ADAPTED OR PALIMPSEST PLATES
“God bless the King, I mean the faith’s defender,
God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender.
Who that Pretender is, and who is King—
God bless us all!—that’s quite another thing.”
So sang the old Jacobite John Byrom, and, taking my cue from him, I
do not propose to enter here into the vexed question of James Francis
Edward Stuart’s claim to this or that title.[37] It is merely a happy
accident that lends me so picturesque a figure round which to group
certain pictorial rarities, germane to our subject, of which little is
known, and of which the _petit-maître_ will be therefore grateful for
some particulars.
[37] It may be mentioned that Jesse, in his _Memoirs of the
Pretenders_, always calls him James _Frederick_.
The history of the engraved copperplate is full of that kind of romance
which peculiarly {193} commends itself to the lover of what is quaint
and curious in the byways of art, and perhaps the most romantic phase
of its history is that with which I am about to deal. It is the sort of
romance which was inseparable from what may be called the pre-machinery
days, and is as foreign to the spirit of this age as are the slashed
doublets of our forefathers or the starched irrelevances of their wives.
It may be, of course, that the Process block of to-day will be found
to be as full of romance to-morrow. Indeed we have already found some
indications of this in a former chapter, and it is probably true that
romance is as all-pervading in the mental as ether is in the physical
world, and that it is only lack of the proper intellectual reagent that
makes the discovery of it difficult.
However that may be, one thing is certain, that most of us find it
easier to come at the “poetry of circumstance” when centuries or
decades have left it behind than when it is at our immediate threshold.
In these days of lightning pictorial satire, when Monday’s political
move is on Tuesday served up {194} in genial topsy-turvy by “F. C.
G.” in the _Westminster_ or “G. R. H.” in the _Pall Mall_, and when
_Punch’s_ weekly cartoon is voted seven days late by the Man in the
Street, it is difficult for us to realise the shifts to which political
satire was put when the laborious engraved or etched broadside was the
quickest method of getting at the picture-loving masses. Just imagine
the agony of impatience of the political satirist who had designed his
broadside and had to await the tardy engraving of the copperplate, to
be followed by the deliberate hand-printing and hand-painting of the
impressions before they could be published, perhaps only to find in the
end that the nine-days’ wonder was past, or that events had blunted his
most telling points.
So, too, when satirist was employed against satirist, how hopeless it
seemed for retaliation to follow swiftly enough upon the occasion to
make any retort in kind worth while at all.
Then it was that the wit of man, quickened by necessity, conceived the
clever stratagem of the _adapted_ copperplate, of which it is here my
purpose to give some remarkable examples. {195}
I fancy I see the victim of some shrewder libel than usual, with which
the town has been flooded, pricking off in hot haste to the pictorial
satirist in his pay, and demanding the production of a trenchant and
immediate reply, so that the retort may be in the printsellers’ windows
before the attack has had time to do its deadly work.
The satirist names a month as the earliest possible date. His employer
curses him for a blundering slowcoach. Before a month is out the
mischief will be done beyond repairing. And he is flinging himself out
of the workshop when a happy thought comes with a flash into his head.
How about the copperplate of that broadside which fell so flat a year
ago because of its tardiness? It was meant to be a counter-thrust to
just such another attack as this, but it was a month too late. Is there
no way of fitting a new barb on to the old arrow? Is there no way of
adapting the year-old weapon to the present necessity?
And then there follows anxious discussion and careful examination. The
head of A. burnished out here can be re-engraved in the similitude
of B. {196} C. will stand as he is and do duty, with a new index
number and altered footnote, for D. Here an inappropriate object can
be replaced by a panel of appropriate verse. The inscriptions on the
banderoles issuing from the characters’ mouths must be altered. And,
hey presto! in the twinkling of a bedpost we have our answer ready for
a not too critical public.
