TBE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMiDA.
ETC.
WOF?KS BY JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.
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THE SPANISH STOEY
OF
THE ARMADA
AND OTHER ESSAYS.
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE,
UlTK REGIUS PROFBSSOU OF MODERN HISTORY IX THE UXIVERSITV OF OXFORD.
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PREFACE.
AFTER completing my History of England from the
fall of Wolsey to the defeat of the Spanish
Armada, I had intended to pursue the story of the
sixteenth century, and to write the lives of Charles the
Fifth and Philip the Second. To them had fallen the
task of confronting the storm which had broken over
the rest of Europe. The opening of the Archives of
Spain, Paris, and Vienna had for the first time made it
possible to see the position in which they found them-
selves, to understand their characters and to weigh
impartially their conduct in a situation so extraordinary.
My own partial researches had already shown me that
the prevailing opinions about these two princes required
wide correction, and I thought that I could not better
employ the remainder of my life than on an enquiry
so profoundly interesting. To regard the Emperor, to
regard Philip merely as reactionary bigots, is as unjust
as it is uninstructive. They had to deal with a world
in atms, with a condition in which society was disin-
tegrated by a universal spiritual revolt, of which the
outcome was still utterly uncertain, and at such a crisis
«i rREFACIi.
tlio wi«eHt .statesmen must have necfssarily been divided
Mil tln» condnrt wliich duty rcfjuired of them.
The hihoiir of investig.ition would have been very
gri'at, and the years which I could liave devoted to it
would at most have been none too many for so ambitious
an enterprise. I was obliged by circumstances to lay
my purpose aside until it was too late to begin ; and
it will fall to others, perhaps better (jualified than
niyself, to execute what, if successfully performed, will
be the best service that can now be rendered to modem
history. Of my own attempts nothing has come, or
now can come, save a few separate studies, such as the
story of Queen Catherine's Divorce as related by Charles
the Fifth's ambassadors, with the slight essays which
form half this present volume, and have been already
published in different peiiodicals.
The Divorce of Catiierine luis been brought out in
a separate form as a supplement to my History of
Kngland. The essays I reproduce because they were
carefully written, and I hope may have some interest
to historical students. The defeat of the Armada trans-
ferred the Empire of the Sea from Spain to England,
:uid the Spanish account of it cannot be read without
curiosity auil even sympathy. The ' Relacion ' of
Antonio Perez has, for three centuries, been the chief
authority for the private character of Philip the Second.
Philip wa^ once titular King of England. I have
thought it worth while to examine the character of
bis accuser. Tlie Life of Saint T-nesa exhibits the
PREFACE. vii
spiritual entlmsiasm of the Spanish nation in its ooblest
form.
The subjects which occupy the remainder of the
volume have no connection with the sixteenth century.
Others, however, beside myself will have observed, at
least with curiosity, the majestic figures which lie on
the floor of the Antechapel in the Temple Church, and
will have asked themselves who and what these men
could have been when they lived on earth in flesh and
blood. The publication of the ' Proces des Templiers '
by M. Michelet provides an answer to the question.
Sir George Lewis said that life would be very toler-
able if it was not for its amusements. Life, however,
without any amusements would be tedious, and books
given wholly to serious matters are tedious also.
Authors, like school-boys, require holidays, and the
sketches of the Norway Fjords are the records of two
summer excursions into those dehghtful regions, as a
guest in the yacht of a friend. Our graver writings
are the reflections of our studies. Some taste of the
flavour of our enjoyments may be preserved in the
diaries of our idleness.
CONTENTS.
fKGi
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA i
ANTONIO PEREZ: AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE 103
SAINT TERESA ^7^
THE TEMPLARS 250
THE NORWAY FJORDS 3"
NORWAY ONCE MORE 359
S THE SPANISH STORY OF THE AKMAD.U
sleep in the sIumIcs of their public offices, and what the
SpuiUHh commanders might have themselves to say of
their dt-feat and its causes has been left liitherto un-
printed. I discovered myself at Simancas the narrative
of the Accountant-General of the Fleet, ])on Pedro
Coco Calderon, and made use of it in my own history.
But Don Pedro's account showed only how much more
remained to be discovered, of which I myself could find
no record either in print or MS.
The defect has now been supplied by the industry
and patriotism of an officer in the present Spanish
Navy, who has brought together a collection of letters
and documents bearing on the subject which are signally
curious and interesting.^ Captain Fernandez Duro
deserves gratefid thanks and recognition, as enabling us
for the first time really to understand what took place.
But more than that, he reproduces the spirit and genius
of the time ; he enables us to see, face to face, the De
Valdez, the Recaldes, the Oquendos, the De Leyvas,
who had hitherto been only names to us. The ' Iliad '
would lose half its interest if we knew only Agamemnon
and Achilles, and knew nothing of Priam and Hector.
The five days' battle in the English Channel in August
1588 was fought out between men on both sides of a
signally gallant and noble nature ; and when the as-
perities of theology shall have mellowed down at last,
Spanish and Enghsh authorities together will furnish
materials for a great epic poem.
* La Annada Invcncible. Por el Capitan Fernandez Duro.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. %
Until that happy and still far-distant time shall
arrive, we must appropriate and take up into the story
Captain Duro*s^ contribution. With innocent necro-
mancy he calls the dead out of their graves, and makes
them play their drama over again. With his assistance
we will turn to the city of Lisbon on April 25 of the
Annus Miralnlis. The preparations were then all but
completed for the invasion of England and the over-
throw of the Protestant heresy. From all parts of
Catholic Europe the prayers of the faithful had ascended
for more than a year in a stream of passionate entreaty
that God would arise and make His power known.
Masses had been said day after day on fifty thousand
altars ; and devout monks and nuns had bruised their
knees in midnight watches on the chapel pavements.
The event so long hoped for was to come at last. On
that day the consecrated standard was to be presented
in state to the Commander-in-Chief of the Expedition.
Catholics had collected from every corner of the world :
Spanish and Italian, French and Irish, English and
German, owning a common nationality in the Church.
The Portuguese alone of Catholic nations looked on in
indifference. Portugal had been recently annexed by
force to Spain. The wound was still bleeding, and
even religion failed to unite the nobles and people in
common cause with their conquerors. But Lisbon had
ceased to be a Portuguese city. Philip dealt with it as
he pleased, and the Church of Portugal, at least, on this
occasion, was at Philip's disposition.
There was something of real piety in what was going
4 lllE SPANISH STORY 01 THE ARMADA.
(Ml ; :in<l tlierc was much of the artificial emotion which
horo the same relation to piety which tlio enthusiasm
of the Kiiiglit of La Manclia bore to true chivalry.
IMiihp liimsulf in certain aspects of his character was
not unlike Don Quixote. He believed that he was
divinely commissioned to extirpate the dragons and
' monsters of heresy. As the adventure witli the en-
chanted horse had been specially reserved for Don
Quixote, so the ' Enterprise of England,' in the inflated
language of the time, was said to have been reserved
for Philip; and as analogies are apt to complete them-
selves, the short, good-humoured, and entirely incapable
Medina Sidonia, who had been selected for Commander-
in-Chief, had a certain resemblance to Sancho. The
Duke of Medina had no ambition for such adventures;
he would have greatly preferred staying at home, and
only consented to take the command out of a certain
dog-like obedience to his master. The representatives
of the imaginary powers had been called in to bring
him to accept the dangerous responsibility. A pious
hermit told him that he had been instructed by the
Almighty to promise him victory. The Prioress of the
Annunciata, Maria de la Visitacion, who had received
the five wounds and was punished afterwards as a
detected impostor, liad seen Santiago and two angels
smiting Drake and his imbelieving comrades, and she
a.ssurcd the Duke of glory in both worlds if he went.
The Duke's experience of English Admirals had been,
so far, not glorious to him at all. He had been in
command at Cadiz a year before when the English fleet
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 5
sailed up the harbour, burnt eighteen large ships, and
Avent off unfought "with, taking six more away with
them. All Spain had cried shame and had called the
Duke a coward, but Philip had refused to be displeased,
and had deliberately chosen him for an undertaking far
more arduous than the defence of a provincial port.
On this April 25 he was to receive his commission,
with the standard under which he was to go into
action, and the Catholic Church was to celebrate the
occasion with its imposing splendours and imperious
solemnities.
The Armada lay in the Tagus waiting the completion
of the ceremony. It was the most powerful armament
which had ever been collected in modern Europe, a
hundred and thirty ships — great galleons from a thousand
to thirteen hundred tons ; galeasses rowed by three
hundred slaves, carrying fifty guns; galleys almost as
formidable, and other vessels, the best appointed which
Spain and Italy could produce. They carried nine
thousand seamen, seasoned mariners who had served in
all parts of the world, and seventeen thousand soldiers,
who were to join the Prince of Parma and assist in the
conquest of England. Besides them were some hundreds
of nobles and gentlemen who, with their servants and
retinues, had volunteered for the new crusade, gallant,
high-spirited youths, quite ready to fight with Satan
himself in the cause of Spain and Holy Church. In
them all was a fine profession of enthusiasm — qualified,
indeed, among the seamen by a demand for wages in
advance, and a tendency to desert when they received
6 THE SPAmSfl SrOKY Of THE ARMADA.
tliein. r»iit :i regiment of priests dispersed through tlie
various sfpiailrons kept alive in most the sense that
they w( re going on the most glorious expedition ever
tindcrtiken by man.
^le standard which was to be presentedjteelf indi-
cated tlio~sacrccrcharacter of the war. Into the Royal
Anns of Spain there liad been introduced as supporters
on one side Christ on the Cross, on the other the Virgin
niotlicr; and on the scroll below was written : 'Exsurge
])cus et vindica causam tuam,' 'Arise, Lord, and
avenge thy cause.' ' Philip, by the grace of God King
of Castile, of Leon, of dragon, the Two Sicilies, Jeru-
salem, Portugal, Navarre, Granada, Toledo, Valencia,
Gallicia, ilajorca, Sardinia, Cordova, Corsica, Murcia,
Jaeu, Algarvcs, Algcsiras, Gibraltar, the Canary Islands,
the East and West Indies, the Isles and Continents of
the Ocean; Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy,
of Brabant and Milan, Count of Hapsburgh, Count of
Flanders, Tirol, and Barcelona ; Lord of Biscay and
Molina,* &c. ; the monarch, in short, whose name was
swathed in these innumerable titles, had 'aetermined to
commit the sacred banner to his well-beloved Don
Alonzo de Guzman, surnamed El Bueno, or the Good,
and under its folds to sweep the ocean clear of the
piratical squadrons of the English Queen. The scene
was the great metropolitan church of Lisbon, the Iglesia
Major. It was six o'clock in the morning; streets and
squares were lined with troops who had been landed
from the ships. The King was represented by his
nephew, the Cardinal Archduke, who was Viceroy of
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. ^
Portugal. The Viceroy rode out of the Palace with the
Duke on his right hand, followed by the gentlemen
adventurers of the expedition in their splendid dresses.
At the church they were received by the Archbishop.
The standard was placed on the altar. Mass was sung.
The Viceroy then led the Duke up the altar steps, lifted
a fold of the standard and placed it in his hands, while,
as the signal was passed outside, the ships in the river
and the troops in the streets fired a salute — 'una
pequeiia salva,' a small one, for powder was scarce and
there was none to waste. The scene was not impres-
sive ; and the effect was frittered away in a complexity
of details. The Archbishop took the Holy Sacrament
and passed out of the church, followed by a stream of
monks and secular clergy. The Archduke and the
newly-made Admiral went after them, the standard
being borne by the Duke's cousin, Don Luis of Cordova,
who w^as to accompany him to England. In this order
they crossed the great square to the Dominican Con-
vent, where the scene in the Iglesia Major was repeated.
The Dominicans received the procession at the door.
The standard was again laid on the altar, this time by
the Duke of Medina himself, as if to signify the con-
secration of his own person to the service of the beings
whose forms were embroidered upon it. The religious
part of the transaction finished, they returned to the
Palace, and stood on the marble stairs while the troops
fired a second volley. The men were then marched to
their boats, with an eye on them to see that none
deserted, and His Koyal Highness and the Captain-
8 THE SPANISH STORY OF 'JHE ARMADA.
UonemI of tlio Ocoan, as tin; Duko w.'is now cntitlcfl,
went ill to breakfast.
The prrsciitation liad wanted dignity and perliaps
seriousness. There was no spontaneous enthusia.sra.
The ritrtuguosc aristocracy were pointedly absent, and
tlic eflect was ratlicr of some artificial display got up
by the clergy and the Govcnimcnt. And yet the
c.\i>edition of wliich tliis scene was the preliminary had
for sixty years been the dream of Catholic piety, and
the discharge at last of a duty with which the Spanish
nation appeared to be peculiarly cliargcd. Tlie Reform-
ation in En«iland had commenced with the divorce of a
Spanish Princess. Half the English nation had been on
Catherine's side and had invited Philip's father to send
troops to help theui to maintain her. As the quarrel
deepened, and England became the stronghold of heresy,
the English Catholics, the Popes, the clergy universally
had entreated Charles, aiul Philip after him, to strike
at the heart of the mischief and take a stej) which, if
successful, would end the Protestant rebellion and give
peace to Europe. The great Emperor and Philip too
had listened reluctantly. Rulers responsible for the
administration of kingdoms do not willingly encourage
subjects in rebellion, even under the plea of religion.
The divorce of Catherine had been an affront to Charles
the Fifth and to Spain, yet it was not held to be a
sufficient gromul for war, and Philip had resisted for a
quarter of a century the supplications of the suffering
saints to deliver them from the tyranny of Elizabeth.
It was an age of revolt against established authority.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 9
New ideas, new obligations of duty were shaking
mankind. Obedience to God was held as superior to
obedience to man; while each man was forming for
himself his own conception of what God required of
him. The intellect of Europe was outgrowing its creed.
Part of the' world had discovered that doctrines and
practices which had lasted for fifteen hundred years
were false and idolatrous. The other and larger part
called the dissentientslrebels and children of the Devil,
and set to work to burn and kill them. At such times
kings vand princes have enough to do to maintain order
in their own dominions, and even when they are of
opposite sides have a common interest in maintaining
the principle of authority. Nor when the Pope himself
spoke on the Catholic side were Catholic princes com-
pletely obedient. For the Pope's pretensions to deprive
kings and dispose of kingdoms were only believed in by
the clergy. No secular sovereign in Europe admitted
a right which reduced him to the position of a Pope's
vassal, Philip held that he sufficiently discharged his
own duties in repressing heresy among his own subjects
without interfering with his neighbours. Elizabeth was
as Kttle inclined to help Dutch and French and Scotch
Calvinists. Yet the power of princes, even in the six-
teenth century, was limited, and it rested after all on
the goodwill of their own people. Common sympathies
bound Catholics to Catholics and Protestants to Pro-
testants, and every country in Europe became a caldron
of intrigue and conspiracy. Catholics disclaimed allegi-
ance to Protestant sovereigns, Protestants in Catholic
lo THE SPANISH STORY OF TJIF. ARMADA.
countries looked to their fellow-religionists elsewhere to
save thcrn from stake and sword, and thus between all
parties, in one form or another, tlicre were perpetual
collisions, which the forbearance of statesmen alone
prevented from breaking out into universal war.
Complete forbearance was not possible. Community
of creed was a real bond which could not be ignored,
nor in the general uncertainty could princes afford to
reject absolutely and entirely the overtures ma<le to
them by each other's subjects. When they could not
assist they were obliged to humour and encourage.
Charles the Fifth refused to go to war to enforce the
sentence of Rome upon Henry the Eighth, but he
allowed his ambassadors to thank and stimulate
Catherine's English friends. Philip was honestly un-
willing to draw the sword against his sister-in-law,
Elizabeth ; but he was the secular head of Catholic
Christendom, bound to the maintenance of the faith.
He had been titular King of England, and to him the
English Catholics naturally looked as their protector.
He had to permit his De Quadras and his Mendozas to
intrigue with disaffection, to organise rebellion, and, if
other means failed, to encourage the Queen's assassina-
tion. To kill dangerous or mischievous individuals was
held permissible as an alternative for war, or as a means
of ending disturbance. It was approved of even by Sir
Thomas More in his Utopia. William the Silent was
nmrdercd in the Catholic interest. Henri Quatre" was
murdered in the Catholic interest, and any one who
would do the same to the English Jezebel would be
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. ii
counted to have done good service. Elizabeth had to
defend herself with sucHr~fesources as she possessed.
She could not afford to demand open satisfaction ; but
she could send secret help to the Prince of Orange ; she
could allow her privateers to seize Spanish treasures on
the high seas or plunder Philip's West Indian cities.
She could execute the traitorous priests who were found
teaching rebellion in England. Philip in return could
let the Inquisition burn English sailors as heretics when
they could catch them. And thus the two nations had
drifted on, still nominally at peace, and each unwilling
to declare open war ; but peace each year had become
more difficult to preserve, and Philip was driven on by
the necessities of things to some open and decided
action. The fate of the Reformation in Europe turned
on the event of a conflict between Spain and England.
Were England conquered and recovered to the Papacy,
it was believed universally that first the Low Countries
and then Germany would be obliged to submit.
Several times a Catholic invasion of England had
been distinctly contemplated. The Duke of Alva was
to have tried it. Don John of Austria was to have
tried it. The Duke of Guise was to have tried it.
The nearest and latest occasion had been after the
Conquest of Portugal and the great defeat of the
French at the Azores in 1583. The Spanish Navy
was then in splendid condition, excited by a brilliant
victory, and led by an officer of real distinction, Alonzo
de Bazan, Marques de Santa Cruz, A feSv'English
privateers had been in the defeated fleet at the Battle
12 THE STAMSIl STOKY OF TJIE ARMADA.
of Tcnrini ; and SiintH Cruz, with tlie other naval
(•oimiiaiiilns, w.'us eager to follow up liis success ami
avenge tlio insults which lia<l been offered for so many
years to the Spanish flag by the English corsairs.
France, like all Northern Europe, was torn into factions.
'X\v\ Valois ]»rinces were Liberal and anti-Spanish.
The House (jf Guise was fanatically Catholic, and too
I)owerful for the Crown to control. Santa Cruz was a
diplomatist as well as a seaman. He had his corre-
spondents in England. In Guise he had a friend and
confederate. The plan of action had been secretly
: arranged. One of the many plots was formed for the
I murder of Elizabeth. Santa Cruz and the Spanish
Navy were to hold the Channel. Guise was to cross
under their protection and land an army in Sussex.
The Catholics were to rise, set free Mary Stuart, and
make her Queen. This was the scheme. The fleet
was ready. Guise was ready ; and only Philip's per-
mission was waited for. Santa Cruz was a rough old
sailor, turned of seventy, who meant what he said and
spoke his mind plainly. Like his countrymen gener-
ally, he was tired of seeing his master for ever halting
on his leaden foot {j)i6 dc •plomo)'^ and on August 9,
1 5831 while still at the Azores, he wrote to stimulate
him to follow up his success by still more splendid
achievement. Philip was now master of the Portuguese
Empire. He (Santa Cruz) was prepared, if allowed, to
add England to his dominions. The Low Countries
would then surrender, and the Jezebel who had wrought
so much evil in the world would meet her deserts.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. \\
Now was the time. The troops were ready, the
fleet was in high condition. Philip talked of expense
and difficulty. If difficulty was an objection, the bold
admiral said that nothing grand could ever be achieved ;
and for money, great princes could find money if they
wished. The King should have faith in God, whose
work he would be doing ; and if he was himself per-
mitted to try, he promised that he would have as good
success as in his other enterprises.
Charles the Fifth, among his other legacies to his
son, had left him instructions to distrust France and to
preserve the English alliance. The passionate Catholics
had assured Philip over and over again that the way to
keep England was to restore the faith. But plot after
plot had failed, Elizabeth was still sovereign, and
Catholic conspiracies so far had only brought their
leaders to the scaffold. Mary Stuart was a true
believer, but she was herself half a Frenchwoman, and
Guise's father had defeated Philip's father at Metz,
and Guise and Mary masters of France and England
Doth was a perilous possibility. Philip did not assent ;
ne did not refuse. He thanked Santa Cruz for his
zeal, but said that he must still wait a little and watch.
His waiting did not serve to clear his way. Elizabeth
discovered what had been designed for her, and as a
return Sir Francis Drake sacked St. Domingo and
Carthagena. More than that, she had sent open help
to"°ETs~insurgent provinces, and had taken charge, with
the consent of the Hollanders, of Flushing and Brill.
Santa Cruz could not but admire the darinsr of Drake
M THE SPANISH STORY OF THE AR.^fADA.
.-iixl tlio j;cuius of the English Queen. Tliey were
iictin^ while liis own ma.ster was asleep. He tried
again to rouse him. The Queen, he said, ha^l ina<]e
herself a name in the worUl. She liad enriched her
own subjects out of Spanish spoil. In a single month
they had taken a million and a half of ducats.
Defensive war was always a failure. Once more the
opportunity was his own. France was paralysed, and
Elizabeth, though strong abroad, was weak at home,
through the disaffection of the Catholics. To delay
longer would be to see England grow into a power
which he would be unable to deal with. Spain would
decline, and wouM lose in mere money more than four
times the cost of war.^
This time Philip listened more seriously. Before,
he had been invited to act with the Duke of Guise, and
Guise was to have the spoils. Now, at any rate, the
lead in the campaign was to be his own. He bade
Santa Cruz send him a plan of operations and a calcula-
tion in detail of the ships and stores which would be
required. He made him Lord High Admiral, com-
missioned him to collect squadrons at Cadiz and Lisbon,
take them to sea, and act against the English as he saw
occasion. Santa Cruz would probably have been allowed
his way to do what he pleased in the following year but
for a new complication, which threw Philip again into
])erple.\ity. The object of any enterprise led by Santa
Cruz would have been the execution of the Bull of
' SanU Cnu: to Philip the Second, January 13, 15S6.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 1$
Pope Pius, the detbrouement of Elizabeth, and the
transference of the crown to Mary Stuart, who, if placed
on the throne by Spanish arms alone, might be relied
on to be true to Spanish interests. Wearied out with
Mary's perpetual plots, Elizabeth, when Santa Cruz's
preparations were far advanced, sent her to the scaffold,
and the blow of the axe which ended her disconcerted
every arrangement which had been made. There was
no longer a Catholic successor in England to whom tlie
crown could go on Elizabeth's deposition, and it was
useless to send an army to conquer the country till
some purpose could be formed for disposing of it after-
wards. Philip had been called King of England once.
He was of the blood of the House of Lancaster. He
thought, naturally, that if he was to do the work, to
him the prize should belong. Unfortunately, the rest
of the world claimed a voice in the matter. France
would certainly be hostile. The English Catholics
were divided. The Pope himself, when consulted, refused
his assent. As Pope Sextus the Fifth, he was bound to
desire the reduction of a rebellious island ; as an Italian
prince, he had no wish to see another wealthy kingdom
added to the enormous empire of Spain. Mary Stuart's
son was natural heir. He was a Protestant, but srati-
tude might convert him. At any rate, Philip was not
to take Elizabeth's place. Sextus was to have given a
million crowns to the cost of the armament ; he did not
directly withdraw his promise, but he haggled with the
Spanish Ambassador at the Holy See. He afifected to
doubt the possibiUty of Philip's success, and even his
l6 THE SPANISH SJOKY OI- yj/l-: AKAfADA.
{Kirsunal sincerity. He declined to advance a ducat till
■\ Spanish aiiny was aciually on English soil. The
Prince of rarnia, who was to cross from Flanders and
conduct the campaign in England itself, was diffident,
if not unwilling ; and Philip had to feel that even the
successful occupation of London might prove the begin-
ning of greater troubles. He had been driven forward
himself against his inclination. The chief movers in
the enterprise, those who had fed the fire of religious
animosity through Europe, and prevented a rational
arrangement between the Spanish and English nations,
were the Society of Jesus, those members of it espe-
cially who had been bred at Oxford in the Anglican
Church, and hated it with the frenzy of renegades.
From them came the endless conspiracies which Spain
was forced to countenance, and the consequent severities
of the English Government, which they shrieked in
Philip's cars ; and Philip, half a bigot and half a
cautious statesman, wavered between two policies till
. fate decided for him. Both on Philip's part and on
j Elizabeth's part there was a desire for peace if peace
I could be had. Philip was weary of the long struggle in
the Low Countries, which threatened to be endless if
Elizabeth supported it. Elizabeth herself wished to
be left in quiet, relieved of the necessity of supporting
insurgent Protestants and hanging traitorous priests.
An arrangement was possible, based on principles of
general toleration.
The Pope was right in not wholly trusting Philip.
The Spanish King was willing to agree that England
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 17
should remain Protestant if England wished it, pro-
vided the Catholics were allowed the free exercise of
their own religion, and provided Elizabeth would call
in her privateers, surrender to him the towns which she
held in Holland, and abandon her alliance with the
Dutch States. Elizabeth was perfectly ready to tolerate
Catholic worship if the Catholics would cease their
plots against her and Spain would cease to encourage
them. It was true that Flushing and Brill had been
trusted to her charge by the States, and that if she
withdrew her garrison she was bound in honour to
replace them in the States' hands. But she regarded
the revolt of the Low Countries as only justified by
the atrocities of the Blood Council and the Inquisition.
If she could secure for the Dutch Confederation the
same toleration which she was willing herself to concede
to the English Catholics, she might feel her honour to
be acquitted sufficiently, and might properly surrender
to Philip towns which really were his own. Here only,
so far as the two sovereigns were concerned, the diffi-
culty lay. Philip held himself bound by duty to allow
no liberty of religion among his own subjects. On the
other hand, if peace was made the Spanish garrisons
were to be withdrawn from the Low Countries; the
Executive Government would be left in the hands of
the States themselves, who could be as tolerant practi-
cally as they pleased. On these terms it was certain
that a general pacification was within reach. The
Prince of Parma strongly advised it. Philip himself
wished for it. Half Elizabeth's Council recommended
c
1 8 THE SI'ANISII STORY Of- THE ARMADA.
if, 1111(1 she herself wished for it. Unless Catholics and
Protestants intended to fight till one or the other was
exterminated, tliey must come to some such terms at
last; and if at last, why not at once? With this
purpose a conference was being held at Ostend Between
Elizabeth's and Parma's commissioners. The terms
were rational. The principal parties, it is now possible
to see — even Philip himself — were sincere about it.
How long the terms of such a peace would have lasted,
with the theological furnace at such a heat, may be
fairly questioned. Bigotry and freedom of thought had
two centuries of battle still before them till it could be
seen which was to prevail. But an arrangement might
then have been come to at Ostend, in the winter of
1587-8, which would have lasted Philip's and Elizabeth's
lifetime, could either party have trusted the other. In
both countries there was a fighting party and a peace
party. In England it was said that the negotiations
were a fraud, designed only to induce Elizabeth to relax
her preparations for defence. In Spain it was urged
that the Inrgor and more menacing the force which
cuuld be collected, the more inclined Elizabeth would
be to listen to reason ; while Elizabeth had to show on
her part that frightened she was not, and that if Philip
preferred war she had no objection. The bolder her
bearing, the more likely she would be to secure fair
terms for the Hollanders.
The preparations at Cadiz and Lisbon were no secret.
All Europe was talking of the enormous armament
which Spain was preparing, and which Santa Cruz w\as
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 19
to convoy to the English Channel. Both the Tagus
and Cadiz Harbour were reported to be crowded with
ships, though as yet unprovided with crews for them.
With some misgivings, but in one of her bolder
moments, the Queen in the sj^ring of 1587 allowed
Drake to take a flying squadron with him down the
Spanish coast. She hung about his neck a second in
command to limit his movements ; but Drake took
his own way, leaving his vice-admiral to go home
and complain. He sailed into Cadiz Harbour, burnt
eighteen galleons whicK were lying there, and, remain-
ing leisurely till he had finished his work, sailed away,
intending to repeat the operation at Lisbon. It might
have been done with the same ease. The English
squadron lay at the mouth of the river within sight of
Santa Cruz, and the great admiral had to sit still and
fume, unable to go out and meet him por falta de gente
— for want of sailors to man his galleons. Drake might
have gone in and burnt them all, and would have done
it had not Elizabeth felt that he had accomplished
enough, and that the negotiations would be broken off
if he worked more destruction. He had singed the
King's beard, as he called it ; and tKe" King, though
patient of affronts, was moved to a passing emotion.
Seamen and soldiers were hurried down to the Tagus.
Orders were sent to the Admiral to put to sea at once
and chase the English off the shore. But Philip, too,
on his side was afraid of Santa Cruz's too great audacity.
He, too, did not wish for a collision which might make
peace impossible. Another order followed. The fleet
ao THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
was to stay where it was and to continue its preparations.
It was to wait till tlie next spring, when the enterprise
should be undertaken in earnest if the peace conference
at Osteud should fail in finding a conclusion.
Thus the winter drove through. Peace perhaps was
not really possible, however sincerely the high contract-
ing parties might themselves desire it. Public opinion
ill Spain would have compelled Philip to leave the
conqueror of Terceira in command of the expedition.
Santa Cruz would have sailed in March for the English
Channel, suf>ported by officers whom he liad himself
trained ; and, although the Armada might still have
failed, history would have had another tale to tell of its
exploits and its fate. But a visible coldness had grown
up between the King and the Admiral. Philip, like
many men of small minds raised into great positions,
had supreme confidence in his own powers of manage-
ment. He chose to regulate everything, to the diet
and daily habits of every sailor and soldier on board.
He intended to direct and limit the action of the Armada
even when out and gone to its work. He had settled
perhaps in his own mind that, since he could not him-
self be King of England, the happiest result for him
would be to leave Elizabeth where she was, reduced to
the condition of his vassal, which she would become if
she consented to his terms ; and with the presence of
an overpowering Beet in the Channel, a moderate but
not too excessive use of force, an avoidance of extreme
and violent measures, which wouhl make the strife
internee ine and make an arrangement hopeless, he con-
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 21
ceived that lie could bring Elizabeth to her knees. For
such a purpose Santa Cruz was not the most promising
instrument; he required some one of more malleable
material who would obey his own instructions, and would
not be led either by his own ambition or the enthusiasm
and daring of his officers into desperate adventures. It
was probably, therefore, rather to his relief than regret
that in February, when the Armada was almost ready
to sail, the old Admiral died at Lisbon. Santa Cruz
was seventy-three years old. He had seen fifty years
of service. Spanish tradition, mourning at the fatal
consequence, said afterwards that he had been broken-
hearted at the King's hesitation. Anxiety for the honour
of his country might have worn out a younger man.
He came to his end, and with him went the only chance
of a successful issue of the expedition. He was proud
of his country, which he saw that Philip was degrading.
The invasion of England liad been his dream for years,
and "Be liad correspondents of his own in England and
Ireland. He was the ablest seaman that Spain possessed,
and had studied long the problems with which ho would
have had to deal. Doubtless he had left men behind
among those who had served under him who could have
taken his place, and have done almost as well. But
Philip had determined that, since the experiment was
to be made, he would himself control it from his room
in the Escurial, and in his choice of Santa Cruz's suc-
cessor he showed that naval capacity and patriotic
enthusiasm were the last qualities for which he was
lookino-.
2.' THE SPANISH STOhV OF THE ARMADA.
J)i>ii Alotizo (It: Giizm.'iii, Duke of Medina Sidonia,
wjus tlio richest peer in Spain. He was now thirty-eight
years old, and his experience as a public man was limited
to Ids failiin; to defend Cadiz against Drake. He was
a short, broad-shouldered, olive-complexioned man, said
to bo a good rider; but, if his wife was to be believed,
ho was of all men in Spain the least fitted to be trusted
with the conduct of any critical undertaking. The
Duchess, Dona Ana do Mendoza, was the daughter of
Philip's ^linister, Ruy Gomez, and of the celebrated
Princess of Eboli, whom later scandal called Philip's
mistress, and whose attractions were supposed to have
influenced Philip in favour of her son-in-law. Royal
scandals are dreary subjects. When they are once
uttered the stain is indelible, for every one likes to
believe them. The only contemporary witness for the
amours of Philip and the Princess of Eboli is Antonio
Perez, who, by his own confession, was a scoundrel who
deserved the gallows. Something is known at last of
the history of the lady. If there was a woman in Spain
whom Philip detested, it was the wife of Ruy Gomez.
If there was a man whom the Princess despised, it was
the watery-blooded King. An intrigue between a wild
cat of the mountain and a narrow-minded, conscientious
sheep-dog would be about as probable as a love-affair
between Philip and the Princess of Eboli ; and at the
time of her son-in-law's appointment she was locked up
in a castle in defiant disgrace. The Duke had been
married to her daughter when he was twenty-two and
his britlo was eleven, and Dona Ana, after sixteen years'
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 23
experience of him, had observed to her friends that he
was well enough in his own house among persons who
did not know what he was ; but that if he was employed
on business of State the world would discover to its cost
his real character. That such a man should have been
chosen to succeed Alonzo de Bazan astonished every
one. A commander of Gold, it was said, was taking
the place of a commander of Iron. The choice was
known to Santa Cruz Avhile he still breathed, and did
not comfort him in his departure.
The most astonished of all, when he learnt the
honour which was intended for him, was the Duke
himself, and he drew a picture of his own incapacity as
simple as Sancho's when appointed to govern his island.
* My health is bad,' he wrote to Philip's secretary,
' and from my small experience of the water I know
that I am always sea-sick. I have no money which I
can spare. I owe a million ducats, and I have not a
real to spend on my outfit. The expedition is on such
a scale and the object is of such high importance that
the person at the head of it ought to understand
navigation and sea-fighting, and I know nothing of
either. I have not one of those essential qualifications.
I have no acquaintances among the officers who are to
serve under me. Santa Cruz had information about
the state of things in England ; I have none. Were I
competent otherwise, I should have to act in the dark
by the opinion of others, and I cannot tell to whom I
may trust. The Adelantado of Castile would do better
than T. Our Lord would help him, for he is a good
2, 11 IE SPAMSn STONY OF 'IIIE ARMADA.
Cliristian and lins fought in naval battles. If you seud
mc, (lu[»on<l upon it, I sliall liavc a bad account to
rendtT of my trust.' '
'J'lic Duchess, perhaps, guided her husband's hau<l
when he wrote so faitliful an account of liimself. But
his vanity was flattered. Philip persisted that he must
go. He and only he would answer the purpose in view,
so he allowed him.self to be persuaded.
' Since your Majesty still desires it, after my con-
fession of incompetence,' he wrote to Philip, ' I will try
to deserve your confidence. As I shall be doing God's
Work, I may iiopc that He Avill help me.'
Philip gratefully replied : 'You are sacrificing your-
self for God's service and mine. I am so anxious, that
if I was less occu|)ied at home I would accompany the
fleet myself, and I should be certain that all would
go well. Take heart ; you have now an opportunity
of showing the extraordinary qualities which God, the
author of all good, has been pleased to bestow upon
you. Happen what may, I charge myself with the care
of your children. If you fail, you fail ; but the cause
being the cause of God, you will not foil.'
Thus the Duke was to command the Armada and
to sail at the earliest possible moment, for the com-
missioners were sitting at Ostcnd, and his presence in
the Channel was of pressing consequence. Santa Cruz
besides had fixed on the end of March as the latest
' Medina Sidonia to Secretary Idiaquez, Feb. 16, 15S8. Duro, vol.
i. p. 414.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 2$
date for the departure, on account of the north winds
which later in the season blow down the coast of
Portugal. The Duke at the time of his nomination
was at his house at San Lucar. He was directed to
repair at once to Lisbon, where his commission would
reach him. An experienced but cautious Admiral,
Don Diego Flores De Valdez, was assigned to him as
nautical adviser, and Philip proceeded to inflict upon
him a series of instructions and advice as wise and
foolish as those with which Don Quixote furnished his
squire. Every day brought fresh letters as suggestions
rose in what Philijo called his mind. Nothing was too
trifling for his notice, nothing was to be left to the
Duke's discretion which could possibly be provided for.
In a secret despatch to the Prince of Parma, the King
revealed alike his expectations and his wishes. He
trusted that the appearance of the Armada and some
moderate victory over the English fleet would force
Elizabeth to an agreement. If the Catholic religion
could be tolerated in England, and if Flushing and Brill
were given up to him, he said that he was prepared to
be satisfied. To Medina Sidonia he reported as his
latest advice from England that the Queen was
inclining to the treaty, but was dissuaded by Leicester
and Walsingham, and he gave him a list of the English
forces which he might expect to meet, which was
tolerably accurate and far inferior to his own.
So far Philip wrote like a responsible and sensible
prince, but the smallest thing and the largest seemed
to occupy him equally. He directed the Duke to
a/; THE srANISIf STORY OF THE ARMADA.
provide liirnsclf witli competent Channel pilots, as if
this was a point which might be overlooked. He laid
down ri'md.itions for the health of the crews, he fixed
himself tin; alhtwanccs of biscuit and wine, salt fish and
bacon. Beyond all, lie charged the Duke to attend to
their morals. Tiiey were in the service of the Lord,
1 and the Lord must not be offended by the faults of
I His instruments. The clergy throughout Spain were
praying for them and would continue to pray, but
.soldiers and sailors must do their part and live like
Christians. They must not swear; they must not
gamble, which led to swearing. If they used low
language God would be displeased. Every man before
he embarked must confess and commend himself to the
Lord. Especially and pre-eminently, loose women
must be kept away, and if any member of the ex-
pedition fell into the pccado nefarido he must be
chastised to the example of the rest. This was well
enough also, but from morals the King went next to
naval details, of which he could know nothing. He
had heard, he said, that the gentlemen adventurers
wantctl state-rooms and private berths. It would
encumber the ships, and the Duke was not to allow it.
As the Duke was ignorant of navigation, the King held
himself competent to instruct. He was to make
straight for the English Ciiannel, advance to the North
Foreland, and put himself in communication with
Parma. If foul weather came and the ships were
scattered, they were to collect again, first at Finisterre,
and tiien at the Scilly Isles. In the Channel he must
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 27
keep on the English side, because the water was deeper
there. Elizabeth's fleet, Philip understood, was divided,
part being under Drake at Plymouth, and part in the
Straits of Dover. If the Duke fell in with Drake he
was to take no notice of him unless he was attacked,
and was to keep on his course. If he found the two
squadrons united, he would still be in superior force
and might join battle, being careful to keep to
windward.
There were limits even to Philip's confidence in
his ability to guide. He admitted that he could not
direct the Duke specifically how to form the ships for
an engagement. Time and opportunity would have
to determine. 'Only,' he said, 'omit no advantage,
and so handle the fleet tliat one part shall support
another. The enemy Avill try to fight at a distance
with his guns. You wiU endeavour to close. You
will observe that their practice is to shoot low into
the hulls rather than into the rigs^incj. You will find
how to deal with this. Keep your vessels together,
allow none to stray or go in advance. Do not let
them hurry in pursuit of prizes after a victory. This
fault has often caused disaster both on sea and land.
Conquer first, and then you will have spoil enough.
The Council of War will order the distribution of it.
What I am now saying implies that a battle will have
to be fought ; but if the enemy can be got rid of with-
out an action, so much the better. The effect will be
produced without loss to yourself. Should the Prince
be able to cross, you will remain with the Armada
2S 11 Hi SPAN/Sf/ STORY OF 71/ E ARMADA.
at tlio iiiDutli of tliG Tliamcs, lending such assistance
as you can. Consult with the Prince, and land none
of your forces without his approval, lieniember that
your only business is to fight at sea. Dififerences
between leaders are injurious, and always to be avoided.
I am confident that you will co-operate cordially with
tlie rrince as my service demands; but I must charge
you to follow these injunctions of mine strictly
according to the exact words. I have similarly
ilirccted the Prince on his own conduct, and if you two
acting together can succeed in your undertaking, there
will be honour to spare for both of you. You will
remain at the Thames' mouth till the work is done.
You may then, if the Prince approves, take in han<l
Ireland, in Avhich case you will leave your Spanish
troops with him and exchange them for Germans and
Italians. You will be careful in what you spend. You
know how costly the Armada has been to me. You
will also see that I am not cheated in the muster rolls,
and that the provisions are sound and sufficient. You
will watch the conduct of the officers and keep them
attentive to their duties. This is all which occurs to
me at present. I must leave the rest to your own care
and prudence, and for any further advices which I may
have to send you.' ^
Much of all this was no doubt reasonable and true.
But Generals chosen to conduct great enterprises do
' Philip the Second to the Duke of Medina Sidonia, April i. Dure,
vol. ii. pp. 5—13.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 29
not require to be taught the elements of their duties.
That Philip thought it necessary to write all these
details was characteristic both of himself and of the
Duke. But it was characteristic of Philip also, that
he had not made up his mind what the fleet was after
all to do, or what he himself wished it to do. The first
set of instructions was followed by a second, addressed
both to the Duke and the Prince of Parma. The
original purpose was that the fleet should make its way
to the North Foreland. Parma was to use its presence
in the Channel, to cross at once with the army, advance
to London and take possession of the Government,
where, in conjunction with Cardinal Allen and the
Catholic Nobles, he was to restore the authority of the
Roman Church. This, however, implied that the
English squadrons should have been first destroyed, or
driven off the sea into their harbours. It was possible,
as Philip foresaw, that the victory at sea might be less
complete. He assumed that the English would be
overmatched, but they were bold and skilful, and, even
if defeated, might be left in a condition to be trouble-
some. The passage of the army might in that case be
dangerous; and Parma was left on his own responsi-
bility to resume the negotiations at Ostend, Medina
Sidonia was to gain and fortify the Isle of Wiglif'f'SSd
the" presence of the Armada in the Solent was to be
used as an instrument to extort favourable terms from
Elizabeth's Government. It would be no longer
possible to demand the restoration of Catholicism in
England, but the free exercise of the Catholic religion
30 THE SPANISH STOh'Y OF 7 HE /l/^Af/ir>A.
was to be insisted on. As the fust point, and for the
Rake of the toleration of the Catholics, Philip would
be willing to abandon his claim to compensation for the
plundering expeditions of Francis Drake. The next
condition was to be the restoration to the King of the
towns which Elizabeth held in tlie Low Countries. It
was possible that, before consenting, the Queen would
demand the same liberty of religion for the Protestants
of the Low Countries which she was required to grant
to her own Catholics. To this, however, Parma was in
no case to consent. The English might argue that tlie
Husruenots were tolerated under the Edicts in France.
Parma was to answer that the example was not to the
|)oint, that the King, at any rate, would not give way.
The Isle of Wight would be in his own hands. The
fleet would be safe in the Solent. Other fortresses
could be seized along the coast, and Elizabeth would
be forced to consent to a peace, under which she would
be virtually reduced into the position of Philip's vassal.
Accidents, however, might happen, and the Prince
of Parma also was perplexed with minute conditional
instructions.
Disast er it is evident that^hilip did not anticipate.
Something less than complete success In I'lobahly did
anticipate, and on the whole might prefer it. Satisfied
with having provided fur all contingencies, he was now
only anxious to see the Armada on its way. The nuns
and hermits, meanwhile, had removed the alarms of
Medina Sidonia, had convinced him that God could not
neglect a business in whieh }Jo was so peculiarly con-
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 31
cerned, and that, in the fine language of theological
knight-errantry, the service which he was to execute
had been specially reserved by Providence for the
King to achieve.^
Such thoughts and such experiences were doubtless
indications of a high-wrought frame of mind ; but men
may dwell too exclusively on the conviction that God
is on their side, and perhaps forget that God will not
be found there if they neglect to do their own parts.
While the priests were praying and the King and the
Duke were calculating on the Divine assistance, they
were omitting, all of them, the most obvious pre-
cautions by which moderate success could be looked
for. Santa Cruz had reported that the fleet was almost
ready to sail. The stores of provisions had been laid
in while he was still alive, and the water-casks had
been filled. But after his death there was no responsible
person left in Lisbon to see to anything. Great naval
expeditions were nothing new in Spain. The West
Indies and Mexico and Peru had not been conquered
by men in their sleep ; and what ships and ships' crews
required for dangerous voyages was as well understood
at Lisbon and Cadiz as in any harbour in the world.
But the Armada was surrounded by a halo of devout
imagination which seemed to paralyse all ordinary
sense. It was to have sailed in Llarch, but, even to
the inexperienced eye of Medina Sidonia when he
^ 'Y que lo tiene guanlado a
V. Md. para que por su mano y
con su gran zelo y christiandad, se
reduzca aquel Regno al grcmio j'
obediencia de su Iglesia.' Medina
Sidonia to Philip, April 1 1.
32 THE sr.t\/s// sTOJ^y or the armai>a.
jinivfil .'it liis coiiiiii.-iiiil, tlic iii;ul»j(juacy of tlic pre-
parations was too obvious. The casks of salt meat
were foiiiul to be putrefying; tlie water in the tanks
hail not been renewed, and had stood for weeks, grow-
ing foul and poisonous under the hot Lisbon sun. Spare
rope, spare spars, spare anchors — all were deficient.
The powder-supply was short. The balls were short.
The contractors had cheated as audaciously as if they
had been mere heretics, and the soldiers and mariners
so little liked the look of things that they were desert-
ing iu hundreds, while the muster- masters drew pay
for the full numbers and kept it. Instead of sailing in
March, as he had been ordered, the Duke was obliged
to send to Madrid a long list of indispensable neces-
saries, without which he could not sail at all. Nothing
had been attended to save the state of the men's souls,
about which the King had been so peculiarly anxious.
They at any rate had been sent to confession, had
received each his ticket certifying that he had been
absolved and had duly commended himself to the Lord.
The loose women had been sent away, the cards and
dice prohibited, the moral instructions punctually com-
plied with. All the rest had been left to chance and
villainy. The short powder-supply was irremediable.
The Duke purchased a few casks from merchant ships,
but no more was to be had. For the rest, the King
wrote letters, and the Duke, according to his own
account, worked like a slave, and the worst defects
were concealed if not supplied. Not, however, till the
end of .\pril wore the conditions advanced sufficieutlv
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 33
for the presentation of the standard, and even then tlie
squadron from Andalusia had not arrived.
All was finished at last, or at any rate seemed so.
The six squadrons were assembled under their respective
commanders. Men and officers were on board, and
sailing orders, addressed to every member of the ex-
pedition, were sent round, in the Duke's name, to the
several ships, which, remembering the fate to which all
these men were being consigned by their crusading
enthusiasm, we cannot read without emotion,
'From highest to lowest you are to understand the
object of our expedition, which is to recover countries
to the Church now oppressed by the enemies of the
true faith. I therefore beseech you to remember your
calling, so that God may be with us in what we do.
I charge you, one and all, to abstain from profane oatha
dishonouring to the names of our Lord, our Lady, and
the Saints. All personal quarrels are to be suspended
Avhile the expedition lasts, and for a month after it is
completed. Neglect of this will be held as treason.
Each morning at sunrise the ship boys, according to
custom, shall sing " Good Morrow " at the foot of the
mainmast,^ and at sunset the "Ave Maria." Since bad
weather may interrupt the communications, the watch-
woid is laid down for each day in the week : — Sunday,
Jesus; the days succeeding, the Holy Ghost, the Holy
Trinity, Santiago, the Angels, All Saints, and our Lady.
^ 'X/os pajes, seguu es costumbre, daran los buenos dias al pie del
mastil major.'
D
34 rnj: srAMsn story or riir. armada.
At sea, every evening, cndi ship shall pass with a
salute under the loe of the Conimanflcr-in-Chief, and
shall follow at night the light which ho will carry in
his stern.'
So, as it were, singing its own dirge, the doomed
Armada went upon its way, to encounter the arms and
the genius of the new era, unc(iually matched with
unbelievers. On M^yI4 it dropped down the river to
Belem, and lay there waiting for a wind. A brief
account may here be given of its composition and its
chief leaders. The fleet consisted of a hundred and
thirty ships. Seven of them were over a thousand
tons and sixty-seven over five hundred. They carried
two thousand five hundred guns, chiefly small, however
— four, six, and nine-pounders. Spanish seamen under-
stood little of gunnery. Their art in their sea-battles
was to close and grapple and trust to their strength
and courage in hand-to-hand fighting. Large for the
time as the galleons were, they were still overcrowded.
Soldiers, sailors, officers, volunteers, priests, surgeons,
galley-slaves, amounted, according to the returns, to
nearly thirty thousand men. The soldiers were the
tinest in Europe ; the seamen old trained hands, who
had learnt their trade under Santa Cruz. They were
divided into six squadrons, each with its Vice-Admiral
and Capitana or flag-ship. The Duke carried his
standard in the San Martin, of the squadron of Por-
tugal, the finest vessel in the service, and, as the
Spaniards thought, in the world. The other five, of
Biscay, Castile, Andalusia, Guypuscoa, and the Levant,
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 35
were led by distinguished officers. Tlicre was but oue
commander in the fleet entirely ignorant of his duties,
tliough lie, unfortunately, was Commander-in-Chief.
As the names of these officers recur frequently in
the account of what followed, some description may be
given of each. /\ /
The Vice-Ad miral of the Biscay squadron was Juan \i/-\'-i^^
Martinez de Recalde, a native of Bilbao, an old, battered
sea-wariior, who had fought and served {n'alT^arts of
the^cean. He knew Ireland; he knew the Channel;
he had been in the great battle at Terceira, and in the
opinion of the service was second only to Santa Cruz.
His flagship was the Santa Ana, a galleon of eight
hundred tons; he sailed himself in the Gran Grin, of
eleven hundred; so far fortunate, if any one in the
expedition could be called fortunate, for the Santa
Ana was disabled in a storm at the mouth of the
Channel.
The leaders of the squadrons of Castile and Anda-
lusia were two cousins, Don Pedro and Don Diego de
Valdez. Don Diego, whoin~lPhilip had chosen for the
Duke's mentor, was famous as a naval architect, had
been on exploring expeditions, and had made a certain
reputation for himself. He was a jealous, suspicious,
cautious kind of man, and Philip had a high opinion of
him, Don Pedro was another of the heroes of Terceira, ^-^
a rough, nS^ld seaman, scarred in a hundred actions
with English corsairs, and between the two kinsmen ^
r there was neither resemblance nor affection. Don
Pedro's misfortune in the Channel, which will soon be
>
36 Tin-: SPANISH story of the armada.
hriinl of, l)r()n<;lit liiiii more lioiiour tl)an JJoii iJiciiO
osirnc'fl by his tiiniclity. He lived long after, and was
for eight years Governor of Cuba, where tlie Castle of
the Moro at Ilavannah still stands as his monument.
Two other officers deserve peculiar mention : Miguel
de Oquendo, who sailed in the Senora de la Rosar,'l)f
GiTypuscoa, and Alonzo de Leyva,""Svh6 lia/1 aT sliip of
his own, the Rata Coronada. Oquendo's career had
been singularly distinguished. He had beeu the terror
of the Turks in the Mediterranean. At Terceira, at a
critical point in tlie action, he had rescued Santa Cruz
when four French vessels were alongside of him. He
had himself captured the French Admiral's flagship,
carrying her by boarding, and sending his own flag to
her masthead above the smoke of the battle. He was
an excellent seaman besides, and managed his ship,
as was said, as easily as a horse. Alonzo de Xeyva
held no special command^ beyond his own vessel ; but
he had been named by Philip to succeed Medina
Sidonia in case of misadventure. With him, and
under his special charfje, were most of the hifjh-born
adventurous youths who had volunteered for the
crusade. Neither he nor they Avere ever to see Spain
again, but Spanish history ought not to forget him,
and ought not to forget Oquendo.
Of priests and friars there were a hundred and
eighty ; of surgeons, doctors, and their assistants, in the
entire fleet, not more than eighty-five. The numbers
might have been reversed with advantage. Among the
adventurers one only may be noted particularly, the
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 37
poet Lope de Vega, then smarting from disappointment
in a love-affair, and seeking new excitement.
Meanwhile, the Avinds were iinpropitious. For four-
teen days the fleet lay at anchor at the mouth of the
Tagus unable to get away. They weighed at last on
May 28, and stood out to sea ; biit a noFtherly breeze
drove them to leeward, and they could make no pro-
gress, while almost instantly on their sailing the state
of the stores Avas brought to light. The water had
been on board for four months ! the casks were leaking,
and what was left of it was unfit to drink. The pro-
visions, salt meat, cheese, biscuit, were found to be half
putrid, and a remarkable order was issued to serve out
first what was in worse condition, that the supplies
might hold out the longer. As the ships were to keep
together, the course and speed were necessarily governed
by those which sailed the worst. The galleons, high
built, and with shallow draught of water, moved toler-
ably before the wind, but were powerless to work
against it. The north wind freshened. They were
carried down as low as Cape St. Vincent, standing out
and in, and losing ground on each tack. After a fort-
night's labour they were only in the latitude of Lisbon
again. Tenders were sent in every day to Philip, with
an account of their jjrogress. Instead of being in the
mouth of the Channel, the Duke had to report that he
could make no way at all, and, far worse than that, the
entire ships' companies were on the way to beino-
poisoned. Each provision cask which was opened was
found worse than the last. The biscuit was mouldy,
38 THE SPANlSir STOKY Ol- 'IHE ARMADA.
the meat and fisli stinking, tlif; water foul aii(J breeding
(lysentery. Tlio crews and companies were loud in
complaint; the officers had lost heart, and the Duke,
who :it starting liad been drawing pictures in his
imagination ol" glorious victories, had already begun to
huncnt his weakness in having accepted the command.
He trusted fJod would help him, he said. He wi.shed
no harm to any one. He had left his quiet, and his
home, and his children, out of pure love to his ^lajesty,
and he hoped his Majesty would remember it.^ The
.state of the stores was so desperate, especially of the
water, that it was held unsafe to proceed. The pilots
said that they must put into some port for a fresh
supply. The Duke feared that if he consented the men,
in their present humour, would take the opportunity
and desert.
At length, on June lo, after three weeks of inef-
fectual beating up and down, the wind shifted to the
south-west, and the fleet could be laid upon its course.
The anxiety was not much diminished. The salt meat,
salt fish, and cheese were found so foul throughout that
they were thrown overboard for fear of pestilence, and
the rations were reduced to biscuit and weevils. A
despatch was hurried off to Philip that fresh stores must
instantly be sent out, or there would be serious disaster.
The water was the worst of all, as when drunk it j^ro-
duced instant diarrhoea. On June 13 matters mended
a little. The weather had cooled. The south-west
* Medina Sidonia to Philip tJie Second, May 30.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 39
wind liad brought rain. The ships could be aired and
purified. They were then off Finisterre, and were on a
straight course for the Channel. Philip's orders had
been positive that they were not to delay anywhere, that
they were to hurry on and must not separate. They
had five hundred men, however, down with dysentery,
and the number of sick was increasing with appalling
rapidity. A council was held on board the San Martin,
and the Admirals all agreed that go on they could not.
Part of the fleet, at least, must make into Ferrol, land
the sick, and bring off supplies. The Duke could not
come to a resolution, but the winds and waves settled
his uncertainties. On the 19th it came on to blow.
The Duke, with the Portugal squadron, the galleys and
the larger galleons, made in at once for Corunna,
leaving the rest to follow, and was under shelter before
the worst of the gale. The rest were caught outside
and scattered. They came in as they could, most of
them in the next few days, some dismasted, some leaking
with strained timbers, the crews exhausted with illness ;
but at the end of a week a third part of the Armada
was"°"still missing, and those which had reached the
harbour "were' scarcely able to man their yards. A
hospital had to be established on shore. The tendency
to desert had become so general that the landing-places
were occupied with bodies of soldiers. A despatch went
off to the Escurial, with a despairing letter from the
Duke to the King.
' The weather,' he said, ' though it is June, is as wild
as in December, No one remembers such a season. It
40 TIIR SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
is the more strange since wc arc on the business of the
Lord, an<l some reason there must be for what lias
befjillt'n us. I told ycnir Majesty that I was unfit for
this coimiiund when you asked mc to undertake it. I
obeyed your orders, and now I am here in Corunna with
the .ships dispersed and tlie force remaining to me
inferior to the enemy. The crews are sick, and grow
d.'iily worse from bad food and water. Most of our
provisions liave pcrislicd, and wc have not enough for
more than two months' consumption. Much depends
on the safety of this fleet. You have exhausted your
resources to collect it, and if it is lost you may lose
Portugal and the Indies. The men are out of spirit.
