Blighting influence of Philip’s system on his officers--Effects of
Philip’s routine on the administration--Social condition of Spain
and the colonies--Dr. Lopez and Antonio Perez--Philip II. and
Tyrone’s rebellion--The English sacking of Cadiz--Philip’s
resignation--His last illness and death--Results of his
life--Causes of the decadence of the Spanish power.
The death of Alexander Farnese had removed from Philip’s service the
last of the great men of his reign. He had been treated by his master in
the same way that all the rest of them had been--with cold
half-confidence and veiled suspicion. There is nothing more
surprising--more pitiable--in the phenomena of Philip’s reign than the
way in which he pressed men of the highest gifts into his service, only
to break their hearts and spirits by his tardiness of action and
inexpansiveness of mind. His system left no room for independent
judgment on the part of his instruments, and any attempt to exercise it
met with the passive, stony resistance, against which one ardent soul
after another dashed itself to death. As Philip grew older, and his
periodical attacks of illness became more frequent, the vast tide of
papers which flowed into the king’s cell became more and more
unmanageable. He had no sense of proportion whatever, and would
frequently waste hours of precious time over ridiculous trifles--the
choice of an unimportant word, the ordering of a religious procession,
or the strictly private affairs of his subjects,--whilst matters of the
highest import to the welfare of his great empire were allowed to drag
on for months without decision.
The centralising system had now been established to his satisfaction,
and from all four quarters of the earth viceroys, governors, ministers,
and spies sent their contribution of papers to Madrid. Everything came
under the eyes of the monarch, toiling early and late, even when his
malady stretched him on a sick-bed. The council that surrounded him in
his last years was composed of very different men from the Granvelles,
the Albas, the Ruy Gomezes, or even the Perezes, who had served him in
his prime. The principal secretary of state was Don Juan de Idiaquez,
one of the indefatigable writers whom Philip loved. No detail was too
small for Idiaquez. With his swift-current clerkly hand he wrote day and
night, deciphering, drafting, annotating. Every day after the king’s
frugal early dinner Idiaquez came with his bundle of papers, and was
closeted with him until nightfall. The communications had been opened,
considered, and reported upon by the council during the previous night,
and the results were now submitted to Philip. The second secretary, Don
Cristobal de Moura, had charge especially of Portuguese and Castilian
affairs. He had to report his budget of council minutes whilst the king
was dressing in the morning, and the Count de Chinchon had audience for
the affairs of Italy, Aragon, and the south of Spain at, and after, the
king’s dinner. Every draft despatch was read and noted by the king;
Mateo Vasquez, the sly enemy who had hunted Perez, being always at his
side to help him. Whilst the king of the greatest realm on earth, and
four men with the minds of superior clerks, were thus immersed in
endless papers, the social condition of Spain went from bad to worse.
The efforts of Philip had been directed towards making his people as
rigid as monks. Pragmatics had been showered upon Spain, prohibiting for
the hundredth time luxury or splendour in dress, furniture, and
appointments, restricting the use of carriages, abolishing courtesy
titles. No person was allowed to be educated out of Spain, and all
attempts at introducing science in any form were sternly suppressed by
the Inquisition. The most slavish and extravagant conformity in
religious observance was enforced, but the loosest and most licentious
conversation was tolerated. The women of Spain had in previous times
been modest, almost austere and oriental in their retirement. They now
became perfectly scandalous in their freedom, and remained a bye-word
for the rest of civilised Europe for a century afterwards. Camillo
Borghese was sent by the pope to Madrid in 1593, and thus speaks of the
state of affairs at that time: “The main street of Madrid ... is
unutterably filthy, and almost impassable on foot. The better class of
ladies are always in carriages or litters, whilst the humbler folk ride
on donkey-back or pick their way through the mire. The ladies are
naturally shameless, presumptuous, and abrupt, and even in the streets
go up and address men unknown to them, looking upon it as a kind of
heresy to be properly introduced. They admit all sorts of men to their
conversation, and are not in the least scandalised at the most improper
proposals being made to them.” Philip’s pragmatics were useless.
