The Rise of the Dutch Kingdom
1795-1813
A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE EARLY DEVELOPMENT
OF THE MODERN KINGDOM OF THE NETHERLANDS
BY
Hendrik Willem van Loon,
ILLUSTRATED
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1915
DEDICATION
This little book, telling the story of our national usurpation by aforeign enemy during the beginning of the nineteenth century, appears ata moment when our nearest neighbours are suffering the same fate whichbefell us more than a hundred years ago.
I dedicate my work to the five soldiers of the Belgian army who saved mylife near Waerloos.
I hope that their grandchildren may read a story of national revivalwhich will be as complete and happy as that of our own land.
Brussels, Belgium,
Christmas night, 1914.
APOLOGIA
And for those other faults of barbarism, Doric dialect, extemporaneanstyle, tautologies, apish imitation, a rhapsody of rags gatheredtogether from several dung-hills, excrements of authors, toys andfopperies confusedly tumbled out, without art, invention, judgment, wit,learning, harsh, raw, rude, fantastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet,ill-composed, indigested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull, and dry, I confessall ('tis partly affected); thou canst not think worse of me than I doof myself.
So that as a river runs, sometimes precipitate and swift, then dull andslow; now direct, then per ambages; now deep, then shallow; now muddy,then clear; now broad, then narrow; doth my style flow: now serious,then light; now comical, then satirical; now more elaborate, thenremiss, as the present subject required or as at that time I wasaffected. And if thou vouchsafe to read this treatise, it shall seem nootherwise to thee than the way to an ordinary traveller, sometimes fair,sometimes foul, here champaign, there enclosed; barren in one place,better soil in another.
—Anatomy of Melancholy.—Burton.
FOREWORD
This foreword is an afterthought. It was written when the first proofsof the book had gone back to the printer. And this is how it took itsorigin:
A few days ago I received a copy of a Dutch historical magazinecontaining a violent attack upon one of my former books. The reviewer,who evidently neither had taken the time to read my book nor had takenthe trouble to understand what I was trying to say, accused me amongother things of a haughty contempt for my forefathers during their timeof decline. Haughty contempt, indeed! Nay, Brother of the Acrid Pen, wasit not the truth which hurt thee so unexpectedly rather than my scornfulirony?
There are those who claim that reviews do not matter. There are thosewho, when their work is talked about with supercilious ignorance, claimthat an author ought to forget what has been said about his work. Piouswish! The writer who really cares for his work can no more forget anundeserved insult to the product of his brain than he can forgive aharsh word given unmerited to one of his children. The thing rankles.And in my desire to see a pleasant face, to talk this hurt away, as soonas I arrived this morning in New York I went to see a friend. He has anoffice downtown. It overlooks the harbour. From its window one beholdsthe