century it was almost entirely destroyed by fire; in 1654 the
explosion of a powder-magazine shattered more than two hundred houses;
and in 1742 another catastrophe of the same kind occurred. Besides
these calamities, William the Silent was assassinated there in the
year 1584. Moreover, there followed the decline and almost the
extinction of that industry which once was the glory and riches of the
city, the manufacture of Delft ware. In this art at first the Dutch
artisans imitated the shapes and designs of Chinese and Japanese
china, and finally succeeded in doing admirable work by uniting the
Dutch and Asiatic styles. Dutch pottery became famous throughout
Northern Europe, and it is nowadays as much sought after by lovers of
this art as the best Italian products.
At present Delft is not an industrial or commercial city, and its
twenty-two thousand inhabitants live in profound peace. But it is one
of the prettiest and most characteristic towns of Holland. The wide
streets are traversed by canals shaded by double rows of trees. On
either side are red, purple, and pink cottages with white pointing,
which seem content in their cleanliness. At every crossway two or
three corresponding bridges of stone or of wood, with white railings,
meet each other; the only thing to be seen is some barge lying
motionless and apparently enjoying the delight of idleness; there are
few people stirring, the doors are closed, and all is still.
I took my way toward the new church, looking around to see if I could
discover any of the famous storks' nests, but there were none visible.
The tradition of the storks of Delft is still alive, and no traveller
writes about this city without mentioning it. Guicciardini calls it "a
memorable fact of such a nature that peradventure there is no record
of a like event in ancient or modern times." The circumstance took
place during the great fire which destroyed nearly the whole city.
There were in Delft a countless number of storks' nests. It must be
remembered that the stork is the favorite bird of Holland, the bird of
good augury, like the swallow. Storks are much in demand, as they make
war on toads and rats, and the peasants plant perches surmounted by
large wooden disks to attract them to build their nests there. In some
towns they are to be seen walking through the streets. Well, at Delft
there were innumerable nests. When the fire began, on the 3d of May,
the young storks were well grown, but they could not yet fly. When
they saw the fire approaching, the parent storks tried to carry their
little ones into a place of safety, but they were too heavy, and after
every sort of desperate effort the poor birds, worn and terrified, had
to abandon the attempt. They might yet have saved themselves by
leaving the young to their fate, as human beings generally do under
similar circumstances. But, instead, they remained on their nests,
pressing their little ones round them, and shielding them with their
wings, as though to delay their destruction for at least a moment.
Thus they awaited their death, and were found lifeless in this
attitude of love and devotion. Who knows whether during the horrible
terror and panic of the fire the example of that sacrifice, the
voluntary martyrdom of those poor mothers, may not have given courage
to some weaker soul about to abandon those who had need of him?
In the great square, where stands the new church, I again saw some shops
like those I had seen in Rotterdam, in which all the articles which can
be strung together are hung up either outside the door or in the room, so
forming wreaths, festoons, and curtains--of shoes, for example, or of
earthen pots, watering-cans, baskets, and buckets--which dangle from the
ceiling to the ground, and sometimes almost hide the floor. The shop
signs are like those at Rotterdam--a bottle of beer hanging from a nail,
a paint-brush, a box, a broom, and the customary huge heads with
wide-open mouths.
The new church, founded toward the end of the fourteenth century, is
to Holland what Westminster Abbey is to England. It is a large
edifice, sombre without and bare within--a prison rather than a house
of God. The tombs are at the end, behind the enclosure of the benches.
I had scarcely entered before I saw the splendid mausoleum of William the
Silent, but the sexton stopped me before the very simple tomb of Hugh
Grotius, the _prodigium Europae_, as the epitaph calls him, the great
jurisconsult of the seventeenth century--that Grotius who wrote Latin
verses at the age of nine, who composed Greek odes at eleven, who at
fourteen indited philosophical theses, who three years later accompanied
the illustrious Barneveldt in his embassy to Paris, where Henry IV.
