Chapter C (7)

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 all
the 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 Charles I. 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 session
of 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 William III., King of
England.

------------------

_No. 2._

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 table
beside his helmet. Orange plume and sash._

BORN 1567, DIED 1625.

BY MIEREVELDT.

Footnote 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), the
step-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 a most 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. In these 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
when Sir 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 own soldiers 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 ingenious _ruses de guerre_ in
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 been lying 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 in question. 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, by Barneveldt’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.

Footnote 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 Breda are 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 opinions went, 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 intimate
friend, 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 carefully withheld 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.

Footnote 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 on the 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 entered his 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 sleeplessness reduced 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._

SIR ANTONIO MORO.

_Black suit and ruff. Black cap._

BORN 1512, DIED 1588.

BY HIMSELF.

HE was a native of Utrecht, and a disciple of John Schoorel, who was
distinguished not only as a painter, being a pupil of Mabuse, but as a
poet and orator. Moro travelled in Italy, and studied the great
masters. He painted historical and sacred subjects, but excelled in
portraits, and followed the style of Holbein. Cardinal Granvelle
recommended him to Charles V., for whom he painted Prince Philip,
afterwards Philip II. of Spain. The Emperor gave Moro a commission to
the Court of Portugal, to execute the portraits of King John III., his
wife, Catherine of Austria, and the Infanta Mary, afterwards Queen of
Spain. Sir William Stirling, in his delightful work on Spanish
painters, says, ‘Moro’s pencil made that marrying monarch, Philip II.,
acquainted with the forms and features of his two first wives, the
Maries of Portugal and England.’ For the three Portuguese pictures the
painter received six hundred ducats, besides a costly gold chain,
presented to him by the nobles of the country, and other gifts. But
when he went to England to take sittings of Queen Mary (the betrothed
of Philip of Spain), Antonio was remunerated still more magnificently.
He received one hundred pounds (then esteemed a large sum) for the
Queen’s likeness, and a splendid chain of gold, with a pension of one
hundred pounds a quarter on his appointment as painter to the Court.
He remained in England during the whole of Mary’s reign, and both the
Queen and her husband sat to him several times. He also painted
numbers of the courtiers and nobility, but, from omitting to annex the
names, the identity of many of his characteristic portraits is lost.
Horace Walpole regrets this neglect in his notice of Moro, and says
truly, ‘The poorest performer may add merit to his works by
identifying the subjects, and this would be a reparation to the
curious world, though it would rob many families of imaginary
ancestors.’

When Queen Mary died, Moro, or More, as he was called in England,
followed King Philip to Spain, where he remained for some time in high
favour. He left the country suddenly, and the cause of his departure
has been differently accounted for by different writers. The version
of the story most currently believed is as follows:—King Philip
frequented the artist’s studio, and one day, as he was standing beside
the easel, his Majesty familiarly placed his hand on Moro’s shoulder.
The painter turned round abruptly, and smeared the Royal hand with
carmine. The attendants stood aghast at this breach of etiquette; but
the King appeared to treat the matter as a jest. It was not long,
however, before Moro received a warning from his patron that the
officers of the Inquisition were on his track, and that he was in
imminent danger of arrest on the plea of having ‘bewitched the King.’

One thing was certain, that the fact of an alien standing so high in
Philip’s favour had aroused a feeling of ill-will and jealousy among
the courtiers, who would probably lay hold of any pretext to effect
the favourite’s ruin. Moro fled to Brussels, where he was warmly
welcomed by the Duke of Alva, then Governor of the Low Countries; here
he painted the portrait of the brave but cruel commander, and of one
or two of his mistresses. It was rumoured that Philip invited him to
return to Spain, and that Alva intercepted the letters, being
unwilling to part with the great artist. Be this as it may, Moro never
again put himself in the power of the Inquisition, but passed the
remainder of his days in ease, and even opulence. He had amassed a
good fortune by his works in all parts of Europe, and the Duke of Alva
made him receiver of the revenues of West Flanders, an appointment
which is said to have so elated Moro that he burned his easel and
destroyed his painting tools; but we are not bound to believe a story
so unlikely.

He died at Antwerp, while engaged in painting the Circumcision for the
Cathedral of that city. Sir Antonio was remarkable for the refinement
of his manners and the dignity of his bearing. He painted several
portraits of himself, one of which represents him as a tall stately
man, with a frank open countenance, red hair and beard, dressed in a
dark doublet, with slashed sleeves, a massive chain round his throat,
and a brindled wolf-hound by his side.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SMALL DINING-ROOM.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SMALL DINING-ROOM.

-------

_No. 1._

THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM LAMB, SECOND SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE, TO WHOM HE SUCCEEDED.

_Nude child playing with a wolf._

BY MRS. COSWAY.

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_No. 2._

GEORGE AUGUSTUS FREDERICK, SIXTH EARL COWPER.

_Black coat. White waistcoat. Loose cloak._

BORN 1806, DIED 1856.

BY LUCAS.

