of Antwerp.  Its bronze was furnished by the cannon captured at Jemmingen.  It represented the Duke trampling upon a prostrate figure with two heads, four arms, and one body.  The two heads were interpreted by some to represent Egmont and Horn, by others, the two Nassaus, William and Louis.  Others saw in them an allegorical presentment of the nobles and commons of the Netherlands, or perhaps an impersonation of the Compromise and the Request.  Besides the chief inscription on the pedestal, were sculptured various bas-reliefs; and the spectator, whose admiration for the Governor-general was not satiated with the colossal statue itself, was at liberty to find a fresh, personification of the hero, either in a torch-bearing angel or a gentle shepherd.  The work, which had considerable esthetic merit, was executed by an artist named Jacob Jongeling.  It remained to astonish and disgust the Netherlanders until it was thrown down and demolished by Alva’s successor, Requesens.

It has already been observed that many princes of the Empire had, at first warmly and afterwards, as the storm darkened around him, with less earnestness, encouraged the efforts of Orange.  They had, both privately and officially, urged the subject upon the attention of the Emperor, and had solicited his intercession with Philip.  It was not an interposition to save the Prince from chastisement, however the artful pen of Granvelle might distort the facts.  It was an address in behalf of religious liberty for the Netherlands, made by those who had achieved it in their own persons, and who were at last enjoying immunity from persecution.  It was an appeal which they who made it were bound to make, for the Netherland commissioners had assisted at the consultations by which the Peace of Passau had been wrung from the reluctant hand of Charles.

These applications, however, to the Emperor, and through him to the King of Spain, had been, as we have seen, accompanied by perpetual advice to the Prince of Orange, that he should “sit still.”  The Emperor had espoused his cause with apparent frankness, so far as friendly mediation went, but in the meantime had peremptorily commanded him to refrain from levying war upon Alva, an injunction which the Prince had as peremptorily declined to obey.  The Emperor had even sent especial envoys to the Duke and to the Prince, to induce them to lay down their arms, but without effect.  Orange knew which course was the more generous to his oppressed country; to take up arms, now that hope had been converted into despair by the furious tyranny of Alva, or to “sit still” and await the result of the protocols about to be exchanged between king and kaiser.  His arms had been unsuccessful indeed, but had he attended the issue of this sluggish diplomacy, it would have been even worse for the cause of freedom.  The sympathy of his best friends, at first fervent then lukewarm, had, as disasters thickened around him, grown at last stone-cold.  From the grave, too, of Queen Isabella arose the most importunate phantom in his path.  The King of Spain was a widower again, and the Emperor among his sixteen children had more than one marriageable daughter.  To the titles of “beloved cousin and brother-in-law,” with which Philip had always been greeted in the Imperial proclamations, the nearer and dearer one of son-in-law was prospectively added.