CHAPTER II.

HOW THE SPANISH FLEET ENTERED THE SOLENT SEA.

HOW THE SPANISH FLEET ENTERED THE SOLENT SEA.

HOW THE SPANISH FLEET ENTERED THE SOLENT SEA.

Early on the morning of the 19th of July, 1554, the long-looked-for Spanish fleet, conveying the royal bridegroom to our shores, was descried from the loftiest hill of the Isle of Wight, and presented a most magnificent spectacle as it neared that lovely island.

Consisting, as we have intimated, of a hundred and fifty sail—a third of the number being vessels of large size—the fleet formed a wide half-moon, in the midst of which rode the stately ship bearing Philip and the principal nobles of his suite. The “Santissima Trinidada” rose like a towered castle from the water. From the lofty crenellated turret at the stern floated a broad banner, embroidered in gold, with the arms of Castile and Aragon; its masts, and the turret at the forecastle, corresponding with that at the stern, were gaudily painted; and the sides elaborately carved and covered with devices, were so richly burnished, that the waves shone with their glow. Armed with the heaviest guns then in use, this splendid vessel had on board, besides her crews and the Prince’s suite, three hundred fully equipped arquebusiers.

Other ships there were scarcely inferior to the “Santissima Trinidada” in size and splendour, displaying banners and streamers, and richly painted and decorated according to the Spanish fashion, and all well provided with men and ordnance.

Never before had such a superb fleet ploughed those waters; and when, at a later hour in the day, the LordHigh Admiral caught sight of it, he was sore angered, and internally vowed to lower the Spaniard’s pride.

A soft westerly breeze filling the sails, impelled the ships gently on their way, though the surface of the sea was but little agitated. Having risen with the dawn, Philip was now on deck with the Duke of Alva, enjoying the ravishing beauty of the morning, and gazing at the land he was approaching. He could not help being struck by the bold outline and precipitous cliffs of the island in his immediate vicinity, and noted with wonder the tall sharp-pointed rocks, detached from these cliffs, that sprang like pinnacles from the sea.

Passing the Needles, the fleet entered the Solent Sea. On a far-projecting causeway on the left was Hurst Castle, a fortress erected by Henry VIII., and on the right loomed Yarmouth, with its castle. Salutes were fired from both forts. The scenery of the coast now possessed great beauty. On the mainland, noble woods, forming part of the New Forest, at that time of great extent, and full of deer, grew down to the very margin of the lake-like sea; occasional creeks and openings exhibiting sylvan scenes of extraordinary loveliness, and affording glimpses of ancient towns or sequestered habitations. On the other hand, the verdant slopes and groves of the island formed a delicious picture wholly different from that presented by the bold cliffs on its southern coast. Here all was softness and beauty, and to eyes accustomed to the arid and sunburnt shores of Spain, such verdure had an inexpressible charm.

For some time Philip remained wrapped in contemplation of the enchanting scenery of the island, unable to withdraw his eyes from it. At last he exclaimed, “And this is England! the land I have so longed to behold. How deliciously green is yonder island, and what a contrast it offers to our own coasts! And yon noble woods on the left, which they say are those of the New Forest, where William Rufus hunted and was slain! What magnificent timber! We have nothing like those oaks.”

“It may be not, your Highness,” replied Alva; “but I prefer our olives and vines and chestnut-groves to those woods, and our bare brown mountains to those green slopes. If the sun scorches our herbage and burns our soil to brick-dust,it makes abundant compensation. We have oil and wine and a thousand luxuries that these English lack, to say nothing of our fiery men and dark-eyed women.”

“Your excellency is a true Spaniard,” replied the Prince; “but you forget that as soon as I set foot on these shores I shall become an Englishman.”

“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Alva; then checking himself, he added, “I crave your Highness’s pardon. Inasmuch as the country will belong to you, you may be right to call yourself an Englishman.”

“But I shall be King of England only in name,” said Philip. “As you know, I am debarred by the marriage-treaty from any share in the government, neither can I appoint you, nor any of my nobles, to a post.”

“Out on the treaty!” cried Alva. “Your Highness, I trust, will little regard its terms. Once wedded to the Queen of England, the country will be under your control. This the Emperor well knew, or he would have spurned the conditions proposed to him by the wily Gardiner. Bind you as they may, the council cannot hold you fast, and ere long you will have supreme sway. In two years’ time England will be as much a province of Spain as the Netherlands is now. Then you will reap abundantly the harvest you are sowing. Moreover, by that time the crown of Spain and the imperial diadem may grace your brow.”

“Why do you think so, Alva?” demanded Philip, quickly. “My father suffers much from gout; but gout, physicians tell me, keeps off all other ailments, and those afflicted with it live long in consequence. When he last wrote to me, the Emperor reported himself in good case.”

“Saints keep him so!” cried the Duke. “Yet, as I have just said, ere two years are over, your Highness will surely be King of Spain and Emperor of Germany.”

