rminate all who disputed that position. There was
another country which protested against that doctrine, and claimed,
theoretically or practically, a liberty of conscience. The territory of
these countries was mapped out by no visible lines, but the inhabitants
of each, whether resident in France, Germany, England, or Flanders,
recognised a relationship which took its root in deeper differences than
those of race or language. It was not entirely a question of doctrine or
dogma. A large portion of the world had become tired of the antiquated
delusion of a papal supremacy over every land, and had recorded its
determination, once for all, to have done with it. The transition to
freedom of conscience became a necessary step, sooner or later to be
taken. To establish the principle of toleration for all religions was an
inevitable consequence of the Dutch revolt; although thus far, perhaps
only one conspicuous man in advance of his age had boldly announced that
doctrine and had died in its defence. But a great true thought never
dies--though long buried in the earth--and the day was to come, after
long years, when the seed was to ripen into a harvest of civil and
religious emancipation, and when the very word toleration was to sound
like an insult and an absurdity.

A vast responsibility rested upon the head of a monarch, placed as Philip
II. found himself, at this great dividing point in modern history. To
judge him, or any man in such a position, simply from his own point of
view, is weak and illogical. History judges the man according to its
point of view. It condemns or applauds the point of view itself. The
point of view of a malefactor is not to excuse robbery and murder. Nor is
the spirit of the age to be pleaded in defence of the evil-doer at a time
when mortals were divided into almost equal troops. The age of Philip II.
was also the age of William of Orange and his four brethren, of Sainte
Aldegonde, of Olden-Barneveldt, of Duplessis-Mornay, La Noue, Coligny, of
Luther, Melancthon, and Calvin, Walsingham, Sidney, Raleigh, Queen
Elizabeth, of Michael Montaigne, and William Shakspeare. It was not an
age of blindness, but of glorious light. If the man whom the Maker of the
Universe had permitted to be born to such boundless functions, chose to
put out his own eyes that he might grope along his great pathway of duty
in perpetual darkness, by his deeds he must be judged. The King perhaps
firmly believed that the heretics