The officers do not understand their business. We are
no longer strong. Do not deceive yourself into thinking
that we are equal to the work before us. You remember
how much it cost you to conquer Portugal, a country
adjoining Castile, where half the inhabitants were in
your favour. We are now going against a powerful
kingdom with only the weak force of the Prince of Parma
and myself. I speak freely, but I have laid the matter
before the Lord ; you must decide yourself what is to
be done. Recollect only how many there are who envy
your greatness and bear you no goodwill.'^
On the 27th thirty-five ships were still absent, and
nothing had been heard of them. The storm, Tio we ver,
after all iiad not been especially severe, and it was not
likely that they were lost. The condition to which the
' Medina Sidouia to Philip the Second from Corunna, June 2\.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 41
rest were reduced was due merely to rascally contractors
and official negligence, and all could easily be repaired
by an efficient commander in whom the men had con-
fidence. But the Duke had no confidence in himself
nor the officers in him. Four weeks only had passed
since he had left Lisbon and he was already despond-
ent, and his disquieted subordinates along with him.
He had written freely to Philip, and advised that the
expedition should be abandoned. He again summoned
the Vice-Admirals to his cabin and required their
opinions. Should they or should they not go forward
with their reduced force ? The Inspector-General, Don
George Manrique, produced a schedule of numbers.
They were supposed, he said, to have twenty-eight
thousand men besides the galley-slaves. Owing to
sickness and other causes, not more than twenty-two or
twenty-three thousand could be regarded as effective,
and of these six thousand were in the missings aalleons.
The Vice-Admirals were less easily frightened than their
leader. None were for giving up. Most of them
advised that they should wait where they were till the
ships came in, repairing damages and taking in fresh
stores. Pedro de Valdez insisted that they should go
on as soon as possible. While they remained in harbour
fresh meat and vegetables might be served out, and the
crews would soon recover from a sickness which was
caused only by bad food. With vigour and energy all
that was wrong could be set right. The missing ships
were doubtless ahead expecting them, and would be
fallen in with somewhere.
42 /7/A SPANISH srOh'Y OF Tll/i ARMADA.
Dun Pedro was juldrcssin;,' brave inen, and carrietl
tlio (council alnn;,' witli liitn. He wrote himself to Philip
to tell him what harl passed. 'The Duke,' he said,
'Ixtrc him no goodwill for his advice, but he intended
to persist in a course which he believed to be for his
Majesty's honour.'
A day or two later tlie wanderers came back and
restored the ])uke's courage. Some had been as far
/as Scilly, some even in Mount's Ba*y,but none had been
lost" and none had been seriously injured. The fresh
meat was supplied as Don Pedro advised. The sick
recovered ; not one died, and all were soon in health
again. Fresh supplies were poured down out of the
country. The casks were refilled with pure water. In
" short, the sun began to shine once more, and the despond-
ency fit passed away. Philip wrote kindly and cheerily.
' ?]verything would be furnished which they could want.
The Duke might .spend money freely, and need spare
nothing to feed the men as they ought to be fed. If
they had met with difficulties in the beginning they
would have greater glory in the end. There were diffi-
culties in every enterprise. They must overcome them
and go on.' The Duke still hesitated. He said truly
enough that other things were wanting besides food :
powder, cordage, and the thousand minor stores which
ought to have been provided and were not. But the
rest of the chief officers were now in heart ajjain. and
he found himself alone ; Recalde only, like a wise man,
begging Philip to modify his instructions and"alIow'him
/, to secure Plymouth or Dartmouth on their advance, as,
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 43
although they might gain a victory, it was unlikely to
be so coinplete as to end' tlie' struggle, and they might
require a harbour to shelter the fleet.
Philip, unfortunately fof'lirmself, paid no attention
to Recalde's suggestion, but only urged them to begone
at their best speed. The ships were laid on shore to be
scraped and tallowed. The gaps in the crews were
filled up with fresh recruits. Another ship was added,
and at the final muster there were a hundred and thirty-
one vessels, between seven and eight thousand sailors
and seventeen thousand infantry, two thousand slaves,
and fourteen hundred officers, priests, gentlemen, and
servants. With restored health and good-humour they
were again commended to the Lord. Tents were set
up on an island in the harbour, with an altar in each
and friars in sufficient number to officiate. The ships'
companies Avere landed and brought up man by man
till the whole of them had again confessed and asrain
received the Sacrament.
* This,' said the Duke, ' is great riches, and the most
precious jewel which I carry with me. They now are
all well, and content, and cheerful.'
II.
Two months of summer were still left when the
Armada made its second start out of Corunna on
Friday, July 22, with fresh heart and better provision.
On the 23rd the last vessel in the fleet had passed
44 Till': SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
(!iij)e Orte<,'iil, iiiitl tli<^ wiml, ;i.s if to make amends for
past persecution, blew lairuiid inotlcrate from the .'•outli.
Saturday, Sunday, and Monday the galleons swept
easily al<jng across the Bay of Biscay, and on the Mond ay
night, the 25th, the Uuke found himself with all his
flock about him at the mouth of the English Chan nel.
Tuesday broke calm and cloudy, with a draft of
northerly air. Heavy showers fell. One of the galleys
had sprung a leak, and was obliged to go home. On
Wednesday the wind backed to the west, and rose into
a gale, blowing hard with a high sea. The waves broke
into the stern galleries of the galleons, and the fleet
was hove to. On Friday the storm was over, but there
was still a long, heav}' roll. The ships were unmanage-
able, and from the maintop of the San Martin forty sail
were again not to be seen. The remaining galleys, finding
that in such weather they were like to be swamped,
had made away for the coast of France ; the Santa
Ana, the Capitana of the Biscay squadron, had dis-
appeared completely, and was supposed to have been
sunk. She had in fact lost her reckoning, and at last
found her way into Havre. The rest of the missing
ships proved only to be a few miles ahead. After a
slight flutter, the Armada, shorn of its galleys and the
Santa Ana, was again complete, and with the sky
clearing from south-west went en upon its way. As yet
they had seen nothing — not a sail or a boat ; but being
on the enemy's coast they put themselves into fighting
order. They were in three divisions. The Duke was
in the centre with the main battle. Alouzo de Leyva
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 45
led the advance as the post of houour. The rear was
under Martinez de Recalde, the formation being like an
oblique crescent, or like the moon when it lies on its
back, De Leyva and Recalde being at the two horns.
In this order tTiey"saTI^~slbwTy~oh througb tbe day,
still with nothing in sight, but knowing by observation
and soundings that they were coming up to land. The
sun on Friday, at noon, gave them 50 degrees, and the
lead 56 fathoms. At four in the afternoon the grey
ridge of the Lizard rose above the sea three leagues off.
They were now in sight of the den of the dragon which
they were come to slay, and Medina Sidonia ran up to
his niastEead^ a special flag of h'ls own, which had been
embroidered for the occasion — Chiist on the Cross, and
Our Lady and the Magdalen on either side of Him. As
the folds unrolled in the breeze, each ship in the fleet
fired'a'broadside, and the shi]3s' companies gathered and
knelt on the deck to give tlianks to the Almighty.
TTiat evening tlieT)uke despatched the lasT letter to
the King which for a month he had leisure to write.
So far, he said, the enemy had not shown himseir, and
he was going forward in the dark ; no word had come
from Parma; before him was only the silent sea, and
the long line of the Cornish coast, marked at intervals
by columns of smoke which he knew to be alarm beacons.
The sea that was so silent would soon be noisy enough.
With a presentiment of danger, the Duke told the King
that he must so far disregard his orders that, until Parma
had communicated with him, he proposed to halt at the
Isle of Wif-ht and to go no further. Sail was taken in that
46 THE SPANISH STORY OF TJJ/i ARMADA.
iiiglit. On tlio Saturday inoruiTig a despatch boat was
sunt away with tlie letter to tlie King, and the fleet crept
on slowly and cautiously. They had hoped to fall in
with a fishing-smack, but none were to be discovered :
nor was it till Saturday uight, or rather at one o'clock on
the Sunday morning, that they were able to gather any
information at all. At that hour, and not before, a
jjinnace that had gone forward to observe came back with
four Falmouth fishermen who had been fallen in with
at sea. Trom them the Duke and the admirals learnt
that Drake and Howard had come out that morning
from Plymouth harbour, and were lying in the Sound,
or outside it, waitintr for them. The burning beacons
had brought notice on the Friday evening that the
Armada was in sight, and the English had instantly got
under way. The Spanish records and diaries say dis-
tinctly that from these fishermen they had gathered
their first and only knowledge of the English movements.
j The charge afterwards brought against the Duke, there-
\ fore, that he bad learnt that Plymouth was undefended.
that Oquendo and Recalde urged him to go in and take
it, and that he refused and lost the opportunity, is proved
to be without foundation. Very likely a council of
admirals did advise that Plymouth sTiould be attacked if
they found Howard and Drake still in the Sound, for in
the narrow space the ships would be close together, and
the superior numbers of the Spaniards and tlieir superior
strength in small arms and musketry would be able to
assert themselves. Medina Sidonia may have agreed,
for all that any one can say to the contrary, but the
//
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 47
opportunity was never allowed bim. The English fleet [
Avas already outside, and the Duke could not enter till I
he had fought an action. A
An hour after midnight, on the Sunday morning, the P^ y ..
Falmouth boatmen gave their information. Four hours h
later," directly off Ramhead, the two fleets were engaged. J jf
The air through the night had been light from the
west. The water was smooth. At fi ve o'clo ck, just after I
sunrise, eleven large vessels were seen from the deck of l
the San Martin three miles to leeward, outside the j|
Mewstone, manoeuvring to recover the wind, wETclilvas
beginning to freshen. Forty others were counted
between the Armada and the land to the west of the
Sound. The squadron first seen consisted of the
Queen's ships under Lord Howard; the others were
Drake and the privateers. The breeze rose rapidly.
The Duke flew the consecrated standard, and signalled
to the whole fleet to brace round their yards and hold
the wind between the two English divisions. Howard,
however, with apparent ease, went on to v.indward and
joined Drake. Both of them then stood out to sea
beHind the whole Armada, firing heavily into Recalde
and the rearward Spanish squadron as they passed.
Kecalde tried hard to close, but Sir John Hawkins had
introduced new lines into the construction of tlieEng- |
lish sEips. Tlie high castTes at poop and stem had been »
reduced, the length increased, the beam diminished.
They could sail perhaps within five points of the wind.
They showed powers, at any rate, entirely new to
Recalde, for they seemed to be able to keep at any
J
48 THE SPANISH STOKY OF THE ARMADA.
<li8Uinco whicli tlicy pleased from liim. They did not
try to hirak liis line or capture detached vessels. With
their heavy gnns, which he found to his cost to he of
weightier nictal and to carry farther than his own, they
poured their hroadsides into him at their leisure, and
he could make no tolerable reply. Alonzo dc Leyva
and Oquendo, seeing that Recalde was sufTenng severely,
went to his assistance, but only to experience themselves
the effects of this novel method of naval combat and
naval construction. To fight at a distance was contrary to
Spanish custom, and was not held worthy of honourable
men. But it was effective ; it was perplexing, it was
deadly. The engagement lasted on these conditions
through the wliole Sunday forenoon. The officers of
the Armada did all that gallant men could achieve.
They refused to recognise where the English superiority
lay till it was forced upon them by torn rigging and
shattered hulls. Recalde's own ship fired a hundred
and twenty shot, aud it was thought a great thing.
But the English had fired five to the Spanish one, and
the effect was the greater because, as in Rodney's action
at Dominica, the galleons were crowded with troops,
among whom shot and splinter had worked havoc.
The Castilians and Biscayaus were brave enough ; there
were no braver men in the world ; but they were in a
position where courage was of no use to them. They
were perplexed and disturbed ; and a gentleman present
who describes the scene observes that ' este dia mos-
traronsede nuestra Armada algunos officiales medrosos*
— this day some of the officers of our fleet showed
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 49
cowardice. The allusion was perhaps to the Duke, who
had looked on and done nothing.
No prizes were taken. Drake and Howard under-
stood their business too well to waste life upon single
captures. Their purjoose was to harass, shatter, and
weaken the entire Armada, as opportunity might offer,
with the least damage to themselves, till shot and
weather, and the casualties likely to occur under such
conditions, had reduced the fleets to something nearer
to an equality. Tactics so novel baffled the Spaniards.
They had looked for difficulties, but they had counted
with certainty on success if they could force the English
into a general engagement. No wonder that they were
unpleasantly startled at the result of the first experiment.
The action, if such it could be called when the
Armada had been but a helpless target to the English
guns, lasted till four in the afternoon. The south-west
wind then"was bToHving up, aricTthe'sea was rising. The
two fleets had by that time driven past the opening into
the Sound. The Duke could not have gone in if he
had tried, nor could De Leyva himself, under such cir-
cumstances, have advised him to try ; so, finding that
he could do nothing, arid was only throwing away life,
he signalled from the San Martin to bear away up
Channel. The misfortunes of the day, however, were
not yet over. The Spanish squadrons endeavoured to
resume their proper positions, De Leyva leading and
Recalde coverino- the rear. The English followed
leisurely, two miles behind, and Recalde's own vessel
had suffered so much in the engagement that she was
E
50 HIE SPANISH STORY ()/■ THE ARMADA.
obseivctl to be dioj)|»ing back, and to be in danj^er of
beiiij,' Kit alone and overtaken. Pedro de Valdez, in
the C.'ijiitana of tlic Andalusian squadron, one ortlie
finest ships in the fleet, observing his old comrade in
difticulties, bore up to help him. After such a day, the
men, perhaps, were all of them disturbed, and likely to
make mistakes in difficult manoeuvres. In turning,
the Capitana came into collision with the Santa Cata-
lina and broke her own bowsprit; the fore-topmast
followed, and the ship became an unmanageable wreck.
She had five hundred men on board, besides a con-
siderable part of the money which had been sent for
the use of the fleet. To desert sucb a vessel, and desert
along with it one of the principal officers of the
expedition, on the first disaster, would be an act of
cowardice and dishonour not to be looked for in a
Spanish nobleman. But night was coming on. To
bear up was to risk a renewal of the fighting, for which
the Duke had no stomach. He bore Don Pedro a
grudge for having opposed him at Corunna, when he
had desired to abandon the expedition ; Diego Florez,
his adviser, had also his di.slike for Don Peciro, and, to
the astonishment of every one, the signal was made that
the fleet was not to stoji, and that Don Pedro was to be
left to his fate. De Leyva and Oquen367 unable to
believe tlie order to be serious, hastened on board the
San Martin to protest. The Duke hesitated ; Diego
Florez, however, said that to wait would be to risk the
loss of the whole fleet, and by Diego Florez Philip had
directed the Duke to be guided. Boats were sent back
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 51
to bring off the Capitana's treasure aud the crew, but in
the rising sea boats could do nothing. Don Pedro was
deserted, overtaken, and of course captured, after a
gallaiit resistance. The shij^ was carried into Dart-
mouth, and proved a vakiable prize. Besides the
money, there was found a precious store of__powder,
which the Enghsh sorely needed. Among other articles
Avas a chest of swords, richly mounted, which the Duke
was taking over to be presented to the English Catholic
peers. Don Pedro himself was treated with the high
courtesy which he deserved, to be ransomed at the end
of a year, and to be spared the ignominy of further
service under his extraordinary commander-in-chief.
The loss of Don Pedro was not the last, and not the
worst, calamity of the night. Soon after dark the air
was shaken and the sky was lighted by an explosion in
the centre of the Spanish fleet. Oquendo's ship, Our
Lady of the Rose, was blown up, and two Kundre3"inen,
dead aud wounded, were hurled into the sea. The
wreck that was left was seen to be in a blaze, in which
the rest on board were like to perish. Oquendo him-
self was absent. Some said it was an accident, others
that^it had been done by an Englishman in disguise,
others that there had been some quarrel, and that one
of the parties in a rage had flung a match- into the
magazine and sprung overboard. This time the Armada
was rounded to ; the burning ship was covered by the
main body. The money on board, for each galleon
,had its own treasury, was taken out with the survivors
of the crew. The hull was then abandoned to the
J
52 77/ /r SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
English. A few casks of stores were still f(Hin(l in licr
hold which liad escaped destruction. Shortly afterwards
she sank.
From tlio day on which it sailed the fleet had been
pursued by misfortune. Two such disasters following
on the unexpected and startling features of the first
engagement struck a chill through the whole force.
The ofHcers had no longer the least trust in a commander-
in-chief whom they had ill liked from the first. The
national honour was supposed to be touched by the
desertion of P edro d o Valdez, who was universally loved
and respected. The Duke was suspected to be no better
than a poltroon. The next morning, August i, broke
heavily. The wind was gone, and the galleons were
rolling in the swell. The enemy was hull down behind
them, and the day was spent in repairing damages,
knotting broken ropes, and nailing sheets of lead over
the sliot-holes. llecalde's ship had been so roughly
handled that the disposition of the squadrons was
altered. Do Leyva took charge of the rear in the Rata
Coronada, where the danger was greatest. Don Martinez
was passed forward into the advance, where he could
attend to his hurts out of harm's way. The Duke in
sour humour found fault all round, as incompetent
conunanders are apt to do. Orders were issued that
each ship should keep a position definitely laid down ;
and any captain found out of his place was to be im-
mediately hanged. Men will endure much from leaders
whom they trust. Severity at such a moment was
resented as ill-timed and undeserved. The day passed
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 53
without incident. With the sunset the sea fell smooth,
and not an air was stirring. The English fleet had come
up, but was still a league behind. Both fleets were
then off Portland. An hour after midnignTDeL'eyva,
Oquendo, and Recalde, burning with shame and indig-
nation, came on board the San Martin, woke the Duke
out of his sleep, and told him that now was the tiine for
him to repair his credit. By the light of the rising
moon the English ships could be seen drifted apart with
the tide, and deprived in the breathless calm of their
superior advantages. The galeasses, with their oars,
should be sent out instantly to attack single vessels.
The dawn it was likely would bring a breeze from the
east, when the galleons could gather way and support
them. The Duke roused himself. Oquendo himself
carried the orders to the captain of the galeasses, Don
Hugo de MonQada. The galeasses prepared for action.
The easterly air came up as was expected, and with the
first clear light Howard was seen dead to leeward stand-
ing in for the land, and endeavouring, as he had done
at Plymouth, to recover the weather-gauge. The gale-
asses proved of small service after all, for the wind was
soon too fresh ; and they Avere useless. They could do
nothing except in a calm. But the San Martin and her
leading consorts bore down with all sail set. Howard,
being near the shore, had to tack and stand off to sea.
He had thus to pass out through the centre of the whole
Spanish fleet. The ships became intermixed, the Ark
Raleigh Avas surrounded with enemies, and every Spanish
captain's heart was bounding with the hope of boarding
54 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE AKMADA.
Iicr. If they could once grapjilc they were justly con-
fuleiit in the numbers and courage of their men. So
near the chances were at one moment, that Martin dc
Hretandona, the Levantine commander, might liave
closed with one of the largest of the English ships ' if
he covdd have been contented with less than the vessel
which carried Howard's flag.' But the wind freshened
up with the day, and Don Martin and his friends saw
vessels handled in a style which they had never seen
before. It lias been often confidently urged, as a rea.son
for reducing the naval estimates, that Howard's fleet
was manned by volunteers, and not by professional
seamen. It is true that the English crews were not
composed of men who were in the permanent service
of the Crown, but never in the history of the country
were a body of sailors gathered together more experi-
enced in sailing ships and fighling them. They were
the rovers of the ocean. To navigate the wildest seas,
to fight Spaniards wherever they could meet them, had
for thirty years been their occupation and their glory.
Tacking, wearing, making stern way where there was
no room to turn, they baffled every attack by the swift-
, ness of their movements, and cleared their way out of
f the throng. Once more tliey drew away to windward;
took at their leisure such positions as suited them, and,
themselves beyond the reach of the feeble Spanish
artillery, fii-cd into the galleons with their long heavy
guns till five o'clock in the afternoon. This day the
Duke personally behaved well. The San Martin was
in the thickest of the fight, and received fifty shots in
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 55
lier hull. The famous standard Avas cut in two. The
leaks were soTnany'and ■ so formidable that the divers
were again at work all night plugging and stopping the
holes. But the result was to show him, and to show
them all, that the English ships were superior to theirs
in speed and power and weight of artillery, and that to
board them against their will was entirely hopeless.
Another observation some of them made which was
characteristic of the age. The galleons which had no
gentlemen on board had been observed to hold off and
keep out of range. In the evening the wind fell. With
the last of it, Howard and Drake bore away and left
them, as, with the calm, the galeasses might again be » ^ \.
dangerous, Wednesday was breathless. The English t-};^'-*'^'^'
wanted powder oesides, having used what they had ^^
freely; and they were forced to wait for fresh supplies,
which came up in the course of the afternoon. The
Duke, as has been seen, was superstitious. So far the
nuns' and the hermits' visions had not been realised,
but, perhaps, his past ill-success had been sent only
as a trial of his faith. ^^ .
The 4th of August, Thursday, was St. Dominic's / Lm''^
Day. The house of Guzman de Silva claimed St. *J^
Dominic as a member of their family ; and St. Dominic,
the Duke was assured, would now lend a hand to his
suffering kinsman. The Isle of Wight, where he had
announced to Philip that he intended to stop", was
directly under his lee. Once anchored in St. Helen's
Roads he would have the Armada in a safe shelter,
where, if the English chose to attack him, they must
56 llir. SPANISH STORY OF IIIE AKMADA.
coiik; to clusur (HiJirters, as tliero \voul<l not be sea room
for the inanceuvrcs which liad been so disastrous to
liiin.' If ho coulil hiiul ten thousand men lie might
take the island ; and, perplexed, agitated, and harassed
by tlic unexpected course which events had taken with
him, he probably still intended to act on this resolution,
which was tlic wisest which he could have formed. He
wouM have another action to fight before he could get
in, but with St. Dominic's help he might this time have
better fortune.
Howard and Drake seemed willing to give St.
Dominic an opportunity of showing what he could do.
They had received their powder. They had been re-
inforced by a few privateers who had come out from the
Needles, and they showed a disposition to engage at a
nearer distance than they had hitherto ventured. They
were so far at a disadvantage that the wind was light,
but, using what there was of it, the Ark Raleigh led
straight down on the San Martin, ranijed alonoside, and
opened a furious fire from her lower ports, as it appeared
to the Spaniards, with heavier guns than she had used
ill the previous actions. Again the San Martin was
^ The Duke's intention of slop-
ping at tlie Isle of Wight was ex-
pressed by him as clearly as possible.
Writing on July 30 to the King,
lie said he ninst advance 'poco a
poco con toda el Armada junta en
mis escuadrones hasta isla D'Wich
y no panar adelante hasta tener
aviso del Du(]ue de Parma. Torque
si yo salieso de alii con csta, la
costa de Flandes no habiendo en
toda ella puerto ni abrigo ninguno
para estas naves, con el primer tem-
poral que les diese los echaria a los
bancos, doude sin ningua remedio
se habrian de perder ; y por excusar
este peligro tan evidente, me ha
parecido no pasar adelante de aquel-
la isla hasta saber lo que el Duque
hace,' etc. — Duro, vol. ii., p. 221.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA 57
badly cut up. Many of her men were killed and more
were wounded. Seeing her hard pressed, Recalde and
Oquendo came to the Duke's support. Oquendo drove
his own ship between the Ark and the San Martin,
receiving the broadside intended for her, and apparently
causing some confusion on board the Ark by a shot of
his own. At this moment the wind dropped altogether.
An eddy of the tide carried off the other English ships,
leaving Howard surrounded once more by the enemy
and in worse difficulties than in the fight off Portland.
Three large galleons were close on board of him, with
Oquendo, the boldest officer of the Armada, in one Of
them. Eleven boats, to the amazement of the Spaniards, [
dropped over the Ark's side. Hundreds of men sprang j
into them, seized their oars, and took the Ark in tow, I
careless of the storm of musketry which was rattling
upon them. She was aleady moving when the breeze
rose again. Her sails filled and she flew away, dragging
her own boats, and leaving behind the swiftest of the
pursuing galleons as if they Avere at anchor.^
Again the experience was the same. St. Dominic
had been deaf or impotent, and a long day of fighting
at disadvantage ended as usual. The ammunition of
the Armada, which the Duke knew from the first to be
insufficient, was giving out under the unprecedented
demands upon it. Had he been wise he would still
have made a desperate attempt to force his way into St.
^ ' Se fue saliendo con tanta 1 ser los mas veleros de la Armada,
velocidad que el galeon San Juan que le fueron dando cat;a, en com-
de Fernando y otro ligeri'simo, con | paracion se quedarou surtos.'
S8 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
Helen's. J I is strength was not very niucli reduced.
Though the loss of life had been considerable, Pedro de
Valdez's ship \v:i3 the only one which had been^jilcen
To prevent him from entering the Solent theTinglish
must have closed with him, which they still hesitated
to do, as they could not now tell hoAv much hurt they
had inflicted. The Duke had still this single chance
of recovering his credit. lie might have gone in. Had
he done it, he might have taken the Wight, have even
taken Portsmouth or Southampton; at all events, he
would have placed the Armada in a position out of
which it would have been extremely difficult to dislodge
it. But the unfortunate man had lost his head. He
hated his work. He determined to look neither rijiht
nor left, but stick to Philip's own instructions, go on to
the Straits of Dover as he had been told to do, send
Parma notice of his arrival, and leave the rest to fate.
He despatched a messenger to tell the Prince to expect
him and to have his army embarked ready to cross on
the instant of his arrival. He asked for a supply of
fly-boats, gun-boats worked with oars, which Parma
could not send him, and for ammunition of which the
Prince had none to dispose, expecting himself rather
to be furnished from the fleet. Then, taking the worst
resolution possible, and going forward to inevitable ruin,
he signalled to his flock to follow him, and pursued
his way up Channel, followed by the English as before.
The Isle of Wight once passed, the worst danger to
England was over. Lord Henry SeymouFs' ^squadron
wjis in the Downs. Howard and Drake 'wOiild soon
V-
I
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 59
join hands with him, and they could then concert what
was next to be done. A\
The Armada drifted on before a light west wind ' ^"^^
through Thursday nigTit, alT Friday, and till Saturday
afternoon. They were then at Calais and dropped
anchor in the roads. Like a shadow which they could
not shake ofif, the EnglishTIun'g to them behind. As
they anchored, the English anchored also, a mile and a
half astern, as if the infernal devils, csta cndemoniada
(jerde, had known what the Duke was going to do.
Philip's advice had been to avoid the French coast, to \
keep the other side, and to bring up behind the North
Foreland, The Duke, like Sancho in the night
adventure with the fulling-hammers, was flying for
safety under the skirts of Parma's coat, and thought
tliat the nearer he could be to him the better it would
be. He had thus brought his charge to the most
dangerous roadstead in the Channel, with an enemy
close to him who had less cause to fear the weather
than he, and almost within gunshot of the French shore,
when he did not know whether France was friend or
foe. For the moment he thought himself secure. The
wind was off the land. He looked to see the Prince \
of PaiTXia and his boats coming out of Dunkirk at i
latest on the Monday morning. The French Governor 4
came off to call before dark, expressed his surprise to '
see him in a position where a shift of weather might .
be inconvenient, but offered him, meanwhile, the hos- / ^
pitaKties of the port. On the Sunday morning, August I ^ *jj>
7, the purveyor of the fleet wehTbn sTiore to' buy I
6o THE SPANISH SrORY OF TIH: AN MA PA.
vcgotjiblcs. Tilt! men wore employed cleaning up llic
guns ;iii(l setting the ships in order after tlie confusion
of the past week, and so much work had to be done
that the daily rations were not served out, and the
Sunday holy day was a harassed fast. As the day
wore on messengers came in from Parma. His trans-
))orts wci-e~Tying Ih""T)unkirlc71But nothing was ready,
and the troops could not be embarked for a fortnight.
iTe was himself at Bruges, but promised to Inirry down
to the port and to use all possible expedition. This
was not consoling intelligence. In the uncertain
weather the Calais roadstead was no place to linger
in ; and the Duke's anxieties were not diminished when
the English squadron of the Downs under Seymour and
Sir John Hawkins sailed in and anchored with their
consorts. Hawkins — Achiues they called him — was an
object of peculiar terror to the Spaniards from his
exploits in the West Indies. Next to Drake, or the
Dragon, he was more feared than any other English
seaman. The galleons were riding wuth two anchors
on account of the tide. An English pinnace, carrying
a light gun, ran down in the afternoon, sailed up to the
San Martin, lodged a couple of sliots in her hull, and
went off again. Hugo de Mon^ada sent a baTl after
her from the Capitana galeass which cut a hole in
her topsail, but she flew lightly away. The Spanish
officers could not refuse their admiration for such airy
impertinence.
If the Duke Avas uneasy the English commanders
did not mean to nive him time to recover himself.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 6l
Calais Roads might be an awkward anchorage, but the
weather might settle. August weather in the Channel
often did settle. There had been a week of fighting
and the Armada had got the worst of it, but still there
it was, to outward appearance, not much daiiiaged and
within touch of the Prince of Parma. The backward
state of Parma's preparations was unknown and un-
suspected by the English commanders. Any morning-
he might be looked for, issuing out of Dunkirk with his
fleet of gunboats, his array on board his barges, and
making his way across the Straits with the Armada to
protect him. That Sunday evening Howard, Drake,
Hawkins, Seymour, and Martin Frobisher held a con-
sultation in the Ark's main cabin. The course which
they intended to follow had probably been resolved on
generally when Howard anchored so near the enemy
on the previous evening, and the meeting must have
been only to arrange the method and moment of action.
After nightfall, the flood tide would be running strong
along the coast, and an intermittent but rising wind
was coming up from the west. The Duke, as he
restlessly paced his deck, observed lights moving soon
after dark among the English vessels. He expected
mischief of some kind and had ordered a strict look-
out. About midnight eight large hulks were seen
coming slowly down with tide and wind. Sjjars, ropes,
and sails had been steeped in pitch, and as they
approached nearer they burst out into flame and smoke.
Straight on they came, for they had crews on board to
direct the course, who only retreated to their boats when
I
62 THE SrANlSll SrONV OF 'JIIK ARMADA.
I it was iuipossiblo to remain lunger. The Spaniards,
already agitated by the strange tricks of their English
.' foes, imagined that tlie fire-ships were floating mines
{like those which had blown to pieces so many thousands
of men at the bridge at Antwerp. The Duke, instead
of sending launches to tow them clear, fired a signal
for the whole fleet to get instantly under way! In the
; hurry and alarm, and with two anchors down, they had
•j no time to weigh. They cut their cablevTeaving buoys
by which to recover them at daylight, and stood out
into the Channel, congratulating themselves for the
moment at having skillully and successfully avoided a
threatening danger. Medina Sidonia's intention had
been to bring up again outside. He himself let go an
anchor two miles off, and the best-apijointed galleons
followed his example. The main body, unfortunately,
had been sent to sea so ill-provided that their third
anchors, where they had any, Avere stow^ed away below
and could not be brought up in time. Thus, when
day dawned, the Duke found himself with less than
half his for<;e about him. The rest had drifted away
on the tide and were six miles to leeward. The purpose
of his enemy's ' traicion/ treason, as the Spaniards
regarded it, was now apparent. The San Martin, and
the vessels which remained with her, hoisted anchor
and signalled to return to the roadstead. Seventy of
the Duke's ships were far away, unable to obey if they
had tried. The wind had drawn into the north-west;
they were driving seemingly on the fatal Tanks, and
when the Duke proposed to go after them, the pilots
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 63
told him that if he did they would probably be all lost
together.
The spectacle on the shore was yet more dispiriting.
The Capitana galeass, in clearing out from the fire-ships,
hadHPouled the cable of another vessel, Mon^ada, who
commanded her, knew as little of seamaiiship as his
commander-in-chief. Her helm was jammed. An
English crew with two hundred men at the oars would
have found a way to manage her, but with galley-
slaves nothing could be done. She had drifted ashore
under the town, and as the tide had gone back, was
lying on her side on the sands, defending herself
desperately agaiust the crews of six English ships, one
of them Howard's Ark, who were attacking her in their
boats. Mongada fought like a hero till he was killed
by a musT^Pshot, the slaves jumped overboard, the
surviving sailors and soldiers followed their example,
and the galeass was taken and plundered.
To the Duke such a sight was sad enough ; but he
had little time to attend to it. While Howard was
losing time over the galeass, Drake ancT Hawkins had
stooped on a nobler quarry. The great fleet was parted ;
forty ships alone were present to defend the consecrated
banner of Castile which was flying from the mainmast
of the San Martin. Forty only, and no more, were
engaged in the battle which stripped Spain of her
supremacy at sea. But in those forty were Oquendo,
De Leyva, Recalde, Bretandona, all that was best and
bravest in the Spanish service. The first burst of the
storm fell on the San Martin herself. Drake, deter-
64 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ANMADA.
mined to make the most of his opp<>rninity, no longer
held olT at long range, but closed up, yardarrn to yard-
arm ; not to make prizes of the galleons, but to destroy,
sink, or disable them. The force which the English
brought into the action was no longer unequal to that
of the enemy. The air was soon so full of smoke that
little could be seen from one ship of what was passing
in another part of the action. Each captain fought his
own vessel as he could, Medina giving no orders. He
who, till the past few days, had never heard a shot
fired in anger, found himself in the centre of the most
furious engagement that history had a record of. He
was accused afterwards of having sTiown cowardice. It
was said that his cabin was stuffed with woolpack?, and
that he lay himself during the fight in the middle of
them. It was said, also, that he charged his pilot to
take his ship where the danger was least. If he did,
his pilot disobeyed his orders, for the San Martin was
in the hottest part of the battle. It could not be other-
wise. The flag which she carried to the end of it
necessarily drew the heaviest fire upon her. The
accounts of eye-witnesses charge the Duke only with
the helpless incapacity which he had himself been the
first to acknowledge. Though the San ^lartin's timbers
were of double thickness, the shot at close range went
through and through her, ' enough to shatter to pieces
a rock.' Her deck became a slaugliter-house. Half
her crew were killed or wounded, and she would have
been sunk altogether had not Oquendo and De Leyva
dashed in and forced the English to turn their guns
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 65
upon them, and enabled the unhappy Duke to crawl
away and stop his leaks again. This was about noon ;
and from that time he himself saw no more till the
engagement was over. Even from his maintop nothing
could be made out for the smoke ; but the air was
shaking with the roar of the artillery. The Spanish
officers behaved with the desperate heroism which
became the countrymen of Cortez and Santa Cruz, and
never did Spanish soldier or seaman distinguish himself
more than on this tremendous day. There was no
flinchinof, thouorh the blood was seen streaming out of
the scuppers. Priests went up and down under the
hottest fire, crucifix in hand, confessing and absolving
the dying. Not a ship struck her colours. They stood
to their guns till their powder was all gone, and in half
the ships not a round was left.
Happily for them, the English were no better fur-
nished ; Howard's ammunition was all exhausted also,
and the combat ended from mere incapacity to continue
it. But the engagement from the first preserved the
same character which had been seen in those which
had preceded it. The Spaniards* courage was useless
to them. Their ships could not turn or sail; their
guns were crushed by the superior strength of the
English artillery ; they were out-matched in practical
skill, and, close as the ships were to one another, they
could not once succeed in fixing a grappling-iron in an
English rigging. Thus, while their own losses were
terrible, they could inflict but little in return. They
66 THE SPANISH STORY OF Tllfi A KM A DA.
liad cinluix'd for fivu liuiirs to be tcjni to pieces by
cannon-shot — and that was all.
Before sunset the firing liad ceased ; the wind rose,
the smoky canopy drifted away, and the San Afartiii
and her comrades were seen floating, torn and tattered,
casi 8171 poder haccr mas resistencia, almost powerless to
resist longer. If the attack had continued for the two
hours of daylight that remained, they must alt have
sunk or surrendered. A galleon in Recalde's squadron
had gone down with all hands on board. The San
Philip and the San Matteo were falling away dismasted
and lielpless towards the Dutch coast, where they after-
wards went ashore. The condition of the rest was little
better. The slaughter had been appalling from the
crowd of soldiers who were on board. They had given
themselves up as lost, when it pleased God, for they
could give no other explanation, that the enemy ceased
to fire, drew off, and left them to bring their vessels to
the wnd, throw their dead overboard, and see to the
hurts of the wounded, who were counted by thousands.
They were so crippled that they could not bear their
canvas, and unless they could repair their damages
swiftly, the north-west wind which was rapidly rising
would drive them on the banks above Dunkirk. From
the day on which they left Lisbon an inexorable fatality
had pursued them. They hatl started in an inflated
belief that they were under the especial care of the
Almighty. One misfortune had trod on another's heel;
the central misfortune of all, that they had been com-
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 67
mantled by a fool, bad begun to dawn on the whole of
them. ~ But the conviction came too late to be of use,
altKl only destroyed what was left of discipline. The
soldiers, finding that tbej outnumbered the seamen,
snatched the control, chose their own course, and forced
the pilots to steer as they pleased. The night passed
miserably in examining into injuries, patching up what
admitted of being mended, and discovering other hurts
which could not be mended. The fresh water which
they had brought from Corunna had been stowed on
deck. The casks had been shot through in the action,
and most of it was gone. The Ave Maria, if it was
sung that evening, must have been a dirge, and the
Buenos Dias of the ship boys in the morning a melan-
choly mockery. Yet seventy vessels out of the great
fleet were still entire. They had not come up to join
in the fight, iDecause they could not. Their hulls were
sound, their spars were standing, their crews untouched
by any injury worse than despondency. The situation
was not really desperate, and a capable chief with such
a force at his disposition might have done something
still to retrieve his country's credit, if only these ships
could be made use of. Yet when day broke it seemed
that a common fate would soon overtake those who had
fought and those who so far had escaped. ,
They came together in the night. The dawn found j
them dragging heavily into the North Sea. The north- I
west wind was blowing hard, and setting them bodily
on the banks. The bad sailers could not go to windward
at all. Those which had been in the fight could not
68 THE SPANISH STORY 01- THE ARMADA.
bear sail enough to liold a course which, when sound,
they might have found barely possible. The crews
were worn out. On the Sunday they liad been dinnor-
less and svipperlcss. All Monday they had been fight-
ing, and all Monday night plugging shot-holes and
fishing spars. The English fleet hung dark and threat-
ening a mile distant on the weather quarter. The
water was shoaling every moment. They could see the
yellow foam where the waves were breaking on the
banks. To wear round would be to encounter another
battle, for which they had neither heart nor strength,
while the English appeared to be contented to let the
elements finish the work for them. The Englisli vessels
drew more water, and would have grounded while the
galleons Avcre still afloat. It was enough for them if
they could prevent the Armada from turning round, and
could force it to continue upon a course of which an
hour or two would probably see the end. The San
Martin and Oquendo's ship, the San Juan, were furthest
out. The sounding-line on the San Martin grave at last
but six fathoms; the vessels to leeward had only five.
Some one, perhaps Diego Florez, advised the Duke to
strike his flag and surrender. Report said that a boat
was actually lowered to go off to Howard and make
terms, and that Oquendo liad prevented it from pushing
off, by saying savagely that he would fling Diego Florez
overboard. The Duke's friends, however, denied the
charge, and insisted that he never lost his faith in God
and God's glorious mother. Certain it is, that witn
death staring them in the face and themselves helpless,
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 69
men and officers betook themselves to prayer as the
only refuge left, and apparently the prayer was answered.
A person who was on the San Martin describes the
scene. Every one was in despair, he said, and only
looking for destruction. Had the enemy known the
condition in which they were, and borne down and
attacked them, they must all have given in, for they
were without power to defend themselves. At the last
extremity, somewhere about noon, ' God was pfeased to
work a miracle,' The wind shifted, backing to the
south-west, and ceased to jam them down xv^ow the
sands. With eased sheets they were able to point tlieir
heads northwards and draw out into the deep water.
The enemy followed, still keeping at the same distance,
but showed no further disposition to meddle with them ;
and the Armada breathed again, though huddled together
like a flock of frightened sheep. A miracle they thought
it. Being pious Catholics and hving upon faith in the
supernatural they recovered heart, and began to think
that God's anger was spent, and that He would now be
propitious. He had been with them when they thought
they were deserted. He had brought the survivors of
them ' through the most terrible cannonade ever seen
in the history of the world ' (la mas fuerte bateria y
major que los nacidos han visto ni los escriptores ban
escrito). He had perhaps been disciplining them to do
His work after all. Death at any rate was no longer
before their eyes.
Alas ! if the change of wind was really an act of
Providence in answer to prayer. Providence was playing
70 Till: SPANISH S'lOh'Y ()/■ 1111. AKMADA.
Willi t.lieir credulity, and reserving tliein deliberately for
an end still more miserable. Tin- Tn.^iliy, August 9,
was the day of Philip's patron aiut, .St. Lawrence,
wliosc arm he had lately added to his sacred trea.sure8
in the Escurial. In tlic afternoon a council of war was
I again held on board the flag-ship, consisting of the
I Duke, Alonzo de Leyva, Recalde, Don Francisco de
■ Bobadilla, and Diego Florez. They had little pleasant
to say to each other. Oquendo was at first absent, but
came in while they were still deliberating. O Sehor
Ocjuendo, they cried, ' que harernos/ ' What shall we
do ? ' ' Do ! ' he replied, ' bear ujd and fight again.' It
was the answer of a gallant man who prefeired death to
disgrace. But the Duke had to consider how to save
what was left of his charge, and the alternatives had to
be considered. Tlie^were before^ the wind, running
right up the North Sea. The Duke explained that
every cartridge had been spent in the vessels which
had been engaged, and that, although some were left in
the rest of the fleet, the supply was miserably short.
Their ships were leaking. Half the sailors and half the
artillerymen were killed or wounded. The Prince of
Parma was not ready, and they had found by experience
that they were no match for the English in fighting.
The coast of Spain was at present unprotected, and
unless they could carry the fleet home in safety would
be in serious danger. The Duke's own opinion was
that tliey ought to make haste back, and by the sea
route round the North of Scotland and Ireland. To
return through the Straits implied more battles, and in
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 71
their battered state it Avas doubtful whether they could
work their way as the wind stood, even if the enemy
left them alone.
Flight, for it was nothing else, after such high ex-
pectations and loud prayers and boastings, flight after
but a week's conflict,- seemed to the old companions of
Santa Cruz an intolerable shame. De Leyva was
doubtful. He admitted, as the Duke said, that the
English were too strong for them. They had done their
best and it had not availed. His own ship would
hardly float, and he had not thirty cartridges left.
Recalde and Bobadilla supported Oquendo, and insisted
that, at whatever risk, they must endeavour to recover
Calais Roads. They were old sailors, who had weathered
many a storm, and fought in many a battle. The
chances of war had been against them so far, but would
not be against them always. If the English fleet could
go down Channel, it was not to be supposed that a
Spanish fleet could not, and if they were to return home
tlie Channel was the nearest road. If the worst came,
an honourable death was better than a scandalous retreat.
Spanish history has accused Medina Sidonia of
having been the cause that the bolder course was
rejected. Independent contemporary witnesses say
that it was made impossible by the despondency of
the men, who could not be induced to encounter the
English again.
Though he determined against returning through
the Cliannel, more than one alternative was still open
to him. The harbours of Holland and Zealand were
7a THE SPANISH stony of the anmada.
in tlie hands of Dutch rebels. But there was the P^Ibc,
there was tlic Baltic, there was Norway. If the Duke
had been a man of daring and genius there was the
Frith of Forth. Had he anchored oflf Leith and played
his cards judiciously, there was still a possibility for
him to achieve something remarkable. Tlie Duke,
however, probably know that his master had intended
to exclude the King of Scots from the English succes-
sion, and may have doubted the reception which he
might meet with. Or, and perhaps more prubably, he
was sick of a command which had brought him nothing
but defeat and distraction, and was only eager to
I surrender his trust at the earliest possible moment.
Thus forlorn and miserable, the great Armada,
which was to have made an end of the European
Reformation, was set upon its course for the Orkneys,
from thence to bear away to the West of Ireland, and
so round to Spain, Drake and Howai'd, not conceiving
that their object would be so lightly abandoned, and
ignorant of the condition to which the enemy was
reduced, followed them at a distance to see what they
would do, and on the Wednesday had almost taken
Recalde, whose disabled ship was lagging behind. The
Duke, however, did not dare to desert a second admiral.
He waited for Recalde to come up, and the English did
not interfere. In fact they could not. Owing to Eliza-
beth's parsimony, their magazines were hardly better
furnished than the Spanish. In pursuing the Armada
they acknowledged that they were but ' putting on a
brag ' to frighten the Duke out of turning back. They
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 73
could not have seriously attacked him again, at all
events for many days, and the bravest course Avould
after all have proved the safest for him. As it was, he
saved Recalde, and went on thanking Providence for
having: induced the English to let him alone.
III.
On Friday the 12th tlie Armada passed the mouth
of tKe~FortTi. 'Howard had followed so far, expecting
that it might seek shelter there. But it went by with
a leading wind. He knew then that till another season
they would see no more of it, so put about and returned
to Margate.
Relieved of his alarming presence, the Spaniards
were able to look into their condition and to prepare
for a voyage which might now be protracted for several
weeks. The Duke himself was short and sullen, shut
himself in his state-room, and refused to see or speak
with any one. Diego Florez became the practical
commander, and had to announce the alarming news
that the provisions taken in at Corunna had been
wholly inadequate, and that at the present rate of
consumption they would all be starving in a fortnight.
The state of the water supply was worst of all, for the
casks had most of them been destroyed by the English
guns. The salt meat and fish were gone or spoilt. The
rations were reduced to biscuit. Half a pound of biscuit,
74 'J III: SrANISIl STORY OF 11 IF. ARMADA.
;i )iiiit, of water, aii'l liali" a ])iiit, of wine were all tliat
each person cuiild be allowed. Men and officers fared
alike; and on this miserable diet, and unprovided with
warm clothing, which they never needed in their own
sunny lands, the crews of the Armada were about to
face the cold and storms of the northern latitudes.
They had brought with them many liundreds of
mules and liorses. They might have killed and eaten
them, and so mitigated the famine. But they thought
of notiiing. The wretched animals were thrown over-
board to save water, and the ships in the rear sailed
on through floating carcases — a ghastly emblem of the
general wreck. The Duke felt more than tlie officers
gave him credit for. In a letter Avhicli he despatched
to Philip on August 21, in a forlorn hope that it miglit
reach Spain somehow, he described the necessity which
had been found of cutting down the food, and the
consequent suffering.^ That alone would have been
enough, for the men were wasting to a shadow of
themselves, but besides there were three thousand sick
with scurvy and dysentery, and thousands more with
wounds uncurcd.
But if he sympathised with the men's distresses he
did not allow his sympathy to be seen. He knew that
he was blamed for what had happened, that he was
* ' I'or scr tan pocos los basti- ' se media libra de biscocho, y \\\\
mcntos que sc He van, que, para cuartillo de agua, y medio de vino
que pucdan durar un mes, y el sin nin:,iina otra cosa, con que se
agua, se ban acortado las racioncs va padeciendo lo que V.M. podra
goncralnionte sin cxcoptuar jwr- juzgar.' — Medina Sidonialo Philip,
sona, porquo no ]v)rczcau, dando | August 2i. Duro, vol. ii. ]>. 226.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARM AD A. 75
distrusted and perhaps despised ; and while keeping
aloof from every one, he encouraged their resentment
by deserving it. Many persons might have been in
fault. But there is a time for all things, and those
wretched days, wretched mainly through the Duke's
own blunders, were not a time for severity ; yet it
pleased him, while secluded in his cabin, to order an
inquiry into the conduct of the commanders who had
lost their anchors at Calais, and had failed to support
him in the action which followed. He accused them
of cowardice. He held a court-martial on them and
ordered twenty to be executed. Death with most was
exchanged for degradation and imprisonment, but two
poor wretches were selected on whom the sentence was
to be carried out, as exceptionally culpable. When he
had decided to fly, the Duke had ordered that the
whole fleet should follow and not go in advance of
the San Martin. A Captain Cuellar and a Captain
Christobal de Avila had strayed for a few miles ahead,
intending, as the Duke perhaps supposed, to desert.
Don Christobal, to the disgust of the fleet, was executed
with a parade of cruelty. He was hanged on the yard
of a pinnace, which was sent round the squadrons with
Don Christobal's body swinging upon it before it was
thrown into the sea. Cuellar's fate was to have been
the same. He commanded a galleon called the San
Pedro. He had been in the action and had done his
duty. His ship had been cut up. He himself had not
slept for ten days, having been in every fight since the
Armada entered the Channel. When all was over, and
76 THE SPANISH STORY ()/■ TJ/Ii ARMADA.
the strain lia<l Ixoii taken off, he had dropped off ex-
luvustcd. Jlis saiUng-inaster, finding the San Pedro
leaking,', had gone in advance to lay-to and examine
her hurts. Exasperated at tlie disobedience to his
directions, the Duke sent for Cucllar, refused to Hsten
to his defence, and ordered him to be lianged, Don
Francisco de Bobadilla with difficulty obtained his hfe
for him, but he was deprived of his ship and sent under
arrest to another galleon, to encounter, as will be seen,
a singular adventure.
The display of temper, added to the general con-
viction of the Duke's unfitness for his place, may have
been the cause of the dispersal of the Armada Avhich
immediately followed. The officers felt that they must
shift for themselves. The tleet held together as far as
the Orkneys. The intention was to hold a northerly
course till the 6oth parallel. Assuming the wind to
remain in the west, the pilots held that from this
altitude the galleons could weather the Irish coast at
sufficient distance to be out of danger — to weather Cape
Clear, as they described it, but the Cape Clear which
they meant — a glance at the map will show it — was
not the point so named at present, but Clare Island,
the extreme western point of Mayo. The high-built,
broad and shallow galleons were all execrable sailers,
but some sailed worse than others, and some were in
worse condition than others. They passed the Orkneys
together, and were then separated in a gale. The
nights were lengthening, the days were thick and
misty, and they lost sight of each other. Two or three
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 77
went north as far as the Faroe Islands, suffering piti-
fully from cold and hunger. Detachments, eight or ten
together, made head as they could, working westward,
against wind and sea, the men dying daily in hundreds.
The San Martin, with sixty ships in company, kept far
out into the Atlantic, and they rolled down towards the
south dipping their mainyards in the tremendous seas.
On August 21, the day on which the Duke wrote to
Philip, they were two hundred miles west of Cape
Wrath, amidst the tumult of the waters. ' The Lord,'
he said, ' had been pleased to send them a fortune
different from that which they had looked for; but
since the expedition had been undertaken from the
beginnincr in the Lord's service, all doubtless had been
ordered in the manner wnich would conduce most to
the King's advantage and the Lord's honour and glory.
The fleet had suffered so heavily that they had con-
sidered the best thing whicL they could do would be to
bring the remains of it home in safety. Their finest
ships had been lost, their ammunition had been ex-
hausted, and the enemy's fleet was too strong for what
was left. The English guns were heavier than the
Spanish ; their sailing powers immeasurably superior.
The sole advantage of the Spaniards was in small arras,
and these they could not use, as the enemy refused to
close. Thus, with the assent of the vice-admirals, he
was making for home round the Scotch Isles. The
food was short ; the dead were many ; the sick and
wounded more. He himself could but pray that they
might soon reach a port, as their lives depended on it.'
78 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
Tliis letter, though scut off out uf the Western
Oeciin, (lid eventually roach the King's hands. Mean-
while the weather grew wilder and wilder. The number
of vessels which could bear up against the gales
diminished daily, and one by one they fell to leeward
un the fatal Irish sliore. Leaving Medina Sidonia and
the survivors which reached home along with him, the
story must follow those which were unequal to the
work required of them. The Spaniards were excellent
seamen. They had navigated ships no worse than
those which were lumbering through the Irish seas,
amoncr West Indian hurricanes and through the tern-
pests at Cape Horn. But these poor wretches were
but shadows of themselves; they had been poisoned
at the outset with putrid provisions; they were now
famished and sick, their vessels' sides torn to pieces
by cannon-shot and leaking at a thousand holes, their
wounded spars no longer able to bear the necessary
canvas ; worst of all, their spirits broken. The super-
stitious enthusiasm with which they started had turned
into a fear that they were the objects of a malignant
fate with which it was useless to struggle. Some had
been driven among the Western Islands of Scotland ;
the ships had been lost; the men who got on shore
alive made their way to the Low Countries. But
these were the few. Thirty or forty other vessels had
attempted in scattei'ed parties to beat their way into
the open sea. But, in addition to hunger, the men
were sulTering fearfully for want of water, and perhaps
forced the pilots either to make in for the laud, or else
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA, 79
to turn south before they had gained sufficient offing.
Thus, one by one all these drove ashore, either on the
coast of Sligo or Donegal, or in Clew Bay or Gahvay
Bay, or the rocks of Clare and Kerry, and the wretched
crews who escaped the waves found a fate only more
miserable. The gentlemen and officers, soiled and
battered though they were, carried on land such orna-
ments as they possessed. The sailors and soldiers had
received their pay at Corunna, and naturally took it
with them in their pockets. The wild Irish were
tempted by the plunder. The gold chains and ducats
were too much for their humanity, and hundreds of
half-drowned wretches were dragged out of the waves
only to be stripped and knocked on the head, Avhile
those who escaped the Celtic skenes and axes, too
weak and exhausted to defend themselves, fell into the
hands of the English troops who were in garrison in
Connaught, The more intelligent of the Irish chiefs
hurried down to prevent their countrymen from dis-
gracing themselves. They stopped the robbing and
murdering, and a good many unfortunate victims found
shelter in their castles. Such Spaniards as were taken
prisoners by the English met a fate of which it is
impossible to read without regret. Flung as they were
upon the shore, ragged, starved, and unarmed, their
condition might have moved the pity of less generous
foes. But the age was not pitiful. Catholic fanaticism [
had declared war against what it called heresy, and the \
heretics had to defend their lives and liberties by such |
means as offered themselves. There might be nothintf !
8o THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
to tear fniin the Spanish prisoners in their present
c'xtreniil.y, but if allowed to recover and find jirotcction
IVoni Irish hospitality, they might and would become
eminently dangerous. The number of P^nglish was
small, far too small, to enable them to guard two or
three thousand men. With the exception, therefore,
(of one or two ofhcers who were reserved for ransom,
all tliat were captured were shot or hanged on the
spot.
The history of these unfortunates must be looked
for in the English records rather than the Spanish.
They never returned to Spain to tell their own story,
and Captain Duro lias little to say about them
beyond what he has gathered from English writers.
Among the documents published by him, however,
there is an extraordinary narrative related by the
Captain Cuellar who so nearly escaped hanging, a
narrative Avhich not only contains a clear account of
the wreck of the galleons, but gives a unique and
curious picture of the Ireland of the time.
The scene of the greatest destruction among the
g^ ships of the Armada was Sligo Bay. It is easy to
see why. The coast on the llayo side of it trends
away seventy miles to the west as far as Achill and
Clare Island, and ships embayed there in heavy south-
westerly weather had no chance of escape. On one
beach, five miles in length, Sir Jetirey Fenton counted
eleven hundred dead bodies, and the country people
told him, * the like was to be seen in other places,*
Sir William Fitzwilliam saw broken timber from the
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 8i
wrecks lying between Sligo and Ballyshannon, ' suffi-
cient to have built five of the largest ships in the
world,' besides masts and spars and cordage, and boats
bottom uppermost. Among the vessels which went
ashore at this spot to form part of the ruin which Fitz-
william was looking upon was a galleon belonging to
the Levantine squadron, commanded by Don Martin de
Aranda, to whose charge Cuellar had been committed
when Bobadilla saved him from the yard-arm. Don
Martin, after an ineffectual struggle to double Achill
Island, had fallen off before the wind and had anchored
in Sligo Bay in a heavy sea with two other galleons.
There they lay for four days, from the first to the fifth
of September, when the gale rising, their cables parted,
and all three drove on shore on a sandy beach among
the rocks. Nowhere in the world does the sea break
more violently than on that cruel shelterless strand.
Two of the galleons went to pieces in an hour. The
soldiers and sailors, too weak to struggle, were most
of them rolled in the surf till they were dead and then
washed up upon the shingle. Gentlemen and servants,
nobles and common seamen, shared the same fate.
Cuellar's ship had broken in two, but the forecastle
held a little longer together than the rQst, and Cuellar,
clinging to it, watched his comrades being swept away
and destroyed before his eyes. The wild Irish were
down in hundreds stripping the bodies. Those who
had come on shore with life in them fared no better.
Some were knocked on the head, others had their
clothes torn off and were left naked to perish of cold.