“What means this prediction?” inquired Philip looking inquiringly at him.

“It means that the Emperor your father, tired with the cares of government, designs to surrender his kingdoms to you.”

“Has he said aught of his intent to you, Alva?—or is it mere surmise on your part?” demanded the Prince, unable to disguise the interest he took in the question.

“Your Highness will excuse me if I decline to state how I obtained the information,” rejoined the Duke; “but I will stake my life on its correctness.”

Philip said nothing more, but remained for some time with his hand upon his lips, absorbed in thought. The flush that overspread his cheeks showed he was much excited. Alva kept his keen eye fixed upon him, and seemed to read what was passing in his breast. After a while, Philip broke the silence.

“It may be as you say,” he remarked; “yet I do not think my father will part lightly with his crown. In a moment of weariness he may talk of abdicating in my favour—but when the fit is over, the design will pass away with it. How would he spend his days if not employed by state affairs?”

“In retirement and holy meditation—in preparation for eternity. Such is his Majesty’s intent.”

“If it be so it is a praiseworthy resolution; and it is to be hoped that Heaven may keep him in it. However, all is uncertain—the firmest man may change his mind.”

“Your Highness says right. Therefore, it will be well to secure a crown in case of accident. Neither do I despair of your doing so. The English nation, they say, hate us Spaniards. What matter? They cannot hate us worse than we hate them. They fear our yoke.LetLetus give them reason for their fears by ruling them so severely that they shall not dare to move hand or foot, save at our pleasure. With such a people nothing but hard and sanguinary measures will do. Their late King, Henry VIII., knew that well, and his subjects obeyed him, crouching at his feet like beaten hounds. But to impose our yoke upon them, we must go beyond the despot Henry. We must pour forth the blood of the English nobles like water, seize upon their possessions, and assume their titles. Do this, extirpate heresy, establish the Inquisition, and your Highness need fear no rebellion.”

Alva’s eyes blazed as he gave this counsel, and his countenance assumed an expression so terrible that even Philip regarded him with awe.

“The time is not yet come for acting thus,” observed thePrince. “I must first try to ingratiate myself with the people, and win over the council and the nobles by gifts and promises. If those fail, I may have recourse to other means.”

“There, to my mind, your Highness is wrong,” rejoined Alva. “Begin as you mean to go on. You cannot make yourself beloved by this perfidious nation, but you may easily make yourself dreaded. Hesitate not to shed blood—the best blood. Strike boldly, and at the highest. If you have any misgivings, let me do the work for you, and it shall be done effectually. I shall not object to be grand justiciary of the realm.”

And again his features wore the terrible look we have just noticed.

“It is too soon to talk of this,” said Philip. “We will speak of it hereafter.”

“It may then be too late,” rejoined Alva, in a sombre tone. “Once again, I counsel your Highness not to delay. As soon as you are fairly wedded, throw off the mask.”

“And be driven disgracefully from the kingdom,” cried Philip. “No; I shall adopt a safer course. A time may come—and that at no distant date—when I may profit by your counsels, and ask your aid.”

And he turned to watch the numerous white-sailed little barques steering towards him from Portsmouth.

OF THE AFFRONT OFFERED TO THE SPANIARDS BY THE LORD HIGH ADMIRAL; AND OF THE PRINCE’S ARRIVAL AT SOUTHAMPTON.

Charles V. has been described as more of a Fleming than a Spaniard, and his son Philip as more of a Spaniard than a Fleming. But the Prince bore a strong resemblance to his sire, though he was not so tall as the Emperor, and more slightly and elegantly formed than that martial monarch. Apparently, Philip must have looked like a Scotsman, since he was compared by a Highlander, John Elder, “the Redshank,” who saw him on his entrance into London, to “John Hume, my Lord of Jedward’s kinsman.” The Redshank seems to have been greatly struck by the royal Spaniard’s personal appearance and deportment, for he says, “his pace is princely, and gait so straight and upright as he loses no inch of height;” adding, “he is so well-proportioned of body, arm, and leg, as nature cannot work a more perfect pattern.”

But we have Philip actually brought before us as he lived and moved at the period in question in the portraits of Titian and Sir Antonio More. There we see his slight and singularly elegant figure, and admire his striking costume. There we may peruse his remarkable lineaments, every trait of which has been preserved by the great painters with extraordinary fidelity. Philip’s face was a perfect oval, and all the features good, except the mouth, the lower lip ofwhich was too full, and projected beyond the upper—a defect inherited by the Prince from his father, who was considerably under-jawed. Philip’s complexion was fair, of almost feminine delicacy and clearness, his eyes large and blue, and shaded by thick brows meeting over the nose. His hair, worn short, according to the Spanish mode, was of a golden yellow—a circumstance which, no doubt, caused the Redshank to liken him to “my Lord of Jedward’s kinsman;”—and his pointed beard of the same hue. His forehead was lofty, and white as marble, and his nose long, straight, and perfectly proportioned. In regard to his attire, he was extremely particular, affecting dark colours, as they best suited him; and he had the good taste to dispense with embroidery and ornament. On the present occasion he had in no wise departed from his rule. Black velvet haut-de-chausses, black taffetas hose, velvet buskins, doublet of black satin, all fitting to perfection, constituted his habiliments. Over all, he wore a short black damask mantle furred with sable. His neck was encircled by the collar of the Golden Fleece, and on his head sat a black velvet cap, having a small chain of gold as its sole ornament.

