BILLIARD ROOM.

No. 1.

FREDERIC HENRY NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.Black and gold dress. Ruff. Gold chain. Sword.BORN 1584, DIED 1647.By Mytens.

FREDERIC HENRY NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.

Black and gold dress. Ruff. Gold chain. Sword.

BORN 1584, DIED 1647.

By Mytens.

THE youngest child of William the Silent, Prince of Orange. Born at Delft, christened with great rejoicings, and named after his two godfathers, the kings of Denmark and Navarre. His mother, Louisa de Coligny, had been early marked out for misfortune; her father, the brave Gaspard de Chatillon, High Admiral of France, and her first husband, the Sieur de Teligny, were both victims of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. So sad a fate has surely befallen few women, to see a beloved parent and two husbands fall by the hands of cruel assassins. When she was first left a widow, Louisa de Coligny escaped into Switzerland, and after a time became the fourth wife of William the Silent, Prince of Orange. During their shortunion, she endeared herself to her husband and the whole country by the tender care she bestowed on her step-children. At the time of William’s murder, Frederic Henry was but an infant. ‘I am left,’ says the unhappy widow, ‘with a six-months’ child, sole pledge of my dead lord, my only pleasure and consolation.’

A letter to England gives a most pathetic account of a visit paid to her a short time after the Prince’s murder. ‘I found the Princess,’ says the writer, ‘in a most dark, melancholy little chamber; and it was a twice sorrowful sight to behold her heaviness and apparel, augmented by the wofulness of the place; and truly the perplexity I found her in was not only for the consideration for things past, but for that which might follow hereafter. The Princess de Chimay was with her, herself a dolorous lady.’

The widow’s grief had been insulted by the discourse of an unfeeling preacher at Leyden, who, alluding to the murder of the Prince, attributed it to the vengeance of God on the ‘French marriage,’ and the wicked pomp with which the child’s christening had been solemnised.

Motley’s portrait of Louisa deserves to be transcribed: ‘A small, well-formed woman, with delicate features, exquisite complexion, and very beautiful dark eyes, that seemed in after years, as they looked from beneath her coif, to be dim with unshed tears; remarkable powers of mind, sweetness of disposition, a winning manner, and a gentle voice.’

Such a woman soon became dear to the honest Hollanders, and was indeed a good monitress, not only to her own child, but to Prince Maurice, who loved and honoured her, and was inclined on most occasions to listen to her counsels.

She devoted herself in the first years of her widowhood to superintending the education of Frederic Henry or Henry Frederic, as he is called by different historians. The Stadtholder, Maurice, seems to have been much attached tohis half-brother, who, while still a child, proved his apt and willing scholar in the art of warfare. The boy stood under fire for the first time when only thirteen, and was with the army when the siege of Nieuport was projected. Now, this enterprise was considered so hazardous, that Maurice determined his brother should remain in a place of safety, on whom, in the event of his own death, the hopes of the nation would be centred. But this decision was most repugnant to the brave boy’s inclinations, and he besought the General, with clasped hands and urgent prayers, to allow him to share in the glory and danger of the day. There was too much sympathy between those two noble spirits that Maurice should find it in his heart to withstand the young soldier’s persistent supplication. He sent for a new suit of armour, in which Frederic, bravely equipped, side by side with his young kinsman, De Coligny, participated in the honours of that memorable victory.

In the early days of his government, Maurice had pledged himself to his stepmother to remain unmarried, by which means her son would succeed as Stadtholder; but it was supposed that he went further, and whispered to her that Frederic should inherit a kingly crown if the Princess would assist him in obtaining the sovereignty, which he (Maurice) so ardently desired.

In 1605 the young Prince was in command of a body of veterans in an attack on the Spaniards, at Mühlheim, by the Rhine, when Maurice, riding up on the opposite shore, perceived with dismay that a panic had seized the usually steady and valiant troops. He saw his brother fighting manfully in the thickest of the fray, his gilded armour and waving orange plumes making him the aim of every marksman. On that occasion, at all events, Maurice did not ‘keep silence.’ He tore up and down the bank, taunting and cursing the soldiers who were deserting their brave young commander, and hisloud and angry expostulations rallied the fugitives, and saved his brother’s life.

When the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia arrived at the Hague, to ask shelter and protection from the House of Orange, Elizabeth brought in her train the faithful and favourite Amelia de Solms, a young lady whose intelligence and beauty made a deep impression on the heart of Prince Frederic. There is some little difficulty in reconciling the different accounts, as the Queen speaks of the lovers’ entire devotion; yet we are told that Maurice threatened Frederic that, if he did not make up his mind to marry the German lady, he would himself espouse a Mademoiselle de Merck, by whom he had already had more than one child, who would in that case be accepted by the law of that land as legitimate.

The Queen of Bohemia, in writing to an English correspondent, says: ‘I am sure you heere already of the Prince of Orange’s marriage with one of my women, the daughter of Count de Solms, who served the King in Heidelberg. She is verie handsome and goode. She has no money, but he has enough for both.’