Extravagance checked in one direction broke out in others, and in the
midst of the most appalling poverty, luxury and waste ran riot. The
immense loss of life in constant wars, and the vast emigration to
America, had depopulated wide tracts of country, and the laws which
favoured the aggregation of property in the hands of the Church had
turned whole towns into ecclesiastical settlements. The friars had grown
more insolent as their riches increased, and as the king’s slavishness
to their cloth became more abject, and now during his last years their
power was practically supreme in the king’s court.
Whilst Philip’s system had reduced his own country to this state, the
ships of Drake, Ralegh, Hawkins, Cumberland, and the rest of them were
harrying the Indies, the English were trading openly with Spanish
settlements in spite of royal prohibition, and in the insensate thirst
for gold, the Spanish colonists were wiping out whole nations of
inoffensive Indians who were unable or unwilling to satisfy their greed.
The missionary friars sometimes raised their voices against the
wholesale murder of their possible converts, but they cried in vain, for
Philip’s hide-bound system only referred the protests against the
slaughter to the men who perpetrated it. Philip’s American possessions
consequently were enriching his enemies rather than himself, and, as
Ralegh said, were furnishing the means for them to carry on war against
him. In the meanwhile his own coasts, both of Italy and Spain, were
practically undefended. The loss of the Armada had been a blow both to
his credit and to his naval power, from which he could never entirely
recover, and neither men, money, nor ships could easily be obtained.
Perez lived caressed and flattered in Essex House, and knew all that
passed in Spain. Everything which his wickedness and malice could devise
to injure his enemy he urged with ceaseless pertinacity. He persuaded
the queen that her physician, the Jew Dr. Lopez, had plotted with Philip
to murder her. There was just enough foundation to give a plausible
appearance to the assertion, and Lopez was executed (June 7, 1594). That
he was ready to undertake such commissions is doubtless true, but
evidence is now forthcoming which tends to show that in this case Perez
lied, and that Lopez was innocent.[4]
The accusation, however, was believed by Elizabeth and her ministers,
and when Perez proposed to his ambitious patron Essex a plan for
revenging his mistress he was eager to listen. But there was another
reason as well. The English Catholic refugees were still intriguing, and
urging Philip to take action to secure the crown of England for the
Infanta on Elizabeth’s death, whilst the Scots Catholics were
endeavouring to gain it for James, under their auspices if possible. Now
that a direct invasion of England by Philip was acknowledged to be
impossible, it was constantly pressed upon him by the English exiles
that he might disturb and paralyse Elizabeth by sending armed support to
the Irish Catholics. The complete collapse of the Desmond rebellion in
Munster, and the slaughter of the papal Spanish contingent (1580) had
made Philip cautious; so when Irish priests and emissaries came to him
from Tyrone and O’Donnell, he had been, as usual, vaguely sympathetic,
and took means to discover the real strength behind them before he
pledged himself. Spanish officers were sent to spy out the land and
report upon the capabilities of Tyrone. The latter was still keeping up
an appearance of great loyalty to the English, but his correspondence
with Philip was well known in London, as well as the hopes and promises
sent from Spain to the Irish Catholics. It would be a great stroke if
the fleet, which spies stated was fitting out for Ireland, could be
destroyed. As a matter of fact, Philip was so poor that he could do but
little to help Tyrone; and for years afterwards the agonised appeals of
the Irish Catholics were only answered by fair words and tardy,
inadequate, and ineffectual assistance. But for the moment Elizabeth was
led to believe that a powerful invasion of Ireland was imminent.
When it came to finding the money and incurring the responsibility of a
direct invasion of Spain, however, the queen more than once drew back,
and it required all hot-headed Essex’s personal influence to bring her
to the point. At last when the commission was granted, the precedent of
the ill-fated Portuguese expedition of 1589 was followed. The first
object was, as then, stated to be the destruction of the King of Spain’s
fleet, and, secondly, the attack upon the homeward-bound Indian
flotilla. Only as a doubtful resource was a rich town to be attacked. As
in 1589, the command was to be divided--on this occasion between
Lord-Admiral Howard and Essex, with Ralegh as lieutenant. It was
difficult to get men to serve. “As fast as we press men on one day,”
writes Ralegh, “they run away the next.”