This costume, chosen with great judgment, was admirably calculated to display the graces of his person, and set off the extreme fairness of his complexion. Moreover, the Prince’s demeanour was marked by extraordinary loftiness, and an ineffable air of the highest breeding pervaded his every look and gesture.

Philip was only nineteen when he was first married. Doña Maria of Portugal, the Princess to whom he was then united, died in giving birth to a son, the half-crazed and savage-natured Don Carlos, whose fate is involved in mystery, though it is supposed he was poisoned by his father’s orders. It will be seen, as we proceed, how Philip treated his second consort; but we may mention that to neither of those who succeeded her—he was twice again married—did he manifest much affection. To his third wife, the young and beautiful Elizabeth de Valois, eldest daughter of Henri II. and Catherine de Medicis, he was unaccountably indifferent, repaying her tenderness and devotion by constant neglect and infidelities. At all times, he seems to have preferred any other female society to that of the oneentitled to his regard. His fourth wife, Anne of Austria, was but little better treated than her predecessors. Philip long survived her, and would have married again if he could have found among the royal families of Europe an alliance sufficiently tempting. The sole being he entirely loved was the Infanta Isabella, his daughter by his third wife. She served him as his secretary, during his retirement in the Escurial in his latter days, and when dying, he commended her to his son and successor in these terms: “Philip, I charge you to have always the greatest care of the Infanta, your sister. She has been the light of my eyes.”

At the period under consideration, the darker qualities inherent in Philip’s nature had not become developed. He grew more impassive, sterner, and severer, as he gained power, and advanced in years. He was a profound dissembler, and his designs were inscrutable. None knew when they had forfeited his favour. He caressed those he meant to destroy; whence it was said that there was no difference between the King’s smile and the knife. His self-restraint offered a striking contrast to the fiery impetuosity of his father. His policy was subtle, perfidious, Machiavellian. He had not Charles’s sagacity, nor Charles’s towering ambition, but he had more craft and hypocrisy than the Emperor, equal love of power, and equal capacity for rule. His industry was astonishing, and when his mighty monarchy devolved upon him, comprehending Spain, Flanders, Burgundy, the Two Sicilies, the Indies, and the New World, he passed many hours of each day, and often of each night, in reading petitions, annotating upon memorials, writing dispatches, and other toils of the cabinet. No sovereign ever wrote so much as Philip. Everything was submitted to his inspection. In hatred implacable, in severity unrelenting, fickle in friendship—if, indeed, he could form a friendship—he was equally inconstant in love matters, so that no syren could long hold him in her thrall. His affairs of gallantry, like all the rest of his proceedings, were shrouded in mystery. To none did he give his full confidence, and not even his confessor was allowed to peer into the inmost recesses of his breast. More inflexible than his father, if he had once formed a resolution, whether forgood or ill, it was unalterable. But he was slow in coming to a decision. In religion he was bigoted, and firmly believed he was serving the cause of the Romish Church by the rigour he displayed towards heretics. He declared he would rather put to death a hundred thousand people than the new doctrines should take root in his dominions. Throughout his reign the terrible tribunal of the Inquisition was constantly in action. Such was the detestation felt for him in the Low Countries and in England, that he was called the “Demon of the South;” while his Spanish subjects spoke of him, under their breath, as the “Father of Dissimulations.” Despite, however, his perfidy, his bigotry, and his severity, he was a great monarch, and raised the power of Spain to its highest point. After him its splendour began to decline.

In his latter years, Philip led the life of a religious recluse, shutting himself up almost entirely in the Escurial, and performing devotional exercises, vigils, fastings, and penances, with as much zeal as a brother of some severe order. Yet, notwithstanding this austere life, he continued to the last to conduct the affairs of state from his closet. His end was a grand and solemn scene, of which full details have been left us.

After receiving extreme unction, Philip said to his son, “I have sent for you that you may know what death is.” He then caused his coffin, which had already been prepared, to be brought into the chamber where he lay, and the crown to be placed on a death’s head on a table beside him. Then taking from a coffer a priceless jewel, he said to the Infanta, “Isabella Eugenia Clara, my daughter, this jewel was given me by the Queen, your mother. It is my parting gift to you.” He next gave a paper to his son, saying, “You will see, from this, how you ought to govern your kingdom.” A blood-stained scourge was then brought him, and taking it in his hand, he said, “This blood is mine, yet it is not mine own, but that of my father, who used the discipline. I mention this, that the relic may be the more valued.” After another paroxysm, he again received extreme unction, and feeling his end approach, he asked for a crucifix, which the Emperor held in his hands when he breathed his last, and which he also desired to hold when dying. Inanother hour he became speechless, and so continued to the end, his dying gaze being fixed on a taper of Our Lady of Montserrat, burning on the high altar of the church, which was visible through the open door.

