Pius now set seriously about the examination of Carranza's process. It was a tedious business, requiring his holiness to wade through an ocean of papers, while the progress of the suit was perpetually impeded by embarrassments thrown in his way by the industrious malice of the inquisitors. At the end of six years more, Pius was preparing to give his judgment, which it was understood would be favorable to Carranza, when, unhappily for the primate, the pontiff died.

The Holy Office, stung by the prospect of its failure, now strained every nerve to influence the mind of the new pope, Gregory the Thirteenth, to a contrary decision. New testimony was collected, new glosses were put on the primate's text, and the sanction of the most learned Spanish theologians was brought in support of them. At length, at the end of three years further, the holy father announced his purpose of giving his final decision. It was done with great circumstance. The pope was seated on his pontifical throne, surrounded by all his cardinals, prelates, and functionaries of the apostolic chamber. Before this august assembly, the archbishop presented himself unsupported and alone, while no one ventured to salute him. His head was bare. His once robust form was bent by infirmity more than by years; and his care-worn features told of that sickness which arises from hope deferred. He knelt down at some distance from the pope, and in this humble attitude received his sentence.

He was declared to have imbibed the pernicious doctrines of Luther. The decree of the Inquisition prohibiting the use of his catechism was confirmed. He was to abjure sixteen propositions found in his writings; was suspended from the exercise of his episcopal functions for five years, during which time he was to be confined in a convent of his order at Orvieto; and, finally, he was required to visit seven of the principal churches in Rome, and perform mass there by way of penance.

This was the end of eighteen years of doubt, anxiety, and imprisonment. The tears streamed down the face of the unhappy man, as he listened to the sentence; but he bowed in silent submission to the will of his superior. The very next day he began his work of penance. But nature could go no further; and on the second of May, only sixteen days after his sentence had been pronounced, Carranza died of a broken heart. The triumph of the Inquisition was complete.

The pope raised a monument to the memory of the primate, with a pompous inscription, paying a just tribute to his talents and his scholarship, endowing him with a full measure of Christian worth, and particularly commending the exemplary manner in which he had discharged the high trusts reposed in him by his sovereign.[456]

Such is the story of Carranza's persecution,—considering the rank of the party, the unprecedented length of the process, and the sensation it excited throughout Europe, altogether the most remarkable on the records of the Inquisition.[457] Our sympathy for the archbishop's sufferings may be reasonably{182} mitigated by the reflection, that he did but receive the measure which he had meted out to others.

While the persecution of Carranza was going on, the fires lighted for the Protestants continued to burn with fury in all parts of the country, until at length they gradually slackened and died away, from mere want of fuel to feed them. The year 1570 may be regarded as the period of the last auto da fé in which the Lutherans played a conspicuous part. The subsequent celebrations were devoted chiefly to relapsed Jews and Mahometans; and if a Protestant heretic was sometimes added to this list, it was "but as the gleaning of grapes after the vintage is done."[458]

Never was there a persecution which did its work more thoroughly. The blood of the martyr is commonly said to be the seed of the church. But the storm of persecution fell as heavily on the Spanish Protestants as it did on the Albigenses in the thirteenth century; blighting every living thing, so that no germ remained for future harvests. Spain might now boast that the stain of heresy no longer defiled the hem of her garment. But at what a price was this purchased! Not merely by the sacrifice of the lives and fortunes of a few thousands of the existing generation but by the disastrous consequences entailed for ever on the country. Folded under the dark wing of the Inquisition, Spain was shut out from the light which in the sixteenth century broke over the rest of Europe, stimulating the nations to greater enterprise in every department of knowledge. The genius of the people was rebuked, and their spirit quenched, under the malignant influence of an eye that never slumbered, of an unseen arm ever raised to strike. How could there be freedom of thought, where there was no freedom of utterance? Or freedom of utterance, where it was as dangerous to say too little as too much? Freedom cannot go along with fear. Every way the mind of the Spaniard was in fetters.