The fleets left Plymouth on June 3, 1596. They were divided into four
English squadrons of nearly equal strength, the aggregate consisting of
17 queen’s ships, 76 freighted ships, and some small craft, while the
Dutch squadron had 24 sail. The crews in all amounted to 16,000 men.
It was known that in Cadiz was concentrated the greater part of what was
left of Philip’s naval strength, and the city was the richest in Spain.
Ranged underneath the walls were 8 war galleys, and 17 galleons and
frigates were in the harbour, whilst 40 great ships were loading for
Mexico and elsewhere.
On June 20 (O.S.) the fleets appeared before Cadiz, and, thanks to
Ralegh’s intervention, a combined attack was first made upon the
shipping. Essex cast his plumed hat into the sea in his exultation when
he heard the news. At dawn next morning Ralegh led the van in the
_War-sprite_. The city was taken by surprise and was panic-stricken, but
the Spanish ships in harbour had assumed some attitude of defence. The
effect of Philip’s system had been, as we have seen, to paralyse
initiative in his officers, and when there was no time to communicate
with him they were lost. After a few shots had been fired, Sotomayor,
the admiral, withdrew the ships he could save to the end of the bay at
Puerto Real, out of reach of the English guns. At night, before the
decisive attack, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the craven of the Armada,
but still Philip’s high admiral, arrived. As usual, he could only look
on helplessly, whilst the English squadrons sailed into the harbour,
sank two great galleons, then landed the soldiers, stormed the old
crumbling walls and seized the city, almost without resistance. The
terror inspired now by the English at sea perfectly dominated the
Spaniards. The fortress of Cadiz was ruinous, the guns were old and
dirty, ammunition was short, and after two days of starvation the
defenders made terms of surrender. Every ship in harbour was burnt or
sunk, either by the English or the Spaniards themselves, and the
terrified sailors had been drowned by hundreds, out of sheer fright at
the “devilish folk.” There were 5000 Spanish women who had taken refuge
in the fortress. They were allowed to leave without the slightest
molestation, and the English commanders even provided boats to convey
the nuns and sick from the hospitals to a place of safety. Then for
fifteen days the city was submitted to a systematic pillage. Nothing was
left, and the richest city in Spain was reduced to a smoking wreck.
“Neither ship, nor fleet, nor Cadiz remains,” wrote Medina Sidonia to
Philip. The fighting, such as it was, had only lasted three hours, and
there had been destroyed, mostly by the Spaniards, 13 Spanish
men-of-war, all the war galleys, and 40 of the best merchantmen in
Spain, with merchandise worth 11,000,000 ducats. The fortresses and
defences were razed to the ground, the first maritime city in the
country was destroyed, and the seal stamped deep on the final decadence
of Spain.
Philip’s system had brought him to this. He could not defend his own
harbours, much less avenge the injuries done to him. Henry IV. had
beaten him in France, the Nassaus had beaten him in Holland, the
English had beaten him on the sea. He was utterly bankrupt, his country
ruined, his dream of the universal predominance of Catholicism, and the
omnipotence of Spain proved to be a chimera. He was old and weary,
suffering incessant bodily agony, and yet with all this he never lost
his faith in his divine mission and the final success of his cause. “Thy
will, God, be done, not mine,” says an eye-witness of his last days,
were the words constantly on his lips.
During the spring of 1598 the king was almost unable to move from gout,
but still continued his work at his papers. At the end of June he was
carried to the Escorial in a litter, and soon afterwards malignant
tumours broke out in various parts of his limbs. The pain of his malady
was so intense that he could not even endure a cloth to touch the parts,
and he lay slowly rotting to death for fifty-three dreadful days,
without a change of garments or the proper cleansing of his sores.