The original lampooner, who counted on a good month’s start, will be
confronted with a retort before he has time to turn round. The whole
town will be set buzzing about the successful ruse, and the laugh will
be turned upon the aggressor.
Of course it would be comparatively rarely that the adapted plate could
be wholly _apropos_, but such capital ingenuity was exercised, once the
stratagem had been imagined, that the practice was not so uncommon nor
so unsuccessful as might be naturally expected. In this chapter I am
only treating of those dealing with one particular episode, but I have
in my possession at least thirty of these remarkable productions.
From them we find that it was not always the engraver of a plate
who re-adjusted his own {197} handiwork, but piratical hands were
sometimes laid upon the work of a master by mere journeymen engravers
who did not scruple to leave the original artist’s name for the better
selling of the plate, although it had ceased to represent even in the
remotest degree his sentiments or intentions.
Indeed, I could tell of at least one remarkable plate originally
prepared in honour of a certain great personage, which, being
thievishly appropriated by his opponents, was by them so judiciously
metamorphosed as to cover him with as much confusion as it had
originally panoplied him with honour.[38]
[38] Mozley, in his entertaining _Reminiscences_, tells the following
story of the latter days of the Oxford Movement, which is somewhat
parallel: “Isaac Williams published a volume of poetry called _The
Baptistry_, upon a series of curious and very beautiful engravings, by
Boetius a Bolswert, in an old Latin work, entitled _Via Vitæ Æternæ_.
In these pictures, besides other things peculiar to the Roman Church,
there frequently occurs the figure of the Virgin Mother, crowned
and in glory, the object of worship, and distributing the gifts of
Heaven. For this figure Williams substituted the Church, and thereby
incurred a protest from Newman for adopting a Roman Catholic work
just so far as suited his own purpose, without caring for the further
responsibilities.”
This is, I believe, the first time that any attempt has been made to
bring this fascinating subject before the public. Incidentally it
has {198} been touched upon once or twice in publications of my own
as it affected other byways in art, and has been alluded to in the
Introductions to the _Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British
Museum_ (_Satires_), prepared under the direction of the late Keeper
of the Prints and Drawings, George William Reid, by F. G. Stephens,
to which monumental work all students of such subjects are profoundly
indebted. But it has never been treated with anything approaching the
completeness that it deserves. It is practically an unworked phase of
print-collecting—a new craze in which the dilettante may specialise.
As I have said, we are fortunate in having in this place so picturesque
a figure as that of the Old Pretender, or the Chevalier de St. George,
as some like to call him, round whom to group our first batch of these
pictorial palimpsests.
James Francis Edward Stuart was, as all who know their history will
remember, the son of James II. by his second wife, Mary of Modena. He
was born on June 10, 1688, at St James’s Palace.
James II. was then in his fifty-fifth year. By {199} his cruelties
after Monmouth’s rebellion, by his attack on the Universities, by
the Trial of the Seven Bishops, by his Court of Commissioners of
Ecclesiastical Causes, and by his misuse of the Dispensing Power he had
alienated the whole nation, with the exception of a few Roman Catholics
and hangers-on of the Court, and his throne was tottering.
The only element of strength in his position was the certainty that
sooner or later the crown was bound to pass to one of the Protestant
daughters of his first marriage; for though the present Queen had borne
him four or five children they had all died young. It was now six years
since there had been any hint of a royal birth. What were probably
grossly exaggerated accounts of the King’s early irregularities were
matter of common gossip, and the Queen’s health was far from robust.
Suddenly, at a most opportune moment for the Roman Catholics—so
opportune a moment indeed that intrigue at once suggested itself—it
was announced to the world that Mary was with child, and a day of
thanksgiving was appointed five months before the Queen’s delivery.
{200}
Now was the occasion for reviving a report which had been sedulously
spread by the enemies of the Court from the very earliest days of the
Queen’s marriage—_that the King, in order to transmit his dominions
and his bigotry to a Roman Catholic heir, had determined to impose a
surreptitious offspring on his Protestant subjects_.
