and Gorcum in due time was reached. Elsje insisted upon having her own
precious freight carried first into the town, although the skipper for
some time was obstinately bent on leaving it to the very last, while all
the other merchandise in the vessel should be previously unshipped.
At last on promise of payment of ten stuivers, which was considered an
exorbitant sum, the skipper and son agreed to transport the chest between
them on a hand-barrow. While they were trudging with it to the town, the
son remarked to his father that there was some living thing in the box.
For the prisoner in the anguish of his confinement had not been able to
restrain a slight movement.
"Do you hear what my son says?" cried the skipper to Elsje. "He says you
have got something alive in your trunk."
"Yes, yes," replied the cheerful maid-servant; "Arminian books are always
alive, always full of motion and spirit."
They arrived at Daatselaer's house, moving with difficulty through the
crowd which, notwithstanding the boisterous weather, had been collected
by the annual fair. Many people were assembled in front of the building,
which was a warehouse of great resort, while next door was a
book-seller's shop thronged with professors, clergymen, and other
literary persons. The carriers accordingly entered by the backway, and
Elsje, deliberately paying them their ten stuivers, and seeing them
depart, left the box lying in a room at the rear and hastened to the shop
in front.
Here she found the thread and ribbon dealer and his wife, busy with their
customers, unpacking and exhibiting their wares. She instantly whispered
in Madame Daatselaer's ear, "I have got my master here in your back
parlour."
The dame turned white as a sheet, and was near fainting on the spot. It
was the first imprudence Elsje had committed. The good woman recovered
somewhat of her composure by a strong effort however, and instantly went
with Elsje to the rear of the house.
"Master! master!" cried Elsje, rapping on the chest.
There was no answer.
"My God! my God!" shrieked the poor maid-servant. "My poor master is
dead."
"Ah!" said Madame Daatselaer, "your mistress has made a bad business of
it. Yesterday she had a living husband. Now she has a dead one."
But soon there was a vigorous rap on the inside of the lid, and a cry
from the prisoner:
"Open the chest! I am not dead, but did not at first recognize your
voice."
The lock was instantly unfastened, the lid thrown open, and Grotius arose
in his linen clothing, like a dead man from his coffin.
The dame instantly accompanied the two through a trapdoor into an upper
room.
Grotius asked her if she was always so deadly pale.
"No," she replied, "but I am frightened to see you here. My lord is no
common person. The whole world is talking of you. I fear this will cause
the loss of all my property and perhaps bring my husband into prison in
your place."
Grotius rejoined: "I made my prayers to God before as much as this had
been gained, and I have just been uttering fervent thanks to Him for my
deliverance so far as it has been effected. But if the consequences are
to be as you fear, I am ready at once to get into the chest again and be
carried back to prison."
But she answered, "No; whatever comes of it, we have you here and will do
all that we can to help you on."
Grotius being faint from his sufferings, the lady brought him a glass of
Spanish wine, but was too much flustered to find even a cloak or shawl to
throw over him. Leaving him sitting there in his very thin attire, just
as he had got out of the chest, she went to the front warehouse to call
her husband. But he prudently declined to go to his unexpected guest. It
would be better in the examination sure to follow, he said, for him to
say with truth that he had not seen him and knew nothing of the escape,
from first to last.
Grotius entirely approved of the answer when told to him. Meantime Madame
Daatselaer had gone to her brother-in-law van der Veen, a clothier by
trade, whom she found in his shop talking with an officer of the
Loevestein garrison. She whispered in the clothier's ear, and he, making
an excuse to the officer, followed her home at once. They found Grotius
sitting where he had been left. Van der Veen gave him his hand, saying:
"Sir, you are the man of whom the whole country is talking?"
"Yes, here I am," was the reply, "and I put myself in your hands--"
"There isn't a moment to lose," replied the clothier. "We must help you
away at once."
He went immediately in search of one John Lambertsen, a man in whom he
knew he could confide, a Lutheran in religion, a master-mason by
occupation. He found him on a scaffold against the gable-end of a house,
working at his trade.
He told him that there was a good deed to be done which he could do
better than any man, that his conscience would never reproach him for it,
and that he would at the same time earn no trifling reward.
He begged the mason to procure a complete dress as for a journeyman, and
to follow him to the house of his brother-in-law Daatselaer.
Lambertsen soon made his appearance with the doublet, trunk-hose, and
shoes of a bricklayer, together with trowel and measuring-rod. He was
informed who his new journeyman was to be, and Grotius at once put on the
disguise.
The doublet did not reach to the waistband of the trunkhose, while those
nether garments stopped short of his knees; the whole attire belonging to
a smaller man than the unfortunate statesman. His delicate white hands,
much exposed by the shortness of the sleeves, looked very unlike those of
a day-labourer, and altogether the new mason presented a somewhat
incongruous and wobegone aspect. Grotius was fearful too lest some of the
preachers and professors frequenting the book-shop next door would
recognize him through his disguise. Madame Daatselaer smeared his face
and hands with chalk and plaster however and whispered encouragement, and
so with a felt hat slouched over his forehead and a yardstick in his
hand, he walked calmly forth into the thronged marketplace and through
the town to the ferry, accompanied by the friendly Lambertsen. It had
been agreed that van der Veen should leave the house in another direction
and meet them at the landing-place.
When they got to the ferry, they found the weather as boisterous as ever.
The boatmen absolutely refused to make the dangerous crossing of the
Merwede over which their course lay to the land of Altona, and so into
the Spanish Netherlands, for two such insignificant personages as this
mason and his scarecrow journeyman.
Lambertsen assured them that it was of the utmost importance that he
should cross the water at once. He had a large contract for purchasing
stone at Altona for a public building on which he was engaged. Van der
Veen coming up added his entreaties, protesting that he too was
interested in this great stone purchase, and so by means of offering a
larger price than they at first dared to propose, they were able to
effect their passage.
After landing, Lambertsen and Grotius walked to Waalwyk, van der Veen
returning the same evening to Gorcum. It was four o'clock in the
afternoon when they reached Waalwyk, where a carriage was hired to convey
the fugitive to Antwerp. The friendly mason here took leave of his
illustrious journeyman, having first told the driver that his companion
was a disguised bankrupt fleeing from Holland into foreign territory to
avoid pursuit by his creditors. This would explain his slightly
concealing his face in passing through a crowd in any village.
Grotius proved so ignorant of the value of different coins in making
small payments on the road, that the honest waggoner, on being
occasionally asked who the odd-looking stranger was, answered that he was
a bankrupt, and no wonder, for he did not know one piece of money from
another. For, his part he thought him little better than a fool.
Such was the depreciatory opinion formed by the Waalwyk coachman as to
the "rising light of the world" and the "miracle of Holland." They
travelled all night and, arriving on the morning of the 21st within a few
leagues of Antwerp, met a patrol of soldiers, who asked Grotius for his
passport. He enquired in whose service they were, and was told in that of
"Red Rod," as the chief bailiff of Antwerp was called. That functionary
happened to be near, and the traveller approaching him said that his
passport was on his feet, and forthwith told him his name and story.
Red Rod treated him at once with perfect courtesy, offered him a horse
for himself with a mounted escort, and so furthered his immediate
entrance to Antwerp. Grotius rode straight to the house of a banished
friend of his, the preacher Grevinkhoven. He was told by the daughter of
that clergyman that her father was upstairs ministering at the bedside of
his sick wife. But so soon as the traveller had sent up his name, both
the preacher and the invalid came rushing downstairs to fall upon the
neck of one who seemed as if risen from the dead.
The news spread, and Episcopius and other exiled friends soon thronged to
the house of Grevinkhoven, where they all dined together in great glee,
Grotius, still in his journeyman's clothes, narrating the particulars of
his wonderful escape.
He had no intention of tarrying in his resting-place at Antwerp longer
than was absolutely necessary. Intimations were covertly made to him that
a brilliant destiny might be in store for him should he consent to enter
the service of the Archdukes, nor were there waning rumours, circulated
as a matter of course by his host of enemies, that he was about to become
a renegade to country and religion. There was as much truth in the
slanders as in the rest of the calumnies of which he had been the victim
during his career. He placed on record a proof of his loyal devotion to
his country in the letters which he wrote from Antwerp within a week of
his arrival there. With his subsequent history, his appearance and long
residence at the French court as ambassador of Sweden, his memorable
labours in history, diplomacy, poetry, theology, the present narrative is
not concerned. Driven from the service of his Fatherland, of which his
name to all time is one of the proudest garlands, he continued to be a
benefactor not only to her but to all mankind. If refutation is sought of
the charge that republics are ungrateful, it will certainly not be found
in the history of Hugo Grotius or John of Barneveld.
Nor is there need to portray the wrath of Captain Deventer when he
returned to Castle Loevestein.
"Here is the cage, but your bird is flown," said corpulent Maria Grotius
with a placid smile. The Commandant solaced himself by uttering
imprecations on her, on her husband, and on Elsje van Houwening. But
these curses could not bring back the fugitive. He flew to Gorcum to
browbeat the Daatselaers and to search the famous trunk. He found in it
the big New Testament and some skeins of thread, together with an octavo
or two of theology and of Greek tragedies; but the Arminian was not in
it, and was gone from the custody of the valiant Deventer for ever.
After a brief period Madame de Groot was released and rejoined her
husband. Elsje van Houwening, true heroine of the adventure, was
subsequently married to the faithful servant of Grotius, who during the
two years' imprisonment had been taught Latin and the rudiments of law by
his master, so that he subsequently rose to be a thriving and respectable
advocate at the tribunals of Holland.
The Stadholder, when informed of the escape of the prisoner, observed, "I
always thought the black pig was deceiving me," making not very
complimentary allusion to the complexion and size of the lady who had
thus aided the escape of her husband.
He is also reported as saying that it "is no wonder they could not keep
Grotius in prison, as he has more wit than all his judges put together."
CHAPTER XXIII.
Barneveld's Sons plot against Maurice--The Conspiracy betrayed to
Maurice--Escape of Stoutenburg--Groeneveld is arrested--Mary of
Barneveld appeals to the Stadholder--Groeneveld condemned to Death--
Execution of Groeneveld.
The widow of Barneveld had remained, since the last scene of the fatal
tragedy on the Binnenhof, in hopeless desolation. The wife of the man who
during a whole generation of mankind had stood foremost among the
foremost of the world, and had been one of those chief actors and
directors in human affairs to whom men's eyes turned instinctively from
near and from afar, had led a life of unbroken prosperity. An heiress in
her own right, Maria van Utrecht had laid the foundation of her husband's
wealth by her union with the rising young lawyer and statesman. Her two
sons and two daughters had grown up around her, all four being married
into the leading families of the land, and with apparently long lives of
prosperity and usefulness before them. And now the headsman's sword had
shivered all this grandeur and happiness at a blow. The name of the dead
statesman had become a word of scoffing and reproach; vagabond
mountebanks enacted ribald scenes to his dishonour in the public squares
and streets; ballad-mongers yelled blasphemous libels upon him in the
very ears of his widow and children. For party hatred was not yet glutted
with the blood it had drunk.
It would be idle to paint the misery of this brokenhearted woman.
The great painters of the epoch have preserved her face to posterity; the
grief-stricken face of a hard-featured but commanding and not uncomely
woman, the fountains of whose tears seem exhausted; a face of austere and
noble despair. A decorous veil should be thrown over the form of that
aged matron, for whose long life and prosperity Fate took such merciless
vengeance at last.