To return to more public matters. A short time after Maurice’s death the stronghold of Breda was taken by Spinola. This general had besieged the place for so long, and had been so much disheartened by plausible reports of the enemy’s resources, that he asked permission of the Spanish King to raise the siege. The answer was laconic and peremptory, ‘Marquez, sumais Breda. Yo el Rei.‘ There was no questioning such a command, and Spinola prosecuted the attack with redoubled energy. In the meantime, the garrison was suffering from hunger and privations of all kinds; and a mutinous spirit was spreading so fast as to induce the brave governor, Justin of Nassau (an illegitimate son of William the Silent), to ask the Prince to allow him to capitulate.

Frederic replied that he considered it advisable to do so, remarking at the same time that if Spinola did but know the real state of the case, he would not be likely to grant very honourable terms. This letter fell into the hands of the enemy, but the writer misjudged his generous-hearted foe. With the true ‘garbatezza italiana,’ Spinola (undeterred by the indignant opposition of most of his officers) gave orders that the Dutch troops should march out with colours flying, drums beating, and all the honours of war. He also granted them leave to carry away many valuables, more especially all the personal property of the late Prince Maurice. Still further to prove his respect for the courage displayed by the garrison, he watched them as they sallied forth, lifting his hat with graceful courtesy, and exchanging salutations with his noble adversaries.

When the King of Bohemia died, he recommended his widow and children in the most urgent terms to the protection of the States-General and the Stadtholder, to whom Elizabeth also drew up a memorial, in which, after speaking of her profound grief, she goes on to say: ‘My first great resource is in Heaven; next to that Divine trust, I confide in you; nor will I doubt that to me and my children will be continued that friendship so long manifested to my lamented consort. It is for you to shelter those who suffer for truth and righteousness’ sake.’

The Royal petitioner was liberally dealt with, and the generous allowance which Maurice (whom she called her second father) had allotted her, was continued.

Frederic, on succeeding to the government, had found the country in a ferment of religious and political discord; and he endeavoured to exercise a tranquillising influence both at home and abroad. He would gladly have made peace with Spain if he could have done so with honour, but this was impossible; and he took the field fired with allthe military ardour which had ever distinguished the House of Orange.

In his successive campaigns against the Spaniards, he achieved, for the most part, brilliant victories, possessing himself, one after another, of places of the greatest importance. But although distasteful to himself and the country at large, yet, from motives of policy, he was induced to enter into an alliance with France, and maintained a frequent correspondence with the Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. On the surface of things they were friends, but Richelieu hated the Stadtholder, and was said to have employed Frederic’s own valet as a spy on his master’s actions. In 1637 the all-powerful Cardinal, anxious to propitiate Holland, sent the Count de Charnacé as ambassador to the Hague, who, in the presence of the assembled States, addressed Frederic as ‘Prince’ and ‘Highness,’ instead of Excellency, the title he had hitherto borne. The Stadtholder was not insensible to the distinction, more particularly as the example set by France was followed by all the Royal houses in Europe.

He further added to the dignity and importance of his family by uniting his son with the Princess Mary, daughter to CharlesI.of England, a marriage which afforded general satisfaction. There were great festivities at the Hague on the occasion, and we are told that ‘the Queen of Bohemia and her fair daughters contributed not a little to enhance the grace and beauty of the Court pageants.’ The Dutch continued their victories both by sea and land, their naval engagements in particular being most brilliant. Henry Frederic’s last feat of arms was to complete the frontier line, which his skill and valour had helped to ensure to his country; and the Spaniards were at length compelled to acknowledge the independence of those Provinces already united. The Stadtholder was not permitted long to enjoy the improved aspect of affairs. He died in March 1647, during the sessionof the Congress of Münster, and was buried with great splendour at the Hague. He left one son, William, and four daughters, by Amelia de Solms, who survived him several years, residing at the Hague, where she had built a fine palace, and amassed a large fortune. Henry Frederic was of a noble presence, well formed, and robust; his disposition was modest and temperate, and his manners gracious and conciliating. He was a scholar, as well as a soldier, and dictated to one of his officers memoirs of his principal campaigns, which were much esteemed. He had none of Maurice’s personal ambition, and never aspired to the sovereignty. But ‘if it were a sin to covet honour, he was the most offending soul alive.’ His son succeeded him as Stadtholder, but died at the early age of twenty-four, leaving his young widow with child, of a Prince, afterwards WilliamIII., King of England.

No. 2.

SENATOR OF ANTWERP.Black dress. Black skull-cap. White ruff and cuffs. Sitting in anarm-chair.By Willebort.

SENATOR OF ANTWERP.

Black dress. Black skull-cap. White ruff and cuffs. Sitting in an

arm-chair.

By Willebort.

No. 3.

MAURICE OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.In armour[1], Holding a truncheon. The other hand rests on a tablebeside his helmet. Orange plume and sash.BORN 1567, DIED 1625.By Miereveldt.

MAURICE OF NASSAU, PRINCE OF ORANGE, STADTHOLDER.

