It was not wonderful that Protestant Germany should be alarmed. After a
century of Protestantism, that Spain should by any possibility come to be
enthroned again over Germany was enough to raise both Luther and Calvin
from their graves. It was certainly enough to set the lively young
palatine in motion. So soon as the election of Frederic was proclaimed,
he had taken up the business in person. Fond of amusement, young, married
to a beautiful bride of the royal house of England, he had hitherto left
politics to his counsellors.

Finding himself frustrated in his ambition by the election of another to
the seat he had fondly deemed his own, he resolved to unseat him if he
could, and, at any rate, to prevent the ulterior consequences of his
elevation. He made a pilgrimage to Sedan, to confer with that
irrepressible intriguer and Huguenot chieftain, the Duc de Bouillon. He
felt sure of the countenance of the States-General, and, of course, of
his near relative the great stadholder. He was resolved to invite the
Duke of Lorraine to head the anti-Austrian party, and to stand for the
kingship of the Romans and the Empire in opposition to Ferdinand. An
emissary sent to Nancy came back with a discouraging reply. The Duke not
only flatly refused the candidacy, but warned the Palatine that if it
really came to a struggle he could reckon on small support anywhere, not
even from those who now seemed warmest for the scheme. Then Frederic
resolved to try his cousin, the great Maximilian of Bavaria, to whom all
Catholics looked with veneration and whom all German Protestants
respected. Had the two branches of the illustrious house of Wittelsbach
been combined in one purpose, the opposition to the House of Austria
might indeed have been formidable. But what were ties of blood compared
to the iron bands of religious love and hatred? How could Maximilian,
sternest of Papists, and Frederick V., flightiest of Calvinists, act
harmoniously in an Imperial election? Moreover, Maximilian was united by