelled him to fly for his life.

By another bull from Rome, four inquisitors were appointed in the place of the fugitive. These inquisitors were ecclesiastics, not of the fierce Dominican order, as in Spain, but members of the secular clergy. All public officers were enjoined to aid them in detecting and securing suspected persons, and the common prisons were allotted for the confinement of their victims.

The people would seem to have gained little by the substitution of four inquisitors{155} for one. But in fact they gained a great deal. The sturdy resistance made to the exercise of the unconstitutional powers of the inquisitor-general compelled Charles to bring those of the new functionaries more within the limits of the law. For twenty years or more their powers seem not to have been well defined. But in 1546 it was decreed that no sentence whatever could be pronounced by an inquisitor without the sanction of some member of the provincial council. Thus, however barbarous the law against heresy, the people of the Netherlands had this security, that it was only by their own regular courts of justice that this law was to be interpreted and enforced.[390]

Such were the expedients adopted by Charles the Fifth for the suppression of heresy in the Netherlands. Notwithstanding the name of "inquisitors," the new establishment bore faint resemblance to the dread tribunal of the Spanish Inquisition, with which it has been often confounded.[391] The Holy Office presented a vast and complicated machinery, skilfully adapted to the existing institutions of Castile. It may be said to have formed part of the government itself, and, however restricted in its original design, it became in time a formidable political engine, no less than a religious one. The grand-inquisitor was clothed with an authority before which the monarch himself might tremble. On some occasions, he even took precedence of the monarch. The courts of the Inquisition were distributed throughout the country, and were conducted with a solemn pomp that belonged to no civil tribunal. Spacious buildings were erected for their accommodation, and the gigantic prisons of the Inquisition rose up, like impregnable fortresses, in the principal cities of the kingdom. A swarm of menials and officials waited to do its bidding. The proudest nobles of the land held it an honor to serve as familiars of the Holy Office. In the midst of this external pomp, the impenetrable veil thrown over its proceedings took strong hold of the imagination, investing the tribunal with a sort of supernatural terror. An individual disappeared from the busy scenes of life. No one knew whither he had gone, till he reappeared, clothed in the fatal garb of the san benito, to take part in the tragic spectacle of an auto da fé. This was the great triumph of the Inquisition, rivalling the ancient Roman triumph in the splendor of the show, and surpassing it in the solemn and mysterious import of the ceremonial. It was hailed with enthusiasm by the fanatical Spaniard of that day, who, in the martyrdom of the infidel, saw only a sacrifice most acceptable to the Deity. The Inquisition succeeded in Spain, for it was suited to the character of the Spaniard.

But it was not suited to the free and independent character of the people of the Netherlands. Freedom of thought they claimed as their birthright; and the attempt to crush it by introducing the pernicious usages of Spain was everywhere received with execration. Such an institution was an accident, and could not become an integral part of the constitution. It was a{156} vicious graft on a healthy stock. It could bear no fruit, and sooner or later it must perish.

Yet the Inquisition, such as it was, did its work while it lasted in the Netherlands. This is true, at least, if we are to receive the popular statement, that fifty thousand persons, in the reign of Charles the Fifth, suffered for their religious opinions by the hand of the executioner![392] This monstrous statement has been repeated by one historian after another, with apparently as little distrust as examination. It affords one among many examples of the facility with which men adopt the most startling results, especially when conveyed in the form of numerical estimates. There is something that strikes the imagination, in a numerical estimate, which settles a question so summarily, in a form so precise and so portable. Yet whoever has had occasion to make any researches into the past,—that land of uncertainty,—will agree that there is nothing less entitled to confidence.

In the present instance, such a statement might seem to carry its own refutation on the face of it. Llorente, the celebrated secretary of the Holy Office, whose estimates will never be accused of falling short of the amount, computes the whole number of victims sacrificed during the first eighteen years of the Inquisition in Castile, when it was in most active operation, at about ten thousand.[393] The storm of persecution there, it will be remembered, fell chiefly on the Jews,—that ill-omened race, from whom every pious Catholic would have rejoiced to see his land purified by fire and fagot. It will hardly be believed that five times the number of these victims perished in a country like the Netherlands, in a term of time not quite double that occupied for their extermination in Spain;—the Netherlands, where every instance of such persecution, instead of being hailed as a triumph of the Cross, was regarded as a fresh outrage on the liberties of the nation. It is not too much to say, that such a number of martyrs as that pretended would have produced an explosion that would have unsettled the authority of Charles himself, and left for his successor less territory in the Netherlands at the beginning of his reign, than he was destined to have at the end of it.