Through all the repulsive and pitiful circumstances that accompanied his
last illness his patience and serenity never left him. His awful
sufferings were borne without a plaint, and his constant words were
those of resignation and assurance of divine forgiveness for his sins.
Night and day, ceaselessly around him, went on the propitiatory offices
of his Church; through the weary hours of pain the eyes of the dying
king were fixed in ecstasy on the holy emblems, and often in his anguish
of devotion he would bite and worry the coarse crucifix which never left
him, the same crucifix that had been grasped by the dying hands of the
emperor. On August 16 the nuncio brought him the papal blessing and
plenary absolution. Philip by this time was incapable of moving, a mere
mass of vermin and repulsive wounds, but his spirit conquered the
frailty of the flesh, and he fervently repeated his immovable faith in
the Church and the cause to which he had devoted his life. On September
1, in the presence of his son and daughter Isabel, the extreme unction
for the dying was administered, and although he had hitherto been so
weak as to be inaudible, he suddenly surprised the priests by himself
reading in a loud voice the last office of the Church. When the
administrant, fearing to tire him, said that it was unnecessary to
repeat the office when the sacrament was administered, the dying man
objected: “Oh yes, say it again and again, for it is very good.”
Then all the attendants were sent from the room, and Philip was left
alone with his son. “I meant to save you this scene,” he said, “but I
wish you to see how the monarchies of the earth end. You see that God
has denuded me of all the glory and majesty of a monarch in order to
hand them to you. In a very few hours I shall be covered only with a
poor shroud and girded with a coarse rope. The king’s crown is already
falling from my brows, and death will place it on yours. Two things I
especially commend to you: one is that you keep always faithful to the
Holy Catholic Church, and the other is that you treat your subjects
justly. This crown will some day fall away from your head, as it now
falls from mine. You are young, as I was once. My days are numbered and
draw to a close; the tale of yours God alone knows, but they too must
end.”
This was Philip’s farewell to his royal state, for he concerned himself
no more with mundane affairs. Patient, kindly solicitous for those
around him, in gentle faith and serene resignation, he waited for his
release. On September 11, two days before he died, he took a last
farewell of his son, and of his beloved daughter, the Infanta Isabel,
who for years had been his chief solace and constant companion, even in
his hours of labour. He was leaving her the sovereignty of the
Netherlands, in union with the Archduke Albert, whom she was to marry,
and he urged her to uphold inviolate the Catholic faith in her
dominions. The farewell was an affecting one for the Infanta, but the
father was serene through it all. When it was ended he gave to his
confessor, Father Yepes, his political testament for his son, copied
from the exhortations of St. Louis. He would fain have taken the
sacrament again, but Moura was obliged to tell him that the physicians
feared he was too weak to swallow the host. Towards the next night Moura
warned him that his hour had nearly come, and he smiled gratefully when
he heard it. All through the dragging night in the small gloomy chamber
the prayers and dirges for the dying went on. When for a moment they
ceased, the dying king would urge their continuance. “Fathers,” he said,
“go on. The nearer I draw to the fountain, the greater grows my thirst.”
During the night the watchers thought the great change had come, and
hastily placed in the king’s hand a blessed candle he had kept for many
years to illumine his last moments upon earth. But he was still
collected. “No,” he said, “not yet. The time has not come.”
Between three and four in the morning, as the first pale streaks of
coming dawn glimmered beyond the stony peaks of the Guadarramas, Philip
turned to Fernando de Toledo, who was at his bedside, and whispered,
“Give it to me; it is time now”; and as he took the sacred taper, his
face was all irradiated with smiles. His truckle bed almost overlooked
the high altar of the cathedral, the building of which had been his
pride, and already the shrill voices of the choristers far below were
heard singing the early mass which he had endowed long ago for his own
spiritual welfare. With this sound in his ears and prayers upon his
lips, his last moments ebbed away. When those around him thought that
all was over and had fallen to weeping, he suddenly opened his eyes
again and fixed them immovably on the crucifix. He shut them no more,
and as they glazed into awful stoniness he gave three little gasps, and
Philip the Prudent had passed beyond. He died gripping the poor crucifix
which still rests upon his breast, and he was buried inclosed in the
coffin he had had made from the timbers of the _Cinco Chagas_, one of
the great galleons that had fought the heretics. In the awful jasper
charnel-house at the Escorial, which will ever be the most fitting
monument of his hard and joyless life, his body has rested through three
centuries of detraction and misunderstanding.