In due course came her Majesty’s lying-in at St. James’s, and although
the King took every precaution, by the solemn depositions of forty-two
persons of rank who were present, against questions arising as to the
child’s identity, the celebrated “warming-pan” story was hatched,
which continued to gain credence for more than half a century. Nor
were circumstantial details of the most intimate nature in support of
the lie wanting. During the labour, it was maintained, the curtains of
the bed were drawn more closely than usual on such occasions; neither
the Princess of Orange, the nearest Protestant heir to the throne, nor
her immediate adherents were asked to be in attendance; an apartment
had been selected for the Queen’s accommodation in which there was a
door near the head of the bed which opened on a back {201} staircase.
Though the weather was hot, and the room heated by the great crowd of
persons present, a warming-pan was introduced into the bed; and finally
the pan contained a new-born child, which was immediately afterwards
presented to the bystanders as the offspring of the Queen!
The following song, sung by two gentlemen at the Maypole in the Strand,
is sufficiently explanatory:
“As I went by St. James’s I heard a bird sing,
That the Queen had for certain a boy for a King;
But one of the soldiers did laugh and did say,
_It was born overnight and brought forth the next day._
This bantling was heard at St. James’s to squall,
Which made the Queen make so much haste from Whitehall.”
The last line referred to the fact that the Queen had played at cards
at Whitehall Palace till eleven o’clock on Saturday, June 9, whence she
was carried in a chair to St. James’s Palace, and on the Sunday, June
10, between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, “was brought to
bed of a prince.”
It is a remarkable fact [says Jesse] that as early as 1682 (six years
before this), when the Queen, then Duchess of York, was declared to be
pregnant, the same rumours were {202} propagated as on the present
occasion—that an imposture was intended to be obtruded upon the
nation. Fortunately on that occasion the infant proved to be a female,
or doubtless some improbable fiction would have been invented similar
to that which obtained credit in 1688.
Undoubtedly the whole thing was a lie, but it did its deadly work.[39]
The whole nation was prepared to accept the flimsiest evidence, and
within six months father, mother, and child had fled to France.
[39] Certain imprudent Roman Catholics gave colour to the popular
belief by loudly expressing their opinion that a miracle had been
wrought. One fanatic had even gone so far as to prophesy that the Queen
would give birth to twins, of whom the elder would be King of England
and the younger Pope of Rome!
So much for the story that inspired the remarkable broadsides with
which it is here our purpose to deal. It will be noticed that these
broadsides are all Dutch in their origin, a fact that is not surprising
when we remember that they formed part of the propagandum which was
soon to land William of Orange, the husband of James’s eldest daughter,
on the throne of England.
The first that we reproduce is entitled “L’Europe Alarmée pour le Fils
d’un Meunier.”
The artist is that remarkably clever Dutchman, {203} Romeyn de Hooghe,
whose delicate and facile handling of the point is well exemplified in
the seascape at the back of the picture.
Let us examine in detail the most important features of this elaborate
broadside.
The centre of attraction is, of course, the surreptitious infant
Prince of Wales, who lies in his cradle to the left of the picture.
Those assembled about him are discussing the possibility of the plot
having been discovered. On his coverlet are various playthings, amongst
which is conspicuous a toy mill, emphasising, of course, the generally
accepted belief that he was the son of a miller, for, in their lying,
James’s enemies were nothing if not circumstantial. This allusive toy
figures in almost all the satiric prints dealing with the Old Pretender.
At the foot of the cradle, which is decorated with an owl, an owlet,
and a snake (emblems of evil), is a pap-bowl and spoon, half concealed
by the arm of “the first mother”[40] (1) {204} who seems to be
pointing out to Father Petre (2), the instigator of the plot, that the
child has been _born too old_. The Father, whose intimacy with the lady
is suggested by a tender fondling of her right hand with his left,
fingers his rosary with the other, and gazes fixedly into her eyes.