Indeed, the frequent renewal of the edicts, which was repeated no less than nine times during Charles's administration, intimates plainly enough the very sluggish and unsatisfactory manner in which they had been executed. In some provinces, as Luxembourg and Groningen, the Inquisition was not introduced at all. Gueldres stood on its privileges, guaranteed to it by the emperor on his accession. And Brabant so effectually remonstrated on the mischief which the mere name of the Inquisition would do to the trade of the country, and especially of Antwerp, its capital, that the emperor deemed it prudent to qualify some of the provisions, and to drop the name of Inquisitor altogether.[394] There is no way more sure of rousing the sensibilities of a commercial people, than by touching their pockets. Charles did not care to press matters to such extremity. He was too politic a prince, too large a gainer by the prosperity of his people, willingly to put it in peril, even for conscience' sake. In this lay the difference between him and Philip.

Notwithstanding, therefore, his occasional abuse of power, and the little respect he may have had at heart for the civil rights of his subjects, the government of Charles, as already intimated, was on the whole favorable to their commercial interests. He was well repaid by the enlarged resources of the country, and the aid they afforded him for the prosecution of his ambitious{157} enterprises. In the course of a few years, as we are informed by a contemporary, he drew from the Netherlands no less than twenty-four millions of ducats.[395] And this supply—furnished not ungrudgingly, it is true—was lavished, for the most part, on objects in which the nation had no interest. In like manner, it was the revenues of the Netherlands which defrayed great part of Philip's expenses in the war that followed his accession. "Here," exclaims the Venetian envoy, Soriano, "were the true treasures of the king of Spain; here were his mines, his Indies, which furnished Charles with the means of carrying on his wars for so many years with the French, the Germans, the Italians, which provided for the defence of his own states, and maintained his dignity and reputation."[396]

Such then was the condition of the country at the time when the sceptre passed from the hands of Charles the Fifth into those of Philip the Second;—its broad plains teeming with the products of an elaborate culture; its cities swarming with artisans, skilled in all kinds of ingenious handicraft; its commerce abroad on every sea, and bringing back rich returns from distant climes. The great body of its people, well advanced in the arts of civilization, rejoiced in "such abundance of all things," says a foreigner who witnessed their prosperity, "that there was no man, however humble, who did not seem rich for his station."[397] In this active development of their powers, the inquisitive mind of the inhabitants naturally turned to those great problems in religion which were agitating the neighboring countries of France and Germany. All the efforts of Charles were unavailing to check the spirit of inquiry; and in the last year of his reign he bitterly confessed the total failure of his endeavor to stay the progress of heresy in the Netherlands.[398] Well had it been for his successor, had he taken counsel by the failure of his father, and substituted a more lenient policy for the ineffectual system of persecution. But such was not the policy of Philip.

CHAPTER II.

Philip the Second was no stranger to the Netherlands. He had come there, as it will be remembered, when very young, to be presented by his father to his future subjects. On that occasion he had greatly disgusted the{158} people by that impenetrable reserve which they construed into haughtiness, and which strongly contrasted with the gracious manners of the emperor. Charles saw with pain the impression which his son had left on his subjects; and the effects of his paternal admonitions were visible in a marked change in Philip's deportment on his subsequent visit to England. But nature lies deeper than manner; and when Philip returned, on his father's abdication, to assume the sovereignty of the Netherlands, he wore the same frigid exterior as in earlier days.

His first step was to visit the different provinces, and receive from them their oaths of allegiance. No better occasion could be offered for conciliating the good-will of the inhabitants. Everywhere his approach was greeted with festivities and public rejoicing. The gates of the capitals were thrown open to receive him, and the population thronged out, eager to do homage to their new sovereign. It was a season of jubilee for the whole nation.

In this general rejoicing, Philip's eye alone remained dark.[399] Shut up in his carriage, he seemed desirous to seclude himself from the gaze of his new subjects, who crowded around, anxious to catch a glimpse of their young monarch.[400] His conduct seemed like a rebuke of their enthusiasm. Thus chilled as they were in the first flow of their loyalty, his progress through the land, which should have won him all hearts, closed all hearts against him.

