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arrears of tribute from the Austrian dominions. Charles had the
money and army of Spain at his disposal, but it was extremely
difficult to get any effective support in money from Germany. His
social and political troubles were complicated by financial distresses.
He was forced to ruinous borrowing.
THE CHARLES V PORTRAIT BY TITIAN
(In the Gallery del Prado, Madrid)
Photo: Anderson
 On the whole, Charles, in alliance with Henry VIII, was successful
against Francis I and the Turk. Their chief battlefield was North Italy;
the generalship was dull on both sides; their advances and retreats
depended mainly on the arrival of reinforcements. The German army
invaded France, failed to take Marseilles, fell back into Italy, lost
Milan, and was besieged in Pavia. Francis I made a long and
unsuccessful siege of Pavia, was caught by fresh German forces,
defeated, wounded and taken prisoner. But thereupon the Pope and
Henry VIII, still haunted by the fear of his attaining excessive power,
turned against Charles. The German troops in Milan, under the
Constable of Bourbon, being unpaid, forced rather than followed
their commander into a raid upon Rome. They stormed the city and
pillaged it (1527). The Pope took refuge in the Castle of St. Angelo
while the looting and slaughter went on. He bought off the German
troops at last by the payment of four hundred thousand ducats. Ten
years of such confused fighting impoverished all Europe. At last the
Emperor found himself triumphant in Italy. In 1530, he was crowned
by the Pope—he was the last German Emperor to be so crowned—at
Bologna.
Meanwhile the Turks were making great headway in Hungary.
They had defeated and killed the king of Hungary in 1526, they held
Buda-Pesth, and in 1529 Suleiman the Magnificent very nearly took
Vienna. The Emperor was greatly concerned by these advances, and
did his utmost to drive back the Turks, but he found the greatest
difficulty in getting the German princes to unite even with this
formidable enemy upon their very borders. Francis I remained
implacable for a time, and there was a new French war; but in 1538
Charles won his rival over to a more friendly attitude after ravaging
the south of France. Francis and Charles then formed an alliance
against the Turk. But the Protestant princes, the German princes
who were resolved to break away from Rome, had formed a league,
the Schmalkaldic League, against the Emperor, and in the place of a
great campaign to recover Hungary for Christendom Charles had to
turn his mind to the gathering internal struggle in Germany. Of that
struggle he saw only the opening war. It was a struggle, a
sanguinary irrational bickering of princes, for ascendancy, now
flaming into war and destruction, now sinking back to intrigues and
diplomacies; it was a snake’s sack of princely policies that was to go
on writhing incurably right into the nineteenth century and to waste
and desolate Central Europe again and again.
The Emperor never seems to have grasped the true forces at work
in these gathering troubles. He was for his time and station an
exceptionally worthy man, and he seems to have taken the religious
dissensions that were tearing Europe into warring fragments as
genuine theological differences. He gathered diets and councils in
futile attempts at reconciliation. Formulæ and confessions were tried
over. The student of German history must struggle with the details of
the Religious Peace of Nuremberg, the settlement at the Diet of
Ratisbon, the Interim of Augsburg, and the like. Here we do but