In armour[1], Holding a truncheon. The other hand rests on a table

beside his helmet. Orange plume and sash.

BORN 1567, DIED 1625.

By Miereveldt.

1.ERRATUM:for“In armour”read“In fuller dress than usual.”

THE second son of William, Prince of Orange, surnamed ‘the Silent’ by Anne of Saxony, who was repudiated on account of her misconduct. Maurice was born at the Castle of Dillenbourg; his elder brother, Philip, had been kidnapped from school, and carried to Spain, where he became (says Motley) so completely Hispaniolised, both in appearance and inclinations, as to lose all feeling of patriotism. But his filial love was never eradicated, and on one occasion, when a Spanish officer presumed to speak slightly of his illustrious father, Philip flung the offender headlong from the window of the palace, and killed him on the spot. It was on the 10th of July 1584 that the hand of a hired assassin cut short the career of one of the greatest and best men that had ever illuminated the page of history; Maurice was at that time pursuing his education at Leyden; and the boy’s tutors had received strict orders not to allow him to stray by the sea-shore, lest his brother’s fate should befall him, as it was from that place Philip had been stolen. William had died deeply in debt; he had spent his revenues in the service of his beloved country, and at his death there was no ready money for his widow (Louisa de Coligny), thestep-children to whom she was fondly attached, or her own infant son. The Prince’s effects were sold for the good of his creditors,—plate, furniture, tapestries, his very clothes; but this done, the States-General came forward liberally, and settled a good allowance on the Princess and her charges. For Maurice (whom they selected as his father’s successor) they provided most generously, and, impressed by his promising qualities, and the earnestness and decision of purpose which he early evinced, they offered to place him at the head of the States Council, a provisional executive board, for the government of those Provinces comprised in the union. He was doubtless a remarkable youth. A letter to Queen Elizabeth extols ‘this flaxen-haired, gentle boy of seventeen years, his towardness, good presence, courage, singular wit, and learning,’ while another account describes ‘his chiselled features, full red lips, dark blue eyes (elsewhere they are called hazel) with a concentration above his years.’ He was universally pronounced to resemble his maternal grandfather, the celebrated Maurice of Saxony, both in appearance and character, and in nowise to favour his mother, who had been pale and deformed. When offered the important post Maurice took two days to consider; but he was not one to shrink from responsibility, and his acceptance was dignified and modest. He had already selected a device and motto, and nobly did he redeem the pledge in its wider sense: a fallen oak, with a young sapling springing from it, ‘Tandem fit surculus arbor.’ And verily the twig soon became a tree, and a noble one.

The country so lately, and now only partially, emancipated from the detested yoke of Spain, looked anxiously round for alliance with some foreign power, to assist in opposing King Philip and his formidable generals.

Negotiations were commenced, and carried on at great length, with France, to whose king the sovereignty of the Provinces was offered. Against this measure Maurice made amost spirited and eloquent appeal to the Council: he dwelt on all the evils which would accrue from such a step, reminding his hearers of the services which his family had rendered, and the misfortunes they had undergone in the cause of patriotism; furthermore, how nearly they had bestowed the sovereignty on his late father,—beseeching them not to forget the interests of the house of Nassau; and he concluded by assuring them, that, young and inexperienced as he was, he trusted that his zeal and devotion might be of some avail to his country. His speech was much applauded for its eloquence; but the negotiations with France were not discontinued, although after a time they were transferred to England. It seems certain that the youthful ruler indulged in early hopes of securing the title of King for himself, but, in default of this, he appears to have leaned to the notion of the government of Elizabeth, in preference to that of any other alien. She had always been a staunch upholder of Protestantism, had been generous to his family in financial matters, and had always expressed herself in friendly terms towards the house of Orange; besides, England was a powerful and desirable ally. Notwithstanding all these considerations, Maurice did not, as he pithily expressed himself, ‘wish to be strangled in the great Queen’s embrace.’

Bess was a coquette in politics as well as love, and for a time seemed inclined to listen to the overtures made her by the States-General, but she finally refused. Desirous, however, of exercising some influence in the country, she sent over her prime favourite, the Earl of Leicester (with his gallant nephew, Sir Philip Sidney), at the head of a large contingent of British troops. He had stringent rules laid down for his conduct, most of which he infringed. Not long after his arrival he was inaugurated in the post of Governor-General of the United Provinces, with supreme military command by land and sea, and authority in matters civil and political. Inthese capacities the States proffered him an oath of fidelity, a step in which Maurice himself was reluctantly compelled to join. Leicester’s whole conduct in the Netherlands was actuated by overweening ambition and the basest covetousness; while in accepting such high-sounding titles he incurred the Queen’s anger,—‘acting in direct opposition,’ says Motley, ‘to the commands of the most imperious woman in the world.’

A courtier at home, no way friendly to the arrogant favourite, told Elizabeth how Leicester’s head was turned by the honours heaped on him, and how he had sent over to England to bid his Countess join him, with a suite, and all appliances, in order to form a Court equal in splendour to her own. ‘Indeed!’ was the angry reply; ‘we will teach the upstarts that there is but one Queen, and her name is Elizabeth; and they shall have no other Court but hers!’