The emperor, when he visited the Netherlands, was like one coming back to his native country. He spoke the language of the people, dressed in their dress, conformed to their usages and way of life. But Philip was in everything a Spaniard. He spoke only the Castilian. He adopted the Spanish etiquette and burdensome ceremonial. He was surrounded by Spaniards, and, with few exceptions, it was to Spaniards only that he gave his confidence. Charles had disgusted his Spanish subjects by the marked preference he had given to his Flemish. The reverse now took place, and Philip displeased the Flemings by his partiality for the Spaniards. The people of the Netherlands felt with bitterness that the sceptre of their country had passed into the hands of a foreigner.

During his progress Philip caused reports to be prepared for him of the condition of the several provinces, their population and trade,—presenting a mass of statistical details, in which, with his usual industry, he was careful to instruct himself. On his return, his first concern was to provide for the interests of religion. He renewed his father's edicts relating to the Inquisition, and in the following year confirmed the "placard" respecting heresy. In doing this, he was careful, by the politic advice of Granvelle, to conform as nearly as possible to the language of the original edicts, that no charge of innovation might be laid to him, and thus the odium of these unpopular measures might remain with their original author.[401]

{159}

But the object which Philip had most at heart was a reform much needed in the ecclesiastical establishment of the country. It may seem strange that in all the Netherlands there were but three bishoprics,—Arras, Tournay, and Utrecht. A large part of the country was incorporated with some one or other of the contiguous German dioceses. The Flemish bishoprics were of enormous extent. That of Utrecht alone embraced no less than three hundred walled towns, and eleven hundred churches.[402] It was impossible that any pastor, however diligent, could provide for the wants of a flock so widely scattered, or that he could exercise supervision over the clergy themselves, who had fallen into a lamentable decay both of discipline and morals.

Still greater evils followed from the circumstance of the episcopal authority's being intrusted to foreigners. From their ignorance of the institutions of the Netherlands, they were perpetually trespassing on the rights of the nation. Another evil consequence was the necessity of carrying up ecclesiastical causes, by way of appeal, to foreign tribunals; a thing, moreover, scarcely practicable in time of war.

Charles the Fifth, whose sagacious mind has left its impress on the permanent legislation of the Netherlands, saw the necessity of some reform in this matter. He accordingly applied to Rome for leave to erect six bishoprics, in addition to those previously existing in the country. But his attention was too much distracted by other objects to allow time for completing his design. With his son Philip, on the other hand, no object was allowed to come in competition with the interests of the Church. He proposed to make the reform on a larger scale than his father had done, and applied to Paul the Fourth for leave to create fourteen bishoprics and three archbishoprics. The chief difficulty lay in providing for the support of the new dignitaries. On consultation with Granvelle, who had not been advised of the scheme till after Philip's application to Rome, it was arranged that the income should be furnished by the abbey lands of the respective dioceses, and that the abbeys themselves should hereafter be placed under the control of priors or provosts depending altogether on the bishops. Meanwhile, until the bulls should be received from Rome, it was determined to keep the matter profoundly secret. It was easy to foresee that a storm of opposition would arise, not only among those immediately interested in preserving the present order of things, but among the great body of the nobles, who would look with an evil eye on the admission into their ranks of so large a number of persons servilely devoted to the interests of the crown.[403]

Having concluded his arrangements for the internal settlement of the country, Philip naturally turned his thoughts towards Spain. He was the more desirous of returning thither from the reports he received, that even that orthodox land was becoming every day more tainted with the heretical doctrines so rife in the neighboring countries. There were no hostilities to detain him longer in the Netherlands, now that the war with France had been brought to a close. The provinces, as we have already stated, had furnished the king with important aid for carrying on that war, by the grant of a stipulated annual tax for nine years. This had not proved equal to his necessities. It was in vain, however, to expect any further concessions from the states. They had borne, not without murmurs, the heavy burdens laid on them by Charles,—a monarch whom they loved. They bore still more impatiently the impositions of a prince whom they loved so little as Philip. Yet the latter seemed ready to make any sacrifice of his permanent interests for such temporary{160} relief as would extricate him from his present embarrassments. His correspondence with Granvelle on the subject, unfolding the suicidal schemes which he submitted to that minister, might form an edifying chapter in the financial history of that day.[404] The difficulty of carrying on the government of the Netherlands in this crippled state of the finances doubtless strengthened the desire of the monarch to return to his native land, where the manners and habits of the people were so much more congenial with his own.