His moral sense was miserably perverted. Men were judged, not by their practice, but by their professions. Creed became a substitute for conduct. Difference of faith made a wider gulf of separation than difference of race, language, or even interest. Spain no longer formed one of the great brotherhood of Christian nations. An immeasurable barrier was raised between that kingdom and the Protestants of Europe. The early condition of perpetual warfare with the Arabs who overran the country had led the Spaniards to mingle religion strangely with their politics. The effect continued when the cause had ceased. Their wars with the European nations became religious wars. In fighting England or the Netherlands, they were fighting the enemies of God. It was the same everywhere. In their contest with the unoffending natives of the New World, they were still battling with{183} the enemies of God. Their wars took the character of a perpetual crusade, and were conducted with all the ferocity which fanaticism could inspire.

The same dark spirit of fanaticism seems to brood over the national literature; even that lighter literature which in other nations is made up of the festive sallies of wit, or the tender expression of sentiment. The greatest geniuses of the nation, the masters of the drama and of the ode, while they astonish us by their miracles of invention, show that they have too often kindled their inspiration at the altars of the Inquisition.

Debarred as he was from freedom of speculation, the domain of science was closed against the Spaniard. Science looks to perpetual change. It turns to the past to gather warning, as well as instruction, for the future. Its province is to remove old abuses, to explode old errors, to unfold new truths. Its condition, in short, is that of progress. But in Spain, everything not only looked to the past, but rested on the past. Old abuses gathered respect from their antiquity. Reform was innovation, and innovation was a crime. Far from progress, all was stationary. The hand of the Inquisition drew the line which said, "No further!" This was the limit of human intelligence in Spain.

The effect was visible in every department of science,—not in the speculative alone, but in the physical and the practical; in the declamatory rant of its theology and ethics, in the childish and chimerical schemes of its political economists. In every walk were to be seen the symptoms of premature decrepitude, as the nation clung to the antiquated systems which the march of civilization in other countries had long since effaced. Hence those frantic experiments, so often repeated, in the financial administration of the kingdom, which made Spain the byword of the nations, and which ended in the ruin of trade, the prostration of credit, and finally the bankruptcy of the state.—But we willingly turn from this sad picture of the destinies of the country to a more cheerful scene in the history of Philip.

CHAPTER IV.

Iñigo Lopez de Mendoza, fourth duke of Infantado, was the head of the most illustrious house in Castile. He was at this time near seventy years of age, having passed most of his life in attendance at court, where he had always occupied the position suited to his high birth and his extensive property, which, as his title intimated, lay chiefly in the north. He was a fine specimen of the old Castilian hidalgo, and displayed a magnificence in his way{184} of living that became his station. He was well educated, for the time; and his fondness for books did not prevent his excelling in all knightly exercises. He was said to have the best library and the best stud of any gentleman in Castile.[459]

He appeared on this occasion in great state, accompanied by his household and his kinsmen, the heads of the noblest families in Spain. The duke was attended by some fifty pages, who, in their rich dresses of satin and brocade, displayed the gay colors of the house of Mendoza. The nobles in his train, all suitably mounted, were followed by twenty-five hundred gentlemen, well equipped, like themselves. So lavish were the Castilians of that day in the caparisons of their horses, that some of these are estimated, without taking into account the jewels with which they were garnished, to have cost no less than two thousand ducats![460] The same taste is visible at this day in their descendants, especially in South America and Mexico, where the love of barbaric ornament in the housings and caparisons of their steeds is conspicuous among all classes of the people.

Several days were spent in settling the etiquette to be observed before the presentation of the duke and his followers to the princess,—a perilous matter with the Spanish hidalgo. When at length the interview took place, the cardinal of Burgos, the duke's brother, opened it by a formal and rather long address to Isabella, who replied in a tone of easy gaiety, which, though not undignified, savored much more of the manners of her own country than those of Spain.[461] The place of meeting was at Roncesvalles,—a name which to the reader of romance may call up scenes very different from those presented by the two nations now met together in kindly courtesy.[462]

From Roncesvalles the princess proceeded, under the strong escort of the duke, to his town of Guadalajara in New Castile, where her marriage with King Philip was to be solemnized. Great preparations were made by the loyal citizens for celebrating the event in a manner honorable to their own master and their future queen. A huge mound, or what might be called a hill, was raised at the entrance of the town, where a grove of natural oaks had been transplanted, amongst which was to be seen abundance of game. Isabella was received by the magistrates of the place, and escorted through the principal streets by a brilliant cavalcade, composed of the great nobility of the court. She was dressed in ermine, and rode a milk-white palfrey, which she managed with an easy grace that delighted the multitude. On one side of her rode the duke of Infantado, and on the other the cardinal of Burgos. After performing her devotions at the church, where Te Deum was chanted, she proceeded to the ducal palace, in which the marriage ceremony was to be{185} performed. On her entering the court, the princess Joanna came down to receive her sister-in-law, and, after an affectionate salutation, conducted her to the saloon, where Philip, attended by his son, was awaiting his bride.[463]