To return to Maurice: John Barneveldt (who had constituted himself the youth’s political guardian), although opposed to the idea of his elevation to a throne, stoutly advocated his nomination to the post of Stadtholder, a measure that was carried after a severe struggle. It was by the side of this trusty friend that the young Prince first went into action; but his first military achievement was planned and carried into execution jointly with Sir Philip Sidney, namely, the taking of Axel, an important stronghold, which they carried without the loss of a single man in the combined forces of the English and Dutch troops.

A close friendship existed between Maurice of Nassau and our gallant countryman, in spite of the latter’s near relationship to the obnoxious Leicester, who had warned his nephew to be prudent in his dealings with Maurice. ‘I find no treachery in the young man,’ was the reply, ‘only a bold and intelligent love of adventure.’ The two brave soldiers maintained their brotherhood in arms, until the fatal day whenSir Philip received his death-wound at the battle of Zutphen. His undaunted courage and proverbial humanity gained him the love and admiration of his allies and countrymen, and the respect of his enemies.

In 1587 Leicester was recalled by the Queen, and compelled to return to England. He was detested by the majority of the Dutch nation, who had by this time discovered his plots and treacherous schemes, and his departure cleared the way for the further display of Maurice’s political and military talents. He was nominated Governor Commander-in-chief of five out of the seven United Provinces which formed the Confederacy: and no one could surely have been better fitted for such responsible posts. In the early days of his government he was inclined to leave the reins in the hands of Barneveldt, while he devoted himself theoretically, as well as practically, to the study of war. His leisure hours were passed in forming combinations and executing manœuvres with pewter soldiers; in building up and battering down, in storming and carrying wooden blocks of mimic citadels; in fact, in arranging systems of attack, pursuit, retreat, and defence on his table, all of which he afterwards most effectually carried out on the field of actual warfare; while for hours together he would pore over the works of classical authors in the art of strategy.

Maurice introduced the strictest discipline into the army, but he was the friend and comrade of his soldiers, sharing their privations, and exacting for them, from the hands of the Government, the pay which had of late been but too irregularly disbursed. His clemency to his prisoners formed a brilliant contrast to the cruelties practised by most of the Generals of his time, barring one or two occasions, when driven to take reprisals. This he did, indeed, as a warning to the Spaniards not to deal hardly with the Dutch who had fallen into their hands. He was most severe on his ownsoldiers for disobedience of orders; and with his own hand he shot one of his men, who had been convicted of plundering a peasant.

The campaigns of 1590-92 against the Spanish troops were for the most part as successful as they were brilliant, and in 1596 an alliance, offensive and defensive, was concluded with France and England.

Maurice’s victories on the Rhine were so important as to induce the Spanish king to offer him most flattering terms, which were refused, and the war continued. We have neither space nor inclination to enter on the history of Maurice’s campaigns. How could we do so in our limited space, or attempt the military memoirs of a general who was said to have won three pitched battles, to have taken thirty-eight strong towns and forty-five castles, and to cause the enemy to raise twelve sieges—the great general of the age, ‘the chief captain of Christendom,’ as Queen Elizabeth called him—the rival in arms of the formidable Spinola?

Yet we cannot resist the temptation of alluding to one or two passages in his military life which have a picturesque or characteristic side to the occurrence.

The taking of Zutphen was one of those ingeniousruses de guerrein which Maurice delighted. One bright morning five or six peasants, with their wives, made their appearance under the walls of the town, laden with baskets of provisions,—no uncommon, yet a tempting sight. They sat down on the grass, and had not long to wait before several soldiers of the garrison came out, and began bartering for the contents of the said baskets. Suddenly a woman drew a pistol from under her petticoat, and shot the man dead who was haggling over the price of her eggs.

In a moment, the peasants, transformed into soldiers, sprang on the guard, overpowered, bound them, and took possession of the gate; while a large body of men, who had beenlying in ambush, rushed to their assistance, and, following up the advantage, carried the place without the loss of a single man on their side.

Maurice of Orange, unlike the first Napoleon, was a great economiser of life, although so unchary of his own, that he was reprimanded in his youth by the States for rashly exposing himself to danger.

The Spaniards thought to depreciate his strategical talents by saying, ‘Qu’il ne sçavoit, que le méstier des taupes, de se tapir en terre;’ but he was as successful in open warfare as he was ingenious in stratagem. The taking of Nieuport, which for some time seemed a forlorn hope, was one of his most memorable victories. It resulted in the precipitate flight of the Archduke Albert (the governor of that portion of the Netherlands still under Spanish rule), and the entire rout of his army; and this at the very moment that the Infanta Isabella (Albert’s wife), reckoning without her host, was expecting to see the Prince of Orange brought into her presence—a prisoner. More than once during the battle the fortunes of the patriots seemed to tremble in the balance; but Maurice’s calmness never forsook him, and his devoted soldiery emulated their General in courage and determination. When assured that the day was gained, the hero, who had been unmoved in danger, was overcome by emotion. He leaped from his saddle, and, kneeling in the sand, raised his streaming eyes to heaven, exclaiming, ‘O God, what are we human creatures, to whom Thou hast brought such honour, and vouchsafed such a victory?’