Before leaving the country, it was necessary to provide a suitable person to whom the reins of government might be intrusted. The duke of Savoy, who, since the emperor's abdication, had held the post of regent, was now to return to his own dominions, restored to him by the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis. There were several persons who presented themselves for this responsible office in the Netherlands. One of the most prominent was Lamoral, prince of Gavre, count of Egmont, the hero of St. Quentin and of Gravelines. The illustrious house from which he was descended, his chivalrous spirit, his frank and generous bearing, no less than his brilliant military achievements, had made him the idol of the people. There were some who insisted that these achievements inferred rather the successful soldier than the great captain;[405] and that, whatever merit he could boast in the field, it was no proof of his capacity for so important a civil station as that of governor of the Netherlands. Yet it could not be doubted that his nomination would be most acceptable to the people. This did not recommend him to Philip.

Another candidate was Christine, duchess of Lorraine, the king's cousin. The large estates of her house lay in the neighborhood of the Netherlands. She had shown her talent for political affairs by the part she had taken in effecting the arrangements of Cateau-Cambresis. The prince of Orange, lately become a widower, was desirous, it was said, of marrying her daughter. Neither did this prove a recommendation with Philip, who was by no means anxious to raise the house of Orange higher in the scale, still less to intrust it with the destinies of the Netherlands. In a word, the monarch had no mind to confide the regency of the country to any one of its powerful nobles.[406]

The individual on whom the king at length decided to bestow this mark of his confidence was his half-sister, Margaret, duchess of Parma. She was the natural daughter of Charles the Fifth, born about four years before his marriage with Isabella of Portugal. Margaret's mother, Margaret Vander Gheenst, belonged to a noble Flemish house. Her parents both died during her infancy. The little orphan was received into the family of Count Hoogstraten, who, with his wife, reared her with the same tenderness as they did their own offspring. At the age of seventeen she was unfortunate enough to attract the eye of Charles the Fifth, who, then in his twenty-third year, was captivated by the charms of the Flemish maiden. Margaret's virtue was not proof against the seductions of her royal suitor; and the victim of love—or of vanity—became the mother of a child, who received her own name of Margaret.

The emperor's aunt, then regent of the Netherlands, took charge of the{161} infant; and on the death of that princess, she was taken into the family of the emperor's sister, Mary, queen of Hungary, who succeeded in the regency. Margaret's birth did not long remain a secret; and she received an education suited to the high station she was to occupy in life. When only twelve years of age, the emperor gave her in marriage to Alexander de'Medici, grand duke of Tuscany, some fifteen years older than herself. The ill-fated connection did not subsist long, as, before twelve months had elapsed, it was terminated by the violent death of her husband.

When she had reached the age of womanhood, the hand of the young widow was bestowed, together with the duchies of Parma and Placentia as her dowry, on Ottavio Farnese, grandson of Paul the Third. The bridegroom was but twelve years old. Thus again it was Margaret's misfortune that there should be such disparity between her own age and that of her husband as to exclude anything like sympathy or similarity in their tastes. In the present instance, the boyish years of Ottavio inspired her with a sentiment not very different from contempt, that in later life settled into an indifference in which both parties appear to have shared, and which, as a contemporary remarks with naïveté, was only softened into a kindlier feeling when the husband and wife had been long separated from each other.[407] In truth, Margaret was too ambitious of power to look on her husband in any other light than that of a rival.

In her general demeanor, her air, her gait, she bore great resemblance to her aunt, the regent. Like her, Margaret was excessively fond of hunting, and she followed the chase with an intrepidity that might have daunted the courage of the keenest sportsman. She had but little of the natural softness that belongs to the sex, but in her whole deportment was singularly masculine; so that, to render the words of the historian by a homely phrase, in her woman's dress she seemed like a man in petticoats.[408] As if to add to the illusion, Nature had given her somewhat of a beard; and, to crown the whole, the malady to which she was constitutionally subject was a disease to which women are but rarely liable,—the gout.[409] It was good evidence of her descent from Charles the Fifth.

Though masculine in her appearance, Margaret was not destitute of the kindlier qualities which are the glory of her sex. Her disposition was good; but she relied much on the advice of others, and her more objectionable acts may probably be referred rather to their influence than to any inclination of her own.