presented him to his court, saying, "Behold the miracle of Holland!" that
Grotius who at eighteen years of age was illustrious as a poet, as a
theologian, as a commentator, as an astronomer, who had written a poem on
the town of Ostend which Casaubon translated into Greek measures and
Malesherbes into French verse; that Grotius who when hardly twenty-four
years old occupied the post of advocate-general of Holland and Zealand,
and composed a celebrated treatise on the _Freedom of the Seas_; who at
thirty years of age was an honorary councillor of Rotterdam. Afterward,
when, as a partisan of Barneveldt, he was persecuted, condemned to
perpetual imprisonment, and shut up in the castle of Loewestein, he wrote
his treatise on the _Rights of Peace and War_, which for a long time was
the code of all the publicists of Europe. He was rescued in a marvellous
way by his wife, who managed to be carried into the prison inside a chest
supposed to be full of books, and sent back the chest with her husband
inside, while she remained in prison in his place. He was then sheltered
by Louis XIII., was appointed ambassador to France by Christina of
Sweden, and finally returned in triumph to his native land, and died at
Rostock crowned with glory and a venerable old age.
The mausoleum of William the Silent is in the middle of the church. It
is a little temple of black and white marble, heavy with ornament and
supported by slender columns, in the midst of which rise four statues
representing Liberty, Prudence, Justice, and Religion. Above the
sarcophagus is a recumbent statue of the prince in white marble, and
at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at
Mechlin by barking one night, when he was sleeping under a tent, just
as two Spaniards were advancing stealthily to kill him. At the foot of
this statue rises a beautiful bronze figure, a Victory, with outspread
wings, resting lightly on her left foot. At the opposite side of the
little temple is another bronze statue representing William seated. He
is clad in armor, with his head uncovered and his helmet at his
feet. An inscription in Latin tells that this monument was consecrated
by the States of Holland "to the eternal memory of that William of
Nassau whom Philip II., the terror of Europe, feared, yet whom he
could neither subdue nor overthrow, but whom he killed by execrable
fraud." William's children are laid by his side, and all the princes
of his dynasty are buried in the crypt under his tomb.
[Illustration: Monument to Admiral Van Tromp, Delft.]
Before this monument even the most frivolous and careless visitor
remains silent and thoughtful.
It is well to recall the tremendous struggle of which the hero lies in
that tomb.
On one side was Philip II., on the other William of Orange. Philip
II., shut up in the dull solitude of the Escurial, lived in the midst
of an empire which included Spain, North and South Italy, Belgium, and
Holland, and, in Africa, Oran, Tunis, the archipelagoes of the Cape
Verde and Canary Islands; in Asia the Philippine Islands; and the
Antilles, Mexico, and Peru in America. He was the husband of the queen
of England, the nephew of the emperor of Germany, who obeyed him as if
he were a vassal; he was the lord, one may say, of all Europe, for the
neighboring states were all weakened by political and religious
disorders; he had at his command the best disciplined soldiers in
Europe, the greatest generals of the age, American gold, Flemish
industries, Italian science, an army of spies scattered through all
the courts--men chosen from all countries fanatically devoted to him,
conscious or unconscious tools of his will. He was the most sagacious,
most mysterious prince of his age; he had everything that enchains,
corrupts, alarms, and attracts the world--arms, riches, glory, genius,
religion. While every one else was bowing low before this formidable
man, William of Orange stood erect.
This man, without a kingdom and without an army, was nevertheless more
powerful than the king. Like him, he had been a disciple of Charles
V., and had learned the art of elevating thrones and hurling them
down; like him, he was cunning and inscrutable, and yet he divined the
future with keener intellectual vision than Philip. Like his enemy, he
had the power of reading men's souls, but he also had the ability to
win their hearts. He had a good cause to uphold, but he was acquainted
with all the artifices that are used to maintain bad causes. Philip
II., who spied into every one's affairs, was spied on in his turn and
had his purposes divined by William. The designs of the great king
were discovered and thwarted before they were put into execution;
mysterious hands ransacked his drawers and pockets and investigated
his secret papers. William in Holland read the mind of Philip in the
Escurial; he anticipated, hindered, and embroiled all his plots; he
dug the ground from beneath his feet, provoked him, and then escaped,
only to return before his eyes like a phantom which he saw and could
not seize, which he seized and could not destroy. At last William
died, but even when dead the victory was his, and the enemy who
survived was defeated. Holland remained for a short time without a
head, but the Spanish monarchy had received such a blow that it was
not able to rise again.