mention them as details in the worried life of this culminating
Emperor. As a matter of fact, hardly one of the multifarious princes
and rulers in Europe seems to have been acting in good faith. The
widespread religious trouble of the world, the desire of the common
people for truth and social righteousness, the spreading knowledge
of the time, all those things were merely counters in the
imaginations of princely diplomacy. Henry VIII of England, who had
begun his career with a book against heresy, and who had been
rewarded by the Pope with the title of “Defender of the Faith,” being
anxious to divorce his first wife in favour of a young lady named
Anne Boleyn, and wishing also to loot the vast wealth of the church
in England, joined the company of Protestant princes in 1530.
Sweden, Denmark and Norway had already gone over to the
Protestant side.
The German religious war began in 1546, a few months after the
death of Martin Luther. We need not trouble about the incidents of
the campaign. The Protestant Saxon army was badly beaten at
Lochau. By something very like a breach of faith Philip of Hesse, the
Emperor’s chief remaining antagonist, was caught and imprisoned,
and the Turks were bought off by the promise of an annual tribute.
In 1547, to the great relief of the Emperor, Francis I died. So by
1547 Charles got to a kind of settlement, and made his last efforts to
effect peace where there was no peace. In 1552 all Germany was at
war again, only a precipitate flight from Innsbruck saved Charles
from capture, and in 1552, with the treaty of Passau, came another
unstable equilibrium ....
Such is the brief outline of the politics of the Empire for thirty-two
years. It is interesting to note how entirely the European mind was
concentrated upon the struggle for European ascendancy. Neither
Turks, French, English nor Germans had yet discovered any political
interest in the great continent of America, nor any significance in the
new sea routes to Asia. Great things were happening in America;
Cortez with a mere handful of men had conquered the great
Neolithic empire of Mexico for Spain, Pizarro had crossed the
Isthmus of Panama (1530) and subjugated another wonder-land,
Peru. But as yet these events meant no more to Europe than a
useful and stimulating influx of silver to the Spanish treasury.
It was after the treaty of Passau that Charles began to display his
distinctive originality of mind. He was now entirely bored and
disillusioned by his imperial greatness. A sense of the intolerable
futility of these European rivalries came upon him. He had never
been of a very sound constitution, he was naturally indolent and he
was suffering greatly from gout. He abdicated. He made over all his
sovereign rights in Germany to his brother Ferdinand, and Spain and
the Netherlands he resigned to his son Philip. Then in a sort of
magnificent dudgeon he retired to a monastery at Yuste, among the
oak and chestnut forests in the hills to the north of the Tagus valley.
There he died in 1558.
Much has been written in a sentimental vein of this retirement,
this renunciation of the world by this tired majestic Titan, world-
weary, seeking in an austere solitude his peace with God. But his
retreat was neither solitary nor austere; he had with him nearly a
hundred and fifty attendants: his establishment had all the
splendour and indulgences without the fatigues or a court, and Philip
II was a dutiful son to whom his father’s advice was a command.
 INTERIOR OF ST. PETER’S, ROME, SHOWING THE HIGH
ALTAR
Photo: Alinari