For the woes of Maria of Barneveld had scarcely begun. Desolation had
become her portion, but dishonour had not yet crossed her threshold.
There were sterner strokes in store for her than that which smote her
husband on the scaffold.
She had two sons, both in the prime of life. The eldest, Reinier, Lord of
Groeneveld, who had married a widow of rank and wealth, Madame de
Brandwyk, was living since the death of his father in comparative ease,
but entire obscurity. An easy-tempered, genial, kindly gentleman, he had
been always much beloved by his friends and, until the great family
catastrophe, was popular with the public, but of an infirm and
vacillating character, easily impressed by others, and apt to be led by
stronger natures than his own. He had held the lucrative office of head
forester of Delfland of which he had now been deprived.
The younger son William, called, from an estate conferred on him by his
father, Lord of Stoutenburg, was of a far different mould. We have seen
him at an earlier period of this narrative attached to the embassy of
Francis Aerssens in Paris, bearing then from another estate the unmusical
title of Craimgepolder, and giving his subtle and dangerous chief great
cause of complaint by his irregular, expensive habits. He had been
however rather a favourite with Henry IV., who had so profound a respect
for the father as to consult him, and him only of all foreign statesmen,
in the gravest affairs of his reign, and he had even held an office of
honour and emolument at his court. Subsequently he had embraced the
military career, and was esteemed a soldier of courage and promise. As
captain of cavalry and governor of the fortress of Bergen op Zoom, he
occupied a distinguished and lucrative position, and was likely, so soon
as the Truce ran to its close, to make a name for himself in that
gigantic political and religious war which had already opened in Bohemia,
and in which it was evident the Republic would soon be desperately
involved. His wife, Walburg de Marnix, was daughter to one of the noblest
characters in the history of the Netherlands, or of any history, the
illustrious Sainte-Aldegonde. Two thousand florins a year from his
father's estate had been settled on him at his marriage, which, in
addition to his official and military income, placed him in a position of
affluence.
After the death of his father the family estates were confiscated, and he
was likewise deprived of his captaincy and his governorship. He was
reduced at a blow from luxury and high station to beggary and obscurity.
At the renewal of the war he found himself, for no fault of his own,
excluded from the service of his country. Yet the Advocate almost in his
last breath had recommended his sons to the Stadholder, and Maurice had
sent a message in response that so long as the sons conducted themselves
well they might rely upon his support.
Hitherto they had not conducted themselves otherwise than well.
Stoutenburg, who now dwelt in his house with his mother, was of a dark,
revengeful, turbulent disposition. In the career of arms he had a right
to look forward to success, but thus condemned to brood in idleness on
the cruel wrongs to himself and his house it was not improbable that he
might become dangerous.
Years long he fed on projects of vengeance as his daily bread. He was
convinced that his personal grievances were closely entwined with the
welfare of the Commonwealth, and he had sworn to avenge the death of his
father, the misery of his mother, and the wrongs which he was himself
suffering, upon the Stadholder, whom he considered the author of all
their woe. To effect a revolution in the government, and to bring back to
power all the municipal regents whom Maurice had displaced so summarily,
in order, as the son believed, to effect the downfall of the hated
Advocate, this was the determination of Stoutenburg.
He did not pause to reflect whether the arm which had been strong enough
to smite to nothingness the venerable statesman in the plenitude of his
power would be too weak to repel the attack of an obscure and disarmed
partisan. He saw only a hated tyrant, murderer, and oppressor, as he
considered him, and he meant to have his life.
He had around him a set of daring and desperate men to whom he had from
time to time half confided his designs. A certain unfrocked preacher of
the Remonstrant persuasion, who, according to the fashion of the learned
of that day, had translated his name out of Hendrik Sleet into Henricus
Slatius, was one of his most unscrupulous instruments. Slatius, a big,
swarthy, shag-eared, beetle-browed Hollander, possessed learning of no
ordinary degree, a tempestuous kind of eloquence, and a habit of dealing
with men; especially those of the humbler classes. He was passionate,
greedy, overbearing, violent, and loose of life. He had sworn vengeance
upon the Remonstrants in consequence of a private quarrel, but this did
not prevent him from breathing fire and fury against the
Contra-Remonstrants also, and especially against the Stadholder, whom he
affected to consider the arch-enemy of the whole Commonwealth.
Another twelvemonth went by. The Advocate had been nearly four years in
his grave. The terrible German war was in full blaze. The Twelve Years'
Truce had expired, the Republic was once more at war, and Stoutenburg,
forbidden at the head of his troop to campaign with the Stadholder
against the Archdukes, nourished more fiercely than ever his plan against
the Stadholder's life.
Besides the ferocious Slatius he had other associates. There was his
cousin by marriage, van der Dussen, a Catholic gentleman, who had married
a daughter of Elias Barneveld, and who shared all Stoutenburg's feelings
of resentment towards Maurice. There was Korenwinder, another Catholic,
formerly occupying an official position of responsibility as secretary of
the town of Berkel, a man of immense corpulence, but none the less an
active and dangerous conspirator.
There was van Dyk, a secretary of Bleiswyk, equally active and dangerous,
and as lean and hungry as Korenwinder was fat. Stoutenburg, besides other
rewards, had promised him a cornetcy of cavalry, should their plans be
successful. And there was the brother-in-law of Slatius, one Cornelis
Gerritaen, a joiner by trade, living at Rotterdam, who made himself very
useful in all the details of the conspiracy.
For the plot was now arranged, the men just mentioned being its active
agents and in constant communication with Stoutenburg.
Korenwinder and van Dyk in the last days of December 1622 drew up a
scheme on paper, which was submitted to their chief and met with his
approval. The document began with a violent invective against the crimes
and tyranny of the Stadholder, demonstrated the necessity of a general
change in the government, and of getting rid of Maurice as an
indispensable preliminary, and laid down the means and method of doing
this deed.
The Prince was in the daily habit of driving, unattended by his
body-guard, to Ryswyk, about two miles from the Hague. It would not be
difficult for a determined band of men divided into two parties to set
upon him between the stables and his coach, either when alighting from or
about to enter it--the one party to kill him while the other protected
the retreat of the assassins, and beat down such defence as the few
lackeys of the Stadholder could offer.
The scheme, thus mapped out, was submitted to Stoutenburg, who gave it
his approval after suggesting a few amendments. The document was then
burnt. It was estimated that twenty men would be needed for the job, and
that to pay them handsomely would require about 6000 guilders.
The expenses and other details of the infamous plot were discussed as
calmly as if it had been an industrial or commercial speculation. But
6000 guilders was an immense sum to raise, and the Seigneur de
Stoutenburg was a beggar. His associates were as forlorn as himself, but
his brother-in-law, the ex-Ambassador van der Myle, was living at
Beverwyk under the supervision of the police, his property not having
been confiscated. Stoutenburg paid him a visit, accompanied by the
Reverend Slatius, in hopes of getting funds from him, but at the first
obscure hint of the infamous design van der Myle faced them with such
looks, gestures, and words of disgust and indignation that the murderous
couple recoiled, the son of Barneveld saying to the expreacher: "Let us
be off, Slaet,'tis a mere cur. Nothing is to be made of him."
The other son of Barneveld, the Seigneur de Groeneveld, had means and
credit. His brother had darkly hinted to him the necessity of getting rid
of Maurice, and tried to draw him into the plot. Groeneveld, more
unstable than water, neither repelled nor encouraged these advances. He
joined in many conversations with Stoutenburg, van Dyk, and Korenwinder,
but always weakly affected not to know what they were driving at. "When
we talk of business," said van Dyk to him one day, "you are always
turning off from us and from the subject. You had better remain." Many
anonymous letters were sent to him, calling on him to strike for
vengeance on the murderer of his father, and for the redemption of his
native land and the Remonstrant religion from foul oppression.
At last yielding to the persuasions and threats of his fierce younger
brother, who assured him that the plot would succeed, the government be
revolutionized, and that then all property would be at the mercy of the
victors, he agreed to endorse certain bills which Korenwinder undertook
to negotiate. Nothing could be meaner, more cowardly, and more murderous
than the proceedings of the Seigneur de Groeneveld. He seems to have felt
no intense desire of vengeance upon Maurice, which certainly would not
have been unnatural, but he was willing to supply money for his
assassination. At the same time he was careful to insist that this
pecuniary advance was by no means a free gift, but only a loan to be
repaid by his more bloodthirsty brother upon demand with interest. With a
businesslike caution, in ghastly contrast with the foulness of the
contract, he exacted a note of hand from Stoutenburg covering the whole
amount of his disbursements. There might come a time, he thought, when
his brother's paper would be more negotiable than it was at that moment.
Korenwinder found no difficulty in discounting Groeneveld's bills, and
the necessary capital was thus raised for the vile enterprise. Van Dyk,
the lean and hungry conspirator, now occupied himself vigorously in
engaging the assassins, while his corpulent colleague remained as
treasurer of the company. Two brothers Blansaerts, woollen manufacturers
at Leyden--one of whom had been a student of theology in the Remonstrant
Church and had occasionally preached--and a certain William Party, a
Walloon by birth, but likewise a woollen worker at Leyden, agreed to the
secretary's propositions. He had at first told, them that their services
would be merely required for the forcible liberation of two Remonstrant
clergymen, Niellius and Poppius, from the prison at Haarlem. Entertaining
his new companions at dinner, however, towards the end of January, van
Dyk, getting very drunk, informed them that the object of the enterprise
was to kill the Stadholder; that arrangements had been made for effecting
an immediate change in the magistracies in all the chief cities of
Holland so soon as the deed was done; that all the recently deposed
regents would enter the Hague at once, supported by a train of armed
peasants from the country; and that better times for the oppressed
religion, for the Fatherland, and especially for everyone engaged in the
great undertaking, would begin with the death of the tyrant. Each man
taking direct part in the assassination would receive at least 300
guilders, besides being advanced to offices of honour and profit
according to his capacity.
The Blansaerts assured their superior that entire reliance might be
placed on their fidelity, and that they knew of three or four other men
in Leyden "as firm as trees and fierce as lions," whom they would
engage--a fustian worker, a tailor, a chimney-sweeper, and one or two
other mechanics. The looseness and utter recklessness with which this
hideous conspiracy was arranged excites amazement. Van Dyk gave the two
brothers 100 pistoles in gold--a coin about equal to a guinea--for their
immediate reward as well as for that of the comrades to be engaged. Yet
it seems almost certain from subsequent revelations that they were
intending all the time to deceive him, to take as much money as they
could get from him, "to milk, the cow as long as she would give milk," as
William Party expressed it, and then to turn round upon and betray him.
It was a dangerous game however, which might not prove entirely
successful.
Van Dyk duly communicated with Stoutenburg, who grew more and more
feverish with hatred and impatience as the time for gratifying those
passions drew nigh, and frequently said that he would like to tear the
Stadholder to pieces with his own hands. He preferred however to act as
controlling director over the band of murderers now enrolled.
For in addition to the Leyden party, the Reverend Slatius, supplied with
funds by van Dyk, had engaged at Rotterdam his brother-in-law Gerritsen,
a joiner, living in that city, together with three sailors named
respectively Dirk, John, and Herman.