[40] It is not easy to decide which of the female figures is intended
to represent Mary of Modena and which the miller’s wife. At first sight
one would expect the Queen to be represented by the central figure 3,
but, on the other hand, I have in my possession a very rare mezzotint
of the period which represents Father Petre and the Queen in almost
identical attitudes as figures 1 and 2 in the present plate. This view
of the matter is supported by the following scandalous verse of the day:
Some priests, they say, crept nigh her honour,
And sprinkled some good holy water upon her,
Which made her conceive of what has undone her.
Edward Petre was one of the best-hated men in the country, and was
popularly looked upon as James’s evil genius. The King would have made
him Archbishop of York, but the Pope refused his dispensation. In the
year preceding the production of this satire he had been made a Privy
Councillor.
[Illustration: “L’Europe alarmée pour le Fils d’un Meunier.” (_The
plate in its first state_)]
[Illustration: _The plate in its second state, now entitled_ “La Cour
De Paix solitaire, entre les Roses piquantes et les Lis”]
In the middle of the picture sits the “second mother” (3) in a
highly-wrought chair, round the legs of which twine carved serpents.
Tears course down her cheeks. With her right hand she points to the
cradle as she listens to the counsels of the papal nuncio Count
Ferdinand d’Adda (4), who, with armour peeping from under {205}
his robes and with his armoured foot treading on his naked weapon,
recommends submission of the whole matter to the arbitrament of the
sword.
Immediately beyond the Cardinal stands Louis XIV. (5), James’s faithful
ally. In one hand he carries a bag of money, referring, doubtless,
to his offer of five hundred thousand livres for the equipment of an
English fleet to oppose the Prince of Orange’s threatened invasion;
with the other he exposes to view a list of his army.
Behind, and to the right of Cardinal d’Adda, Louis’ son, the Dauphin
of France, makes as though he would draw his sword, whilst the Pope
(Innocent XI.), in shadow at the extreme right of the picture (7, the
number is very indistinctly seen on the dark clothing) grasps the keys
of St. Peter, and would seem to be sarcastically doubtful of the whole
affair. “The Pope,” says Voltaire, “founded very little hopes on the
proceedings of James, and constantly refused Petre a cardinal’s hat.”
Beyond the Pope is seen the armoured figure of Leopold I. (8), with the
German eagle on his helmet. With his right hand he grasps his {206}
sword-hilt; with his left he gesticulates as though reminding the war
party that he also has to be reckoned with. No. 9 I cannot identify.
Behind Mary of Modena’s chair stands (13, the figure is on her
breast) Catherine of Braganza, the childless wife of Charles II. She
is doubtless lamenting that, when residing at Whitehall, she had not
herself manufactured a prince on the Modena plan. Next to her (11, the
figure is on the pillar) a doctor of the Sorbonne promises them all
dispensations—a hit at James’s well-known misuse of the dispensing
powers. Next to him, with his right hand convulsively grasping a
roll of charters, stands James himself (10). In his left he carries
parliamentary and corporation papers. With despairing eyes he gazes at
the baby who, so far from giving, as he had fondly hoped, the finishing
touch to the Roman Catholic triumph in England, is likely to prove the
most damning count in the country’s indictment of his iniquities and
treasons. To the left the midwife (12) encourages him to proceed with
the imposture. Below her two monks (14 and 15), greatly alarmed, pray
aloud at the head of the cradle. {207}
Immediately behind them two heralds, one mounted on an ass, blow
on trumpets to call attention to the Dutch fleet, which is seen
approaching through the right-hand arch, whilst through the left a fort
is seen belching forth smoke and resisting the landing of the longboats.