So total was the discomfiture of the Spaniards, so hasty their retreat, that they left a precious booty for the Dutch, in the shape of ammunition, treasure, and baggage. Amongst other personal property of the Archduke, his favourite charger fell to the share of an officer in the Stadtholder’s army, who had often heard the Prince express great admiration for the horse inquestion. He therefore lost no time in presenting his prize to the General. Now, in the possession of Lord Powerscourt, there is an exquisitely finished cabinet portrait of the great captain, in gorgeous armour, mounted on a milk-white barb, with a wondrous luxuriance of mane and tail, which nearly sweep the ground. We often hear of a horse who seems to take pride in carrying his master; but here the case is obviously reversed. The rider is proud of his horse. The Prince evinces an undoubted pride in the milk-white steed he mounts, and he called upon his favourite painter, Miereveldt, to immortalise his treasure. With such strong circumstantial evidence, we may surely take it for granted that Lord Powerscourt’s gem illustrates our anecdote of the victory of Nieuport.

One more example of our hero’s strategical powers, and we have done. The taking of Breda was so ingeniously conceived, so bravely executed, that we cannot pass it over in silence. The grand and strongly fortified castle which dominated the town of Breda had once been the residence of the Nassau family, and was indeed, by law, the property of Prince Maurice. It was in the hands of the enemy, garrisoned by a large band of Italian soldiers, under the command of the Duke of Parma, who was however absent at the time of which we are speaking, the Duke having left a young compatriot in command, Lanza Vecchia by name. One night, when quartered at the Castle of Voorn, in Zeeland, Maurice received a mysterious nocturnal visit from a certain boatman called Adrian, who had once been a servant in the Nassau family, and was now employed in carrying turf for fuel into the Castle of Breda. Adrian offered his boat and his services to the Prince, assuring him that the little vessel could enter the water-gate without suspicion. The notion was after Maurice’s own heart. He took counsel with Barneveldt, and it was arranged that the boatman should be at a certain ferry the next night at twelve o’clock. The carrying out of this daring scheme was, byBarneveldt’s advice, intrusted to one Heraugière, a man of undoubted valour, who having fallen into temporary disgrace, would be most willing (urged his advocate) to redeem his character with the General. Sixty-eight men were selected from different regiments, with three officers as his comrades in the hazardous enterprise, who all proceeded to the rendezvous at the appointed hour. Adrian himself did not appear. His heart failed him, and he sent two nephews in his stead, whom he designated as ‘dare-devils.’ It was certainly no undertaking for faint hearts to embark in. The devoted little band went on board the boat, and stowed themselves away as best they might under the piles of turf with which the bark was ostensibly laden. Everything seemed leagued against them: fog, sleet, large blocks of ice, impeded their progress, while the weather proved most tempestuous, and the wind contrary.

From Monday night till Thursday morning seventy men lay huddled together almost suffocated, enduring hunger, thirst, and intense cold without a murmur, without regret at having undertaken so perilous a duty. At one time they were compelled to creep out and steal to a neighbouring castle, in order to procure some refreshment, and it was not till Saturday morning that they entered the last sluice, and all possibility of retreat was at an end,—that handful of men, half frozen with cold, half crippled by confinement to so small a space, to cope with a whole garrison of vigorous and well-fed soldiers! An officer came on board to inspect the fuel, of which he said they stood sorely in need, and went into the little cabin, where the hidden men could see him plainly, and hear every word he uttered. No sooner had he gone on shore than the keel struck against some obstruction. The vessel sprang a leak, and began to fill.

All was surely now lost, and the men who came to unload the boat made her safe, close under the guard-house, and proceeded with their work. To add to the soldiers’ danger,the damp and cold had brought on fits of sneezing and coughing, which it was most difficult to resist. One of these gallant men, who well deserved his name of ‘Held,’[2]feeling his cough impossible to control, drew his dagger and besought the soldier next him to stab him to the heart, lest he should cause the failure of the enterprise and the destruction of his comrades. But thanks to the ingenuity of the skipper, this noble fellow lived to glory in the success of the undertaking, and his name still lives in the hearts and memory of his countrymen. The dare-devil came to the rescue; he set the pumps going, which deadened every other sound, and there he stood, worthy of the sobriquet his uncle had given him, exchanging jokes with the labourers and the purchasers, and at length dismissing them all with a few stivers for ‘drink-geld,’ saying it was much too late to unload any more turf that night.

2.Hero.

So they all departed, excepting the servant of the captain of the guard, who was most difficult to get rid of, chattering and gossiping, and complaining of delay.

‘Be content,’ said the skipper, one of those men who must have his joke, even in moments when life and death are at stake; ‘the best part of the cargo is at the bottom, and it is reserved for your master. He is sure to get enough of it to-morrow.’