Her understanding was excellent, her apprehension quick. She showed much versatility in accommodating herself to the exigencies of her position, as well as adroitness in the management of affairs, which she may have acquired in the schools of Italian politics. In religion she was as orthodox as Philip the Second could desire. The famous Ignatius Loyola had been her confessor in early days. The lessons of humility which he inculcated were not lost on her, as may be inferred from the care she took to perform the ceremony, in Holy Week, of washing the dirty feet—she preferred them in this condition—of twelve poor maidens;[410] outstripping, in this particular,{162} the humility of the pope himself.—Such was the character of Margaret, duchess of Parma, who now, in the thirty-eighth year of her age, was called, at a most critical period, to take the helm of the Netherlands.

The appointment seems to have given equal satisfaction to herself and to her husband, and no objection was made to Philip's purpose of taking back with him to Castile their little son, Alexander Farnese,—a name destined to become in later times so renowned in the Netherlands. The avowed purpose was to give the boy a training suited to his rank, under the eye of Philip; combined with which, according to the historian, was the desire of holding a hostage for the fidelity of Margaret and of her husband, whose dominions in Italy lay contiguous to those of Philip in that country.[411]

Early in June, 1559, Margaret of Parma, having reached the Low Countries, made her entrance in great state into Brussels, where Philip awaited her, surrounded by his whole court of Spanish and Flemish nobles. The duke of Savoy was also present, as well as Margaret's husband, the duke of Parma, then in attendance on Philip. The appointment of Margaret was not distasteful to the people of the Netherlands, for she was their countrywoman, and her early days had been passed amongst them. Her presence was not less welcome to Philip, who looked forward with eagerness to the hour of his departure. His first purpose was to present the new regent to the nation, and for this he summoned a meeting of the States-General at Ghent, in the coming August.

On the twenty-fifth of July, he repaired with his court to this ancient capital, which still smarted under the effects of that chastisement of his father, which, terrible as it was, had not the power to break the spirits of the men of Ghent. The presence of the court was celebrated with public rejoicings, which continued for three days, during which Philip held a chapter of the Golden Fleece for the election of fourteen knights. The ceremony was conducted with the magnificence with which the meetings of this illustrious order were usually celebrated. It was memorable as the last chapter of it ever held.[412] Founded by the dukes of Burgundy, the order of the Golden Fleece drew its members immediately from the nobility of the Netherlands. When the Spanish sovereign, who remained at its head, no more resided in the country, the chapters were discontinued; and the knights derived their appointment from the simple nomination of the monarch.

On the eighth of August, the States-General assembled at Ghent. The sturdy burghers who took their seats in this body came thither in no very friendly temper to the government. Various subjects of complaint had long been rankling in their bosoms, and now found vent in the form of animated and angry debate. The people had been greatly alarmed by the avowed policy of their rulers to persevere in the system of religious persecution, as shown especially by the revival of the ancient edicts against heresy and in support of the Inquisition. Rumors had gone abroad, probably with exaggeration, of the proposed episcopal reforms. However necessary, they were now regarded only as part of the great scheme of persecution. Different nations, it was urged, required to be guided by different laws. What suited the Spaniards would not for that reason suit the people of the Netherlands. The Inquisition was ill adapted to men accustomed from their cradles to freedom of thought and action. Persecution was not to be justified in matters of conscience, and men were not to be reclaimed from spiritual error by violence, but by gentleness and persuasion.

But what most called forth the invective of the Flemish orators was the presence of a large body of foreign troops in the country. When Philip disbanded{163} his forces after the French war had terminated, there still remained a corps of the old Spanish infantry, amounting to some three or four thousands, which he thought proper to retain in the western provinces. His avowed object was to protect the country from any violence on the part of the French. Another reason assigned by him was the difficulty of raising funds to pay their arrears. The true motive, in the opinion of the states, was to enforce the execution of the new measures, and overcome any resistance that might be made in the country. These troops, like most of the soldiers of that day, who served for plunder quite as much as for pay, had as little respect for the rights or the property of their allies, as for those of their enemies. They quartered themselves on the peaceful inhabitants of the country, and obtained full compensation for loss of pay by a system of rapine and extortion that beggared the people, and drove them to desperation. Conflicts with the soldiery occasionally occurred, and in some parts the peasantry even refused to repair the dikes, in order to lay the country under water rather than submit to such outrages! "How is it," exclaimed the bold syndic of Ghent, "that we find foreign soldiers thus quartered on us, in open violation of our liberties? Are not our own troops able to protect us from the dangers of invasion? Must we be ground to the dust by the exactions of these mercenaries in peace, after being burdened with the maintenance of them in war?" These remonstrances were followed by a petition to the throne, signed by members of the other orders as well as the commons, requesting that the king would be graciously pleased to respect the privileges of the nation, and send back the foreign troops to their own homes.