We have stood in the little chamber in the church of the Escurial in which Philip died, and have looked from it at the altar whereon burnt the sacred flame that attracted his last regards.

Philip’s suit, as we have already intimated, comprised several nobles of the highest importance, who had been ordered to attend upon him by the Emperor. Besides the Duke of Alva, there was the scarcely less important Duke de Medina Celi, Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, Prince of Eboli, the Admiral of Castile, who was in command of the fleet, the Marquis de Pescara, the Marquis del Valle, the Marquis D’Aguillara, the Conde de Feria, the Conde Olivares, the Conde de Saldana, the Count D’Egmont, and several others equally distinguished. Each of these haughty hidalgos had a train of attendants with him.

With the Prince, also, was the Alcalde of Galicia, the Bishop of Cuença, Father Alfonso de Castro, and several other priests.

Moreover, he had a great painter in his train, Sir Antonio More, who had been previously sent into England to take the Queen’s portrait (which may still be seen in the gallery at Madrid), and had now the honour of accompanying the Prince on his voyage.

Two other important personages had preceded Philip to England—namely, the Marquis de las Naves, previously referred to, and Don Juan Figueroa, Regent of the Council of Aragon, a nobleman much in the Emperor’s confidence, and to whom an important part had been assigned in the approaching ceremonial.

Shortly after his discourse with the Duke of Alva which we have reported, Philip withdrew to his state cabin to perform his orisons, and listen to a discourse from the Bishop of Cuença. On his reappearance, he found most of his nobles assembled on deck, making, as they were all superbly attired, a very gallant show. Only three or four of their number removed their plumed and jewelled caps on the Prince’s approach. The rest being grandees of Spain, andentitled to remain covered in the presence of royalty, asserted their privilege. Foremost in the group were the Duke of Alva, the Duke of Medina Celi, Ruy Gomez de Silva, and the valiant Marquis de Pescara—one of the great captains of the age. All these had the cross of Santiago on their mantles. Some of the assemblage were Knights of Calatrava, others Knights of St. Lazarus, or of St. John of Jerusalem, and all wore their orders. Numbering about fifteen, they presented a remarkable array of noble-looking figures, all more or less characterised by pride of look and haughtiness of deportment. It would have been easy to discern at a glance that they belonged to the most vain-glorious people then existing—a people, however, as valiant as they were vain-glorious.

As we cannot describe these haughty personages in detail, we shall select one or two from the group. The most striking among them was undoubtedly the Duke of Alva, whose remarkable sternness of look arrested attention, and acted like a spell on the beholder. There was a fatal expression in Alva’s regards that seemed to forbode the atrocities he subsequently committed in the Low Countries. His gaze was fierce and menacing, and the expression of his countenance truculent and bloodthirsty. His complexion was swarthy, and his short-clipped hair and pointed beard were jet-black. His figure was lofty, well proportioned, and strongly built, and his manner excessively arrogant and imperious. His attire was of deep-red velvet and damask. His mantle was embroidered with the Cross ofSantiago,Santiago,and round his neck he wore the collar of the Golden Fleece.

Full as noble-looking as Alva, and far less arrogant, was the Count D’Egmont, whose tall and symmetrical figure was arrayed in a doublet of crimson damask. His hose were of black taffetas, and his boots of bronzed chamois. His black silk mantle was passmented with gold, and his velvet hat was adorned with a tall panache of black and white feathers. Like Alva, he wore the order of the Golden Fleece.

Next to D’Egmont stood Sir Antonio More, for whom the Count had a great friendship. The renowned painter was a man of very goodly appearance, and richly dressed, thoughnot with the magnificence that characterised the hidalgos around him. A doublet of black satin, paned with yellow, with hose to match, constituted his attire; his hair and beard being trimmed in the Spanish fashion.

Such was the assemblage which met the Prince, as he came forth for the second time that morning. Returning their salutations with the dignity and solemnity of manner habitual to him, he seated himself on a throne-like chair, covered with purple velvet, which had been set for him on the raised deck.

By this time the fleet had passed the Solent Sea, and was off Cowes. The extreme beauty of the Isle of Wight, as seen from this point, might have excited Philip’s admiration, had not his attention been drawn to the English and Flemish fleets, which could now be seen advancing to meet him. On came the two armaments, proudly and defiantly, as if about to give him battle, or oppose his progress. When they got within a mile of the Prince, the English ships were ordered to heave to, and soon became stationary; but the Flemish squadron continued to advance until it met the Spaniards, when it wore round and came on with them.