In the left corner of the picture certain Quakers (17, 18, 19), whose
curious friendship with James must not be forgotten, deprecate the
priests’ blasphemies, whilst beyond them a crowd of Irish papists is
suggested by their waving symbols and a torn flag embroidered with the
sacred monogram. Behind the Quakers an oriental-looking person scans
the heavens through a telescope.
The colonnade beneath which all this takes place has its pillars
surmounted by owls and a demoniacal bat. The arches are inscribed
with the words “Het word hier nacht,” and other inscriptions are seen
on the walls. On the extreme right of the picture is reared a banner
bearing what appear to be the words “In utrumque Turgam,” of which it
is difficult to imagine the meaning. “In utramque Furcam,” which would
be intelligible, has been suggested to me as an {208} alternative
reading, but cannot, I think, be accepted. Another friend hazards “In
utrumque (modum) resurgam,” which may be freely translated, “I shall be
‘dormy’ either way,” and would certainly make sense. Farther than that
I cannot go with him.
So much for the first state of this elaborate copperplate which did its
part in propagating the lie which went far to lose for James II. the
crown of England.
After having served this purpose the plate was laid aside for nearly a
quarter of a century. During this period the throne of England had been
occupied by James II.’s two daughters, Mary and Anne, to the exclusion
of their father, who died in exile in 1701, and of the Chevalier de
St. George, whose proclamation by Louis of France as James III. of
England[41] had been followed by the war of the Spanish Succession.
[41] In the Stuart Room at Madresfield Court Lord Beauchamp lately
showed me a portrait of the Chevalier, labelled “James III.”!
In 1713, just twenty-four years after the plate had been engraved,
the Peace of Utrecht, so vitally important as marking the beginning
of {209} England’s commercial prosperity, was signed between England
and France. Amongst other things it secured the Protestant Succession
to the throne of England through the House of Hanover, and the
dismissal of the Chevalier from France. The suspension of arms between
the English and the French which preceded the signing of the treaty
was seized upon as the opportunity for resuscitating the plate and
adapting: it to the altered circumstances. Now did some pictorial
vandal wrench and twist the figures to new and undreamt-of uses and
turn the Council of War of 1688 into the Court of Peace between the
Roses and Lilies of 1712! The plate now professes to be published
in London, though, from the fact that the publication line runs. “A
Londres chez Turner,” and from sundry misspellings, it would appear
certain that the alterations on the plate were effected abroad.
In this second state the plate has been reduced at the top as far as
the capitals of the pillars, and at the bottom as far as the left foot
of the figure which represented Father Petre in the original. The index
figures have also been changed. {210}
The explanation of the design as it now stands is contained in
eighty-three lines of doggerel French verse. Taking the alterations one
by one we find in the first place that the infant and cradle have been
bodily removed, and (1) the “Plan de Paix” substituted. It bears the
legend “Vrede tussen het Lelien en Roosen hof. Paix entre les Lis et
les Roses picantes.”
The central figure (2) of the picture is now changed into an
allegorical personage labelled “Pax,” who holds in her left hand a
paper inscribed “Juste Protestation des Alliés,” whilst with her right
she indicates the “Plan de Paix.” In this way the new artist, with some
ingenuity, suggests that the spirit of peace is in sympathy with the
dissatisfaction of the Allies at the negotiations which are proceeding
between England and France. Her remonstrances are addressed to the
figure on her left (3), which formerly represented Cardinal d’Adda,
but is now labelled “Pole.” (the Abbé Melchior de Polignac), who tries
to allay her forebodings. The difficulty of the Cardinal’s hat, which
is of course out of place on an Abbé, is ingeniously got over by the
writer of the French {211} libretto, who refers to him as a Cardinal
_in petto_. As a matter of fact the writer proved a good prophet,
for, on the conclusion of the peace, for which Polignac was largely
responsible, he was, on the nomination of the Chevalier de St. George,
created and appointed Cardinal Maître de la Chapelle du Roi. He was at
the time of the publication of the altered plate plenipotentiary in
Holland for the French. It will be noticed that the _pince-nez_ and
moustache have now been dispensed with.