82 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
, , Don Diego Enriqtio/, a high-born patrician, passed,
jl jJ'' with the Conde dc Viliafranca and sixty-five others,
into his sliip's tender carrying bags of ducats and
jewels. Tlicy went below, and fastened down tlie
hatchway, hoping to be rolled alive on land. A huge
wave turned the tender bottom upwards, and all who
were in it were smothered. As the tide went back
the Irish came with their axes and broke a hole open
in search of plunder; while Cucllar looked on speculat-
ing how soon the same fate would be his own, and
seeing the corpses of his comrades dragged out, stripped
naked, and left to the wolves. His own turn came
at last. He held on to the wreck till it was swept
away, and he found himself in the water with a brother
officer who had stuffed his pockets full of gold. He
could not swim, but he caught a scuttle board as it
floated by him and climbed up upon it. His com-
panion tried to follow, but was washed off and drowned.
Cuellar a few minutes later was tossed ashore, his leg
badly cut by a blow from a spar in the surf. Drenched
and bleeding as he was, he looked a miserable figure.
The Irish, who were plundering the better dressed of
the bodies, took no notice of him. He crawled along
till he found \ number of his countrymen who had
been left with nothing but life, bare to their skins, and
huddled together for warmth. Cuellar, who had still
his clothes, though of course drenched, lay down among
some rushes. A gentleman, worse off than he, for he
was entirely naked, threw himself at his side too spent
to speak. Two Irishmen came by with axes who, to
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 83
Cuellar's surprise, cut some bushes, which they threw
over them for a covering, and went on to join in the
pillage on the shore. Cuellar, half dead from cold
and hunger, fell asleep. He was woke by a troop of
English horsemen galloping by for a share in the spoil.
He called his comrade but found him dead, while all
round the crows and wolves were busy over the naked
carcases. Something like a monastery was visible not
far off. Cuellar limped along till he reached it. He
found it deserted. The roof of the chapel had been
lately burnt. The images of the saints lay tumbled on
the ground. In the nave twelve Spaniards were hang-
ing from the rafters. The monks had fled to the
mountains.
Sick at the ghastly spectacle, he crept along a path
through a wood, when he came upon an old woman
who was hiding her cattle from the English. Her cabin
was not far distant, but she made signs to him to keep
off, as there were enemies in occupation there. Wander-
ing hopelessly on, he fell in with two of his countrymen,
naked and shivering. They were all famished, and
they went back together to the sea, hoping to find
some fragments of provisions washed on land. On the
way they came on the body of Don Enriquez and
stopped to scrape a hole in the sand and bury it. While
they were thus employed a party of Irish came up, who
pointed to a cluster of cabins and intimated that if they
went there they would be taken care of. Cuellar was
dead lame. His companions left him. At the first
cottage which he reached, there was an old Irish
84 THE SPANISH STORY 01' Tllli ARMADA.
'savage/ an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a girl.
The Englishman struck at liim with a knife and gave
him a second wound. Tliey stripped him to his shirt,
took a gold chain from him, which they found concealed
under it, and a purse of ducats. They would have
left him en ciccros, like the rest, without a rag upon
him, had not the girl interposed, who affected to be
a Christian, ' though she was no more a Christian than
Mahomet.' The Frenchman proved to be an old sailor
who had fought at Terceira. In him the Sjjanish
captain found some human kindness, for he bound up
liis leg for him and gave him some oatcakes with butter
and milk. The Frenchman then pointed to a ridge
of distant mountains. There, he said, was the country
of the O'Rourkc, a great chief, who was a friend of the
King of Spain. O'Rourke would take care of him;
many of his comrades had already gone thither for pro-
tection. With his strength something restored by the
food, Cuellar crawled along, stick in hand. At night
he stopped at a hut where there was a lad who could
speak Latin. This boy talked with him, gave him
supper and a bundle of straw to sleep upon. About
midnight the boy's father and brother came in, loaded
with phmder from the wrecks. They, too, did him no
hurt, and sent him forward in the morning with a pony
and a guide. English soldiers were about, sent, as
he conjectured, probably with truth, to kill all the
Spaniards they could fall in with. The first party that
he met did not see him. With the second he was less
fortunate. His guide saved his life by some means
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 85
which Cuellar did not understand. But they beat him
and took his shirt from him, the last of his garments
that had been left. The boy and pony went off, and
he thought then that the end was come, and prayed
God to finish with him and take him to His mercy.
Forlorn as he was, however, he rallied his courage,
picked up a piece of old matting, and with this and
some plaited ferns made a shift to cover himself : thus
costumed he went on to a hamlet at the side of a lake ;
the hovels of which it consisted were all empty; he
entered the best-looking of them, found some fagots of
oat-straw, and was looking about for a place to sleep
among them, when three naked figures sprang suddenly
up. He took them for devils, and in his extraordinary
dress they thought the same of him ; but they proved
to have belonged to the wrecked galleons ; one of them
a naval officer, the other two soldiers. They explained
mutually who they were, and then buried themselves
in the oat-sheaves and slept. They remained there for
warmth and concealment all the next day. At night,
having wrapped themselves in straw, they walked on
till they reached the dominions of the chief to whom
they had been directed. O'Rourke himself was absent
' fighting the English,' but his wife took them in, fed
them, and allowed them to stay. As a particular
favour she bestowed an old cloak upon Cuellar, which
he found, however, to be swarming with lice. The
hospitality was not excessive. A report reached him
that a Spanish ship had put into Killybegs harbour,
was refitting for sea, and was about to sail. He hurried
86 THE SFANIsrr STORY OF 'J HE ARMADA.
down tt) join litr, hut sIjc was gone. He learned after-
wards that slie had been wrecked and that all on board
had perished.
J To was now like a hunted wolf. Tlie English
vT* dej)uty had issued orders that every Spaniard in the
country must be given up to the Government. I'he
Irish did not betray Cuellar, but they did not care to
risk their necks by giving him shelter, and he wandered
about through the winter in Sligo and Donegal, meet-
ing with many strange adventures. His first friend
was a poor priest, who was performing his functions
among the Irish, in spite of the law, disguised as a
layman. From this man he met with help. He
worked next as a journeyman with a blacksmith, whose
wife was a brute. The priest delivered him from these
people, and carried him to a castle, which, from the
description, appears to have been on Lough Erne, and
here, for the first time, he met with hearty hospitality,
in the Irish understanding of the term. The owner of
the castle was a gentleman. He recognised an ally in
every enemy of England. He took Cuellar into his
troop of retainers, and dressed him in the saffron mantle
of the Irish gallowglass. For some weeks he was now
permitted to rest and recover himself, and he spent the
time in learning the manners of the people. The
chief's wife was beautiful, unlike the blacksmith's, and
the handsome and unfortunate Spanish officer was an
interesting novelty. Besides the lady there were other
girls in the castle, who came about him perhaps too
ardently, asked him a thousand questions, and at
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 87
length insisted that he sliould examine their hands and
tell their fortunes. He had learnt palmistry from the
gipsies in his own land. His invention Avas ready.
He spoke Latin, which they could understand, and he
gathered from their lips broken fragments of their own
Irish. At length, with his art and his attractiveness,
he gives the reader to understand that he was incon-
veniently popular; men and Avomen persecuted him
with demands and attentions, and he had to throw
himself on the protection of the chief himself. He
describes the habits and character of the people as if he
was writing of a fresh discovered island in the New
World.
They lived, he said, like mere savages about the
mountains. Their dwelling-places were thatched hovels.
The men were large-limbed, well-shaped, and light as
stags {sueltos como corzos). They took but one meal a
day, and that at night. Their chief food was oatmeal
and butter; their drink sour milk, for want of anything
better, and never water, though they had the best in
the world. The usquebaugh Cuellar does not mention.
On feast days they dined on undone boiled meat, which
tliey ate without bread or salt. The costume of the
men was a pair of tight-fitting breeches with a goatskin
jacket; over this a long mantle. Their hair they
wore low over their eyes. They were strong on their
legs, could walk great distances, and were hardy and
enduring. They, or such of them as he had known,
paid no obedience to the English. They were sur-
rounded by swamps and bogs, which kept the English
J
88 Tlir. SPANISH STORY 01- THE ARMADA.
;it a distance, and there was constant war between
the races. Even among themselves they were famous
thieves. They rubbed from each other, and every day
there was fighting. If one of them knew that his
neighbour had sheep or cow, he would be out at night
to steal it, and kill the owner. Occasionally a fortunate
robber would liave collected large herds and flocks, and
then the English would come down on him, and he liad
to fly to the liills with wife, and children, and stock.
Sheep and cattle were their only form of property.
They had no clothes and no furniture. They slept on
the ground on a bed of rushes, cut fresh as they wanted
them, wet with rain or stiff with frost. The women
were pretty, but ill dressed. A shift or a mantle, and
a handkerchief knotted in front over the forehead,
made their whole toilet ; and on the women was thrown
all the homework, which, after a fashion, they managed
to do. The Irish professed to be Christians. Mass was
said after the Roman rule. Their churches and houses
of religion had been destroyed by the English, or
by such uf their own countrymen as had joined the
Englisli. In short, they were a wild lawless race, and
every one did as he liked. They wished well to the
Spaniards because they knew them to be enemies of
the English heretics, and had it not been for the
friendliness which they had shown, not one of those
who had come on shore would have survived. It was
true at first they plundered and stripped them naked, and
fine spoils they got out of the thirteen galleons which
were wrecked in that part of the country ; but as soon
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 89
as they saw that the Spaniards were being killed by
the English, they began to take care of them.
Such was Cuellar's general j)icture, very like what
was drawn by the intruding Saxon, and has been
denounced as calumny. Cuellar was, at any rate, im-
partial, and rather liked his hosts than otherwise. The
Lord Deputy was alarmed at the number of fugitives
who were said to be surviving. As the orders to
surrender them had not been attended to, he collected
a force in Dublin and went in person into the West
to enforce obedience. Cuellar's entertainer had been
especially menaced, and had to tell his guests that he
could help them no further. He must leave his castle
and retreat himself with his family into the mountains,
and the Spaniards must take care of themselves.
Cuellar calls the castle Manglana ; local antiquaries
may be able to identify the spot. It stood on a
promontory projecting into a long, deep, and broad
lake, and was covered on the land side by a swamp.
It could not be taken without boats or artillery, and
the Spaniards offered to remain and defend it if the
chief would leave them a few muskets and powder,
with food for a couple of months. There were nine of
them. The chief agreed, and let them have what they
wanted ; and, unless Cuellar lies, he and his friends
held ' Manglana ' for a fortnight against a force of
eighteen hundred English, when God came to their
help by sending such weather that the enemy could
not any longer keep the field.
The chief, finding the "* value of such auxiliaries,
J
90 77//: SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
wished to keep tliein pcrnmncntly ut liis hide, ami
ofVered Cuollar his sister for a wife. Cuellar, liowever,
was hanging lor lioine. He supposed tliat if he couM
reach Scotland he could cross easily from thence to
Flanders, One night after Christmas he slipped away
;ind made for Antrim, travelling, seemingly, only in the
dark, and hiding during the day. He was in constant
danger, as the tracks were watched, and suspected
persons were seized and searched. He got as far as the
Giant's Causeway ; there he heard particulars of the
wreck of the ship which he had tried to join at Killy-
begs. It was a galeass with Alonzo de Leyva on board
and two or three hundred others with Him. They were
all dead, and Cuellar saw the relics of them which the
people had collected on the shore. Alonzo de Leyva
was the best loved of all the Spaniards in*'£Tie' fleet, and
the sight of the spot where he had perished was a fresh
distress. He was afraid to approach a port lest he
should be seized and hanged. For six weeks he was
hid away by some women, and after that by a bishop,
who was a good Christian, though dressed like a savage.
This bishop had a dozen Spaniards with him, fed,
clothed, and said Mass for them, and at last found a
boat to carry them across the Channel. They went,
and after a three days' struggle with the sea contrived
to land in Argyllshire. They had been led to hope for
help from James. Cuellar says that they were entirely
mistaken. James never gave them a bawbee, and
would have handed them over to the English if he had
not been afraid of the resentment of the Scotch Catholic
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 91
nobles. The Calvinist Lowlanders showed them scanty
hospitality. The Prince of Parma was informed of their
condition, and agreed with a Flemish merchant to
bring over to him all the Spaniards, now numerous, who
were on Scotch soil, at five ducats a head. Even yet
misfortune had not tired of persecuting them. In
their passage they were chased and fired on by a Dutch
frigate. They had to run ashore, where they were
intercepted by the Hollanders, and all but Cuellar and
two of his companions were killed. .,
So ends the Spanish captain's story. The wide
calamities involving multitudes are but the aggregate
of the sufferings of each individual of whom the multi-
tude is composed. Cuellar came off luckily compared
with most of his companions. Each of the twenty-nine
thousand men Avho sailed in July from Coruuna would
have had to relate a tale of misery at least as pitiful as
his, and the worst of all was that no one's neck was
wrung for it.
The sixty galleons which remained with tlie Duke
till the end of August were parted again by a south-
westerly gale, off the point of Kerry. The Duke him-
self passed so far out to sea that he did not see the
Irish coast at all. Recalde, with two large ships besides
his own, had come round Dunraore Head, near the land.
His crews were dying for want of water. He seems to
have known Dingle. Dr. Sanders, with the Pope's con-
tingent, had landed there eight years before, and a
statement in an account of Recalde's life that he had
once carried a thousand men to the coast of Ireland,
93 THE SPANISH STORY OF mii ARMADA.
refers probably to that occasion. At all events, be was
aware that there was a harbour in Dingle Bay, an«l he
made for it with bis consorts. One of them, ' Our La'Jy
of the Rosary,' was wrecked in Blasket Sound. She
carried seven hundred men when she sailed out of Lis-
bon. Two hundred out of the seven were alive in her
when she struck the rock, and every one of them
perished, save a single lad. Recalde, with the other
galleon, anchored in the Dingle "estuary, and sent in to
the town a passionate entreaty to be allowed to fill his
water-casks. The fate of the Papal troops, who had
been all executed a few miles off, had so frightened the
Irish there that they did not dare to consent. The
English account states that Rccaldc had to sail as he
was, to live or die. The belief in Spain was tiiat be
took the water that he wanted by force. Perhaps the
inhabitants were not entirely inhuman, and did not in-
terfere. He saved the lives for the moment of the
wretched men under his chariie, thouoh most of them
perished when they reached their homes; he brought
back his ship to Corunna, and there died himself two
days after his arrival, worn out by shame and misery.
Oquendo also reached Spain alive. The persevering
west wmds drove him down the Bay of Biscay, and he
made his way into St. Sebastian, where he had a wife and
children : but he refused to see them ; he shut himself
into a solitary room, turned his face to the wall, and
ended like Recalde, unable to outlive the disgrace of the
gallant navy which he had led so often into victory.
They had done all that men could do. On the miser-
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 93
able day when their commander decided to turn his back
and fly they would have forced him upon a more
honourable course, and given the forlorn adventure an
issue less utterly ignominious. But their advice had
been rejected. They had sailed away from an enemy
whose strength at most was not greater than theirs.
They had escaped from a battle with a human foe to a
more fatal war with the elements, and they had seen
their comrades perish round them, victims of folly and
weakness. The tremendous catastrophe broke their
hearts, and they lay down and died. Oquendo's ' Capi-
tana ' had been blown up after the fight at Plymouth.
By a strauge fatality the ship which brought him home
blew up also in the harbour at St. Sebastian. The ex-
plosion may have been the last sound which reached
his failing sense. The stragglers came in one by one ;
sixty-five ships only of the hundred and thirty who, in
July, liad sailed out of Corunna full of hope and enthu-
siasm. In those hundred and thirty had been twenty-
nine thousand" Human creatures, freshly dedicated to
what they called the service of their Lord. Nine or ten
thousand only returned ; a ragged remnant, shadows of
themselves, sinking under famine and fever and scurvy,
which carried them off like sheep with the rot. When
tliey had again touched Spanish soil, a wail of grief rose
over the whole peninsula, as of Rachel weeping for her
children ; yet above it all rose the cry, Where was
Alonzo de Leyva ? Where was the flower of Spanish
chivalry ? Cuellar knew his fate ; but Cuellar was with
his Irish chief far away. Weeks, even months, passed
94 THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
before certain news arrived, and rumour invented ima-
. ginary glurios for liim. He had rallied the missing
galleons, he had fallen in with I3raki', had beaten and
I captured hitn, and had sunk half the English fleet.
Vain delusion ! De Leyva, like Oquendo and Recalde,
had done all which could be done by man, and God had
not interposed to help him. He had fought his 'Rata
Coronada ' till her spars were shot away and her timbers
pierced like a sieve. She became water-logged in the
gales on the Irish coast. A second galleon and a surviv-
ing galeass were in his company. The 'Rata' and the
{ galleon drove ashore. De Leyva, in the galeass, made
: Killybcgs harbour, and landed there with fourteen hun-
1 dred men. It was the country of the O'Neil. They
were treated with the generous warmth which became
the greatest of the Irish chieftains. But their presence
was known in Dublin. O'Neil was threatened, and De
Leyva honourably refused to be an occasion of danger
to him. He repaired the galeass at Killybegs. The
October weather appeared to have settled at last, and
he started again with as many of his people as the
galeass would carry to make the coast of Scotland. She
had passed round the north of Donegal, she had kept
along the laud and had almost reached the Giant's
Causeway, when she struck a rock and went to pieces,
and De Leyva and his companions went the way of the
rest. ^ — - .- -
{ The men who came back seemed as if they had
been smitten by a stroke from which they could
not rally. One of them describes pathetically the de-
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 95
light Avitli which, after those desperate storms, and
hunger and cold and thirst, they felt the warmth of the
Spanish sun again ; saw Spanish grapes in the gardens
at Santander, and the fruit hanging on the trees ; had
pure bread to eat and pure water to drink. But the
change brouofht no return of health. For the first
weeks they were left on board their ships, no prepara-
tion on shore having been made to receive them.
When the mortality was found rather to increase than
diminish, they were moved to hosj^itals, but they died
still by hundreds daily, as if destiny or Providence was
determined to sweep off the earth every innocent rem-
nant of the shattered expedition, while those who were
really to blame escaped unpunished.
Medina Sidonia had been charged by Philip to
report his progress to him as often as messengers could
be sent off. He had written when off the Lizard before
his first contact with the enemy. He had written again
on August 21 among the Atlantic rollers, when he be-
lievedthathe was bringing home his charge at least safe
if not victorious. On September 22 he arrived at San-
tander, and on the 23rd reported briefly the close of the
tragedy so far as it was then known to liim. The
weather, he said, had been terrible since he last wrote.
Sixty-one vessels were then with him. They had held
tolerably well together till September 18, when they
were caught in another gale, and fifty of them had gone
he knew not where. Eleven only had remained with
himself They had made the coast near Corumia, and
had signalled for help, but none had come off. They
96 THE SPANISH STORY OF 7//E ARMADA.
li;nl then struggled on to Santander and were lying
there at anchor, lie had liiinself gone on shore, being
broken down by suffering. The miseries which they
had experienced had exceeded the worst that had ever
before been heard of. In some ships there liad not
been a drop of water for fourteen days. A hundred and
eighty of the crew of the ' San Martin ' had died, the
rest were down with putrid fever. Of his personal
attendants all were dead but two. There was not food
enough left on board for those who were alive to last
two days. The Duke ' blessed the Lord for all that He
had ordained ; ' but prayed the King to see instantly to
their condition, and to send them money, for they had
not a maravedi in the fleet. He was himself too ill to
do anything. There was no person whose duty it was
to help tliem, neither inspector, purveyor, nor pay-
master. They could obtain nothing that they wanted.
He had written to the Archbishop of Burgos for assist-
ance in establishing a hospital.^
The opinion in Spain was savagely hostile to the
Duke. It was thought that if he had possessed the feel-
ings of a gentleman, he would have died of the disgrace
like Oquendo and Recalde. Tlie Duke, so far from feel-
ing that he was himself to blame, considered that he
above the rest had most reason to complain of having
been forced into a position which he had not sought and
for which he had protested his unfitness. Being Lord
High Admiral, his business was to remain with the
' The Duke of Medina Sidonia to Philip, September 23, from Sautander.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 97
fleet, however ill he might be, till some other respon-
sible officer could be sent to relieve him. His one
desire was to escape from the sight of ships and
everything belonging to them, and hide himself and
recover his spirits in his palace at San Lucar. Not
Sancho, when he left his island, could be in greater
haste to rid himself of his office and all belonging to it.
On September 27, before an answer could arrive
from Philip, he wrote again to Secretary Idiaquez.
Almost all the sailors were dead, he said. Many of the
ships were dismasted ; no one could believe the state in
which they were. Idiaquez must look to it. For him-
self, his health was broken ; he was unfit for further
duty, and even if he was perfectly well he would never
go on shipboard again. He was absolutely without any
knowledge either of navigation or of war, and the King
could have no object in forcing him to continue in a
service from which the State could derive no possible
advantaoe. He begged that he might be thought of
no more in connection with the navy, and that, since
the Lord had not been pleased to call him to that voca-
tion, he might not be compelled to return in a situation
of which he could not, as he had many times explained,
conscientiously discharge the duties. His Majesty, he
said, could not surely wish the destruction of a faithful
subject. With sea affairs he neither could nor would
meddle any further, though it should cost him his head.^
^ ' En las cosas de la mer, por ninguu caso ni por alguna via tratare
dellas, aunque me costase la cabeza.'
U
98 THE SPAMSII STORY OF THE ARMADA
Better so than fail in an office of the duties of wliich he
was ignorant, and wliere lie had to be guided by the
advice of others, in whose honesty of intention he could
feel no confidence.
Tlie last allusion was of course to Diego Florez on
whom, since it was necessary to punish somfe one, the
blame was allowed to fall. In justice, if justice was to
have a voice in the matter, the person really guilty was
Don Piiilip. Of the subordinates, Diego Florez wa.s
probably the most in fault, and he was imprisoned in
the Castle of Burgos. For the rest, Philip was singu-
larly patient, his conscience perhaps telling him that if
,' he was to demand a strict account he would have to
I begin with himself. The popular story of the com-
posure with which he heard of the fate of the Armada
is substantially true, though rather too dramatically
pointed. The awful extent of the catastrophe became
! known to him only by degrees, and the end of Alonzo
ide Leyva, which distressed him most of all, he only
heard of at Christmas.
To the Duke's letter he replied quietly and affec-
tionately, without a syllable of reproach. Unlike
Elizabeth, who left the gallant seamen who had saved
her throne to die of want and disease in the streets of
Margate, and had to be reminded that the pay of those
who had been killed in her service was still due to their
relations, Philip ordered clothes, food, medicine, every-
thing that was needed, to be sent down in hottest haste
to Corunna and Santander. The widows and orphans
of the dead sailors and soldiers were sousfht out and
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. 99
pensioned at the cost of the State. To Medina Sidonia
he sent the permission which the Duke had asked for,
to leave the fleet and go home. He could not in fair-
ness have blamed the commander-in-chief for having
failed in a situation for which he had protested his
incompetence. The fault of Philip as a king and
statesman was a belief in his own ability to manage
things. In sending out the Armada he had set in
motion a mighty force, not intending it to be used
mightily, but that he might accomplish with it what he
regarded as a master-stroke of tame policy. He had
selected Medina Sidonia as an instrument who would do
what he was told and would make no rash experiments.
And the effect was to light a powder-magazine which
blew to pieces the naval power of Spain. It is to his
credit, however, that he did not wreak his disappoint-
ment upon his instruments, and endured patiently what
had befallen him as the Will of God. The Will of
God, indeed, created a difficulty. The world had been
informed so loudly that the Armada was going on the
Lord's work, the prayers of the Church had been so
long and so enthusiastic, and a confidence in what the
Lord was to do had been generated so universally, that
when the Lord had not done it, there was at once a
necessity for acknowledging the judgment, and embar-
rassment in deciding the terms in which the truth
was to be acknowledged. Philip's formal piety pro-
vided a solution which might have been missed
by a more powerful intellect, and on the 13th of
October the following curious letter was addressed by
loo J HE SPANISH STORY OF TIJE ARMADA.
hiiM to the bi.sliops and archbishops throughout his
(loiniiiioiis : —
Most Reverend, — The uncertainties of naval enterprisfja are
well known, and llie fate which has befallen the Armada ifl an
instance in point. You will have already heard that the Duke of
Medina Sidunia has returned to Santander, bringing back with
him part of the fleet. Others of the ships have reached various
ports, some of them having suffered severely from their long and
arduous voyage. We are bound to give praise to God fur all
things which He is pleased to do. I on the present occasion
have given thanks to Ilim for the mercy which He has shown.
In tlie foul weather and violent storms to which the Armada has
been e.\posed, it might have experienced a worse fate ; and that
the misfortune has not been heavier is no doubt due to the
prayers -whicli have been offered in its behalf so devoutly and
continuously.
These prayers must have entailed serious e.xpense and trouble
on those who have conducted them. I wish you, therefore, all to
\inderstand that while I am, so far, well pleased with your exer-
tions, they may now cease. You may wind up in the cathedrals
and churclies of your dioceses with a solemn Thanksgiving Ma.ss
on any day which you may appoint, and for the future I desire
all ecclesiastics and other devout persons to continue to commend
my actions to the Lord in their secret devotions, that He may so
direct them as shall be for His own service, the exaltation of His
C'hurch, the welfare and safety of Christendom, which are the
objects always before me. ^r
From the Escurial : October 13, 1588.^ ^^
Medina Sidonia reconsidered his resolution to have
no more to do wTtli ships and fighting. He was con-
tinued in his office of Lord High Admiral; he was
again appointed Governor of Cadiz, and he had a second
opportunity of measuring himself against English sea-
men, with the same result as before. Essex went into
^ Duro, vol. ii. p. 314.
THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA. loi
Cadiz in 1596, as Drake had gone in 1587. The Duke
acted in the same manner, and withdrew to Seville to
seek for reinforcements. He ventured back only after
the English had gone, and was again thanked by his
master for his zeal and courage. As if this was not
enough, Philip, in 1598, raised him to the rank of
Consejero alti'simo de Estado y Guerra, Supreme Coun-
cillor in Politics and War. Who can wonder that under
such a King the Spanish Empire went to wreck ?
The people were less enduring. Clamours were
raised that he had deserted the fleet at Santander,
that he had shown cowardice in action, that he had
neglected the counsels of his wisest admirals, that he
was as heartless as he was incapable, and that, leaving
the seamen and soldiers to die, he had hastened home
to his luxuries at San Lucar. In reality he had gone
with the King's permission, because he was useless and
was better out of the way. He was accused of having
carried off with him a train of mnles loaded with ducats.
He had told Philip that he had not brought home a
maravedi, and if he had really taken money he would
have done it less ostentatiously and with precautions
for secrecy.
But nothing could excuse him to Spain. Every
calumny found credit. He had shown 'cobardia y
continual pavor y miedo de morir, avaricia,, dureza y
crueldad ' — cowardice, constant terror and fear of death,
avarice, harshness, and cruelty. His real faults were
enough without piling others on him of which he was
probably innocent. With or without his will, he had
I02 y/Z/c srANlSH STORY OF THE ARMADA.
been in tlio tliickcst and liottcst parts of the lianlest
engagements, and tljc 'San Martin' liad suffered as
severely as any ship in the fleet. lie knew nothing of
tlie work which he was sent to do ; that is probably the
worst which can justly be said of him; and he had not
sought an appointment for which he knew that he was
unfit. But an officer who tried to defend him was
obliged to admit that it would have been happy for his
country if the Duke had never been born ; that he
threw away every chance which was offered him, and
that he talked and consulted when acts and not words
were wanted.
His journey home across Castile was a procession of
ignominy. The street boys in Salamanca and Medina
del Campo pelted him with stones; crowds shouted
after him 'A las gallinas, a las almadradas' — 'To the
hens and the tunnies' — the tunnies being the fattest
and the most timid of fish, and the tunny fishing being
a monopoly of his dukedom. He was lold that he had
disgraced his illustrious ancestors, and that had he
the spirit of a man he would not have outlived his
shame.
History does not record the reception which he met
with from his wife when he reached his palace.
ANTONIO PEEEZ : AN UNSOLVED
JIISTOmCAL KIDDLE.^
ONE day early in the spring of the year 1590, while
Spain was still bleeding from the destruction of the
Great Armada, Mass was being sung in the church of
the Dominican convent at Madrid. The candles were
burning, the organ was pealing, the acolytes were
swinging the censers, and the King's confessor was
before the altar in his robes, when a woman, meanly
dressed, rushed forward amidst the fumes of the
incense. Turning to the priest, she said : ' Justice !
I demand justice ; I demand that you hear me ! Are
you deaf, that I come so often to you and you will not
listen ? ' Then I appeal to One who will listen ; I appeal
to Thee my God who art here present ; I call on God
to be my witness and my judge ; He knows the wrongs
which I suffer. Let Him punish yonder man who is
my oppressor.'
The confessor turned pale as death. He stood
/
Nineteenth Centwry, Aiiril, May, 1883,
I04 ANTONIO PENEZ:
speechless for a few moments. He then beckoned to
the attendants. ' Bid the lady prioress come hither/
he said, ' and the sisterhood, and this woman's
sister, wlio is one of them. Say I require their
presence.'
The lady mother came fluttering with her flock
behind her. They gathered to the grating which
divided the chancel from the convent precincts,
'Holy mother,' the confessor said, 'this lady here
present charges me on my soul and conscience. She
calls on God to judge her cause, and she clamours for
redress. I do not wonder ; I should wonder rather if
she held her peace. But what can I do that I have
left undone ? I have told the King that it is his duty
to despatch the business of the lady's husband and
restore him to his family ; what would she have from
me more ? '
' I would have this much more, senor,' the lady
replied. ' If the King will not do what you command
him, refuse him absohition and withdraw to your cell.
You will be nearer heaven there, than where you now
stand. As the King's confessor you are his judge.
The King is the offender; I am the injured woman
of St. Luke's Gospel. The King may wear the crown
on his head ; but you are higher than he.'
The confessor could not answer her.
The scene shifts to the reception hall of Rodrigo
Vasquez, the President of the High Court of Justice.
The president was a grave, dignified man, seventy years
old. Before him stood a family of children, the eldest
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 105
a girl of sixteen, the little ones holding her hands or
clinging to her dress.
The girl did not seem daunted by the presence
in which she stood. ' Your lordship/ she said, * has
promised us this, that, and the other; you tell us
one day that something shall bo done on the morrow,
and then the next, and the next, as if a last " morrow "
there would never be. You have brought our home
to desolation. You have deceived a girl like me, and
you think it a grand victory, a glorious distinction.
You thirst, it seems, for our blood ; well, then, you
shall have it. Old men, it is said, go again to the
breast for milk to keep the life in them. You require
blood, fresh from the veins of its owners. We had
rather not be swallowed piecemeal, so we are come
all to you together. You perhaps w^ould prefer to
linger over us, but we cannot wait. Let your lordship
make an end with us. Here we are.'
Don Rodrigo started out of his chair. He marched
up the hall, and down, and tlien to the four corners. He
twisted his fingers, he crossed his arms. He appealed to
an old aunt and uncle who had brought the children.
' Senora, sefior,* he said, ' I beseech you make that
young woman hold her peace, and say no more.'
The young Avoman would not hold her peace.
'Pray sit down, your lordship,' she said; 'pray be
calm. We are young; some of us were born, so to
say, but yesterday. But you have made our lives a
burden to us. Finish the work ; take our blood, and
let our souls depart from this miserable prison.'
io6 ANTONIO PEREZ:
These two inci(Jcnts, if the children's father wn^te
the trutli, happened precisely as I have described them,
and are as literal facts as usually pass for history.
Perhaps they are not exaggerated at all. The priest
in the Dominican convent was Diego de Chaves,
sj)iritual adviser to Philip the Second. The woman
before the altar was Juana de Coello, wife of Antonio
Perez, his Majesty's Secretary of State and confidential
minister. The girl in the Court of Justice was his
daughter Dona Gregoria, and the little ones were her
brothers and sisters.
Wliat stranjre cause could have wroujiht a mother
and child into a state of passion so unnatural ?
For three centuries after the Reformation, Philip
the Second was the evil demon of Protestant tradition.
Every action which could be traced to him was ascribed
to the darkest motives. He was like some ogre or
black enchanter sitting in his den in the Escurial,
weaving plots for the misery of mankind, in close
communion and correspondence with his master the
Antichrist of Rome. He was the sworn enemy of the
light which was rising over Europe ; he was the assassin
of his subjects abroad ; he was a tyrant at home, and
even in his own household ; he was believed universally
to have murdered his own son, and if not to have
murdered his wife, to have driven her to death with
a broken heart. The Inquisition was his favourite
instrument, and his name has been handed down
through modern history by the side of the most
detestable monsters who ever disgraced a throne.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 107
All this violence of censure was perfectly natural.
Men engaged in a deadly struggle for what they regard
as a sacred cause are seldom charitable to their adver-
saries. It was the Spanish power indisputably which
stemmed the Reformation, and more than once was
near extinguishing it. The conflict was desperate and
at last savage, and deeds were done which have left
a stain on all who were concerned in them.
But as time has gone on, and as it has appeared
that neither Lutheranism nor Calvinism nor Anglican-
ism can be regarded as a final revelation, we have been
able to review the history of the sixteenth century in
a calmer temper. For a thousand years the doctrines
of the Catholic Church had been guarded by the civil
power as the most precious of human possessions.
New ideas on such subjects, shaking as they do the
foundations of human society, may be legitimately
resisted on their first appearance from better motives
than hatred of truth ; and although, in a strife so
protracted and so deadly, evil passions dressed them-
selves in sacred colours, and crimes were committed
which we may legitimately assign to the devil, yet
it has been recognised that, on fair grounds of principle,
right-thinking men might naturally have taken opposite
sides, and that Catholics as well as Protestants might
have been acting on conscientious convictions. The
dust has settled a little, the spiritual atmosphere has
cleared itself, and among the consequences the cloud
which hung over Philip the Second has partially lifted.
The countrymen of Cervantes were not a nation of
io8 ANTONIO PEREZ:
(la-rc bigots; yet it is clear lliat tlie whole Spanish
people went with the Kinjjj entliusifistically in defence
of the Church, and complained only when his -pU (le
plomo, his foot of lead that he was so proud of, would
not move fast enough. The romance of Don Carlos
has gone into the air of which it was made. Don
Carlos is known now to have been a dangerous lunatic,
whom it was necessary to cage like a wild animal; the
exact manner of his death is unknown; but his father
acted throughout by the advice of the Council of State,
and it was by their advice also that so distressing a
secret was concealed from public curiosity. As we look
at Philip with more impartial attention, the figure
comes out before us of a painstaking, laborious man.
prejudiced, narrow-minded, superstitious, with a conceit
of his own abilities not uncommon in crowned heads,
and frequently with less justification, but conscientious
from his own point of view, and not without the
feelinofs of a iientlenian.
I purpose to reconstruct on these more tolerant
lines the story of the relations between Pi)ilip the
Second and Antonio Perez which have so long per-
plexed historical inquirers — on the surface a mere palace
intrigue, but developing from its peculiar features into
a nine days' wonder throughout Europe, and occasion-
ing, if not causing, the overthrow of tiie constitutional
liberties of Araijon.
Students of the history of the sixteenth century
must be fau^iliar with the name of Gonzalo Perez.
He was State Secretary to Charles the Fiftli, and his
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 109
signature stands at the bottom of the page on thousands
of Charles's despatches which are now extant. When
the Emperor abdicated, Gonzalo remained in office with
Philip, and had been forty years in the pubhc service
when he died. Antonio Perez passed as Gonzalo's
natural son. He was born in 1542, and was legitimat-
ised immediately by an Imperial diploma. There were
those who said, and spoke of it as notorious, that
Antonio was not Gonzalo's son at all, but the son
of Ruy Gomez, Prince of Eboli and Duke of Pastrana,
Philip's favourite minister. Ruy Gomez, at any rate,
took charge of the boy, removed him from school,
brought him up in his own family, and introduced
liim into a public department. Being quick and
brilliant, he was rapidly promoted ; and when Ruy
Gomez died in 1567 he left Antonio, at the age of
twenty-five, chief secretary to the Council of State
with a salary of four thousand ducats a year, in addition
to which, and as a sinecure, he was Protonotary of
Sicily with two thousand ducats a year. A rise so
swift implied extraordinary private intiuence, or extra-
ordinary personal quahties; and this was but the
beginning of his fortunes. On losing Ruy Gomez,
Philip took Perez as his own confidential secretary;
and along with him another youth, Juan de Escovedo,
who had also been a pupil of Ruy Gomez, and had
been brought up at Perez's side. The two young
men had been, and still continued, intimate personal
friends.
The Spanish administration was divided into separate
no ANTONIO PEREZ:
councils, the secretaries of which were each i^ close
relation with the King, who insisted on knowing all
that was going on. Besides these there were the
secretaries who deciphered despatches, who were thus
admitted into State mysteries and were necessarily
treated with confidence. But of the whole number
Antonio Perez and Escovedo were nearest to the King,
and Perez the closer of the two. He and he alone
was admitted into the interior labyrinths of Philip's
mind.
He was thus a person of extraordinary consequence.
He was courted by great men in Church and State.
The Italian princes sent him presents to advance their
interests. He was the dispenser of royal favours. He
treated dukes as his equals, and the splendour in which
he lived was envied and criticised ; but his legitimate
income was considerable ; in all countries in that age
influential statesmen accepted homage in the shape
of offerings; and, considering the opportunities the
favoured secretary had, he does not seem to have
exceptionally abused them.
Perez being thus upon the stage, we introduce a
more considerable figure, Don John of Austria, the
King's brother, illegitimate sonr"of Charles the Fifth.
An illegitimate prince is always in a delicate position,
especially when his father happens to have brought
him up as a real one. He is of royal blood, but with-
out the rights belonging to it. He is uncertain of
his rank, and may generally be presumed to be dis-
contented. But Philip had shown no suspicion of his
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. ni
brother. He had trusted him, employed him, refused
him no opportunities which he could have desired had
he come more regularly into the world. Don John
was chivalrous, ardent, ambitious. He had every
quality which promised distinction, if in his youth he
had been wisely guided. Ruy Gomez had furnished
him with a secretary supposed to be prudence itself,
Juan de Soto, who had been trained in the War Office.
Thus accompanied, when the Moors broke into insurrec-
tion, Don John was sent to Granada to reduce them.
He did his work well ; he became a popular favourite,
and went next to command the allied Catholic fleet in
the Mediterranean. De Soto only had given imperfect
satisfaction. Don John had high-flying views for
himself, and De Soto, it was feared, had not sufficiently
discouraged them. Perez and Escovedo were instructed
to give him an admonition, which they did, and with
this friendly warning Don John and his secretary went
their way into Italy. The battle of Lepanto followed,
and the young irregular Spanish prince blazed out into
a hero of romance. Philip was a faithful son of the
Church, and of the Pope in his spiritual capacity ; but
he was King of Naples and Sicily, with interests in the
Peninsula not always identical with the interests of
the court of Rome. Pius the Fifth, who had just then
absolved England from its allegiance to Queen Elizabeth,
and believed it his mission to sweep away heresy,
found in Don John a child much nearer to his heart.
Don John was to be the Church's knight, the chosen
* soldier of the Lord, and immediately after Lepanto
112 ANTONIO PEREZ:
Pius had I'urmed views for constituting him an
indepeudent sovereign. Tunis was to be the first scene
of liis greatness. The Emperor Charles liad won
immortal glory in his African campaign. De Soto had
studied history and dreamt of the possibility of reviving
the Carthaginian empire. Don John, set on by the
Pope, re-fortified the Goleta, and transported on his
own authority, out of Italy, the best part of the Spanish
troops there, while the Papal Nuncio at Madrid
requested Philip in Pope Pius's name to allow his
brother to take the title of King of Tunis. The
Spanish council knew better than his Holiness the
value of tiie Emperor's African con<juests. They had
been a drain upon the treasury and the gi'ave of
thousands of their bravest men. Instead of indulfjing
Don John they sent orders that the fortresses should be
demolished and the troops withdrawn. But the order
came too late. The Goleta was assaulted by the Turks
in overwhelming numbers, and the garrison was cut ofif
to a man. Philip had good reason to be displeased.
The independent action of a commander cannot expect
to be regarded, when unsuccessful, with especial
leniency, nor were matters mended by the signs which
his brother was manifesting of a restless ambition. He
replied politely to the Pope, however, that the establish-
ment of a kingdom in Tunis was not at the time
expedient. He found no fault with Don John, but laid
the blame on bad advisers. He gently removed De
Soto, leaving him as commissary-general of the army ;
and secretary Escovedo, who had been especially
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 113
eloquent in the cabinet on De Soto's rashness, was
sent to take his place as a safer companion to the
prince.
Philip, however, was again unfortunate. The mis-
chance at the Goleta had not been sufficient to dim the
glories of Lepanto, or cool the hopes which so brilliant
a victory had inspired. Don John was still persuaded
that there were great things in store for him. It
seemed as if he had an especial power of turning the
heads of the secretaries, and Escovedo himself was soon
embarked with him in a yet wilder scheme, to which
the Pope and the Fates were beckoning the way.
After a struggle of ten years with his revolted
subjects in the Low Countries, experience was beginning
to teach Philip that it might be expedient to try milder
ways with them. The Duke of Alva with his blood
and iron had succeeded only in enlisting the whole of
the seventeen provinces in a common rebellion, and if
the war continued, the not unlikely end of it would be
that Spain would finally lose them all. Holland and
Zealand might become English, Belgium be absorbed
into France, and the rest drift away into Germany.
Bitter Catholic as he was, Philip had some qualities of
a statesman. He had determined on an effort to make
up the quarrel. The provinces were to be left with
their constitutional rights, securities being given for the
safety of religion. The Spanish army was to be with-
drawn, and by abandoning attempts at coercion he
hoped that it might not be too late to recover the
hearts of the people.
114 ANTONIO PEREZ:
To cany out this purpose he had pitched upon his
brother Don John. Tlie Emperor's memory was still
honoured in the Low Countries. Charles liad always
been more a Fleming than a Spaniard. Don John,
with his high rank and chivalrous reputation, was
likely to be welcome there, or at least more welcome
than any other person who could be selected ; and an
opportunity was thrown in his way, if he could use it,
of winning laurels for himself more enduring than
those which grow on battle-fields.
The opportunity, however, was one which a wise
man only could appreciate. Young soldiers, especially
soldiers who have been distinguished in arms, are
seldom in love with constitutions : and to be governor
at Brussels, with a council of successful rebels to tie
his hands, was a situation wliicli woidd have had no
attraction for the victor of Lepanto, had there not
been attached to it a more interesting possibility, the
cmpoxsa de Inglatcrra, the invasion and conquest of
England. Philip himself had for a few years been
called Kincf of Enfjland. His name remains in our
Statute Book. It was asserted by the Jesuits, it was
believed by nine-tenths of the orthodox world, that the
English Catholics, who were two-thirds of the nation,
were waiting only for the help of a few thousand
Spaniards to hurl from the throne the excommunicated
usurper. The Queen of Scots, the Lady of Romance,
was lying a prisoner in Sheffield Castle. To carry over
the army when it left the Netherlands, to land in
Yorkshire, to ileliver the enchanted princess, and reign
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE, 115
at her side with the Pope's blessing over an England
restored to the faith — this was a glorious enterprise,
fit to fire the blood of a Christian knight who was also
the countryman of Don Quixote.
Don John was still in Italy when the oifer of the
appointment was made. If it was accepted, the King's
order to him was to proceed with his secretary directly
to Brussels without returning to Spain. Not the
pacification of Flanders, but the empresa de Inglaterra
was the thought which rushed into the minds of Don
John and Escovedo. Instead of setting out as they
were enjoined, they went to Rome to consult Pope
Pius's successor, to ask for his sanction, to ask for men,
to ask for the title which had been borne by his
brother, and all this without so much as going through
the form of consulting his brother on the subject.
The Pope was of course delighted. If the attempt
was made, God would not allow it to fail. The Jesuits
had all along insisted that Philip's dilatoriness had
alone allowed heresy to take root in England. Philip
himself, who knew something of the country, was under
no such illusion. Five years before he had consented
unwillingly to the Ridolfi conspiracy. Elizabeth was
then to have been assassinated ; Spanish troops were
to have lauded, and the Queen of Scots was to have
had the crown. The end of this fine project had been
the execution of the Duke of Norfolk, the near escape
from execution of Mary Stuart, a plague of pirates and
privateers on the shores of Spanish America, and
increased severities against the English Catholics. Of
ii6 ANTONIO I'EKEZ-
the Queen of Scots Philip had the very worst opiuiou.
To strike a blow at that nioinent at Elizabeth could
not fail to re-exasperate the Low Countries, English
soldiers would land in Holland, English corsairs would
swarm in the Atlantic and seize his treasure-ships.
None of these considerations occurred to Don John
or his fiery adviser. Escovedo was even hotter that his
master, and audacious even to insolence. From Rome,
in spite of his orders, he went to Madrid ; and Don
John soon after followed him thither, leavinij their
purposes to reach Philip indirectly from another
quarter. This was in the summer of 1576, and we now
a[)proach the critical part of the story. Shortly after
Escovedo arrived at the court, the Nuncio sent one
morning for Antonio Perez and inquired who a certain
Escoda was. He had been all night, he said, decipher-
ing a despatch from his Holiness. It referred to the
' enterprise of England ' which was to be undertaken,
if the King would allow it, by Don John. Escoda
would inform him of the particulars.
' Escoda ' could be no one but Escovedo. Perez
carried his information to the King, who was again
naturally extremely dissatisfied ; the more so perhaps
that Don John's popularity, and the general favour with
which Spanish sentiment was likely to take up the
adventure, obliged liim to keep his displeasure to him-
self. Escovedo evidently thought himself secure. He
addressed Philip in so rude a letter that Philip com-
plained of it to Perez. ' If he had spoken to me as he
has written,' the King said, ' I believe I could not have
AM UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 117
contained myself.' Words still more rash had fallen
from Escovedo's lips. ' Don John, when master of Eng-
land, was afterwards to take charge of Spain.'
Philip, like most small-minded men, shrank from
meeting dilficulties openly. He took no notice of
Escovedo's impertinence, and he was afraid or unwilling
to quarrel with his brother. He allowed the Nuncio to
give liim the Pope's message, and put him off with a
vague answer. Don John ventured on ground still
more delicate by asking for the ' chair and canopy,' the
insignia of a legitimate prince of the blood royal. Even
this Philip did not refuse. He required only that Don
John should repair first to his government, compose the
provinces, and withdraw the army. When this was
done it would be time to think of ' English enterprises'
and chairs and canopies.
Don John went, and it seemed as if all was smooth
again. Escovedo was left at Madrid professedly to
complete some defective arrangements for bis master.
Perhaps Philip was uncertain whether he would trust so
doubtful an adviser at his brother's side any more.
I am not writing the history of the wars in the
Netherlands ; it is enough to say that any hopes which
had been built on the popularity of Don John were
disappointed. Tlie Estates refused to admit him as
governor while the Spanish troops were in the fort-
resses ; the troops were sullen, and would not move till
they were paid their wages. Don John Avished to
remove them by sea, meaning, when they wei'e in the
Channel, to fly at England permitted or unpermitted ;
118 ANTONIO PKREZ:
Itiit Mli/,;il)i:tli and tliu Prince of Orange liad their eyes
open ; the Estates insisted that the army sliould retire
by land, and declined to advance a dollar till they were
on the march. Don John, being without a friend
whom he could trust, begged that Escovedo might rejoin
him ; and Escovedo, not without emphatic warnings
and reiterated instructions, was allowed to go. The
demands of the Estates were to be complied with to
the letter. Tlie army, at whatever sacrifice of bolder
purposes, was to retire as the Estates desired. Philip
required peace, and was prepared for the price that was
to be paid for it. The humiliation was too deep for
Don John. For the knight-errant of the Church to
retreat before a burgher council was ignominy. Some-
thing, he knew not what, must be done to repair it,
and his thoughts went everywhere except where they
ought to have been. Escovedo had no sooner arrived
than a secret correspondence began again with the
Pope. The religious war was raging in France. Don
John might join the Duke of Guise and the Catholic
League, and they might manage England between
them. Then again lie thought how he might satisfy
his ambition at home. On February 3, 1577, Escovedo
wrote to Perez to revive the request for the chair and
canopy. It would give Don John a seat in the Council
of State. He and Perez and their friends the Arch-
bishop of Toledo and the Marques de los Velez could
rule the country as they pleased, and relieve his brother
of the cares of government. On reflection he perhaps
remembered that Philip might not be so anxious to be
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 119
relieved ; for some days after the purpose was changed ;
Don John was to take his army into France as an
adventurer, and help the Duke of Guise to destroy the
Huguenots. Victorious there, he could hold the Estates
in check, the shame of the retreat would be covered,
and the ' great design ' on England could go forward.
Royal princes are excused their follies at the expense of
their servants. These feverish dreams were set down
at the Escurial to Escovedo's account, and probably
with excellent reason.
Meanwhile, Philip's orders were being obeyed. He
had agreed to all which the Estates demanded. On
February 1 2 the arrangement known as the * Perpetual
Edict ' was provisionally accepted, and was forwarded
to Madrid for ratification. Don John was distracted.
He believed that he might write to Perez confidentially;
for Perez, by Philip's order, had encouraged him to sup-
pose so ; and much eloquence has been expended on
the assumed treachery. But kings may be judged too
harshly in such matters, when they have reason to
fear that persons whom they have trusted are playing
tricks with them. If Don John was acting loyally, he
had nothing to fear. After the edict was sent off, Don
John wrote again to Perez that he must resign. Sooner
than remain to govern Flanders on such conditions, he
would turn hermit. If the King insisted on keeping
him there he would become desperate, fling up the
reins and go home, though he lost his life for it. He
implored that he might not be driven to choose between
disobedience and infamy.
120 ANTONIO PKREZ:
Perez sliowcd Philip all tliese letters; and they
were considered in the cabinet. The blame was laid on
Escovedo, who was held to have betrayed his trust.
Don John was informed kindly, but peremptorily, that
his return at such a time would be prejudicial to the
public service. No one could be so fit as the King's
brother to recover the loyalty of the Estates. The
King said that he understood his feelings, and coidd
sympathise with him ; but he must try to be patient ;
least of all must he rush off into France, where the
Government had not asked for his assistance. The
English project and his other wishes should be con-
sidered when the time for them was come ; but his
present duty was to reconcile Flanders, and there he
must remain. Escovedo had spoken of returning him-
self to speak to the King. Perez told him that if he
came back ■without permission, it would be taken as a
serious offence, and was not to be thought of.
Don John acquiesced, or seemed to acquiesce. The
Perpetual Edict was ratified. The troops began the
evacuation, and on May 2 Don John was received at
Brussels, and installed as governor. Had he been
sincere, the storm would have blown over ; but the
next news which arrived about him at Madrid was that
he had actually made a private treaty with the Court
of Rome. The Pope had promised him 6000 men
and 150,000 ducats for the English expedition, while
before the Brussels settlement had lasted a fortnight
he was again in correspondence with the Duke of Guise,
and was threatening open hostilities against Holland
A.V UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 121
and Zealand, which were making difficulties about
liberty of worship. The difficulty need not have been
insuperable ; and the Estates refused to sanction imme-
diate violence. Don John snatched at the excuse to
break with tliem on his own authority ; with such
regiments as had not yet gone, he seized Namur ; and
Escovedo, in spite of his positive orders, rushed home
after all, to press Philip to allow the army to return.
The war should then be carried on in earnest. Tlie
Spanish forces could live in the rebel provinces as in
an enemy's country, and lay them waste with fire and
sword.
Information more unwelcome never reached PhiHp.
He longed for peace ; he had been acting in good faith ;
he refused to counter-order the troops ; he blamed the
seizure of Namur, and abhorred the very mention of
fire and sword. Still at the eleventh hour he clung to
the hope of reconciliation. The Estates declared Don
John a public enemy, and invited the Archduke Matthias
to take his place. Even so, Philip persevered. He sent
a commission to offer a complete amnesty, with the
instant and perpetual removal of the army. The
Estates might choose their own governor, either the
Archduke Matthias, or the Archduke Ferdinand, or
the Prince of Parma. But it was too late ; the day
for peace was gone. Confidence was irrecoverably
lost, and the quarrel had to be fought out to the end.
The army went back — there was no help for it — with
the Prince of Parma at its head ; while it was said
' and beheved that Don John was treatinof with tlie
t22 ANTONIO PEKhZ:
])uU(; (jf" Cui.so lor ;ui o|t(jii alliance, without rcgani
to tliuir rcspcctivo sovereigns — a very strange ami
questionable performance. Both Guise and Philip
were no doubt defending the Catliolic relitjion. But
respect for forms and secular interests wore not to
pass for notliing. Spain and France were tlie rivals
for Continental supremacy. They had been at war off
and on for three-quarters of a century, and, if the
religious question was settled, might at any time be
at war again. Philip had not forgotten that it was
a Duke of Guise who had defended Metz against his
father; and for his brother to take on himself to settle
points of international policy with the subject of another
sovereign, was something not very far removed from
treason.
But we must now return to the scapegoat who was
to bear the blame for all these things, the unlucky
Escovedo. Flying home, as we saw him, in the teeth
of a positive command, he landed at Santander on
July 21. The worst had not yet happened ; for it was
not till the January following that the commission went
with the last overtures for peace, nor was the treating
with Guise as yet more than an unjDleasant rumour.
But Philip was legitimately incensed with Escovedo,
and, if we can believe M. Mignet, had prepared a
peculiar reception for him ; nay, was expecting that
Escovedo Avas coming with murderous intentions against
hinJself. Perez having informed the King in a note of
Escovedo s approach, Philip, according to his habit, and
in his well-known abominable hand, scrawled on the
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 123
margin, ' Menestcr sera prevenir nos bien de todo y dar
nos mucha priesa k despacharle antes que nos mate/
The verb ' despachar,' like its English correspondent
'despatch,' has two meanings, and 'matar' has two
meanings. M. Mignet su23poses the words to mean,
' We must bo quick and assassinate him before he kills
us.' He makes Philip suspect Escovedo of intended
treason, and resolve to be beforehand with him. But
no one would have thought of so interpreting the
passage if Escovedo had not in fact been assassinated
at a later period. The natural translation would be,
'We must despatch him quickly (t. c. send him about
his business) before he worries us to death ; * and as
Escovedo remained, for some months after his arrival,
not only unmolested, but tr<insacting business with the
King, I cannot infer, with M. Mignet, that Philip had
already formed so sanguinary a purpose against him.
Unquestionably, however, no good will was felt towards
a man who had responded so ill to the confidence which
had been placed in him. If Philip could have conve-
niently punished him without irritating his brother, he
would gladly have read him a sharp lesson, and the
irritation was likely to be increased as the consequences
of his misdoings developed themselves. The especial
uneasiness was on the side of France. In the autumn
(1577), three months after Escovedo's arrival, Philip
sent a new ambassador there, Juan de Vargas Mexia, to
inquire particularly into what was passing between his
brother and the Duke of Guise. Mexia ascertained
that the correspondence was real and that secret agents
124 ANTONIO PEREZ:
were going to and fro between them, though to what
purpose lie could not tell. The suspicious feature was
the Complete silence on the subject both of Don John
and his secretary. Escovedo's manners were abrupt
and arbitrary. In January Philip received a letter
from him, which he described happily as dcscosido, loose,
unstitched, visionary. He handed it to Perez, that he
might see how ' sanguinary ' it was.
Don John, at the reopening of the war, had begun
with a success. He had defeated the Prince of Orange
at Gemblours. He wrote passionately for reinforce-
ments. The victory had to be followed up, and all
would be won. He demanded money — money anrl
Escovedo. Philip, unhappily, had won victories before
in the Low Countries, and knew better what to expect
from them. His own more temperate policy had been
thwarted and ruined, and it was but too natural that
he should hold his brother's wild adviser as responsible.
If he sent him back, it would be only to throw fuel on
the fire. Don John, and the Pope, and the Guises would
set all Europe in confusion. Escovedo was no fool. He
could not be kept waiting at Madrid with dilatory
excuses. To imprison him, or bring him to trial, might
drive Don John at once into some dangerous course. It
would lead to investigations and the publication of State
secrets which ought not to be revealed.
There was a theory much in favour at the Spanish
court, that criminals who had forfeited their lives, or
persons whose lives were for any reason inconsistent
with public safety, might, when the facts were certain,
AlV UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 125
and when an open prosecution would be inconvenient,
be removed privately by orders of the Council of State.
So Don Carlos had been disposed of; so the Flemish
envoy at Simancas. Spain was not the only country
where in extreme cases such proceedings were held
permissible. Elizabeth would have been grateful to
Sir Amyas Paulet if he would have relieved her of the
Queen of Scots. In Italy, in France, in Scotland, a
stab with a dagger w^as an expedient adopted in emer-
gencies, with no great care to ascertain that it was
deserved. Spain and England were rather in advance
of other nations than behind them ; and in Spain,
heartily loyal as it was, the public had begun to doubt
whether these secret executions ought to be continued.