The dare-devil’s words were verified to the letter; a little before midnight the Dutch entered the town, killed every man in the guard-room, and took possession of the arsenal. The garrison fled in all directions, and the burghers followed their example, young Lanza Vecchia, although himself wounded, striving in vain to rally his men.

Count Hohenloe, brother-in-law to Maurice, was the first to enter the town at the head of large reinforcements, shortly followed by the Prince himself. The despatch sent to Barneveldt was as follows: ‘The castle and town of Bredaare ours. We have not lost a single man. The garrison made no resistance, but fled distracted out of the town.’

How reluctantly we turn the page whereon Maurice’s golden deeds are inscribed, and come to a new episode in his life, on which a dark shadow rests! Little by little the differences of opinion which had long existed between the Stadtholder and the Advocate Barneveldt ripened into open enmity. The latter was at the head of the peace party, while Maurice declared for continuous warfare, in spite of which a general truce of several years was concluded, beneath which the Prince’s restless spirit chafed and fretted.

There could also be little doubt that Maurice aimed at a crown, while Barneveldt was a staunch republican. A more deadly cause of enmity was now springing up, for the torch of religious discord was aflame in Holland, between two opposing sects, the Gomarites and the Arminians. The former accused the latter of being more lax than the Papists, while the Arminians loudly declared the Gomarites to be cruel and intolerant, and the God they worshipped unjust and merciless.

For the most part, the clergy, with many of the upper classes, headed by Maurice and his family, favoured the Gomarites; while Barneveldt, with the municipal body, upheld the Arminian doctrines. Political and religious differences waxed fiercer each day that passed, and Maurice forgot all he owed to the guardian of his youth.

Barneveldt’s star was setting; slander and calumny of all kinds were busy with the name of this single-minded, large-hearted old man, whom the Stadtholder did not disdain in his anger to accuse of secret negotiations with Spain. In a letter to the Prince, Barneveldt bewails their estrangement, for which he had ‘given no cause, having always been your faithful servant, and with God’s blessing, so will I remain.’

He went on to say he had done good service to the State for upwards of forty years, and as far as religious opinionswent, he had never changed. But neither his public nor private appeals stood him in good stead: he was denounced as a traitor and a sceptic; libellous pamphlets, shameful and absurd accusations, were disseminated against him. One great bone of contention between the two sects was the convening of a Synod, on which the Stadtholder and the States had determined. To dissuade the Prince from this step, the Advocate asked an interview, which was granted. Here is the picture, drawn by a master hand: The Advocate, an imposing magisterial figure, wrapped in a long black velvet cloak, leaning on his staff, tall, but bent with age and anxiety, haggard and pale, with long grey beard, and stern blue eyes. What a contrast to the florid, plethoric Prince!—in big russet boots, shabby felt hat encircled by a string of diamonds, his hand clutching his sword-hilt, and his eyes full of angry menace,—the very type of the high-born, imperious soldier. Thus they stood and surveyed each other for a time, those two men, once fast friends, between whom a gulf was now fixed. Expostulations, recriminations, passed, Barneveldt strongly deprecating the idea of the Synod, which he was well assured would only lead to more ill feeling rather than to any adjustment of differences; in answer to which Maurice curtly announced that the measure was decided on, and then opposed a stubborn silence (as was his wont when thwarted) to all the arguments and eloquence of the Advocate. That meeting was their last on earth.

Not long after this interview, as Barneveldt was one day sitting in his garden, he was visited by two friends, of authority in the State, who had come to warn him of the plan that had been formed for his arrest. He received the intelligence calmly, remarking he knew well ‘there were wicked men about;’ then, lifting his hat courteously, he added, ‘I thank you, gentlemen, for your warning.’ He continued his steady course as heretofore, and was accordingly shortly afterwards arrested on his way to the Session, and lodged in prison; his intimatefriend, the learned Grotius, and several other leading members of the Arminian community, were imprisoned at the same time. The treatment which Barneveldt was subjected to in his captivity was most inconsiderate and severe; indeed, the only mercy vouchsafed to him was the attendance of his faithful body-servant; he was not allowed communication with the outer world, although, on more than one occasion, he contrived to elude the vigilance of his keepers by means of a few words concealed in a quill or the centre of a fruit. His books and papers were taken from him; he was denied the assistance of a lawyer or a secretary to prepare his defence, or even pen and ink for his own use; and when he asked for a list of the charges which were to be brought against him, he was refused.

In spite of all these hindrances, when summoned before a ‘packed’ tribunal, his defence was noble, eloquent, and manly, although his enemies insultingly called it a confession. He was accused of troubling the Church of God, sowing dissension in the Provinces, and calumniating his Excellency, and—crowning injustice—was declared a traitor to his native country. John Olden de Barneveldt!—was there any one in that Assembly whose love was so profound for his God, his country, and his Prince? He was not present when the final sentence was passed, namely, that he should suffer death by the sword, and that all his goods should be confiscate; but when the news was brought, the prisoner received it with the calm dignity which always characterised him.