In this wonderful struggle the figure of the Great King gradually
dwindles until it entirely disappears, while that of William of Orange
becomes greater and greater by slow degrees until it grows to be the
most glorious figure of his age. From the day when, as a hostage to
the king of France, he discovered Philip's design of establishing the
Inquisition in the Netherlands he devoted himself to defend the
liberty of his country, and throughout his life he never wavered for a
moment on the road he had entered. The advantages of his noble birth,
a regal fortune, peace, and the splendid life which by habit and
nature were dear to him, all these he sacrificed to the cause; he was
reduced to poverty and exiled, yet in both poverty and exile he
constantly refused the offers of pardon and of favor that were made
from many sides and in many ways by the enemy who hated and feared
him. Surrounded by assassins, made the target of the most atrocious
calumnies, accused of cowardice before the enemy, and charged with the
assassination of a wife whom he adored, sometimes regarded with
distrust, slandered, and attacked by the very people he was
defending,--he bore it all patiently and in silence. He did not swerve
from the straight course to the goal, facing infinite perils with
quiet courage. He did not bend before his people nor did he flatter
them; he did not permit himself to be led away by the passions of his
country; it was he who always guided; he was always at the head,
always the first. All gathered around him; he was the mind, the
conscience, and the strength of the revolution, the hearth that burned
and kept the warmth of life in his fatherland. Great by reason alike
of his audacity and prudence, he continued upright in a time full of
perjury and treachery; he remained gentle in the midst of violent men;
his hands were spotless when all the courts of Europe were stained
with blood. With an army collected at random, with feeble or uncertain
allies, checked by internal discords between Lutherans and Calvinists,
nobles and commoners, magistrates and the people, with no great
general to aid him, he was obliged to combat the municipal spirit of
the provinces, which would none of his authority and escaped from his
control; yet he triumphed in a conflict which seemed beyond human
strength. He wore out the Duke of Alva, Requesens, Don John of
Austria, and Alexander Farnese. He overthrew the conspiracies of those
foreign princes who wished to help his country in order to subdue it.
He gained friends and obtained aid from every part of Europe, and,
after achieving one of the noblest revolutions in history, he founded
a free state in spite of an empire which was the terror of the
universe.
This man, who in the eyes of the world was so terrible and so great,
was an affectionate husband and father, a pleasant friend and
companion, who loved merry social gatherings and banquets, and was an
elegant and polite host. He was a man of learning, and spoke, besides
his native language, French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian, and
conversed in a scholarly manner on all subjects. Although called the
Silent (rather because he kept to himself the secret discovered at the
French court than from a habit of silence), he was one of the most
eloquent men of his time. His manners were simple and his dress plain;
he loved his people and was beloved by them. He walked about the
streets of the cities bareheaded and alone, and chatted with workmen
and fishermen, who offered him drink out of their glasses; he listened
to their discourses, settled their quarrels, entered their homes to
restore domestic concord. Every one called him "Father William," and,
in fact, he was the father rather than a son of his country. The
feeling of admiration and gratitude which still lives for him in the
hearts of the Hollanders has all the intimacy and tenderness of filial
affection; his reverend name is still in every mouth; his greatness,
stripped of every ornament and veil, remains entire, spotless, and
steadfast like his work.
After seeing the tomb of the Prince of Orange I went to look upon the
place where he was assassinated.
In 1580, Philip II. published an edict in which he promised a reward
of twenty-five thousand golden pieces and a title of nobility to the
man who would assassinate the Prince of Orange. This infamous edict,
which stimulated covetousness and fanaticism, caused crowds of
assassins to gather from every side, who surrounded William under
false names and with concealed weapons, awaiting their opportunity. A
young man from Biscay, Jaureguy by name, a fervent Catholic, who had
been promised the glory of martyrdom by a Dominican friar, made the
first attempt. He prepared himself by prayer and fasting, went to
Mass, took the communion, covered himself with sacred relics, entered
the palace, and, drawing near to the prince in the attitude of one
presenting a petition, fired a pistol at his head. The ball passed
through the jaw, but the wound was not mortal. The Prince of Orange
recovered. The assassin was slain in the act by sword and halberd
thrusts, then quartered on the public square, and the parts were hung
up on one of the gates of Antwerp, where they remained until the Duke
of Parma took possession of the town, when the Jesuits collected them
and presented them as relics to the faithful.