A zealous court p)reacher had maintained, in a
sermon at which Philij) was present, that kings had
absolute power over the lives and fortunes of their
subjects. The Inquisition, of all courts in the world,
took up the question. The preacher was obliged to
retract his proposition in the same pulpit, and to confess
that kings had no more power over their subjects than
divine and human law allowed them. The old view,
however, held its ground in spite of the Holy Office,
and was professed in its extreme form by no less a
person than the King's spiritual adviser, the same Diego
de Chaves who was mentioned at the opening of our
story. Don Diego's opinion was this : ' So far as I
understand the law,' he said, * a secular prince who for
sufficient cause can take his subjects' lives from them
by course of law can also do it without course of law when
,2f, ANTONIO PEREZ:
the evidence of the guilt is clear. Form and order are
not essentials in such sense that thoy cannot be dis-
pensed with ; and if the prince has sufficient reasons
for proceeding irregularly, the vassal who by his com-
mand puts to death another vassal is doing no more
than his duty. He is bound to assume the cause to be
adequate. The presumption in all cases is that the
prince has rea.son for what he does.'
This doctrine was still held by Philip; and the
difficulty with Escovedo was precisely of the kind where
the application of it was convenient. Escovedo's guilt
miijht be assumed. He was a confidential minister who
had disobeyed his orders, and had caused a great public
calamity, involving the renewal of a civil war. If allowed
to live, he would still be dangerous. To bring him to
an account openly Avould be dangerous also. Philip
directed Antonio Perez to consult the Marques de los
Velez. The opinion of the marquis was decided, that
Escovedo should be killed; yet that the King must not
appear to have directed his execution, lest Don John
should be exasperated. Some scheme should be con-
trived by which it could appear that he had been sacri-
ficed to private revenge. A Government must have
been singularly lieljiless which could liave recourse to
such expedients. But so it was. For the act itself De
los Velez had so little hesitiition that, ' with the Sacra-
ment in his mouth,' he was ready to assert the necessity
«>f it. The best method, he thought, would be to give
Escovedo ' something to eat * from which he should not
recover.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 127
There was nothing in such a proposal to disturb
Philip's ignoble conscientiousness. He sincerely believed
that by consenting he was discharging a public duty,
and with no more personal resentment than if he had
been signing a warrant for an ordinary execution. It
has never been suggested that Philip had any private
malice against Escovedo, or had any motive beyond
what was afterwards alleged. Why Antonio Perez
should have encouraged him, why he should himself
have so readily undertaken a treacherous office, is
another question on which speculation has been busy.
He had been Escovedo's personal friend. They had
grown ujj as boys together in the family of Ruy Gomez.
They hud been transferred together to the King's
service. They had never differed politically until
Escovedo had become Don John's secretary, and they
bad corresponded afterwards on terms of the closest
intimacy. It is true that Perez had been the strongest
advocate for a policy of j)eace, and Escovedo for war ;
but an antagonism of opinion scarcely explains the
readiness with which one Secretary of State undertook
to murder another. And it has been assumed as a
matter of course that Perez must have had some
private motives of his own.
Before entering into these dark regions I will describe
biiefly what actually happened. The ' something to
eat ' was administered as De los Velez recommended.
Perez took into his confidence his own master of the
J household, Diego Martinez : he told him that the King
and council considered Escovedo's life to be dangerous
,2S ANTONIO PEKEZ:
to tlic jHMCc of Kuropc, ;iii<l tliat Escovedo must be
secretly iiia<lc away with. To satisfy Martinez's scruples
he showed him a letter in the King's hand. Enriquez,
a J)age, was also admitted into tlie mystery. An apo-
thecary was found far away in Aragon who could mix
a potion, and Escovedo was invited to dinner. Two or
tiiree experiments were tried with imperfect success.
The unlucky wretch became very ill after swallowing a
dish of cream with some white powder in it; but he
lja«l not taken enough. He suspected foul play, and
afterwards dined alone in his apartments in the palace.
A page in the palace kitchen was bribed to put a larger
dose into a plate which was sent up to him. Escovedo
discovered the poison, and an innocent slave-girl who
had dressed tiie dish was strangled in the Plaza at
Madritl.
The fate of this poor creature, so piteous because so
utterly undeserved, passed as a mere incident; Perez
scarcely gave a second tiiought to it, and the King's
conscience could not descend to a kitchen wench. But
poison, it was clear, could not be depended on ; and
steel was a surer method. Escovedo's habits were
watched. He was out much after dark, and returned
late to his apartments. Bravoes were brought up by
the exertions of Diego Martinez from remote parts of
the Peninsula. Easter had come, and Perez, to be out
of the way, went for the Holy Week to Alcala de
Henares. On the night of Easter Monday, March 31,
1578, Don Joim's secretary was run through the body
iu a public street, and was killed on the spot.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. lay
Matlrid was an orderly city, and open assassinations
were unnsual. A person, himself of so much conse-
quence, and the notorious favourite of a prince who was
the idol of the people, could not be found lying dead
without a considerable stir being caused by it. The
police were out like hornets. The gates were guarded,
and no one was allowed to pass. The hotels and lodging-
houses Avere called on for a list of their guests. The
assassins were out of reach, iox they were secreted in
Perez's own house, and no clue could be found ; yet
suspicion at once and instinctively pointed to Perez as the
instigator, and his absence at Alcala was not enough to
clear him. His wife, Juana Coello, called to condole
with Escovedo's widow. The widow had not forgotten
the dinners and the illness which followed, and the
detected attempts at poison. She said significantly she
feared the blow had been aimed by a friend's hand.
Perez hurried back to the capital, pretending to be
horrified. He saw Escovedo's son. He told the alcalde
of the court that Escovedo had many enemies; there
were rumours of a love affair in Flanders ; Escovedo,
he knew, had lately received a message, bidding him
beware of some jealous Fleming. Perhaps he over-
acted his part. The alcalde and the alcalde's son, Garcia
de Arce, cross-questioned him unpleasantly. The King
was out at the Escurial, where, of course, reports reached
him from the magistrates ; but he was anxious for par-
ticulars. On April 3, three days after the murder, Perez
.^. wrote to liim, and a copy of the letter survives, with
Philip's marginal remarks upon it. Perez told him
I30 ANTONIO PEREZ:
what had passed with the alcalde, and mentioned what
he had said about the love affair. Philip noted, ' This
was very right.' Garcia de Arce had asked Perez
whether there had been a cpiarrel between him and
Escovedo, implying that he had licard something to that
eHect from Escovedo's wife. Philip (jb.served, ' There
will be danger from that woman.' ' The alcalde,' Perez
said, ' had discovered that strange things had been going
on during the winter in Escovedo's house; mysterious
visitors, night expeditions none knew where, and secret
boxes of papers, and keys of other people's houses,'
Philip, who evidently looked on himself as a careful,
well-intentioned prince, who had disposed of a public
enemy in a skilful manner, thought more of Escovedo's
plots than of awkward consequences from his murder.
He remarked that these keys and visits had a bad com-
plexion ; the alcalde must look more closely into that
matter, and search it to the bottom. Perez was uncom-
fortable about his bravoes, whom he knew not how to
dispose of. He had thought of sending them away
with despatches as Government couriers; but it seemed
too dangerous. He recommended Philip to put the
inquiry into the alcalde's hands exclusively, and to forbid
any other person to meddle with it. Philip prudently
observed that to interfere with the investigation would
provoke suspicion. He would communicate with the
alcalde, and would do what he could. The bravoes must
be kept for the present where they were, and Perez
meanwhile might come out to the Escurial to see him.
Finally, to quiet Perez's evident alarm, he said : ' If
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 131
Escovedo's widow desires to speak with me, I cannot
refuse to see her ; but do not fear that you will be
unsupported. I am with you, and will not fail you in
anything that may be expedient or necessary. Assure
youTself of this. You know it well.'
There is no doubt at all that in the last extremity,
and if Perez's life was in danger, Philip intended
honestly to tell the truth.
Strong, however, as suspicion was, suspicion was not
proof; and proof against Perez there was none. He
had been many miles from Madrid when the murder
was committed. His servants, Diego Martinez and
Enriquez, knew that they had been acting by the King's
authority. They had everything to gain by keeping
counsel, and might be in serious danger if they betrayed
their secret. The bravoes slipped away after a week or
two, when the vigilance had relaxed. Each of them
had a bag of doubloons with a commission as alferez
(ensign in the army, unattached). They dispersed to
Italy, to Central Eurojae, to all the winds. Every trace
was thus swept out which could connect Perez with the
murder. The excitement died gradually away, and the
affair seemed to be forgotten.
But poisoned wounds will not heal, though they be
skinned over. The sore was to break out again, and
the story to assume a form which has given it a place
among the causes cdlihrcs of the world.
Brilliant writers of history are subject to one general
temptation — they desire to give their narrative dramatic
completeness. The drama, if it is to have flavour, must
ijj ANTONIO rnREZ:
nrvolvc U|)nii jirrsoiial nM)tivi-.s, .-iiid history must follow
on tin,' s.-itik; lines. Sovereigns ami statesmen wlio have
been charged witli the fortunes of nations, are assumed,
wht-ro their actions recjuire exjjlanation, to liave been
iiitluciicrd by no other passions than those Avhich
govern private indivi(hials in their own more limited
spheres. When a woman's name appears as connected
with such liigh pcrson.s, the connection is al ways assumed
to have btM-n of one peculiar kind. To ask for evidence
or look for otlier explanations is taken as a sign of
simplicity or of ignorance of human nature.
The legend uow stereotyped in European tradition
is that the wife of Ruy Gomez, the Princess of Eboli,
was the mistress of Philip the Second, and tliat the
Princess of Eboli preferred Antonio Perez to the King.
Escovedo, it is said, discovered the intrigue and threat-
ened to reveal it. Perez, in consequence, calumniated
Escovedo to Philip. Philip allowed him to be murdered,
but discovered afterw^ards that he had been the dupe of
a treacherous minister and a bad woman, and regarded
Perez thenceforward with implacable hatred.
Now, before going further, I have to observe that
the eleven years dining which Philip is assumed to
have been occupied with these emotions and the cflfort
to give eftect to them, were the busiest in the whole of
his long, laborious reign. They were the years in which
he annexed Portugal. They were the years of Parma's
administration of the Netherlands. They were the
years of preparation for the Armada. There was the
civil war in Franco to be watched and oniided. There
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 133
were Naples and Sicily to be ruled, and the Turks to
be held iu check in the Mediterranean. There were
the ambassadors' despatches from foreign courts. There
was a close, constant, and elaborate correspondence to
be maintained with the Pope. There were the reports
of the Inquisition to be received and studied. There
were English, Scotch, and Irish Catholic conspiracies
to be kept in hand. There was the great new empire
across the Atlantic, and Drake and Hawkins, and the
English corsairs. There were the various Councils of
State fur the internal administration at home, and in
every one of these departments Phili^D not only inter-
fered but exercised the most unrelaxing supervision.
Whether he did his work well or ill is not to the
purpose ; mind and body were incessantly engaged upon
it. Minutes of council, tens of thousands of ciphered
despatches with rough drafts of as many ciphered
answers to them, survive to witness to the industry of
a sovereign who permitted nothing to bo done without
his knowledge in all his enormous dominions. There
is scarcely one of these documents which is not annotated
in his hand, and often elaborately; and students who,
like myself, have toiled through these mountains of
papers, have cursed the writing, the worst perhaps that
ever was seen, but have had to confess, when the mean-
ing was arrived at, that the meaning was a real and
often a wise one. The poor King did patiently
endeavour to understand the subjects before him, and
to resolve upon them with the best efforts of his limited
ability; while if the working hours of every day had
134 ANTONIO PEREZ:
been doubled, and thus d«Miblcd had been devoted all
to duty, til- V would still seem insuflicient for the
business which ho deinoiislrably got through.
That a mind so occupied should have had leisure
to trouble itself with 'jealousies ' and ' mistresses/ or
indeed to give more than a passing thought to the
Escovedo atfair at all after the public dangers from him
had coaseil, is to me not easily conceivable, for the
simple reason that there was no time for it. The King
was occupied all but exclusively with other matters.
The murder was an angry spot wliich would not lieal ;
he had fallen into a scrape, and his behaviour was
singular; but it can be more easily explained by clumsy
efforts to extricate himself than by a romance of which
nine-tenths is conjecture, and the tenth remaining
inconsistent with admitted facts-
It is, however, true that the Princess of Eboli was
soon supposed to have been connected in some Avay
with Escovodo's assassination. The widow of Escovedo
knew that high words had passed between her husband
and Autuuio Perez in which the name of the Princess
had been mentioned. Perez had been more successful
in life than his companion oflScials, and had borne him-
self in his prosperity with less moderation than jirudence
wouM have rocommended. One of these, a priest named
iMatteo Vas»picz, and himself one of Philip's secretaries,
disliked Perez, and was also employed in some law-suit
against the Princess. He sought out Escovedo's family
and learnt what they had to tell. He was busy all the
summer and the winter following pushing his inquiries,
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 135
aud thought cat last that he had made a notable dis-
covery. In December, nine months after the murder,
be wrote and circulated an anonymous 'pasqidly full of
scandalous reflections on Perez and the lady, while
simultaneously Escovedo's widow and her son directly
charged Perez with the crime, adding that it had been
committed to gratify the Princess of Eboli. Perez
carried the imsqiiil to Philip — a daring act on his part,
if ho know himself to be the King's successful rival.
Philip again assured him, both by word and writing,
that he need not be uneasy, that no harm should befall
him ; but Perez knew his master well ; he knew his
unwillingness that his own share in the matter should
be made public, and he observed that Philip seemed
not displeased that Vasquez and the Escovedos should
be running on a false scent.
It is time, therefore, to say a few words about this
famous lady; to tell who she was, aud how she came to
be concerned in a matter which appeared to be wholly
political.
Dona Aha, widow of Ruy Gomez, Prince of Eboli,
was the only child of Don Diego Hurtado, chief of the
great house of Mendoza. There were many Mendozas
in the Spanish peerage. Don Diego's was the eldest
branch. On her father's death a part, but not all, of
the inheritance descended to the daughter. She was
Princess of Eboli as her husband's widow. Her eldest
son, a youth of twenty or thereabouts, was Duke of
Pastrana and Prince of Melito, She had five younger
children. One of them, a daughter, was married to
,jO AN ION 10 PEKEZ:
AIoiizo tho (j«'u<l, Duke of Mediua Sidonia, kuown to
history ns the admiral of the Armada. Family disputes
serm to have arisen about Dun Diego's succession.
Some suit^vas pending between her and other members
of Ihe family. The Princess was detaining money,
jtwels, and other possessions, to which her relatives laid
claim ; and the quarrel was further complicated by the
political leanings of the young Prince of Melito, who
had deserted the old party of his father, Ruy Gomez,
and had gone over to the Duke of Alva.
The Princess herself was now thirty-eight years old.
She had lost one eye, and was otherwise not beautiful ;
but she was energetic, imperious, with considerable
talents, and able, if she pleased, to be fascinating. That
she had been Philip's mistress was an Italian scandal;
nothing had then been heard of it in Spain; but Perez
gave mysterious hints that the King would have been
more intimate with her if she had encouraged him.
Any way, she had lost Philip's favour. Visitors at the
Eboli palace were frowned upon at the Escurial ; the
world said that the King was irritated at the rejection
of his advances,^ and that 'wishes unsatisfied w^ere more
exasperating than a thousand offences.'
This was perhaps but court gossip; but, whether
fact or Kgend, it is certain on the other hand that the
relations between the Princess and x\ntonio Perez were
intimate and even affectionate. He had been her
* Tor vivir cl Roy olFcndiJo
de 1.1 aiitipia y coutiuua Juracion
lie la ciitrrcz.1 ile la Princosa ilo
Eboly bacicndole uienosprccio.
lu-lacion de Anionio Perez.
A.V UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE.
137
husband's adopted son. The Princess professed to
believe that Ruy Gomez was his real father, and to her
Perez's devotion was unconcealed and unboiinded. He
describes in an enigmatic letter the position in which
he stood towards her. M. Mignet says that there can
be no doubt of his meaning, and rushes to a preconceived
conchision. The letter is intentionally obscure; the
press is uncorrected ; and the text in parts is hopeless.
But he alludes to the suggestion that he was the
Princess's lover only to fling it from him with disgust.
His love was for his own wife, whose attachment to
him is the finest feature in the whole of this distracted
story. The Princess of Eboli he worshipped as a being
beyond his sphere. He spoke of her as ' a jewel
enamelled in the rarest graces of nature and fortune.'
To her husband he owed all that he had become, and
he repaid his debt by helping his widow in her <lifiicul-
ties. He made her large advances of money, he collected
her rents from Italy ; she in turn made him handsome
presents; but that either with the King or with Perez
the Princess had any personal intrigue is a romantic
imagination like the legend of Don Carlos and his
step mother.^
' There is uo evideucc for it
except what is supposed to lie in
the letter of Antonio Perez ' k un
Gran Personage,* which formed
part of his public defence. What
that letter means it is impossible
to say, or even what it was intended
to suggest. Perez says that tlic
King disappi-oved of the intimacy
brtween himself and the Princess,
and that there was a mystery con-
nected with this. But a mystery
was not necessarily a love affair,
nor docs it follow that there was a
mystery because such a person as
Perez wished to make himself inter-
esting by hinting at one.
Ij8 ANTONIO PEREZ
It wa.s liiit niitiinil, Miidtr tliu ciiciiuistances, that
tliu Mc!ri(l()/,!i nunily .slioiiM bear no love to Perez,
because ill the feuds \vhi<;li had arisen he was taking
tlie Princess's side. The Prince of Melito had threatened
to run him through tlic body. The Marques do Fabara
autl the (Jonde de Cifuentcs called one day on the
Princess, and were kept waiting because she was
closeted with the Secretary. Both of them thought
that such a follow was not fit to live. Escovedo, it
came out, had taken the opposite side to Perez. He,
too, had been brought up by Ruy Gomez, and claimed
a riaht to interfere in defence of his old master's honour,
lie had disapproved of the acquaintance; he had said
tliat it must and should be put an end to ; and he had
ti[H)kcn to the I'rinccss with so rude a tongue, that she
called him a foul-mouthed villain.
A quarrel of this kind explains the ease with which
Perez consented to kill Escovedo. We knoAV no actual
good of Perez, and there would have been nothing
surprising it", out of revenge, he really had misled the
King into thinking Escovedo more guilty than he was.
But the attempt to prove it broke down ; Philip had
been influenced by Don John's and Escovcdo's own
despatches, which had been deciphered by another
hand ; and never to the last felt certain that his
►secretary had in this matter deceived him. Some
pei-sonal resentment there was, and the Princess was in
some way the occasion of it, but in fi\ct Philip's conduct
re([uires no secret passion to make it intelligible. He
did not doubt, at least at first, that he had done right,
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 139
but he was unwilling to admit the truth. He had to
maintain his respectability, and, therefore, would not
try to prevent the Escovedos and their friends from
prosecuting their complaints, while he was not ill-
pleased that their suspicions should run wide of himself,
and fasten in a quarter where he knew that there was
nothing to be discovered. It was just the course which
small, commonplace cunning would naturally pursue.
The Marques de los Velez could not understand it ; he
did not like the look of things, and applied for the
governorship of Peru : Perez offered to retire from the
public service and satisfy his enemies thus : but the
King refused to accept Perez's resignation ; he said that
he could not spare him ; he reiterated, on the word of
a gentleman, ' that he Avould never forsake him, and
that Perez knew his word could be depended on.'
More and more loudly Mattco Vasquez and the
Escovedos demanded a trial. The King could not
directly refuse. Perez himself advised acquiescence;
the actual assassins, he said, were beyond reach of
discovery ; there was no evidence ; he was ready to face
the prosecution ; the name of the Princess need not be
mentioned. Philip, however, had a conscience above
peijury ; he was not ashamed to admit what he had
done, if it was known only to discreet persons who
could be safely trusted. The case was to be heard
before the High Court of Castile. The King sent for
Don Antonio de Pazos, who was then President, told
him everything, and asked his advice. The President
thought that the prosecution must be silenced; he
I40 ANTONIO PEREZ:
infurmc'l v<»Miig Escovedo that if he insisted on justice
he shoidd have it, but he was accusing persons of liigh
rank in the State; his cliargo, if lie faihjd to make it
gooil, would recoil on himself; and he assured hiin on
the word (;f a priest that Perez and the Princess were
as innocent as himself. With Matteo Vasquez the
President was more peremptory. Vastpiez, he said,
was no relation of Escovedo's ; his interference, espe-
cially as he was a priest, was gratuitous and \mbecom-
ing; on the facts he was mistaken altogether. Tlie
Escovcdos yielded and promised to go no further;
Vas»iuez was obstinate, and persisted. Public curiosity
had been excited ; it was felt instinctively that the
King was in the secret, and there was now a widespread
desire to know what that secret was. Yasqucz hat<;d
Perez and the Princess also, and made liimself the
rejirescntative of the popular anxiety.
Philip had been contented that opinion should run
in a false diicctiou ; and he had hoped to prevent too
close an inquiry by bis confidence with the President.
He had failed, and be had seemed to wish in conse-
quence to silence Yasquez, and, if possible, to reconcile
him with the Princess whom he had calumniated. But
now the difficulty w^as on her side. She, the gi'eatest
lady in Spain after the Queen, had been insulted and
slandered ; it was not for her to leave a cloud upon her
name by stooping to take the hand of her accuser.
The Cardinal Aichbishop of Toledo was sent to reason
with her, but the Archbish(,>p was too much of her oavd
opinion to make an impression on her indignation.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 141
She had aheady a long catalogue of grievances, and
this last insult was too much. She wrote Philip a
letter which he showed to Perez, and Perez preserved it.
Senor, — Your Majesty h.as commanded the Cardinal of Toledo
to speak witli me in tlie matter of Antonio Perez. Matteo
Vasquez and his friends have said openly that all who enter my
house lose yoixr favour. Tliey have stated also that Antonio
Perez killed Escovedo on my account ; that he was under so
many obligations to my family, that he would do whatever I
asked him. They have published abroad these speeches ; and I
require your Majesty, as a king and a gentleman, to take such
notice of this conduct as the world shall hear of. If your
Majesty declines, if the honour of my house is to be .sacrificed,
as our property has been sacrificed, if this is to be the reward of
the long and faithful services of my ancestors, be it so. I have
discharged my conscience ; self-re.spect forbids me to say more.
1 write to your Majesty in resentment at the offences which
I have received, and I write in confidence, supposing myself to
be addressing a gentleman.
The President presses me about a letter, which I wrote to
your Majesty, touching bribes taken by (word omitted). I
am charged with having said something of the Duke of .
My character suffers from the.se tokens of yoiir Majesty's good-
will. Though justice is on my side, my suit is before a tainted
tribunal ; I shall lose it and be put out of possession. When I
ask the President why he acts thus towards me, he says that your
Majesty will have it so. Melchiur de Herrera (?) allows that I
am right ; but he swears me to this and that, and pretends that
it is your pleasure. You have sent him a memorial from Don
Inigo.i Why am I to be twice memorialised ? It is important
to me to withdraw the security under which I and my children
are bound for Don Inigo. He has broken his obligations, and
may leave Valladolid. Antonio de Padilla confesses that it is so ;
but your Majesty forbids him to interfere. If this is true, I may
as well abandon my suit, and my children too. This is the
natural conclusion from the position which you assume towards
^ Inigo de Mendoza Marquis of Almenars
142
ANTONIO PEREZ.
mo. Wlifu I iillcct what my liusljand's merits were, eucli
treatment woulil make mc lose my Konsea (li<l I not n«^ed them
all to guard myself from this Moorisli cur (Matteo Viusquez)
whom your Majesty kcep.s in your service, I demand that
neither I nf)r any of mine may be placed in that man's power.
I liave given this letter, tliough it strays far beyond
our immediate subject, because it sliows liow imper-
fectly the circumstances are known to us which
surround the story ; and how idle it is for us to indulge
imagination beyond what is written. Long avenues of
questions lie open before us, which must remain for
ever unanswered, yet in the answer to wliich alone can
lie a complete explanation of the relations between the
Princess of Eboli and the King of Spain.
Submit to bo reconciled with tlie ' Moorish cur ' it
was plain she would not. Tie had circulated slanders
against her in the court, and she insisted that he should
withdraw them.^ Perez was obstinate too, for his
^ This article had been written,
and was partly in type, before I
had seen the interesting work,
latily published, on the Princess
of Eljoli, by Don Gas^iar Moro.
Although the documents dis-
covered by Don Caspar have
added largely to our knowledge of
the secret history of the Princess,
I have found it unnecessary to
withdraw or alter any opinion
which I had formed. I have hail
the pleasure of finding my ow)i
conjectures for the n»ost part
confinned and converted into
certainties by evidence not open
to dispute. Don Caspar has dis-
proved conclusively the imagined
liaison between the Princess and
Philip the Second. He continues
to believe that improper relations
existed between her and Antonio
Perez ; but as he alleges nothing
fresh in proof of it bej'ond what
was already known, I look on this
as no more than part of the old
legeml which has continued to
.adiiere to Don Caspar with no
more authority for it than tra-
dition. Tiic passionate love which
existed between Perez and his own
wife is inconsistent with a belief,
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE.
143
honour was touched. The Archbishop of Toledo aud
the King's special preacher, Fray Hernando de Castillo,
at least ou lier part, that any such
relation had been formed. Be this
as it may, however, Don Caspar
has proved that the jealousy of
which Perez speaks, as having
governed Philip's conduct, was no
jealousy of the preference of Perez
to himself by the Princess, but a
jealousy of the influence of a
woman, with whom he was on tlie
worst possible terms, over his own
secretary. Don Caspar has found
and printed more than a hundred
letters of Mattco Vasquez, whose
connection with the Escovedo
prosecution was so close, and had
hitlierto been so unintelligible.
The Crown was in some way
interested in the great law-suits
which the Princess was carrying
on. In all that related to her
Matteo Vasquez was as deep in
Philip's confidence as Antonio
Perez in the wider world of
politics. His relations with each
of them were carefully concealed
from the other. Perez might
know that Matteo Vasquez was
employed by his master against
the Princess ; but Matteo Vasquez
never guessed that his master had
ordered Perez to assassinate Es-
covedo : and thus Philip himself,
by his passion for secrecy, and for
what he regarded as skilful
management, had entangled his
two secretaries in a furious an-
tagonism. Perez had no know-
ledge how far Philip had engaged
himself in the Eboli litigation.
To him Matteo Vasquez appeared
to have thrown himself gratui-
tously into the quarrel. The King
was irritated at Perez for nncon-
sciousl}' thwarting him by taking
up the Princess's cause. Matteo,
who evidently, from his letters,
hated the Princess, had almost
succeeded in dragging into light
his master's complicity with
Escovedo's murder, by his inno-
cent belief that Perez and the
Princess were the guilty parties,
and that tlie cause of the murder
was resentment at the part which
Escovedo had taken in attempting
to separate the Princess from
Perez. Not a hint, not a sugges-
tion of any love-scandal appears in
the whole of the correspondence.
Some great question was at issue,
the very nature of which cannot
now be accurately made out, on
wliich the court was divided, and
which was enveloped in a network
of intrigue — the King sitting in
the middle of it, playing the part
of Providence with the best
intentions, with extremely limited
ability, and with the most un-
fortunate results — for he affected
especially to imitate Providence
in the secrecy of its methods ; and
secrecy is only safe to a judgment
which cannot err.
I.,., ANTOMO I'Eh'EZ:
stood by tlitjin, and tlic (juarrel li;i<l ^one into a new
form. Philip's position Wiis a ridiculous one. If
Va.squez persisted in prosecuting Perez before a judge
who was acquainted with the truth, it was scarcely
possible that the truth would be unrevealed. Secretary
Va-squez is a dark figure. The letter of the Princess
shows that Philip was secretly employing this man in
various matters in which she supposed herself to be
wronged, and there were rea.sons for his conduct
at which, with our imperfect knowledge, it is idle to
guess. Consulting no one but his confessor, the King
gave orders for the arrest botli of Perez and of the
Princess also, and on July 29, 1579, they were ordered
into separate confinement. The laily's relations, it is
likely, required no explanations, but for form's sake
Philip oifered them. The same night he wrote to the
Duke of Infantado and to Medina Sidonia, A dispute
had arisen, he said, between his two secretaries, Antonio
Perez and Alatteo Vasquez, with which the Princess
was concerned. She had complained to him un-
reasonably, and his confessor had vainly endeavoured
to persuade her to be reconciled to Vasquez. She had
been committed, therefore, to the fortress of Pinto, and
he had thought it right to give them immediate
information. The resentment of the Duke of Infantado
was not hkely to be deep; Medina Sidonia replied
coolly that so wise a sovereign had doubtless good
reason ^^^x his actions. He was himself laid up with
gout, and the pain was in his mind as well as in his
body. He trusted that his Majesty would be gracious
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 145
to the Princess, aud tliat the grace would be even more
marked than the punishment.
The Archbishop of Toledo called the next morning
on Juana de Coello, Perez's wife. He told her from the
King that she was not to be alarmed. Her husband's
life was in no danger, nor his honour either. The
imprisonment was a mere matter of precaution to
prevent other mischiefs.
The Princess now drops out of the scene. Philip
informed her that if she would undertake to hold no
more communication with Perez, she Avould be received
to favour, and might return to the court. She replied
that if Perez ever wrote to her or sent her a message,
the King should know of it. But this was not sufficient.
After a brief confinement she was allowed to retire
to her castle at Pastrana, and there without further
disturbance she remained to the end of her life.
Meanwhile, if Philip's object had been to stop the
prosecution for Escovedo's inurder, and to divert sus-
picion from himself, both pvirposes had been attained.
Matteo Vasquez must have been satisfied, for his name
was never mentioned again. Popular opinion had
accused Perez of having committed the murder at the
Princess's instigation. Their simultaneous arrest led to
a general belief that the suspicion was not unfounded.
If the King had made a second confidant of Vasquez,
aud had concerted the details of the comedy with him,
the result, at least for a time, did credit to his ingenuity.
^ Perez's fault, whatever it had been, was not to appear
unpardonable. He was left four months in charge of
146 AffTONlO PEREZ:
the alcalde of the court. He w:us treated with kind-
ness, and even distinction, and was permitted to have
his chiNhen with him. In the November following he
became unwell, and was permitted further to return to
his own house, though still as a prisoner. Next he was
recjuired to sign a bond of 'phylohome,na(jc, by whicli he
and ^latteo Vasquez engaged as king's vassals not to
injure each other. The guard was then removed. He
recovered his freedom and resumed his duties as
secretary to the Council of State, though no longer as
confidential secretary to the King. The wliole matter
seemed to have been thus wound up, and public
interest was soon directed on worthier objects. The
death of Don Sebastian in Africa had left vacant the
Portuguese throne. Philip took possession of the suc-
cession as the nearest heir. The ])uke of Alva with
a few skilful movements disposed of the pretender.
Philip went to Lisbon to be installed as sovereign, and
in the glory of this grand achievement Escovedo'.s
assassination might have gone the way of other
scandals.
But, as Perez said, ' it was a thing which had no
beginning and could have no end.' A cloud still huuor
over him, and his slightest movements were watched.
The Princess of Eboli sent him presents from Pastrana.
It was immediately reported to Philip. He had many
friends, the Archbishop of Toledo, and 'grandees' of
highest rank. They came often to see him, but he was
forbidden to return their visits, Philip evidently chose
that ;\ sinister suspicion should still remain attached to
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 147
him. Antonio de Pazos, the President of Castile, knew
the whole story, for the King had told him. Juana de
Coello complained to him of her husband's treatment,
and insisted that his reputation ought to be cleared.
The President was of the same opinion, and so informed
the King. ' If Antonio Perez has committed a crime,'
he said, 'give him a formal trial and hang him. If he
is innocent, let him go on his good behaviour, and if he
offends again, punish him.'
The King answered : ' If the matter were of a kind
which would allow a judicial process, it should have
been ordered from the first day. You must tell the
woman to be quiet ; no change is possible at present.'
' Time,' Philip used to say, ' cures all evils.' ' Time
and I never fail.' And so he went on trusting to time
when time could not help him.
Perez had friends, but he had enemies also. Matteo
Vasquez had withdrawn, but others had taken his place,
and Philip's ambiguities encouraged them. Among
these were the powerful Mendozas. Perez had managed
the Princess's money affairs. He had jewels in his
charge and other things also which they conceived to
belong to them. His habits were luxurious, and
remained so in spite of his semi-disgrace. His palace.
Ins plate, his furniture, his equipments, and entertain-
ments were the most splendid in Madrid. Ho gambled
also ; perhaps he won, perhaps he lost ; in either case it
was a reproach. How, men asked, could Antonio Perez
support such a vast expenditure ? and the answer sug-
gested was, of course, corruption or malversation. He
I, ,8 ANTONIO PEREZ-
liad six tliousand ducats a year from liis offices; but
tlic Aridibishop of Seville, a friendly witness, said that
lie must be spending fifteen or twenty thousand. The
King was advised to order au inf[uiry into the accounts
of all the public offices, and of Perez's, of course, among
them. A ' lion's moutli,' like that at Venice, wa.s
opened for secret information, and was not long in
want of sustenance. Accusations poured in as venom-
oils as hatreil couM distil. Rodrigo Vasquez de Arce,'
who afterwards became President of tlie High Court,
conducted the investigation of them, and the result
was not favourable to Perez. Undoubtedly he had
received sums of money from all parts of the empire
to exjiedite business, just as Bacon did in England, and
as high officials everywhere were then in the habit of
doing. They looked on such things as recognised per-
quisites so long as nothing avus said about them ; but
gratuities were formally prohibited, and, when exposed,
were incapable of defence.
On the Report being presented, Philip allowed
Perez to be prosecuted for corrupt practices, and it was
then that, at a venture, he was accused further of
having altered ciphered despatches.
No one knew better than Philip that, under the
arrangements of his cabinet, the alteration of despatches
without his own knowledge was impossible. Perez
wrote to Philip to remonstrate. ' He could not answer
such a charge,' he said, ' without producing his papers,'
* It does not appear whether he was a relation of Matteo Yasquez.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 149
and among iliem the King's own notes upon Escovedo's
death. The confessor was seut to see these papers, and,
having read them, could only recommend liis master
to let the charge fall. As to corrupt practices, he
advised Perez to make no defence, and assured him
that he should not be condemned in the value of a pair
of gloves. The sentence went beyond the pair of
gloves. Perez was suspended from his office for ten
years. He was to suffer two years' imprisonment, and
was to pay besides thirty thousand ducats, half to the
Crown, and half to the family of the Princess of Eboli,
as property belonging to them which he had unlawfully
appropriated.
This judgment was delivered on January 23, 1585.
It was not published ; nor is it certain how much of
it was enforced. But there were reasons why, at that
moment, the sentence of imprisonment was convenient.
The Escovedo business was bursting up again. Enriquez,
the page, who had assisted at the murder, had let fall
incautious speeches. The President, Rodrigo Vasquez,
took the subject into the scope of his inquiries. He
sent for Enriquez and examined him. On his evidence
Diego Martinez was arrested also. If these two could
be induced to tell the truth, the proofs against Perez
would be complete. He might produce his papers, but
in a close court the judges might refuse to receive or
look at them to save the King's credit; and Perez
would certainly be executed. The King was just then
^oing down to Aragon for the opening of the Corte?.
In Aragon trials were public, with equal justice betweer
150 ANTONIO PEREZ.
kir)g and subject. Purez, iiiinsult' an Aiagonese, it left
free might follow the King thither, and put himself
under the protcctiim of the laws of the Province.
There certainly, if not in Madrid, his exculpation would
bo heard. It was therefore determined that he should
be at once arrested, and a guard was sent to his house
to take him.
Perez from first to last had an honest friend at the
court, Cardinal Quiroga, Archbishop of Toledo. The
Archbishop saw, or feared, tliat Perez was about to be
sacrificed, and his sense of equity, though he was Grand
Iiupiisitor, was outraged. He recommended Perez to
take sanctuary. He wonld then be a prisoner of the
Church, and his case would be heard in the Holy
Ofhce. The Inquisition had already denounced Philip's
method of removing doubtful subjects. It would sttmd
by Perez now and prevent a scandalous crime.
Perez took the Cardinal's advice and fled to the
nearest church. But the Crown officials were deter-
mined to have him, and the sanctuary was not respected.
The churnh door was burst in ; he was torn out of his
hiding-place, and carried off again to a State prison.
His pi-operty was sequestrated, his papers Avere seized,
and the Nuncio, when he protested, was threatened
with dismissal. Henry the Eiglith liimself could not
have been more peremptory in his contempt of sacred
privileges than the ministers of the Most Catholic
King. The documents were at once examined. The
secret correspondence was found to have been abstracted.
Juana de Coello was supposed to have it ; and, to extort
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 151
it from her, she and her children were carried off also,
and confined in the same castle with her husband. It
was true that she had some part of the private papers,
and threats of torture could not wring them from her
till she had ascertained that those of most special con-
sequence were not among them. She found some one
who would take a note to her husband. Being without
ink she wrote it with her blood. Tlie answer came
back that she might deliver the papers without fear,
the Escovedo notes being secured elsewhere. She
mentioned where the boxes would be found. The
King's confessor himself came to her to receive the
keys. He, too, had some sense remaining of right and
wrong, and he told her that if Perez was troubled any
further, he would himself go ' como un loco,' like a
madman, into the Plaza, and proclaim the truth to all
the world.
The boxes being surrendered, Juana de Coello and
the children were sent home, there being no longer
occasion for keeping them. As the confessor was going
off, she could not help telling him that there Avere still a
few papers reserved. The King, when he came to look,
must have discovered that this was fatally true. All
else was in its place, even to the most secret ciphered
correspondence; but the fifty or sixty especial letters,
which he knew himself to have written, about Escovedo,
and knew also that Perez had preserved — these were
not to be discovered. That, if he had got possession
of these letters, Philip would have allowed Perez to be
tried and executed, is not certain; but it may have
13^ ANTONIO PEREZ:
l)uen well for liiin that he was not exposed to the
temptation. As matters stood, the judges might refuse
to a<hnit tlie letters, and might pass sentence on the
evidence. But Juana de Coello could cany the damn-
iiiff records into Araijon, or across the frontier, and
publish them; and all Europe would cry out 'Shame!'
Nor was the Church idle. The Church authorities,
with the Pope behind them, demanded that Perez
should be restored to sanctuary. Worried, impatient,
cursing the day that he had ever blundered into so
detestable a quagmire, the King again paused. Once
more the prison doors were opened ; once mure Perez
was brought back to Madrid, and lodged in a handsome
house with his family. Evidently the unfortunate
King was at his wits' end, and could not determine
what course to choose. Perez went to church for
mass. The great jDeople came as before to show him
countenance. He himself addressed many letters to
the King, which were carefully read, if not answered.
The Archbishop of Toledo, in particular, was confident
that all would Ijc well. The attitude of the Church
alone, he said, would suffice to protect Perez. The
President Rodrigo would have gone on gladly with the
trial, but obstacles were continually arising. Some one
asked him what was to be done. ' How can I tell
you ? ' he replied. ' One day the King says go on, the
next he says hold back. There is a mystery which I
cannot make out.'
Fourteen months thus drifted away. At the end of
them the Kiui^ could hold out no loncjer. There was
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 153
still but a single Avitness, for Diego Martinez had so far
continued staunch. He might confess, perhaps, if he
was tortured, but torture could not be used without the
King's permission. Philip wrote to Perez telling him
generally that he might rely on his protection, but
without saying what steps he was prepared to take.
Perez was brought to trial at last before President
Rodrigo. He stood upon his innocence, denied that he
had murdered Escovedo, and denied all knowledge of
the matter. Enriquez gave his evidence with correct-
ness; but Diego Martinez, who was confronted with
him, said he was a liar, and his story a fabrication.
Conviction on such terms was not to be had. Perez's
papers were handed to President Rodrigo to be examined.
He searched them through, but found nothing to the
purpose. Perez, after all, would probably have been
acquitted, but for the intervention of a *Deus ex
machina,' Philip himself, who interposed in a manner
the most unlooked for. This is the most extraordinary
feature in the whole extraordinary story. Philip, it
might have been thought, would have Avelcomed Perez's
acquittal as the happiest escape from his embarrass-
ments; but it seems that his conscience was really
disturbed at the success of deliberate perjury. Just as
it became clear that the prosecution had failed, and that
Perez, whether guilty or not, could not be pronounced
guilty without a violation of the laws, Philip's confessor,
as if from himself, but of course with his master's
sanction, wrote to him to say that altliough he had
killed Escovedo, he had a complete defence for it.
154 ANTONIO PEREZ.
Wlicii (In; tnitli \v;us known, liis character would be
cleared ; lie advised Idm, therefore, to make a complete
confession, and at once say that he had acted by tlie
King's onler.
This was written on September 3, the year after the
defeat of the Amiada. Through all that famous
enterprise, from its first conception to the final catas-
trophe, this mean business had simmered on, and was
at last at boiling-point.
Well as Perez knew his master, he was not prepared
for this last move. What could it mean ? The King
had promised to stand by him. But if he confessed,
his guilt would be clear. He might say what he pleased,
but the judges might hang him notwithstanding.
There was Diego Martinez, too, to be thought of. He
would he hanged, at any rate. So long as the proof
was deficient, confession would be insanity. The King,
besides, had positively ordered that the motives for the
murder ^Yere not to be introduced.
In this tone he replied to Diego de Chaves; but
the confessor stood to his opinion. Evidently he had
consulted Philip again.
' The plain course for you,' he answered, ' is to say
directly that you had the King's orders for Escovedo's
death. You need not enter on the reasons. You
ought not to make a false oath in a court of justice ;
and if you have done so already you ought not to
])ersevere in it. Where there has been no fault there
can be no punishment, and confession will only show
the innocence of yourself and your accomplice. When
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 155
the truth is out, the wound will heal, and his Majesty
will have given the Escovedo family the justice which
they demand. If they persist after this, they can be
silenced or banished. Only, once more, the causes
which led the King to act as he did are not to be
mentioned.'
M. Miguet considers that these letters were written
to tempt Perez to a confession, in order that he might
be destroyed. The judges would ask for proof, and,
having lost his papers, he would be unable to produce
it. The answer is simple. Both Philip and the confessor
were aware that the compromising letters were still in
possession of either Perez or his wife. Perez, who was
not troubled about perjury, thought it safer to risk an
uncertainty than to act as the confessor advised. To
confess was to place his life in the judges' hands. He
could feel no certainty that the King's orders would be
held a sufficient authority, Philip's conduct had been
strange from the beginning, and kings' consciences are
not Jke the consciences of private individuals. They
may profess to wish one thing, while their duty as
sovereigns requires another. There was another alter-
native; the Escovedos, who were now the only pro-
secutors, might agree to a compromise. Perez proposed
it to tho confessor; the confessor permitted Perez to
try, if the King was not to be a party to the trans-
action : overtures were made, and were successful. The
Escovedo family consented to withdraw their suit on
receiving twenty thousand ducats.
This seemed like the end ; and if there had been
156 ANTONIO PEREZ i
iiolliiii;^ iiiu!(! Ill Kscovt'ilo's death t,li;m an ordinary
munlcr, the compt'iisatiuii ^vould liave been Jield
sutlicicnt, and the end wijidil have really come. But
behind the private wrong there was a great question at
issue, whether the sovereign had or liatl not a right to
make away with his subjects when lie believed them
criminal, because lor reasons of State it was inexpedient
to bring them to trial. Though Castile had no longer
constitutional rights like Aragon, a high-minded people
(as the Castilians were) had a regard for their own
security. The doctrine had been condemned by the
Holy Office, and the judges can have liked it as little.
The opportunity of bringing the matter to a point
was not to be lost. The President Rodrigo wrote to
Philip that his reputation was at stake. The prosecu-
tion had been dropped, but the world was convinced,
notwithstanding, that the murder had been committed
by his order. It concerned his honour that Perez
should explain why that order had been given. He
begged the King to send him an instruction in the
following terms: 'Tell Antonio Perez, in my name,
that, as he knows the causes for which I commanded
him to kill Escovedo, I desire him to declare what
those causes were.'
;M. Miguet adheres to his opinion that Perez was to
be betrayed ; that, being without his papers, he must
fail to prove what he was required to reveal, and could
then be executed as a slanderer and an assassin. It
would be difficult for him and perha^js impossible to
recall satisfactorily a condition of things which was now
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 157
buried under the incidents of twelve eventful years.
But there is no occasion to suspect Philip of such
deliberate treachery. The stages through which his
mind had passed can easily be traced. He never
doubted the righteousness, of Escovedo's execution;
but he had been afraid to irritate his brother, and had
therefore "wished his own part in it to be concealed.
Therefore, when Perez was first suspected, he had not
come forward to protect him ; and therefore also he
had connived at the direction of the suspicion on the
Princess of Eboli. A long time had passed away, Don
John was gone, the aspect of Europe had changed.
He had no longer the same reluctance to admit that he
had ordered the murder ; but he had bidden Perez be
silent about the causes, because, though sufficient for
his own conscience, it would be hard, when circum-
stances were so much altered, to make them intelligible
to others. The Spaniards of 1590, smarting under the
destruction of the Armada, might well have thought if
Don John and the Duke of Guise had tried the ' enter-
prise' together, when the Queen of Scots was alive,
so many of their homes would not then have been
desolate.
But public opinion was excited. The compromise of
the prosecution seemed to imply that there was some-
thing disgraceful behind, A secret half revealed is
generally more dangerous than the truth ; and thus,
when called on by the judges to direct Perez to make
a full confession, the King felt that it was better to
consent.
IS8 AiWTONIO I'KRF//.:
Tliis explanatiou seems sutlicieut, witliout looking
tor sinister motives. The order was written, and Perez
was required to obey.
It miglit have been thought tliat lie would have
scon in such an order the easiest escape from his
troubles. To speak was to be acquitted (at least
morally) of a worse crime than of having been a too
faithful servant. But it is likely that he did feel it
would be difficult for him to make out a satisHictory
case. He could produce the King's instructions, and
could describe the motive in general terms. But State
reasons for irregular actions are always looked askance
at, and loyal subjects are inclined to excuse their
sovereigns at the expense of their advisers. Perez
miglit naturally fear that he would bo accused of
having misled the King, perhaps througb malice. This
view was taken of the case by the Archbishop of Toledo.
'Sonor,' he said to the confessor when he heard of this
fresh conunand, 'either I am mad or this whole aflair is
mad. If the King bade Perez kill Escovedo, why does
he ask for the causes ? The King knew them at the
time. Perez was not Escovedo's judge. He placed
before the King certain despatches. The King directed
a course to be taken upon tliem, and Perez obeyed.
Now after twelve years, without his papers, with so
many persons gone who could have given evidence, he
is asked for explanations. Give him back his papers,
bring back five hundred persons now dead out of their
graves ; and even then he will not be able to do it.
The Archbishop protested, the Nuncio protested.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 159
Juana de Coello and Perez's children wept and
clamoured; but President Rodrigo, with the King's
orders in his hand, persisted that Perez should spealc.
Three times successively, in the course of a month, he
was brought into court, and he remained stubborn. He
says that he would not confess, because the King had
personally ordered him to be silent, and that a written
form could not supersede an immediate direction,
without a private intimation that it was to be obeyed.
This is evidently an insufficient explanation. He must
have felt that if he detailed the causes for the murder
he admitted the fact ; and that if he admitted the fact
he might be sacrificed.
But the King was determined that the whole truth
should be told at last, and that, as he could not tell it
himself, it should be told by Perez. After a month's
resistance, the question was applied in earnest. Perez
was tortured. He broke down under the pain, and
told all. It was then that Dona Juana appealed to
God against Diego de Chaves in the Dominican chapel.
It was then that Dona Gregoria dared President
Rodrigo in his hall. What the King or the judges
had intended to do next, is mere conjecture. Diego
Martinez, when his master had spoken, confessed also.
He was not punished, and Perez perhaps would not
have been punished either. The judges might have
been contented with the ex^josure. But Perez did not
cai'e to tempt fortune or Philip's humours further. His
wife was allowed to visit him in prison. He escaped
disguised in her clothes. Horses were waiting, he rode
l6o ANTONIO PEREZ.
for his life to Aragon, .ind the next day was safe
beyond the frontier.
So ends tlio first part of the tragi-comedy. The
next opene<l on another stage and witii wider issues.
The Fueros or ' Liberties ' of Aragon were tlie only
surviving remnant of the free institutions of the Penin-
sula. At the beginning of tlie sixteenth century, the
two Castiles, Valencia, Gransula, and Aragon had their
separate administrations and their separate legislatures.
The great cities had their municipal corporations, while
Portugal till within ten years had been an independent
kingdom. One by one they had been absorbed. Ara-
gon remained still free, but with a freedom which had
been found inconvenient at Madrid, and was unvalued
by the most powerful of the Aragonese nobles them-
selves. The tendency of the age was toAvards centralis-
ation, and the tenure of the Fueros had been sfrowintj
yearly more precarious. Isabella had been impatient
for a revolt which would give her an excuse for extin-
guishing them. The Duke of Alva more lately, on
some provocation, said that with throe or four thousand
of his old soldiers he would make the King's authority
supreme. Such as it was, however, the Constitution
still subsisted, being supported chiefly by the populace
of the towns, who, as long as noise and clamour were
sufficient, were the enthusiastic champions of their
national privileges. A council for the administration
of the province sat at Madrid, but its powers were
limited to advice. The Cortes met annually at Sara-
gossa to vote the taxes, but the King could neither
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL KIDDLE. i6i
prorogue uor dissolve them without their own consent.
A Committee of the Cortes carried on the government,
and in the intervals of the sessions remained in office.
The Aragonese had their own laws, their own judges,
their own police, their own prisons: and no 'alien'
armed force was permitted within their boundaries.
The Grand Justiciary, the highest executive officer, was
nominated by the King, but could not be deprived by
him. A Royal Commissioner resided in Saragossa, to
observe and to report, to act in cases to which the
Crown was a party, perhaps irregularly to distribute
favours and influence opinion. But this was the limit
of his interference. The Commissioner in the year
1590 was Inigo de Mendoza, Marquis of Almenara, the
cousin and the chief antagonist of the Princess of Eboli.
Such was Aragon when Antonio Perez sought an
asylum in the land of his fathers. He professed to
have been tortured till his limbs were disabled, but he
was able to ride without resting till he had crossed the
frontier and had reached Calatayud. He made no effort,
perhaps he was too weak, to go further, and he took
refuge in a Dominican convent. Within ten hours of
his arrival an express came in from Madrid to a private
gentleman, Don Manuel Zapata, with orders to take
him, dead or alive, and send him back to his master.
Perez says that when his flight was known at the
court, there was general satisfaction. ' Uncle Martin,'
the palace jester, said to Philip the next morning, ' Sir,
r all the world rejoices at the escape of Antonio Perez ;
he cannot be very wicked ; you should rejoice too.'
163 ANTONIO rr-.REZ:
J'liilij) (lid not lojoicc at all. He had put himself in
the power of one of ids subjects, and he did not choose
to rrniain any longer in so de<,n!tding a position. When
hi» had been liiinself willing to submit his conduct to a
judicial inquiry, Perez, who hfwl less to fear if he had
been acting uprightly, had shown so much unwilling-
ness that possibly Philip may have now doubted
whether Escovedo'a conduct had after all been properly
represented to him. Perez had fled, carrying the com-
promising documents along with him ; he was probably
on his way to France, to delight Philip's enemies with
the sight of them, and with the tale of his own wrongs.
Anticipating pursuit, Perez had sent a friend, Gil de
Mesa, to the Grand Justiciary, to signify his arrival,
and to put himself under the protection of the law.
Meanwhile, the town mob at Calatayud rose in his
defence, and when Don Manuel arrived at the monas-
tery he found the priests and students in amis to
protect their sanctuary. Fifty soldiers arrived immedi-
ately after from Saragossa. The orders of the Justiciary
were to bring Perez at once to the national prison of
the Mauifestacion, where he was to be detained till the
King could be communicated with. The King's reply
was an order to the Marquis of Almenara to prosecute
him immediately in the Court of Aragon on three
charges.
1. For having caused the death of Escovedo, falsely
pretending the King's authority.
2. For having betrayetl secrets of State and tam-
pered with ciphered despatches.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 163
3. Fur liaving fled I'roin justice wheu Lis coaduct
was being judicially inquired into.
If Perez bad been wholly innocent, be would have
I'elt that he had at last an opportunity of setting him-
self clear in the face of the world. The court would
be open, the trial public, and his defence could neither
be garbled nor suppressed. His reluctance was as
vehement as ever, and was not concealed by his affecta-
tion of a desire to spare his master. From Calatayud,
and from Saragossa afterwards, he wrote letter upon
letter both to Philip and to Diego de Chaves, protesting
his loyalty, entreating to be left in quiet with his wife
and children; indicating that he had the means of
defending himself, but hoping that he might not be
forced to use them. These letters being left unanswered,
he took into his confidence a distinguished Aragonese
ecclesiastic, the Prior of Gotor. He showed the Prior
the mysterious papers which he had brought with him,
with Philip's notes upon them, and desired him to go
at once to Madrid and demand an audience of Philip.
' His Majesty,' Perez said in his instructions to the
Prior, ' must know that I possess these documents.
They contain confidential secrets affecting others be-
sides Escovedo ; let his Majesty judge whether it is
desirable that evidences should be produced in court
which touch the reputation of distinguished persons,
which will create a scandal throughout Europe, and
will reflect on the prudence and piety of his Majesty
f himself. Though the confessor has taken most of my
papers from me, Providence has been pleased that I
lis-, ANTON l(^ I'F.RE'/.:
sImhiM irluiii tlifsu, ;iMil tlitsc; will suffice f(;r my (Jo-
I'oncc, If brought t(j trial I shall certainly beacriuittcd,
but I prefer to save the King's reputation ; my ease is
now notorious, and it will not bo wise to challenge the
world's opinion. I have been shorn like a lamb for
eleven years, and I have held my p£;ace. My blood has
been shed. I have been tortured iu a dungeon, and 1
have remained faithful. In eight or ten days I must
give in my answer, Some people tell me that I ought
rather to lose my head than speak; but if I am driven
to it the truth must be told.'
The Prior went. Philip saw him more than once,
and heard what he had to say. There could be no
doubt that Perez had the compromising letters, for the
Prior had seen them. Yet Piiilip's courage did not fail
him. After Perez's flight the Court of Castile had
given judgment against him in default. He was to be
dragged through the streets and hanged. His head
was to be cut ofif and exposed, and all his property was
to be confiscated. The answer to the mission of the
Prior of Gotor was the publication of his sentence.
Perez thus driven to bay took up the challenge.