It was the first time that Isabella had seen her destined lord. She now gazed on him so intently, that he good-humoredly asked her "if she were looking to see if he had any gray hairs in his head?" The bluntness of the question somewhat disconcerted her.[464] Philip's age was not much less than that at which the first gray hairs made their appearance on his father's temples. Yet the discrepancy between the ages of the parties in the present instance was not greater than often happens in a royal union. Isabella was in her fifteenth year,[465] and Philip in his thirty-fourth.

From all accounts, the lady's youth was her least recommendation. "Elizabeth de Valois," says Brantôme, who know her well, "was a true daughter of France,—discreet, witty, beautiful, and good, if ever woman was so."[466] She was well made, and tall of stature, and on this account the more admired in Spain, where the women are rarely above the middle height. Her eyes were dark, and her luxuriant tresses, of the same dark color, shaded features that were delicately fair.[467] There was sweetness mingled with dignity in her deportment, in which Castilian stateliness seemed to be happily tempered by the vivacity of her own nation. "So attractive was she," continues the gallant old courtier, "that no cavalier durst look on her long, for fear of losing his heart, which in that jealous court might have proved the loss of his life."[468]

Some of the chroniclers notice a shade of melancholy as visible on Isabella's features, which they refer to the comparison the young bride was naturally led to make between her own lord and his son, the prince of Asturias, for whom her hand had been originally intended.[469] But the daughter of Catherine{186} de Medicis, they are careful to add, had been too well trained, from her cradle, not to know how to disguise her feelings. Don Carlos had one advantage over his father, in his youth; though, in this respect, since he was but a boy of fourteen, he might be thought to fall as much too short of the suitable age as the king exceeded it. It is also intimated by the same gossiping writers, that from this hour of their meeting, touched by the charms of his step-mother, the prince nourished a secret feeling of resentment against his father, who had thus come between him and his beautiful betrothed.[470] It is this light gossip of the chroniclers that has furnished the romancers of later ages with the flimsy materials for that web of fiction, which displays in such glowing colors the loves of Carlos and Isabella. I shall have occasion to return to this subject when treating of the fate of this unhappy prince.

When the nuptials were concluded, the good people of Guadalajara testified their loyalty by all kinds of festivities in honor of the event,—by fireworks, music, and dancing. The fountains flowed with generous liquor. Tables were spread in the public squares, laden with good cheer, and freely open to all. In the evening, the regidores of the town, to the number of fifty or more, presented themselves before the king and queen. They were dressed in their gaudy liveries of crimson and yellow velvet, and each one of these functionaries bore a napkin on his arm, while he carried a plate of sweetmeats, which he presented to the royal pair and the ladies of the court. The following morning Philip and his consort left the hospitable walls of Guadalajara, and set out with their whole suite for Toledo. At parting, the duke of Infantado made the queen and her ladies presents of jewels, lace, and other rich articles of dress; and the sovereigns took leave of their noble host, well pleased with the princely entertainment he had given them.[471]

At Toledo preparations were made for the reception of Philip and Isabella in a style worthy of the renown of that ancient capital of the Visigoths. In the broad vega before the city, three thousand of the old Spanish infantry engaged in a mock encounter with a body of Moorish cavalry, having their uniforms and caparisons fancifully trimmed and ornamented in the Arabesque fashion. Then followed various national dances by beautiful maidens of Toledo, dances of the Gypsies, and the old Spanish "war-dance of the swords."[472]