And if Charles had lost his living interest in the administration of

European affairs, there were other motives of a more immediate sort
to stir him. Says Prescott: “In the almost daily correspondence
between Quixada, or Gaztelu, and the Secretary of State at
Valladolid, there is scarcely a letter that does not turn more or less
on the Emperor’s eating or his illness. The one seems naturally to
follow, like a running commentary, on the other. It is rare that such
topics have formed the burden of communications with the
department of state. It must have been no easy matter for the
secretary to preserve his gravity in the perusal of despatches in
which politics and gastronomy were so strangely mixed together.
The courier from Valladolid to Lisbon was ordered to make a detour,
so as to take Jarandilla in his route, and bring supplies to the royal
table. On Thursdays he was to bring fish to serve for the jour maigre
that was to follow. The trout in the neighbourhood Charles thought
too small, so others of a larger size were to be sent from Valladolid.
Fish of every kind was to his taste, as, indeed, was anything that in
its nature or habits at all approached to fish. Eels, frogs, oysters,
occupied an important place in the royal bill of fare. Potted fish,
especially anchovies, found great favour with him; and he regretted
that he had not brought a better supply of these from the Low
Countries. On an eel-pasty he particularly doted.” ... [1]
In 1554 Charles had obtained a bull from Pope Julius III granting
him a dispensation from fasting, and allowing him to break his fast
early in the morning even when he was to take the sacrament.
Eating and doctoring! it was a return to elemental things. He had
never acquired the habit of reading, but he would be read aloud to
at meals after the fashion of Charlemagne, and would make what
one narrator describes as a “sweet and heavenly commentary.” He
also amused himself with mechanical toys, by listening to music or
sermons, and by attending to the imperial business that still came
drifting in to him. The death of the Empress, to whom he was
greatly attached, had turned his mind towards religion, which in his
case took a punctilious and ceremonial form; every Friday in Lent he
scourged himself with the rest of the monks with such good will as
to draw blood. These exercises and the gout released a bigotry in
Charles that had hitherto been restrained by considerations of policy.
The appearance of Protestant teaching close at hand in Valladolid
roused him to fury. “Tell the grand inquisitor and his council from me
to be at their posts, and to lay the axe at the root of the evil before
it spreads further.” . .. He expressed a doubt whether it would not be
well, in so black an affair, to dispense with the ordinary course of
justice, and to show no mercy; “lest the criminal, if pardoned, should
have the opportunity of repeating his crime.” He recommended, as
an example, his own mode or proceeding in the Netherlands, “where
all who remained obstinate in their errors were burned alive, and
those who were admitted to penitence were beheaded.”
And almost symbolical of his place and role in history was his
preoccupation with funerals. He seems to have had an intuition that
something great was dead in Europe and sorely needed burial, that
there was a need to write Finis, overdue. He not only attended every
actual funeral that was celebrated at Yuste, but he had services
conducted for the absent dead, he held a funeral service in memory
of his wife on the anniversary of her death, and finally he celebrated
his own obsequies.
“The chapel was hung with black, and the blaze of hundreds of
wax-lights was scarcely sufficient to dispel the darkness. The
brethren in their conventual dress, and all the Emperor’s household
clad in deep mourning, gathered round a huge catafalque, shrouded
also in black, which had been raised in the centre of the chapel. The
service for the burial of the dead was then performed; and, amidst
the dismal wail of the monks, the prayers ascended for the departed
spirit, that it might be received into the mansions of the blessed.
The sorrowful attendants were melted to tears, as the image of their
master’s death was presented to their minds—or they were touched,
it may be, with compassion by this pitiable display of weakness.
Charles, muffled in a dark mantle, and bearing a lighted candle in his
hand, mingled with his household, the spectator of his own
obsequies; and the doleful ceremony was concluded by his placing
the taper in the hands of the priest, in sign of his surrendering up
his soul to the Almighty.”
 Within two months of this masquerade he was dead. And the brief
greatness of the Holy Roman Empire died with him. His realm was
already divided between his brother and his son. The Holy Roman
Empire struggled on indeed to the days of Napoleon I but as an
invalid and dying thing. To this day its unburied tradition still poisons
the political air.
[1] Prescott’s Appendix to Robertson’s History of Charles V.
 LII
THE AGE OF POLITICAL EXPERIMENTS; OF
GRAND MONARCHY AND PARLIAMENTS AND
REPUBLICANISM IN EUROPE

