The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1555 | Page 9

Protestant chaplains. Lutheran preachers marched from city to city of
the Netherlands under the imperial banner, while the subjects of those
patrimonial provinces were daily suffering on the scaffold for their
nonconformity. The influence of this garrison-preaching upon the
progress of the Reformation in the Netherlands is well known. Charles
hated Lutherans, but he required soldiers, and he thus helped by his
own policy to disseminate what had he been the fanatic which he
perhaps became in retirement, he would have sacrificed his life to crush.
It is quite true that the growing Calvinism of the provinces was more
dangerous both religiously and politically, than the Protestantism of the
German princes, which had not yet been formally pronounced heresy,
but it is thus the more evident that it was political rather than religious
heterodoxy which the despot wished to suppress.
No man, however, could have been more observant of religious rites.
He heard mass daily. He listened to a sermon every Sunday and holiday.
He confessed and received the sacrament four times a year. He was
sometimes to be seen in his tent at midnight, on his knees before a
crucifix with eyes and hands uplifted. He ate no meat in Lent, and used
extraordinary diligence to discover and to punish any man, whether
courtier or plebeian, who failed to fast during the whole forty days. He
was too good a politician not to know the value of broad phylacteries
and long prayers. He was too nice an observer of human nature not to

know how easily mint and cummin could still outweigh the "weightier
matters of law, judgment, mercy and faith;" as if the founder of the
religion which he professed, and to maintain which he had established
the inquisition and the edicts, had never cried woe upon the Pharisees.
Yet there is no doubt that the Emperor was at times almost popular in
the Netherlands, and that he was never as odious as his successor.
There were some deep reasons for this, and some superficial ones;
among others, a singularly fortunate manner. He spoke German,
Spanish, Italian, French, and Flemish, and could assume the
characteristics of each country as easily as he could use its language.
He could be stately with Spaniards, familiar with Flemings witty with
Italians. He could strike down a bull in the ring like a matador at
Madrid, or win the prize in the tourney like a knight of old; he could
ride at the ring with the Flemish nobles, hit the popinjay with his
crossbow among Antwerp artisans, or drink beer and exchange rude
jests with the boors of Brabant. For virtues such as these, his grave
crimes against God and man, against religion and chartered and
solemnly-sworn rights have been palliated, as if oppression became
more tolerable because the oppressor was an accomplished linguist and
a good marksman.
But the great reason for his popularity no doubt lay in his military
genius. Charles was inferior to no general of his age. "When he was
born into the world," said Alva, "he was born a soldier," and the
Emperor confirmed the statement and reciprocated the compliment,
when he declared that "the three first captains of the age were himself
first, and then the Duke of Alva and Constable Montmorency." It is
quite true that all his officers were not of the same opinion, and many
were too apt to complain that his constant presence in the field did
more harm than good, and "that his Majesty would do much better to
stay at home." There is, however, no doubt that he was both a good
soldier and a good general. He was constitutionally fearless, and he
possessed great energy and endurance. He was ever the first to arm
when a battle was to be fought, and the last to take off his harness. He
commanded in person and in chief, even when surrounded by veterans
and crippled by the gout. He was calm in great reverses. It was said that
he was never known to change color except upon two occasions: after
the fatal destruction of his fleet at Algiers, and in the memorable flight

from Innspruck. He was of a phlegmatic, stoical temperament, until
shattered by age and disease; a man without a sentiment and without a
tear. It was said by Spaniards that he was never seen to weep, even at
the death of his nearest relatives and friends, except on the solitary
occasion of the departure of Don Ferrante Gonzaga from court. Such a
temperament was invaluable in the stormy career to which he had
devoted his life. He was essentially a man of action, a military chieftain.
"Pray only for my health and my life," he was accustomed to say to the
young officers who came to him from every part