The ex-clergyman's house was also the arsenal of the conspiracy,
and here were stored away a stock of pistols, snaphances, and
sledge-hammers--together with that other death-dealing machinery, the
whole edition of the 'Clearshining Torch', an inflammatory, pamphlet by
Slatius--all to be used on the fatal day fast approaching.
On the 1st February van Dyk visited Slatius at Rotterdam. He found
Gerritsen hard at work.
There in a dark back kitchen, by the lurid light of the fire in a dim
wintry afternoon, stood the burly Slatius, with his swarthy face and
heavy eyebrows, accompanied by his brother-in-law the joiner, both in
workman's dress, melting lead, running bullets, drying powder, and
burnishing and arranging the fire-arms and other tools to be used in the
great crime now so rapidly maturing. The lean, busy, restless van Dyk,
with his adust and sinister visage, came peering in upon the couple thus
engaged, and observed their preparations with warm approval.
He recommended that in addition to Dirk, John, and Herman, a few more
hardy seafaring men should be engaged, and Slatius accordingly secured
next day the services of one Jerome Ewouts and three other sailors. They
were not informed of the exact nature of the enterprise, but were told
that it was a dangerous although not a desperate one, and sure to be of
great service to the Fatherland. They received, as all the rest had done,
between 200 and 300 guilders in gold, that they would all be promoted to
be captains and first mates.
It was agreed that all the conspirators should assemble four days later
at the Hague on Sunday, the 5th February, at the inn of the "Golden
Helmet." The next day, Monday the 6th, had been fixed by Stoutenburg for
doing the deed. Van Dyk, who had great confidence in the eloquence of
William Party, the Walloon wool manufacturer, had arranged that he should
make a discourse to them all in a solitary place in the downs between
that city and the sea-shore, taking for his theme or brief the
Clearshining Torch of Slatius.
On Saturday that eminent divine entertained his sister and her husband
Gerritsen, Jerome Ewouts, who was at dinner but half informed as to the
scope of the great enterprise, and several other friends who were
entirely ignorant of it. Slatius was in high spirits, although his
sister, who had at last become acquainted with the vile plot, had done
nothing but weep all day long. They had better be worms, with a promise
of further reward and an intimation she said, and eat dirt for their
food, than crawl in so base a business. Her brother comforted her with
assurances that the project was sure to result in a triumph for religion
and Fatherland, and drank many healths at his table to the success of all
engaged in it. That evening he sent off a great chest filled with arms
and ammunition to the "Golden Helmet" at the Hague under the charge of
Jerome Ewouts and his three mates. Van Dyk had already written a letter
to the landlord of that hostelry engaging a room there, and saying that
the chest contained valuable books and documents to be used in a lawsuit,
in which he was soon to be engaged, before the supreme tribunal.
On the Sunday this bustling conspirator had John Blansaert and William
Party to dine with him at the "Golden Helmet" in the Hague, and produced
seven packages neatly folded, each containing gold pieces to the amount
of twenty pounds sterling. These were for themselves and the others whom
they had reported as engaged by them in Leyden. Getting drunk as usual,
he began to bluster of the great political revolution impending, and
after dinner examined the carbines of his guests. He asked if those
weapons were to be relied upon. "We can blow a hair to pieces with them
at twenty paces," they replied. "Ah! would that I too could be of the
party," said van Dyk, seizing one of the carbines. "No, no," said John
Blansaert, "we can do the deed better without you than with you. You must
look out for the defence."
Van Dyk then informed them that they, with one of the Rotterdam sailors,
were to attack Maurice as he got out of his coach at Ryswyk, pin him
between the stables and the coach, and then and there do him to death.
"You are not to leave him," he cried, "till his soul has left his body."
The two expressed their hearty concurrence with this arrangement, and
took leave of their host for the night, going, they said, to distribute
the seven packages of blood-money. They found Adam Blansaert waiting for
them in the downs, and immediately divided the whole amount between
themselves and him--the chimney-sweeper, tailor, and fustian worker,
"firm as trees and fierce as lions," having never had any existence save
in their fertile imaginations.
On Monday, 6th February, van Dyk had a closing interview with Stoutenburg
and his brother at the house of Groeneveld, and informed them that the
execution of the plot had been deferred to the following day. Stoutenburg
expressed disgust and impatience at the delay. "I should like to tear the
Stadholder to pieces with my own hands!" he cried. He was pacified on
hearing that the arrangements had been securely made for the morrow, and
turning to his brother observed, "Remember that you can never retract.
You are in our power and all your estates at our mercy." He then
explained the manner in which the magistracies of Leyden, Gouda,
Rotterdam, and other cities were to be instantly remodelled after the
death of Maurice, the ex-regents of the Hague at the head of a band of
armed peasants being ready at a moment's warning to take possession of
the political capital.
Prince Frederic Henry moreover, he hinted darkly and falsely, but in a
manner not to be mistaken, was favourable to the movement, and would
after the murder of Maurice take the government into his hands.
Stoutenburg then went quietly home to pass the day and sleep at his
mother's house awaiting the eventful morning of Tuesday.
Van Dyk went back to his room at the "Golden Helmet" and began inspecting
the contents of the arms and ammunition chest which Jerome Ewouts and his
three mates had brought the night before from Rotterdam. He had been
somewhat unquiet at having seen nothing of those mariners during the day;
when looking out of window, he saw one of them in conference with some
soldiers. A minute afterwards he heard a bustle in the rooms below, and
found that the house was occupied by a guard, and that Gerritsen, with
the three first engaged sailors Dirk, Peter, and Herman, had been
arrested at the Zotje. He tried in vain to throw the arms back into the
chest and conceal it under the bed, but it was too late. Seizing his hat
and wrapping himself in his cloak, with his sword by his side, he walked
calmly down the stairs looking carelessly at the group of soldiers and
prisoners who filled the passages. A waiter informed the provost-marshal
in command that the gentleman was a respectable boarder at the tavern,
well known to him for many years. The conspirator passed unchallenged and
went straight to inform Stoutenburg.
The four mariners, last engaged by Slatius at Rotterdam, had signally
exemplified the danger of half confidences. Surprised that they should
have been so mysteriously entrusted with the execution of an enterprise
the particulars of which were concealed from them, and suspecting that
crime alone could command such very high prices as had been paid and
promised by the ex-clergyman, they had gone straight to the residence of
the Stadholder, after depositing the chest at the "Golden Helmet."
Finding that he had driven as usual to Ryswyk, they followed him thither,
and by dint of much importunity obtained an audience. If the enterprise
was a patriotic one, they reasoned, he would probably know of it and
approve it. If it were criminal, it would be useful for them to reveal
and dangerous to conceal it.
They told the story so far as they knew it to the Prince and showed him
the money, 300 florins apiece, which they had already received from
Slatius. Maurice hesitated not an instant. It was evident that a dark
conspiracy was afoot. He ordered the sailors to return to the Hague by
another and circuitous road through Voorburg, while he lost not a moment
himself in hurrying back as fast as his horses would carry him. Summoning
the president and several councillors of the chief tribunal, he took
instant measures to take possession of the two taverns, and arrest all
the strangers found in them.
Meantime van Dyk came into the house of the widow Barneveld and found
Stoutenburg in the stable-yard. He told him the plot was discovered, the
chest of arms at the "Golden Helmet" found. "Are there any private
letters or papers in the bog?" asked Stoutenburg. "None relating to the
affair," was the answer.
"Take yourself off as fast as possible," said Stoutenburg. Van Dyk needed
no urging. He escaped through the stables and across the fields in the
direction of Leyden. After skulking about for a week however and making
very little progress, he was arrested at Hazerswoude, having broken
through the ice while attempting to skate across the inundated and frozen
pastures in that region.
Proclamations were at once made, denouncing the foul conspiracy in which
the sons of the late Advocate Barneveld, the Remonstrant clergyman
Slatius, and others, were the ringleaders, and offering 4000 florins each
for their apprehension. A public thanksgiving for the deliverance was
made in all the churches on the 8th February.
On the 12th February the States-General sent letters to all their
ambassadors and foreign agents, informing them of this execrable plot to
overthrow the Commonwealth and take the life of the Stadholder, set on
foot by certain Arminian preachers and others of that faction, and this
too in winter, when the ice and snow made hostile invasion practicable,
and when the enemy was encamped in so many places in the neighbourhood.
"The Arminians," said the despatch, "are so filled with bitterness that
they would rather the Republic should be lost than that their pretended
grievances should go unredressed." Almost every pulpit shook with
Contra-Remonstrant thunder against the whole society of Remonstrants, who
were held up to the world as rebels and prince-murderers; the criminal
conspiracy being charged upon them as a body. Hardly a man of that
persuasion dared venture into the streets and public places, for fear of
being put to death by the rabble. The Chevalier William of Nassau,
natural son of the Stadholder, was very loud and violent in all the
taverns and tap-rooms, drinking mighty draughts to the damnation of the
Arminians.
Many of the timid in consequence shrank away from the society and joined
the Contra-Remonstrant Church, while the more courageous members,
together with the leaders of that now abhorred communion, published long
and stirring appeals to the universal sense of justice, which was
outraged by the spectacle of a whole sect being punished for a crime
committed by a few individuals, who had once been unworthy members of it.
Meantime hue and cry was made after the fugitive conspirators. The
Blansaerts and William Party having set off from Leyden towards the Hague
on Monday night, in order, as they said, to betray their employers, whose
money they had taken, and whose criminal orders they had agreed to
execute, attempted to escape, but were arrested within ten days. They
were exhibited at their prison at Amsterdam to an immense concourse at a
shilling a peep, the sums thus collected being distributed to the poor.
Slatius made his way disguised as a boor into Friesland, and after
various adventures attempted to cross the Bourtange Moors to Lingen.
Stopping to refresh himself at a tavern near Koevorden, he found himself
in the tap-room in presence of Quartermaster Blau and a company of
soldiers from the garrison. The dark scowling boor, travel-stained and
weary, with felt hat slouched over his forbidding visage, fierce and
timorous at once like a hunted wild beast, excited their suspicion.
Seeing himself watched, he got up, paid his scot, and departed, leaving
his can of beer untasted. This decided the quartermaster, who accordingly
followed the peasant out of the house, and arrested him as a Spanish spy
on the watch for the train of specie which the soldiers were then
conveying into Koevorden Castle.
Slatius protested his innocence of any such design, and vehemently
besought the officer to release him, telling him as a reason for his
urgency and an explanation of his unprepossessing aspect--that he was an
oculist from Amsterdam, John Hermansen by name, that he had just
committed a homicide in that place, and was fleeing from justice.
The honest quartermaster saw no reason why a suspected spy should go free
because he proclaimed himself a murderer, nor why an oculist should
escape the penalties of homicide. "The more reason," he said, "why thou
shouldst be my prisoner." The ex-preacher was arrested and shut up in the
state prison at the Hague.
The famous engraver Visser executed a likeness on copper-plate of the
grim malefactor as he appeared in his boor's disguise. The portrait,
accompanied by a fiercely written broadsheet attacking the Remonstrant
Church, had a great circulation, and deepened the animosity against the
sect upon which the unfrocked preacher had sworn vengeance. His evil face
and fame thus became familiar to the public, while the term Hendrik Slaet
became a proverb at pot-houses, being held equivalent among tipplers to
shirking the bottle.