He drew a memorial containing: his own account of the
causes of Escovedo's murder. He attached it to such
notes as sufficed to prove the King's complicity, reserv-
ing others in case of future necessity; and this was
publicly presented as his reply to the Marquis of
Almenara. The King had probably expected that the
judges of Aragon would not lightly accept so grave a
charge against their sovereign ; that they would respect
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 165
the sentence of the better-informed Court of Castile,
and would understand that there was something behind
which was left unexplained. But Aragon was excited,
and chose to show its independence. After the
admission of the memorial Don Inigo sent word to the
King, that if no further evidence were produced, Perez
would certainly be acquitted. The King believed that
he had other resources at his disposition by which com-
plete defeat could be avoided, and at the last moment
directed that the case before the Grand Justiciary should
be abandoned. ' If,' said Philip, ' it was possible to reply
with the same publicity which Perez has given to his
defence, his guilt woidd be proved, and he would be
condemned. Throughout this whole affair I have con-
sidered only the public good. The long imijrisoument
of Perez, the entire course which the cause has taken,
has had no other object. Abusing my clemency, and
afraid of the issue, he so defends himself that to answer
him I must publish secrets which ought not to be
revealed, and involve persons whose reputation is of
more consequence than the punishment of a single
offender. Therefore, I shall go no further with the prose-
cution in the Court of Aragon. I declare Perez to have
sinned worse than ever vassal sinned before against his
sovereign — both in time, form, and circumstance ; and I
desire this my declaration to be entered with my notice
of withdrawal. Truth, which I have always main-
tained, must suffer no injury. And I reserve such rights
J as ap]>ertain, or may appertain to me, of bringing the
offender to account for his crimes in any other manner.'
iM ANTON/0 riiKEZ:
Tilt; 'oUicr ninniM-r' was tlirou;,'li tlic Court of En-
rjuesta. In the Constitution of Aragon, a special
reservation excluded from protection the King's servants
and officials. Over these the law of the province had
no more authority than the King was pleased to allow
— and the Kinfj under this clause claimed to have
Perez surrendered to himself. The lor-al lawyers, how-
ever, interpreted ' servants ' to mean only servants in
Aragon and engaged in the affairs in Aragon, not persons
belonging to other countries or other provinces, Ara-
gonese, who accepted Crown employment, undertook it
with theif eyes open and at their own risk, and might
be supposed to have consented to their exemption ; but
such a case as that of Perez had not been contemplated
when the clause in the Constitution was allowed. But
the King had one more resource. Though acquitted,
the prisoner was still detained, as if the authorities
were unsatisfied of his real innocence, Perez had
grown imjDatient, and, in his loose, vain way, had
babbled to liis companions in the Manifestacion, and
his language had been so extravagant that it had been
noted down and forwarded to the court. He had
threatened to fly to France or Holland, when he would
make the King repent of his treatment of him. He
had compared himself to Marius, who had been driven
into exile and had returned to the consulship. He
said that he would raise a revolt in Castile ; he would
bring in Henry the Fourth ; he would make Aragon
into a Free Republic like Venice. He spoke of Philip
as another Pharaoh. He had ventured into more
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 167
dangerous ground, and had called into question the
mysteries of the faith. Some of these rash expressions
had been noted down in writing, with the solemn reflec-
tions on them of the King's confessor. The impatient
wretch had said, that ' if God the Father had allowed
the King to behave so disloyally to him he would take
God the Father by the nose.' The confessor observes,
' This proposition is blasphemous, scandalous, offensive
to pious ears, and savouring of the heresy of the
Vadiani, who affirmed that God was corporeal and had
human members. Nor was it an excuse to say that
Christ, being made man, had a nose, since the words
were spoken of the First Person.*-
Again, Perez had said, ' God is asleep in this affair
of mine. If He works no miracle for me, it will go near
to destroy the faith.'
' This pi-oposition,' the confessor noted, ' is scandalous.
The prisoner has been accused of the greatest enormities;
he has been tried by course of law and condemned to
death, and he speaks as if he was without fault.'
Worse still. Perez had gone on, ' God sleeps ! God
sleeps ! God is an idle tale ; there cannot be a God ! '
The confessor observes, ' This proposition is heretical,
as if God had no care for human things, when the Bible
and the Church affirm that He does care. To say that
there cannot be a God is heresy, for though it be said in
doubt, yet doubt is not allowed in matters of faith ; we
must believe without doubt.'
Lastly, Perez had said, ' If things pass thus, I cannot
believe in God.'
iM ANTONIO PEREZ:
Tlic confessor notes, ' Tliis i.s blasphemous, scandal-
ous, and offensivG, and savouis of lieresy also.'
Till! confessor's cars l)ad no doubt been outraged.
Many a jxjor sinner had gone to tlie stake for less
audacious utterances. For nine months after tlic failure
with the En(|uesta, Perez remained in the Manifestaciou,
pouring out these wild outcries. At the end of them
an order cauie from tlie Holy Office at Madrid to the
tliree In<iuisitors at Saragossa to take possession of his
person and remove him to tiieir own prison in the oM
Moorish palace of the Aljaferia.
The In(iuisitor-General of Spain was his old friend
the Archbishoji of Toledo. In Madrid the Inquisition
had been well disjMjsed towards him, and once he had
thrown himself uu its protection. Had he now sub-
mitted voluntarily, he would probably have been safe
from serious injury, and an impartial decision would
have been arrived at. The Innuisition, be it remem-
bered, was no slave of the Crown, and, though a cruel
guanliaii of orthodoxy, would not have looked too
narrowly at the fretful words of a man whom the Arch-
bishop believed to have been ill used. The judges of
Aragon were by this time satisfied that Perez was not
entirely the martyr whieli he pretended to be, and that
the King had something to say for himself. Philip,
who appears to PnHestant Europe a monster of in-
justice, was in Sp:iiu respected and esteemed. The
Grand Justiciary did not wish to (piairel with the
Crown in a case so doubtful, still less to quarrel with
the Holy Ollice, and wa.s preparing quietly to comply.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 169
But Perez would not have it so, and preferred to trust
to popular jealousy. A mob is always ready to listen
when it is told that Liberty is in danger. A story was
circulated in Saragossa that the Marquis of Almenara
had bribed the prisoners in the Manifestacion to send
in a false account of Perez's language, that the Inqui-
sition was claiming a riglit whicli did not belong to it,
that the Fueros were being betrayed, and that the
Aragonese were to be made slaves of the Castilians.
Symptoms showed themselves of an intended rising,
and the Justiciary and Don Inigo, after a night's con-
ference, agreed that Perez should be removed at once
and without notice to the Inquisition prison. At noon
on May 24, 1 59 1, he was quietly placed in a carriage at
tlie Manifestacion Gate. A knot of young men tried
to stop the horses, and clamoured for the Constitution ;
but they were told that it was cosa de fey, an affair of
religion, and that they must mind their own business.
The carriage reached the Aljaferia without interruption,
and Perez was in tlie Inquisitors' hands. But on the
instant Saragossa was in arms. The alarm bell boomed
out. The market-place swarmed with a furious multi-
tude shouting ' Fueros, Fueros ! Libertad, Libertad ! '
Tlieir plans had been already hiid. Half the mob went
to attack the Aljaferia, tlie others to the house of
Philip's representative, the Marquis of Almenara. He,
too, it is likely, had remembered that Perez was the
friend of the Princess of Eboli, and had thrown himself
into the quarrel with some degree of personal animosity.
He was now to expiate his oageru-^ss. He was urged
I70 ANTONIO PEREZ:
to fly. The Mendozas, lie answered, never fled. The
palace d(X)r wjis dashed in. The Justiciary, who had
hurried to protect him, was thrown down and trampled
on. Don Tnigo was seized, dragged out, and borne
away atnong cries of * Muera, muera ! Kill him, kill
liim!' Stripped naked, his clothes torn off, his arms
almost forced out of their sockets, struck and pelted
with stones, he was at last rescued by a party of police,
who carried him into the city prison. There, a fortnight
after, he died of his injuries, so ending his lawsuit with
the widow of Ruy Gomez.
The Inquisitors at the Aljaferia had a near escape
of the same fate. The walls were strong and the gates
massive. But the fierce people brought faggots in
cartloads, and raised a pile which would have reduced
the palace and all in it to dust and ashes. Tlie In-
quisitors, they said, had burnt others ; they should now
burn themselves unless Perez was instantly released.
The Inquisitors would have held out, but the Arch-
bishop of Saragossa, Almenara's brother, insisted that
they must yield. Perez, four hours only after they had
seized him, was given back to his friends, and borne
away in triumph.
But the mob had risen for the rights of Aragon, and
not, after all, for a jtrisoner of whose innocence even
they were unconvinced. Perez imagined himself a
national hero. He had expected that the Cortes would
take up his case, that he svould be allowed to present
himself at the bar, and detail the story of his wrongs
in Philip's own presence. The leaders of the people
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 171
had formed a cooler estimate of his merits. They con-
tented themselves with taking him back to the Mani-
festacion. The officials of the province went up to
Madrid, to deliberate with the court what was next to
be done.
For Perez personally there was no enthusiasm. If
the Inquisition would acknowledge the Fueros, the
sensible people of Saragossa were ready to surrender
him. The Inquisition made the necessary concessions,
and Perez's own supporters now advised him to submit
unreservedly. But this he did not dare to do ; he tried
to escape from the Manifestacion and failed. He ap-
pealed again to the mo]). Broad-sheets were printed
and circulated declaring that the officials were betray-
ing the Fueros, and though the chiefs of the first
insurrection had withdrawn, the multitude could still
be wrought upon. Unfortunately for Aragou, the Grand
Justiciary, Don Juan de Lanuza, a wise and prudent
man, suddenly died. Had he lived a few weeks longer
he might have saved his country, but it was not so to
be. The nomination of his successor belonged to the
King, but the office had by custom become hereditary
in the Lanuza family ; Don Juan's son, a generous hot-
headed youth, claimed to act without waiting for the
King's sanction, and, fatally for himself, was ruled or
influenced by his uncle, Don Martin, wlio was Perez's
most intimate ally. The officials had returned from
the court. The Council of Saragossa had decided that
Perez should be restored to the Holy Office. The
removal was to be effected on the following morning,
172 ANTONIO PEREZ:
Septcinbcr 24 ; but wlicn llie morning came the mob
wore out again. The Manifestacion was broken open,
the council room was set on fire, and Perez was again
released. It was understood, however, that he was not
to remain any hunger at Saragossa to be a future occasion
of (juarreL lie was escorted a league out of the city
on the road to the Pyrenees, and he was made to know
that if lie returned lie would not be protected. He did
return; he pretended that the roads were unsafe, hut
he came back in secret, and in the closest disguise, and
lay conccaleil in Don Martin's house till it could be
seen how thi; King would act.
Constitutional governments which cannot govern
are near their end. When the intelligent and the
educated part of the population are superseded by the
iiinb, they cannot continue zealous for forms of freedom
which to them are slavery. The mob has usurped the
power ; if it can defend its actions successfully, it makes
good the authority which it has seized; if it fails, the
blame is with itself. The Aragon executive had pro-
tected Perez on his arriva,l in the province, they had
given him the means of making an open defence, and,
so far as their own council could decide in his cause,
tiiey had pronounced him acquitted. But there were
cliarges against him which could not be openly pleaded,
and his innocence was not so clear that it would be
right as yet to risk a civil war in a case .so ambiguous.
The judges considered that enough had been done. The
mob and the young Justiciary iliought otherwise, and
with th.io the responsibility rested.
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 173
Philip was iu no hiiriy. Tcu Liiousaud meu were
collected quietly on the frontier under Don Alonzo de
Vargas. The sentiments of the principal persons were
sounded, and it was ascertained that from those who
could offer serious resistance there was none to be
anticipated. Liberty had lost its attractions when it
meant the protection of criminals by the town rabble.
That the mob had shaken themselves clear of Perez
made little difference to Philip, for they had taken him
by force out of prison. The middle-class citizens, who
still prized their Constitution, believed, on the other
hand, or at least some of them believed, that the King
had no longer an excuse for interfering with them.
Philip so far respected their alarm that before he
ordered the advance of the troops he sent out a pro-
clamation that the Constitution would not be disturbed;
and possibly, if there had been no opposition, he would
have found his course less clear. But the more eager
spirits coidd not be restrained ; the nobles held aloof ;
the young Justiciary, however, was ardent and enthusi-
astic — he was compromised besides, for he had taken
office without waiting for the King's permission. The
invasion was an open breach of the Fueros. He called
the citizens of Saragossa to arms, and sent appeals for
help to Barcelona and the other towns.
There was no response — a sufficient proof either
that the province was indifferent, or that the cause was
regarded as a bad one. Lanuza led out a tattered
multitude of shopkeepers and workmen to meet the
Castilians ; but, though brave enough in a city insur-
174 ANTONIO PEREZ:
lection, tliey li.nl no stomach for fighting with a
(li.sciphnc«l force, Tlicy turned and scattered without
a blow, and Alonzo de Vargas entered Saragossa
November 12, 1591.
The modern doctrine, that political offences are
virtues in disguise, was not yet the creed even of the
most advanced philosophers. The Saragossa rabble
liad resisted the lawful authorities of the province.
They had stormed a prison ; they had murdered the
King's representative; fatallest of all, they had taken
arms for liberty, and had wanted courage to fight for it.
The Justiciary was executed, and fifteen or twenty other
persons. The attack on the Aljaferia was an act of
sacrilege, and the wrongs of the Inquisition were
avenged more severely. A hundred and twenty- three
of the most prominent of the mob were arrested. Of
these, seventy-nine were burnt iu the market-place.
The ceremony began at eight in the morning; it closed
at night, when there was no light but from the blazing
faggots ; the last figure that was consumed was the
effigy of Antonio Perez, the original cause of the catas-
trophe. The punishment being concluded, the Consti-
tution was abolished. The armed resistance was held
to have dispensed with Philip's promises, and the Fueros
of Aragon were at an end.
Perez himself escaped on the night on which the
Castilians entered, and made his way through the
Pyrenees to Pau. He published a narrative of his
sufi'erings — that is, his o>vn version of them, with the
further incriminating documents which the Protestant
AN UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 175
world at once received with greedy acclamations. Much
ol' what he said was probably true ; much might have
worn another complexion if the other side had been
told. But Philip never condescended to reply, Perez
was taken uj) by Henry the Fourth, pensioned, trusted,
and employed so long as the war with Spain continued.
He was sent into England. He was received by Eliza-
beth ; entertained by Essex, and admitted into ac-
quaintance by Francis Bacon — not with the approval
of Bacon's mother, who disliked him from the first. He
was plausible ; he was polished ; he Avas acute. He
had been so long intimately acquainted with Spanish
secrets, that his information was always useful and
often of the highest value. But he was untrue at the
heart. Even his own Belacion is in many points
inconsistent with itself, and betrays the inward hollow-
ness ; while his estimate of his own merits went beyond
what his most foolish friends could believe or acknow-
ledge. Gradually he was seen through both in Paris
and London. When peace came he was thrown aside,
and sank into neglect and poverty. He attempted
often, but always fruitlessly, to obtain his pardon from
Philip the Third, and eventually died miserably in a
Paris lodging, a worn-out old man of seventy-two, on
November 3, 161 1.
So ends the story of a man who, if his personal
merits alone were concerned, might have been left
forgotten among the unnumbered millions who have
played their chequered parts on the stage of the world.
Circumstances, and the great religious revolution of the
176 iN'ro.y/o fERf-:/.
sixtcrutli ((iiliiry, cnnv* rttil I'liilip in tlic eyes of lialf
Knropc into a inuligiuint deinori. The darkest iuter-
pretations were tlirown upon every unexplained action
wliicli lie committed; and Antonio Perez became the
hero of a romance fitter for a third-rate theatre than
the pa_i,'e.s of accredited history. The imar,niiativo
features of it liave now disappeared, but there remains
an instructive picture of Philip's real character. He
said that he had been guided tliroughout by no motive
save concern for the public welfare, and there is no
reason to suppose that he was saying anything except
what he believed to be true ; yet he so acted as to invite
suspicion in every step which he took.
Escovedo, as his conduct was represented by Pirez,
deserved to be punished, perhaps to be punished
severely. To prosecute him publicly would have been
doubtless inconvenient; and Philip, without giving him
an opportunity of defending himself, undertook the
part of a secret Providence, and allowed him to be
struck in the dark without explaining his reasons.
Providence does not permit vain mortals, even though
they be Catholic kings, to usurp a jurisdiction which is
reserved for itself. It punished Philip by throwing him
into the power of an unscrupulous intriguer, who had,
perhaps, in some measure really mislead him on the
extent of Eseovedo's faults.
He tried to extricate himself, but he was entangled
in the net which his own hands had woven; and, when
Perez refused to assist him, and preferred to keep him
struggling at his mcrcv, he was driven to measures
AM UNSOLVED HISTORICAL RIDDLE. 177
wliich could be represented to the world as a base
persecution of the instrument of his own crimes. Thus
out of an unwise ambition to exercise the attributes of
omniscience, the poor King laid himself open to ground-
less accusations, and the worst motives which could be
supposed to have actuated him were those which found
easiest credit.
But the legend of the loves of Philip the Second
and the Princess of Eboli was not of Spanish growth.
The Bdacion of Perez was read in the Peninsula, but
it did not shake the confidence with which Philip was
regarded by his subjects. The Fueros of Aragon
perished, but they perished only because constitutional
liberties which degenerate into anarchy are already ripe
for an end.
SAINT TERESA/
Reprinted from the ' QiMrtcrly Review. '
ON the western slope of the Guadanama mountains,
midway between Medina del Campo and tlie Escu-
rial, stands the ancient town of Avila. From the windows
of the railway carriage can be seen the massive walls
and flanking towers, raised in the eleventh century in
the first heat of the Spanish crusade. The fortifications
themselves tell the story of their origin. The garrison
of Avila were soldiers of Christ, and the cathedral was
built into the bastions, in the front line of defence, as
an emblem of the genius of the age. Time has scarcely
touched the solid masonry. Ruy Diaz and his con-
temporaries have vanished into legend ; but these
silent monuments of the old Castilian character survive
to remind us what manner of men the builders of them
were. Revolutions on revolutions overflow the Spanish
* I. Ada S. Tcrcsm a Jcsu,
Carinclitarum slrictioris Ob^cr-
vaiilict Parentis. Illustrata a
Joaeplio VauJonnoero, Societatia
Jesu Presbytcro Theologo. Bra-
xellis, 1845. 2. Obras de Santa
Teresa de Jisiis. Barcelona, 1844.
SAIMT TERESA. lt$
peninsula, condemn the peasantry to poverty, and the
soil to barrenness; but they have not in these later
times unearthed in the process a single man like those
whose names are part of European history. They have
produced military adventurers, and orators like Castelar,
of ' transcendent eloquence ' ; but no Cid, no Grand
Captain, no Alva, not even a Cortez or a Pizarro. The
Progresista of our age has a long ascent before him if
he is to rise to the old level.
The situation of Avila is extremely picturesque,
standing in the midst of grey granite sierras, covered
with pine forests, and intersected with clear mountain
rivulets. It is now thinly populated, and, like most
towns in Spain, has fallen into decay and neglect ; but
the large solid mansions, the cathedral, the churches,
the public buildings, the many convents and monasteries,
though mostly gone to waste and ruin, show that once
it was full of busy, active life, of men and women
playing their parts there in the general drama of their
country.
In the Spain of Ferdinand and Isabella there were
two peculiarities : first, that there was no recognised
capital, for the provinces which formed the monarchy
were still imperfectly cemented; and secondly, that
the nobles and gentry, the senores and the hidalgos,
had their chief residences in the towns, and not on their
estates. The causes and consequences of this practice
of theirs it would be interesting to trace, were the
, present the occasion for it, but of the fact itself there is
no doubt at all. Of feudal chateaux and manor-houses,
i8o SAINT TERESA.
so muiieiuus in Fnincc and Kngland, there were not
many in any part of Spain, ami vory low in the Ciistiles.
Tlio landed aristocracy congregated within the walls of
the provincial cities. Thoir palaces are still to be seen
in grand ami gaunt neglect, with their splendid stair-
rases, their quadrangles, their columned verandahs, the
coats of arms carved over the portals. In the cities
also were the learned professions: the lawyers, the
doctors, the secular clergy, the religious orders. The
Court moved from place to place, and there was no
central focus to draw away men of superior rank (jr
superior talents from their local homes. The com-
munications were difficult; the roaxis were horse-tracks ;
the rivers, save where some enterprising municipality
had built a bridge, were crossed only by fords and
pontoons. Thus each important town was the heart of
a separate district, a complete epitome of Spanish life,
with all its varied circles. An aristocracy was in each,
proud and exclusive. A religious world was in each ; a
world of art and literature, of commei'ce and adventure.
Every family had some member pushing his fortunes in
the army or in the New Hemisphere. The miuds of
men were in full activity. They were enterprising and
daring. Their manners were polished, and their habits
splendid ; for into Spain first had poured the fruits of
the discoveries of Columbus, and the stream of gold was
continually growing with fresh conquests. Perhaps
nowhere on the earth was there a finer average of dis-
tinguished and cultivated society than in the provincial
C:\stilian cities, as it is described in Cervantes's novels.
SAINT TERESA. l8l
The Castilians were a nation of gentlemen, higli bred,
courteous, chivalrous. In arms they had no rivals. In
art and literature Italy alone was in advance of them,
and Italy led by no great interval ; while the finest
characteristics were to be met with equally in every
part of the country.
They were a sincere people too ; Catholic in belief,
and earnestly meaning what they professed. In the
presence of the Moors, Christianity had retained its
mediaeval features. Of Christianity itself they knew no
form, and could conceive of none, save that for which
they had fought against the Moslem ; and the cause of
the Church was the cause of patriotism. Therefore,
when the Reformation began in Germany, the Spaniard
naturally regarded its adherents as the old enemy in
another dress. An Italian priest could mutter at the
altar, ' Bread thou art, and bread thou wilt remain.'
No such monster could have been found in the Spanish
Peninsula. Leo the Tenth was said to have called
Christianity a profitable fable. To the subjects of
Isabella it was a truth, which devils only could deny.
The Northern nations revolted from the Church in
the name of liberty. The Spaniards loved liberty, but
it was the liberty of their country, for which they had
been fighting for centuries against the Infidel. As
aristocrats, they were instinctively on the side of
authority. United among themselves, they believed
in the union of Christendom ; and they threw them-
selves into the struggle against heresy with the same
enthusiasm with which they contended with the
{83 SAINT TERESA.
Crescent in the Mcditerranciin. Tlioy sent their
chivalry to the Low Countries as if to a crusade.
Two Spaniards, Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier,
created the spiritual army of the Jesuits, While some
were engaged with the enemy abroad, the finer spirits
ainonfr them undertook the task of setting in order
their own house at home. They, too, required a Refor-
mation, if they were to be fit champions of a Holy
Cause ; and the instrument was a woman, with as few
natural advantages as Ignatius himself, distinguished
only in representing, as he did, the vigorous instincts
of the Spanish character.
The Church of Rome, it has been said, does not,
like the Church of England, drive her enthusiasts into
rebellion, but j^reserves and wisely employ's them. She
may employ them wisely while they are alive, but
when they are dead she decks them out in paint and
tinsel, to be worshipped as divinities. Their history
becomes a legend. They are surrounded with an
envelope of lies. Teresa of Avila has fared no better
than other saints in the calendar. She has been the
favourite idol of modern Spain, and she deserved more
modest treatment.
The idolatry may merit all that Mr. Ford has said
about it, but the account which he has given of the
lady herself is so wide of the original, that it is not
even a caricature. Ford, doubtless, did not like
Catholic saints, and the absurdities tolJ about them
disgusted him ; but the materials lay before him for a
real portrait of Teresa, had he cared to examine them ;
SAINT TERESA. 183
and it is a pity that he did not, for no one could have
done better justice to his subject.
Teresa de Cepeda was born at Avila on March 28,
15 1 5 — -the time, according to her biographer, ' when
Luther was secreting the poison which he vomited out
two years later.' . . . She was one of a large family,
eleven children in all, eight sons and three daughters.
Her father, Don Alfonso, was twice married. Teresa's
mother was the second wife, Beatrice de Ahumada, a
beautiful, imaginative woman, whom bad health con-
fined chiefly to a sofa. The Cepedas were of honour-
able descent ; Don Alfonso was a gentleman of leisure
and moderate fortune. He spent his time, when not
engaged with works of charity, in reading Spanish
literature — chiefly Church history and lives of the
saiuts. His library, if the Barber and Curate had sat
upon it, would have been sifted as ruthlessly as the
shelves of the Ingenious Knight of La Mancha, for half
of it was composed of books of Knight Errantry — the
same volumes probably which those stern Inquisitors
condemned to the flames. These books were devoured
as eagerly by the delicate Beatrice as the graver pages
by her husband, and lier example was naturally imitated
by her children. They sat up at nights in their
nursery over Rolando and Don Belianis and Amadis of
Gaul. Teresa composed odes to imaginary cavaliers,
who figured in adventures of which she was herself the
heroine. They had to conceal their tastes from their
father, who would not have approved of them. He was
a very good man, exceptionally good. He treated his
,84 SAINT TERESA.
servants as if thoy wore liis sons and daughters. He
was ntivor lieaid to swear, or to speak ill of any one.
He was tlie constant friend of the Avila poor. If too
indulfrent, he had sense and information, and when he
discerned wliat was going on, he diverted Teresa's
tastes in a safer direction. By nature, she says, slie was
the least religious of her family, hut her imagination
was impressible, and she delighted in all forms of
human heroism. She early forgot her kniglits, and
devoted herself to martyrs; and li ere, being concrete
and practical, she thought she would turn her new
enthusiasm to account. If to be in heaven was to be
eternally happy, and martyrs went to heaven straight,
without passing through Purgatory, she concluded that
she could do nothing more prudent than become a
martyr herself. When she was seven years old, she
and her little brother Antonio actually started oflF to go
to the Moors, who they expected would kill them. The
children had reached the bridge on the stream which
runs through the town, when an uncle met them and
brought tl.em back. As they could not be martyrs,
they thought, as next best, that they would be hermits.
They gave away their pocket-money to beggars. They
made themselves cells in the garden. Teresa's ambition
grew. When other girls came to see her, they played
at nunneries, when she was perhaps herself the abbess.
Amidst these fancies her childish years passed away.
She does not seem to have had much rejjular teaching.
Nothing is said about it; and when she grew up she
had difficulty in reading her Latin Breviary.
SAINT TERESA. 185
The Knight Errantry books, however, had left their
traces. Her mother died while she was still very young,
and she was much affected. But natural children do
not long continue miserable. As she passed into girl-
hood, her glass told her that she was pretty, and she
was pleased to hear it. She was moderately tall, well
shaped, with a fine complexion, round brilliant black
eyes, black hair crisp and curly, good teeth, and firmly
chiselled lips and nose. So fair a figure deserved that
pains should be taken with it. She was j^articular
about her dress ; she liked perfumes ; her small dainty
hands were kept scrupulously white. Cousins male
and female went and came ; and there were small
fiirtations with the boys, and with the girls not very
wise confidences. One girl cousin there was especially,
whom the mother, while she lived, would not allow to
visit at the house, and whom an elder sister would still
have kept at a distance had she been able. But Teresa
was wilful, and chose this especial young lady as her
principal companion. There were also sill}^ servants,
too ready to encourage folly, and Teresa says that at
this time nothing but regard for her honour kept her
clear of serious scrapes.
Don Alfonso grew uneasy ; the elder sister married
and went away ; so, feeling unequal himself to tlie task
of managing a difficult subject, he sent Teresa to be
educated in an Augustiniau convent in the town.
Neither her father nor she hail any thoughts of her
adopting a religious life. He never wished it at any
time. She did not wish it then, and had undefined
|86
SAmr TERESA.
notions of marrying as iiur sister lia<l done. The con-
vent to licr was merely a school, where there were
many other girls of her own age, nor did she wholly
like the life there. She made friends among the elder
nuns, especially with one, a simple pious woman, who
slept in the same room with her. But the younger
sisters were restless. They had acquaintances in the
town, and were occupied with other things beside
rehgious vows. Within the convent itself all was not
as it should have been. The vicar of the Order had
the whole spiritual management both of the nuns and
of their pupils. No one but himself might hear their
confessions, and the prioress could not interfere with
him, since by his position he was her superior. Teresa
does not hint that there was anything positively wrong,
but when she came to lay down rules in later years for
the regulation of her own houses, she refers to her
recollections of what went on in language curiously
frank : —
' The confessor in a convent,' she says, ' ought not to be the
vicar or the visitor. He may take a special interest in some
sister. The Prioress will be unable to prevent him from talking
to her, and a thou.^and mischiefs may follow. . . . The si-ters
should have no intercourse with the confessor except at the
confessional. . . . The very existence of our institutions depends
on preventing Uksc black devotees from destroying the spouses of
Christ. The devil enters tliat way unperceived.' ^
* Va nos todo nuestro Ser, en
quitar la ocasion para que no liaya
estos uegros devolos destruidoies
de las esposas do Cliristo, que es
meuester pensar sienipre en lo peor
que puede suceder, para quitar esta
ocasion, que se eiitra sin sentirlo
per aqui el demonic' — Cartas df
la Santa Madre, vol. vi. p. 232.
SAINT TERESA. 1S7
The vicar confessor encouraged Teresa in her views
for marriage, but her fancies and her friendship were
suddenly broken off by an attack of illness. She
required change of air ; she was sent on a visit to her
sister; and on her way home she spent a few days with
an uncle, a man of secluded and saintly habits, who
afterwards withdrew into a monastery. The uncle
advised his niece to take the same step that he was
himself meditating; and she discussed the question
with herself in the same spirit with which she had
designed throwing herself among the Moors. She
reflected that convent discipline might be painful, but
it could not be as painful as Purgatory, while if she
remained in the world she might come to something
worse than Purgatory. She read St. Jerome's Epistles ;
she then consulted her father, and was distressed to
meet with strong objections. Don Alfonso was attached
to his children, and Teresa was his especial favourite.
The utmost that she could obtain was a permission to
do as she pleased after his own death. But ' a vocation'
was held to dispense with duties to parents. She made
up her own mind, and, like Luther, she decided to act
for herself, and to take a step which, when once
accomplished, could not be recalled. One morning
she left her home with her brother, and applied
for admission at the Carmelite Convent of the In-
carnation. She was then eigliteen. Slie had been
disappointed with the Augustiuians ; but the Car-
melites had a reputation for superior holiness, and
she threw herself among thcin with the passionate
l8S SAINT TERESA.
enthusiasm of :iu anient girl, who believed tiiat she
was securing her peace in this world, and happiness in
the next. Again she was to be undeceived. The Order
of Mount Carmel had been founded by Albert, Patriarch
of Jerusalem, in the second Crusade. The rule had
lieen austere — austere as the rule of the Carthusians —
with strict seclusion, silence, solitude, the plainest dress,
the most ascetic diet. But by the beginning of tlje
sixteenth century time and custom had relaxed the
primitive severity, and Carmelite convents had become
:i part of general society; the nuns within the cloisters
living and occupying themselves in a manner not very
different from their friends outside, with wliom they
were in constant communication. Austerity was still
possible, but it was not insisted on, and was a sign of
presumption and singularity. In the ' Incarnation '
there were a hundred and ninety sisters, and the dis-
cipline among them was scarcely more than a name.
They went in and out as they pleased ; they received
visits and returned them ; they could be absent from
the cloister for months at a time. Catholics accuse
Protestants of having libelled the monastic life of
Europe as it existed before the Reformation. Luther
himself has said nothing harsher of it than the saint
of Avila. She followed the stream, she said ; she
abandoned herself to vanity and amusement, and
neither custom nor the authority of her superiors laid
the slii^htest check upon her. She had as much liberty
as she liked to ask for, and liberty in a convent meant
free opportunities of evil. She does not assert that
SAINT TERESA. l«9
there was gross licentiousness ; but she does assert that
to ' ill-disposed women ' convent life ' was rather a road
to hell than an aid to Aveakuess ' ; and that ' parents
would do better to marry their daughters honestly than
to place them in relaxed houses of religion ' : —
'The girls themselves,' she says, 'are not so nuich to blame,
for they do no worse than they see others do. They enter con-
vents to serve the Lord and escape the dangers of the world, and
they are flung into ten worlds all together, with youth, sensuality,
and the devil, tempting them to evil. ... In the same house are
two roads, one leading to virtue and piety, another leading awa\ii
from virtue and piety ; and the road of religion is so little
travelled, that a sister who wishes to follow it has more to fear
from her companions than from all the devils. She finds it easier
far to make intimacies with the devil's instruments than to seek
friendship with God.'
How dangerous this lax temper might have been to
herself Teresa tells us in an instructive incident. Her
health was never strong, and the convent had disagreed
with her. She was sick every morning, and could touch
no food till noon. She often fainted, and there were
symptoms of heart disorder. Nor was she happy in
herself She had tried to be good, and had only made
enemies by her efforts. She found herself rebuked for
small offences of which she was wholly innocent. She
lived much alone, and the sisters thought she was dis-
contented. Her father became alarmed for her, and
again sent her away into the country, with a single
mm for a companion. At the place where she went to
reside tlierc was an attractive priest, a man of intellect
and culture. Teresa was fond of cultivated men. She
took the priest for her confessor, and found him more
190 SAINT TERESA.
.11 111 iiKjrc agreeable. He flattered her conscience by
telling her that she could never wish to do wrong.
lie said it was his own case also, and they became
extremely intimate. She was informed after a time
that this charmingly innocent person had been living
for some years witli a female companion, while he
continued to say mass as if nothing were the matter.
She was at first incredulous. She made inquiries, but
the scandal was notorious. Every one was aware of it,
but the offender had influence, and it was unsafe to
interfere with him. Even so, however, Teresa would
not abandon her friend, and looked for excuses for him.
The woman, she found, had given him an amulet, and
while he wore it he was under a spell. He told her
this iiiniself, and her interest was now increased by pity
;ind anxiety. She admits that she was unwise, that
she ought at once to have ended the acquaintance.
She preferred to endeavour to save a perishing souL
She was but twenty; she was very beautiful; she
spoke to the attractive sinner of God ; and of course to
a lesson from such lips he was delighted to listen. She
perceived the cause, but was not discouraged. She
pressed him to give her the amulet, and equally of
course he consented. She threw it into the river, and
he at once broke oft' his guilty connection, and devoted
himself to spiritual communion with herself. She
flattered herself that he was penitent, though it was
equally clear that he was in love with her; and he
abandoned himself to his aUection with the less reserve,
because she says he had confidence in her virtue, and
SAINT TERESA. I9»
supposed that he could do so without danger. The
danger was as great as it usually is under such cir-
cumstances. They had ' opportunities of sin,' she said,
and though she believed that they would not have
fallen mortally, she admits that they might have gone
seriously Avrong if they had not kept God before their
eyes. The priest died a year after, and, as Teresa
observes naively, was delivered from further temptation.
She long retained some tenderness for him ; twenty
years later, when she wrote the story, she expressed a
conviction that he was saved : but the experience must
have helped her to the opinion, which she afterwards so
strongly insisted on, that confessors were the most unsafe
of friends.
After this adventure, which she relates witli perfect
simplicity, she returned to the convent. Her health
was not improved. She was still constantly sick ; she
had paroxysms of pain ; her nervous system was
shattered, and the physicians were afraid of madness.
In this state she remained for three years. At the end
of them it occurred to her to pray for help to San Josef.
From some cause she became comparatively better ;
and to San Josef she suj^posed that she owed her re-
covery. 'God,' she says, 'has allowed other saints to
help us on some occasions ; my experience of this
glorious saint is that he helps us in all : as if the Lord
would teach us that, as he was subject to San Josef on
earth, and San Josef was called his father though only
■« his guardian, so San Josef, though in heaven, has still
authority with him.'
103 SAINT TERESA.
'I'Ik; illiit'.s.s liutl liuctjiiic less acute ; but, as tlie \)\\\\\
of body grew less, Teresa became conscious of spiritual
inal:i(lies that were left uiicured. ' She loved God witli
half lier mind, but slie loved the world with the other.'
Her j)rayers troubled her, she says, for she could not fix
her mind on them. Meditation was yet more difficult.
'She had a slow intellect and a torpid imagination.'
She required a book to help her, for the right reflections
and emotions wouM not occur to herself; other thoughts
persisted in intruding themselves ; and at length, being,
as she was, a veracious woman, she abandoned prayer
altogether. Among all her faults, she says she was
never a hypocrite, and prayer when it was no more
than a f(jrm of words seemed an indecent mockery.
Her confessor, when she explained her troubles,
only thought her morbid. In the convent she was
regarded as exceptionally strict, and wide as was the
general liberty, with her every rule was dispensed with.
She spent her time in the society of Avila with more
enjoyment than she was herself aware of, and when a
pious old nun told her that she was causing scandal, she
would not understand it, and was oidy angry.
'Unless God liad brought me to the truth,' she says, ' I shouKl
most iipsuredly have gone at. last to hell. I had many friends to
help mo to fall, while, as to rising again, I was uttoily alone. My
confessor did notlung for me. For twenty years I was tossed
about on a stormy sea in a WTetched condition, for if I had small
content in the worKl, in God I had no pleasure. There were
months, once there was an entire yeiir, when I was careful not to
offend ; but of all those years, eighteen were years of battle. At
prayer time I watched for the clock to strike the end of the hour.
SAINT TERESA. 193
To go to the oratory was a vexation to me, and prtiyer itself a
constant effort.'
Such was Teresa's conventual experience, as de-
scribed by herself. She began her noviciate in iS34-
The twenty years, therefore, extended to 1554, the year
in which Philip went to England to be married to our
Queen Mary. She was then nearly forty, and her
efforts so far in the direction of religion had consisted
rather in helping others (which she says she was always
eager to do) than in framing any steady resolutions for
herself. Her conversion, as it is called, her first attempt
to think with real seriousness, was occasioned by the
death of her father. She had watched by him in his
last illness. She saw his spirit take flight, and heard
the assurance of his Dominican confessor that it had
gone straight to heaven. She had been deeply attached
to him. She woke up out of her irresolutions, and
determined to use the rest of her life to better purpose
than the beginning.
She was not a person to do anything by halves. She
thought of Mary Magdalene. She read the ' Confessions '
of St. Augustine, and saw an image there of her own
state of mind. One day, as she was entering the
oratory, she was struck by the sight of an image which
had been brought thither for an ajDproaching festival.
It was a wounded Christ, the statue coloured with the
painful realism which suited the Spanish taste, the
blood streaming over the face from the thorns, and
f running from the side and the hands and feet. Pro-
testants and Catholics experience an identical emotion
I9i SAINT TERESA.
wlioii the mcauiug of ChristiauiLy is biuu^'ht home to
tlicin. Ejicli poor sinner recognizes, as by a flash of
liglituing, tliat these tortures were endured f<jr him or
her — tliat he or she was actually present in the Saviour's
niiiid wlicn he was suffering on tlie cross. The thought
when it comes is overpowering. Teresa felt as if her
heart was wrenclied in two. She fell in tears at the
feet of the figure. She did not seek for sentimental
emotions. She surrendered herself wholly and for ever
to the Being whose form was fastened on her soul, and
from that moment every worldly feeling was gone,
never to return. Her spiritual life had begun. She
explains the condition in which she found herself by an
image familiar to every one who has seen the environs
of a Spanish village. She apologises for its simplicity,
but it is as true and pregnant as a Gospel parable.
' A man is directed to make a garden in a bad soil overrun
witli sour grasses. The lord of the land roots out the weeds, sows
seeds, and plants herbs and fruit trees. The gardener must then
care for them and water them, that they may thrive and blossom,
and that " the Lord " may find pleasure in his garden ami come
to visit it. There are four ways in which the watering may be
done. There is water which is drawn wearily by hand from the
well. There is water drawn by the ox-wheel, more abundantly
and with lighter labour. There is water brought in from the
river, which will saturate the whole ground ; and, last and best,
there is rain fnjm heaven. Four sorts of prayer correspond to
these. Tlie first is a wciiry effort with small returns ; the well
may run ilry ; the gardener then must weep. The second is
internal prayer and meditation upon God ; the trees will then
show leaves and tlower-buds. The third is love of God. The
virtues then become vigorous. We converse with God face to
face. The flowers open and give out fragrance. The fourth kind
cannot be described in words. Then there is no more toil, and
SAINT TERESA. I95
the seasons no longer change ; flowers are always blowing, and
fruit ripens perennially. The soul enjoys undoubting certitude ;
the faculties work without effort and without consciousness ; the
heart loves and does not know that it loves ; the mind perceives
yet does not know that it perceives. If the butterfly pauses to
say to itself how prettily it is flying, the shining wings fall off,
and it drops and dies. The life of the spirit is not our life, but
the life of God within us.'
This is very beautiful. It is the same, in fact, as
what Bishop Butler says, in less ornamented prose, of
the formation of moral habits. Wo first learn to do
right with effort. The habit grows till it pervades the
nature, and afterwards we act as we ouglit spontaneously,
with no more consciousness than animals have, which
do what they do by instinct.
But we are now on the edge of the abnormal features
of Teresa's history, and before I enter on the subject I
must explain briefly how I myself regard the aberrations
which will have to be related. All physicians, all
psychologists of reputation, agree that besides sleeping
and waking there are other conditions — trances, ecstasies,
catalepsies, and such like — into which the body is liable
to fall; and, as in sleep images present themselves
more vivid than can be called up by waking memory or
waking fancy, so in these exceptional states of the
system peculiar phenomena appear, which are none the
less real because fools or impostors have built extrava-
gant theories upon them. The muscles sometimes
become rigid, the senses become unnaturally susceptible.
The dreaming power is extraordinarily intensified, and
visions are seen (we say ' seen ' for want of a more
196 SAINT TERESA.
BcientiHc exprcssiuiij jj;il|niblc as sense itself. Such
conditions are usually brought about by ordinary causes.
l*erha|).s tliey may be created artificially. They arc not
Bupcrnatural, for they have an exact analogy in the
univei'sal experience of sleep. They are considered
supernatural only because they are exceptional, and the
objects perceived are always supplied out of the stores
with which memory is furnished. Teresa's health was
peculiar. For twenty years she had been liable to
violent nervous attacks — those, too, an imperfectly
understood form of disorder. She was full-blooded,
constantly sick, constantly subject to fainting fits and
weakness of the heart. Her intellect and moral sense,
on the otlier hand, were remarkably strong. She was
not given to idle imaginations. She was true and
simple, was never known to tell a he or act one. But
her mental constitution was uimsual. Objects that in-
terested her, she says, never ran into words, but fastened
themselves as pictures upon her brain. Meadows, trees,
and rivers, effects of sky, all materials of landscape
beauty, gave her intense emotions, but emotions which
she was unable to describe. She was a painter, but
without the faculty of conveying her impressions to
canvas. She perceived with extreme vividness, but the
perception ended in itself. If slie wanted phrases she
had to look for them in books, and what she found in
books did not satisfy her because it did not correspond
to her own experience.
This was her general temperament, on which
powerful religious emotion was now to work. The
SAINT TERESA. 197
tigure of Christ had first awakened her. The shock
threw her into a trance. The trances repeated them-
selves whenever she was unusually agitated. Such a
person would inevitably see ' visions,' which she would
be uuable to distinguish from reality ; and if she
believed herself subject to demoniac or angelic visita-
tions, she was not on that account either weak or
dishonest.
In the life of every one who has really tried to make
a worthy use of existence, there is always a point — a
point never ' afterwards forgotten — when the road has
ceased to be downhill, and the climb upward has com-
menced. There has been some accident perhaps ; or
some one has died, or one has been disappointed in
something on which the heart had been fixed, or some
earnest words have arrested attention ; at any rate,
some seed has fallen into a soil prepared to receive it.
This is called in I'eligious language conversion • the
turning away from sin and folly to duty and righteous-
ness. Beginnings are always hard. Persons who have
hitherto acted in one particular way, and suddenly
change to another way, arc naturally suspected of
having unworthy personal motives. They have lived
so far for themselves. They cannot be credited at once
with having ceased to live for themselves. They must
still be selfish. They must have some indirect object
in view.
Teresa in her convent had resolved to be thence-
forward a good woman, and to use to better purpose the
means which the Church offered to her. Siie found at
,0S SAINT TERESA.
once that alio was misunderstood and disliked. She
wished to be peculiar, it was said ; she wished to be
thnuf,dit a saint; she was setting herself up to be better
than other people. Her trances and fits of unconscious-
ness were attributed to the most obvious cause. She
was said to bo 'possessed' by a devil. She had been
humbled in her own eyes; and she herself thought that
jH'rhaps it was a devil. She could not tell, and her
spiritual adviser could not tell any better. The Jesuits
were then i isiug into fame, Francisco Borgia, ex-Duke
of Gandia, had joined them, and had been made Pro-
vincial General for Spain. He came to Avila, heard of
Teresa, and took charge of her case. He put her under
a course of discipline. He told her to flog herself with
a whip of nettles, to wear a hair-cloth plaited with
broken wires, the points of wdiich would tear her skin.
Had her understanding been less robust, he would have
driven her mad ; as it was, he only intensified her
nervous agitation. He bade her meditate daily on the
details of Christ's Passion. One day, while thus occu-
pied, she became unconscious ; her limbs stifiened, and
she heard a voice say, 'Thou shalt no more converse
witii men, but with angels.' After this the fits always
returned when she was at prayers. She saw no distinct
form, but she felt that Christ was close to her. She
told her confessor what she had experienced. He asked
how she knew that it was Christ. She could not
explain. A few days after, she was able to tell him
that she had artually seen Christ. She had seen liiui,
.she said (without being aware that she was explaining
SAINT TERESA. 195
from whence the figure had been derived), exactly as
he was painted rising from tlie sepulchre. The story
went abroad. The ill-natured sisters made spiteful
remarks; the wisest shook their heads. Teresa had
not been noted for special holiness in the many years
that she had been among them. Others, much more
like saints than she, had never seen anything wonder-
ful ; why should God select her to visit with such
special favour ? They were more clear than ever that
site was possessed. She was preached at from the
pulpit ; she was prayed for in chapel as bewitched.
She could not tell how to behave: if she was silent
about her visions, it was deceit ; if she spoke of them,
it was vanity. She preserved her balance in this
strange trial remarkably well. Her confessor had been
warned against her, and was as hard as the rest. She
continued to tell him whatever she supposed herself to
see and hear, and absolutely submitted to his judgment.
He confidently assured her it was the devil, and directed
her when Christ appeared next to make the sign of the
cross and point her tliumb at him. God would then
deliver her. She obeyed, though with infinite pain.
Christ's figure, whoever made it, ought, she thought, to
be reverenced ; and to point her thumb was to mock
like the Jews. As her trances recurred always at
her devotions, she was next forbidden to pray. Under
these trials Christ himself interposed to comfort her.
He told her that she was right in obeying her confessor,
though the confessor was mistaken. The inhibition to
pray, he said, was tyranny, and, in fact, it was not long
200 SAINT TERESA.
m.'iintaincd. The apparitions grew more frequent and
more vivid. One day the crosg attached to her rosary
was snatched out of her hands, and when it was given
back to her it was set with jewels more brilliant than
diamonds, A voice said that she would always see it
so, though to others it would seem as before. She had
often an acute pain in hor side; she fancied once that
an angel came to her with a lance tipped with fire,
which he struck into her heart. In after years, when
she became legendary, it was gravely declared that
the heart had been examined, and had been found
actually pierced. A large drawing of it forms the
frontispiece of the biography provided for the use of
pious Catholics.
This condition continued for several years, and
became the talk of Avila. Some held to the possession
theory ; others said it was imposture ; others, especially
as there was no further harm in poor Teresa, began to
fancy that perhaps the visions were real. She herself
knew not what to think. Excellent people were
satisfied that she was under a delusion, and the excel-
lent people, she thought, might very likely be right, for
the apparitions were not all of a consoling kind. She
had seen Christ and the angels, but also she had seen
the devil. ' Once,' she says, ' the devil appeared to me
in the oratory ; he spoke to me ; his face was awful, and
his body was of flame without smoke. He said that I
had escaped him for the present, but he would have
me yet. T made the sign of the cross ; he went, but
returned ; I threw holy water at him, and then he
SAINT TERESA. 201
vanished.' At another time she was taken into hell ;
the entrance was by a gloomy passage, at the end of
which was a pool of putrid water alive with writhing
snakes. She fancied that she was thrust into a hole in
a wall where she could neither sit nor lie, and in that
position was tortured with cramps. Other horrors she
witnessed, but did not herself experience : she was
shown only what would have been her own condition if
she had not been rescued.
One act she records, exceedingly characteristic.
Avila was not wholly unbelieving. Afflicted persons
sometimes came to her for advice. Among the rest a
priest came, who was living in mortal sin, miserable,
yet unable to confess in the proper form, and so made
fast in the bonds of Satan. Teresa prayed for him ;
and then he managed to confess, and for a time did
not sin any more ; but he told Teresa that the devil
tortured him dreadfully, and he could not bear it. She
then prayed that the tortures might be laid on her, and
that the priest might be spared. For a month after
the devil was allowed to work his will upon her. He
would sit upon her breviary when she was reading, and
her cell would fill with legions of imps.
An understanding of less than unusual strength
would have broken down under so severe a trial.
Teresa knew nothing of the natural capacities of a
disordered animal system. She had been taught
theologically that angels and devils were everywhere
busy, and it was inevitable that she should regard
herself as under a preternatural dispensation of some
9OT SA/NT TERESA.
kind; but, a.s long ;us .she was uncertain of wliat kind,
she kept ln-r ju(li,'ni(nt undisturbed, and slie thought
and reasoned <>n the common subjects of the day like a
superior person of ordinary faculty.
Society at Avila, as throughout Spain, was stormily
agitated at the advance of the Reformation. From
Germany it was passing to the Low Countries and into
France. England, after a short-lived recovery, had
relapsed into lieresy, and dreadful stories were told of
religious houses suppressed, and monks and nuns
breaking their vows and defying heaven by marrjang.
Antichrist was triumphing, and millions of souls were
rushing headlong into the pit. Other millions too of
ignorant Indians, missionaries told her, were perishing
also for want of vigour in the Church to save them.
Teresa, since she had seen hell, had a very real horror
of it. Torment without end ! What heart could bear
the thought of it? To rescue any single soul from so
teiTible a fate, she felt ready herself to die a thousand
deaths ; but what could one poor woman do at such a
time — a single unit in a Spanish country town ?
Something was wrong when such catastrophes could
happen. What the wrong wa.s, she thought .=;he saw
within the limits of her own experience. The religious
orders were the Church's regular soldiers. Their
manual was their rule ; their weapons were penance,
prayer, and self-donial ; and as long as they were dili-
gent in the u.se of them, God's favour was secured, and
evil couKl not prevail. But the rules had been neg-
lected, penance laughed at, and prayer become half-
SAINT TERESA. 203
hearted. Cloister discipline had been accommodated to
the manners of a more enlightened age.
' Hoc fonte derivata clades
In patriam populumque fluxit.*
Here was the secret of the great revolt from the
Church, in the opinion of Teresa, and it was at least
part of the truth ; for the cynical profligacy of the
religious houses had provoked Germany and England
more than any other cause, Teresa herself had learnt
how little convent life in Spain could assist a soul in
search of perfection. At the Incarnation she could not
keep her vows if she wished to keep them ; for the
cloister gates were open, and the most earnest desire
for seclusion could not ensure it. Friends who wanted
a nun to visit them had only to apply to the provincial,
and the provincial would give a dispensation, not as
a permission, but as a mandate which was not to be
disobeyed.
Puzzled with what she found, Teresa had studied
the ancient rule of the Carmelite Order before it was
relaxed by Eugenius the Fourth. If a house could be
founded where that rule could be again kept, she con-
sidered, how much easier her own burden would be ; how
much better God would be served ; and then, perhaps,
the Church would regain her strength. No improve-
ment could be looked for in the Convent of the Incar-
nation itself. Two hundred women, accustomed to
indulgences which a Poj)o had sanctioned, were not
likely to bo induced to submit again to severities. She
304 SAINT TERESA.
talkeil of her scliemc with her fiiends in the town.
Tli(3 (lifliculties seemed enormous; she had no money
t«) begin with, and her friends had little. If this
obstacle could be overcome, she had another and a
worse before her; she could do nothing without the
consent of the provincial, and for such a consent she
knew that it would be idle to a.sk. She was thinking
the matter over one day after communion, when she
fell into her usual trance. * The Lord ' appeared and
told her tiiat her design was to be carried out. A
house was to be founded, and was to be dedicated to
her old patron San Josef. It would become a star
whicli would shine over the earth. She was to tell her
confessor what he had said, and to require him to make
no opposition.
The apparition was a natural creation of her own
previous musings, but it fell in so completely with her
wishes that she would not and could not doubt. It
appeared again and again. She wrote an account of it
by her confessor's orders, and it was submitted to the
provincial and the bishop. If they hesitated, it was
but for a moment ; they naturally consulted Teresa's
prioress, ami at once the tempest was let loose. ' This
then,' exclaimed the incensed mother and the rest of
the sisterhood, ' this is the meaning of the visions we
have heard so much of. Sister Teresa thinks herself
too good for us. We are not holy enough for her.
Pretty presumption ! Let her keep the rule as it
stands before she talks of mending it.' From tiie
convent the disturbance passed to the town. The
SAINT TERESA. 205
Spaniards had no love for novelties; they believed in
use, and wont, and the quiet maintenance of established
things. They looked on ecstasies and trances as signs
rather of insanity than sanctity ; they thought that
people should do their duty in the state of life to which
they had been called, and duty was hard enough with-
out artificial additions. Teresa's relations told the
provincial she was out of her mind. Some thought
a prison would be the best place for her : others hinted
at the Inquisition and a possible trial for witchcraft.
Her confessor called lier scheme a woman's nonsense,
and insisted that she should think no more of it.
She went for refuge to her master. The Lord told
her that she was not to be disturbed ; good things were
always opposed when first suggested ; she must wait
quietly, and all would go well. Though Avila seemed
unanimous in its condemnation, there were two priests
there of some consequence — one a Dominican, the other
a Franciscan — who were more on a level with the times.
They saw that something might be made of Teresa, and
they wrote to their friends in Rome about her. Her
Jesuit confessor held to bis own opinion, but a new
rector came to the college at Avila, with whom they
also communicated. The rector, after a conversation
with her, removed the confessor and appointed another.
The provincial remained obstinate, but the bishop,
Alvarez de Mendoza, was privately encouraging. Teresa
was made to feel that she was not deserted, and, with a
new spiritual director to comfort her, she took up her
project again.
2o6 SAINT TERESA.
She was m ;i ilifHcuIty, for slic was bound by hor
vows to obey tlio pruviucijil ; he liad akcady refused
his permission, and she dared not apply to him again.
But she probably knew that an appeal had been made
to the I*'>p<', and, pending the results of this, she tliouglit
that she might begin her preparations. She had to be
secret — almost deceitful ; and might have doubted if
she was keeping within even the letter of her duty if
her visions had been less inspiriting. A widow friend
in the town bought a house as if for her own private
occupation. Alterations were wanted to make it suit-
able for a small convent, and Teresa had no money to
pay for them ; but San Josef told her to engage work-
men, and that the money sliould be found ; and in fact
at that moment a remittance came unexpectedly from
a brother in Lima. She was afraid of the Carmelite
authorities. The house, Christ told her, should be
under the bishop, and not under the Order; she was
herself to bo the superior, and she saw herself robed
for office by San Josef and tlie Virgin in person.
Careful as she was, she still feared tliat the pro-
vincial would hear what she was doing, and would
send her an inhibition, to which, if it came, she had
resolved to submit. It became expedient for her to
leave Avila till the answer from Rome could arrive.
At that moment, most conveniently, Dona Aloysia de
la Cerda, sister of the Duke of Medina Celi, wrote to
the provincial to say that she wished Teresa to pay her
a visit at her house at Toledo. Dona Aloysia was a
great lady, whose requests were commands. The order
SAINT TERESA. 207
came to her to go, and she was inl'ormed by the usual
channel that the invitation had been divinely arranged.
She was absent for six months, and became acquainted
with the nature and habits of Spanish grandees. Dona
Aloysia treated her with high distinction; she met
other great people, and was impressed with their breed-
ing and manners. But the splendour Avas disagreeable.
She observed shrewdly, that between persons of rank
and their attendants there was a distance which forbad
familiarity ; if one servant w^as treated with confidence,
the others were jealous; she was herself an object of
ill-will through DoiiA Aloysia's friendship ; and she
concluded that it was a popular error to speak of ' Lords
and Ladies ' ; for the high friends whom she had made
were slaves in a thousand ways. Her chief comfort at
Toledo was the Jesuit College, where she studied at
leisure the details of monastic rule. Her visit was
unexpectedly ended by a letter from her provincial.
The feeling in the Incarnation convent had suddenly
changed ; a party had formed in her favour, who wished
to choose her as prioress. The provincial, who disliked
her as much as ever, desired Doiia Aloysia privately to
prevent her from going home; but 'a vision' told her
that she had prayed for a cross, and a cross she should
have. She concluded that it was to be the threatened
promotion, and after a stormy scene with her hostess
she went her way.
She was mistaken about the cross. On reaching
Avila, she found that she had not been elected, but
tliat the bull had arrived privately from Rome for her
ao8 SAINT TERESA.
iiuw coiivrnf. Tlic I'oiH' had placed it under the
bishop, as ' tlio Lord ' had lorolold, and the bishop had
uudtTtaken tho charge. The secret liad been profoundly
kept ; the house was ready, and nothing remained but
to take possession of it. It was to be a house of
' Descalzos ' (Barcfoots), the name by which the reformed
Order was in future to be known in opposition to the
Relaxed, the Calzados. The sisters were not to be
literally ' shoeless ' ; ' a barefoot,' as Teresa said, ' makes
a bad beast of burden.' They were to wear sandals of
rope, and, for the rest, they were to be confined to the
cloister strictly, to eat no meat, to sleep on straw, to
fast on reduced allowance from September till Easter;
they were to do needlework for the benefit of the poor,
and they were to live on alms without regular endow-
ment. Teresa had been careful for their health; the
hardships would not be greater than those borne with-
out complaint by ordinary Spanish peasants. The dress
was to be of thick uudyed woollen cloth, with no orna-
ment but cleanliness. Dirt, which most saints regarded
as a sign of holiness, Teresa always hated. The number
of sisters was to be thirteen ; more, she thought, could
not live together consistently with discipline.