The Latin Church was broken, the Holy Roman Empire was in
extreme decay; the history of Europe from the opening of the
sixteenth century onward is a story of peoples feeling their way
darkly to some new method of government, better adapted to the
new conditions that were arising. In the Ancient World, over long
periods of time, there had been changes of dynasty and even
changes of ruling race and language, but the form of government
through monarch and temple remained fairly stable, and still more
stable was the ordinary way of living. In this modern Europe since
the sixteenth century the dynastic changes are unimportant, and the
interest of history lies in the wide and increasing variety of
experiments in political and social organization.
The political history of the world from the sixteenth century
onward was, we have said, an effort, a largely unconscious effort, of
mankind to adapt its political and social methods to certain new
conditions that had now arisen. The effort to adapt was complicated
by the fad that the conditions themselves were changing with a
steadily increasing rapidity. The adaptation, mainly unconscious and
almost always unwilling (for man in general hates voluntary change),
has lagged more and more behind the alterations in conditions.
From the sixteenth century onward the history of mankind is a story
of political and social institutions becoming more and more plainly
misfits, less comfortable and more vexatious, and of the slow
reluctant realization of the need for a conscious and deliberate
reconstruction of the whole scheme of human societies in the face of
needs and possibilities new to all the former experiences of life.
What are these changes in the conditions of human life that have
disorganized that balance of empire, priest, peasant and trader, with
periodic refreshment by barbaric conquest, that has held human
affairs in the Old World in a sort of working rhythm for more than a
hundred centuries?
They are manifold and various, for human affairs are
multitudinously complex; but the main changes seem all to turn
upon one cause, namely the growth and extension of a knowledge
of the nature of things, beginning first of all in small groups of
intelligent people and spreading at first slowly, and in the last five
hundred years very rapidly, to larger and larger proportions of the
general population.
But there has also been a great change in human conditions due
to a change in the spirit of human life. This change has gone on side
by side with the increase and extension of knowledge, and is subtly
connected with it. There has been an increasing disposition to treat
a life based on the common and more elementary desires and
gratifications as unsatisfactory, and to seek relationship with and
service and participation in a larger life. This is the common
characteristic of all the great religions that have spread throughout
the world in the last twenty odd centuries, Buddhism, Christianity
and Islam alike. They have had to do with the spirit of man in a way
that the older religions did not have to do. They are forces quite
different in their nature and effect from the old fetishistic blood-
sacrifice religions of priest and temple that they have in part
modified and in part replaced. They have gradually evolved a self-
respect in the individual and a sense of participation and
responsibility in the common concerns of mankind that did not exist
among the populations of the earlier civilizations.
The first considerable change in the conditions of political and
social life was the simplification and extended use of writing in the
ancient civilizations which made larger empires and wider political
understandings practicable and inevitable. The next movement
forward came with the introduction of the horse, and later on of the
camel as a means of transport, the use of wheeled vehicles, the
extension of roads and the increased military efficiency due to the
discovery of terrestrial iron. Then followed the profound economic
disturbances due to the device of coined money and the change in
the nature of debt, proprietorship and trade due to this convenient
but dangerous convention. The empires grew in size and range, and
men’s ideas grew likewise to correspond with these things. Came the
disappearance of local gods, the age of theocrasia, and the teaching
of the great world religions. Came also the beginnings of reasoned
and recorded history and geography, the first realization by man of
his profound ignorance, and the first systematic search for
knowledge.
For a time the scientific process which began so brilliantly in
Greece and Alexandria was interrupted. The raids of the Teutonic
barbarians, the westward drive of the Mongolian peoples, convulsive
religious reconstruction and great pestilences put enormous strains
upon political and social order. When civilization emerged again from
this phase of conflict and confusion, slavery was no longer the basis
of economic life; and the first paper-mills were preparing a new
medium for collective information and co-operation in printed matter.
Gradually at this point and that, the search for knowledge, the
systematic scientific process, was resumed.
And now from the sixteenth century onward, as an inevitable by-
product of systematic thought, appeared a steadily increasing series
of inventions and devices affecting the intercommunication and
interaction of men with one another. They all tended towards wider
range of action, greater mutual benefits or injuries, and increased
co-operation, and they came faster and faster. Men’s minds had not
been prepared for anything of the sort, and until the great
catastrophes at the beginning of the twentieth century quickened
men’s minds, the historian has very little to tell of any intelligently
planned attempts to meet the new conditions this increasing flow of
inventions was creating. The history of mankind for the last four
centuries is rather like that of an imprisoned sleeper, stirring clumsily
and uneasily while the prison that restrains and shelters him catches
fire, not waking but incorporating the crackling and warmth of the
fire with ancient and incongruous dreams, than like that of a man
consciously awake to danger and opportunity.
Since history is the story not of individual lives but of
communities, it is inevitable that the inventions that figure most in
the historical record are inventions affecting communications. In the
sixteenth century the chief new things that we have to note are the
appearance of printed paper and the sea-worthy, ocean-going sailing
ship using the new device of the mariner’s compass. The former
cheapened, spread, and revolutionized teaching, public information
and discussion, and the fundamental operations of political activity.
The latter made the round world one. But almost equally important
was the increased utilization and improvement of guns and
gunpowder which the Mongols had first brought westward in the
thirteenth century. This destroyed the practical immunity of barons
in their castles and of walled cities. Guns swept away feudalism.
Constantinople fell to guns. Mexico and Peru fell before the terror of
the Spanish guns.
 CROMWELL DISSOLVES THE LONG PARLIAMENT AND SO
BECOMES AUTOCRAT OF THE ENGLISH REPUBLIC
(From a contemporary satirical print in the British Museum)