Korenwinder, the treasurer of the association, coming to visit
Stoutenburg soon after van Dyk had left him, was informed of the
discovery of the plot and did his best to escape, but was arrested within
a fortnight's time.
Stoutenburg himself acted with his usual promptness and coolness. Having
gone straightway to his brother to notify him of the discovery and to
urge him to instant flight, he contrived to disappear. A few days later a
chest of merchandise was brought to the house of a certain citizen of
Rotterdam, who had once been a fiddler, but was now a man of considerable
property. The chest, when opened, was found to contain the Seigneur de
Stoutenburg, who in past times had laid the fiddler under obligations,
and in whose house he now lay concealed for many days, and until the
strictness with which all roads and ferries in the neighbourhood were
watched at first had somewhat given way. Meantime his cousin van der
Dussen had also effected his escape, and had joined him in Rotterdam. The
faithful fiddler then, for a thousand florins, chartered a trading vessel
commanded by one Jacob Beltje to take a cargo of Dutch cheese to Wesel on
the Rhine. By this means, after a few adventures, they effected their
escape, and, arriving not long afterwards at Brussels, were formally
taken under the protection of the Archduchess Isabella.
Stoutenburg afterwards travelled in France and Italy, and returned to
Brussels. His wife, loathing his crime and spurning all further
communication with him, abandoned him to his fate. The daughter of Marnix
of Sainte-Aldegonde had endured poverty, obscurity, and unmerited
obloquy, which had become the lot of the great statesman's family after
his tragic end, but she came of a race that would not brook dishonour.
The conspirator and suborner of murder and treason, the hirer and
companion of assassins, was no mate for her.
Stoutenburg hesitated for years as to his future career, strangely enough
keeping up a hope of being allowed to return to his country.
Subsequently he embraced the cause of his country's enemies, converted
himself to the Roman Church, and obtained a captaincy of horse in the
Spanish service. He was seen one day, to the disgust of many spectators,
to enter Antwerp in black foreign uniform, at the head of his troopers,
waving a standard with a death's-head embroidered upon it, and wearing,
like his soldiers, a sable scarf and plume. History disdains to follow
further the career of the renegade, traitor, end assassin.
When the Seigneur de Groeneveld learned from his younger brother, on the
eventful 6th of February, that the plot had been discovered, he gave
himself up for lost. Remorse and despair, fastening upon his naturally
feeble character, seemed to render him powerless. His wife, of more
hopeful disposition than himself and of less heroic mould than Walburg de
Marnix, encouraged him to fly. He fled accordingly, through the desolate
sandy downs which roll between the Hague and the sea, to Scheveningen,
then an obscure fishing village on the coast, at a league's distance from
the capital. Here a fisherman, devoted to him and his family, received
him in his hut, disguised him in boatman's attire, and went with him to
the strand, proposing to launch his pinkie, put out at once to sea, and
to land him on the English coast, the French coast, in Hamburg--where he
would.
The sight of that long, sandy beach stretching for more than seventy
miles in an unbroken, melancholy line, without cove, curve, or
indentation to break its cruel monotony, and with the wild waves of the
German Ocean, lashed by a wintry storm, breaking into white foam as far
as the eye could reach, appalled the fugitive criminal. With the
certainty of an ignominious death behind him, he shrank abjectly from the
terrors of the sea, and, despite the honest fisherman's entreaties,
refused to enter the boat and face the storm. He wandered feebly along
the coast, still accompanied by his humble friend, to another little
village, where the fisherman procured a waggon, which took them as far as
Sandvoort. Thence he made his way through Egmond and Petten and across
the Marsdiep to Tegel, where not deeming himself safe he had himself
ferried over to the neighbouring island of Vlieland. Here amongst the
quicksands, whirlpools, and shallows which mark the last verge of
habitable Holland, the unhappy fugitive stood at bay.
Meantime information had come to the authorities that a suspicious
stranger had been seen at Scheveningen. The fisherman's wife was
arrested. Threatened with torture she at last confessed with whom her
husband had fled and whither. Information was sent to the bailiff of
Vlieland, who with a party of followers made a strict search through his
narrow precincts. A group of seamen seated on the sands was soon
discovered, among whom, dressed in shaggy pea jacket with long
fisherman's boots, was the Seigneur de Groeneveld, who, easily recognized
through his disguise, submitted to his captors without a struggle. The
Scheveningen fisherman, who had been so faithful to him, making a sudden
spring, eluded his pursuers and disappeared; thus escaping the gibbet
which would probably have been his doom instead of the reward of 4000
golden guilders which he might have had for betraying him. Thus a sum
more than double the amount originally furnished by Groeneveld, as the
capital of the assassination company, had been rejected by the Rotterdam
boatman who saved Stoutenburg, and by the Scheveningen fisherman who was
ready to save Groeneveld. On the 19th February, within less than a
fortnight from the explosion of the conspiracy, the eldest son of
Barneveld was lodged in the Gevangen Poort or state prison of the Hague.
The awful news of the 6th February had struck the widow of Barneveld as
with a thunderbolt. Both her sons were proclaimed as murderers and
suborners of assassins, and a price put upon their heads. She remained
for days neither speaking nor weeping; scarcely eating, drinking, or
sleeping. She seemed frozen to stone. Her daughters and friends could not
tell whether she were dying or had lost her reason. At length the escape
of Stoutenburg and the capture of Groeneveld seemed to rouse her from her
trance. She then stooped to do what she had sternly refused to do when
her husband was in the hands of the authorities. Accompanied by the wife
and infant son of Groeneveld she obtained an audience of the stern
Stadholder, fell on her knees before him, and implored mercy and pardon
for her son.
Maurice received her calmly and not discourteously, but held out no hopes
of pardon. The criminal was in the hands of justice, he said, and he had
no power to interfere. But there can scarcely be a doubt that he had
power after the sentence to forgive or to commute, and it will be
remembered that when Barneveld himself was about to suffer, the Prince
had asked the clergyman Walaeus with much anxiety whether the prisoner in
his message had said nothing of pardon.
Referring to the bitter past, Maurice asked Madame de Barneveld why she
not asked mercy for her son, having refused to do so for her husband.
Her answer was simple and noble:
"My husband was innocent of crime," she said; "my son is guilty."
The idea of pardon in this case was of course preposterous. Certainly if
Groeneveld had been forgiven, it would have been impossible to punish the
thirteen less guilty conspirators, already in the hands of justice, whom
he had hired to commit the assassination. The spectacle of the two
cowardly ringleaders going free while the meaner criminals were gibbeted
would have been a shock to the most rudimentary ideas of justice. It
would have been an equal outrage to pardon the younger Barnevelds for
intended murder, in which they had almost succeeded, when their great
father had already suffered for a constructive lese-majesty, the guilt of
which had been stoutly denied. Yet such is the dreary chain of cause and
effect that it is certain, had pardon been nobly offered to the
statesman, whose views of constitutional law varied from those of the
dominant party, the later crime would never have been committed. But
Francis Aerssens--considering his own and other partisans lives at stake
if the States' right party did not fall--had been able to bear down all
thoughts of mercy. He was successful, was called to the house of nobles,
and regained the embassy of Paris, while the house of Barneveld was
trodden into the dust of dishonour and ruin. Rarely has an offended
politician's revenge been more thorough than his. Never did the mocking
fiend betray his victims into the hands of the avenger more sardonically
than was done in this sombre tragedy.
The trials of the prisoners were rapidly conducted. Van Dyk, cruelly
tortured, confessed on the rack all the details of the conspiracy as they
were afterwards embodied in the sentences and have been stated in the
preceding narrative. Groeneveld was not tortured. His answers to the
interrogatories were so vague as to excite amazement at his general
ignorance of the foul transaction or at the feebleness of his memory,
while there was no attempt on his part to exculpate himself from the
damning charge. That it was he who had furnished funds for the proposed
murder and mutiny, knowing the purpose to which they were to be applied,
was proved beyond all cavil and fully avowed by him.
On the 28th May, he, Korenwinder, and van Dyk were notified that they
were to appear next day in the courthouse to hear their sentence, which
would immediately afterwards be executed.
That night his mother, wife, and son paid him a long visit of farewell in
his prison. The Gevangen Poort of the Hague, an antique but mean building
of brown brick and commonplace aspect, still stands in one of the most
public parts of the city. A gloomy archway, surmounted by windows grimly
guarded by iron lattice-work, forms the general thoroughfare from the
aristocratic Plaats and Kneuterdyk and Vyverberg to the inner court of
the ancient palace. The cells within are dark, noisome, and dimly
lighted, and even to this day the very instruments of torture, used in
the trials of these and other prisoners, may be seen by the curious. Half
a century later the brothers de Witt were dragged from this prison to be
literally torn to pieces by an infuriated mob.
The misery of that midnight interview between the widow of Barneveld, her
daughter-in-law, and the condemned son and husband need not be described.
As the morning approached, the gaoler warned the matrons to take their
departure that the prisoner might sleep.
"What a woful widow you will be," said Groeneveld to his wife, as she
sank choking with tears upon the ground. The words suddenly aroused in
her the sense of respect for their name.
"At least for all this misery endured," she said firmly, "do me enough
honour to die like a gentleman." He promised it. The mother then took
leave of the son, and History drops a decorous veil henceforth over the
grief-stricken form of Mary of Barneveld.
Next morning the life-guards of the Stadholder and other troops were
drawn up in battle-array in the outer and inner courtyard of the supreme
tribunal and palace. At ten o'clock Groeneveld came forth from the
prison. The Stadholder had granted as a boon to the family that he might
be neither fettered nor guarded as he walked to the tribunal. The
prisoner did not forget his parting promise to his wife. He appeared
full-dressed in velvet cloak and plumed hat, with rapier by his side,
walking calmly through the inner courtyard to the great hall. Observing
the windows of the Stadholder's apartments crowded with spectators, among
whom he seemed to recognize the Prince's face, he took off his hat and
made a graceful and dignified salute. He greeted with courtesy many
acquaintances among the crowd through which he passed. He entered the
hall and listened in silence to the sentence condemning him to be
immediately executed with the sword. Van Dyk and Korenwinder shared the
same doom, but were provisionally taken back to prison.
Groeneveld then walked calmly and gracefully as before from the hall to
the scaffold, attended by his own valet, and preceded by the
provost-marshal and assistants. He was to suffer, not where his father
had been beheaded, but on the "Green Sod." This public place of execution
for ordinary criminals was singularly enough in the most elegant and
frequented quarter of the Hague. A few rods from the Gevangen Poort, at
the western end of the Vyverberg, on the edge of the cheerful triangle
called the Plaats, and looking directly down the broad and stately
Kneuterdyk, at the end of which stood Aremberg House, lately the
residence of the great Advocate, was the mean and sordid scaffold.
Groeneveld ascended it with perfect composure. The man who had been
browbeaten into crime by an overbearing and ferocious brother, who had
quailed before the angry waves of the North Sea, which would have borne
him to a place of entire security, now faced his fate with a smile upon
his lips. He took off his hat, cloak, and sword, and handed them to his
valet. He calmly undid his ruff and wristbands of pointlace, and tossed
them on the ground. With his own hands and the assistance of his servant
he unbuttoned his doublet, laying breast and neck open without suffering
the headsman's hands to approach him.
He then walked to the heap of sand and spoke a very few words to the vast
throng of spectators.
"Desire of vengeance and evil counsel," he said, "have brought me here.
