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 of which 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 one entitled 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 for good 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. In another 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, and entitled 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 of 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, though not 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 were lowered, 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 confidence in 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 English caballero 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.
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