The figure behind Polignac (4), which originally stood for the Dauphin,
who, by the way, was but lately dead, is now labelled at the foot
“Mont-or” (the Duke of Ormond’s name reversed), and at the head “Tori.”
By an ingenious turn of thought, the Dauphin’s warlike action of
_drawing_ his sword is now metamorphosed into the Duke’s conciliatory
action of _sheathing_ his. This refers, of course, to the instructions
which he had received from the English Government, on taking over
the command of the troops in the Low Countries from the Duke of
Marlborough, to do all in his power to bring about a peaceful issue.
{212}
Beyond Polignac the figure (5) which formerly represented Louis XIV.
is now put to humbler uses, and merely represents a French herald. The
paper in his left hand, which originally enumerated Louis’ forces, now
bears the gratifying legend:
Bonne Paix
De l’Anglois
Me rend guai.
The lady in front of him (6), who formerly stood for Catherine of
Braganza, now represents Maria Louisa of Savoy, the first wife of
Philip V. of Spain (fortunately for him not such a firebrand as his
second wife proved to be). She turns to her handsome young husband
(7) (here somewhat libellously represented by the whilom “Old Hatchet
Face”) who has just renounced for himself and descendants all claims of
succession to the crown of France. His right hand rests on the scroll
of “charters” as before, but the document in his left now bears the
legend: “Leli afstand onder Conditie” (The lily to surrender under
conditions).
Passing almost to the extreme right of the picture, the eagle-helmeted
figure (8) which {213} before represented the Emperor Leopold I. now
represents his son Charles VI., “Le Seigneur juste de la Cour d’Orient
et Occident.” Clutching his huge sword, he expresses the anger of the
Imperialists at the project for peace between England and France. In
the end he refused to concur in the peace of Utrecht, and continued at
war with France until 1714.
On either side of him are two figures numbered alike (9, 9). That on
his right, which bears the word “Wigh” engraved on his hat, represents
the Duke of Marlborough, the deposed military leader of the Whigs. That
on his left is one of the Duke’s followers, who, by his drawn sword,
points the allusion of the librettist to the “Pacificateur par le fer.”
To the extreme right of the picture (10) the Pope, now Clement XI. in
place of Innocent XI., encourages Polignac in his efforts for peace,
and promises him “La Pourpre” as his reward.
Returning to the middle background of the crowd we find (11, 11) two
Jesuits. The one who looks over the left shoulder of No. 7 was in
the first state of the plate a doctor of the {214} Sorbonne. The
index number of this figure is now on his hat. Originally it was on
the pillar above him. This the adapter has apparently attempted to
turn into a rough ornamentation by the addition of parallel strokes.
Becoming dissatisfied, he has crossed out the whole by irregular
horizontal lines. To the left of figure 7 is seen (12) the Pretender,
the surreptitious infant of the original, now grown to manhood,
whispering in Philip of Spain’s ear that though he claims as a
Protestant the throne of his father, he is in his heart of the Romish
faith. This figure originally represented the midwife, but has been
metamorphosed by the addition of a man’s hat, wig, and ruffles.
To the extreme left of the foreground of the picture the erstwhile
Father Petre is now transformed (13) into a Jesuit confessor, who
amorously converses with (14) “La Courtisane de Bourbon,” Madame de
Maintenon. This cruel aspersion on the character of one who was really,
though secretly, Louis XIV.’s wife, and whose nobleness of character
is now fully established, was characteristic of the times. The Plan
de Paix, {215} which was so obnoxious to the author of the satire,
would seem to have just fallen from her fingers, and doubtless he is
right in recognising that she had a hand in its consummation. Beyond
the table sit a monk and friar (15, 15), as formerly, except that the
removal of the cradle has necessitated an extension of their figures.