Philip, who sat in the assembly with his sister, the future regent, by his side, was not prepared for this independent spirit in the burghers of the Netherlands. The royal ear had been little accustomed to this strain of invective from the subject. For it was rare that the tone of remonstrance was heard in the halls of Castilian legislation, since the power of the commons had been broken on the field of Villalar. Unable or unwilling to conceal his displeasure, the king descended from his throne, and abruptly quitted the assembly.[413]

Yet he did not, like Charles the First of England, rashly vent his indignation by imprisoning or persecuting the members who had roused it. Even the stout syndic of Ghent was allowed to go unharmed. Philip looked above him to a mark more worthy of his anger,—to those of the higher orders who had encouraged the spirit of resistance in the commons. The most active of these malecontents was William of Orange. That noble, as it may be remembered, was one of the hostages who remained at the Court of Henry the Second for the fulfilment of the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis. While there, a strange disclosure was made to the prince by the French monarch, who told him that, through the duke of Alva, a secret treaty had been entered into with his master, the king of Spain, for the extirpation of heresy throughout their dominions. This inconsiderate avowal of the French king was made to William on the supposition that he was stanch in the Roman Catholic faith, and entirely in his master's confidence. Whatever may have been the prince's claims to orthodoxy at this period, it is certain he was not in Philip's confidence. It is equally certain that he possessed one Christian virtue which belonged neither to Philip nor to Henry,—the virtue of toleration. Greatly shocked by the intelligence he had received, William at once communicated it to several of his friends in the Netherlands. One of the letters unfortunately{164} fell into Philip's hands. The prince soon after obtained permission to return to his own country, bent, as he tells us in his Apology, on ridding it of the Spanish vermin.[414] Philip, who understood the temper of his mind, had his eye on his movements, and knew well to what source, in part at least, he was to attribute the present opposition. It was not long after, that a Castilian courtier intimated to the prince of Orange and to Egmont, that it would be well for them to take heed to themselves; that the names of those who had signed the petition for the removal of the troops had been noted down, and that Philip and his council were resolved, when a fitting occasion offered, to call them to a heavy reckoning for their temerity.[415]

Yet the king so far yielded to the wishes of the people as to promise the speedy departure of the troops. But no power on earth could have been strong enough to shake his purpose where the interests of religion were involved. Nor would he abate one jot of the stern provisions of the edicts. When one of his ministers, more hardy than the rest, ventured to suggest to him that perseverance in this policy might cost him the sovereignty of the provinces, "Better not reign at all," he answered, "than reign over heretics!"[416]—an answer extolled by some as the height of the sublime, by others derided as the extravagance of a fanatic. In whatever light we view it, it must be admitted to furnish the key to the permanent policy of Philip in his government of the Netherlands.

Before dissolving the States-General, Philip, unacquainted with the language of the country, addressed the deputies through the mouth of the bishop of Arras. He expatiated on the warmth of his attachment to his good people of the Netherlands, and paid them a merited tribute for their loyalty both to his father and to himself. He enjoined on them to show similar respect to the regent, their own countrywoman, into whose hands he had committed the government. They would reverence the laws and maintain public tranquillity. Nothing would conduce to this so much as the faithful execution of the edicts. It was their sacred duty to aid in the extermination of heretics,—the deadliest foes both of God and their sovereign. Philip concluded by assuring the states that he should soon return in person to the Netherlands, or send his son Don Carlos as his representative.