As yet no salute had been fired by the Lord High Admiral.

“I do not understand such matters,” said the Duke of Alva, approaching the Prince; “but it seems to me that the English Admiral gives your Highness but a cold reception.”

Philip made no reply, but, after a moment, observed, “Those are fine ships.”

“They are so,” replied Alva; “but their commander should be taught to show due respect to his sovereign.”

Just then an incident occurred which caused the utmost astonishment, not unmixed with indignation, throughout the Spanish fleet. A shot was fired by the Lord High Admiral across the bows of the Spanish ship nearest him. Philip was made instantly aware of the occurrence, and for a moment exhibited unwonted emotion. His pale cheek flushed, and he sprang from his seat, seeming about to give an angry order, but he presently became calmer. Not so the grandees around him. They were furious; and the Duke of Alva counselled the Prince immediately to fire upon the insolent offender.

“I am as eager to resent the affront as the Duke,” said Count D’Egmont; “but first let an explanation be demanded.”

“Make the inquiry with our cannon,” said Alva, fiercely; adding, with a scornful look at D’Egmont, “timid counsels smack of treason.”

Regarding the Duke with a glance as disdainful as his own, D’Egmont said, “My loyalty to the Emperor has been often approved. His Highness will be better served by prudence than by rashness. There must be some mistake.”

“There can be no mistake, and no explanation ought to be accepted,” cried Alva, yet more fiercely. “The affront is a stain upon the honour of our country, and can only be avenged by the destruction of that insolent fleet. Count D’Egmont is not a Spaniard, and therefore does not feel it.”

“I should regard the matter differently, if I could believe that insult was intended,” rejoined D’Egmont. “But I cannot think so.”

“Here comes the explanation,” said Philip, as the Admiral of Castile approached. “How now, my lord?” he added to him. “What means this interruption? For what reason was that shot fired?”

“Because our topsails were not lowered in deference to the English navy in these narrow seas,” replied the Admiral. “It is the custom to exact this homage to the flag, and Lord Clinton will not abate a jot of his demands. I am come to ascertain your Highness’s pleasure.”

“Pour a broadside into the insolent fellow,” said Alva. “That is the only answer to return consistent with your Highness’s dignity.”

“It is not for me to offer counsel,” said D’Egmont; “but it is better, methinks, to submit to this affront, which, after all, may not be intended as such, than to hazard the loss of a prize that is so nearly gained.”

Philip looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, in an authoritative tone, “Let the topsails be lowered—in this ship—and throughout the fleet. Since the demand is warranted, we ought to comply with it.”

The Admiral instantly gave the requisite orders to the officers near him, and ere another minute the topsails werelowered, amid the murmurs of the Spanish grandees, whose glowing cheeks and flashing eyes proclaimed their wrath.

“I did not think this affront would have been endured,” cried Alva.

“Nor I,” cried the Marquis de Pescara, and some others.

“Be patient, my lords—be patient,” observed Philip, significantly. “Our turn will come anon.”

In another minute all the vessels in the Spanish fleet had followed the example of the “Santissima Trinidada.”

This was no sooner done than a loud salute was fired from all the guns in the English navy.

Before the smoke had rolled away, the Spanish fleet replied by a deafening roar of artillery. Lusty cheers were then given by the sailors thronging the ropes and cross-bars of the English ships, and amid the beating of drums and the shriller music of the fife, a large boat was lowered from the Lord High Admiral’s ship, in which Lord Clinton, attended by several officers of distinction, was rowed towards the “Santissima Trinidada.”

On coming on board, the Lord High Admiral was ceremoniously received by Count D’Egmont, who acted as the Prince’s major-domo, and, after a brief interchange of compliments, on the Admiral’s request to be presented to his Highness, he was ushered through two lines of bronze-visaged and splendidly-equipped harquebuzeros to the bulk-head, where Philip was seated, with his nobles drawn up on either side. By all the latter, Clinton was regarded haughtily and menacingly, but, apparently heedless of their displeasure, he made a profound reverence to the Prince, who received him with a graciousness that offered a marked contrast to the defiant looks of his entourage.

“In the Queen’s name, I bid your Highness welcome to her dominions,” said the Admiral; “and I trust I shall be excused if I have appeared uncourteous in the discharge of my duty, which is to maintain her Majesty’s sovereignty in these seas.”

“No need of apologies, my lord,” replied Philip. “The fault was ours, not yours. We ought to have recollected that we are now in English waters. How fares her Majesty?”

“Right well,” said the Admiral, “and only anxious for your Highness’s safe arrival.”

“Is she at Southampton?” pursued Philip.

“No, my lord,” rejoined the Admiral. “Her Grace came these two days past to Winchester, where she will await your Highness’s coming. I had tidings of her so late as yester-morn, brought by my nephew, who is now with me.”

“Is this your nephew, my lord?” inquired Philip, glancing at a tall, well-proportioned young man, standing behind the Admiral.