The seventeenth century saw the development of systematic

scientific publication, a less conspicuous but ultimately far more
pregnant innovation. Conspicuous among the leaders in this great
forward step was Sir Francis Bacon (1561-1626) afterwards Lord
Verulam, Lord Chancellor of England. He was the pupil and perhaps
the mouthpiece of another Englishman; Dr. Gilbert, the experimental
philosopher of Colchester (1540-1603). This second Bacon, like the
first, preached observation and experiment, and he used the
inspiring and fruitful form of a Utopian story, The New Atlantis, to
express his dream of a great service of scientific research.
 Presently arose the Royal Society of London, the Florentine
Society, and later other national bodies for the encouragement of
research and the publication and exchange of knowledge. These
European scientific societies became fountains not only of countless
inventions but also of a destructive criticism of the grotesque
theological history of the world that had dominated and crippled
human thought for many centuries.
Neither the seventeenth nor the eighteenth century witnessed any
innovations so immediately revolutionary in human conditions as
printed paper and the ocean-going ship, but there was a steady
accumulation of knowledge and scientific energy that was to bear its
full fruits in the nineteenth century. The exploration and mapping of
the world went on. Tasmania, Australia, New Zealand appeared on
the map. In Great Britain in the eighteenth century coal coke began
to be used for metallurgical purposes, leading to a considerable
cheapening of iron and to the possibility of casting and using it in
larger pieces than had been possible before, when it had been
smelted with wood charcoal. Modern machinery dawned.
Like the trees of the celestial city, science bears bud and flower
and fruit at the same time and continuously. With the onset of the
nineteenth century the real fruition of science—which indeed
henceforth may never cease—began. First came steam and steel,
the railway, the great liner, vast bridges and buildings, machinery of
almost limitless power, the possibility of a bountiful satisfaction of
every material human need, and then, still more wonderful, the
hidden treasures of electrical science were opened to men ....
We have compared the political and social life of man from the
sixteenth century onward to that of a sleeping prisoner who lies and
dreams while his prison burns about him. In the sixteenth century
the European mind was still going on with its Latin Imperial dream,
its dream of a Holy Roman Empire, united under a Catholic Church.
But just as some uncontrollable element in our composition will insist
at times upon introducing into our dreams the most absurd and
destructive comments, so thrust into this dream we find the sleeping
face and craving stomach of the Emperor Charles V, while Henry VIII
of England and Luther tear the unity of Catholicism to shreds.

THE COURT AT VERSAILLES

(From the print after Watteau in the British Museum)

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the dream turned to

personal monarchy. The history of nearly all Europe during this
period tells with variations the story of an attempt to consolidate a
monarchy, to make it absolute and to extend its power over weaker
adjacent regions, and of the steady resistance, first of the
landowners and then with the increase of foreign trade and home
industry, of the growing trading and moneyed class, to the exaction
and interference of the crown. There is no universal victory of either
side; here it is the King who gets the upper hand while there it is the
man of private property who beats the King. In one case we find a
King becoming the sun and centre of his national world, while just
over his borders a sturdy mercantile class maintains a republic. So
wide a range of variation shows how entirely experimental, what
local accidents, were all the various governments of this period.
A very common figure in these national dramas is the King’s
minister, often in the still Catholic countries a prelate, who stands
behind the King, serves him and dominates him by his indispensable
services.
Here in the limits set to us it is impossible to tell these various
national dramas in detail. The trading folk of Holland went Protestant
and republican, and cast off the rule of Philip II of Spain, the son of
the Emperor Charles V. In England Henry VIII and his minister
Wolsey, Queen Elizabeth and her minister Burleigh, prepared the
foundations of an absolutism that was wrecked by the folly of James
I and Charles I. Charles I was beheaded for treason to his people
(1649), a new turn in the political thought of Europe. For a dozen
years (until 1660) Britain was a republic; and the crown was an
unstable power, much overshadowed by Parliament, until George III
(1760-1820) made a strenuous and partly successful effort to restore
its predominance. The King of France, on the other hand, was the
most successful of all the European Kings in perfecting monarchy.
Two great ministers, Richelieu (1585-1642) and Mazarin (1602-
1661), built up the power of the crown in that country, and the
process was aided by the long reign and very considerable abilities
of King Louis XIV, “the Grand Monarque” (1643-1715).
Louis XIV was indeed the pattern King of Europe. He was, within
his limitations, an exceptionally capable King; his ambition was
stronger than his baser passions, and he guided his country towards
bankruptcy through the complication of a spirited foreign policy with
an elaborate dignity that still extorts our admiration. His immediate
desire was to consolidate and extend France to the Rhine and
Pyrenees, and to absorb the Spanish Netherlands; his remoter view
saw the French Kings as the possible successors of Charlemagne in a
recast Holy Roman Empire. He made bribery a state method almost
more important than warfare. Charles II of England was in his pay,
and so were most of the Polish nobility, presently to be described.
His money, or rather the money of the tax- paying classes in France,
went everywhere. But his prevailing occupation was splendour. His
great palace at Versailles with its salons, its corridors, its mirrors, its
terraces and fountains and parks and prospects, was the envy and
admiration of the world.