Notwithstanding the Pope's bull, difficulty was an-
ticipated. If the purpose was known, the Carmelites
would find means of preventing the dreaded innovation ;
an accomplished fact, however, would probably be
allowed to stand. Teresa selected four poor women
as the first to take the habit, and quietly introduced
thorn into the house. She had <rone out on leave from
SAINT TERESA. 209
her own cloister, as if to attend a sick relative, and was
thus unobserved. On August 24, 1562, ten years exactly
before the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the sacrament
was brought into the tiny chapel of San Josef's, a bell
was hung, mass was said, and the new Order had begun
to exist.
Teresa was still bound by her vows to her convent.
When the ceremony was over, she returned to the
Incarnation, half frightened at what she had done.
She had stirred a hornets' nest, as she was immediately
to find. The devil attacked her jfirst ; he told her that
she had broken obedience, she had acted without the
provincial's leave, and had not asked for it because she
knew it would be refused ; her nuns would starve ; she
herself would soon tire of a wretched life in such a
wretched place, and would pine for her lost comforts.
She lay down to rest, but was soon roused by a storm.
The townspeople were the first to discover what had
happened. It was easy to foresee the anger of the
Carmelites; why the townspeople should have been
angry is less obvious. Perhaps they objected to the
establishment of a colony of professed beggars among
them ; perhaps they were led by the chiefs of the other
religious Orders. A riot broke out; the prioress sent
for Teresa; the provincial arrived, hot and indignant.
She was rebuked, admonished, informed that she had
given scandal, and required to make instant submission
before the assembled convent. The Alcalde meanwhile
f had called a meeting of the citizens, where the pro-
vincials of the Dominicans, Franciscans, and Augus-
2IO SAINT TERESA.
tiiii;iii8 attended. A resolution waa first passed for the
instant dissolution of the new house and the removal
of the sacrament; on second tiioughts, it was decided
to refer the matter, heing of such liigli importance, to
the Council of State at Madrid. Teresa liad but one
friend to go to. ' My Lord,' she said, on her knees,
'this house is not mine, it is yours; all that I could
do is done. You must see to it.' She was not to be
disappointed.
The bishop prevented immediate violence, and Avila
waited for the action of the Council. The Council was
in no hurry with an answer. Certain persons wrote to
Philip ; Philip referred to the Pope, and there were
six months of suspense, the four poor sisters living as
they could, and Teresa remaining in disgrace. The
town authorities cooled ; they said the house might
stand if any one would endow it. Afterwards, finding
that they were not likely to be supported from Madrid,
they were ready to dispense with endowment. On the
arrival of a fresh bull from Pius the Fifth all remains
of opposition vanished, except among the Carmelites,
and the Carmelites found it prudent to suppress their
objections. Public opinion veered round ; the found-
ation was declared to be a work of God, and Teresa to
be His special scr\ant, instead of a restless visionary.
The provincial gave her leave to remove and take
charge of her flock. The luggage which she took with
her from the Incarnation was a straw mattress, a
patched woollen gown, a whip, and a hair-cloth shirt ;
that was alL
SAINT TERESA. iit
Thus furnished, she entered on the five happiest
years of her life. Other sisters joined, bringing
small dowries with them, and the number of thirteen
was soon filled up. Her girls, she says, were angels,
perfect especially in the virtue of obedience. She
would try them by orders contradictory or absurd ; they
did their best without a question. One sister was told
to plant a rotten cucumber in the garden : she merely
asked if it was to be planted upright or lengthways.
The visions were without intermission. She was
taken up to heaven and saw her father and mother
there. The Virgin gave her a cope, invisible to all
eyes but her own, which would protect her from mortal
sin. Once at ' hours ' she had a very curious experience.
She fancied tliat she was a mirror without frame, with-
out dimensions, with Christ sliining in the centre of it,
and the mirror itself, she knew not how, was in Christ.
He told her that when a soul was in mortal sin the
glass was clouded, and though he was present, it could
not reflect him. With heretics the glass was broken,
and could never be repaired.
Heretics and the growth of them still occupied her,
and the more keenly as the civil war grew more en-
venomed in France. They were too strong, she thought,
to be overcome by princes and soldiers. In such a
contest the spiritual arm only could prevail. In a
trance she saw seven Carmelite monks, of the pristine
type, reformed like her own sisterhood, with swords in
{ their hands on a battle-field. Their faces were flushed
with fighting. The ground was strewn with the slain,
it 2 SA/NT TERESA.
and they were smiting still, and the flying enemy were
the hosts of Luther and Calvin. These air-drawn
pictures, lately called illusions of Satan, were now
regarded as communications direct from heaven. They
were too important to be lost. Her superior ordered
her to write them down, and the result was the singular
autobiography which has hitherto been our guide to
her history.
She wrote it unwillingly; for it is evident that,
deeply as these communications had affected her, and
definitely as lier spiritual advisers had at length assured
her of their supernatural origin, she was herself still
uncertain of their nature. Many of her visions, she
was confident, had been the creation of her own biain.
If any had come from another source, she did not regard
them as of particular importance, or as symptoms of a
high state of grace. This is certain, from a passage on
the subject in one of her writings. Hysterical nuns
often fancied that they had received revelations, and
their confessors were too apt to encourage them. She
says : —
' Of '• revelatious " no account should be made ; for though
8on)e may be authentic, many are certainly false, and it is foolish
to look for one truth amidst a hundred lies. It is dangerous
also, for " revelations " are apt to stray from the right faith, and
the right faith is of immeasurably greater consequence. People
fancy that to have "revelations" implies exceptional holiness.
It implies nothing of the kind. Holiness can be arrived at only
by acts of virtue imd by keeping the commandment?. We women
are easily led away by our imagination ; we have less strength
and less knowledge than men have, and cannot keep things in
their proper places. Therefore I will not have mv sisters read
SAINT TERESA. 213
my own books, especially not my autobiography, lest they look
for revelations for themselves in fancying that they are imitating
me. The best things that I know came to me by obedience, not
by revelation. Sisters may have real visions, but they must be
taught to make light of them. There is a subtle deceit in these
experiences. The devil may lead souls to evil on a spiritual road.'
The priest editor of Teresa's works makes an honest
observation on this remarkable acknowledgment. 'I
know not how it is/ he says, 'but the revelations
received by women seem of consequence to men, and
those received by men of consequence to women.'
Though he pretends that he did not know how it
was, he knew very well, for he goes on : 'It must
arise from those accursed sexual inclinations — each
sex believes most where it loves most.' He should
have drawn one more inference — that j'oung men
were the worst possible spiritual advisers for young
women.
Teresa was not to be left to enjoy her quiet. A
single convent had hitherto sufficed for her ambition;
but she had been told that it was to be a star which
was to shine over the earth, and at that solitary taper
other flames were now to be kindled. The Church of
Rome was rallying from its confusion, and was setting
its house in order. The clergy were clearing themselves
of the scandals which had brought such tremendous
consequences on them. The Catholic powers were
putting out their strength, and Teresa's energetic spirit
would not allow her to rest. The Carmelites them-
'selves now partially recognised her value. The General
came to Spain, and visited her at Avila. He reported
214 SAINT rr.RF.SA.
what he had seen to IMiilip, and, with Philip's sanction,
he sent her powers to found otlicr houses of Descalzos,
forhi<lding the provincials to inlcrfere with lier. The
champions wliom she had seen on the battle-field in
a vision bad been h'othcrs of her reformed Order. The
CJeneral empowered her to establish institutions of men
as well as women, if she could find recruits who were
willing. In other respects she was left to herself,
and she was to show what a single woman, with no
resources but her own internal force, was able to
accomplisli. She was now fifly-two, with bad health,
which was growing worse by age. Tlie leaders of the
Church were awake ; princes and statesmen were
awake; but the body of the Spanish people was still
unstirred. She had to contend with official pedantry,
with the narrow pride of bishops, with dislike of
change, and the jealousies of rival jurisdictions. As to
barefoot monks, it was long before she could find a
single man in flesh and blood whom she could tempt to
join with her.
Her adventures in the fifteen years of her pilgrimage
would fill a long volume. We must content ourselves
with fragmentary incidents of her wanderings, a few
pictures of persons with whom she came in contact, a
few glimpses of Peninsular life in the sixteenth century,
and the human features of a remarkable person still
traceable behind the paint and tinsel of miracle, with
which her biographers have disfigured Teresa de
Cepeda.
Her first enterprise wa.s at Medina del Campo, a
SAINT TERESA. 215
large town fifty miles from Avila, on the road to
Valladolid, and lately the residence of Isabella's Court.
A lady of Medina, of small property, had applied for
admission into San Josef's, and could not be received
for want of room. She purchased a house, at Teresa's
suggestion, which could be turned into a second convent.
Difficulties were to be anticipated, of the same kind
which had been encountered at Avila, and promptitude
and secrecy were again necessary. A house itself was
not enough. Medina could not provide the first sisters,
and a colony had to be introduced from the parent
stock. Teresa set out with two nuns from San Josefs,
and four from the Incarnation, of whom two went with
sinking hearts. Julian of Avila, the chaplain, was
their single male escort and companion. They travelled
in a cart, with a picture or two, some candlesticks for
the altar — probably of tin, for they were utterly poor
— a bell, and the sacrament. To a stranger who met
them they must have appeared like a set of strolling
mountebanks. In Avila itself they were thought mad,
and the bishop had much the same opinion, though he
would not interfere. It was hot August weather — the
eve of the Feast of the Assumption — and the roads
were parched and dusty. On the way they were met
by the news that the Augustinians, whose wall adjoined
the building which the lady had bought, intended to
prevent them from settling there. They went on,
nothing daunted, and reached Medina at nightfall. On
the road they had been in danger of being arrested as
vagrants by the police. Within the gates they were in
ai6 SAINT TERESA.
worse peril ; fur the next d.ay there was to be a bull-
fif^ht, and the l)iills wore bein;:f driven in through the
streets. But nothing could stop Teresa. She had
resolved to take possession at once, before she could be
interrupted, and she went straight to her point. The
jiarty arrived at midnight, and never did intending
Bottlers in an American forest look round upon a less
promising scene. The courtyard walls were in ruins,
the doors were off their hinges, the windows shutterless,
the roof fallen in, the single room which would serve
for a chapel half open to the air, and littered with dirt
and rubbish. The group and the surroundings would
have made a subject for ^rurillo — seven poor women
and their priest, with the sacrament, for which they
were more alarmed than for themselves, the desolate
wreck of a place, ghastly in the moonlight, to which
tliey had come expecting to find a home. Four hours
of night remained, and then daylight would be on
them, Teresa's energy was equal to the occasion.
Not a thought was wasted on their own accommodation.
The sisters were set to clear the dirt from the chapel.
In a garret, the one spot that was waterproof, were
some tapestries and bed-hangings. These would protect
the altar. They had no nails, and at that hour the
shops were closed ; but they ]iicked as many as they
wanted out of the walls. By dawn the altar was
furnished, the bell was hung, mass was said, and the
convent was an instituted fact.
Sleepless and break fasti ess, the unfortunate creatures
t-ben looked about them, and their hearts sank at their
SAINT TERESA. 2I>
prospects. They crept disconsolate into their garret,
and sat watching the sacrament through a window, lest
rude hands might injure it. In the evening a Jesuit
father came. Teresa begged him to find lodgings for
them till the house could be put in order ; but the
town was full and for a week no suitable rooms could
be found. Medina, naturally, was excited at the strange
invasion, and was not inclined to be hospitable. At
length a charitable merchant took compassion. An
upper floor was provided, where they could live secluded,
with a hall for a chapel. A Senora de Quiroga, a relation
perhaps of the Archbishop of Toledo, undertook the
repairs of the convent. The citizens relented and gave
alms; and in two months the second house of the
reformed Descalzos was safely established.
This was in 1567. In the next year a third convent
was founded at Malaga, with the help of another sister
of the Duke of Medina Celi. From Malaga Teresa
was 'sent by the Spirit' to Valladolid, where a young
nobleman offered a villa and garden. While she was
considering, the youth died ; he had led a wild life, and
she was made to know that he was in purgatory, from
which he was to be released only when the first mass
was said on the ground which he had dedicated. She
flew instantly across Spain with her faithful Julian.
The villa did not please her; for it was outside the
town, near the river, and was reported to be unhealthy.
But the gardens were beautiful. Valladolid, stern and
J sterile in winter, grows in spring bright with flowers
and musical with nightingales. Objections melted
2i8 SAINT TERESA.
bctuo! the tliought of a soul in penal fire. She took
possession ; tlie mass was said; and, as the Host was raised,
the pardoned benefactor appeared in glory at Julian's
side on his way to paradise. Another incident occurred
Ix-fore she left the neighbourhood. Heresy had stolen
into Castile : a batch of Lutherans were to be burnt in
the great S([uare at Valladolid ; and she h»'ard that
they meant to die impenitent. That it could be
anything but right to burn human beings for errors
of belief could not occur to lier ; but she prayed that
the Lord would turn their hearts, and save their
souls, and inflict on her as much as she could bear
of their purgatorial pains. She supposed that she had
been taken at her word — the heretics recanted at the
stake — .she lierself never after knew a day without
suffering.
Toledo came next. She was invited thither by her
Jesuit friends. She was now famous. On her way she
passed through Madrid. Curious people came about
her, prying and asking questions. ' What fine streets
Matlrid lias ! ' was her answer on one such occasion.
She wouUl not stay there. Philip washed to see her,
but she had already flown. She had two sisters with
her to start the colony ; of other property slie had four
ducats, two jtiotures, two straw pallets, and UDthing
besides. She had gone in faith, and faith as usual
works miracles. Dona Aloysia had not forgiven her
desertion, and from that quarter there was no assistance;
but a house was obtained by some means, and the
sistei^s and she, with their possessions, were introduced
SAINT TERESA. 219
into it. Of further provision no care had been taken.
It was winter, and they had not firewood enough to
' boil a herring.' They were without blankets, and
shivered with cold; but they were never more happy,
and were almost sorry wdien fresh recruits came in and
brought money and ordinary conveniences.
The recruits were generally of middle rank. ' The
Lord' had said that he did not want membez'S of high
families ; and Teresa's own experience was not calcu-
lated to diminish her dislike of such great persons.
Ruy Gomez, Prince of Eboli and Duke of Pastrana, was
Philip's favourite minister. His wife was the famous
Ana de Mendoza, whom history has determined to liave
been Philip's mistress. I have told the story elsewhere.^
The single evidence for this piece of scandal is the
presumption that kings must have had mistresses of
some kind. Antonio Perez says that Philip was jealous
of his intimacy with her. It is a pity that people will
not remember that jealousy has more meanings than
one. Perez was Philip's secretary. The Princess was
a proud, intriguing, imperious woman, with whom
Philip had many difficulties; and he resented the
influence which she was able to use in his cabinet.
More absurd story never fastened itself into human
annals, none which more signally illustrates the appetite
of mankind for garbage. For a short period Teresa
was brought in contact with this high lady, and we
catch an authentic glimpse of her. She wanted some
1 Vide supra, pp. 136, 137.
3..0 SAfUT TERESA.
new excitomcnt, ;is litdios of rank occasionally do. She
proposed to found a nunnery of a distinguished kind.
She had licard of the Nun of Avila as one of the
wonders of tlie day, and she sent for her to Pastrana.
Teresa liad not liketl the Princess's letters; but Ruy
Gomez was too great a man to be affronted, and her
confessor told her that she must go. A further induce-
ment was a proposal held out to her of a house for
monks, also of the reformed rule, for which slie had
been trying hitherto in vain. The Princess had a young
Carmelite about her, a Father Mariano, who was ready
to take charge of it.
Teresa was received at Pastrana with all distinction.
A casa was ready to receive sisters, but she found that
the Princess had already chosen a prioress, and that in
fact the convent was to be a religious plaything of a
fashionable lady. Three months were wasted in discus-
sion ; and in the course of them Teresa was questioned
about her history. The Princess had heard of her
autobiography, and begged to see it. She was not vain
of her visions, and consented only when the Princess
promised that the book should be read by no one but
herself and her hu.sbaml. To her extreme disgust she
found that it became the common talk of the house-
hold, a subject of Madrid gossip, and of vulgar imper-
tinence. Dona Ana herself said scornfully that Teresa
was but another Magdalen de la Cruz, an hysterical
dreamer, who had been condemned by the Inquisition.
Ruy Gomez had more sense than his wife, and
better feeling. The obnoxious prioress was withdrawn.
Saint tMresa.
and the convent was started on the usual conditions.
The Barefoot Friars became a reality under Father
Mariano, whom Teresa liked perhaps better than he
deserved. As long as Ruy Gomez lived, the Princess
did not interfere. Unfortunately he survived only a
few months, and nothing Avould satisfy Doiia Ana in
her first grief but that she must enter the sisterhood
herself. She took the habit, Mariano having provided
her with a special dress of rich materials for the
occasion. In leaving the world she had left behind
her neither her pride nor her self-indulgence. She
brought her favourite maid with her. She had a
separate suite of rooms, and the other sisters waited
upon her as servants. Teresa had gone back to Toledo.^
The Princess in her absence quarrelled with tlie prioress,
who had been substituted for tlic woman whom she had
herself chosen; and finally she left the convent, returned
to the castle, and stopped the allowance on which the
sisters depended.
Teresa, when she heard what had passed, ordered
the removal of the establishment to Segovia. Two
years later we find her on the road to Salamanca. It
was late in autumn, with heavy snow, the roads almost
impassable, and herself suffering from cough and fever.
This time she had but one companion, a nun older and
scarcely less infirm than herself. *0h these journeys !'
^ The Princess had sent her
back in her own carriage. ' Pretty
saint you, to be travelling in such
style as that 1 ' said a fool to her
as she drove into Toledo. ' Is
there no one but this to remind
me of my faults ? ' she said, and
she never entered a carriage again.
iU SAINT TERESA.
she exclaims. SIhj was fustnintMl only by the recollection
of the iii.'iiiy cuiivents which the ' Lutherans' had de-
stroyed, and the loss of which .she was trying to repair.
It was All Saint.s' Eve when they reached Saiamanca.
The cliiiich htils wcic tolling dismally for the departed
souls. The Jesuits had })roTnised that she should find
a liabitation ready, but they found it occupied by
students, who at first refused to move. The students
were with difficulty ejected. It was a great straggling
place, full of garrets and passages, all filthily dirty.
The two women entcrc 1 worn and weary, and locked
themselves in. The sister was terrified lest some loose
youth might be left hidden in a corner. Teresa found
a straw-loft, where they laid themselves down, but the
sister could not rest, and shivered with alarm. Teresa
asked her what was the matter. ' I was thinking,' she
said, ' what would become of you, dear mother, if I was
to die.' ' Pish,' said Teresa, wdio did iiot like nonsense,
' it will be time to think of that when it really happens.
Let me go to sleep.'
Two houses were founded at Alva with the help of
the Duke and Duchess ; and the terrible Ferdinand of
Toledo, just returned from the Low Countries, appears
here with a gentler aspect. Teresa's ' Life ' was his
favourite study; he would travel many leagues, he said,
only to look upon her. In one of her trances she had
seen the Three Persons of the Trinity. They were
painted in miniature under her direction, and she made
the likenesses exact with her own hand. These pictures
liad fallen into the Duchess's hands, and the miniature
SAINT TERESA. ii^
of Christ was Avorn by the Duke when he went on his
expedition into Portugal.
After this Teresa had a rest. In her own town she
was now looked on as a saint, and the sisters of the
Incarnation were able to have their way at last and to
elect her prioress. There she was left quiet for three
years. She had much suffering, seemingly from neu-
ralgia, but her spirit was high as ever. Tliough she
could not introduce her reformed rule, she could insist
on the proper observance of the rule as it stood. She
locked up the locutoria, the parlours where visitors
were received, keeping the keys herself, and allowing
no one to be admitted without her knowledge. A
youth, who was in love with one of the nuns, and was
not allowed a si!]fht of her, insisted once on seeing
Teresa and remonstrating. Teresa heard his lament-
ations, and told him then that if he came near the
house again she would report him to the King. He
found, as he said, ' that there was no jesting with that
woman.' One curious anecdote is told of her reign in
the Incarnation, which has the merit of being authentic.
Spain was the land of chivalry ; knights challenged
each other to tilt in the lists ; enthusiastic saints
challenged one another to feats of penance, and some
young monks sent a cartel of defiance to Teresa and
her convent. Teresa replied for herself and the sisters,
touching humorously the weaknesses of eacii of her own
party :—
'Sister Anne of Burgos says that if any Kniglit will pray tho
Lord to grant her humility, and the prayer is answered, she will
give him all the merits which she may hereafter earn.
i2i SAINT TERESA.
'SJBter Hcntrice Jiinrcz wiyH that bIk; will ^ivc to any knight,
who will pniy the Lonl to give her grace to hold her Ufngue till
.■^Ih^ hjw considcn-d what nhc h.xs to sjiy, two years of the merits
which who ha.-^ gaineil in tending the sick.
' Iwibcl de la Cruz will give two years' nierita to any knight
who will induce the Lord to take away her self-will,
' Tcrcsii de J^sus says tliat, if any knight will resolve firmly
to obey a superior who may be a fool and a glutton, she will give
liini on the day on which he forms such a resolution half her
own merits for that day — or, indeed, the whole of them — for the
whole will be very little.'
The best satire of Cervantes is not more dainty.
The sisters of the Incarnation would have re-elected
their prioress when the three years were over ; but the
provincial interfered, and she and lier cart were soon
again upon the roar]. She had worse storms waiting
fur her than any which she had yet encountered.
At Pastrana, besides Mariano, she had become
acquainted with another Carmelite, a Father Gratian,
who had also become a member of the Descalzos.
Gratian was then about thirty, an eloquent preacher,
ambitious, passionate, eager to rule and not so eager to
obey, and therefore no favourite with his superiors. On
Tcrt'sa this man was to exert an influence beyond his
merits, for his mind was of a lower type than hers.
Such importance as he possessed he derived from her
regard ; and after her death he sank into insignificance.
He still tried to assume consequence, but his pretensions
were mortified. In a few years he was stripped of his
habit and reduced to a secular priest. He wandered
about complaining till he was taken by the Moors, and
SAINT TERESA. 225
was set to work in a slave-yard at Tunis. Ransomed
at last, he became confessor to the Infanta Isabella in
Flanders, and there died. But it was his fate and
Teresa's, that before these misfortunes fell upon him
he was to play a notable part in connection with her.
He had friends in Andalusia, and he persuaded Teresa
that she must found a convent at Seville. It was a
rash adventure, for her diploma extended only to the
Castiles, She set out with six sisters and the insepar-
able Julian. The weather was hot, the cart was like
purgatory, and the roadside posadas, with their window-
less garrets at oven heat, were, she said, ' like hell.'
' The beds were as if stuffed with pebbles.' Teresa fell
into a fever, and her helpless companions could only
pray for her. When they were crossing the Guadal-
quivir in a pontoon, the rope broke. The ferryman was
thrown down and hurt ; the boat was swept away by
the current. They were rescued by a gentleman who
had seen the accident from his terrace. Cordova, when
they passed through it, was crowded for a fete. The
mob, attracted by their strange appearance, ' came
about them like mad bulls.' At Seville, where Gratian
professed to have prepared for their reception, they
were met by a flat refusal from the archbishop to allow
the establishment of an unendowed foundation, and to
live on alms only was an essential to their rule. Teresa
was forced to submit.
' God,' she wrote, ' has never permitted any foundation of
'mine to be set on its feet without a world of wony; I had not
heard of the ubjectiou till I arrived. I was most unwilling to
Q
396 SAINT TERESA.
yield, for in ii t<j\vn B(; ncli hh Seville alms could liave been
collecle<l witliotit the leu^t dilliculty. I would liuve goue back
upon the >-j)ot, but I wu-s penniles.s, all my UKjney having been
Bpeiil upiin the way. Ncithir the sisters nor I j^ossessed anything
but the clothes on our backs and the veils which we had worn in
the curt. But wc could nut have a mass without the archbishop's
leave, and leave lie would not give till we consented.'
But sharper consequences were to follow. In
overstepping the boundaries of" her province, Teresa
had rashly conmiitted herself. From the first the great
body of the Carmelites had resented her proceedings.
Circumstances and the Pope's protection had hitherto
shielded her. But Pius the Fifth was gone. Gregory
the Thirteenth reigned in his stead, and a chapter-
general of the Carmelite Order held at Piacenza in
1575 obtained an injunction from him prohibiting the
further extension of the reformed houses. The founda-
tion of the Seville convent was treated as an act of
defiance. The General ordered its instant suppression.
Teresa's other foundations had been hitherto quasi-inde-
pendent; Fatlier Jerome Tostado was dispatched from
Italy as Cummissioner to Spain, to reduce them all
under the General's authority; and a new nuncio was
appointed for the special purpose of giving Tostado
his support. If Philip objected, he was to be told that
the violation of order had caused a scandal to the whole
Church.
Little dreaming of what was before her, Teresa had
been nourishing a secret ambition of recovering the
entire Carmelite body to their old austerities. The late
nuncio had been a hearty friend to her. She had
SAINT TERESA 227
written to tlic King to ask that Gratiau might be
appointed visitor-general of her own houses for the
wliole peninsula. The King had not only consented
to this request, but with the nuncio's request, irregular
as it must have seemed, Gratian's jurisdiction was ex-
pended to all the Carmelite convents in Spain. Philij)
could nut have taken such a step without Teresa's
knowledge, or at least without Gratian's; and in this
perhaps lies the explanation of the agitations in Italy
and of Tostado's mission. Evidently things could not
continue as they were. Teresa's reforms had been
made in the teeth of the chiefs of the Order, and her
houses, so far as can be seen, had been as yet under no
organised government at all. She might legitimately
have asked the nuncio to appoint a visitor to these ; for
it was through the Pope's interference that she had
established them; but she was making too bold a
venture in grasping at the sovereignty of a vast and
powerful foundation, and she very nearly ruined herself.
Gratian was refused entrance to the first convent which
he attempted to visit. The new briefs arrived from
Rome. Teresa received a formal inhibition against
founding any more houses. She was ordered to select
some one convent and to remain there; while two
prioresses whom she had instituted were removed, and
superiors in whom Tostado had confidence were put in
their places. Teresa's own writings, on which suspicion
had hung since they had been read by the Princess,
'were submitted to the Inquisition. She herself chose
Toledo for a residence, and was kept there under arrest
j2» SAINT TERESA.
for two years. 'I'lic Imiuisiturs could find no heresy in
her books; and, her pen not being un<ler restriction, she
composed while in confinement a history of her founda-
tions as a continuation of her autobiography. Her
corrcspondenre besides was voluminous. She wrote
letters (the handwriting l)old, clear and vig<jrous as a
man's) to princes and prelates, to her suffering sister*
to her friends among the Jesuits and Dominicans.
The sc([uel is exceedingly curious. There is a belief
that tiic administration of the Roman Church is one
and indivisible. In this instance it proved very divisible
indeed. The new nuncio and the General of the Car-
melites intended to crush Teresa's movement. The
King and the Archbishop of Toledo were determined
that she should be supported. The Spanish Govern-
ment were as little inclined as IFenry the Eighth to
submit to the dictation of Italian priests; and when the
nuncio began his operations, Philip at once insisted that
he should not act by himself, but should have four
assessors, of whom the Archbishop of Toledo should be
one. It was less easy to deal with Tostado. Each
religious Order had its own separate organisation.
Teresa had sworn obedience, and Tostado was her
lawful superior. She acted herself as she had taught
others to act, and at first refused Philip's help in
actively resisting him. The nuncio had described her
as ' a restless woman, unsettled, disobedient, contu-
macious, an inventor of new doctrines under pretence
of piety, a breaker of the rule of cloister residence, a
despiser of the apostolic precept which forbids a woman
SALKT TERESA. 229
to teach.' Restless she had certainly been, and lier
respect for residence had been chiefly shown in her
anxiety to enforce it on others — but disobedient she was
not, as she had an opportunity of showing. In making
the chancre in the cjovernmeut of her houses, Tostado
had found a difficulty at San Josef's, because it was
under the bishop's jurisdiction. The alteration could
not be made without her presence at Avila. He sent
for her from Toledo. She went at his order, she gave
him the necessary assistance, and the house was reclaimed
under his authority.
By this time temper was running high on all sides.
Tostado was not softened by Teresa's acquiescence. The
nuncio was exasperated at the King's interference with
him. He regarded Teresa herself as the cause of the
schism, and refused to forgive her till it was healed.
She was now at Avila. The office of prioress was again
vacant at the Incarnation. The persecution had en-
deared her to the sisters, and a clear majority of them
were resolved to re-elect her. Tostado construed their
action mto defiance ; he came in person to hold the
election ; he informed the sisters, of whom there were
now a liundred, that he would excommunicate every
one of them who dared to vote for a person of whom
he disapproved. The nuns knew that they had the
right witli them, for the Council of Trent had decided
that the elections were to be free. Fifty-five of them
defied Tostado's threats and gave their votes for Teresa.
As each sister handed in her paper, Tostado crushed it
under his feet, stamped upon it, cursed her and boxed
Jn SAINT TERESA.
Iior ears. The minority cliuse a prioress who was
iigrouabic to liini; ho doclarod tliis nun (hily elected,
ordered Teresa into imprisonment aj^ain, and left her
supporters cut otJ from mass and confession till they
submitted. The brave women would not submit. They
refused to obey the superior who had been forced on
them, except as Teresa's substitute. The theologians
of Avila declared unanimously that the excommunica-
tion was invalid. Tostado was only the more peremp-
tory. He flogged two of the confessors of the convent,
who had been appointed by the late nuncio, and he sent
them away under a guard. ' I wish they were out of the
power of these people,' Teresa wrote. ' I would rather
see them in the hands of the Moors.'
One violence was followed by another. Father
CJratian was next suspended, and withdrew into a
hermitage at Pastrana. The nuncio, carino: nothing
about the assessors required him to surrender the com-
mission as visitor which he had received from his pre-
decessor. Gratian consulted the Archbishop of Toledo,
who told him that he had no more spirit than a fly, and
advised him to appeal to Philip. The nuncio, without
waiting for an answer, declared Gratian's commission
cancelled. He cancelled also Tcre.a's regulations, and
replaced her convents under the old relaxed rule. The
Bishop of Avila was of opinion that the nuncio had
exceeded his authority and had no right to make such
a change. Teresa told Grati:in that he would be safe
in doing whatever the bishop advised ; and she recom-
UKMidcd an appeal to the Pope and the King for a
SAINT TERESA. 231
formal division of the Carmelite Order, Tostado had
put himself in the wrong so completely in his treatment
of the sisters of the Incarnation, that she overcame her
dislike of calling in the secular arm, and wrote a detailed
account of his actions to Philip. Gratian himself lost
his head and was only foolish. One day he wrote to
the nuncio and made his submission. The next, he
called a chapter of the Descalzos and elected a separate
provincial. The nuncio replied by sending Teresa back
as a prisoner to Toledo, and Gratian to confinement in
a monastery.
But the Spanish temper was now thoroughly roused.
Philip and the Archbishop of Toledo had both privately
communicated with the Pope on the imprudence of the
nuncio's proceedings ; and the King on his own account
had forbidden the magistrates everywhere to support
either Tostado or his agents. The Duke of Infantado,
the proudest of the Spanish grandees, insulted the
nuncio at Court; and the nuncio, when he appealed to
Philip for redress, was told coldly that he had brought
the insult upon himself. The Pope, in fact, being better
informed, and feeling that he would gain little by irri-
tating the Castilians for the sake of the relaxed Carme-
lites, had repented of having been misled, and was only
eager to repair his mistake. Teresa's apprehensions
were relieved by a vision. Christ appeared to her,
attended by his mother and San Josef San Josef and
the Virgin prayed to him. Christ said ' that the infernal
powers had been in league to ruin the Descalzos ; but
they had boon instituted by himself, and the King in
t29 SAlh'T TEKF.SA.
liitun' wiiuld hi.' tlit'ir I'lioud and patron.' The Virgin
told Teresa that in twenty days her imprisonment would
be over. Not her imprisonment only, but the struggle
itself was over. The nuncio and Tostado were recalled
to Italy. Spain was to keep her ' barefoot ' nuns and
friars. We need not follow the details of the arrange-
ment. It is enough to say that the Carmelites were
divided into two bodies, as Teresa had desired. The
Descalzos became a new province, and were left free
to choose their own officers. We have told the story
at so much length, because it illustrates remarkably
the internal character of the Spanish Church, and the
inability of the Italian organisation to resist a national
impulse.
All was now well, or would have been well, but for
mortal infirmity. Gratian went to Rome to settle legal
technicalities. Teresa resumed her wandering life of
founding convents. Times were changed since her
hard fight for San Josef. Town Councils met her now
in procession. Te Deums were sung in the churches,
and eager crowds waited for her at the roadside inns.
But so far as she herself was concerned, it is a question
whether success added to her happiness. So long as an
object is unattaincd, we may clothe it in such ethereal
colours a.s we please ; when it is achieved, the ideal has
become material ; it is as good perhaps as what we
ought to have expected, but is not what we did expect.
Teresa was now sixty-four years oUl, with health irre-
vocably broken. Her houses having assumed a respect-
able legal character, manv of them had after nil to be
SAINT TERESA.
233
eudowed, and she was encumbered with business. ' The
Lord,' as she said, continued to help her. When she
was opposed in anything, the Lord intimated that he
was displeased. If she doubted, he would reply, ^ Bgo
sum,' and her confessor, if not herself, was satisfied.
But she had much to do, and disheartening difficulties
to overcome. She had been working with human beings
for instruments, and human beings will only walk straight
when the master's eye is on them. In the preliminary
period the separate sisterhoods had been left very much
to themselves. Some had grown lax. Some had been
extravagantly ascetic. In San Josef, the first-fruits of
her travail, the sisters had mutinied for a meat diet. A
fixed code of laws had to be enforced, and it was received
with murmurs, even by friends on whom she had relied.^
She addressed a circular to them all, which was charac-
teristically graceful : —
' Now then we are all at peace — Calzados and Descalzados.
Each of us may serve God in our own way, and none can say ns
nay. Therefore, my brothers and sisters, as he has heard your
prayer, do you obey him with all your hearts. Let it not be
said of us as of some Orders, that only the beginnings were
creditaljle. We have begun. Let those who come after us go on
from good to better. The devil is always busy looking for means
to hurt us ; but the struggle \vill be only for a time ; the end will
be eternal.'
' One of the rules referred to
prayers for the King, which were
to be accompanied by weekly whip-
pings, such as Merlin ordered for
the disenchantment of Dulcinea.
' Statntum fuit ut per[ietuis tem-
poribns una quotiilie Missa, preces
item continure, et una per singulas
hebdomadas corporis flagellatio pro
Rege Hispaniae ejusr|ue familia in
universisconventibusCarmelitarum
utriusque sexus excakeatorum Deo
nfferatur.'
7X4 SAINT TERESA.
I'lircc years were spent in organisation — yt-ars ol
outward lionour, but years of suffering — and then the
close came. Ju tlie autumn of 1581 Gratian had
arranged that a convent was to be (Opened at Burgos.
Teresa was tube present in person, and Gr;itian accom-
panied her. They seem to have travelled in the old
way — a party of eight in a covered cart. The weather
was wretched ; the floods were out ; the roads mere tracks
of mud, the inns like Don Quixote's castle. Teresa
was shattered with cough ; slie could eat nothing ; the
journey was the worst to which she had been exposed.
On arriving at Burgos she was taken to a friend's house ;
a great fire had been lighted, where she was to dry her
clothes. The damp and steam brought on fever, and
slio was unable to leave her bed.
The business part of her visit had been mismanaged.
Gratian had been as careless as at Seville, and the same
difficulties repeated themselves. The Council of Trent
had insisted that all new convents should be endowed.
The Archbishop of Burgos stood by the condition, and
no endowment had been provided. Teresa was too ill to
return to Avila. Month after month passed by. A wet
autumn was followed by a wetter winter. Terms weie
arranged at last with the Archbishop. A builJing was
found which it was thought would answer for the
convent, and Teresa removed to it; but it was close to
the water-side, and half in ruins. The st;irs shone and
the rain poured through the rents of the roof in the
garret where she lay. The river rose. The lower story
of the house was floodeil. The sisters, who watched
SATNT TERESA. 235
day and nii;ht by ber bod, bad to dive into tbe kitcbeu
fui- the soaked crusts of bread for their own food and
hers. The communication with the town beings cut off,
they were nearly starved. Friends at last swam across
and brought relief. Wben the river went back, the
ground floors were deep in stones and gravel.
Sister Anne of St. Bartholomew, who was herself
afterwards canonised, tells the rest of the story. When
spring came the weather mended. Teresa was slightly
stronger, and, as her own part of the work at Burgos was
finished, she was able to move, and was taken to Valla-
dolid. But it was only to find herself in fresh ti'ouble.
One of her brothers had left his property to San Josefs.
The relations disputed the will, and an angry lawyer
forced his way into her room and was rude to her. She
was in one of her own houses, where at any rate she
might have looked for kindness. But the prioress had
gone over to her enemies, shown her little love or
reverence, and at last bade her 'go away and never
return.'
She went on to Medina. She found the convent in
disorder ; she was naturally displeased, and found fault.
Since the legal establishment of the De.scalzos, she had
no formal authority, and perhajjs she was too imperious.
The prioress answered impertinently, and Teresa was
too feeble to contend with her. Twenty years had
passed since that gipsy drive from Avila, the ruined
courtyard, the extemporised altar, and the moonlight
watch of the sacrament. It had ended in this. She
was now a broken old woman, nnd her own children had
ajft SAINT TENESA.
t.iiriKMl ai^'ain.st Imt. SIio ate notliing. Slio lay all niglit
sleepless, and the next morning she left Medina. Siie
had meant to go to Avila, but slie was wanted for some
reason at Alva, and thither, in spite of her extreme
weakness, she was obliged to go. She set out before
breakfast with one faithful companion. They travelled
all day without food, save a few dried figs. They arrived
at night at a small pueblo, all exhausted, and Teresa
fainting ; they tried to buy an ^gg or two, but eggs
were not to be had at the most extravagant price.
Teresa swallowed a fig, but could touch nothing more.
Slie seemed to bo dying. Sister Anne knelt sobbing at
her side. * Do not cry,' she said ; ' it is the Lord's will.'
More dead than alive, she was carried the next day to
Alva. She was just conscious, but that was all. She
lay quietly breathing, and only seemed uneasy wlien
Sister Anne left her for a moment After a few hours
she laid her head on Sister Anne's breast, sighed lightly,
and was gone. It was St. Michael's day, 1582.
Nothing extraordinary was supposed to have hap-
pened at the time. A weak worn-out woman had died
of sutTerings which would have desti'oyed a stronger
frame. That was all. Common mortals die thus every
day. They are buried ; they are mourned for by those
who had cause to love them ; they arc then forgotten,
and the world goes on with its ordinary business.
Catholic saints are not left to rest so peacefully, and
something has still to be told of the fortunes of Teresa
of Avila. But we must first touch for a moment on
aspects of her character which wc have passed over in the
SAINT TERESA. iyj
rapid sketch of her life. It is the more necessary since
she lias been deified into an idol, and the tenderness,
the humour, the truth and simplicity of her human
nature, have been lost in her diviner glories. Many
volumes of her letters, essays, treatises, memoranda of
various kinds, survive in addition to her biography.
With the help of these we can fill in the lines.
She was not learned. Slie read Latin with difficulty,
and knew nothing of any other language, except her
own. She was a Spaniard to the heart, generous,
chivalrous, and brave. In conversation she was quick
and bright. Like her father, she was never heard to
speak ill of any one. But she hated lies, hated all
manner of insincerity, either in word or action. In
youth she had been tried by the usual temptations ;
her life had been spotless ; but those whose conduct has
been the purest are most conscious of their smaller
faults, and she had the worst opinion of her own merits.
The rule which she established for her sisterhoods was
severe, but it was not enough for her own necessities.
She scourged herself habitually, and she wore a
peculiarly painful hair-cloth; but these were for herself
alone, and she did not prescribe them to others. She
sent a hair shirt to her brother, and she bade him be
careful how he used it. ' Obedience,' she said, ' was
better than sacrifice, and health than penance.' One of
her greatest difficulties was to check the zeal of young
people who wished to make saints of themselves by
' force. A. prioress at Malaga had ordered the sisters
to strike one another, with a view to teaching them
23X SAINT TERESA.
liuruility. Tciosii said il wu.s ii suggestion of the devil.
' The sisters are not slaves/ she wrote ; ' mortifications
iire of no use in themselves; obedience is the first of
virtues, but it is not to be abused.' The prioress of
Toledo again drew a .sharp rebuke upon herself. She
ha<l told a sister who had troubled her with some
([uestion to go and walk in the garden. The sister went,
and walked and walked. She was mi sed the next
mornmf; at matins. Siie was still walkiir' Another
prioress gave the Penitential Psalms for a general dis-
cipline, and kept the sisters repeating them at irregular
hours. 'The poor things ought to have been in bed,'
Teresa wrote. ' They do what they are told, but it is
all wrouLj. Mortification is not a thing of oblif^ation.'
Gratian himself had to be lectured. He had been
inventing new ceremonies. ' Sister Antonia,' she wrote,
' has brought your orders, and they have scandalised
us. Believe me, father, we are well as we are, and want
no unnecessary forms. For charity's sake remember
this. Insist on the rules, and let that suflBce.' Gratian
had given injunctions in detail about dress and food,
' Do as you like,' she said, ' only do not define what our
shoes are to be made of. Say simply, we may wear
shoes, to avoid scruples. You say our caps are to be
of hemp — why not of flax ? As to our eating eggs, or
eating preserves on our bread, leave it to conscience.
Too much precision only does harm.'
Iler own undergarments, though scrupulously kept
clean, were of horse-cloth. She slept always on a sack
of straw. A biscuit or two, an ii^^g, a few peas and
SAINT TERESA. 239
beans, made her daily food, varied, perhaps, on feast-
days, with an egg aud a slice of fish, with grapes or
raisins.
Her constant trances were more a trial than a
pleasure to her. Slie writes to her brother : ' Buen
anda Nuestro Senor. — I have been in a sad state for
this week past. The fits have returned. They come
on me sometimes in public, and I can neither resist nor
hide them. God spare me these exhibitions of myself,
I feel half drunk. Pray for me, for such things do me
liarm. They have nothing to do with religion,'
Nothin<.r can be wiser than her general directions
foj the management of the sisterhoods. To the sisters
themselves she says : —
' Do not be curious about matters whicli do not concern you.
Say no evil of any one but yourself, and do not listen to any.
Never ridicule any one. Do not contend in words about things of
no consequence. Do not exaggerate. Assert nothing as a fact of
whicli you are not sure. Give no hasty opinions. Avoid empty
tattle. Do not draw comparisons. Be not singular in food or
dress ; and be not loud in your laughter. Be gentle to others,
and severe to yourself. Speak courteously to servants. Do not
note other people's faults. Note your own faults, and their good
points. Never boast. Never make excuses. Never do anything
wlien alone which you would not do before others.'
Her greatest difficulty was with the convent con-
fessors. Teresa had a poor opinion of men's capacities
for understanding women, * We women,' she said, ' are
not so easily read. Priests may hear our confessions for
, years and may know nothing about us. Women cannot
describe their faults accurately, and the confessor judges
240 SAINT TERESA.
l)y what they tell liiiii.' Slie liud a particular dislike
of melancholy women, who fancied that they had fine
sensibilities which were not understood or appreciated.
She found that confes.s(;rs became foolisldy interested in
such women, and confidences can)e, and spiritual com-
niuiiications of mutual feelings, wliich were nonsense
in themselves and a certain road to mischief. Teresa
})crhaps remembered some of her own experiences in
her excessive alarm on this point. She insisted that
the confessor should have no intercourse with any sister,
except officially, and in the confessional itself. At the
direction of her superiois, she wrote further a paper of
general reflections on the visitation of convents, which
show the same insiuht and ijood sense.
The visitor was the j^rovincial or the provincial's
vicar, and his business was to inspect each convent once
a year.
'The visitor,' she said, 'must have no partiality, and, above
all, no weakness or sentimentality. A superior must inspire fear
If he allows himself to be treated as an equal, especially by
women, his power for good has gone. Once let a wouum see that
he will pass over her faults out of tenderness, she will become
ungovernable. If he is to err, let it be on the side of severity.
He visits once only in a twelvemonth, and unless the sisters know
that at the end of each they will be called to a sharp reckoning,
discipline will be impossible. Prioresses found unfit for office
must be removed instantly. They may be saints in their personal
conduct, but they may want the qualities essential to a ruler, and
the visitor must not hesitate.
' He must look strictly into the accounts. Debt of any kind is
fatal. He must see into the work which each sister has done,
and how much she has earned by it. This will encourage
industry. Each room in the hou.se must be examined, the
SAINT TERESA. 241
parlour gi'atings especially, that no oue may enter unobserved.
The visitor must be careful too with the chaplains, learn to whom
each sister confesses, and what degree of comniuuication exists
between them. The prioress, as long as she retains office, must
always be supported. There can be no peace without authority,
and sisters sometimes think they are wiser than their superiors.
No respect must be shown for morbid feelings. The visitor must
make such women understand that, if they do wrung, they will
be punished, and that he is not to be imposed upon.
' As to the prioress, he must learn first if she has favourites ;
and he must be careful in this, for it is her duty to consult most
with the most discreet of the sisters ; but it is the nature of us
to overvalue our o-\\ti selves. When preference is shown, there
will be jealousy. The favourite will be supposed to rule the
Holy Mother : the rest will think that they have a right to
resist. Sisters who may be far from perfect themselves will be
ready enough to find fault. They will tell the visitor that the
prioress dues this and that. He will be perplexed what to think ;
yet he will do infinite harm if he orders changes which are not
needed. His guide must be the Rule of the Order, If he finds
that the prioress dispenses with the rule on insufficient grounds,
thinking this a small thing and that a small thing, he may be
sure that she is doing no good. She holds office to maintain the
rule, not to dispense with it,
' A prioress is obviously unfit who has anything to conceal.
The sisters must be made to tell the truth ; they will not directly
He perhaps, but they will often keep back what ought to be
known.
' Prioresses often overload the sisters with prayers and pen-
ances, so as to hurt their health. The sisters are afraid to com-
plain, lest they be thought wanting in devotion ; nor ought they
to complain except to the visitor. . . . The visitor, therefore,
must be careful about this. Especially let him be on his guard
against saintly prioresses. The first and last principle in manag-
ing women is to make them feel that they have a head over them
who will not be moved by any earthly consideration ; that they
are to observe their vows, and will be punished if they break
them ; that his visit is not an annual ceremony, but that he keeps
t his eye on the daily life of the whole establishment. Women
generally are honourable and timid ; they will think it wrung
B
242
SAINT TERESA.
BoinctiiiieH t<j rcpitit tlic jmorcHs's fuulUs. He will want all Lia
iliBcrcLioii.
'Hcehoiild ciuiuire about the singing in the choir ; it ought
not to be loud or unibilious ; line singing dieturbs devotion, and
the singers will like to be admired. He should notice the dresses
loo ; if he observe any ornament on a sister's dress, he should
burn it publicly. Tiiis will be a lesson to her. He should
nuike his inspection in the morning, and never stay to dinner,
though he be pressed ; he comes to do business, not to talk. If
he does stay, there must only be a modest entertainment. I
know not how to prevent excess in this respect, for our present
chief never notices what is put before him — whether it is good or
bad, much or little.^ I doubt whether he even understands.
'Finally the visitor must be careful how he shows by any
outward sign that he has u special regard for the prioress. If he
does, tlie sisters will not tell him what she really is. Each of
them knows that she is heard but once, while the prioress has
as much time as she likes for explanations and excuses. The
prioress may not mean to deceive, but self-love blinds us all. 1
have been myself taken in repeatedly by mother superiors, who
were such servants of God that I could not help believing them.
After a few days' residence, I have been astonished to find how
misled 1 have been. The devil, having few opportunities of
tempting the sisters, attacks the superiors instead. I trust none
of them till I have examined with my own eyes.'
Shrewder eyes were not perhaps in Spain. 'You
deceived mo in saying she was a woman,' wrote one of
Teresa's confessors. 'She is a bearded man.'
To return to her story. She died, as has been said,
at Alva, and there was nothing at first to distinguish
her departure from that of ordinary persons. Slie liad
fought a long battle. She had won the victory ; but
the dust of the conflict was still flying; detraction was
' Tills was meant as a hint to
Gratiiui, who was much too fond
of diuiiig with tho sisteiliouds.
Torhaiis much of the rest was also
iu tended for him.
SAINT TERESA. 243
still busy ; and honour with the best deserving is seldom
immediately bestowed. The air has to clear, the passions
to cool, and the spoils of the campaign to be gathered,
before either the thing accomplished or the doer's
merits can be properly recognised. Teresa's work was
finished; but she had enemies who hated her; half
friends who were envious and jealous ; and a world of
people besides, to say that the work was nothing very
wonderful, and that they could have done as well
themselves if they had thought it worth while. '
It is always thus when persons of genuine merit first
leave the earth. As long as they are alive and active
they make their power felt ; and when they are looked
back upon from a distance they can be seen towering
high above their contemporaries. Their contemjDoraries,
however, less easily admit the difference ; and when
the overmastering presence is first removed, and they
no longer feel the weight of it, they deny that any
difference exists.
Teresa wrs buried where she died. Spanish tombs
are usually longitudinal holes perforated in blocks of
masonry. The coffin is introduced ; the opening is
walled up, and a tablet with an inscription indicates and
protects the spot. In one of these apertures attached
to the Alva convent Teresa was placed. The wooden
coffin, hastily nailed together, was covered with quick-
lime and earth. Massive stones were built in after it,
and were faced with solid masonry. There she was left
to rest ; to be regarded, as it seemed, with passionate
affection by the sisters who survived her, and then to
244 SAINT TERESA.
tad*' into ;i slia<^low aud bu leineuibered uo more for
ever. Jiut the love of those sisters was too intense, and
their faith too deep. 'Cahininy/says Sir Artliur Helps,
' can make a cloud seem a mountain ; can even make
a cloud become a mountain.' Love and faith are no
less 2^*JWerful encliantcrs, and can convert into facts
the airy phantoms of the brain. The sisters "vvhen
they passed her resting-place paused to think of her
and her figure as it came back to them breathed frajj-
ranee sweet as violets. Father Gratian, who had been
absent from the deathbed, came on a visitation to the
convent nine months after. His imagination was as
active as that of the sisterhood : he perceived, not the
violet odour only, but a fragrant oil oozing between the
stones. The tomb was opened, the lid of the coffin was
found broken, and the earth had fallen through. The
face was discoloured, but the flesh was uncorrupted, and
the cause of the odour was at once apparent in the
ineffable sweetness which distilled from it. The body
was taken out and washed. Gratian cut off the left
liand and secured it for himself. Thus mutilated, the
body itself was replaced, and Gratian carried off his
prize, which instantly worked miracles. The Jesuit
Ribera, who was afterwards Teresa's biographer, and
had been present at the opening, saved part of the earth.
He found it 'sweet as the bone of St. La^vrence which
was preserved at Avila.' The story flew from lip to lip.
Gratian, zealous for the honour of the reformed branch
of the Carmehtes, called a chapter, and brought his
evidence before it tliat their founder was a saint.
SAINT TERESA. 245
Teresa's communications with the other world at once
assumed a more awful aspect. The chapter decided
that, as at Avila she was born, as at Avila she was first
admitted to converse with Christ, and as there was her
first foundation, to Avila her remains must be removed,
and be laid in the chapel of San Josef. The sisters at
Alva wept, but submitted. They were allowed to keep
the remnant of the arm from which Gratian had taken
off the hand. Other small portions were furtively
abstracted. The rest was solenmly transferred.
This was in 1585, three years after her death. But
it w^as not to be the end. The Alva family had the
deepest reverence for Teresa. The Great Duke was
gone, but his son who succeeded him, and his brother,
the Prince of St. John's, inherited his feelings. They
were absent at the removal, and had not been consulted.
When they heard of it, they held their town to have
been injured and their personal honour to have been
outraged. They were powerful. They appealed to
Rome, and were successful. Sixtus the Fifth, in 1586,
sent an order to give them back their precious posses-
sion, and Teresa, who had been a wanderer so long, was
sent again upon her travels. A splendid tomb had
been prepared in the convent chapel at Alva, and the
body, brought back again from Avila, lay in state in
the choir before it was deposited there. The chapel
was crowded with spectators : the Duke and Duchess
were present with a train of nobles, the Provincial
Gratian, and a throng of dignitaries, lay and ecclesiastic.
The features were still earth-stained, but wore other-
t46 SAINT TERRS A.
wiso unaltered. Tlio miraculous perfume was over-
powering. Ribora contrived to kiss the sacred foot,
and to toufh the remaining arm. He feared to wash
his hands afterwards, lest he should wash away the
fragrance; but he found, to his deliglit, that no washing
affected it. Gratian took another finger for himself; a
nun in an ecstasy bit out a portion of skin ; and for
this time the obsequies were ended. Yet, again, there
was another disentorabment, that Teresa might be
more magnificently coffined, and the General of the
Carmelites came from Italy tliat he might see her.
This time, the Pope had enjoined that there should be
no more mutilation; but nothing could restrain the
hunger of affection. Illustrious persons who were
present, in spite of Pope and decency, required relics,
and were not to bo denied. The General distributed
portions among the Alva sisterhood. The eye-witness
who describes the scene was made happy by a single
finger-joint. The General himself shocked the feelings
or roused the envy of the bystanders by tearing out an
entire rib. Then it was over, and all that remained of
Teresa was left to the worms.
But the last act had still to be performed. Spanish
opinion had declared Teresa to be a saint; the Church
had to ratify the verdict. Time had first to elapse for
the relics to work miracles in sufficient quantity, and
promotion to the highest spiritual rank could only be
gradual and deliberate. Teresa was admitted to the
lower degree of beatification by Paul the Fifth in 1 6 14.
She was canonised (relata into' Decs) eight years later
SAINT TERESA. 247
by Gregory the Fifteenth, in the company of St. Isidore,
Ignatius Loyola, Francis Xavier, and Philip Neri, If
a life of singular self-devotion in the cause of Catholic
Christianity could merit so lofty a distinction, no one
will challenge Teresa's claim to it. She had been an
admirable woman, and as such deserved to be remem-
bered. But she was to be made into an object of
popular worship, and evidence of mere human excel-
lence was not sufficient. A string of miracles were
proved to have been worked by her in her lifetime,
the witnesses to the facts being duly summoned and
examined. Her sad, pathetic death-scene was turned
into a phantasmagoria. Old people were brought to
swear that the Convent Church had been mysteriously
illuminated ; Christ and a company of angels had stood
at the bedside to receive the parting soul; and th«
room had been full of white floating figures, presumed
to be the eleven thousand virgins. Others said that a
white dove had Hown out of her mouth when she died,
and had vanished through the window; while a dead
tree in the garden was found next morning covered
with white blossom.
The action of the relics had been still more
wonderful. If cut or punctured they bled. They
had continued uncorrupted. They were still fragrant.
A cripple at Avila had been restored to strength by
touching a fragment; a sister at Malaga with three
cancers on her breast had been perfectly cured — with
much more of the same kind.
Next the solemn doctors examined Teresa's cbarac-
S48 SAINT TERESA.
ter, licr virtues of the first degree, lior virtues of tlie
secoud degree, the essentials of saTidilas in specie.
Faith, Hope, Cliarity, love of Christ, were found all
satisfactory. Her tears at the death of Pius the Fifth
])roved her loyalty to the Church. The exceptional
features fallowed, her struggles with the cacodjEmon, her
stainless chastity, her voluntary poverty, her penance,
her whip, her hair-cloth, her obedience, her respect for
priests, her daily communion, her endurance of the
devil's torments, and, as the crown of the whole, her
intercourse with San Josef, the Virgin, and her Son.
Her advocate made a splendid oration to the Pope.
The Pope referred judgment to the Cardinals, Arch-
bishops, and Bishops, whose voices were unanimou.s,
and Teresa was declared a member of the already
glorified company to whom prayers might lawfully be
uttered.
Teresa's image still stands in the Castilian churches.