The blooming complexion, clear blue eyes, brown waving locks, and features of this very handsome young man, proclaimed his Saxon origin.

“Ay, my lord, this is my nephew, Osbert Clinton,” replied the Admiral, eyeing the youth with a pride which the good looks and gallant bearing of the latter might perhaps justify. “He is fresh from her Majesty’s presence, as I have just declared to your Highness. Stand forward, Osbert, and tell the Prince all thou knowest.”

On this, the young man advanced, and bowing gracefully to Philip, gave him particulars of the Queen’s journey from London, of her stay at Guildford, of her meeting with the Marquis de las Naves, and of her arrival at Winchester—to all of which the Prince listened with apparent interest.

“What office do you fill at court, young Sir, for I conclude you have some post there?” demanded Philip, when young Clinton had done.

“I am merely one of her Majesty’s gentlemen,” replied Osbert.

“I would willingly have made a seaman of him,” interposed the Admiral, “and but that he dislikes the service, he might now be in command of one of yon gallant ships. Sorry am I to say that he prefers a court life.”

“He is in the right,” said Philip. “Unless I am mistaken, he has qualities which will be better displayed in that field than in the one your lordship would have chosen for him—qualities which, if properly employed, must lead to his distinction.”

“Your Highness judges me far too favourably,” said Osbert, bowing profoundly.

“Not a whit,” rejoined Philip; “and to prove my confidencein you, I will attach you—if you list—to my own person.”

“My nephew cannot quit the Queen’s service without her Majesty’s consent,” said the Admiral, in a tone which, though deferential, showed his dislike of the proposition.

“That is always implied,” said Philip. “But supposing her Majesty agreeable, what says the young man to the arrangement?”

“I am entirely at your Highness’s commands,” replied Osbert, overwhelmed with gratitude.

“And ready to become a Spaniard, and forswear your country, if need be, I make no doubt,” observed the Admiral, gruffly.

“I shall violate no duty to the Queen by serving her consort,” said his nephew; “and England and Spain will be so closely linked together by this most propitious union, that they will become as one land, wherein there will be no divided service or interests.”

“That time is not yet arrived, and never will arrive,” muttered the Admiral.

“You are doubtless anxious to return to your ship, my lord,” said Philip. “I will no longer detain you.”

“I thank your Highness,” replied the Admiral. “We will make all haste we can, but there is little wind, and I fear it will be somewhat late ere we can reach Southampton.”

“It matters not,” said Philip. “I shall not disembark till to-morrow.”

“Your Highness will exercise a wise discretion in the delay, as a better reception can be given you,” returned the Admiral. “I humbly take my leave. Come, nephew.”

“It is my pleasure that your nephew should remain with we, my lord,” said Philip.

“But I am about to despatch him in a swift galley to her Majesty,” remonstrated the Admiral.

“You must find a fresh messenger, my lord,” said Philip. “I have other business for him. However, I would place no constraint upon the young man. He can depart with your lordship if he is so minded.”

“Nay, I desire nothing so much as to remain with your Highness,” cried Osbert, eagerly.

“The Prince was right in saying he was born a courtier,” muttered the Admiral. “I can do nothing with him.”

Making another obeisance, he then quitted the Prince’s presence, and, being formally conducted by D’Egmont to the head of the vessel’s stairs, re-entered the boat, and was rowed back to his ship, in no very good humour.

On reaching it, he immediately issued orders to his fleet to make all way to Southampton, and the noble vessels were soon bending in that direction. The Spanish and Flemish fleets followed in the same track. But so slight was the breeze, that some time elapsed before they passed Calshot Castle and entered Southampton Water.

As the Admiral had predicted, evening was at hand ere the fleets had cleared the broad and beautiful estuary, at the northern end of which stood the ancient and then highly picturesque town of Southampton. The grey walls circling the town, the spires of the churches, and the castle on the hill, were glowing in the last rays of the setting sun.

Crowds could be seen gathered upon the quays, and upon every point of observation. A loud salvo was fired from the castle batteries, and from the ordnance placed on the walls and on the gates. Except the “Santissima Trinidada,” the Lord High Admiral’s ship, and that commanded by the Vice-Admiral of the Netherlands, all the other vessels now cast anchor. The three large vessels got as near the port as they could, and then came likewise to an anchor, the ship containing the Prince occupying the foremost position. These movements excited great interest amongst the spectators, whose shouts were loud and continuous.

Intimation having been given to the authorities of the town that the Prince’s disembarkation would not take place till next day, his Highness needing repose after his long voyage, no one went on board the royal ship. The ceremonial of the reception, and all public rejoicings and festivities connected with it, were postponed to the morrow; but it was not until it grew dusk, and they had in some measure satiated their curiosity by gazing at the superb vessel which had brought the illustrious stranger to their port, that the crowd on the quays began to disperse and return to their own dwellings.