Through all the tribulations and calamities that have afflicted his
country, the affectionate regard in which Spaniards bear the memory of
Philip the Prudent has never waned. His father was an infinitely greater
man, but he has no such place in the hearts of his countrymen, for
Philip was a true Spaniard to the core, a faithful concentration of the
qualities, good and evil, of the nation he loved. If Spaniards were
narrow and rigid in their religious views, it was the natural result of
centuries of struggle, foot to foot with the infidel; if they were
regardless of human suffering in the furtherance of their objects, it
was because they lavishly and eagerly gave up their own lives for the
same ends, and oriental fatalism had been grafted upon Gothic
stubbornness in their national character. But they, like their king,
were patient, faithful, dutiful, and religious.
Philip was born to a hopeless battle. Spain, always a poor country of
itself, was saddled by the marriage of Philip’s grandparents with a
European foreign policy which cursed it with continuous wars for a
century. The tradition he had inherited, and his own knowledge, showed
him that his only chance of safety was to maintain a close political
alliance with England. We have seen how, by fair means and by foul, he
strove to this end through a long life, and how from the mere force of
circumstances it was unattainable. Spain’s power was imperilled from the
moment that Philip the Handsome brought the inheritance of Burgundy to
Jane the Mad, and the doom was sealed when Henry Tudor cast his eyes
upon Anne Boleyn; for the first event made a fixed alliance with England
vital, and the second made it impossible. It may be objected that if a
man of nimble mind and easy conscience had been in Philip’s place, and
had fought Elizabeth, Catharine, and Orange with their own weapons of
tergiversation and religious opportunism, the result might have been
different, as it also might have been if he had opened his mind to new
ideas and accepted the reformed faith. But apart from his mental
qualities, and his monastic training, which made such an attitude
impossible for him, his party had been chosen for him before his birth,
and he inherited the championship of obscurantism, as he inherited the
task which obscurantism was powerless to perform. Burdened thus, as he
was, with an inherited work for which neither he, nor his inherited
means, was adequate, it was only natural that he should adopt the
strange views of the semi-divinity of himself and his mission that so
deeply coloured most of the acts of his life. The descendant and the
ancestor of a line of religious mystics, he looked upon himself as only
an exalted instrument of a higher power. Philip of Austria could not be
defeated, because Philip of Austria was not fighting. It was God’s
battle, not his; and he might well be calm in the face of reverses that
would have broken another man’s heart; for he knew, as he often said,
that in the long-run the Almighty would fight for His own hand, and that
defeat for Him was impossible. Where his reasoning was weak was in the
assumption that the cause of the Almighty and the interests of Philip of
Austria were necessarily identical.
GENEALOGICAL TABLE SHOWING PHILIP’S CLAIM TO THE ENGLISH CROWN
Edward III. = Philippa of Hainault
|
+---------------------+-------------+--------+------------------------+
| | | |
Edward, the Duke of Clarence Duke of York Blanche = John of = Constance of
Black Prince | | Plantagenet | Gaunt | Portugal
| Philippa, Countess of March | +-------------+ +----------+
| | | | | |
RICHARD II. Roger Mortimer, Earl of March | Henry IV. Philippa = John, King Catharine = Henry of
| +-----------+ | | of Portugal | Castile
| | | | |
Anne Mortimer = Richard Henry V. Dom Duarte |
| Plantagenet, Earl | | |
| of Cambridge HENRY VI. Fernando John II. of Castile
| | |
Richard, Duke of York Manoel |
| | Isabel the Catholic
+-------------+------+----------+ | |
| | | | |
RICHARD III. Edward IV. George Plantagenet, Duke | |
| | of Clarence | |
+-------------+------+ | | |
| | | Margaret = Sir R. Pole | Jane the Mad
EDWARD V. DUKE OF YORK | | | |
| +---------+------+---------+---------+ +-------------+ |
| | | | | | |
| Henry, Lord Geoffrey Arthur Reginald Isabel = Charles V.