The faithful crowd about her with their offerings, and
dream that they leave behind them their aches and
pains; but her words were forgotten, and her rules
sank again into nesrlect. The Church of Rome would
have done better in keeping alive Teresa's spirit than
in converting her into a goddess. Yet the Church of
Rome IS not peculiarly guilty, and we all do the same
thing in our own way. When a great teacher dies who
haa told us trutlis which it would be disagreeable to act
upon, we write adoring lives of him, we place him in
the intellectual pantheon ; but we go on as if he had
never lived at all. We put up statues to him as if that
SAINT TERESA. 249
would do as well, and the prophet who has denounced
idols is made an idol himself. Yet good seed scattered
broadcast is never wholly wasted. Though dying out
in Spain and Italy, the Carmelite Sisterhoods are
reviving in Northern Europe, and they owe such life
as they now possess to Teresa of Avila. The nuns of
Compiegne, who in 1794 fell under the displeasure
of Robespierre, were Carmelites of Teresa's order.
Vergniaud and his twenty-two companions sang the
Marseillaise at the scaffold, the surviving voices keeping
up the chorus, as their heads fell one by one till all
were gone. Teresa's thirteen sisters at Compiegne
sang the 'Veni Creator' as the knife of the Convention
made an end of them, the prioress singing the last
verse alone amidst the bodies of her murdered flock.
THE TEMPI. A KS.
I.
I HAVE chosen, I fear, a somewhat remote subject
for these lectures,^ and the remoteness is not the
only objection. I might have gone farther back, and
yet been nearer to our modern interests. I might
have given you an account, had I known anything
about the matter, of the people who lived in the pile-
dwellings in the Swiss lakes; or of the old sea-rovers
who piled up the kitchen-middens on the shores of the
Baltic; or I might have gone back to the primaeval
missing link between us and the apes, the creatures
who split the bones which we find in Kent's Cavern,
and were the contemporaries of the cave-bears and the
big cats who then lived in these islands. In talking
about any of these I should have been on a level with
modern curiosity. We are all eager to know more
about these ancestors of ours, since Darwin has thrown
doubts upon our supernatural origin. At any rate,
' These papers were originally lectures delivered at Edinburgli
before the Philosophical lustitutiou in 1S85.
THE TEMPLARS. 251
however, I shall not ask you to go so far back with me
by a good many thousand years. The military Orders
of the Middle Ages, if different from ourselves, are but
creatures of yesterday in comparison, and there is an
interest even of a scientific kind in observinoj the
strangely varied forms wliich human nature is capable
of assuming. Whatever has come out of man lies
somewhere in the character of man. Human nature
is said to be always the same ; but it is the same only
in the sense that the crab apple and the endless
varieties of garden apples are the same. Analyse the
elements and you find them to appearance the same.
There is some force in the seed (we cannot tell what)
which makes one plant a crab and another a fruit-tree.
Tn the man the difference lies in the convictions which
he entertains about his origin, his duties, his responsi-
bilities, his powers. With him, too, there is an original
vital force which will make each individual something
different from his neighbour ; but the generic type is
formed by his creed. As his belief, so is his character.
According to his views of what life is given him for,
he becomes a warrior, a saint, a patriot, a rascal, a
sensualist, or a comfortable man of business, who keeps
his eye on the main chance, and does not go into
dreams. And as you look along the ages you see a
tendency in masses of men to drift into one or other of
these forms.
Carlyle tells of a conversation at which he was once
present in this city more than fifty-six years ago. Some
one was talking of the mischief which beliefs had pro-
S51 THE TEMPLARS.
ducc<l in the world. 'Yes,' Carlyle said 'belief hab
done much evil ; but it has done all the good.' Wo do
not, we cannot certainly know what we are, or where we
are going. But if we believe nobly about ourselves, we
have a chance of living nobly. If we believe basely,
base we shall certaiidy become.
In a lecture which I had once the honour of addres.s-
ing you in this place I spoke of the effect of the Re-
formation on the Scotch character. I described it as
like turning iron into steel. There had been steel
enough before among the lairds and barons, but the
people had been soft metal : they followed their chiefs,
going this way and that way as they were told. After
Knox's time they had wills of their own, and we all
know what they became. The military Orders about
whom I am now to speak grew into a shape at least
equally noticeable. Their history is extremely curious.
It raises the most intricate questions as to the value of
historical evidence. , It illustrates both sides of helicf,
the good of it and the evil of it. I speak of Orders, but
I shall confine myself to one — to the Order of the
Templars. There were three great military Orders —
the Templars, the Knights Hospitallers, and the Teu-
tonic Knights. Other smaller bodies of the same kind
grew up beside them ; but it was in the Templars that
the idea, if I may call it so, was perfectly realised.
To understand them is to understand the whole
subject.
Scotch and English people, when they hear ot
Templai-s, all think instinctively of Brian de Bois
THE TEMPLARS. 253
Guilbeit. In Sir Brian a Templar stands before us,
or seems to stand in flesh and blood, and beside him
stands Scott's other Templar, Sir Giles Amaury, the
Grand Master, in ' The Talisman.' No one can doubt
that we have here real men, as distinct as genius could
produce. The Germans say that when a genuine char-
acter has been brought into being, it matters nothing
whether such a figure ever existed in space and time.
The creative spirit has brought him forth somehow, and
he belongs thenceforward to the category of real exis-
tences. Men, doubtless. Sir Brian and Sir Giles both
were ; but Scott, like Homer, sometimes slept. They
were men, but in one important respect, at least, they
were not Templars. Rebecca calls Sir Brian a perjured
priest. Sir Giles Amaury hears Conrad's confession
before he gives him absolution with his dagger. The
Templars were not priests; they were laymen as much
as kings and barons. Tliey bound themselves by the
three monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedi-
ence. They were, as a religious Order, subject to the
Pope, and soldiers of the Church. Other orders they
had none. They had chaplains affiliated, who said mass
for them and absolved them. But these chaplains were
separate and subordinate. They could hold no rank in
tlie society. Grand Masters, preceptors, priors, were
always lay. They were a new thing in Christendom, as
St. Bernai'd said. The business of priests was to pray.
The business of the knights was to pray too, but only as
all other men prayed. Their peculiar work was to fight.
Sii- Walter was an Episcopalian, but owing, perhaps, to
154 I'lfE TEM/'/..4A'S.
his Nortli-Britisli training, lie never ctjinpletely appre-
hended tlio great mystery of apostolical succession. To
him a monk was a priest. We in this generation, who
have learnt the awful nature of the difference, must
clear our minds of that error, at any rate.
Now for what the Temj)Iars were.
A good many of us have probably been in the Temple
Church in London. The Templars were famous for the
beauty of their churches, and this particular church,
now that the old pews have been cleared out, is almost in
the condition in which they left it. In the ante-chapel
there lie on the floor the figures of nine warriors, repre-
sented, not as dead or asleep, but reclining as they
might have reclined in life, modelled all of them with
the highest contemporary art, figures that have only to
rise to their feet to stand before us as they actually were
when quick and breathing on earth. The originals of
them, if they are rightly named, were not themselves
Templars : they were great Barons and Statesmen. But
they were associates of the Order, and in dress and
appearance doubtless closely resembled them. They
are extremely noble figures. Pride is in every line of
their features, pride in every undulation of their forms ;
but it is not base, personal pride. There is the spirit
in them of the soldier, the spirit of the saint, the spirit
of the feudal ruler, and the spirit of the Catholic
Church — as if in them was combined the entire genius
of the age, the pride of feudalism and the pride of
the Church, the pride of a soul disdainful of all
personal case or personal ambition.
THE TEMPLARS. 255
That they were placed where tliey are, and that they
were allowed to remain there, is at least some indication
that the charges on which the Templars were condemned
found no belief in England. The monuments of the
Pembrokes would never have been allowed to remain in
a scene which had been desecrated by unimaginable
infamies. What the charges were, and how the Order
fell, it will be my business to tell you. I have no cause
to defend, or sympathy to tempt me to make out a case
one way or the other. The Templars in Europe, if they
had been allowed to survive, would have become the
Pope's Janissaries, and so far as I have any special lean-
ing in those mediaeval quarrels, it is towards the Civil
Powers and not towards the Church. I believe that it
would have been worse for Europe, and not better, if the
Popes had been able to maintain their pretensions. If it
had really been made out that there was as much vice in
tlie Templars' houses as there undoubtedly was among
the other celibate Orders, there would have been nothing
in it to surprise me, and it would have interfered with
no theory of mine. So now I will go on with the story.
The Templars grew out of the Crusades — that
supreme folly of the Middle Ages, as it is the fashion
now to call them. For myself, I no more call the Cru-
sades folly tban I call the eruption of a volcano folly, or
the French Revolution folly, or any other bursting up of
the lava which lies in nature or in the hearts of man-
kind. It is the way in which nature is pleased to shape
the crust of the earth and to shape human society.
256 THE TEMrLARS.
( )ui hiisiiiess with these things is to understand them,
not to sit in judgment on them.
In the eleventh century u great wave of religious
enthusiasm passed over Christendom. Men had ex-
pected that the world would end at the year IGOO.
When it did not end, and went on as before, instead of
growing careless, they grew more devout. The Popes
under the influence of this pious emotion, acquired a
universal ami practical authority, such as had never
before been conceded to them. Religion became the
ruling principle of life to an extent which has never
perhaps been equalled, save in Protestant countries in the
century which succeeded the Reformation. There was
then one faith in Western Christendom, one Church, and
one Pope. The creed, if you please, was alloyed with
superstition, but the power of it, so long as the super-
stition was sincere, was not less on that account, but
was greater; and Christendom became capable of a
united action which had not before been possible. In
times when religion is alive Christianity is not a history,
but a personal experience. Christ himself was supposed
to be visibly present on the altar of every church and
chapel. His mother, the apostles, and the saints were
actively at work round the daily life of every one. The
particular part of the earth where the Saviour had been
born and had lived, where the mystery of human
redemption had been wrought out, where occurred all
the incidents which form the subject of the Gospel
story, Nazareth and Capernaum, Bethlehem and Jeru-
THE TEMPLARS. 257
saleni; acquired a passionate interest in proportion to
the depth of the belief.
People didn't travel in those days for amusement.
There was no Mr. Cook to lead them in flocks over the
globe, or Murray's Handbooks, or omnibuses making
the round of the Pyramids, but they travelled a great
deal for their own purposes ; they travelled to scenes of
martyrdom and to shrines of saints; they travelled for
the good of their souls. We cfo ourselves to Stratford-
on- A von, or to Ferney, or to Abbotsford ; some of us
go already to Ecclefechan and Craigenputtock, and the
stream in that direction will by-and-by be a large one.
Multiply the feeling which sends us to these spots a
thousandfold, and you may then conceive the attractions
which the Holy Places in Palestine had for Catholic
Christians in the eleventh century. Christ was all
which gave the world and their own lives in it any real
significance. It was not a ridiculous feeling on their
part, but a very beautiful one. Some philosopher after
reading the Iliad is said to have asked, ' But what
does it prove ? ' A good many people have asked of
what use pilgrimages were. It depends on whether
we have got souls or not. If we have none, the Iliad is
a jumble of nonsense, and the pilgrim's cockle-shell was
no better than a fool's cap and bells. But the prevailing
opinion for the present is, that wc have souls.
From the beginning there had been pilgrimages to
the Holy Places. Even after the Saracens had con-
quered Palestine the caliphs had so far respected Chris-
tian piety as to leave the Holy Sepulchre undesecrated
258 THE TEMPLARS.
uihI .illow pil^'rinis to go and come unmolested. But
tlie calii>li.s' <Mnj>irc was now disturbed by the wild
tribes from the, north behind the Caspian Sea, wIkj had
)iomt'd down into Syria. New and fiercer bands of
M.ihonirtans had possession of Palestine, and just when
Europe was under the influence of tbc most powerful
reliffious emotion, and had become able to combine to
give effect to it, the Seljuks, Turcomans, miscellaneous
Arabian robbers, became masters of the one spot on
earth which was most sacred in the eyes of the western
nations, and the pilgrims had no longer access to it.
With a single impulse Christian Europe rose. They
rushed blindly at their object, without preparation,
without provision, half of them without arms, tnisting
that as they were on God's service God would pro-
vide. Famine, disease, the sword swept them away
in multitudes, and multitudes more followed, to die
like the rest. The Crusades altogether are supposed
to have cost six million lives, some say ten, but the end
was for a time attained. In the last decade of the
eleventh century Godfrey of Bouillon fought his way
into Palestine with sixty thousand princes, peers, knights,
and their own personal followers. He took Jerusalem.
He made a Latin kingdom of it. For eighty-seven years
the Holy City was ruled by a Christian sovereign;
Palestine was distributed into fiefs, to be held by
knights serving under the King of Jerusalem ; and
Christian Europe believed that it had done its duty.
Alas ! it had but half done it. The object was to open
the Holy Places again to western piety. Jerusalem
TPIE TEMPLARS. 259
might be Christian, but the country between Jerusalem
and the sea swarmed with bands of roving Bedouins.
The pilgrims came loaded with offerings, and fell as a
rich prey to robbers at every turn of the road. The
crusading knights in their iron coats could meet armies
in the field, and take towns which could not run away ;
they could build castles and portion out the districts,
and try to rule on the European system ; but Europe
was not Asia, and they could as little brush away the
Saracen banditti as they could brush away the mosqui-
toes. So it went on year after year, and Jerusalem was
hardly more accessible to pious devotees than it had been
before the conquest.
At last in the very spirit and genius of the age, a
small company of young French nobles volunteered
their services as a pilgrim's guard. It was a time
when all great work was done by volunteers. There
was already a hospital volunteer service like our own
modern Red Cross. The Crusaders had suffered miser-
ably from wounds and sickness. A company of
Hospitallers had been established with its head-quarters
at Jerusalem, who grew afterwards into the Knights of
St. John.
Exactly on the same principle there was formed a
fighting company, who undertook to keep the road
between Acre and Jerusalem. The originators of it
were two young French knights of noble birth, Hugh
de Payens and Godfrey of St. Omer. They found
seven others ready to join them, all like themselves of
high rank, who had won their spurs in the battle-field.
afo THE TEMPLARS.
Tlicy called tliciiiselvcs poor brothers in Christ. They
devoted themselves to Chri.st's service and his mother's.
Tliey took vows in the presence of the Patriarch, vows
of the usual kind, to cut themselves ofif from all worldly
interests j the vow of poverty, the vow of chastity, the
vow of absolute obedience to the Patriarch, and to the
one among them whom they should choose as their
head. Thus organised, they took the field as mounted
police on the pilgrims' road.
The palace of the Latin kings was on the site of
Solomon's Temple. A wing of it was set apart as a
pilgrims' iiome, and as the home and station of their
guards. The knights had their suite of rooms, with
appointments for their horses and servants, and it was
from this that they took their name as Brothers of
tlie Order of the Temple. The Church of the Holy
Sepulchre was their chapel. They had a Gothic hall
with lances in rack, and suits of armour hanging on the
Avails, and long swords, and crossbows, and battleaxes —
very strange objects in the Temple of Jerusalem, almost
as strange as the imaginary Gothic castle in the moun-
tains above Sparta to which Faust and Mephistopheles
transported Helen of Troy.
It was here and thus that the Knight-Templars,
who were so soon to fill so large a place in the world,
began their existence — nine young gentlemen whose
sole object in life was to escort pious souls to the scene
of Christ's sufferings and resurrection. So much belief
was able to do. Their life was spent in fighting.
They had a battle-cry by which to know each other —
THE TEMPLARS. 261
Bcauc^ant, as we know from ' Ivanlioe ' ; but what
Beauc^ant meant, no one can tell with certainty. It
was, I believe, a cry of the Burgundian peasantry — a
sort of link with the old home.
Every prince and baron had his armorial bearings.
The Templars had theirs, though again we are astray
for a meaning. It was two knights riding on one horse,
and has been supposed to indicate their original poverty.
But two knights on a single horse would have made
but poor work with the light-armed and lightly
mounted Bedouins ; and we know, besides, that each
knight had two or three horses with servants to wait on
him and them. Some think it meant brotherly love ;
some that it was a badge of humility and simplicity.
But this is guesswork ; the Templars were not clerks,
and have left no explanatory records behind them ; when
they perished, they perished entirely, and scarcely any
documents of their own survive to gratify our curiosity.
Anyway, it is clear that, though individually vowed to
poverty, they were supplied either by the King or out
of their own combined resources with everything that
was necessary to make their work effective. The only
fault among them was that they were too few for the
business which they had undertaken.
But enthusiasm was contagious in those days.
These Brothers of the Temple made a noise in Europe ;
the world talked about them. Popes and bishops sang
their praises. Other earnest youths were eager to join.
The Order was like a seed thrown into a soil exactly
prepared for it. So far there were but nine knights
362 THE TEMPLAR!^.
Iicld together by their own wills and their own vow».
It was (lesirahlo to give them more cohesion and an
cnduriuL' form. One of the nine was a kinsman of
St. Bernard of Clairvaux. At the end of nine years, in
1 1 27, there was to be a great Church Council held at
Troye.s. Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, sent two of tlie
brethren to Europe to see St. Bernard, to see if possible
Pope Houorius, to give an account to the Council of
themselves and their doings, and to learn if it would
be possible to enlarge their numbers. Evidently Kirig
Baldwin thought that if he was to hold Palestine he
must have a military force of some kind for constant
service. The Crusades were single efforts, exhausting
and expensive. The Christian nobles came at their
own cost ; they fought gallantly, but if they were not
killed they went home after their first campaign. The
Holy Land could not be held thus. An organised
army, with paid troops, and regimental chests, and a
commissariat, was out of harmony with the time. If
the enthusiasm of Europe was to take a constant
form, it could take effect bost in a religious military
Order, to be sustained in perpetuity as a permanent
garrison.
St. Bernard received his visitors with open arms.
He carried them to the Pope. The Pope gave them
his blessing and sent them on to the Council. The
Council gave them a Charter, as we may call it, and
formed them into an Order of regulars; and at once,
from all parts of Europe, hundreds of gallant young
men came forward to enter the ranks. The Pope had
THE TEMPLARS. 263
promised heaven to all who would take the Cross
against the infidels. Service in person could be com-
muted in favour of any one who would give lands to
support the Knights of the Holy Brotherhood. The
kings took up the cause. Hugh de Payens came back
in person ; he was received in Paris ; he was received
in London by our first Henry. Rich manors were
settled on the Order in France, in England, in Spain,
and in Germany. Priories were founded on each estate,
to be as depots to a regiment, where novices could be
received and learn their duties, and from which they
could be passed on to the Holy Land as their services
were required. The huge torrent of crusading enthu-
siasm was, as it were, confined between banks and made
to run in an even channel.
A regular Order required a rule, and St. Bernard
drew up a rule for the Knights of the Temple. There
was now, he said, to be a war the like of which had
never been seen before ; a double war against the whole
powers of the devil in the field of battle and in the
heart of man. The rule of the Templars had, of course,
to be something different from the rules of the Bene-
dictines and Cistercians. They were not humble men
of peace, meek recluses whose time was divided between
cloister and garden, whose chief duty was to sing masses
for the souls of erring mankind. They were soldiers to
whom peace was never known, who were to be for ever
in the field on desperate and dangerous errands. They
were men of fiery temper, hot of blood, and hard of
hand, whose sinew had to be maintained in as nnich
^ THE TEMrLARS.
efficiency as their si)iiits. Tiiey were all nobly born,
too ; younger sons of dukes, and counts, and barona
Very curious to look at, for we can see in them what
noble blood meant at the time when the aristocracy rose
to the command of Europe.
If you please, therefore, we will look at this rule of
theirs. It lias not come down to us precisely as St.
Bernard drew it up. It received additions and altera-
tions as the Order enlarged. In essentials, however,
the regulations remained unchanged as they had been
at the becrinninc;. St, Bernard was a Cistercian. He
followed as far as he could his own pattern. The
Templars were to be purely self-governed. The head
was called the Grand Master. They chose him them-
selves, and he was to reside always at the post of
danger, in Palestine. Under him were Preceptors —
four or five in each of the great nations of Europe.
Under them were Priors, the superiors of the different
convents of the Order. All these officers were knishts,
and all laymen. The knights, as I said, took the three
monastic vows. They abjured all personal property ;
they swore to remain pure; they swore to obey the
order of their superiors without question, without hesit-
ation, as if it came from God. We need not think
this servile. Even in our own days of liberty such
obedience is no more than is required of every officer
and private in a modern array. Except in battle, their
dress was a white cloak, on which a red cross was after-
wards embroidered ; white signifying chastity. Unless a
knight remained chaste he could not see God. He had
THE TEMPLARS. 265
no lady-love in whose honour he could break a lance iu
the tournament, he had not even an imaginary Dulcinea,
like Don Quixote, or a Gloriana, like the Paladins of
King Arthur's court. The only woman to whom a
Templar might devote himself was the Queen of
Heaven. They were allowed no ornaments ; hair and
dress were to be kept plain and simple. Abundant
food was provided for them, meat and wine and bread
and vegetables. And there is a very curious provision
that they were to eat in pairs, each pair at a single
board, that one knight might keep watch over the
other, and see that he ate his dinner properly, and did
not fast. To fast it seems was a temptation, to eat and
drink a penance.
Besides the general servants of the house, eacli knight
had a special attendant of liis own. The knight was
forbidden to speak sharply to him, and was specially
foi'bidden to strike him.
Religious duties were strictly prescribed, but were
modified by good sense. The knights, as a rule, were
to attend the regular chapel services ; but if they had
been out on duty at night they were let off matins, and
might say their prayers in bed. If they had done any-
thing wrong or foolish they were to confess to the Grand
Master or head of the house ; if it was a breach of
discipline the head of the house set tliem a penance ; if
it was a sin they were sent to a priest, who at first was
a secular outside the Order. They had little leisure ;
their chief occui)ation was war. When not in the field
they had their arms and horses to look after, which they
a66 THE TE Mr LARS.
were allowed to bii}' for Lliemsclves, charging the account
to tho house.
Except by leave of the superior, they were to hold
no correspondence with any one in the outer world, not
even with mothers, sisters, or brothers. No brother of
the Order might walk about alone, or, when in a town,
go into the streets, unless with leave asked and given.
Fighting men had hot blood, and Jiut bl(jod required
to be restrained. Even an angry word spoken by
one to another was instantly punished, and so was all
light talk, especially when it turned on the other sex.
If a brother of the Temple wanted to converse, it
must be on serious or, at least, rational subjects.
The most innocent amusements were considered
trifling, and were not to be encouraged. A Templar
was not to hunt, or hawk, or shoot, still less to play
idle games. One exception only was made : it is a
very noticeable one, and had not escaped Sir Walter.
In Syria and Palestine there were still wild beasts, as
there had been in David's time. St. Bernard could
not permit liis Templai's to hunt deer or net partridges;
he did, however, by special statute, allow them to hunt
lions. And, mind, those were not days of repeating
rifles and explosive bullets : it was man and lion face
to face, with spear and knife against teeth and claws.
The lion no doubt in St. Bernard's mind was a type of
the adversary; to hunt the lion was to hunt Satan.
None the less, just as he had taken care that they
should eat and drink enough, and not emaciate them-
selves like intending saints, so he would have them
THE TEMPLARS. 267
men at all points, and give them sport, too, so long
as it was dangerous, and needed courage.
We have travelled far since those days. The taste
for sport still survives among us, and along with it at
bottom there is, I dare say, in our young aristocrats as
firm a temper and as high a spirit as in those young
pupils of the Abbot of Clairvaux, were there any
modern abbots who could give their lives a meaninsf
and a purpose suited to our own times. I heard the
other day of a very fine young fellow, who in the
twelfth century might have been spearing lions and
escorting pilgrims auiong the Templars, performing
the extraordinary exploit of shooting fifty brace of
grouse in twenty-five minutes on some moor in York-
shire ; and the feat was considered so memorable that a
granite column was erected on the spot to commemorate
it. Some modern St. Bernard seems to me to be
desperately needed,
I will mention one more point in the rule of the
Templars. It was customary in those days when men
of rank Avere taken in battle to hold them to ransom,
the price of redemption being measured by their
wealth. The Templars had no personal wealth ; and
the wealth of the Order was to bo spent in God's
service, not in man's. If a Templar was taken by the
Saracens no ransom was to be paid for him ; he was to
be left to his fate. His fate invariably was to be offered
the alternative of the Koran or the sword ; and there
is scarcely a recorded instance in which a Templar
saved his life by abandonin<f his faith.
268 THE TEMPLARS.
I have said enough about these rules to sliow what
sort of people the Templars were at the time when
they began their career as a regular Order. Their
numbers increased with extraordinary rapidity, A
special branch was established in Aragon, where they
could fight tlie Moors without leaving Europe. Hugli
de Paycns took three hundred knights back with idni
to Palestine, and if they wanted fighting he gave tiiem
enough of it. In every battle the Templars were in
the front. Five years after nearly every one of the
three hundred had been killed. Popes and bishops
glorified them as martyrs, and the ranks filled faster
than death could empty them. They were the passion
and the ailmiratinn of the whole Christian world.
II.
As time went on, and the first enthusiasm passed away,
the Templars became a political and spiritual force in
the European system. The Grand Master took rank
among the peers in the councils of princes, and in
ordinary times he had the command of the military
defence of Palestine. The kingdom of Jerusalem was
never the stablest of monarchies ; but even the
Saracens were sometimes exhausted. There were
intervals of truce, intervals of peace; negotiations and
treaties had to pass between the Christian and the
Moslem powers. The conduct of these negotiations
THE TEMPLARS. 269
fell to the Templars, and between them and the
Saracens there grew up some kind of acquaintance.
Having their home in the East they got to know the
Eastern character. It was alleged afterwards that in
this way their faith became corrupted. Scott has taken
this view in his character of Sir Brian. Whether it
was so or not I shall consider by-and-by. Nothing to
their discredit can be concluded from the fact of the
intercourse, because it was inevitable. Nor was any
suspicion of the kind ever breathed till the eve of
their fall. All that appears for certain is that, being
soldiers, they became statesmen also, and the general
experience is that soldiers make very good statesmen.
Only this is to be observed, that they became more
closely connected with the Popes, and the Popes with
them. For the first thirty years they were subject to
the Patriarchs of Jerusalem, while secular priests,
under the patriarchs' authority, heard their confessions
and said mass for them. As a reward for their services
the Popes relieved them from the patriarchs' jurisdiction,
and took them specially to themselves. In their houses
and on their domains in Europe they were exempted
from all authority except that of Rome. No bishop
anywhere was allowed to interfere with them. Instead
of secular priests they were permitted to have special
chaplains, ordained by bishops, but subject, after their
introduction, to the rule of the Temple only. They
were entirely isolated from all the other regulars. No
brother of the Temple might leave it and become a
Benedictine ; and the more separate they became the
STo THE TEMPLARS.
ampler the privileges wliinli the Popes seemed delighted
to heap upou them. Many tliousands of them by this
time were spread over France, and England, and Spain.
Their lands were released from tithe; no priest or
bishop's officer could levy tax or rate on a Templar's
manor, while the Templars on their side might take
the tithe which the priests looked on as their own. No
prelate, no prince even, might put a Templar on his
oath, or call on him for any feudal service. Popular
as they had been at the beginning, the extraordinary
favour with which the Popes honoured them began to
be looked on with jealousy and resentment. And they
had another privilege, peculiarly irritating to the
bishops, and even to the Benedictines and Cistercians,
who thought that if conferred on one Order it should
have been conferred on all. Those who are acquainted
with the state of Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries know generally what an interdict meant.
Wiien any country or province was under an interdict
the churches were closed, the church services were
suspended ; the young could not get married, the sick
could not be absolved, the dead could not be buried in
consecrated ground, but lay in ditches like dogs ;
human life stood suspended as if under a horrible
curse. You may think so frightful a sentence was
only issued on extraordinary occasions. On the
contrary, it was the bishops' universal weapon, the
instrument of their power, the unfailing fountain of
their revenue, for an interdict once issued was not
ca.sily raised till every person in the province had bled
THE TEMPLARS. 271
for it. When bishops and nobles quarrelled, when
archbishops quarrelled with bishops, or quarrelled with
their flocks, tliey launched their interdicts like thunder-
bolts, striking whole districts without discrimination.
To the astonishment and rage of these great persons
the manors of the Templars were made a land of
Goshen, which the plague could not touch. Nor was
this all. Wherever any Templar went on business of
the Order the interdict was suspended, the church bells
rang out, the sacraments were dispensed to the flocks,
the bodies of the dead could be laid peacefully in
hallowed graves. It was even believed, so bitter was
the animosity, that individuals who were excommuni-
cated were allowed to confess and receive absolution in
the Templars' chapels.
Thus protected, thus curtained round with exemp-
tions and securities, it is not to be wondered at that if
the rival clergy looked askance at the Templars, they
came to think considerably of themselves. They were
dangerous from their military strength ; they owed
allegiance to no earthly power, secular or spiritual,
except the Pope's. To the Popes they owed their
position, and in those long conflicts between the See of
Rome and the kings and emperors, they repaid the
Papacy by standing by it in all its quarrels. Princes
feared them, bishops hated them for their independence,
the clergy envied their liberties. They cared little;
they were rich, they were strong; their persons were
sacred. Being regarded so doubtfully, it is very re-
markable that for the two centuries during which they
272 THE TEMPr.ARS.
were in tlieir vigour, and down to the moment of
tlicir fall, you rarely find anywliere in the contemporary
monastic writers any moral scandals reported of them,
Giraldus Cambrensis and others are never weary of
drawing pictures of the gluttony and sensuality in the
monasteries. Abbots and priors, if you can believe
what is told by chroniclers and satirists, were wrapped
often in the seven deadly sins, and bishops were not
much better. But there is a curious silence about the
Templars. They are credited invariably with desperate
courage in the field. They are hardly ever, that I
remember, accused of being false to their vows, and,
undoubtedly, if there had been notorious ground for
scandal we should have heard enough of it. For we
do hear complaints of them of another kind, complaints
of them as laymen encroaching on churchmen's functions,
and of their overbearing ways. Now and then they
were rebuked, even by the Popes, for overstraining tlieir
privileges. Very generally, indeed, you find remarks
upon their haughty bearing. They had the double
loftiness in them of churchmen and warriors, loftiness
too great when single, when double past endurance.
You see it in all their actions, you see it in the lines
of those recumbent figures in the Temple Church, lines
fashioned by the habitual tone of their thoughts, and
perpetuated in stone by the artist wdio had seen antl
known them.
King Richard (our Coeur de Lion) being sick ouce
was attended by a French priest. The father spoke to
him especially of three questionable daughters that he
THE TEMPLARS. 273
had, called Avarice, Sensuality, and Pride. Richard
said, ' I have disposed of those three you speak of, I
have given my avarice to the Cistercians ; I have given
my sensuality ' (It is a well-known story, but the
authors differ on the recipient of this quality. Some
say to the Black Friars, some to the bishops, some to
the clergy. I fear the variety implies that it fitted
with each of them) ; but all agree on the last, that he
gave his pride to the Templars.
Proud they were, but with the pride of soldiers.
Always on the testimony of their worst enemies,
wherever there was fighting to be done with the
infidel the Templars were in the thickest of it. No
man ever knew a Templar a coward. Again and again
in Palestine, when their ranks were thin and the
Saracens hemmed them round in thousands, the
Templars stood till the last man of them fell on the
field, or fell afterwards for his faith if carried off a
wounded prisoner. Such fighting was rarely or never
seen among the bravest men that ever lived.
In 1 187, when Saladin destroyed the Christian
army near the Lake of Gennesareth, and when the
wood of the true cross which they had with them fell
into Saladin's hands, the Grand Master of the day and
a number of knights were taken prisoners. Saladin
admired their daring. He would have made them
princes of his own empire if they would have changed
their creed ; they all refused, and were all slain.
Yet the kings did not like tliem : they were always
too true to the Popes. The Templars were a thorn in
274 THE TEMPLARS.
the side of Occur du Lion. 1'liey were a thorn in the
side of the great Frederic the Second of Germany. I
need not ^'o tlirougli the details of their history. The
kin^'doin of Jerusalem lasted but eighty-seven years;
Saladin then took the Holy City, and the Templars
built themselves a great feudal castle near Acre, where
they continued to protect the pilgrims. Pilgrims*
Castle was the name of it — a palatial fortress like old
Windsor, vast, stern, and splendid. Here henceforth
were the headquarters of the Order. Here the Grand
Master held his chapters and ruled as a sovereign ;
hither came the fresh drauiihts of knights from the
European preceptories. Rich as they were, the austere
severity of their habits never seems to have been
relaxed. Their wealth was all expended upon the
wars; they were powerful but they stood apart from
all other men, loved by few and feared by all. They
had no personal ties : they had no national ties : their
nation was the Catholic Church : their chief was the
Holy Father, and his enemies Avere theirs. They were
in France, in England, in Scotland, in Spain, but they
were not French, or English, or Scots, or Spaniards.
They rarely mixed in any national struggles, and only
when the Pope's interests were concerned — as, for
instance, when they supported the legate, Pandulf,
against King John. From the nature of the case,
therefore, they could take no root in the national life
anywhere. They were maintained only by the surviv-
ing enthusiasm for the Crusades, and the unquestioned
constancy with which they upheld the Cross against
THE TEMPLARS. it%
the Crescent. Yet even in Palestine they were watched
with jealousy. They knew the country. From long
experience they knew the Arab nature ; and they had
become prudent. If left to themselves, they would
have made peace with the Soldans; they could have
secured the neutralisation of Jerusalem, and a peaceful
access to it for the pilgrims. But when they advised
anything of this kind tliey were accused of treacherous
correspondence with the enemy, and had to wipe the
charge out by fresh acts of desperate gallantry. They
would have saved the army of St. Louis in Egypt in the
last fatal Crusade, but their advice was not taken.
Tliey were suspected of bad faith. Sir William of
Sonnac, the Grand Master, when he could not be
listened to in the council of war (one of his eyes had
been dashed out in battle the day before, and the
socket was still bleeding), cried out : ' Beauceant to the
front ! The army is lost. Beauceant and death ! '
He and all his comrades fell sword in hand.
Surely those Templars were an extraordinary form
of human beings. Loved they could not be ; they were
anomalous, suited only to an anomalous state of things,
yet someway admirable too ; for, whatever else they
were, they could never have entered such an institution
for their own pleasure. Dangers were gathering about
them towards the end of the thirteenth century. Their
lands were sometimes plundered, and the law was slow
to help them. Bishops, in spite of Rome and its orders,
now and then excommunicated individual Templars,
and a Pope had to issue another angry bidl to protect
i^f^ THE TEAfPLARS.
tlicin. Kings began to (liink tliut they were too rich
.iiiil to covet some of their treasures. Our Henry the
Third toltl the Grand Preceptor of England that they
had beon indulged too much, and that he must have
money out of them. The Templars answered coldly
that the King spoke as one that was not wise, and that
the attempt might cost him his throne. It was their
own existence that was in peril, not the Crown's, if they
had known the truth of their position.
The meaning of them was as a garrison for Palestine.
Their strength was the service which they were render-
ing in the cause of the Crusades; and the Crusades
and all that they had accomplished were now coming
to an end.
The campaign of St. Louis in Egypt was the last
serious effort. After the defeat of St. Louis on the
Nile, the Crusading spirit died away. The fortresses
which the Christians held in the Holy Land fell one
by one, and at last, after two hundred years of fighting,
nothing was left of their conquests except the town of
Acre and the country for a few miles round. The
management of the defence rested on the Templars.
The European princes had professed to maintain a
garrison in Acre independent of them, but in 1289 the
Templars had to report that the garrison were a mere
company of vagabonds, ill fed and unpaid, and a
universal nuisance. There had been a peace of several
years with the Saracens, but the Acre soldiers plundered
the country indiscriminately. The Saracens could get
no redress. They declared war again, and this time
THE TEMPLARS. 2^7
they meant to rally all their strength and drive thie
Christians finally out. They came down on Acre with
150,000 men. The Grand Master took the command
of the miserable troops there, but against such a force
he could do nothing. Pilgrims' Castle was evacuated
and destroyed ; Acre was taken by storm : out of his
own five hundred Templars only ten escaped : the
garrison was destroyed, and the Holy Land from one
end to the other was once more in the hands of the
successors of Mahomet. The ten surviving Templars,
with a few of the Hospitallers, escaped to Cyprus,
which our Richard had taken one hundred years before.
They chose a new Grand Master, Jacques de Molay,
who was to prove their last. They refilled their ranks ;
they had saved their treasury, and they renewed the
war in Syria. But it was the feeble flicker of a dying
flame. The mission of the Templars in the East was
over. They held their vast estates for a purpose which
was no longer a reality, and it became a question what
was to be done with them.
In Europe they were still strong and formidable,
and to one of the great parties into which Europe was
divided they could still be extremely serviceable. The
Popes and the great powers of Europe had not yet
settled their long differences. The successor of St.
■Peter still pretended to Avield both the swords of the
Apostle. Boniface the Eighth was as firm a champion
of the pretensions of the Roman See to universal
sovereignty as the boldest of his predecessors. As the
military Orders were no longer reipiired in Palestine,
«78 THE TEMPLARS.
IJonilace perhaps conceived that they could be employed
no better than as soldiers of the Church at home. He
proposed, as Innocent the Third had proposed before,
to unite the three military Orders — Templars, Hospi-
tallers, and the Teutonic Knights — into a single body.
Could he succeed, he might then keep them in his own
hand, to bring princess to order, who, like Frederic
the Second of Germany, were not afraid of excom-
munication.
It was a daring scheme, and worthy of the head
which desi<:;ned it. If caiTied out, it might have
changed the face of Europe. The smaller Orders must
have been absorbed in the stronger, and the new organ-
isation would have been simply the Templars enlarged.
The Holy See could count with certainty on their
allegiance. Like the Jesuits, they had renounced all
natural ties ; they had no nation but the Church, and,
like the Jesuits also, tliey had been trained in habits of
unquestioning obedience. Their exceptional privileges
wero a retaining fee. They could keep these privileges
only by tiie Pope's favour and in virtue of the fear
which the Pope still inspired in the bishops and clergy
of the National Churches. No temptation could be
ofifered which would induce them to waver in their
dependence, and it is quite possible that if the Popes
could have secured to themselves the service of so
strong an arm, the theocratic despotism of the Gre-
gories and the Innocents might have been fixed for
some centuries longer on the kingdoms of Western
Christendom.
THE TEMPLARS. 279
Whether such a despotism would have been good
for mankind is another question. If the Popes were
infallibly wise, or infallibly good, or if they were wiser
and better than the civil authorities ; if, under their
rule, with the Templars to help them, the poor man
would have found more justice, and the wrongdoer have
been made to smart more surely for his sins, I, for one,
am not so much in love with liberty but that I could
have wished the Popes better success than they found.
We ought to welcome, all of us, the rule and authority
of those who have more knowledge of what is right and
good than ourselves.
If it was so; but the 'if is the difficulty. We
cannot be sure of this supreme excellence of the Popes
— at least some of us cannot. The intellectual revolt
was only beginning, but wherever Albigenses or other
speculative people were thinking for themselves, the
Popes had betaken themselves already to sword and
faggot. As to morals, princes might be wilful and
ambitious, and barons harsh, and law courts venal ; but
prelates, too, could be overbearing, and the Church
courts were no purer than the civil courts. Every-
mediaeval chronicler, every monastic annalist is for ever
declaiming at the avarice and rapacity of Rome.
If the Popes had reason for wishing to keep the
military Orders for their Janissaries, the French and
English kings and the German Emperor might reason-
ably enough regard such an arrangement with alarm.
I have the greatest admiration for the poor brothers
of the Temple. The fate which overtook them was as
aSo THE TEM PLANS.
undeserved as it was cniol. But Nature, or Providence,
or the tendencies of things, do as a fact sweep away
obstacles which stand in the way of human development
Institutions may loni; survive tlicir usefulness ; but they
are taken away when they become actively mischievous.
One could otdy wish that the process of taking them
away was not so often tainted with a violent injustice
which blinds us to the necessity of their removal.
Their proper work was gone. If work was to be
found for them in the future, it was to be as the armed
hand of the Papacy. But the Hildebrand theory of
tilings was near its close also. The struggle between
the Popes and the temporal princes was to end in a
compromise. The Popes were to have the .shadow, or
the spiritual .supremacy ; the civil powers were to have
the substance, and thus for such a body as the Templar.s
there was no place left. The kings in Europe intended
to be sovereign, each in his own dominions. The
Templars were, or might be, in the way. They had
vast revenues, which, now that the war in the East Avaa
over, they would be free to use for other aims and
ambitions. The national bishops and clergy resented
their arrogance, and were jealous of their inununities.
In some way or other the kings would find it necessary
to suppress them. But it was no easy task. They
were brave, they were nuble. As soldiers they were
the best organised in Europe. They were careless of
death, and ns long as they had the Popes at their back
it was quite certain that they would not fall without a
struggle, while the Popes could not in honour consent
THE TEMPLARS. 28 1
to the abolition of an Order whose only crime was too
great fidelity to the Holy See. It was accomplished by
making the Templars the victims of an extraordinary
accusation, which was intended to render them odious
to mankind, and the story is one of the most curious in
media3val history.
As a rule I think it unwise to attempt to ijo behind
the legal verdicts of distant ages. As a rule those who
have been convicted of great crimes were probably
guilty of them. Men have different ways of arriving at
truth, but it is generally truth which they aim at, and
so many circumstances are known to contemporaries of
which posterity is absolutely ignorant, that it argues
some presumption in posterity when it reviews con-
fidently contemporary judgments. But the process of
the Templars was peculiar. It was considered violent
even in a violent age. The details are preserved almost
to the smallest particulars, and are worth examining, if
only as a picture of the manners of the time.
The French king at that time was Philip le Bel —
Philip the Beautiful — one of the most remarkable
sovereigns that France ever had. His daughter we
know of as Edward the Second's queen — Hlie Wolf, as
the poet Gray calls her. The parent wolf was born in
1268. He became king at sixteen. He fell early into
wars with England and Burgundy, extended his frontiers,
drilled into subjection his own vassals. He then
quarrelled, on the old grounds of the Papal pretensions,
with Pope Boniface the Eighth. He had required a
subsidy from his clergy. The Pope forbade them to
28a 11 If- TEMI'LARS.
pay. Pliilip answered with railing tlic Pope a fool,
changing ymir ' Holiness ' into your ' fatuity.' Boniface
excommunicated Philip. Philip burnt tlie bull as
boldly as Luther burnt Pope Leo's. He denounced
Boniface as a heretic, made war upon him, and took
him prisoner. The poor Pope died three days after, it
was said of rage and mortification. Philip had been
swift ; Napoleon was not quicker in his movements.
The Templars had supplied Boniface with money.
They had not time to help him with arms. Boniface's
successor, Benedict the Tenth, made peace on Philip's
own terms. The French clergy were made to give him
all that he wanted. The Templars appealed to their
privileges ; but they, too, had to submit under protest.
The King was master of the situation, and meant to
make the most of his victory. Benedict the Tenth
reigned only for a year. The majority in the College of
Cardinals was French. They chose after him the
French Archbishop of Bordeaux, who was to reside in
France, and could be made to do the King's biddingf.
Archbishop Bertrand became Pope at the beginning of
1305, under tlie name of Clement the Fifth.
So much for the position, which I have merely
sketched in outline.
The Templars had no suspicion of their danger, and
that no hint of it reached them is a proof how few
friends they could have had. In outward respect they
stood high as ever. No scandal liad been breathed
against them. Their churches were the admiration of
Kurope. Faithful as they were to their salt, they had
THE TEMPLARS. 283
never so much as dreamed that the master whom they
had served so loyally could betray them. What could
they have to fear ? And yet it got abroad somehow
that the King would be well pleased if evidence could
be found of the Templars' misconduct, and when
evidence is wanted, especially if it will be well paid
for, sooner or later it will be forthcoming.
In the Temple, as in other bodies, there were black
sheep. Knights or servants of the Order now and then
broke the rules, and had to be punished, and, if incor-
rigible, to be expelled. At the accession of Clement
the Fifth there were two knights thus degraded, in
prison, at Toulouse ; one of them, Esquin von Florian,
who had been j^rior of Montfaucon, and the other with
the unusual name of Noffodei. These men, after their
expulsion, had been engaged in some conspiracy at
Paris, and were under sentence of death. They in-
formed the governor of the gaol that they could possess
the King of a secret which would be worth another
realm to him, and that if their lives were spared they
would reveal it. They were sent up to the court ;
Philip examined them himself, and they made the
following singular statement : —
1. Ever}^ Templar on his admission to the Order
swore to defend it for his life long, in all causes, just or
unjust, without exception.
2. The chiefs of the Order corresponded with the
Saracens, and were more like Mahometans than Chris-
tians. The Novices were required to spit upon the
cross, and trample on it, and deny Christ.
ag4 THE TEAf PLANS.
3. Any one suspected of intending to betray the
secrets of the Order was murdered and secretly buried. •
4. The Templars despised the sacraments. They
worshipped iduLs, and were heretics.
5. They committed unnatural crimes. Their houses
were nests of vice and profligacy.
6. They betrayed the Holy Land, and lived without
fear of God.
These were the chief articles of a long list. There
were many others ; such as incest, worship of the devil
under various forms, &c. &c.
It is certainly strange that if the Templars were so
horribly depraved no wiiisper of their enormities should
hitherto have gone abroad. It is strange that, as the
secrets of the Order were necessarily known to all its
menibers, they should have ventured to expel mis-
demeanants who could so easily betray them. If they
killed every one that they suspected of letting out their
mysteries, it is strange that they should have allowed
the knights to confess to secular priests outside the
Order, as it is certain that in the absence of their own
chaplains they habitually did.
The King took down the depositions, and, without
going into the particulars of them, wrote privately to
the Pope. On August 24, 1305 — the dates are impor-
tant — the Pope replied that it was a singular story.
The King's letter was so positive, however, and the
persons who had brought the letter to him were so
positive also, that he supposed the charges must be
true. It seemed, however, that some rumour of the
THE TEMPLARS. 285
matter had by this time reached the Templars them-
selves. The Pope added that the Grand Master and
the preceptors had also written to him, alluding to the
accusations, and begging him to examine into them.
This he would do, and would inform the Kinj; of the
result.
The inquiry so conducted would have been fair
enough, but for some reason it did not suit Philip's
purpose. He sent the Pope the depositions themselves.
The Pope made no further move. The whole matter
was allowed to drop for a year; and the next thing
which we find is a confidential and affectionate letter
from the Pope to the Grand Master, who was in Cyprus,
written in the following summer. Not a word was
said by him about the accusations. The Pope seemed
to have forgotten them. He merely told the Grand
Master that he wished to consult liim about various
subjects of great consequence — the condition of the
East, the prosj)ects of the Crusades, and the general
state of Christendom. He therefore begged De Molay
to come to him in France as soon as he could, and to
bring with him such of the knights as he had most
dependence on.
De Molay clearly had no suspicion. He was under
the impression that the headquarters of the Templars
were to be transferred from Cyprus to France, They
had a grand palace in Paris. The site of it still bears
the old name, and the palace itself was the prison of
the royal family in the Revolution. Thither came De
Molay, bringing with him the chest, or chests, of the
S86 THE TEMPLARS.
Order — twelve inul<'.s' Iftjvl ol" goM aixl silver. The
King received him with the proper courtesies. There
was 110 sign of displeasure. The treasure was put
away iu the Templars' vaults. The Pope was at
Poitiers. De Molay and tlie preceptors went to him,
and hatl a long friendly conversation with him. The
projected union of the military Orders was certainly
the subject of part of it, and De Molay was less cordial
on the subject than perhaps Clement wished. This
was at the end of 1 306, nearly two years after the
two knights had told their story. All was outwardly
smooth. The winter went by. In the spring there
were once more rumours in the air which made
De Molay uneasy. In April, 1307, he went again
to the Pope, taking the four French preceptors with
him, and spoke very earnestly about it. The Pope
listened with apparent satisfaction, and dismissed
them as if perfectly assured that the accusations were
baseless.
Again one asks, Was all this treachery ? — was it a
plan agreed upon between the Pope and the King to
put the Templars oft' their guard, to seize the treasure,
and get into their power the persons of the Grand
Master and the leading knights ? That certainly was
the effect. Such a plot, supposing it real, might be
defended if the charges against the Templars were true.
They were a formidable body. Had they been alarmed,
and had their chief been at large, they could perhaps
have set the King at defiance. At least they could
not have been suppressed without desperate bloodshed
THE TEMPLARS. 287
But all turns on the truth of the charges, or on the
King's sincere belief in them.
Even kings and popes are seldom deliberately and
consciously wicked. But, like other men, they have a
power of convincing themselves of what they wish to
believe. The Pope was afraid of Philip, and wished
to please him. The Templars had really become an
anomaly. They were a danger to the State. Philip
might legitimately wish to bring the Order to an end.
From a wish to end them to a conviction of their
crimes the step would be short in a politic ruler's mind.
Politics are a corrupting trade.
Any way, the Templars were lulled into absolute
security. They were spread all over France in their
various houses. At the beoiunini:^ of October this same
year, 1307, the King sent a secret instruction round
the provinces for their universal and simultaneous
arrest. Not a whisper was allowed to reach them.
They had lived in friendless and haughty isolation.
They had relied on the Pope, and the Pope had failed
them. The only support which never fails — some
legitimate place among the useful agencies of the time
— this was wantinti.
III.
At the break of day on October 1 3, 1 307, the Templars
were surprised in their beds, carried off to the provincial
prisons of the different bishops and flung into dungeons.
288 THE TEMrLAF:S.
More willing gaolers they could not have had. They
had long defied the bishops, and the bishops' turn was
come. They took on themselves the responsibility ol
the King's action. Such prelates as were in Paris, with
the heads of the University and the abbots and priors
of the religious houses, assembled two days after in the
Templars' Hall. They drew up an Act of Accusation,
in which the knights were described as ravening wolves,
idolaters, perjurers, and guilty of the vilest crimes.
They asserted, to meet the inevitable incredulity, that
the Grand Master and the preceptors had confessed
their guilt. The Templars belonged to Europe — not
to France alone. Philip sent circulars to Edward
the Second of England, to Germany, to the Kings of
Aragon, Portugal, and Castile, telling his story, and
inviting them to follow his example. His letter was
read in England with astonishment. A great council
was called at Westminster. Edward with his peers
and prelates replied that the charges were incredible.
The Templars were men of unstained honour. The
Pope must examine into the matter. He would take
no action till the Pope had decided. He sent his own
protest to his brother princes.
The Pope — the poor, infallible Pope — was in straits;
he had not been consulted before the arrest ; he could
not refuse an inquiry ; yet, perhaps, he knew too well
how an honest inquiry would terminate. The King
and the bishops had begun the work, and they had no
choice but to go through with it. Before the Pope
could proceed the bishops might prepare their case. It
THE TEMPLARS. 289
was Avinter. The Templars had been flung into cold,
damp dungeons, ill-fed and ill-clothed. In the first
month they had begun to die of mere hardship. They
were informed of the charges against them ; they were
told that denial was useless, that the Grand Master and
preceptors had confessed, and wished them all to
confess. They were promised rewards and liberty if
they obeyed ; imprisonment and torture if they were
obstinate. After some weeks of this, to bring them into
a proper frame of mind, the bishops issued commissions
to examine them.
And I must now beg you to attend. What I am
about to tell you is strict fact ; as well authenticated as
any historical facts can be. Belief, or the credulity of
nobleness, had created the Templars. Belief, the ugly
side of it, the credulity of hatred, was now to destroy
them. Universal confession would alone satisfy the
world's suspicions, and confession the King and his
prelates were resolved to have. Wasted with hunger
and cold, the knights were brought one by one before
the bishops' judges. The depositions of the two
approvers were formed into interrogatories. Did the
knights, on their admission to the Order, spit on the
cross? Did they deny Christ? Did they receive a
dispensation to commit unnatural offences ? Did
they worship idols ? A paper was read to them pro-
fessing to be the Grand Master's confession; and to
these questions they were required to answer yes
"or no. A few said yes, and were rewarded and dis-
missed. By far the greater number said that the
20O 77/A' TEMI'I.ARS.
cliaigcs were lies; they said they diil not believe that
tlje Grand Master had confessed ; it" lie had he had
lied in his throat. And now what happened to the
men who answered thus ? They were stripped naked,
their hands were tied behind their backs; a rojie was
fastened to their wrists, tlie other end of which was
slung over a beam, and they were dragged up and down
till they were senseless, or till they acknowledged what
the bishops wanted. If this failed, their feet were
fixed in a frame like the old English stocks, rubbed
with oil, and held to the fire till the toes, or even the
feet themselves, dropped off. Or the iron boot was
used, or the thumb-screws, or another unnameable and
indescribably painful devilry. Thirty-six of them died
under these tortures in Paris alone. The rest so treated
said anything which the bishops required. They pro-
tested afterwards that their confessions, as they were
called, had been wrung out of then:i by pain only. They
were returned to their dungeons, to be examined again
when the Pope pleased. But having confessed to
heresy, they were told that, if they withdrew their con-
fessions afterwards, they would be treated as relapsed
heretics, and wouhl be burnt at the stake. Such was
then the Church's law ; and it was no idle threat.
I am not telling you a romance. These scenes did
actually occur all over France ; and it was by this
means that the evidence was got together under which
the Templars were condemned. But we are only at
the first stage of the story.
The confessions were published to the world, and
THE TEMPLARS. 291
the world, uot knowing how they had been obtained,
supposed that they must bo true. The Pope knew
better ; he remonstrated ; he said tliat the Templars
were not subject to the bishops, who were going beyond
their power. The King accused him of trying to shield
the Templars' guilt; the bishops, he said, were doing
nothing but their duty, and the Faculty of Theology at
Paris declared that no piivilcge coidd shelter heresy.
The conduct of the Grand Master and the four pre-
ceptors is a mystery. They were evidently bewildered,
disheartened, shocked, and terrified, and confessions
alleged to have been made by them were certainly
taken down and published. It appears, also, that in
January, 130S, three months after the arrest, they were
brought before the Pope, and they were alleged to have
confessed again on this occasion, and to have received
absolution from him. But the Pope did not confirm
this allegation, and was still incredulous. The other
Powers of Christendom msisted on a fuller inquiry.
The formal sanction of the Papacy was required before
the Order could be suppressed, and even Clement,
pliable as he was, could not proceed on the evidence
before him. In the summer, six months later, seventy-
two Templars — seventy-two only of the thousands still
surviving in France — were found willing to appear
before him and give the required answers to the inter-
rogatories. These seventy-two did say that they had
abjured Christ, had spit on the cross, had worshipped
idols, and the rest of it. They were asked why they
had at first denied these things ? They said that they
292 THE TEMPLARS.
Iiiul l"org(jtU!ii, but had since remembered. Seventy-
two, after all that bribes and tortures and threats
could do, were not enough. The Pope was answerable
to Christendom. The French bishops themselves were
on their trial before the rest of the world ; the sentence
could not rest on their word alone. The Pope found
himself obliged to appoint au independent commission,
when the knights could be heard in their own defence
with an appearance of freedom. A cardinal or two, an
archbishop, and two or three papal lawyers, were
formed into a court which was to sit in Paris. All
preciiutions were alleged to be taken that the
Templars should have a fair hearing if they wished
it, without fear or prejudice. Every prisoner who
would say that ho was ready to defend the Order was
to be brought to Paris to be heard. Notice of the
appointment of the commission was sent round to all
the courts of Europe.
Tf Philip, if the bishops really believed in the
Templars' guilt they ought to have -welcomed the
Pope's action. They had been cruel, but if they could
prove their case their rough handling would not be
judged severely. They were in no haste, however. The
commission was appointed in August, 1308. It did not
sit for another year. The Templars were now dying
by hundreds. Their death-bed declarations were all
protests of innocence. The survivors demanded in vain
that these declarations should be made public. When
they learnt that they were to be heard before represent-
atives of the Pope their hopes revived, and more than
THE TEMPLARS. 293
a thousand at once gave their names as ready to appear
in the defence.
In August, 1309, the court was opened. It sat
in the Convent of St. Genevieve. Citations were
issued, but no one appeared. The Templars had been
brought up to Paris, but they had been told on the
way that if they retracted their confessions the Pope
intended to burn them as relapsed ; and, after the
treatment which they had met with, anything seemed
possible. They claimed to be heard by counsel. This
was refused. The court adjourned till November 22,
when some twenty of the knights were brought in and
were asked if they were ready with a defence. They
said that they were illiterate soldiers; they knew
nothing of law pleading. If they might have their
liberty with arms and horses they would meet their
accusers in the field. That was all that they could do.