It was at this hour that Philip called Osbert Clinton to his state cabin, and, dismissing his attendants, said to the young man, as soon as they were gone,—

“I intend to go ashore, incognito, to-night, and pass an hour in Southampton. I would judge with my own eyes of the people I shall have to govern. You shall go with me—I think I can trust myself with you.”

“I will guard your Highness with my life,” said Osbert, resolutely. “But I cannot conceal from you that it is a hazardous step you are about to take.”

“Hazardous or not, I am resolved upon it,” said Philip. “I like a nocturnal adventure, and the opportunity for one now offers, under circumstances that heighten its zest. My nobles would infallibly oppose my design, and therefore must know nothing of it. One person alone can be trusted, the Count D’Egmont, and he will lend me aid. I must about it at once, for it grows late.”

“Your Highness will be in time, for this will be a night of revel and rejoicing in the town,” said Osbert. “Pray Heaven no ill may come of the adventure!”

D’Egmont was then summoned, and on his appearance the Prince disclosed his plan to him. The Count strongly opposed it, representing its danger, as Osbert had done, but in the end he was obliged to yield.

“For an hour you and I will change parts,” pursued Philip to D’Egmont. “You shall be the Prince, and I the Count. The Count will remain here, and the Prince will go ashore with this young Englishman as if sent on some special errand. None will be the wiser—not even Alva or Ruy Gomez. Go, order a boat to be got ready instantly. Make some change in your attire. Put on the long dark mantle I have seen you wear at night, and a black cap without a plume. Speak to the attendants as you pass, and tell them you are going ashore.”

“It shall be done,” replied the Count, departing.

While he was gone, Philip retired into an inner chamber and made some change in his own apparel. Just as he had completed his preparations, D’Egmont returned, habited as the Prince had directed. Philip took the Count’s mantle, and wrapping himself in it, said, so as to be heard by the attendants, “See the Count D’Egmont and the Englishcaballero to the boat, and let watch be kept for their return. Till then I would not be disturbed.”

Having uttered these words, he muffled up his features and went forth, followed by Osbert. The ushers took him for the person he represented, and attended him to the stairs.

In this manner the Prince and his companion got into the boat without stoppage of any kind, and were rowed to a landing-place at the quay near the South-gate of the town.

SOUTHAMPTON IN 1554.

SOUTHAMPTON IN 1554.

SOUTHAMPTON IN 1554.

Girded round by high embattled walls, flanked with numerous towers, all in good repair, and well ordnanced, old Southampton had a proud and defiant look, especially when viewed from the water. Within the walls, situated on an elevated point on the north-west, stood the castle, now totally destroyed, the donjon of which, erected at the time of the Conquest, if not before, commanded with its guns all the approaches to the harbour, as well as the country to the north. This strongly fortified town possessed no less than eight gates, besides posterns. It was defended on the north and east by a moat of extraordinary width and depth, crossed by drawbridges connected with the gates, and on the south and west by the sea, which washed the foot of its walls; and it contained many large and important mansions, amongst which may be noted the antique palace of Canute, besides several fine churches, hospitals, religious establishments, conduits, and great storehouses, together with a long and goodly street, described by old Leland, in his Itinerary, “as one of the fairest streets that is in any town of all England.”

From the summit of the castle magnificent views were obtained of the lovely Isle of Wight in the distance; of the vast woody region known as the New Forest; of the broad estuary spread out like a lake before it, almost always thronged with craft, and sometimes, as now, filled with larger vessels; of the ruthlessly-despoiled but still beauteous abbey of Netley, embosomed in its groves; of the course ofthe Itchen, on the one side, and of the Test on the other; or, looking inland towards the north of a marshy tract, caused by the overflowing waters of the Itchen; of more marshes on the low ground further on, then more forest scenery, with here and then a village and an ancient castellated mansion, until the prospect was terminated by Saint Catherine’s and Saint Giles’s hills near Winchester.

Situated at the point of a piece of high land lying between the confluence of the two rivers just mentioned, namely, the Itchen and the Test, old Southampton was completely insulated by the deep ditch connecting these streams on the north, and continued along the east side of the walls. Without the walls, on the east, lay an extensive suburb, occupying the site of a still older town, which had been sacked and in a great part burnt by French and Genoese pirates in the time of Edward III.—a disaster that caused the second town to be as strongly fortified as we have described it.

And now let us examine the gates, the noblest of which, the Bar-gate, happily still exists. Built at different epochs, the two semicircular towers composing the north frontage being added to the central arch, which dates back at least as far as the Conquest, this stately structure, which formed the sole entrance to the town from the north, surpassed all the other gates in size and grandeur. Even now, crowded as it is with habitations, and standing in the midst of a busy throughfare, it is very imposing. Its massive towers, reverent with age, and carrying back the mind of the beholder to a remote period, are strongly machiolated, and retain much of their pristine character, but the once beautiful pointed archway between them has been disfigured by enlargement. Anciently, there was a double moat on the north of this gate, crossed by a stone bridge and a drawbridge. On the parapets of the first of these bridges the lordly sitting lions now guarding the archway were set.