On entering the gates, the royal pair were welcomed by the municipality of the city, who supported a canopy of cloth of gold over the heads of the king and queen, emblazoned with their ciphers. A procession was formed, consisting of the principal magistrates, the members of the military orders, the officers of the Inquisition,—for Toledo was one of the principal stations of the secret tribunal,—and, lastly, the chief nobles of the court. In the cavalcade might be discerned the iron form of the duke of Alva, and his more{187} courtly rival, Ruy Gomez de Silva, count of Melito,—the two nobles highest in the royal confidence. Triumphal arches, ornamented with quaint devices and emblematical figures from ancient mythology, were thrown across the streets, which were filled with shouting multitudes. Gay wreaths of flowers and flaunting streamers adorned the verandas and balconies, which were crowded with spectators of both sexes in their holiday attire, making a display of gaudy colors that reminds an old chronicler of the richly tinted tapestries and carpetings of Flanders.[473] In this royal state, the new-married pair moved along the streets towards the great cathedral; and after paying their devotions at its venerable shrine, they repaired to the alcazar,—the palace-fortress of Toledo.

For some weeks, during which the sovereigns remained in the capital, there was a general jubilee.[474] All the national games of Spain were exhibited to the young queen; the bull-fight, the Moorish sport of the cañas, or tilt of reeds, and tournaments on horseback and on foot, in both of which Philip often showed himself armed cap-à-pie in the lists, and did his devoir in the presence of his fair bride, as became a loyal knight. Another show, which might have been better reserved for a less joyous occasion, was exhibited to Isabella. As the court and the cortes were drawn together in Toledo, the Holy Office took the occasion to celebrate an auto da fé, which, from the number of the victims and quality of the spectators, was the most imposing spectacle of the kind ever witnessed in that capital.

No country in Europe has so distinct an individuality as Spain; shown not merely in the character of the inhabitants, but in the smallest details of life,—in their national games, their dress, their social usages. The tenacity with which the people have clung to these amidst all the changes of dynasties and laws is truly admirable. Separated by their mountain barrier from the central and eastern parts of Europe, and during the greater part of their existence brought into contact with Oriental forms of civilization, the Spaniards have been but little exposed to those influences which have given a homogeneous complexion to the other nations of Christendom. The system under which they have been trained is too peculiar to be much affected by these influences, and the ideas transmitted from their ancestors are too deeply settled in their minds to be easily disturbed. The present in Spain is but the mirror of the past, in other countries fashions become antiquated, old errors{188} exploded, early tastes reformed. Not so in the Peninsula. The traveller has only to cross the Pyrenees to find himself a contemporary of the sixteenth century.

The festivities of the court were suddenly terminated by the illness of Isabella, who was attacked by the small-pox. Her life was in no danger; but great fears were entertained lest the envious disease should prove fatal to her beauty. Her mother, Catherine de Medicis, had great apprehensions on this point; and couriers crossed the Pyrenees frequently, during the queen's illness, bringing prescriptions—some of them rather extraordinary—from the French doctors for preventing the ravages of the disorder.[475] Whether it was by reason of these nostrums, or her own excellent constitution, the queen was fortunate enough to escape from the sick-room without a scar.

Philip seems to have had much reason to be contented not only with the person, but the disposition, of his wife. As her marriage had formed one of the articles in the treaty with France, she was called by the Spaniards Isabel de la Paz,—"Isabella of the Peace." Her own countrymen no less fondly styled her "the Olive-Branch of Peace,"—intimating the sweetness of her disposition.[476] In this respect she may be thought to have formed a contrast to Philip's former wife, Mary of England; at least after sickness and misfortune had done their work upon that queen's temper, in the latter part of her life.

If Isabella was not a scholar, like Mary, she at least was well instructed for the time, and was fond of reading, especially poetry. She had a ready apprehension, and learned in a short time to speak the Castilian with tolerable fluency, while there was something pleasing in her foreign accent, that made her pronunciation the more interesting. She accommodated herself so well to the usages of her adopted nation, that she soon won the hearts of the Spaniards. "No queen of Castile," says the loyal Brantôme, "with due deference to Isabella the Catholic, was ever so popular in the country." When she went abroad, it was usually with her face uncovered, after the manner of her countrywomen. The press was always great around her whenever she appeared in public, and happy was the man who could approach so near as to get a glimpse of her beautiful countenance.[477]

Yet Isabella never forgot the land of her birth; and such of her countrymen as visited the Castilian court were received by her with distinguished courtesy. She brought along with her in her train to Castile several French ladies of rank, as her maids of honor. But a rivalry soon grew up between them and the Spanish ladies in the palace, which compelled the queen, after she had in vain attempted to reconcile the parties, to send back most of her own countrywomen. In doing so, she was careful to provide them with generous marriage portions.[478]{189}