From ‘my chamber of sorrow’ he wrote a touching farewell (pen and ink being grudgingly accorded him) to his family, which he signed ‘from your loving husband, father, grandfather, and father-in-law.’ In all these relations of life Barneveldt had been dearly loved, and his home had been the scene of ‘domestic bliss;’ the only paradise that has survived the fall.

He intrusted the clergyman who ministered to him with a message to the Prince of Orange, assuring him that he had always loved and served him as far as it was consistent with his duty to the State, and his principles. He craved forgiveness if he had ever failed towards him in any point, and concluded by earnestly recommending his children to the care of his Excellency.

Maurice received the messenger with tears in his eyes, on his part declaring that he had always had a sincere affection for Barneveldt, though there were one or two things he found it hard to forgive, such as the accusation, which the Advocate brought against him, of aspiring to the sovereignty; but he did forgive all, and as regarded the children, he would befriend them as long as they continued to deserve it. With these poor crumbs of comfort the clergyman went back to the prison.

It must not be supposed that no efforts were made to save De Barneveldt: the French Ambassador used all his persuasions and all his eloquence, the widowed Princess of Orange wrote to her stepson to entreat him to save his father’s friend, and the friend of his boyhood and early life; but for the first time Maurice was deaf to the appeal of Louisa de Coligny, and excused himself from seeing her on frivolous pretences. Some surprise was expressed that the wife and family of De Barneveldt did not petition the Stadtholder, and it was even whispered that if either the wife or daughter-in-law (both women distinguished by noble birth and noble hearts) had sought an interview with Prince Maurice, it might have been granted; but they relied on a promise, perhaps, that no harm should come to the prisoner, even as our Strafford did, a few years later. The venerable captive prepared for death, declining an interview with his relations, lest the sight of those dear ones should unnerve him, and destroy the composure which it was so essential to maintain, while it was carefullywithheld from him how earnestly his family had desired to see him once more.

The night previous to the execution his good servant took up his post at the head of his master’s bed to receive his last instructions, but was warned off by one of the sentinels.

However, no sooner did the surly fellow fall asleep than this faithful friend, by dint of bribes and persuasions, prevailed on his comrade to let him return to the bedside. Barneveldt evinced great anxiety respecting his beloved friend Grotius,[3]fearing he might share the same fate. He sent tender messages to his family, recommending the bearer to their protection, and expressed his regret, if, stung by indignation at the loathsome slanders published against him, he had at any time spoken too fiercely and vehemently.

3.Grotius was imprisoned for two years, and finally escaped in a case of books, through the medium of his wife.

The next morning he rose quietly. ‘Come and help me, good John,’ said he; ‘it is the last time that I shall require your services.’ When the clergyman entered and asked if he had slept, he said he had not, but was much soothed and strengthened by the beautiful passages he had been reading in a French version of the Psalms. Why linger over these sad details?

In the great hall where the judges were assembled, the prisoner listened wearily to the long rambling sentence, and demurred several times at its flagrant injustice. When the clerk had concluded, he said, ‘I thought, my Lords, the States-General would have had enough of my life, and blood, without depriving my wife and children of their property. Is this my recompense for forty-three years of service to the Provinces?’

The President rose with this cruel reply on his lips: ‘You have heard the sentence—away, away! that is enough.’

The old man obeyed, leaning on his staff, and, followed by his faithful John and the guard, he passed on to death onthe scaffold, and, looking down, addressed the mob: ‘Men,’ he said, ‘do not believe that I am a traitor; I have lived as a patriot, and as a patriot I will die.’

He himself drew the cap over his eyes, ejaculating, ‘Christ shall be my guide; O Lord, my Heavenly Father, receive my spirit.’ Then kneeling down, as he desired, with his face directed towards his home, he begged the executioner to use all despatch; the heavy sword was swung, the noble head was struck off at a blow, and the soul of John Olden de Barneveldt took flight for a land where ingratitude and injustice are alike unknown.

We are told that the Stadtholder sat in his cabinet with closed doors, and forbade any one wearing his livery to go abroad, or be seen in the streets during the execution of the Advocate; nay, it is further recorded that he evinced some emotion on hearing that all was over. But sadly did he neglect an opportunity that presented itself, not very long afterwards, of showing some spark of that generosity which once characterised him.

Barneveldt had left two sons, both high in position, and in affluent circumstances, until their father’s sentence reduced them to poverty and obscurity. The younger son, Governor of Bergen-op-Zoom, was a wild, turbulent spirit, and had given his family much uneasiness. Stung to the quick by his father’s wrongs, he laid a plot for the assassination of the Stadtholder; with some difficulty he prevailed on his more timid brother to enlist in the same cause, and as Maurice’s popularity was already on the wane, he found several conspirators not unwilling to join. The scheme was discovered or betrayed, and all implicated therein, who had the means of escape, fled; the younger De Barneveldt was conveyed in a case to the house of a friend at Rotterdam, whence he started for Brussels, and reached the Court of the Archduchess Isabella, who took him under her protection. He afterwards enteredhis native country with alien troops as a traitor and a renegade. His less fortunate, less blameable brother, wandered about from place to place a miserable fugitive, and was at last taken in the island of Flieland.