THE eldest son of the fifth Earl, by Emily, only daughter of the first
Viscount Melbourne. He went from a preparatory school at Mitcham to
Eton, and thence to Trinity College, Cambridge. On leaving the
University, he entered the Royal Horse Guards, Blue, and became M.P.
for Canterbury. In Lord Palmerston’s first Administration Lord
Fordwich was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs,—an office the arduous duties and grave responsibility of
which proved too much for his health, which was never very strong, and
he accordingly sent in his resignation at the end of a few months. In
1833 he married Lady Anne Florence, Baroness Lucas, eldest daughter of
Earl de Grey, and two years after he retired from public life
altogether. He succeeded his father in 1837. Lord Cowper was a staunch
Whig, and always supported his party in the House, otherwise he took
no leading part in politics; he was extremely popular, in spite of a
certain diffidence which never wore off in his contact with public and
official life, or general society. Perhaps it might be said (in the
case of a man of his great wealth and exalted position) to have
enhanced the charm of his refined and engaging manners and
proverbially musical voice. He enjoyed society, of which he was a
cheerful and agreeable member, and few houses were more celebrated for
their delightful reunions than Panshanger, near Hertford.

The circumstances attending Lord Cowper’s death were most unexpected
and painful. He was Lord-Lieutenant of the county of Kent, a post that
was in some measure irksome to him, as it entailed frequent residence
in a neighbourhood where he had few acquaintances,—with the exception
of Lord Sydney, one of his most valued and intimate friends. These two
noblemen had arranged to go down together to Maidstone at the time of
the Sessions, on the occasion of the reorganisation of the militia.
But at the eleventh hour Lord Sydney was prevented accompanying his
friend, as his presence was required in London in his capacity of Lord
Chamberlain.

The Lord-Lieutenant therefore went down alone, and while transacting
business in court he was taken suddenly ill, removed to the governor’s
residence in the gaol, and died the same evening, apparently unaware
of his danger.

Lady Cowper had some friends dining with her in St. James’s Square,
when she was summoned in all haste to Maidstone. She started
immediately, accompanied by her brother-in-law, William Cowper (the
present Lord Mount Temple), and the family physician, Dr. Ferguson.
But, alas! they arrived too late, for all was over.

The death of a man so much esteemed in public, so tenderly beloved in
private life, caused a profound sensation; and, says the friend to
whom we are indebted for these particulars, ‘few men have ever been
more widely and deeply lamented.’ Lord Cowper left two sons and three
daughters:—

The present Earl; the Honourable Henry Cowper, M.P. for Hertford;
Lady Florence, married to the Honourable Auberon Herbert,
brother of the Earl of Carnarvon; Adine, married to the
Honourable Julian Fane, fifth son of the eleventh Earl of
Westmoreland, both deceased; and Amabel, married to Lord
Walter Kerr, second son of the seventh Marquis of Lothian.

------------------

_No. 3._

THE HONOURABLE GEORGE LAMB, FOURTH SON OF THE FIRST VISCOUNT
MELBOURNE.

_As the infant Bacchus. A nude child._

BORN 1784. DIED 1834.

BY MRS. COSWAY.

HE was the fourth and youngest son of the first Viscount Melbourne, by
Elizabeth Milbanke. Educated at Eton and Cambridge. Called to the bar,
and went the Northern Circuit for a short time; but the law was not to
his taste: he preferred the pursuit of literature, and took great
interest in the drama. He became an active member of the Committee of
Management of Drury Lane Theatre, with Lords Essex and Byron, and the
Honourable Douglas Kinnaird, for colleagues. He was the author of some
operatic pieces and fugitive poems, and he also published a
translation of Catullus. In the year 1819 George Lamb stood for
Westminster, on the Whig interest, against the Radicals; the contest
lasted fifteen days, and Lady Melbourne, a keen politician, exerted
herself in the canvass, and was much pleased at her son’s return by a
large majority. At the general election in 1820 he had to relinquish
his seat, but in 1826 he was returned for Dungarvan (through the
interest of the Duke of Devonshire), which borough he represented in
four Parliaments. In Lord Grey’s Administration Mr. Lamb was appointed
Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department. In 1809 he married
Mademoiselle Caroline Rosalie Adelaide de St. Jules, who was reputed
to be a natural daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. George Lamb died
at Whitehall in 1834; his two elder brothers, Lords Melbourne and
Beauvale, survived him. He left no children.

------------------

_No. 4._

ANNE FLORENCE DE GREY, BARONESS LUCAS IN HER OWN RIGHT, WIFE OF
GEORGE, SIXTH EARL COWPER.

_In widow’s weeds._

BORN 1806, DIED 1880.

BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A., _afterwards_ P.R.A.

SHE was the eldest daughter and co-heir of Thomas Philip, Earl de
Grey, K.G., by Lady Henriette Cole, daughter of the first Earl of
Enniskillen. She married in 1833 George Augustus, sixth Earl Cowper,
and was left a widow, in 1856, by the sudden and unexpected death of
her husband. We cannot do better than transcribe the moral portraiture
of the late Lady Cowper, sketched by the hand of one who knew her
well, appreciated her highly, and who, moreover, bore a strong
resemblance to her in many moral and intellectual gifts:—