If I have wronged any man among you, I beg him for Christ's sake to
forgive me."
Kneeling on the sand with his face turned towards his father's house at
the end of the Kneuterdyk, he said his prayers. Then putting a red velvet
cap over his eyes, he was heard to mutter:
"O God! what a man I was once, and what am I now?"
Calmly folding his hands, he said, "Patience."
The executioner then struck off his head at a blow. His body, wrapped in
a black cloak, was sent to his house and buried in his father's tomb.
Van Dyk and Korenwinder were executed immediately afterwards. They were
quartered and their heads exposed on stakes. The joiner Gerritsen and the
three sailors had already been beheaded. The Blansaerts and William
Party, together with the grim Slatius, who was savage and turbulent to
the last, had suffered on the 5th of May.
Fourteen in all were executed for this crime, including an unfortunate
tailor and two other mechanics of Leyden, who had heard something
whispered about the conspiracy, had nothing whatever to do with it, but
from ignorance, apathy, or timidity did not denounce it. The ringleader
and the equally guilty van der Dussen had, as has been seen, effected
their escape.
Thus ended the long tragedy of the Barnevelds. The result of this foul
conspiracy and its failure to effect the crime proposed strengthened
immensely the power, popularity, and influence of the Stadholder, made
the orthodox church triumphant, and nearly ruined the sect of the
Remonstrants, the Arminians--most unjustly in reality, although with a
pitiful show of reason--being held guilty of the crime of Stoutenburg and
Slatius.
The Republic--that magnificent commonwealth which in its infancy had
confronted, single-handed, the greatest empire of the earth, and had
wrested its independence from the ancient despot after a forty years'
struggle--had now been rent in twain, although in very unequal portions,
by the fiend of political and religious hatred. Thus crippled, she was to
go forth and take her share in that awful conflict now in full blaze, and
of which after-ages were to speak with a shudder as the Thirty Years'
War.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Argument in a circle
He that stands let him see that he does not fall
If he has deserved it, let them strike off his head
Misery had come not from their being enemies
O God! what does man come to!
Party hatred was not yet glutted with the blood it had drunk
Rose superior to his doom and took captivity captive
This, then, is the reward of forty years' service to the State
To milk, the cow as long as she would give milk
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS, ENTIRE JOHN OF BARNEVELD, 1614-23:
Acts of violence which under pretext of religion
Adulation for inferiors whom they despise
Affection of his friends and the wrath of his enemies
And give advice. Of that, although always a spendthrift
Argument in a circle
Better to be governed by magistrates than mobs
Burning with bitter revenge for all the favours he had received
Calumny is often a stronger and more lasting power than disdain
Casual outbursts of eternal friendship
Changed his positions and contradicted himself day by day
Conciliation when war of extermination was intended
Considered it his special mission in the world to mediate
Created one child for damnation and another for salvation
Death rather than life with a false acknowledgment of guilt
Denoungced as an obstacle to peace
Depths theological party spirit could descend
Depths of credulity men in all ages can sink
Devote himself to his gout and to his fair young wife
Enemy of all compulsion of the human conscience
Extraordinary capacity for yielding to gentle violence
France was mourning Henry and waiting for Richelieu
Furious mob set upon the house of Rem Bischop
Hardly a sound Protestant policy anywhere but in Holland
He that stands let him see that he does not fall
Heidelberg Catechism were declared to be infallible
Highborn demagogues in that as in every age affect adulation
History has not too many really important and emblematic men
Human nature in its meanness and shame
I hope and I fear
I know how to console myself
If he has deserved it, let them strike off his head
Implication there was much, of assertion very little
In this he was much behind his age or before it
It had not yet occurred to him that he was married
John Robinson
King who thought it furious madness to resist the enemy
Logic is rarely the quality on which kings pride themselves
Magistracy at that moment seemed to mean the sword
Make the very name of man a term of reproach
Misery had come not from their being enemies
Mockery of negotiation in which nothing could be negotiated
More apprehension of fraud than of force
Necessity of deferring to powerful sovereigns
Never lack of fishers in troubled waters
Not his custom nor that of his councillors to go to bed
O God! what does man come to!
Only true religion
Opening an abyss between government and people
Opposed the subjection of the magistracy by the priesthood
Partisans wanted not accommodation but victory
Party hatred was not yet glutted with the blood it had drunk
Pot-valiant hero
Puritanism in Holland was a very different thing from England
Rather a wilderness to reign over than a single heretic
Resolve to maintain the civil authority over the military
Rose superior to his doom and took captivity captive
Seemed bent on self-destruction
Stand between hope and fear
Successful in this step, he is ready for greater ones
Tempest of passion and prejudice
That he tries to lay the fault on us is pure malice
The magnitude of this wonderful sovereign's littleness
The effect of energetic, uncompromising calumny
The evils resulting from a confederate system of government
This, then, is the reward of forty years' service to the State
This wonderful sovereign's littleness oppresses the imagination
To milk, the cow as long as she would give milk
To stifle for ever the right of free enquiry
William Brewster
Wise and honest a man, although he be somewhat longsome
Yes, there are wicked men about
Yesterday is the preceptor of To-morrow
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS, ENTIRE JOHN OF BARNEVELD 1609-1623:
Abstinence from inquisition into consciences and private parlour
Acts of violence which under pretext of religion
Adulation for inferiors whom they despise
Advanced orthodox party-Puritans
Affection of his friends and the wrath of his enemies
Allowed the demon of religious hatred to enter into its body
Almost infinite power of the meanest of passions
And give advice. Of that, although always a spendthrift
And now the knife of another priest-led fanatic
Argument in a circle
Aristocracy of God's elect
As with his own people, keeping no back-door open
At a blow decapitated France
Atheist, a tyrant, because he resisted dictation from the clergy
Behead, torture, burn alive, and bury alive all heretics
Better to be governed by magistrates than mobs
Burning with bitter revenge for all the favours he had received
Calumny is often a stronger and more lasting power than disdain
Casual outbursts of eternal friendship
Changed his positions and contradicted himself day by day
Christian sympathy and a small assistance not being sufficient
Conciliation when war of extermination was intended
Conclusive victory for the allies seemed as predestined
Considered it his special mission in the world to mediate
Contained within itself the germs of a larger liberty
Could not be both judge and party in the suit
Covered now with the satirical dust of centuries
Created one child for damnation and another for salvation
Deadly hatred of Puritans in England and Holland
Death rather than life with a false acknowledgment of guilt
Denoungced as an obstacle to peace
Depths of credulity men in all ages can sink
Depths theological party spirit could descend
Determined to bring the very name of liberty into contempt
Devote himself to his gout and to his fair young wife
Disputing the eternal damnation of young children
Doctrine of predestination in its sternest and strictest sense
Emperor of Japan addressed him as his brother monarch
Enemy of all compulsion of the human conscience
Epernon, the true murderer of Henry
Estimating his character and judging his judges
Everybody should mind his own business
Extraordinary capacity for yielding to gentle violence
Fate, free will, or absolute foreknowledge
Father Cotton, who was only too ready to betray the secrets
France was mourning Henry and waiting for Richelieu
Furious mob set upon the house of Rem Bischop
Give him advice if he asked it, and money when he required
Great war of religion and politics was postponed
Hardly a sound Protestant policy anywhere but in Holland
He was not imperial of aspect on canvas or coin
He who would have all may easily lose all
He who spreads the snare always tumbles into the ditch himself
He was a sincere bigot
He that stands let him see that he does not fall
Heidelberg Catechism were declared to be infallible
Highborn demagogues in that as in every age affect adulation
History has not too many really important and emblematic men
Human nature in its meanness and shame
I know how to console myself
I hope and I fear
If he has deserved it, let them strike off his head
Impatience is often on the part of the non-combatants
Implication there was much, of assertion very little
In this he was much behind his age or before it
Intense bigotry of conviction
International friendship, the self-interest of each
It had not yet occurred to him that he was married
It was the true religion, and there was none other
James of England, who admired, envied, and hated Henry
Jealousy, that potent principle
Jesuit Mariana--justifying the killing of excommunicated kings
John Robinson
King who thought it furious madness to resist the enemy
King's definite and final intentions, varied from day to day
Language which is ever living because it is dead
Logic is rarely the quality on which kings pride themselves
Louis XIII.
Ludicrous gravity
Magistracy at that moment seemed to mean the sword
Make the very name of man a term of reproach
Misery had come not from their being enemies
Mockery of negotiation in which nothing could be negotiated
More apprehension of fraud than of force
More fiercely opposed to each other than to Papists
Most detestable verses that even he had ever composed
Necessity of deferring to powerful sovereigns
Neither kings nor governments are apt to value logic
Never lack of fishers in troubled waters
No man pretended to think of the State
No man can be neutral in civil contentions
No synod had a right to claim Netherlanders as slaves
None but God to compel me to say more than I choose to say
Not his custom nor that of his councillors to go to bed
O God! what does man come to!
Only true religion
Opening an abyss between government and people
Opposed the subjection of the magistracy by the priesthood
Outdoing himself in dogmatism and inconsistency
Partisans wanted not accommodation but victory
Party hatred was not yet glutted with the blood it had drunk
Philip IV.
Pot-valiant hero
Power the poison of which it is so difficult to resist
Practised successfully the talent of silence
Presents of considerable sums of money to the negotiators made
Priests shall control the state or the state govern the priests
Princes show what they have in them at twenty-five or never
Puritanism in Holland was a very different thing from England
Putting the cart before the oxen
Queen is entirely in the hands of Spain and the priests
Rather a wilderness to reign over than a single heretic
Religion was made the strumpet of Political Ambition
Religious toleration, which is a phrase of insult
Resolve to maintain the civil authority over the military
Rose superior to his doom and took captivity captive
Safest citadel against an invader and a tyrant is distrust
Schism in the Church had become a public fact
Secure the prizes of war without the troubles and dangers
Seemed bent on self-destruction
Senectus edam maorbus est
She declined to be his procuress
Small matter which human folly had dilated into a great one
Smooth words, in the plentiful lack of any substantial
So much in advance of his time as to favor religious equality
Stand between hope and fear
Stroke of a broken table knife sharpened on a carriage wheel
Successful in this step, he is ready for greater ones
Tempest of passion and prejudice
That he tries to lay the fault on us is pure malice
That cynical commerce in human lives
The effect of energetic, uncompromising calumny
The evils resulting from a confederate system of government
The vehicle is often prized more than the freight
The voice of slanderers
The truth in shortest about matters of importance
The assassin, tortured and torn by four horses
The defence of the civil authority against the priesthood
The magnitude of this wonderful sovereign's littleness
The Catholic League and the Protestant Union
Their own roofs were not quite yet in a blaze
Theological hatred was in full blaze throughout the country
Theology and politics were one
There was no use in holding language of authority to him
There was but one king in Europe, Henry the Bearnese
Therefore now denounced the man whom he had injured
They have killed him, 'e ammazato,' cried Concini
Things he could tell which are too odious and dreadful
Thirty Years' War tread on the heels of the forty years
This wonderful sovereign's littleness oppresses the imagination
This, then, is the reward of forty years' service to the State
To milk, the cow as long as she would give milk
To stifle for ever the right of free enquiry
To look down upon their inferior and lost fellow creatures
Uncouple the dogs and let them run
Unimaginable outrage as the most legitimate industry
Vows of an eternal friendship of several weeks' duration
What could save the House of Austria, the cause of Papacy
Whether repentance could effect salvation
Whether dead infants were hopelessly damned
Whose mutual hatred was now artfully inflamed
END OF THE HISTORY OF THE NETHERLANDS BY MOTLEY
JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.