On hearing of his capture, his mother’s anguish knew no bounds; she remained for days tearless, speechless, immoveable; but at length she roused herself, and, accompanied by her daughter-in-law and infant grandchild, she went her way to the Stadtholder’s palace.

Bowing the lofty spirit which had hitherto upheld her in all her misfortunes, she cast herself on her knees, and with all the wild eloquence of maternal sorrow, she implored mercy for her son.

Maurice received her with cold courtesy, and asked why she had never raised her voice in behalf of the prisoner’s father. The answer was worthy the widow of the great patriot:—

‘My husband,’ she said, ‘was innocent; my son is guilty.’

The Prince was unmoved, and coldly replied that it was out of his power to interfere with the course of justice. The two unhappy women and the little one, who was so soon to be an orphan, passed out of the room, and all hope of mercy was at an end. The only clemency shown the son of Olden de Barneveldt was exemption from the ignominy and anguish of torture which was inflicted on his fellow-conspirators. The deportment of this weak-minded man at his trial formed a sad contrast to that of his illustrious father. When sentence of death had been passed, he had a last interview with his mother and wife. The latter, amid all the agony of her grief, exhorted her husband to die as became his father’s memory and the noble name he bore. These loving commands were strictly obeyed. The prisoner was calm and composed on the scaffold, and in a few words he addressed to the people,told them that evil counsel and the desire for vengeance had brought him to so sad an end. His last audible word was ‘Patience.’

The days of Maurice of Nassau were also numbered. For a short time the flame of popularity flickered; but his reputation had suffered, not only by his injustice, but by his severity to the widow and family of a man to whose memory his very opponents in religion and politics were now beginning to render tardy justice. On one occasion the Stadtholder was deeply mortified, when, crossing the public square of a large town, amid a concourse of citizens, he was allowed to do so without the slightest sign of recognition, without the lifting of a single hat, or the raising of one shout in his honour. No man said, ‘God bless him;’—he who was wont to ride down the streets amid deafening cries of ‘Long live Prince Maurice!’

He was thwarted and opposed in many of his favourite measures by the very party he had so strenuously upheld. He was more especially mortified when they refused the subsidies he asked for the prolongation of the war with Spain, and, though successful in his attempt on Bergen-op-Zoom, he failed before Antwerp, while the reverses of the Protestant army in Germany weighed heavily on his mind. He received the exiled King and Queen of Bohemia at the Hague with generous hospitality, and sympathised truly in their misfortunes; but the successes of his great rival, the Marquis Spinola, which he was now powerless to withstand, seemed the culminating point to his distress. His last days were embittered by the knowledge that his beloved stronghold of Breda, on the recovery of which he had expended so much ingenuity, and run such enormous risks, thirty-four years before, was now hotly besieged by the great Italian general, and he himself unable to lift a finger in its defence. Maurice of Nassau became thin and haggard, and fits of sleeplessnessreduced his strength,—he who his life long had slept so heavily that two gentlemen were stationed in his bedchamber to awake him in any case of emergency. He died in the spring of the year 1625.

Maurice, Prince of Orange, had announced his intention early in life never to marry, a resolution to which he adhered; but he was a man of pleasure, and not very refined in his tastes. He left several natural children, of whom one, M. de Beverweert by name, was distinguished, and held a high office under Government. Maurice’s chief pastime was chess, at which (singular as it may appear) he was not very skilful. His customary antagonist was a captain of the guard, one De la Caze, greatly his superior in the game; but as the Prince hated defeat, and would burst forth into fits of fury when worsted, his prudent adversary was frequently induced to allow his Excellency to be victorious in their trials of skill. On these propitious occasions the Prince’s good-humour knew no bounds, conducting the officer to the outer door, and bidding the attendants light, and even accompany him home. The captain, whose income depended chiefly on his skill at games of chance, was sorely put to it in the choice of winning and losing, of times and of seasons.

Maurice merited the name of ‘the Silent’ more than his father; and when he did speak, says La Houssaye (whose Memoirs throw great light on the history of the time), ‘Il se servoit toujours, de petites fraizes gauderonnées.’

He was of a dry and caustic humour, and showed especial contempt for what he considered coxcombry in dress. He used to rally the French gentlemen in particular on the lightness of their apparel, observing they would rather catch cold than conceal their figures. He depreciated the use of tight riding-boots, which prevented the horseman from vaulting into his saddle, and set an example of simplicity, sometimes amounting to shabbiness, in his own attire.

We have given elsewhere the description of his usual dress. La Houssaye says, ‘Je l’ai toujours vu habillé de la même sorte, de la même couleur, ce qui étoit brune, couleur de musc.’ He blamed the Italian mode of horsemanship, with all their curvetings and caracolings, which, he said, were dangerous, and lost no end of time. Maurice left behind him a glorious reputation, but a heavy blot rests on his escutcheon.

No. 4.

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