The queen maintained great state in her household, as was Philip's wish, who seems to have lavished on his lovely consort those attentions for which the unfortunate Mary Tudor had pined in vain. Besides a rare display of jewels, Isabella's wardrobe was exceedingly rich. Few of her robes cost less than three or four hundred crowns each,—a great sum for the time. Like her namesake and contemporary, Elizabeth of England, she rarely wore the same dress twice. But she gave away the discarded suit to her attendants,[479] unlike in this to the English queen, who hoarded up her wardrobe so carefully, that at her death it must have displayed every fashion of her reign. Brantôme, who, both as a Frenchman and as one who had seen the queen often in the court of Castile, may be considered a judge in the matter, dwells with rapture on the elegance of her costume, the matchless taste in its arrangement, and the perfection of her coiffure.

A manuscript of the time, by an eye-witness, gives a few particulars respecting her manner of living, in which some readers may take an interest. Among the persons connected with the queen's establishment, the writer mentions her confessor, her almoner, and four physicians. The medical art seems to have been always held in high repute in Spain, though in no country, considering the empirical character of its professors, with so little reason. At dinner the queen was usually attended by some thirty of her ladies. Two of them, singularly enough as it may seem to us, performed the office of carvers. Another served as cupbearer, and stood by her majesty's chair. The rest of her attendants stood round the apartment, conversing with their gallants, who, in a style to which she had not been used in the French courts, kept their heads covered during the repast. "They were there," they said, "not to wait on the queen, but her ladies." After her solitary meal was over, Isabella retired with her attendants to her chamber, where, with the aid of music, and such mirth as the buffoons and jesters of the palace could afford, she made shift to pass the evening.[480]

Such is the portrait which her contemporaries have left us of Elizabeth of France; and such the accounts of her popularity with the nation, and the state maintained in her establishment. Well might Brantôme sadly exclaim, "Alas! what did it all avail?" A few brief years only were to pass away before this spoiled child of fortune, the delight of the monarch, the ornament and pride of the court, was to exchange the pomps and glories of her royal state for the dark chambers of the Escorial.

From Toledo the court proceeded to Valladolid, long the favourite residence of the Castilian princes, though not the acknowledged capital of the country.{190} Indeed there was no city, since the time of the Visigoths, that could positively claim that preëminence. This honor was reserved for Madrid, which became the established residence of the court under Philip, who in this but carried out the ideas of his father, Charles the Fifth.

The emperor had passed much time in this place, where, strange to say, the chief recommendation to him seems to have been the climate. Situated on a broad expanse of table-land, at an elevation of twenty-four hundred feet above the level of the sea, the brisk and rarefied atmosphere of Madrid proved favorable to Charles's health. It preserved him, in particular, from attacks of the fever and ague, which racked his constitution almost as much as the gout. In the ancient alcazar of the Moors he found a stately residence, which he made commodious by various alterations. Philip extended these improvements. He added new apartments, and spent much money in enlarging and embellishing the old ones. The ceilings were gilded and richly carved. The walls were hung with tapestries, and the saloons and galleries decorated with sculpture and with paintings,—many of them the productions of native artists, the first disciples of a school which was one day to rival the great masters of Italy. Extensive grounds were also laid out around the palace, and a park was formed, which in time came to be covered with a growth of noble trees, and well stocked with game. The alcazar, thus improved, became a fitting residence for the sovereign of Spain. Indeed, if we may trust the magnificent vaunt of a contemporary, it was "allowed by foreigners to be the rarest thing of the kind possessed by any monarch in Christendom."[481] It continued to be the abode of the Spanish princes until, in 1734, in the reign of Philip the Fifth, the building was destroyed by a fire, which lasted nearly a week. But it rose like a phoenix from its ashes; and a new palace was raised on the site of the old one, of still larger dimensions, presenting in the beauty of its materials as well as of its execution one of the noblest monuments of the architecture of the eighteenth century.[482]

