gothic deluge; and now, careering in helm and hauberk with the other ruffians, bandying blows in the thickest of the fight, blasting with bell, book, and candle its trembling enemies, while sovereigns, at the head of armies, grovel in the dust and offer abject submission for the kiss of peace; exercising the same conjury over ignorant baron and cowardly hind, making the fiction of apostolic authority to bind and loose, as prolific in acres as the other divine right to have and hold; thus the force of cultivated intellect, wielded by a chosen few and sanctioned by supernatural authority, becomes as potent as the sword.

A third force, developing itself more slowly, becomes even more potent than the rest:  the power of gold.  Even iron yields to the more ductile metal.  The importance of municipalities, enriched by trade, begins to be felt.  Commerce, the mother of Netherland freedom, and, eventually, its destroyer—­even as in all human history the vivifying becomes afterwards the dissolving principle—­commerce changes insensibly and miraculously the aspect of society.  Clusters of hovels become towered cities; the green and gilded Hanse of commercial republicanism coils itself around the decaying trunk of feudal despotism.  Cities leagued with cities throughout and beyond Christendom-empire within empire-bind themselves closer and closer in the electric chain of human sympathy and grow stronger and stronger by mutual support.  Fishermen and river raftsmen become ocean adventurers and merchant princes.  Commerce plucks up half-drowned Holland by the locks and pours gold into her lap.  Gold wrests power from iron.  Needy Flemish weavers become mighty manufacturers.  Armies of workmen, fifty thousand strong, tramp through the swarming streets.  Silk-makers, clothiers, brewers become the gossips of kings, lend their royal gossips vast sums and burn the royal notes of hand in fires of cinnamon wood.  Wealth brings strength, strength confidence.  Learning to handle cross-bow and dagger, the burghers fear less the baronial sword, finding that their own will cut as well, seeing that great armies—­flowers of chivalry—­can ride away before them fast enough at battles of spurs and other encounters.  Sudden riches beget insolence, tumults, civic broils.  Internecine quarrels, horrible tumults stain the streets with blood, but education lifts the citizens more and more out of the original slough.  They learn to tremble as little at priestcraft as at swordcraft, having acquired something of each.  Gold in the end, unsanctioned by right divine, weighs up the other forces, supernatural as they are.  And so, struggling along their appointed path, making cloth, making money, making treaties with great kingdoms, making war by land and sea, ringing great bells, waving great banners, they, too—­these insolent, boisterous burghers—­accomplish their work.  Thus, the mighty power of the purse develops itself and municipal liberty becomes a substantial fact.  A fact, not a principle; for the old theorem of sovereignty