A MEMOIR, Complete
By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Volume I.
NOTE.
The Memoir here given to the public is based on a biographical sketch
prepared by the writer at the request of the Massachusetts Historical
Society for its Proceedings. The questions involving controversies into
which the Society could not feel called to enter are treated at
considerable length in the following pages. Many details are also given
which would have carried the paper written for the Society beyond the
customary limits of such tributes to the memory of its deceased members.
It is still but an outline which may serve a present need and perhaps be
of some assistance to a future biographer.
I.
1814-1827. To AEt. 13.
BIRTH AND EARLY YEARS.
John Motley, the great-grandfather of the subject of this Memoir, came in
the earlier part of the last century from Belfast in Ireland to Falmouth,
now Portland, in the District, now the State of Maine. He was twice
married, and had ten children, four of the first marriage and six of the
last. Thomas, the youngest son by his first wife, married Emma, a
daughter of John Wait, the first Sheriff of Cumberland County under the
government of the United States. Two of their seven sons, Thomas and
Edward, removed from Portland to Boston in 1802 and established
themselves as partners in commercial business, continuing united and
prosperous for nearly half a century before the firm was dissolved.
The earlier records of New England have preserved the memory of an
incident which deserves mention as showing how the historian's life was
saved by a quickwitted handmaid, more than a hundred years before he was
born. On the 29th of August, 1708, the French and Indians from Canada
made an attack upon the town of Haverhill, in Massachusetts. Thirty or
forty persons were slaughtered, and many others were carried captive into
Canada.
The minister of the town, Rev. Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a bullet
through the door of his house. Two of his daughters, Mary, aged thirteen,
and Elizabeth, aged nine, were sleeping in a room with the maid-servant,
Hagar. When Hagar heard the whoop of the savages she seized the children,
ran with them into the cellar, and, after concealing them under two large
washtubs, hid herself. The Indians ransacked the cellar, but missed the
prey. Elizabeth, the younger of the two girls, grew up and married the
Rev. Samuel Checkley, first minister of the "New South" Church, Boston.
Her son, Rev. Samuel Checkley, Junior, was minister of the Second Church,
and his successor, Rev. John Lothrop, or Lathrop, as it was more commonly
spelled, married his daughter. Dr. Lothrop was great-grandson of Rev.
John Lothrop, of Scituate, who had been imprisoned in England for
nonconformity. The Checkleys were from Preston Capes, in
Northamptonshire. The name is probably identical with that of the
Chicheles or Chichleys, a well-known Northamptonshire family.
Thomas Motley married Anna, daughter of the Rev. John Lothrop,
granddaughter of the Rev. Samuel Checkley, Junior, the two ministers
mentioned above, both honored in their day and generation. Eight children
were born of this marriage, of whom four are still living.
JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, the second of these children, was born in
Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Massachusetts, on the 15th of April,
1814. A member of his family gives a most pleasing and interesting
picture, from his own recollections and from what his mother told him, of
the childhood which was to develop into such rich maturity. The boy was
rather delicate in organization, and not much given to outdoor
amusements, except skating and swimming, of which last exercise he was
very fond in his young days, and in which he excelled. He was a great
reader, never idle, but always had a book in his hand,--a volume of
poetry or one of the novels of Scott or Cooper. His fondness for plays
and declamation is illustrated by the story told by a younger brother,
who remembers being wrapped up in a shawl and kept quiet by sweetmeats,
while he figured as the dead Caesar, and his brother, the future
historian, delivered the speech of Antony over his prostrate body. He was
of a most sensitive nature, easily excited, but not tenacious of any
irritated feelings, with a quick sense of honor, and the most entirely
truthful child, his mother used to say, that she had ever seen. Such are
some of the recollections of those who knew him in his earliest years and
in the most intimate relations.
His father's family was at this time living in the house No. 7 Walnut
Street, looking down Chestnut Street over the water to the western hills.
Near by, at the corner of Beacon Street, was the residence of the family
of the first mayor of Boston, and at a little distance from the opposite
corner was the house of one of the fathers of New England manufacturing
enterprise, a man of superior intellect, who built up a great name and
fortune in our city. The children from these three homes naturally became
playmates. Mr. Motley's house was a very hospitable one, and Lothrop and
two of his young companions were allowed to carry out their schemes of
amusement in the garden and the garret. If one with a prescient glance
could have looked into that garret on some Saturday afternoon while our
century was not far advanced in its second score of years, he might have
found three boys in cloaks and doublets and plumed hats, heroes and
bandits, enacting more or less impromptu melodramas. In one of the boys
he would have seen the embryo dramatist of a nation's life history, John
Lothrop Motley; in the second, a famous talker and wit who has spilled
more good things on the wasteful air in conversation than would carry a
"diner-out" through half a dozen London seasons, and waked up somewhat
after the usual flowering-time of authorship to find himself a very
agreeable and cordially welcomed writer,--Thomas Gold Appleton. In the
third he would have recognized a champion of liberty known wherever that
word is spoken, an orator whom to hear is to revive all the traditions of
the grace, the address, the commanding sway of the silver-tongued
eloquence of the most renowned speakers,--Wendell Phillips.
Both of young Motley's playmates have furnished me with recollections of
him and of those around him at this period of his life, and I cannot do
better than borrow freely from their communications. His father was a man
of decided character, social, vivacious, witty, a lover of books, and
himself not unknown as a writer, being the author of one or more of the
well remembered "Jack Downing" letters. He was fond of having the boys
read to him from such authors as Channing and Irving, and criticised
their way of reading with discriminating judgment and taste. Mrs. Motley
was a woman who could not be looked upon without admiration. I remember
well the sweet dignity of her aspect, her "regal beauty," as Mr. Phillips
truly styles it, and the charm of her serene and noble presence, which
made her the type of a perfect motherhood. Her character corresponded to
the promise of her gracious aspect. She was one of the fondest of
mothers, but not thoughtlessly indulgent to the boy from whom she hoped
and expected more than she thought it wise to let him know. The story
used to be current that in their younger days this father and mother were
the handsomest pair the town of Boston could show. This son of theirs was
"rather tall," says Mr. Phillips, "lithe, very graceful in movement and
gesture, and there was something marked and admirable in the set of his
head on his shoulders,"--a peculiar elegance which was most noticeable in
those later days when I knew him. Lady Byron long afterwards spoke of him
as more like her husband in appearance than any other person she had met;
but Mr. Phillips, who remembers the first bloom of his boyhood and youth,
thinks he was handsomer than any portrait of Byron represents the poet.
"He could not have been eleven years old," says the same correspondent,
"when he began writing a novel. It opened, I remember, not with one
solitary horseman, but with two, riding up to an inn in the valley of the
Housatonic. Neither of us had ever seen the Housatonic, but it sounded
grand and romantic. Two chapters were finished."
There is not much remembered of the single summer he passed at Mr.
Green's school at Jamaica Plain. From that school he went to Round Hill,
Northampton, then under the care of Mr. Cogswell and Mr. Bancroft. The
historian of the United States could hardly have dreamed that the
handsome boy of ten years was to take his place at the side of his
teacher in the first rank of writers in his own department. Motley came
to Round Hill, as one of his schoolmates tells me, with a great
reputation, especially as a declaimer. He had a remarkable facility for
acquiring languages, excelled as a reader and as a writer, and was the
object of general admiration for his many gifts. There is some reason to
think that the flattery he received was for a time a hindrance to his
progress and the development of his character. He obtained praise too
easily, and learned to trust too much to his genius. He had everything to
spoil him,--beauty, precocious intelligence, and a personal charm which
might have made him a universal favorite. Yet he does not seem to have
been generally popular at this period of his life. He was wilful,
impetuous, sometimes supercilious, always fastidious. He would study as
he liked, and not by rule. His school and college mates believed in his
great possibilities through all his forming period, but it may be doubted
if those who counted most confidently on his future could have supposed
that he would develop the heroic power of concentration, the
long-breathed tenacity of purpose, which in after years gave effect to
his brilliant mental endowments. "I did wonder," says Mr. Wendell
Phillips, "at the diligence and painstaking, the drudgery shown in his
historical works. In early life he had no industry, not needing it. All
he cared for in a book he caught quickly,--the spirit of it, and all his
mind needed or would use. This quickness of apprehension was marvellous."
I do not find from the recollections of his schoolmates at Northampton
that he was reproached for any grave offences, though he may have
wandered beyond the prescribed boundaries now and then, and studied
according to his inclinations rather than by rule. While at that school
he made one acquisition much less common then than now,--a knowledge of
the German language and some degree of acquaintance with its literature,
under the guidance of one of the few thorough German scholars this
country then possessed, Mr. George Bancroft.
II.
1827-1831. AEt. 13-17.
COLLEGE LIFE.
Such then was the boy who at the immature, we might almost say the
tender, age of thirteen entered Harvard College. Though two years after
me in college standing, I remember the boyish reputation which he brought
with him, especially that of a wonderful linguist, and the impression
which his striking personal beauty produced upon us as he took his seat
in the college chapel. But it was not until long after this period that I
became intimately acquainted with him, and I must again have recourse to
the classmates and friends who have favored me with their reminiscences
of this period of his life. Mr. Phillips says:
"During our first year in college, though the youngest in the class,
he stood third, I think, or second in college rank, and ours was an
especially able class. Yet to maintain this rank he neither cared
nor needed to make any effort. Too young to feel any
responsibilities, and not yet awake to any ambition, he became so
negligent that he was 'rusticated' [that is, sent away from college
for a time]. He came back sobered, and worked rather more, but with
no effort for college rank thenceforward."
I must finish the portrait of the collegian with all its lights and
shadows by the help of the same friends from whom I have borrowed the
preceding outlines.
He did not care to make acquaintances, was haughty in manner and cynical
in mood, at least as he appeared to those in whom he felt no special
interest. It is no wonder, therefore, that he was not a popular favorite,
although recognized as having very brilliant qualities. During all this
period his mind was doubtless fermenting with projects which kept him in
a fevered and irritable condition. "He had a small writing-table," Mr.
Phillips says, "with a shallow drawer; I have often seen it half full of
sketches, unfinished poems, soliloquies, a scene or two of a play, prose
portraits of some pet character, etc. These he would read to me, though
he never volunteered to do so, and every now and then he burnt the whole
and began to fill the drawer again."
My friend, Mr. John Osborne Sargent, who was a year before him in
college, says, in a very interesting letter with which he has favored me:
"My first acquaintance with him [Motley] was at Cambridge, when he
came from Mr. Cogswell's school at Round Hill. He then had a good
deal of the shyness that was just pronounced enough to make him
interesting, and which did not entirely wear off till he left
college. . . I soon became acquainted with him, and we used to take
long walks together, sometimes taxing each other's memory for poems
or passages from poems that had struck our fancy. Shelley was then
a great favorite of his, and I remember that Praed's verses then
appearing in the 'New Monthly' he thought very clever and brilliant,
and was fond of repeating them. You have forgotten, or perhaps
never knew, that Motley's first appearance in print was in the
'Collegian.' He brought me one day, in a very modest mood, a
translation from Goethe, which I was most happy to oblige him by
inserting. It was very prettily done, and will now be a curiosity.