Shortly after this another plot against the life of the Prince was
discovered. A French nobleman, an Italian, and a Walloon, who had
followed him for some time with the intention of murdering him, were
suspected and arrested. One of them killed himself in prison with a
knife, another was strangled in France, and the third escaped, after
he had confessed that the movements of all three had been directed by
the Duke of Parma.
Meanwhile Philip's agents were overrunning the country instigating
rogues to perpetrate this deed with promises of treasures in reward,
while priests and monks were instigating fanatics to the same end by
the assurance of help and reward from Heaven. Other assassins made the
attempt. A Spaniard was discovered, arrested, and quartered at
Antwerp; a rich trader called Hans Jansen was put to death at
Flushing. Many offered their services to Prince Alexander Farnese and
were encouraged by gifts of money. The Prince of Orange, who knew all
this, felt a vague presentiment of his approaching death, and spoke of
it to his intimate friends, but he refused to take any precautions to
protect his life, and replied to all who gave him such counsel, "It is
useless: God has numbered my years. Let it be according to His will.
If there is any wretch who does not fear death, my life is in his
power, however I may guard it."
Eight attempts were made upon his life before an assassin fired the
fatal shot.
When the deed was at last committed, in 1584, four scoundrels, an
Englishman, a Scotchman, a Frenchman, and a man of Lorraine, unknown
to each other, were all awaiting at Delft their opportunity to
assassinate him.
Besides these, there was a young conspirator, twenty-seven years of
age, from Franche-Comte, a Catholic, who passed himself off as a
Protestant, Guyon by name, the son of a certain Peter Guyon who was
executed at Besancon for embracing Calvinism. This Guyon, whose real
name was Balthazar Gerard, was believed to be a fugitive from the
persecutions of the Catholics. He led an austere life and took part in
all the services of the Evangelical Church, and in a short time
acquired a reputation for especial piety. Saying that he had come to
Delft to beg for the honor of serving the Prince of Orange, he was
recommended and introduced by a Protestant clergyman: he inspired the
Prince with confidence, and was sent by him to accompany Herr Van
Schonewalle, the envoy of the States of Holland to the court of
France. In a short time he returned to Delft, bringing to William the
tidings of the death of the Duke of Anjou, and presented himself at
the convent of St. Agatha, where the Prince was staying with his
court. It was the second Sunday in July. William received him in his
chamber, being in bed. They were alone. Balthazar Gerard was probably
tempted to assassinate him at that moment, but he was unarmed and
restrained himself. Disguising his impatience, he quietly answered all
the questions he was asked. William gave him some money, told him to
prepare to return to Paris, and ordered him to come back the next day
to get his letters and passport. With the money he received from the
Prince, Gerard bought two pistols from a soldier, who killed himself
when he knew to what end they had been used, and the next day, the
10th of July, he again presented himself at the convent of St. Agatha.
William, accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen of his family,
was descending the staircase to dine in a room on the ground floor. On
his arm was the Princess of Orange, his fourth wife, that gentle and
unfortunate Louisa de Coligny, who had seen her father, the admiral,
and her husband, Seigneur de Teligny, killed at her feet on the eve of
St. Bartholomew. Balthazar stepped forward, stopped the Prince, and
asked him to sign his passport. The Prince told him to return later,
and entered the dining-room. No shade of suspicion had passed through
his mind. Louisa de Coligny, however, grown cautious and suspicious by
her misfortunes, became anxious. That pale man, wrapped in a long
mantle, had a sinister look; his voice sounded unnatural and his face
was convulsed. During dinner she confided her suspicions to William,
and asked him who that man was "who had the wickedest face she had
ever seen." The Prince smiled, told her it was Guyon, reassured her,
and was as gay as ever during the dinner. When he had finished he
quietly left the room to go up stairs to his apartments. Gerard was
waiting for him at a dark turning near the staircase, hidden in the
shadow of a door. As soon as he saw the Prince approaching he
advanced, and leaped upon him just as he was placing his foot on the
second step. He fired his pistol, which was loaded with three bullets,
straight at the Prince's breast, and fled. William staggered and fell
into the arms of an equerry. All crowded round. "I am wounded," said
William in a feeble voice.... "God have mercy on me and on my poor
people!" He was all covered with blood. His sister, Catherine of
Schwartzburg, asked, "Dost thou commend thy soul to Jesus Christ?" He
answered, in a whisper, "I do." It was his last word. They placed him
on one of the steps and spoke to him, but he was no longer conscious.
They then bore him into a room near by, where he died.
Gerard had crossed the stables, had fled from the convent, and reached
the ramparts of the town, from which he hoped to leap into the moat
and swim across to the opposite bank, where a horse ready saddled was
awaiting him. But in his flight he let fall his hat and a pistol. A
servant and a halberdier in the Prince's service, seeing these traces,
rushed after him. Just as he was in the act of jumping he stumbled,
and his two pursuers overtook and seized him. "Infernal traitor!" they
cried. "I am no traitor," he answered calmly; "I am a faithful servant
of my master."--"Of what master?" they asked. "Of my lord and
master the King of Spain," answered Gerard. By this time other
halberdiers and pages had come up. They dragged him into the town,
beating him with their fists and with the hilts of their swords. The
wretch, thinking from the words of the crowd that the Prince was not
dead, exclaimed with an evil composure, "Cursed be the hand whose blow
has failed!"
[Illustration: Stairway where William, the Silent, was Assassinated,
in the Prinsenhof, Delft.]
This deplorable peace of mind did not desert him for a moment. When
brought before the judges, during the long examination in the cell
where he was thrown laden with chains, he still maintained the same
remarkable tranquillity. He bore the torments to which he was
condemned without letting a cry escape him. Between the various
tortures to which he was subjected, while the officers were resting,
he conversed quietly and in a modest manner. While they were
lacerating him every now and then he raised his bloody head from the
rack and said, "Ecce homo." Several times he thanked the judges for
the nourishment he had received, and wrote his confessions with his
own hand.
He was born at Villefranche in the department of Burgundy, and studied
law with a solicitor at Dole, and it was there that he for the first
time manifested his wish to kill William. Planting a dagger in a door,
he said, "Thus would I thrust a sword into the breast of the Prince of
Orange!" Three years later, hearing of the proclamation of Philip II.,
he went to Luxembourg, intending to assassinate the Prince, but was
stopped by the false report of his death which had been spread after
Jaurequy's attempted assassination. Soon after, learning that William
still lived, he renewed his design, and went to Mechlin to seek
counsel from the Jesuits, who encouraged him, promising him a martyr's
crown if he lost his life in the enterprise. He then went to Tournay,
and presented himself to Alexander Farnese, who confirmed the promises
of King Philip. He was approved and encouraged by the confidence of
the Prince and by the priests; he fortified himself by reading the
Bible, by fasting and prayer, and then, full of religious exaltation,
dreaming of angels and of Paradise, he left for Delft, and completed
his "duty as a good Catholic and faithful subject."
He repeated his confessions several times to the judges, without one
word of remorse or penitence. On the contrary, he boasted of his
crime, and said he was a new David, who had overthrown a new Goliath;
he declared that if he had not already killed the Prince of Orange, he
should still wish to do the deed. His courage, his calmness, his
contempt of life, his profound belief that he had accomplished a holy
mission and would die a glorious death, dismayed his judges; they
thought he must be possessed by the devil. They made inquiries, they
questioned him, but he always gave the same answer that his
conversation was with God alone.
He was sentenced on the 14th of July. His punishment has been called a
crime against the memory of the great man whose death it was intended
to avenge--a sentence to turn faint any one who had not superhuman
strength.