We may complete our description of the Bar-gate by mentioning that it contains the Guildhall of the town, or Domus Civica, as old Leland terms it. Underneath, below the level of the moat, there was formerly a dungeon.

It may be questioned whether the good folk of Southampton are half so proud of their noble gate as of two extraordinary paintings hanging on the right and left of thecentral arch, which represent therenownedrenownedSir Bevis, the legendary hero of the town, and the giant Ascapart, who, according to tradition, being conquered by the doughty Danish knight, became his squire. We do not quarrel with these paintings, or with their position, but why should not pictorial representations be likewise given of the peerless Princess Josyan, of whom Sir Bevis was enamoured, and of his marvellous charger, Arundel? The pictures, we venture to suggest, might serve to screen the grievous disfigurements on the south side of the Bar-gate.

The Water-gate and the South-gate, both of which faced the harbour, though inferior in size and grandeur of appearance to the Bar-gate, were very strongly built, machiolated, provided with double portcullises, and flanked by towers. The other five gates were nearly similar in character; the most important being the East and West-gates.

High, and of great solidity, the walls were further strengthened on the south and west sides by huge buttresses, as may still be seen in the picturesque remains left in these parts of the modern town. The parapets were embrasured, and had bastions at the angle of the walls. Towers were also built for the protection of the flood-gates required to admit the sea to the trenches.

All the fortifications, as we have said, were in good condition, having been repaired and strengthened by Henry VIII., who was a frequent visitor to the town, and, still more recently, in the reign of Edward VI. The batteries were furnished with fresh artillery by the former monarch, and a large piece of ordnance, graven with his name and title of “Fidei Defensor,” is still preserved.

Separated from the town by the broad deep moat which was traversed in this quarter by a couple of large drawbridges, the quay extended along the shore to some distance on the east, and was laid out in wharves, and provided with cranes and other machines for landing or embarking cargoes. The harbour was marked out by huge piles driven into the banks, like those which may be seen in the shallow lagunes of Venice. Ordinarily the quay was a very busy scene, but its busiest and blithest time was on the arrival of the Flanders galleys, which came twice or thrice a year, laden with rich freights. Then all the wealthy merchants ofSouthamptonSouthampton,with their clerks and serving-men, and even with their wives and daughters, repaired to the platform eager to inspect the goods and rare articles brought by the fleet.

Inhabited by a body of merchants who traded largely with Venice and the East, and almost rivalled the merchants of London in wealth, Southampton gave abundant evidence in its buildings of power and prosperity. In English-street, now known as the High-street, dwelt the chief merchants of the place, and though their habitations were not marble palaces, like those of the Venetians with whom they traded, nor stately structures, like those of the Flemings, who brought rich cargoes to their port, they were substantial timber houses, with high roofs, picturesque gables, and bay-windows. Not only did these houses possess large entrance-halls, and spacious chambers panelled with black oak, hung with costly arras, and otherwise luxuriously furnished, according to the taste of their wealthy owners, but they boasted, in many cases, large, dry, well-arched vaults, stored with casks of good Bordeaux, Xerez, Malaga, Alicant, Malvoisie, and Gascoigne wines. Some of these famous old cellars yet exist. Let us hope they are as well stocked as of yore.

Most of the houses in English-street were remarkable for the elaborate carvings adorning their woodwork, while the handsome porches were embellished with shields and escutcheons charged with armorial bearings. In all cases the upper stories projected beyond the lower, so as to overhang the footways. It is satisfactory to add that the Southampton merchants of that day were noted for the liberality of their dealings, as well as for their princely hospitality to strangers.

About midway in English-street stood Holyrood Church, an antique pile, of which we shall have occasion to speak anon; and contiguous to the South-gate, which then formed one of the outlets to the harbour, was the Domus Dei, or God’s House, an ancient hospital, in the chapel of which, now used as a place of worship by French Protestants, were buried the three lords, Cambridge, Scrope, and Grey, beheaded for conspiring against Henry V., as that warlike prince was about to embark for France to win the glorious battle of Agincourt. And while on this theme, let us notforget that it was likewise from Southampton that the victors of Cressy sailed.

Such was Southampton in the middle of the sixteenth century. It was during the reign of Henry VIII. that its power and importance as a seaport culminated. At the period of which we treat it had begun to decline, though the vast wealth previously acquired by its merchants helped for a while to sustain it. But its trade continued sensibly to diminish in Elizabeth’s time, while its rival, Portsmouth, grew in consequence. However, a great future was in store for Southampton. The present century has witnessed its revival and restoration to far more than its mediæval prosperity. With its secure harbour and noble docks, wherein ride the superb steamers that connect it with the East and West Indies, and indeed with the whole world, few ports in the kingdom can now vie with that of fair Southampton.

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