. . . How it happened that Motley wrote only one piece I do not
remember. I had the pleasure about that time of initiating him as a
member of the Knights of the Square Table,--always my favorite
college club, for the reason, perhaps, that I was a sometime Grand
Master. He was always a genial and jovial companion at our supper-
parties at Fresh Pond and Gallagher's."
We who live in the days of photographs know how many faces belong to
every individual. We know too under what different aspects the same
character appears to those who study it from different points of view and
with different prepossessions. I do not hesitate, therefore, to place
side by side the impressions of two of his classmates as to one of his
personal traits as they observed him at this period of his youth.
"He was a manly boy, with no love for or leaning to girls' company;
no care for dress; not a trace of personal vanity. . . . He was,
or at least seemed, wholly unconscious of his rare beauty and of the
fascination of his manner; not a trace of pretence, the simplest and
most natural creature in the world."
Look on that picture and on this:--
"He seemed to have a passion for dress. But as in everything else,
so in this, his fancy was a fitful one. At one time he would excite
our admiration by the splendor of his outfit, and perhaps the next
week he would seem to take equal pleasure in his slovenly or
careless appearance."
It is not very difficult to reconcile these two portraitures. I recollect
it was said by a witty lady of a handsome clergyman well remembered among
us, that he had dressy eyes. Motley so well became everything he wore,
that if he had sprung from his bed and slipped his clothes on at an alarm
of fire, his costume would have looked like a prince's undress. His
natural presentment, like that of Count D'Orsay, was of the kind which
suggests the intentional effects of an elaborate toilet, no matter how
little thought or care may have been given to make it effective. I think
the "passion for dress" was really only a seeming, and that he often
excited admiration when he had not taken half the pains to adorn himself
that many a youth less favored by nature has wasted upon his unblest
exterior only to be laughed at.
I gather some other interesting facts from a letter which I have received
from his early playmate and school and college classmate, Mr. T. G.
Appleton.
"In his Sophomore year he kept abreast of the prescribed studies,
but his heart was out of bounds, as it often had been at Round Hill
when chasing squirrels or rabbits through forbidden forests.
Already his historical interest was shaping his life. A tutor
coming-by chance, let us hope--to his room remonstrated with him
upon the heaps of novels upon his table.
"'Yes,' said Motley, 'I am reading historically, and have come to the
novels of the nineteenth century. Taken in the lump, they are very hard
reading.'"
All Old Cambridge people know the Brattle House, with its gambrel roof,
its tall trees, its perennial spring, its legendary fame of good fare and
hospitable board in the days of the kindly old bon vivant, Major Brattle.
In this house the two young students, Appleton and Motley, lived during a
part of their college course.
"Motley's room was on the ground floor, the room to the left of the
entrance. He led a very pleasant life there, tempering his college
duties with the literature he loved, and receiving his friends
amidst elegant surroundings, which added to the charm of his
society. Occasionally we amused ourselves by writing for the
magazines and papers of the day. Mr. Willis had just started a slim
monthly, written chiefly by himself, but with the true magazine
flavor. We wrote for that, and sometimes verses in the corner of a
paper called 'The Anti-Masonic Mirror,' and in which corner was a
woodcut of Apollo, and inviting to destruction ambitious youths by
the legend underneath,--
'Much yet remains unsung.'
These pieces were usually dictated to each other, the poet recumbent
upon the bed and a classmate ready to carry off the manuscript for
the paper of the following day. 'Blackwood's' was then in its
glory, its pages redolent of 'mountain dew' in every sense; the
humor of the Shepherd, the elegantly brutal onslaughts upon Whigs
and Cockney poets by Christopher North, intoxicated us youths.
"It was young writing, and made for the young. The opinions were
charmingly wrong, and its enthusiasm was half Glenlivet. But this
delighted the boys. There were no reprints then, and to pass the
paper-cutter up the fresh inviting pages was like swinging over the
heather arm in arm with Christopher himself. It is a little
singular that though we had a college magazine of our own, Motley
rarely if ever wrote for it. I remember a translation from Goethe,
'The Ghost-Seer,' which he may have written for it, and a poem upon
the White Mountains. Motley spoke at one of the college exhibitions
an essay on Goethe so excellent that Mr. Joseph Cogswell sent it to
Madam Goethe, who, after reading it, said, 'I wish to see the first
book that young man will write.'"
Although Motley did not aim at or attain a high college rank, the rules
of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, which confine the number of members to the
first sixteen of each class, were stretched so as to include him,--a
tribute to his recognized ability, and an evidence that a distinguished
future was anticipated for him.
III.
1832-1833. AEt. 18-19.
STUDY AND TRAVEL IN EUROPE.
Of the two years divided between the Universities of Berlin and Gottingen
I have little to record. That he studied hard I cannot doubt; that he
found himself in pleasant social relations with some of his
fellow-students seems probable from the portraits he has drawn in his
first story, "Morton's Hope," and is rendered certain so far as one of
his companions is concerned. Among the records of the past to which he
referred during his last visit to this country was a letter which he took
from a collection of papers and handed me to read one day when I was
visiting him. The letter was written in a very lively and exceedingly
familiar vein. It implied such intimacy, and called up in such a lively
way the gay times Motley and himself had had together in their youthful
days, that I was puzzled to guess who could have addressed him from
Germany in that easy and off-hand fashion. I knew most of his old friends
who would be likely to call him by his baptismal name in its most
colloquial form, and exhausted my stock of guesses unsuccessfully before
looking at the signature. I confess that I was surprised, after laughing
at the hearty and almost boyish tone of the letter, to read at the bottom
of the page the signature of Bismarck. I will not say that I suspect
Motley of having drawn the portrait of his friend in one of the
characters of "Morton's Hope," but it is not hard to point out traits in
one of them which we can believe may have belonged to the great
Chancellor at an earlier period of life than that at which the world
contemplates his overshadowing proportions.
Hoping to learn something of Motley during the two years while we had
lost sight of him, I addressed a letter to His Highness Prince Bismarck,
to which I received the following reply:--
FOREIGN OFFICE, BERLIN, March 11, 1878.
SIR,--I am directed by Prince Bismarck to acknowledge the receipt of
your letter of the 1st of January, relating to the biography of the
late Mr. Motley. His Highness deeply regrets that the state of his
health and pressure of business do not allow him to contribute
personally, and as largely as he would be delighted to do, to your
depicting of a friend whose memory will be ever dear to him. Since
I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr. Motley at
Varzin, I have been intrusted with communicating to you a few
details I have gathered from the mouth of the Prince. I enclose
them as they are jotted down, without any attempt of digestion.
I have the honor to be
Your obedient servant,
LOTHAIR BUCHER.
"Prince Bismarck said:--
"'I met Motley at Gottingen in 1832, I am not sure if at the
beginning of Easter Term or Michaelmas Term. He kept company with
German students, though more addicted to study than we members of
the fighting clubs (corps). Although not having mastered yet the
German language, he exercised a marked attraction by a conversation
sparkling with wit, humor, and originality. In autumn of 1833,
having both of us migrated from Gottingen to Berlin for the
prosecution of our studies, we became fellow-lodgers in the house
No. 161 Friedrich Strasse. There we lived in the closest intimacy,
sharing meals and outdoor exercise. Motley by that time had arrived
at talking German fluently; he occupied himself not only in
translating Goethe's poem "Faust," but tried his hand even in
composing German verses. Enthusiastic admirer of Shakespeare,
Byron, Goethe, he used to spice his conversation abundantly with
quotations from these his favorite authors. A pertinacious arguer,
so much so that sometimes he watched my awakening in order to
continue a discussion on some topic of science, poetry, or practical
life, cut short by the chime of the small hours, he never lost his
mild and amiable temper. Our faithful companion was Count Alexander
Keyserling, a native of Courland, who has since achieved distinction
as a botanist.
"'Motley having entered the diplomatic service of his country, we
had frequently the opportunity of renewing our friendly intercourse;
at Frankfort he used to stay with me, the welcome guest of my wife;
we also met at Vienna, and, later, here. The last time I saw him
was in 1872 at Varzin, at the celebration of my "silver wedding,"
namely, the twenty-fifth anniversary.
"'The most striking feature of his handsome and delicate appearance
was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. He never entered a
drawing-room without exciting the curiosity and sympathy of the
ladies.'"
It is but a glimpse of their young life which the great statesman gives
us, but a bright and pleasing one. Here were three students, one of whom
was to range in the flowery fields of the loveliest of the sciences,
another to make the dead past live over again in his burning pages, and a
third to extend an empire as the botanist spread out a plant and the
historian laid open a manuscript.
IV.
1834-1839. 2ET. 20-25.
RETURN TO AMERICA.--STUDY OF LAW.--MARRIAGE.--HIS FIRST NOVEL, "MORTON'S
HOPE."
Of the years passed in the study of law after his return from Germany I
have very little recollection, and nothing of importance to record. He
never became seriously engaged in the practice of the profession he had
chosen. I had known him pleasantly rather than intimately, and our
different callings tended to separate us. I met him, however, not very
rarely, at one house where we were both received with the greatest
cordiality, and where the attractions brought together many both young
and old to enjoy the society of its charming and brilliant inmates. This
was at No. 14 Temple Place, where Mr. Park Benjamin was then living with
his two sisters, both in the bloom of young womanhood. Here Motley found
the wife to whom his life owed so much of its success and its happiness.
Those who remember Mary Benjamin find it hard to speak of her in the
common terms of praise which they award to the good and the lovely. She
was not only handsome and amiable and agreeable, but there was a cordial
frankness, an openhearted sincerity about her which made her seem like a
sister to those who could help becoming her lovers. She stands quite
apart in the memory of the friends who knew her best, even from the
circle of young persons whose recollections they most cherish. Yet hardly
could one of them have foreseen all that she was to be to him whose life
she was to share. They were married on the 2d of March, 1837. His
intimate friend, Mr. Joseph Lewis Stackpole, was married at about the
same time to her sister, thus joining still more closely in friendship
the two young men who were already like brothers in their mutual
affection.
Two years after his marriage, in 1839, appeared his first work, a novel
in two volumes, called "Morton's Hope." He had little reason to be
gratified with its reception. The general verdict was not favorable to
it, and the leading critical journal of America, not usually harsh or
cynical in its treatment of native authorship, did not even give it a
place among its "Critical Notices," but dropped a small-print
extinguisher upon it in one of the pages of its "List of New
Publications." Nothing could be more utterly disheartening than the
unqualified condemnation passed upon the story. At the same time the
critic says that "no one can read 'Morton's Hope' without perceiving it
to have been written by a person of uncommon resources of mind and
scholarship."