| Montacute Pole Pole Pole |
| | | | PHILIP
| Catharine = Hastings, | Henry Pole
| Pole | 19th Earl |
| | of |
| | Huntingdon |
| | |
| 20th Earl Geoffrey Pole
| of Huntingdon
| |
| 21st Earl
| of Huntingdon
|
Elizabeth of York = Henry VII.
|
+----------------------------++---------------------------+
| | |
Henry VIII. James IV. = Margaret = Earl of Angus Mary Tudor = C. Brandon, Duke
| of Scotland | Tudor | (Douglas) | of Suffolk
| | | |
+---------+--------+ | | +-------------------+
| | | | | | |
EDWARD VI. MARY ELIZABETH | | Frances = Henry Grey, |
| | | Duke of Suffolk |
James V. Margaret = Earl of Lennox | |
| Douglas | (Stuart) +--+------+------+ |
| | | | | |
| +---------+--------+ Catharine Jane Mary |
| | | | |
Mary = Henry Charles Stuart, Earl | Eleanor = Clifford,
| Stuart, | of Lennox | | 2nd Earl
| Lord Darnley | Edward Seymour, | of Cumberland
| | Lord Beauchamp |
JAMES VI. | | Earl of Cumberland
ARABELLA STUART = WILLIAM SEYMOUR
APPENDIX
A list of some of the printed authorities upon which the present
monograph has been based, in addition to the unpublished State papers at
Simancas, in the Archives Nationales (Paris), and in the British Museum,
etc.:--
_Calendar of Spanish State Papers_, Elizabeth, Rolls Series,
volumes i. to iv., 1892-1897.
Prescott, _History of the Reign of Philip II._, 3 volumes, London,
1855.
_Estudios sobre Felipe II._ (translation of articles by G.
Maurenbrecher, M. Philippson, and C. Justi, with prologue and
appendices by Ricardo Hinojosa), Madrid, 1887, 1 volume.
Cabrera de Cordoba, _Felipe II. Rey de España_, Madrid, 1619.
Leti Gregorio, _Vita del Catolico Ré Filippo II._, Cologne, 1679.
Porreño, _Vida y Hechos del Señor Rey Felipe II., el Prudente_ (new
edition), Valladolid, 1863.
Cervero de la Torre, _Testimonio autentico y verdadero de las cosas
notables que pasaron en la dichosa muerte del Rey Felipe II._ (an
account of Philip’s death by his Chaplain), Valencia, 1589, 1
volume.
Fernandez Montaña, _Nueva Luz y verdad historica sobre Felipe II._
(an unrestrained panegyric of Philip from a Catholic priest’s point
of view), Madrid, 1891, 1 volume.
Fernandez Montaña, _Mas Luz y verdad historica sobre Felipe II. el
Prudente_ (supplement to the same), Madrid, 1892, 1 volume.
_Correspondence de Granvelle_ (edited by C. Piot), Brussels, 1884.
_Papiers d’État de Granvelle_ (edited by Weiss), Paris, 1843.
H. Forneron, _Histoire de Philippe II._, Paris, 1880.
Martin Hume, _The Year after the Armada_ (for accounts of Philip’s
marriage, the English attack on Portugal, the social condition of
Spain, etc.), London, 1896, 1 volume.
_Documentos ineditos para la historia de España_, Madrid, in
progress. (A large number of these volumes contain valuable papers
referring to the reign of Philip II.)
Flores, _Reinas Catolicas_, Madrid, 1770 (an account of the Queens
of Spain).
Philippson, _Ein Ministerium unter Philipp II._, Berlin, 1895 (an
account of Granvelle’s ministry in Spain, 1579-1586).