The answer of the legislature was temperate and respectful. They made no allusion to Philip's proposed ecclesiastical reforms, as he had not authorized this by any allusion to them himself. They still pressed, however, the removal of the foreign troops, and the further removal of all foreigners from office, as contrary to the constitution of the land. This last shaft was aimed at Granvelle, who held a high post in the government, and was understood to be absolute in the confidence of the king. Philip renewed his assurances of the dismissal of the forces, and that within the space, as he promised, of four months. The other request of the deputies he did not condescend to notice. His feelings on the subject were intimated in an exclamation he{165} made to one of his ministers: "I too am a foreigner; will they refuse to obey me as their sovereign?"[417]

The regent was to be assisted in the government by three councils which of old time had existed in the land;—the council of finance, for the administration, as the name implies, of the revenues; the privy council, for affairs of justice and the internal concerns of the country; and the council of state, for matters relating to peace and war, and the foreign policy of the nation. Into this last, the supreme council, entered several of the Flemish nobles, and among them the prince of Orange and Count Egmont. There were, besides, Count Barlaimont, president of the council of finance, Viglius, president of the privy council, and lastly Granvelle, bishop of Arras.

The regent was to act with the coöperation of these several bodies in their respective departments. In the conduct of the government, she was to be guided by the council of state. But by private instructions of Philip, questions of a more delicate nature, involving the tranquillity of the country, might be first submitted to a select portion of this council; and in such cases, or when a spirit of faction had crept into the council, the regent, if she deemed it for the interest of the state, might adopt the opinion of the minority. The select body with whom Margaret was to advise in the more important matters was termed the Consulta; and the members who composed it were Barlaimont, Viglius, and the bishop of Arras.[418]

The first of these men, Count Barlaimont, belonged to an ancient Flemish family. With respectable talents and constancy of purpose, he was entirely devoted to the interests of the crown. The second, Viglius, was a jurist of extensive erudition, at this time well advanced in years, and with infirmities that might have pressed heavily on a man less patient of toil. He was personally attached to Granvelle; and as his views of government coincided very nearly with that minister's, Viglius was much under his influence. The last of the three, Granvelle, from his large acquaintance with affairs, and his adroitness in managing them, was far superior to his colleagues;[419] and he soon acquired such an ascendancy over them, that the government may be said to have rested on his shoulders. As there is no man who for some years is to take so prominent a part in the story of the Netherlands, it will be proper to introduce the reader to some acquaintance with his earlier history.

Anthony Perrenot—whose name of Granvelle was derived from an estate purchased by his father—was born in the year 1517, at Besançon, a town in Franche Comté. His father, Nicholas Perrenot, founded the fortunes of the family, and from the humble condition of a poor country attorney rose to the{166} rank of chancellor of the empire. This extraordinary advancement was not owing to caprice, but to his unwearied industry, extensive learning, and a clear and comprehensive intellect, combined with steady devotion to the interests of his master, Charles the Fifth. His talent for affairs led him to be employed not merely in official business, but in diplomatic missions of great importance. In short, he possessed the confidence of the emperor to a degree enjoyed by no other subject; and when the chancellor died, in 1550, Charles pronounced his eulogy to Philip in a single sentence, saying that in Granvelle they had lost the man on whose wisdom they could securely repose.[420]

Anthony Perrenot, distinguished from his father in later times as Cardinal Granvelle, was the eldest of eleven children. In his childhood he discovered such promise, that the chancellor bestowed much pains personally on his instruction. At fourteen he was sent to Padua, and after some years was removed to Louvain, then the university of greatest repute in the Netherlands. It was not till later that the seminary of Douay was founded, under the auspices of Philip the Second.[421] At the university, the young Perrenot soon distinguished himself by the vivacity of his mind, the acuteness of his perceptions, an industry fully equal to his father's, and remarkable powers of acquisition. Besides a large range of academic study, he made himself master of seven languages, so as to read and converse in them with fluency. He seemed to have little relish for the amusements of the youth of his own age. His greatest amusement was a book. Under this incessant application his health gave way, and for a time his studies were suspended.

Whether from his father's preference or his own, young Granvelle embraced the ecclesiastical profession. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to orders. The son of the chancellor was not slow in his advancement, and he was soon possessed of several good benefices. But the ambitious and worldly temper of Granvelle was not to be satisfied with the humble duties of the ecclesiastic. It was not long before he was called to court by his father, and there a brilliant career was opened to his aspiring genius.

The young man soon showed such talent for business, and such shrewd insight into character, as, combined with the stores of learning he had at his command, made his services of great value to his father. He accompanied the chancellor on some of his public missions, among others to the Council of Trent, where the younger Granvelle, who had already been promoted to the see of Arras, first had the opportunity of displaying that subtle, insinuating eloquence, which captivated as much as it convinced.