In the background, against the left-hand pillar, is (16) the “Harlequin
de France.” In front of him the three figures (17, 18, 19), originally
Quakers, are now referred to as “Esprits Libres.” The man with the
telescope (20) is “The Observer of Foreign Countries.” The other
subordinate figures are the same as before, save for the addition, in
some cases, of index numbers.
It is interesting to notice that this plate was so successful in
its adapted state that it was made the basis of a design engraved
for a German broadside of the following year entitled “Der
Fridens-Hoffzwischen der Rose und der versöhnten Lilie,” with which it
has many points in common.
I have treated of this plate at considerable length because it is
the most important of the palimpsest plates of this period. I shall
close {216} this chapter by reproducing one other remarkable example
designed in its first state to expose the same supposed wicked plot. In
the next chapter I shall give another dealing with the birth of the Old
Pretender, from which we shall gain some idea of the extent to which
this clever stratagem of the adapted copperplate was made use of in the
deliberate days of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
For the present I must pass over two elaborate broadsides engraved by
Jean Bollard, and entitled respectively “Aan den Experten Hollandschen
Hoofd-Smith” (To the Expert Dutch Head-Smith), and “Aan der Meester
Tonge-Slyper” (To the Master Tongue-Grinder). These, as we shall see
later, after doing their work against James II. and the Old Pretender,
were seized upon many years afterwards by the piratical publisher of a
remarkable Jansenist tract, called “Roma Perturbata, Ofte’t Beroerde
Romen, etc.,” and adapted to the uses of the anti-Jesuit propagandum,
in the same way as “L’Europe Alarmée pour le Fils d’un Meunier,”
described above, was adapted after twenty-five years of idleness as a
satire upon the Peace of Utrecht. {217}
It was this same piratical tractarian who seized upon the elaborate
plate which I am here reproducing, divorced it from its letterpress,
cut the plate down to the size of his tract, and appropriated it in its
second state to the purposes of “Roma Perturba ta.”
In its first state, which I give here, together with its accompanying
letterpress, the line of publication runs: “Gisling, Geneve, exc.” and
the title:
Het beest van Babel is aan’t vluesten
Die Godsdienst heeft niet méer te duckten.
(The beast of Babel is flying,
Religion has nothing more to fear.)
[Illustration: Het beest van Babel, etc. (_The plate in its first
state._)]
[Illustration: Het beest van Babel, etc. (_The plate in its second
state._)]
The design is very elaborate and crowded with figures, those in the
foreground being executed with considerable spirit. The Dutch Lion (1)
carries a sword in its right front claws, as does that on the Persian
flag of to-day. On its back rides William of Orange (7) with lance
in rest and bearing a shield upon which St. Michael is represented
combating sin in the shape of a dragon. William is supported by
mounted soldiers, one of whom bears a flag inscribed with {218} the
words “Prot religion and libe”—(For religion and liberty). Over his
head flies a winged Revenge (3) carrying a shield in one hand and
the lightnings of God’s wrath in the other. Before him flies the
seven-headed Beast of Babel (2), shorn of two of his heads, which lie
bleeding on the ground beneath the lion. The monster, which “utters
horrible shrieks,” bears upon its back between its wings Father Petre
(6), who holds on his lap the infant Pretender (5), to whom his “brains
have so infamously given birth.” The too-old infant carries in his hand
the ever-present toy windmill. Blood pours from the decapitated necks
of the Beast as he plunges with his accompanying rabble into the “pool
of horrors.” Priests and other Romish officials, some mounted on goats,
asses, and wolves, flee (4) or are trampled under foot (8).
In the mid background William of Orange (9), by a poetic licence able
to be in two places at once, a fairly common convention even in serious
pictures of that and an earlier date,[42] is being {221} greeted by
the English nobles as their saviour. To the left, through an archway,
James II. (10) is seen fleeing by boat with his wife and infant,
though, as a matter of fact, he remained in England some months after
the latter were safely abroad. To the right, through another arch,
Louis XIV. (11) is seen “embracing the child and taking pity on his
mother,” and putting two of the curious, hearse-like carriages of
the period at their disposal. Here we not only find Mary of Modena
duplicated, but the infant Pretender triplicated in the same picture!