It must be confessed that, as a story, "Morton's Hope" cannot endure a
searching or even a moderately careful criticism. It is wanting in
cohesion, in character, even in a proper regard to circumstances of time
and place; it is a map of dissected incidents which has been flung out of
its box and has arranged itself without the least regard to chronology or
geography. It is not difficult to trace in it many of the influences
which had helped in forming or deforming the mind of the young man of
twenty-five, not yet come into possession of his full inheritance of the
slowly ripening qualities which were yet to assert their robust
independence. How could he help admiring Byron and falling into more or
less unconscious imitation of his moods if not of his special
affectations? Passion showing itself off against a dark foil of cynicism;
sentiment, ashamed of its own self-betrayal, and sneering at itself from
time to time for fear of the laugh of the world at its sincerity,--how
many young men were spoiled and how many more injured by becoming bad
copies of a bad ideal! The blood of Don Juan ran in the veins of Vivian
Grey and of Pelham. But if we read the fantastic dreams of Disraeli, the
intellectual dandyisms of Bulwer, remembering the after careers of which
these were the preludes, we can understand how there might well be
something in those earlier efforts which would betray itself in the way
of thought and in the style of the young men who read them during the
plastic period of their minds and characters. Allow for all these
influences, allow for whatever impressions his German residence and his
familiarity with German literature had produced; accept the fact that the
story is to the last degree disjointed, improbable, impossible; lay it
aside as a complete failure in what it attempted to be, and read it, as
"Vivian Grey" is now read, in the light of the career which it heralded.
"Morton's Hope" is not to be read as a novel: it is to be studied as an
autobiography, a prophecy, a record of aspirations, disguised under a
series of incidents which are flung together with no more regard to the
unities than a pack of shuffled playing-cards. I can do nothing better
than let him picture himself, for it is impossible not to recognize the
portrait. It is of little consequence whether every trait is an exact
copy from his own features, but it is so obvious that many of the lines
are direct transcripts from nature that we may believe the same thing of
many others. Let us compare his fictitious hero's story with what we have
read of his own life.
In early boyhood Morton amused himself and astonished those about him by
enacting plays for a puppet theatre. This was at six years old, and at
twelve we find him acting in a play with other boys, just as Motley's
playmates have already described him. The hero may now speak for himself,
but we shall all perceive that we are listening to the writer's own
story.
"I was always a huge reader; my mind was essentially craving and
insatiable. Its appetite was enormous, and it devoured too greedily
for health. I rejected all guidance in my studies. I already
fancied myself a misanthrope. I had taken a step very common for
boys of my age, and strove with all my might to be a cynic."
He goes on to describe, under the perfectly transparent mask of his hero,
the course of his studies. "To poetry, like most infants, I devoted most
of my time." From modern poetry he went back to the earlier sources,
first with the idea of systematic reading and at last through Chaucer and
Gower and early ballads, until he lost himself "in a dismal swamp of
barbarous romances and lying Latin chronicles. I got hold of the
Bibliotheca Monastica, containing a copious account of Anglo-Norman
authors, with notices of their works, and set seriously to reading every
one of them." One profit of his antiquarianism, however, was, as he says,
his attention to foreign languages,--French, Spanish, German, especially
in their earliest and rudest forms of literature. From these he ascended
to the ancient poets, and from Latin to Greek. He would have taken up the
study of the Oriental languages, but for the advice of a relative, who
begged him seriously to turn his attention to history. The paragraph
which follows must speak for itself as a true record under a feigned
heading.
"The groundwork of my early character was plasticity and fickleness.
I was mortified by this exposure of my ignorance, and disgusted with
my former course of reading. I now set myself violently to the
study of history. With my turn of mind, and with the preposterous
habits which I had been daily acquiring, I could not fail to make as
gross mistakes in the pursuit of this as of other branches of
knowledge. I imagined, on setting out, a system of strict and
impartial investigation of the sources of history. I was inspired
with the absurd ambition, not uncommon to youthful students, of
knowing as much as their masters. I imagined it necessary for me,
stripling as I was, to study the authorities; and, imbued with the
strict necessity of judging for myself, I turned from the limpid
pages of the modern historians to the notes and authorities at the
bottom of the page. These, of course, sent me back to my monastic
acquaintances, and I again found myself in such congenial company to
a youthful and ardent mind as Florence of Worcester and Simeon of
Durham, the Venerable Bede and Matthew Paris; and so on to Gregory
and Fredegarius, down to the more modern and elegant pages of
Froissart, Hollinshed, Hooker, and Stowe. Infant as I was, I
presumed to grapple with masses of learning almost beyond the
strength of the giants of history. A spendthrift of my time and
labor, I went out of my way to collect materials, and to build for
myself, when I should have known that older and abler architects had
already appropriated all that was worth preserving; that the edifice
was built, the quarry exhausted, and that I was, consequently, only
delving amidst rubbish.
"This course of study was not absolutely without its advantages.
The mind gained a certain proportion of vigor even by this exercise
of its faculties, just as my bodily health would have been improved
by transporting the refuse ore of a mine from one pit to another,
instead of coining the ingots which lay heaped before my eyes.
Still, however, my time was squandered. There was a constant want
of fitness and concentration of my energies. My dreams of education
were boundless, brilliant, indefinite; but alas! they were only
dreams. There was nothing accurate and defined in my future course
of life. I was ambitious and conceited, but my aspirations were
vague and shapeless. I had crowded together the most gorgeous and
even some of the most useful and durable materials for my woof, but
I had no pattern, and consequently never began to weave.
"I had not made the discovery that an individual cannot learn, nor
be, everything; that the world is a factory in which each individual
must perform his portion of work:--happy enough if he can choose it
according to his taste and talent, but must renounce the desire of
observing or superintending the whole operation. . . .
"From studying and investigating the sources of history with my own
eyes, I went a step further; I refused the guidance of modern
writers; and proceeding from one point of presumption to another, I
came to the magnanimous conviction that I could not know history as
I ought to know it unless I wrote it for myself. . . .
"It would be tedious and useless to enlarge upon my various attempts
and various failures. I forbear to comment upon mistakes which I
was in time wise enough to retrieve. Pushing out as I did, without
compass and without experience, on the boundless ocean of learning,
what could I expect but an utter and a hopeless shipwreck?
"Thus I went on, becoming more learned, and therefore more ignorant,
more confused in my brain, and more awkward in my habits, from day
to day. I was ever at my studies, and could hardly be prevailed
upon to allot a moment to exercise or recreation. I breakfasted
with a pen behind my ear, and dined in company with a folio bigger
than the table. I became solitary and morose, the necessary
consequence of reckless study; talked impatiently of the value of my
time, and the immensity of my labors; spoke contemptuously of the
learning and acquirements of the whole world, and threw out
mysterious hints of the magnitude and importance of my own project.
"In the midst of all this study and this infant authorship the
perusal of such masses of poetry could not fail to produce their
effect. Of a youth whose mind, like mine at that period, possessed
some general capability, without perhaps a single prominent and
marked talent, a proneness to imitation is sure to be the besetting
sin. I consequently, for a large portion of my earlier life, never
read a work which struck my fancy, without planning a better one
upon its model; for my ambition, like my vanity, knew no bounds.
It was a matter of course that I should be attacked by the poetic
mania. I took the infection at the usual time, went through its
various stages, and recovered as soon as could be expected. I
discovered soon enough that emulation is not capability, and he is
fortunate to whom is soonest revealed the relative extent of his
ambition and his powers.
"My ambition was boundless; my dreams of glory were not confined to
authorship and literature alone; but every sphere in which the
intellect of man exerts itself revolved in a blaze of light before
me. And there I sat in my solitude and dreamed such wondrous
dreams! Events were thickening around me which were soon to change
the world, but they were unmarked by me. The country was changing
to a mighty theatre, on whose stage those who were as great as I
fancied myself to be were to enact a stupendous drama in which I had
no part. I saw it not; I knew it not; and yet how infinitely
beautiful were the imaginations of my solitude! Fancy shook her
kaleidoscope each moment as chance directed, and lo! what new,
fantastic, brilliant, but what unmeaning visions. My ambitious
anticipations were as boundless as they were various and
conflicting. There was not a path which leads to glory in which I
was not destined to gather laurels. As a warrior I would conquer
and overrun the world. As a statesman I would reorganize and govern
it. As a historian I would consign it all to immortality; and in my
leisure moments I would be a great poet and a man of the world.
"In short, I was already enrolled in that large category of what are
called young men of genius,--men who are the pride of their sisters
and the glory of their grandmothers,--men of whom unheard-of things
are expected, till after long preparation comes a portentous
failure, and then they are forgotten; subsiding into indifferent
apprentices and attorneys' clerks.
"Alas for the golden imaginations of our youth! They are bright and
beautiful, but they fade. They glitter brightly enough to deceive
the wisest and most cautious, and we garner them up in the most
secret caskets of our hearts; but are they not like the coins which
the Dervise gave the merchant in the story? When we look for them
the next morning, do we not find them withered leaves?"
The ideal picture just drawn is only a fuller portraiture of the youth
whose outlines have been already sketched by the companions of his
earlier years. If his hero says, "I breakfasted with a pen behind my ear
and dined in company with a folio bigger than the table," one of his
family says of the boy Motley that "if there were five minutes before
dinner, when he came into the parlor he always took up some book near at
hand and began to read until dinner was announced." The same unbounded
thirst for knowledge, the same history of various attempts and various
failures, the same ambition, not yet fixed in its aim, but showing itself
in restless effort, belong to the hero of the story and its narrator.
Let no man despise the first efforts of immature genius. Nothing can be
more crude as a novel, nothing more disappointing, than "Morton's Hope."
But in no other of Motley's writings do we get such an inside view of his
character with its varied impulses, its capricious appetites, its
unregulated forces, its impatient grasp for all kinds of knowledge. With
all his university experiences at home and abroad, it might be said with
a large measure of truth that he was a self-educated man, as he had been
a self-taught boy. His instincts were too powerful to let him work
quietly in the common round of school and college training. Looking at
him as his companions describe him, as he delineates himself 'mutato
nomine,' the chances of success would have seemed to all but truly
prophetic eyes very doubtful, if not decidedly against him. Too many
brilliant young novel-readers and lovers of poetry, excused by their
admirers for their shortcomings on the strength of their supposed
birthright of "genius," have ended where they began; flattered into the
vain belief that they were men at eighteen or twenty, and finding out at
fifty that they were and always had been nothing more than boys. It was
but a tangled skein of life that Motley's book showed us at twenty-five,
and older men might well have doubted whether it would ever be wound off
in any continuous thread. To repeat his own words, he had crowded
together the materials for his work, but he had no pattern, and
consequently never began to weave.
The more this first work of Motley's is examined, the more are its faults
as a story and its interest as a self-revelation made manifest to the
reader. The future historian, who spared no pains to be accurate, falls
into the most extraordinary anachronisms in almost every chapter. Brutus
in a bob-wig, Othello in a swallow-tail coat, could hardly be more
incongruously equipped than some of his characters in the manner of
thought, the phrases, the way of bearing themselves which belong to them
in the tale, but never could have belonged to characters of our
Revolutionary period. He goes so far in his carelessness as to mix up
dates in such a way as almost to convince us that he never looked over
his own manuscript or proofs. His hero is in Prague in June, 1777,
reading a letter received from America in less than a fortnight from the
date of its being written; in August of the same year he is in the
American camp, where he is found in the company of a certain Colonel
Waldron, an officer of some standing in the Revolutionary Army, with whom
he is said to have been constantly associated for some three months,
having arrived in America, as he says, on the 15th of May, that is to
say, six weeks or more before he sailed, according to his previous
account. Bohemia seems to have bewitched his chronology as it did
Shakespeare's geography. To have made his story a consistent series of
contradictions, Morton should have sailed from that Bohemian seashore
which may be found in "A Winter's Tale," but not in the map of Europe.