THE SACK OF A VILLAGE DURING THE FRENCH

REVOLUTION
(From Callot’s “Miseres de la Guerre”)

He provoked a universal imitation. Every king and princelet in

Europe was building his own Versailles as much beyond his means
as his subjects and credits would permit. Everywhere the nobility
rebuilt or extended their chateaux to the new pattern. A great
industry of beautiful and elaborate fabrics and furnishings
developed. The luxurious arts flourished everywhere; sculpture in
alabaster, faience, gilt woodwork, metal work, stamped leather,
much music, magnificent painting, beautiful printing and bindings,
fine crockery, fine vintages. Amidst the mirrors and fine furniture
went a strange race of “gentlemen” in tall powdered wigs, silks and
laces, poised upon high red heels, supported by amazing canes; and
still more wonderful “ladies,” under towers of powdered hair and
wearing vast expansions of silk and satin sustained on wire. Through
it all postured the great Louis, the sun of his world, unaware of the
meagre and sulky and bitter faces that watched him from those
lower darknesses to which his sunshine did not penetrate.
 The German people remained politically divided throughout this
period of the monarchies and experimental governments, and a
considerable number of ducal and princely courts aped the
splendours of Versailles on varying scales. The Thirty Years’ War
(1618-48), a devastating scramble among the Germans, Swedes and
Bohemians for fluctuating political advantages, sapped the energies
of Germany for a century. A map must show the crazy patchwork in
which this struggle ended, a map of Europe according to the peace
of Westphalia (1648). One sees a tangle of principalities, dukedoms,
free states and the like, some partly in and partly out of the Empire.
Sweden’s arm, the reader will note, reached far into Germany; and
except for a few islands of territory within the imperial boundaries
France was still far from the Rhine. Amidst this patchwork the
Kingdom of Prussia—it became a Kingdom in 1701—rose steadily to
prominence and sustained a series of successful wars. Frederick the
Great of Prussia (1740-86) had his Versailles at Potsdam, where his
court spoke French, read French literature and rivalled the culture of
the French King.
In 1714 the Elector of Hanover became King of England, adding
one more to the list of monarchies half in and half out of the empire.
The Austrian branch of the descendants of Charles V retained the
title of Emperor; the Spanish branch retained Spain. But now there
was also an Emperor of the East again. After the fall of
Constantinople (1453), the grand duke of Moscow, Ivan the Great
(1462-1505), claimed to be heir to the Byzantine throne and
adopted the Byzantine double-headed eagle upon his arms. His
grandson, Ivan IV, Ivan the Terrible (1533-1584), assumed the
imperial title of Cæsar (Tsar). But only in the latter half of the
seventeenth century did Russia cease to seem remote and Asiatic to
the European mind. The Tsar Peter the Great (1682-1725) brought
Russia into the arena of Western affairs. He built a new capital for
his empire, Petersburg upon the Neva, that played the part of a
window between Russia and Europe, and he set up his Versailles at
Peterhof eighteen miles away, employing a French architect who
gave him a terrace, fountains, cascades, picture gallery, park and all
the recognized appointments of Grand Monarchy. In Russia as in
Prussia French became the language of the court.
Unhappily placed between Austria, Prussia and Russia was the
Polish kingdom, an ill-organized state of great landed proprietors too
jealous of their own individual grandeur to permit more than a
nominal kingship to the monarch they elected. Her fate was division
among these three neighbours, in spite of the efforts of France to
retain her as an independent ally. Switzerland at this time was a
group of republican cantons; Venice was a republic; Italy like so