Gachard, _Correspondence de Philip II._, Brussels (correspondence
mainly on Flemish affairs).
Gachard, _Correspondence de Philippe II. avec ses filles_, Paris,
1884, 1 volume (familiar letters from the king to his two children
in 1580-1581).
M. la Fuente, _Historia General de España_, Madrid, 1885.
Strada, _Histoire de la Guerre de Flandre_, Brussels, 1712, 3
volumes.
Muro, Gaspar, _La Princesa de Eboli_, Madrid, 1877, 1 volume (with
valuable preface by Señor Canovas de Castillo).
Perez Antonio, _Relaciones, etc._, Geneva, 1649, 1 volume.
Mignet, _Antonio Perez et Philippe II._, Paris, 1881.
Llorente, _Histoire critique de l’Inquisition_, Paris, 1817.
Fernandez Duro, _Estudios historicos del Reinado de Felipe II._,
Madrid, 1890 (an account of the disaster of Los Gelves, etc.).
Fernandez Duro, _La Armada Invencible_, 2 volumes, Madrid, 1885 (a
Spanish account of the Armada).
Baumstark, _Philippe II. Roi d’Espagne_ (French translation by G.
Kurth), Liège, 1877 (German Catholic view of the king).
Du Prat, _Elizabeth de Valois_, Paris, 1850 (Life of Philip’s third
wife).
Ranke, _Zur Geschichte des Don Carlos_ (in the “Wiener Jahrbüchen
der Literatur,” vol. xlvi., gives all the early relations about Don
Carlos), Vienna, 1829.
Schmidt, _Epochen und Katastrophen: Don Carlos und Philipp II._,
Berlin, 1864 (against Philip).
Alberi, _Relazioni degli Ambasciatori Veneti_, 15 volumes, Firenze,
1839-1863.
V. la Fuente, _Historia eclesiastica de España_, Madrid, 1874.
_Calendars of Venetian State Papers_, Rolls Series, in progress.
Sepulveda, _De Rebus Gestis Philippi II., Opera_, vol. ii., Madrid,
1780.
Motley, _The Rise of the Dutch Republic_, London, 1859.
Gachard, _Don Carlos et Philippe II._, Brussels, 1863.
Campana, _Vita del catolico Don Filippo secondo, con le guerre dei
suoi tempi_ (Vicenza, 1605).
Calderon de la Barca, J. M., _Gloriosa defensa de Malta_, Madrid,
1796 (best account of the siege of Malta).
Morel Fatio, _L’Espagne au 16me et 17me Siècles_ (accounts of
Madrid, letters from Don Juan, etc.), Paris, 1878.
Mendoza, _Guerra de Granada_, Valencia, 1795 (contemporary account
of the Morisco war).
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The bull is printed in full for the first time in Döllinger’s
_Beiträge_.
[2] The destination of Drake was kept so secret that the first hint
that he might attack Cadiz was only made by Stafford, the English
ambassador in Paris (who was a traitor in Philip’s pay), to Mendoza
on April 9. He told Mendoza that not a living soul but the queen and
Cecil really knew what the design was, the lord admiral himself being
kept in the dark, “as the queen considered him a frank-spoken man.”
It was only by chance hints that Stafford surmised that Cadiz might
be the destination. In the letter by which Philip conveyed the news
of Drake’s ravages in Cadiz to Mendoza he says that he grieves not
so much for the actual harm done, as for the daring insolence of the
thing.
[3] Immediately after Drake had sailed from Plymouth, André de Loo
arrived in London with a peaceful proposal from Farnese, and the queen
was much distressed that her efforts to recall Drake were ineffectual.
[4] This evidence will be found printed at length in the fourth volume
of the _Calendar of Spanish State Papers of Elizabeth_ now (August
1897) in the press.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
arrear=> arrears {pg 56}
the investure from the new pope=> the investure from the new pope {pg
165}
End of Project Gutenberg's Philip II. of Spain, by Martin Andrew Sharp Hume