Having completed his arrangements, Philip established his residence at Madrid in 1563. The town then contained about twelve thousand inhabitants. Under the forcing atmosphere of a court, the population rose by the end of his long reign to three hundred thousand,[483]—a number which it has probably not since exceeded. The accommodations in the capital kept pace with the increase of population. Everything was built for duration. Instead of flimsy houses that might serve for a temporary residence, the streets were lined with strong and substantial edifices. Under the royal patronage public works on a liberal scale were executed. Madrid was ornamented with bridges, aqueducts, hospitals, the Museum, the Armory,—stately structures which even now challenge our admiration, not less by the excellence of their designs than by the richness of their collections and the enlightened taste which they infer at this early period.{191}

In the opinion of its inhabitants, indeed we may say of the nation, Madrid surpassed, not only every other city in the country, but in Christendom. "There is but one Madrid," says the Spanish proverb.[484] "When Madrid is the theme, the world listens in silence!"[485] In a similar key, the old Castilian writers celebrate the glories of their capital,—the nursery of wit, genius, and gallantry,—and expatiate on the temperature of a climate propitious alike to the beauty of the women and the bravery of the men.[486]

Yet, with all this lofty panegyric, the foreigner is apt to see things through a very different medium from that through which they are seen by the patriotic eye of the native. The traveller to Madrid finds little to praise in a situation where the keen winds from the mountains come laden with disease, and where the subtle atmosphere, to use one of the national proverbs, that can hardly put out a candle, will extinguish the life of a man;[487] where the capital, insulated in the midst of a dreary expanse of desert, seems to be cut off from sympathy, if not from intercourse, with the provinces;[488] and where, instead of a great river that might open to it a commerce with distant quarters of the globe, it is washed only by a stream,—"the far-famed Manzanares,"—the bed of which in summer is a barren watercourse. The traveller may well doubt whether the fanciful advantage, so much vaunted, of being the centre of Spain, is sufficient to compensate the manifold evils of such a position, and even whether those are far from truth who find in this position one of the many causes of the decline of the national prosperity.[489]

A full experience of the inconveniences of the site of the capital led Charles the Third to contemplate its removal to Seville. But it was too late. Madrid had been too long, in the Castilian boast, "the only court in the world,"[490]—the focus to which converged talent, fashion, and wealth from all quarters of the country. Too many patriotic associations had gathered round it to warrant its desertion; and, in spite of its local disadvantages, the capital planted by Philip the Second continued to remain, as it will probably ever remain, the capital of the Spanish monarchy.{192}

CHAPTER V.

We have seen the manner in which he crushed the efforts of the Protestants in Spain. This was the first severe blow struck at the Reformation. Its consequences cannot well be exaggerated; not the immediate results, which would have been little without the subsequent reforms and increased activity of the Church of Rome itself. But the moral influence of such a blow, when the minds of men had been depressed by a long series of reverses, is not to be estimated. In view of this, one of the most eminent Roman Catholic writers does not hesitate to remark, that "the power and abilities of Philip the Second afforded a counterpoise to the Protestant cause, which prevented it from making itself master of Europe."[491] The blow was struck; and from this{193} period little beyond its present conquests was to be gained for the cause of the Reformation.

It was not to be expected that Philip, after having exterminated heresy in one part of his dominions, should tolerate its existence in any other, least of all, in a country so important as the Netherlands. Yet a little reflection might have satisfied him that the same system of measures could hardly be applied with a prospect of success to two countries so differently situated as Spain and the Netherlands. The Romish faith may be said to have entered into the being of the Spaniard. It was not merely cherished as a form of religion, but as a principle of honor. It was part of the national history. For eight centuries the Spaniard had been fighting at home the battles of the Church. Nearly every inch of soil in his own country was won by arms from the infidel. His wars, as I have more than once had occasion to remark, were all wars of religion. He carried the same spirit across the waters. There he was still fighting the infidel. His life was one long crusade. How could this champion of the Church desert her in her utmost need?

With this predisposition, it was easy for Philip to enforce obedience in a people naturally the most loyal to their princes, to whom, moreover, since the fatal war of the Comunidades, they had been accustomed to pay an almost Oriental submission. Intrenched behind the wall of the Pyrenees, Spain, we must bear in mind, felt little of the great shock which was convulsing France and the other states of Europe; and with the aid of so formidable an engine as the Inquisition, it was easy to exterminate, before they could take root, such seeds of heresy as had been borne by the storm across the mountains.