So much for the plate in its first state.
[42] See, for example, Tintoret’s great picture of “Adam and Eve” in
the Accademia at Venice.
In its second and adapted state it takes its place in the armoury of
the anti-Jesuits. The Jansenist controversy was at its height in the
year of grace 1705, and Jansenism, although nominally subject to Rome,
was regarded favourably by the Protestant Dutch as being a reforming
movement within the Roman Catholic Church against the theological
casuistry of the Jesuits.
This is not the place to go into the anti-Jansenist polemics of the
Jesuits since the publication of the “Augustinus” of 1640, though the
{222} interest of the matter is sufficiently tempting. We must content
ourselves with remembering that now at the beginning of a new century
a supreme effort was being made by the Jesuits in France to destroy
completely the pious community of Port Royal; that within four years
they were to succeed in dispersing the nuns; within another year the
cloister itself was to be pulled down; that in 1711 the very bodies of
the departed members of the community were destined to be disinterred
from the burial ground with the greatest brutalities and indecencies;
and in 1713 the church itself demolished.
But, though Port Royal itself was doomed, Jansenism was finding freedom
under the Protestant Government of Holland.
In 1689 Archbishop Codde had been appointed by the Pope Vicar Apostolic
in Holland. Soon, however, it was discovered by the Jesuits that he
favoured the Jansenists.
By the machinations of the Jesuits he was therefore _invited_ to Rome,
and treacherously detained there for _three years_, in defiance of
all canonical regulations. In the meantime the Pope {223} appointed
Theodore de Cock in his place, with the intention of crushing the
Jansenists in Holland. Codde thereupon made his escape from Rome, and
the well-known struggle of the Jansenists of Utrecht and Haarlem for a
legitimate episcopal succession began.
This was the juncture at which our copperplate was to do duty a second
time, and for such different ends.
It has been divorced from its letterpress, altered in certain details
and slightly cut away at the top and bottom. Like those dealing with
the Head Smith and Tongue Sharpener, as will be seen in the next
chapter, it has been appropriated to the uses of “Roma Perturbata.” It
is now entitled on the panel which has been inserted at the spring of
the arches “Door Munnike-Jagt, Word Babel Verkracht” (By chasing monks,
Babel is assailed), and the piratical publisher has made many ingenious
alterations. The possibly punning publication line runs: “Benedictus
Antisolitarius excudit Rom.” Above this appears the chronograph:
“hos heros MonaChos apprenDe bataVe rebeLLes.” {224}
The Lion (1) still represents Holland and hunts the Beast of Babel (2)
assisted by the winged Revenge (3), whose lightnings have now been
increased to seven to represent the heraldic arrows of the Seven United
Provinces. This device also now appears on the shield of Holland’s
Knight (7) in place of that of St. Michael and the Dragon. The banner
of his followers is now inscribed “Pro Secularibus.” As champion of
the Jansenists the Knight puts to rout “all the bald heads (4, 4, 4,
4), together with ‘their protector Kok’” (6), who “in disguise” rides
between the wings of the Beast with an illegitimate child (5) on his
lap, from whose right hand the toy windmill of the infant Pretender
has been removed. In the background to the left, others, in the quaint
words of the Dutch letterpress (10), “escape quickly from the town by
water, while they are clothed like gentlemen in order not to be known
as monks.” In the background to the right, others flee “like great
gentlemen in carriages,” a fairly ingenious adaptation of James II.’s
flight and Louis’ welcome of the fugitives. {225}
The group in the middle background is now made to represent Codde
(8.B), who has escaped from Rome and is being welcomed back by the
representatives of the State (9, 9).
{226}