The Netherlands, on the other hand, lay like a valley among the hills, which drinks in all the waters of the surrounding country. They were a common reservoir for the various opinions which agitated the nations on their borders. On the south were the Lutherans of Germany. The French Huguenots pressed them on the west; and by the ocean they held communication with England and the nations of the Baltic. The soldier quartered on their territory, the seaman who visited their shores, the trader who trafficked in their towns, brought with them different forms of the new religion. Books from France and from Germany circulated widely among a people, nearly all of whom, as we have seen, were able to read.

The new doctrines were discussed by men accustomed to think and act for themselves. Freedom of speculation on religious topics soon extended to political. It was the natural tendency of reform. The same spirit of free inquiry which attacked the foundations of unity of faith, stood ready next to assail those of unity of government; and men began boldly to criticize the rights of kings and the duties of subjects.

The spirit of independence was fostered by the institutions of the country. The provinces of the Netherlands, if not republican in form, were filled with the spirit of republics. In many of their features they call to mind the free states of Italy in the Middle Ages. Under the petty princes who ruled over them in early days, they had obtained charters, as we have seen, which secured a certain degree of constitutional freedom. The province of Brabant, above all, gloried in its "Joyeuse Entrée," which guarantied privileges and immunities of a more liberal character than those possessed by the other states of the Netherlands. When the provinces passed at length under the sceptre of a single sovereign, he lived at a distance, and the government was committed to a viceroy. Since their connection with Spain, the administration had been for the most part in the hands of a woman; and the delegated authority of a woman pressed but lightly on the independent temper of the Flemings.

Yet Charles the Fifth, as we have seen, partial as he was to his countrymen in the Netherlands, could ill brook their audacious spirit, and made vigorous{194} efforts to repress it. But his zeal for the spiritual welfare of his people never led him to overlook their material interests. He had no design by his punishments to cripple their strength, much less to urge them to extremity. When the regent, Mary of Hungary, his sister, warned him that his laws bore too heavily on the people to be endured, he was careful to mitigate their severity. His edicts in the name of religion were, indeed, written in blood. But the frequency of their repetition shows, as already remarked, the imperfect manner in which they were executed. This was still further proved by the prosperous condition of the people, the flourishing aspect of the various branches of industry, and the great enterprises to facilitate commercial intercourse and foster the activity of the country. At the close of Charles's reign, or rather at the commencement of his successor's, in 1560, was completed the grand canal extending from Antwerp to Brussels, the construction of which had consumed thirty years, and one million eight hundred thousand florins.[492] Such a work, at such a period,—the fruit, not of royal patronage, but of the public spirit of the citizens,—is evidence both of large resources and of wisdom in the direction of them. In this state of things, it is not surprising that the Flemings, feeling their own strength, should have assumed a free and independent tone little grateful to the ear of a sovereign. So far had this spirit of liberty or licence, as it was termed, increased, in the latter part of the emperor's reign, that the Regent Mary, when her brother abdicated, chose also to resign, declaring, in a letter to him, that "she would not continue to live with, much less to reign over, a people whose manners had undergone such a change,—in whom respect for God and man seemed no longer to exist."[493]

A philosopher who should have contemplated at that day the condition of the country, and the civilization at which it had arrived, might feel satisfied that a system of toleration in religious matters would be the one best suited to the genius of the people and the character of their institutions. But Philip was no philosopher; and toleration was a virtue not understood, at that time, by Calvinist any more than by Catholic. The question, therefore, is not whether the end he proposed was the best one;—on this, few at the present day will differ;—but whether Philip took the best means for effecting that end. This is the point of view from which his conduct in the Netherlands should be criticized.

Here, in the outset, he seems to have fallen into a capital error, by committing so large a share in the government to the hands of a foreigner,—Granvelle. The country was filled with nobles, some of them men of the highest birth, whose ancestors were associated with the most stirring national recollections, and who were endeared, moreover, to their countrymen by their own services. To several of these Philip himself was under no slight obligations for the aid they had afforded him in the late war,—on the fields of Gravelines and St. Quentin, and in the negotiation of the treaty which closed his hostilities with France. It was hardly to be expected that these proud nobles, conscious of their superior claims, and accustomed to so much authority and deference in their own land, would tamely submit to the control{195} of a stranger, a man of obscure family, like his father indebted for his elevation to the royal favor.