It was necessary to begin with the Grand Master.
On November 26, De Molay himself was introduced
into the court. He was an old man, battered by a life
of fighting, and worn by hard treatment in prison.
Being asked what he had to say, he complained of the
refusal of counsel. He claimed for himself and the
Order to be heard before a mixed court of lay peers and
prelates. To such a judgment he said that they were
willing to submit. They protested against a tribunal
composed only of Churchmen.
Unfortunately for themselves the Templars were a
religious Order, and the Church alone could try them.
The commission under which the court was constituted
894 ^^'^^ TFAfrr.ARS.
was road over. It was tliero stated that the Grand
Master ha<l mailo a full confession of the Order's guilt;
and fntin his behaviour it might liave been thought
tliat he was hearing of this extraordinary assertion for
the first time. We have the account of the proceedings
exactly as they were taken down by tlie secretary. He
crossed himself thrice. ' Videbatur se esse valde stupe-
factum.' He seemed entirely stupefied. When he
found his voice he said that if the commissioners had
not been priests lie would liave known how to amswer
them. They were not there, they replied, to accept
challenges. He said he was aware of that, but he
wished to God that tliere was the same justice in
France as there was among the Turks and Saracens,
where a false witness was cut to pieces. No confession
wns produced to which he had attached his hand, and
of other evidence there was none. The King's chan-
cellor read a passage from a chronicle to the effect that
Saladin, a hundred and twenty years before, had called
the Templars a set of villains. Again De Molay
appeared stupefied — as well he might. He claimed
privilege, and demanded to be heard by the Pope in
person.
The Preceptor of Payens then appeared. He
admitted that he had confessed with many of his
brethren, but he protested that their confessions were
false. They had been handed over to a set of men,
some of whom ha<l been expelled from the Order for
infamous crimes. They had been tortured, and many
of tlioin had died on the rack. He for himself had had
THE TEMPLARS. 295
his hands crushed till the blood ran from his nails. He
had been flung into a well and left lying there ; he had
been for two years in a dungeon. He could have borne
to be killed — -to be roasted, to be boiled — anything
which would be over in a moderate time, but such
prolonged agonies were beyond human strength. If he
was treated so again he would deny all that he was
then saying, and renew his confession. He was
remitted to custody, and the commissioners cautioned
the gaoler not to deal hardly with him for what he had
said. The caution was necessary. Many of the knights
were still afraid to speak, or would say nothing except
that they had been tortured, and would speak if they
were set free. As long as they were kept prisoners
they dared not. The commissioners, to encourage them,
sent out a warning to the bishops, and again assured
the knights of protection. The court, they said, wanted
nothing but the truth. The knights might tall it
freely; no harm should haj^pen to them.
This gave them courage. Six hundred of them now
came forward, one after the other, and told the secrets
of their prisons, with the infernal cruelties which they
had suffered there. A list was produced of those who
had died. One very curious letter was read which had
been written by a high official and sent to a party of
Templars at Sens. It was to the effect that the Bishop
of Orleans was coming to reconcile them. They were
advised to make submission, and in that case were
promised all kindness ; but they were to understand
that the Pope had distinctly ordered that those wUq
ag6 rilE TEMPLARS..
retracted their confessions shouM Ijc burnt. Tlio official
in question was called in. He said that lie did not
think that lie could have written such a letter ; the seal
was his, but it might have been written by his clerk.
One prisoner was carried into the court, unable to
stand. His feet had been held to the fire until they
had been destroyed.
The evidence was still utterly inconsistent. Priests
came forward, who said they had habitually heard
Templars' confessions, yet had heard nothing of the
alleged enormities. Others, on the other hand, ad-
hered to the story, telling many curious details — how
Templars had told them that they had been required
to spit on the cross, how they had been frightened and
refused, but had at last consented — ' non corde sed ore '
— not with their hearts, but with their lips. But the
great majority were still resolute in their denials. At
last the whole six hundred made a common affirmation
that every one of these Articles named in the Pope's
Bull was a lie — the religion of the Templars was pure
and immaculate, and so had always been, and whoever
said to the contrary was an infidel and a heretic. This
they were ready to maintain in all lawful ways, but
they prayed to be released and be heard, if not before
a mixed tribunal, then before a General Council. Those
who iiad confessed had lied ; but they had lied under
torture themselves, or terrified by the tortures which
they witnessed. Some might have been bribed, which
they said was public and notorious; the wonder was
that any should have dared to tell the truth. As a
THE TEMPLARS. 297
refinement of cruelty, the bishops had refused the
sacraments to the dying.
The commissioners were now at a loss. Individuals
might be worked upon by fear and hope to repeat their
confessions, but the great body of the Order were con-
sistent in their protest. The commissioners said that
they could not hear them all. They had asked for
counsel ; let them appoint proctors who could speak for
them. This seemed fair; but the unfortunate men
were afraid of trusting themselves to proctors. Proctors
being few, might be tempted or frightened into betray-
ing them. They still trusted the Pope. They had
been invited to speak, and they had been promised
protection. The members of the court had some kind
of conscience, and it began to seem likely that the case
might not end as the King and the bishops required.
They could not afford to let it go forth to the world
that the Templars were innocent after all and had been
brutally and barbarously treated without sufficient
cause; public opinion did not go for much in those
(lays, but they were at the bar of all Europe.
We need not assume that they themselves did not
believe in the Templars' guilt; men have a wonderful
power of making themselves believe what they wish to
believe. If the Templars had been formidable before
the attack on them Avas begun, they would be doubly
formidable if they came out of their trial clean as their
^ own white robes ; it was necessary to stop these pleas
of innocence, and the French prelates were equal to the
occasion.
398 THE TEMPLARS.
While the Pope's commissioners were sittin;:^ at St.
(lonevieve the Arclibishop of Sons opened a ])rovincial
eoiirl. of his owii in another part of Paris, Tiie list of
knights was brought before him who had given their
names as intending to retract their confessions. On
May lO, 1 3 10, four of the Templars demanded audience
v)f the Papal judges. They said that the knights had
been invited by the Pope to defend the Order; they
had been told to speak the truth without fear, and had
been promised that no harm should happen to them.
They now learnt that in consequence of what tliey had
.said, on the very next day a great number were to be
put on their trial before the Archbishop of Sens as
relapsed heretics. They said truly, that if this was
permittctl, it would make the inquiry a farce — it would
stain irreparably the honour of the Holy See. They
entreated tbe commissioners to interpose and prevent
the Archbishop from proceeding.
The commissioneis professed to be sorry — they
could hardly do less; but they said that the Archbi.shop
was not under their jurisdiction. They themselves
represented the Holy See ; the bishops had an in-
dependent authority ; they had no power over the
bishops nor the bishops over them. They did promise,
however, to think the matter over and see if anything
could be done.
The Archbishop did not allow them time for much
thinking ; ho was a sturdy prelate and had the courage
of his office. Two days after, on the morning of the
1 2th, just as the commissioners were going to chapel
THE TEMPLARS 299
(they were particular about all these things it seems),
word was brought them that fifty-four of the knights
who had applied to be heard before them had been
tried and sentenced and were to be burnt at the stake
that very afternoon. This time the commissioners were
really disturbed. They were not prepared for such
prompt action — their own dignity, the Holy Father's
dignity was compromised. They sent in haste to the
Archbishop, to beg him at least to postpone the execu-
tion; every Templar who had died hitherto had declared
the Order innocent, and these would do the same. If
witnesses were invited to speak, and were then burnt
for speaking, they would have to close their court.
Already the very report of the Archbishop's intentions
had so terrified the knio^hts that some of them had srone
out of their minds.
The Archbishop was made of tougher stuff —
Fouquier Tinville and the Revolutionary tribunal were
not more resolute. To terrify the knights into silence
was precisely what he intended. Accordingly that
same afternoon, as he had ordered, those fifty-four ' poor
brothers in Christ,' whose real fault had been that they
were too faithful to the Father of Christendom, were
carried out to the Place St. Antoine, near where the
Bastille stood, and were tlicre roasted to deatli. They
bore their fate like men. Every one of them, torn and
racked as they had been, declared with his last breath
that, so far as he knew, the accusations against the
Order were groundless and wilful slanders, llalf-a-
dozen more were burnt a day or two after to deepen
joo TTIE TEMPLARS.
the effect. The Archbishop clearly was not afraid of
man or ilt^vil. Some say a sensitive conscience is a
siirn of a weak cliaractcr. No one can accu.se the Ar(;h-
bishop of Sens of havin<^ a weak character ; he knew
what he was doing and what would come of it.
I will read you a declaration made the next day
before the Pope's commissioners by Sir Amaric de
Villiers, one of the prisoners. He said that he was
fifty years old and had been a brother of the Order for
twenty. The clerk of the court read over the list of
crimes with which the Order was charged. He turned
pale; he struck his breast; he raised his hand to the
altar; he dropped on his knees. On peril of liis soul,
he said, on peril of all the punishments denounced on
perjury, praying that if he was not speaking truth the
ground might open and he might go down quick into
hell, those charges were all false. He allowed that he
had confessed on the rack. He had been taken to St,
Antoine the evening before. He had seen his fifty-four
brethren brought in carts and thro^wn into the flame.'?.
He had been in such fear that he doubted if he himself
could endure to be so handled. With such an end
before him, he might say if he was brought again before
the bishops, and they required it of him, that ho had
not only denied his Lord, but had murdered him. He
implored the judges to keep to themselves what he was
then saying. If the Archbishop got hold of it, he would
be burnt like the rest.
The terror had cut deep. The Pope's comniissioners
had neither the courage to adopt the Archbishop's
THE TEMPLARS. 301
methods nor to repudiate and disown them. They
sent to him to say that they must suspend their sit-
tings. He answered scornfully that they might do as
they pleased. He and his suffragans had met to finish
the process against the Templars, and they intended to
do it, A few more victims were sacrificed. The rest
of the knights, who had offered to speak before the
commissioners, were naturally silent. The commis-
sioners could not help them. They withdrew their
defence, and the commission was adjourned till the
following November.
The tragic story was now winding up. When
November came the court sate again, reduced in
number and reduced to a form. The duty of it thence-
forward was simply to hear such of the Order as had
been broken into submission, and were willing to
repeat the story which had been thrust into their
mouths, with such details as imagination or reality
could add to it. I do not suppose that the accusations
were absolutely without foundation. Very often the
witnesses seemed to be relating things which they
really remembered. The Templars were a secret
society, and secret societies have often forms of initia-
tion which once had a meaning, with an afifectation of
solemnity and mysticism. I am not a Freemason.
Many of you no doubt are. I have heard that the
ceremonies of that Order, though perfectly innocent, are
of a kind which malice or ignorance might misinterpret,
if there was an object in bringing the Freemasons into
disrepute. You know best if that is so. Somewhere
303 T[fE TEMPLARS.
;il»iu;ul 1 warf myself ouce iulniitted into a mysterious
brotlicrliood. I was sworn to secrecy, and therefore I
can tell you little about it. I was led throut^li a narrow
passage into a vast darkened liall, where some hundred
dim, lialf-sccn figures were sitting in silence. I was
taken to a table in the middle with a single candle on
it. There — but my revelations must end. I could
have believed myself before the famous Vehni Gericht.
The practices alleged against the Templars as crimes
were in fact most of them innocent. They were
accused of worshipping a skull ; some said it had jewels
in its eyes, some that it had none. An accidental
question brought out that it Avas a relic ui an Eastern
saint, such as any Catholic might treat with reverence.
The officers of the Order were accused of hearing con-
fessions and giving priestly absolution, and this was a
deadly offence. By the rules of the Order the lay
superiors were directed to hear confessions and inflict
penance, but were forbidden to absolve. Confusion
might easily have arisen.
The Novices were said to receive licenses to commit
an abominable sin, yet there was scarcely a single knight
who could be brought to say that he had even heard of
such a sin being committed.
The spitting on the cross and the denial of Christ
are less easy to explain. Thousands of the knights
absolutely denied that such outrages were ever seen or
heard of, yet a great many did with considerable con-
sistency describe a singular ceremony of that kind. It
has been supposed that the Templars by their long
THE TEMPLARS. 303
residence in Syria had ceased to be Christians, and had
adopted Eastern heresies, that they were Gnostics,
Manichees, or I know not what. This is a guess, and
I do not think a likely one. They were mere soldiers.
They were never a learned Order. They left no books
behind them, or writings of any kind. The services in
the Templars' chinches were conducted with peculiar
propriety. Every witness declared that the very crosses
which they said had been spit upon were treated after-
wards with the deepest reverence. Nor was there
really any attempt at concealment. Those who had
been frightened at the forms of initiation were told to
go and confess to secular priests in the neighbourhood.
Several instances of such confessions were produced.
The confessors sometimes had treated what they heard
as of no consequence. They had satisfied their peni-
tents' consciences, not always in the same way. One
said that the spitting on the cross was meant as a trial
of constancy. The Saracens if they were taken prisoners
would require them to deny Christ or be killed. The
officers of the Order vv'anted to see how they would abide
the test. Another said it was a trial of obedience.
The Novice swore to obey his superiors in all things
without exception. The spitting on tlie cross may have
been the severest trial which could be imagined. In no
instances at all was it ever suggested that the forms of
initiation pointed to any real impiety.
So strange a tale is not likely to have rested upon
nothing. I suppose the custom may have varied in
different houses. Men are men, and may not have been
304 THE TEMPI. ARS.
iiniforinly wise. But the more one reads the evidence
the plainer it becomes that the confessions, and even
the teiius of them, were arranged beforeliand. Tiie
witnesses produced after the commission met again told
one tale. If they ever varied from it they were brought
swiftly back into harmony. Sir John de Pollencourt
gave the stereotyped answer. He had spat on the
cross. He had dune this and tliat; but we read in the
Record : The commissioners, seeing him pale and terri-
fied, bade him for his soul's welfare speak the truth,
whatever it might be. He need not fear. They would
tell no one what he might say. He hesitated ; then, on
his oath, he declared that lie had spoken falsely. He
had not denied Christ. He had not spat on the cross.
He had not received license to sin. He had confessed
before the bishops in fear of death, and because his
fellow-prisoners said that they would be killed unless
they admitted what the bishops required.
The commissioners were not as secret as they pro-
mised to be. Sir John de Pollencourt was made to
know behind the scenes what would happen to him if
he was not submissive. Accordingly, four days after,
the same witness was brought in again, withdrew his
denial and again confessed. It is easy to see what had
happened in the interval.
So handled, the rest of the process w^ent on smoothly.
Parties of knights who had escaped the torture-cham-
bers of the bishops and thus had not been forced into
confession continued to speak out. On one occasion
twenty or thirty appeared in a body, and pointed to the
THE TEMPLARS. 305
red crosses broidered on their clothes. That cross, they
said, signified that they would shed their blood for their
Redeemer. If, as they were told, their Grand Master
had confessed that they had denied Christ, or if any of
their brethren had confessed it, they had lied in their
throats, to the peril of their own souls. But the mass
of the knights had by this time abandoned their cause
as hopeless. By the end of nine months a sufficient
number of so-called confessions had been repeated
before the commissioners to satisfy the Pope's scruples.
The commissioners were themselves only too eager to
wind up the scandalous inquiry. Not so much as an
effort had been made to discover the real truth. The
result was a foregone conclusion, and every utterance
which could interfere with it had been stifled by cord
or fire. The report was sent to Clement. A council of
bishops was called together. It was laid before them
and accepted as conclusive. The Order of the Templars
was pronounced to have disgraced itself, and was sup-
pressed. The sinning knights were scattered about the
world — some went back to the world — some became
Benedictines or Cistercians. Some gave their swords
and services to secular princes, having had enough of
the Church. Some disappeared into their families.
Their estates the Pope had insisted must be reserved
to the Church, and were nominally given to the
Knights Hospitallers. But the King extorted such an
enormous fine from them that the Hospitallers gained
"little by their rivals' overthrow.
The Grand Master's end remains to be told. The
3o6 THF. TEMPLARS.
coufessions wliiili liu mid tliix-e uf the head preceptors
were alleged to have made are extant, and resembled
the rest, but we liave seen how lie behaved when the
confession attributed to himself was read over to him
before the commissioners. He had appealed to the
Pope, but without effect, and had been left willi the
three preceptors in prison. When the edict fur the
suppression was issued, and the other knights were
dismissed, De Molay and his companions were sentenced
to perpetual confinement. But the world was after all
less satisfied of the Templars' guilt than Philip could
have wished, and in some way or other it was necessary
to convince the public that the Grand Master's confession
was genuine.
The bull of suppression was to be read aloud to the
people of Paris. It was brought up with special solem-
nity by a bishop and a cardinal, and De Molay and the
others were to be publicly shown upon a stage on the
occasion. On March i8, 13 14, a platform had been
erectod in one of the squares, with chairs of state for
the cardinal, the Archbishop of Sens, and other dis-
tinguished persons. The Grand Master and his com-
rades were produced and were placed where the world
could see them. The cardinal rose to read the sentence.
When he came to the list of enormities of which, as the
bull alleged, the Templars had been found guilty, and
when the Grand Master heard it stated that he had
himself admitted the charges to be true, he rose up, and
in a loud voice which everyone could hear, he ciied out
lliai it was false.
THE TEMPLARS. 307
IMiilij) himself was not present, but he was iu Paris
aiul not far off. Word was brought him of the Grand
Master's contumacy. Not troubling himself with forms
of law, he ordered that the Grand Master should be
instantly burnt, and his provincials along witli him,
unless they saved themselves by submission. Two of
them, Sir Hugh von Peyraud and Geoffrey de Gonville,
gave in and were sent back to their dungeons. De
Molay and the third were carried directly to the island
in the Seine, and were burnt the same evening in the
light of the setting sun.
In his end, like Samson, De Molay pulled down the
fabric of the prosecution. There was thenceforward a
universal conviction that the Templars had been unjustly
dealt with. The popular feeling shaped itself into a
tradition (possibly it was a real fact), that as the flames
were choking him, the last Grand Master summoned
the Pope and the King to meet him before the tribunal
of God. Clement died in agony a few weeks after. A
little later Philip the Beautiful was flung by a vicious
horse, and he too went to his account.
A very few words will tell now how the Templars
fared in the rest of Europe. There was no real belief iu
their guilt ; but their estates had been given to them
for a purpose which no longer existed. They were rich,
and they had nothing to do. They were an anachron-
ism and a dnnger. When the Pope agreed to their
suppression, there was no motive to resist the Pope's
decision; and they did not attempt to resist it them-
selves. Nothing is more remarkable in the wliole stury
jo8 THE TEMPLARS.
ili.iii the almost universal acquiescence of an armed
and disciplined body of men in the Pope's judgment.
They had been trained to obedience. The Pope had
been their sovereign. The Pope wished that they
should cease to exist ; and they fell to pieces without a
word, unless it were to protest their innocence of the
crimes of which they were accused.
In England Philip's charges had at first been
received with resentful incredulity, but neither king, nor
peers, nor Church had any motive to maintain the
Templars after the Pope had spoken. For form's sake
there was an investigation on the lines of the French
interrogatories, but there was no torture or cruelty.
They knew that they Avere to go, and that they would
be dealt with generously. The process was a curious
one. As a body the English Templars stated that the
forms of admission to the Order were, as far as they
knew, uniform. What was done in one houec was done
in all. If any of the brethren liked to depose to this or
til at ceremony being observed they Avould not contra-
dict them, and thus the difficulty was got over. A
certain number of knights were ready to give the
necessary evidence. Some hundreds of outside persons,
ch icily monks or secular priests, deposed to popular
rumours, conversations, and suchlike, names not given; a
certain person heard another person say this and that.
What was got at in tliis way was often not dreadful. A
pirceptor in Lincolnshire had been heard to maintain
that 'men died as animals died'; therefore, it might
be inferred that he did not believe in immortality.
THE TEMPLARS. 309
Templars sometimes had crosses worked into their
drawers; therefore they were in the habit of sitting
upon tlie cross. The English evidence threw light
often on the manners of the age, but I cannot go into
that. I have tried your patience too long already. I
will, therefore, sum up briefly.
When all is said the story is a strange one, and I
cannot pretend to leave it clear of doubt. But no
lawyer, no sensible man, can accept as conclusive evidence
mere answers to interrogatories extorted by torture and
the threat of death. A single denial made under such
circumstances is worth a thousand assents dragged out
by rack and gibbet. If the Order had really been as
guilty as was pretended, some of the knights at least
would have confessed on their death-beds. Not one
such confession was ever produced, while the dying
protestations of innocence were all suppressed. The
King and the Inquisitors force us into incredulity by
their own unscrupulous ferocity. It is likely enough
that, like other Orders, the Templars had ceremonies,
perhaps not very wise, intended to impress the imagin-
ation, but that those ceremonies were intentionally
un-Christian or diabolical, I conceive to be entirely
unproved. They fell partly because they were rich,
partly for political reasons, which, for all I know, may
have been good and sound ; but the act of accusation
I regard as a libel invented to justify the arbitrary
destruction of a body which, if not loved, was at least
admired for its services to Christendom.
It remains only to emphasise the moral that
3IO THE TEMPLARS.
mstitutions ran only be kept alive wliilc they answer
tlic end for wliidi thoy were created. Nature will n<.t
tolerate tliem longer, and in one way or another shakes
Ihem down. The Templars had come into existence t<j
li'^'ht the infidels in Palestine. Palestine was abandoned
to the infidels, and the Templars were neetled no longer.
They were outwardly strong as ever, brave, organised,
and in character unblcmishcil, but the purpose of them
being gone, they were swept away by a hurricane. So
it is with all human organisations. They grow out of
man's necessities, and are mortal as men are. Empires,
monarchies, aristocracies, guilds, orders, societies, reli-
gious creeds, rise in the same way, and in the same way
disappear when they stand in the way of othei things.
But mankind arc mean creatures. When they
destroy these creations of theirs they paint them in the
blackest colours to excuse their own violence. The
black colours in which Philip the Beautiful and his
bi.-.ho[)s were pleased to paint the Templars will, per-
haps, if history cares to trouble itself about the matter,
be found to attach rather to the extraordinary men
calling themselves successors of the Apostles who racked
and roasted them.
You in Scotland found no great reason to love
bishops, and the history of the Templars does not
increase our affection for them.
THE NORWAY FJORDS.
ON June 30, 1 88 1, we sailed from Southampton
Water in the steam yacht ' Severn ' to spend ten
weeks in the Norway Fjords — Fjords or Friths, for the
word is the same. The Scandinavian children of the
sea carried their favourite names witli them. Frith is
Fjord ; our Cumberland Scale Force would be called
Scale Foss between the North Cape and the Baltic.
The yacht was sjDacious ; over 300 tons. Cabins, equip-
ments, enfjines, captain, steward, crew the best of their
kind. Our party was small ; only four in all. My
friend, whose guest I was, and whom I shall call D ,
two ladies, and myself D had furnished himself
with such knowledge as Avas attainable in London, for
the scenes which we were to explore. He had studied
Norse. He could speak it : he could understand and
be understood. He was a sportsman, but a sportsman
only as subsidiary to more rational occupations. He
was going to Norway to catch salmonidae : not, however,
to catch them only, but to study the varieties of that
most complicated order of fish. He was going also
to geologise and to botanise, to examine rocks and
312 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
rivers and glaciers and flowers; wliile all of us were
moaning to acquaint ourselves as far as we could
with the human specimens still to be found in the
crater of the old volcano from which those shiploads of
murdering ' Danes ' poured out ten centuries ago to
change the face of Europe.
And to see Norway, the real Norway, within moder-
ate compass of time is possible only with such means as
a steam-yacht provides. There are great lines of road
in Norway along the practicable routes, but very few
rtrc practicable ; nine- tenths of the country, and the
most interesting parts, are so walled off by mountains,
are so intrenched among the fjords, as to be for ever
unapproachable by land, while the water highways
lead everywhere — magnificent canals, fashioned by the
elemental forces, who can say how or when ?
From the west coast there run inland with a general
easterly direction ten or twelve main channels of sea,
penetrating from fifty to a hundred miles into the very
heart of the Northern Peninsula. They are of vast
depth, and from half a mile to two miles broad. The
mountains rise on both sides sheer from the water's
edge ; the lower ranges densely timbered with pine and
birch and alder. Above these belts of forest soar
ranges of lofty peaks, five or six thousand feet up, the
snow lying thick upon them in the midst of summer,
glaciers oozing down the gorges, like catai'acts arrested
in their fall by the Frost Enchanter, motionless, yet
with the form of motion. From the snow, from the ice
when the glaciers reach a warmer level, melt streams
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 313
which swell at noon, as tlie sun grows hot, descend in
never-ending waterfalls, cascade upon cascade, through
the ravines which they have cut for themselves in
millions of years. In the evening they dwindle away,
and at night fall silent as the frost resumes its power.
From the great central fjords branches strike out
right and left, some mere inlets ending after a few miles,
some channels which connect one iQord with another.
The surface of Norway, as it is shown flat upon a chart,
is lined and intersected by these waterways as the sur-
face of England is by railways. The scenery, though
for ever changing, changes like the pattern of a kaleido-
scope, tlie same materials readjusted in varying com-
binations ; the same great rivers of sea- water, the same
mountain walls, the same ice and snow on the summits,
the same never-ending pines and birches, with an
emerald carpet between the stems where in summer
the universal whortleberry hides the stones under the
most brilliant green. The short fjords and the large
are identical in general features, save that, lying at
right angles to the prevailing winds, the surface of
these lateral waters is usually undisturbed by a single
ripple ; the clouds may be racing over the high ridges,
but down below no breath can reach. Hence the light
is undispersed. The eye, instead of meeting anywhere
with white water, sees only rocks, woods, and cataracts
reversed as in a looking-glass. This extreme stillness
and the optical results of it, arc the cause, I suppose, of
the gloom of Norwegian landscape-painting.
How these ^ords were formed is, I believe, as yet
314 TIIR NORWAY FJORDS.
undctormiii'il. Wuk'i li;is f'lirruwcfl the .suiTare of the
v^lobe into many a singular shape; water, wo are toM,
cut, out llio long gorge below Niagara; but water, act-
ing as we now know it, scarcely scooped out of the
hardest known rock those multitudinous fissures so
uniform in character between walls which pierce the
higher strata of the cloa<ls, between cliffs which in some
places rise, as in the Geiranger, perpendicular for a
thousand feet; the fjords themselves of such extra-
ordinary depth, and deepest always when furthest from
the sea. Whore they enter the Atlantic, there is bottom
generally in a hundred fathoms. In the Sogne, a
hundred miles inland, you find 700 fathoms. Rivers
cutting their way through rock and soil could never
have achieved such work as this. Ice is a mighty
thaumaturgist, and ice has been busy enough in Norway.
The fjords were once filled with ice up to a certain
level ; the level to which it rose can be traced on the
sharp angles ground off the rounded stone, and the
scores of the glacier plane on the polished slabs of gneiss
or granite. But at some hundreds of feet above the
present water-line the ice action ends, and cliffs and
crags are scarred and angular and weather-splintered
to where they are lost in the eternal snow. The vast
moraines which occasionally block the valleys toll the
same story. The largest that I saw was between four
and five hundred feet high, and we have to account for
chasms which, if we add the depth of the water to the
height of the mountains above it, are 9000 feet from
tiio bottom to the mountain crest.
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 315
The appearance of Norway is precisely what it would
have been if the surface had cracked when cooling into
a thousand fissures, longitudinal and diagonal, if these
fissures had at one time boon filled with sea-water, at
another with ice, and the sides above the point to which
the ice could rise had been chipped and torn and weather-
worn by rain and frost througli endless ages. Whether
this is, in fact, the explanation of their form, philoso-
phers will in good time assure themselves ; meantime,
this is what they are outwardly like, which for present
purposes is all that need be required.
A country so organised can be traversed in no way
so conveniently as by a steam-yacht, which carries the
four-and- twenty winds in its boiler. It is not the
romance of yachting; and the steamer, beside the grace-
ful schooner with its snowy canvas, seems prosaic and
mechanical. The schooner does well in the open water
with free air and sea room ; but let no schooner venture
into the Norway fjords, where slant winds come not by
which you can make a course by a long reach, where
there is either a glassy calm or a wind blowing up or
down. If you reached the end of the Sogne you might
spend a season in beating back to the sea, and, except
in some few spots where you might not be able to go,
you cannot so much as anchor on account of the depth
of water. Shut in among these mountains, you may
drift becalmed in a sailing-yacht for weeks togethei-,
while to a steamer the course is as easy and sure as to
a carriage on a turnpike road. Your yacht is your
house; like a wishing carpet, it transports you whev'
3ifi THE NORWAY FJORDS.
evur you please to go, and is liere and there and any-
where. You note your position on the chart ; you scan
it witli tiie sense that the world of Norway is all before
you to go where you like ; you choose your next anchor-
ing-place ; you point it out to the pilot ; you know your
speed — there is no night in the summer months — you
dine ; you smoke your evening cigar ; you go to your
berth ; you find yourself at breakfast in your new
surroundings.
So then, on that June evening, we steamed out of
the Solent. Our speed in smooth water was ten knots;
our distance from Udsire Light, for which our course
was laid, was 700 miles. It was calm and cloudless,
but unusually cold. When night brought the stars we
saw the comet high above us, the tail of him pointing
straight away from the sun, as if the head was a lens
through which the sun's rays lighted the atoms of ether
behind it. Sleep, which had grown fitful in the London
season, came back to us at once in our berths unscared
by the grinding of the screw. We woke fresh and
elastic when the decks were washed. The floors of the
cabins lifted on hinges, and below were baths into which
the sea-water poured till we could float in it. When w^e
came up and looked about us we were running past the
North Foreland. With the wind aft and the water
smooth we sped on. I lay all the morning on a sofa
in the deck cabin, and smoked and read Xenophon's
' Memorabilia.* So one day passed, and then another.
On the evening of July 2 we passed through a fleet of
English trawlers, a few units of the ten thousand feeders
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 317
of the London stomach, the four million human beings
within the bills of mortality whom the world combines
to nourish. We were doing two hundred miles a day.
The calm continued, and the ladies so far had suffered
nothing. There was no motion save the never-resting
heave of the ocean swell. Homer had observed that
long undulation ; Ulysses felt it when coming back from
Hades to Circe's island. The thing is the same, though
the word ' ocean ' has changed its meaning. To Homer
Ocean was a river which ran past the grove of Proser-
pine. It was not till the ship had left the river mouth
for the open sea that she lifted on the wave.^
On the third afternoon the weather changed. The
cold of the high latitude drove us into our winter
clothes. The wind rose from the north-west, bringing
thick rain with it, and a heavy beam sea. The yacht
rolled 20° each way. Long steamers, without sails to
steady them, always do roll, but our speed was not
altered. We passed XJdsire Light on the 3rd, at seven
in the evening, and then groped our way slowly, for,
though there was no longer any night, we could see
little for fog and mist. At last we picked up a pilot,
who brought us safely into the roadstead at Bergen,
where we were to begin our acquaintance with Norway.
Bergen stands fifteen miles inland, with three fjords
leading to it, built on a long tongue of rock between
two inlets, and overhung witli mountains. There is a
' Al/rap \.Tlll TTOTUfloio XlVfl' f)6oV 'HKKlt'olo
titjv^, (iTTo 0' 'iKtTO Kuna 9a\d<Ta))<; tvfjvnopuio.
Odyssey, xii. i, 2.
31 8 -niE NON WAY FJORDS.
•^Toat trade llicif, oliicHy in salt lisli, I bulievu — any
way the forty thousand inhabitants seemed, fiuui the
stir on .shore and iu the harbour, to have plenty to
occupy them. We lauded and walked round. There
are no liandsome houses, but no beggars and no signs
of poverty. ' You have poor here,' I said to a coal
merchant, who had come on board for orders, and could
speak English. 'Poor?' he said; 'yes, many; not, of
course, such poor as you have in England. Every one
has enough to eat.' To our sensations it was extremely
cold ; cold as an English January. But cold and heat
are relative terms; and an English January miglit seem
like summer after Arctic winters. The Bergen people
took it to be summer, for we found a public garden
where a band played ; and there were chairs and tables
for colTce out of doors. Trees and shrubs were acclima-
tised. Lilacs, acacias, and horse-chestnuts were in
flower. There were roses in bud, and the gardeners
were planting out geraniums. We saw the fish market ;
cvcrysvliere a curious place, for you sec there the fish
that are caught, the fishermen who catch them, with
their boats and gear, the market women, and the
citizens who come to buy. It is all fish in Bergen.
The telegrams on the wall in the Bourse tell you only
how fish are going in Holland and Denmark, The talk
is of fish. On the rocks outside the town stand huge
ricks, looking like bean-stacks, but they are of dried
cod and ling. The streets and squares smell of fish.
A steamer bound for Hull lay close to us in the road-
stead ; which to leeward might liave been winded for
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 31$
a mile. Lads stagger about the streets cased between
a pair of lialibutSj like the Chelsea paupers between two
advertisement boards inviting us to vote for Sir Charles
Dilke at an election. Still, exceistiug the odours, we
liked Bergen well. You never hear the mendicant
whine there. Those northern peoj^le know how to
work and take care of themselves, and loafers can find
no living amontr them. I do not know whether there
is so much as a beggar in the whole town. They are
quiet, simple, industrious folk, who mind their own
business. For politics they care little as yet, not sup-
posing that on this road is any kind of salvation for
them, though, perhaps, their time will come. They are
Lutherans ; universally Lutherans. It is the national
religion, and they are entirely satisfied with it. Pro-
testant dissent is never heard of. There is a Catholic
church in Bergen for the foreign sailors, but I doubt if
the priests have converted a single Norwegian. They
are a people already moderately well-to-do in body and
mind, and do not need anything which the priests could
give them. The intellectual essentials are well looked
after — the schools are good, and well attended. The
Bergen museum is a model on a small scale of what a
local museum ought to be, an epitome of Norway itself
past and present. Perhaps there is not another in
Europe so excellent of its kind. In the gallery of an-
tiquities there is the Norway of the sea kings, Runic
tablets and inscriptions, chain armour, swords and clubs
■* and battleaxcs, pots of earthenwnre, stone knives and
hammers of a still earlier a<re. There are t)ie traces
320 'HIE NORWAY FJORDS.
of their marauding expeditious, Greek and Italian
statuettes, rings, chains, bracelets, and drinking-cups,
one or two of these last especially curious, for glass was
rare and precious when they were made or mended.
The glass of one has been broken, and has been pieced
with silver. These obviously were the spoils of some
cruise in the Mediterranean, and there is old church
plate among them which also tells its story. By the
side of these arc the implements of the Norsemen's
other trade — fishing : specimens of nets, lines, hooks,
spears and harpoons, for whale and walrus, and cross-
bows, the barbed arrow having a line attached to it for
shooting seals. In the galleries above is a eery complete
collection of the Scandinavian mammalia — wolves, bears,
lynxes, foxes, whales, seals, and sea-horses, every kind
of fish, every bird, land or water, all perfectly well classi-
fied, labelled, and looked after. Superior persons are
in charge of it, who can hold their own with the leading
naturalists of France or England ; and all this is main-
tained at a modest cost by the Bergen corporation.
The houses are plain, but clean ; no dirt is visible
anywhere, and there is one sure sign of a desire to
make life graceful. The hardiest flowers only will grow
out of doors, but half the windows in the town are filled
with myrtles, geraniums, or carnations. With the people
themselves we had little opportunity of acquaintance ;
but one evening, the second after our arrival, we were
on deck after dinner between ten and eleven in the
evening. The sunshine was still on the hills. Though
chilly to us, the air was warm to Bergen ; the bay was
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 321
covered with boats ; family groups of citizens out enjoy-
ing themselves ; music floating on the water and songs
made sweet by distance. Others were anchored fishing.
D rowed me out in the yacht's punt to a point half
a mile distant. We brought up at an oar's length from
some young ladies with a youth in charge of them.
Some question asked as an excuse for conversation was
politely answered. One of them spoke excellent Eng-
lish ; she was a lively, clever girl, had been in Ireland,
and was quick with repartee, well bred and refined.
Their manners were faultless, but they fished as if they
had been bred to the trade. They had oilskin aprons
to save their dresses, and they pulled up their fish and
handled their knives and baits like professionals.
Our first taste of Norway, notwitlistanding the per-
fume of salt ling, was very pleasant ; but we had far to
go — as far as Lofoden if we could manage it — and we
might not loiter. We left Bergen on tlie 6th with a
local pilot. Trondhjem or Drouth eim was the next
point where we were to expect letters, and two courses
lead to it — either by the open sea outside the shoals and
islands, or inland by the network of fjords, longer but
infinitely the most interesting, with the further merit
of water perfectly smooth. We started at six in the
morning and fiew on rapidly among tortuous channels,
now sweeping through a passage scarcely wider than
the yacht's length, now bursting into an archipelago of
islets. The western coast of Norway is low and level —
'*a barren undulating country, with the sea flowing freely
through the hollows. Here and there are green patches
322 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
lit incailuw with ;i lew trees, wlierc tlieie would be a
bunilcr'sor ycoiiian's larm. Prettily painted lighthouses
with tlieir red roofs marked our course for us, and a girl
ur two would come out upon the balconies to look at us
as we ruslied by within a gun-shot. Eider-ducks flaslied
out of the water, the father of the family as usual tlic
first to fly, and leaving wife and children to take care of
tiicmsclvcs. Fisliing-boats crossed us at intervals, and
now and then a whale spouted : other signs of life there
were none. Towards midday we entered the Sognc
Fjord; we turned eastward towards the great mountain
ranges ; and, as in the fairy talc the rock opens to the
lOnchanted Prince, and he finds himself amidst gardens
and palaces, so, as we ran on seemingly upon an im-
penetrable wall, cliff and crag fell apart, and we entered
on what might be described as an infinite extension of
Loch Lomond, save only that the mountains were far
grander, the slopes more densely wooded, and that, far
up, we were looking on the everlasting snow, or the
green srlitter of the glaciers.
On either side of us, as we steamed on, we crossed
the mouths of other fjords, lateral branches precisely
like the parent trunk, penetrating, as we could see upon
our chart, for tens of miles. Norse history grew intel-
ligible as we looked at them. Here were the hiding-
places where the vikings, wickelings, hole-and-cornei
pirates, ran in with their spoils ; and here was the ex-
jtlanation of their roving lives. The few spots where a
family can sustain itself on the soil are scattered at
intervals of leagues. The woods ai'e silent and desolate ;
THE NORWAY FJORDS. .323
v.'ild animals of any kind wc never saw : Imnting there
could have been none. The bears have increased since
the farming introduced sheep ; but a thousand years ago,
save a few reindeer and a few grouse and ptarmigan,
there was nothing which would feed either bear or man.
Few warm-blooded creatures, furred or feathered, can
endure the winter cold, A population cannot live by
fish alone, and thus the Norsemen became rovers by
necessity, and when summer came they formed in fleets
and went south to seek their sustenance. The pine
forests were their arsenal ; their vessels were the best
and fastest in the world ; the water was their only
road ; they were boatmen and seamen by second nature,
and the sea-coasts within reach of a summer outing were
their natural prey.
We were bound for Trondhjem, but we intended to
stop occasionally on the way, and see what deserved to
be seen. We were looking for an anchoring-place where
there was a likelihood of fishing ; and we had seen an
inlet on the chart, turning out of the Sogne, which seemed
promising. At the upper end two rivers appeared to run
into it out of freshwater lakes close by ; conditions likely
to yield salmon. It was our first experiment, A chart
is flat. Imagination, unenlightened by experience, had
pictured the fjord ending in level meadows, manageable
streams winding through them, and, beyond, perhaps some
Rydal or Grasmere lying tranquil among its hills. The
pilot said that he knew the place, but could give us no
description of it. Anticipation generally makes mistakes
on such occasions, but never were fact and fancy moi'e
^24 rilE NO N WAY FJORDS.
startliiigly ;it variance. Lonl Salisbury advised people
to study geography on large maps. Flat charts are more
convenient than models of a country in relief, btit they
are trcacliorous mislcadors. Grand as the Sugnc had
been, the inlet into which we were now striking was
grander still. The forests on the shores were denser, the
slopes steeper, the cliffs and peaks soaring up in more
stupendous majesty. We ran on thus for eight or ten
miles ; then, turning round a projecting spur, we found
ourselves in a landlocked estuary smooth as a mirror,
the mountains on one side of it beautiful in evening
sunlight, on the other darkening the water with their
green purple shadows ; at the far extremity, which was
still five miles from us, a broad white line showed,
instead of our ' meadow stream,' a mighty torrent pour-
ing in a cataract over the face of a precipice into the
sea.
At the foot of this fall, not three liundred yards
from it (no bottom was to be found at a greater distance)
we anchored half-an-hour later, and looked about us.
We were in the heart of a primitive Norwegian valley,
buried among mountains so lofty and so unbroken that
no road had ever entered, or could enter, it. It was the
first of many which we saw afterwards of the same type,
and one description will serve for all.
We were in a circular basin at the head of the fjord.
In i'iout of us was a river as large as the Clyde rushing
out of a chasm a thousand feet above us, and plunging
down in boiling foam. Above this chasm, and inac-
cessible, was one of the lakes which we had seen on the
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 325
chart, and in wliich we had expected to catch salmon.
The mountains round were, as usual, covered with wood.
At the foot of the fall, and worked by part of it, was a
large saw-mill with its adjoining sheds and buildings.
The pines were cut as they were wanted, floated to the
mill and made into planks, vessels coming at intervals
to take them away. The Norwegians are accused of
wasting their forests with these mills. We could see no
signs of it. In tlie first place, the sides of the fjords
are so steep that the trees can be got at only in com^
paratively few places. When they can be got at, there
is no excessive destruction ; more pines are annually
swept away by avalanches than are consumed by all the
mills in Norway ; and the quantity is so enormous that
the amount which men can use is no more likely to
exhaust it than the Loch Fyne fishermen are likely 1o
exhaust the herring shoals.
On the other side of the basin where we lay was the
domain of the owner of the mill. Though the fjord
ended, the great ravine in which it was formed stretched,
as we could see, a couple of miles further, but had been
blocked by a moraine. The moraines, being formed of
loose soil and stones deposited by ice in the glacial
period, are available for cultivation, and are indeed
excellent land. There were forty or fifty acres of grass
laid up for hay, a few acres of potatoes, a red-roofed
sunny farmhouse with large outbuildings, carts and
iiorses moving about, poultry crowing, cattle grazing, a
boathouse and platform where a couple of lighters were
unloading. Here was the house of a substantial, pros-
22f> THE NORWAY FJORDS.
perous fanner. His nearest neighbour must have beeu
twelve miles from him. He, his children, and farm-
servants were tlie sole occupants of the valley. The
saw-mill was theirs; the boats were theirs; their own
hands supplied everything that was wanted. They were
their own carpenters, smiths, masons, and glaziers ; they
sheared their own sheep, spun and dyed their own wool,
wove their own cloth, and cut and sewed their own
dresses. It was a true specimen of primitive Norwegian
life complete in itself — of peaceful, quiet, self-sufficient,
prosperous industry.
The snake that spoiled Paradise had doubtless found
its way into Nord Gulen (so our valley was named) as
into other places, but a softer, sweeter-looking spot we
had none of us ever seen. It was seven in the eveniucj
when we anchored ; a skifif came otf, rowed by a couple of
plain stout girls with offers of eggs and milk. Fishing-
lines were brought out as soon as the anchor was down.
Tlie surface water was fresh, and icy cold as coming out
of the near glaciers ; but it was salt a few fathoms down,
and almost immediately we had a basket of dabs and
whiting.
After dinner, at nine o'clock, with the sun still
shining, D and I went ashore with our trout rods.
We climbed the moraine, and a narrow lake lay spread
out before us, perfectly still, the sides steep, in many
places precipitous, trees growing wherever a root could
strike. Tiie lake was three miles long, and seemed to
end against the foot of a range of mountains 5000 feet
high, the peaks of which, thickly covered with snow,
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 327
were flushed with the crimson light of the evening. The
surface of the water was spotted with rings where the
trout were rising. One of the fanner's boys, who had
followed us, offered his boat. It was of native manu-
facture, and not particularly watertight, but wo stowed
ourselves, one in the bow and the other in the stern.
The boy had never seen such rods as ours ; he looked
incredulously at them, and still more at our flies; but
he rowed us to the top of the lake, where a river came
down out of the snow-mountain, finishing its descent
with a leap over a cliff. Here he told us there were trout
if we could catch them ; and he took ns deliberately
into the spray of the waterfall, not understanding, till
we were nearly wet through, that we had any objection
to it. As the evening went on the scene became every
minute grander and more glorious. The sunset colours
deejjened \ a crag just over us, 2000 feet high, stood out
clear and sharp against the sky. We stayed for two or
three hours, idly throwing our flies and catching a few
trout no longer than our hands, thereby confirming our
friend's impression of our inefficiency. At midnight we
were in the yacht- again — midnight, and it was like a
night in England at the end of June five minutes after
sunset.
This was our first experience of a Norway fjord,
and for myself I would have been content to go no
further ; have studied in detail the exquisite beauty
which was round us; have made frien.ls with the owner
and his household, and found out what they made of
their existence under such conditions. There in epitome
328 THE A'Oh'irAV rjORDS.
1 should liave been seeing Norway and the Norwegians.
It was no Arcadia of piping shepherds. In tlie summer
the young men are away at the mountain farms, high
[rraziner trround underneath the snow-line. The women
work with their brothers and husbands, and weave and
make the cluthos. They dress plainly, but with good
taste, with modest embroidery ; a handsome bag hangs
at the waist of the housewife. There is reading, too,
and scholarship, A boy met us on a pathway, and spoke
to us in Euglisli. Wc asked him when he had been in
England, He had never been beyond his own valley ;
in the long winter evenings he had taught himself with
an English grammar. No wonder with such ready adapt-
abilities the Norwegians make the best of emigrants.
The overflow of population which once directed itself in
such rude fashion on Normandy and England now finds
its way to the United States, and no incomers are more
welcome there.
But a yacht is for movement and change. We were
to start again at noon the next day. The morning was
hot and bright. While the engineer was getting up
steam, wo rowed to the foot of the great fall, I had
my small trout rod with me, and trolled a salmon fly
on the chance. There were no salmon there, but we
saw brown trout rising ; so I tried the universal
favourites — a March brown and a red spinner — and in
a moment had a fish that bent the rod double. An-
other followed, and another, and then I lost a large one.
I passed the rotl to D , in whose hands it did still
better service. Tn an hour wo had a basket of trout
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 329
that would have done credit to an English chalk stream.
The largest was nearly three pounds weight, admirably
grown, and pink; fattened, I suppose, on the mussels
which paved the bottom of the rapids. We were off
immediately after, still guided to a new point by the
chart, but not in tins instance by the chart onl}'. There
was a spot which had been discovered tlie year before
by the Duke of , of which we had a vague descrip-
tion. We had a log on board which had been kept
by the Duke's mate, in wliich he had recorded many
curious experiences; among the rest an adventure at
a certain lake not very far from where we were. The
Duke had been successful there, and his lady had been
very nearly successful. * We had grief yesterday,' the
mate wrote, ' her Grace losing a twelve-pound salmon
whicii she liad caught on her little line, and just as
they were going to hook it, it went off, and we were
very sorry.' The grief went deep, it seemed, for the
next day the crew were reported as only ' being as well
as could be expected after so melancholy an accident.'
We determined to find the place, and, if jjossible, avenge
her Grace. We crossed the Sogne and went up into
the Nord Fjord — of all the fjords the most beautiful ;
for on either side there are low terraces of land left by
glacier action, and more signs of culture and human
habitations. After running for fifty miles, we turned
into an irdet corresponding tolerably with the Duke's
directions, and in another half-hour we were again in a
mountain basin like that which wo had left in the
inoining. The cataracts were in their glory, the day
330 'HIE NORWAY FJORDS.
iiaving been warm for a wftiider. J counted seventeen
all close about us when we anchored, any one of which
wotild have made the fortune of a Scotch hotel, and
would have been celebrated by Mr. Murray in pages of
passionate eloquence. But Stromen, or ' the Streams/
as the place was called, was less solitary than Nor<l
Gulen. There was a large farm on one side of us.
There was a cluster of houses at the mouth of a river,
half a mile from it. Above the villafjo was a lake,
and at the head of the lake an establishment of saw-
mills. A gun-shot from where we lay, on a rocky knoll,
was a white wooden church, the Sunday meeting-place
of the neighbourhood ; boats coming to it from twenty
miles round bringing families in tlieir bright Sunday
attire. Roads there were none. To have made a
league of road among such rocks and precipices would
have cost the State a year's revenue. But the water
was the best of approaches, and boats the cheapest of
cariiages. We called on the chief proprietor to ask for
leave to fish in the lake. It was granted with the
readiest courtesy; but the Norsemen are proud in their
way, and do not like the Englishman's habit of treating
all the world as if it belonged to him. The low
meadows round his house were bright with flowers :
two kinds of wild geranium, an exquisite variety of
harebell, Fea-])ride, pansies, violets, and the great pin-
guicola. Among the rocks were foxgloves in full
splendour, and wild roses just coming into flower. The
roses alone of the Norway flora disappointed me ; the
leaves are large, dark, and handsome ; fho flower is
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 331
insignificant, and falls to pieces within an hour of its
opening. We were satisfied that we were on the right
spot. The church stood on a peninsula, the neck of
which immediately adjoined our anclioiage. Behind
it was the lake which had been the scene of tlie
Duchess's misfortune. We diil not repeat our midnight
experiment. We waited for a leisurely breakfast. Five
of the crew then carried the yaclit's cutter tlirough
fifty yards of bushes; and we were on the edge of the
lake itself, which, like all these inland waters, was
glassy, still, deep, and overhung with precipices. Tlie
owner had suggested to us that there were bears among
them, which we might kill if we pleased, as they had
just eaten seven of his sheejx So little intention had
we of shooting bears that we had not brougiit rifle or
even gun with us. Our one idea was to catch the
Duchess's twelve-pound salmon, or, if not that one, at
least another of his kindred.
In a strange lake it is well always to try first with
spinning tackle, a bait trolled with a long line from the
stern of a boat rowed slowly. It will tell you if there
are fish to be caught; it will find out for you where
the fish most haunt, if there are any. We had a
curious experience of the value of this method on a
later occasion, and on one of our failures. We had
found a lake joined to an arm of a fjord by a hundred
yards only of clear running water. We felt certain of
finding salmon there, and if we had begun with iiies
we might have fished all day and have caught nothing.
Instead of this we began to spin. In five minutes we
332 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
li:ul ii run ; we wiitched eagerly to see what we had
got. It was a whiting pollock. We went on, \\'e
hooked a heavy fish. We assured ourselves that now
we had at least a trout. It turned out to be a cod.
The sea fish, we found, ran ficely into the fresh water,
and had chased tmut and salmon completely out. At
Stromen we were in better luck. We started with
phantom minnows on traces of strong single gut, forty
yards of line, and forty more in reserve on the reel.
Two men rowed us up the shore an oar's length from
the rocks. Something soon struck me. The reel flew
round, the line spun out. In the wake of the boat
there was a white flash, as a fish sprang into the air.
Was it the Duchess's salmon ? It was very like it, any
way; and if we had lost him, it would have been
entered ilown as a salmon. It proved, however, to be
no salmon, but a sea trout, and such a sea trout as we
had never seen ; not a bull trout, not a peel, not a
Welsh sewin, or Irish wliite trout, but a Norwegian, of
a kind of its own, diflerent from all of them. This was
the first of many which followed, of sizes varying from
three pounds to the twelve pounds which the mate had
recorded ; fine, bold, fighting fish, good to look at, good
to catch, and as good to eat when we tried them.
Finally, in the shallower water, at the upper end, a
fish took mo, wdiich from its movements was something
else, and proved to be a large char, like what they take
in Derwentwater, oidy four times the weight. Looking
carefully at the water we saw more char swimming
leisurely near the surf;\ce, taking flies. Wo dropped
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 333
our spinning tackle, and took our fly rods ; and presently
we were pulling in char, the blood royal of the salmon-
idie, the elect of all the finned children of the fresh
water, as if tliey had been so many Thames chub.
What need to talk more of fish ? The mate's log
had guided us well. We caught enough and to spare,
and her Grace's wrongs were avenged sufficiently. We
landed for our frugal luncheon — dry biscuits and a
whisky flask — but we sate in a bed of whortleberries,
purple with ripe fruit, by a cascade which ran down
out of a snow-field. Horace would have invited his
dearest friend to share in such a banquet.
The next day was Sunday. The sight of the boats
coming from all quarters to church was very pretty.
Fifteen hundred people at least must have collected.
I attended the service, but could make little of it. I
could follow the hymns with a book ; but copies of the
Liturgy, though printed, are not provided for general
use, and are reserved to the clergy. The faces of the
men were extremely interesting. There was little in
them to suggest the old freebooter. They were mild
and gentle-looking, with fair skins, fair hair, and light
eyes, grey or blue. The expression Avas sensible and
collected, but with nothing about it specially adventur-
ous or daring. The women, in fact, were more striking
than their husbands. There was a steady strength in
their features which implied humour underneath. Two
gii'ls, I suppose sisters, reminded me of Mrs. Gaskell.
"* With the Lutheran, Sunday afternoon is a holiday. A
yacht in such a place was a curiosity, and a fleet of
334 i'llP^ NOR IV A Y PJORDS.
boats .siuinmiili (1 us. Such as liked came on board and
looked about tlicin. Tliey were well-bred, and showed
110 foolish sur[)rise. One old dame, indeed, being t'lken
down into the ladies' cabin, did find it too much for her.
She dropped down and kissed the carpet. One of our
party wondered afterwards whether there was any
chance of the Norwegians attaining a higher civilisation.
T asked her to define civilisation. Did industry, skill,
energy, sufficient food and raiment, sound practical
education, and piety which believes without asking
questions, constitute civilisation; and would luxury,
newspapers, and mechanics' institutes mean a higher
civilisation ? The old question must first be answered,
What is the real purpose of human life ?
At Stromen, too, we could not linger ; we stopped a
few hours at Daviken on our way north, a considerable
place for Norway, on the Nord Fjord. There is a
bishop, I believe, belonging to it, but him we did not
see. We called at the parsonage and found the pastor's
wife and children. The pastor himself came on boaid
afterwards — a handsome man of sixty-seven, with a
broad, full forehead, large nose, and straight grizzled
hair. He spoke English, and would have spoken Latin
if we had ourselves been equal to it. He had read
much English literature, and was cultivated above the
level of our own average country clergy. His parish
was thirty miles long on both sides of the fjord. He
had several churches, to all of which he attended in
turn, with boats in summer, and occasionally perhaps
with the ice in winter. We did not ask his salary ; it
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 335
was doubtless small, but sufficient. He had a school
under him which he said was well attended. The
master, who had a state certificate, was allowed 25/. a
year, on which he was able to maintain himself. We
could not afford time to see more of this gentleman,
however. We were impatient for Trondhjem ; the
engineer wanted coals; we wanted our letters and
newspapers ; and the steward wanted a washerwoman.
On our way up, too, we had arranged to give a day or
two to Romsdal, Rolf the Ganger's country. On an
island in Romsdal Fjord the ruins can still be seen of
Rolf's Castle. It was there thtit Rolf, or Rollo as we
call him, set out with his comrades to conquer Normandy,
and produce the chivalry who fought at Hastings and
organised feudal England. This was not to be missed ;
and as little, a visit which we had promised to a
descendant of one of those Normans, a distinguished
Tory member of the House of Commons, and lord of
half an English county, who had bought an estate in
these parts, with a salmon river, and had built himself
a house there.
Romsdal, independent of its antiquarian interest, is
geologically the most remarkable place which we saw
in Norway. The fjord expands into a wide estuary or
inland lake, into wliich many valleys open and several
large streams discharge themselves. Romsdal proper
was once evidently itself a continuation of the Great
Fjord. The mountains on each side of it are peculiarly
magnificent. On the left Romsdal's Horn shoots up
into the &ky, a, lui^i! ))eak which no one at that time
336 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
Ii.ul (vrr cliiiilxMl, and will try tlic inottle of the Alpine
Cliil) when th(;y have conquered Switzerland. On the
riglit is a precipitous wall of" cliffs and crags as higii
and bold as the Horn itself. The upper enfl of the
valley which divides them terminates in a narrmv fissure,
through which a river thunders down that carries the
water of the great central ice-field into the valley.
From thence it finds its way into the fjord, nmning
tlirou"h the rrlun itself, wliich is seven or eight miles
long, two miles wide, and richly cultivated and wooded.
From the sea the appearance of the shore is most
singular. It is laid out in level grassy terraces, stretch-
ing all round the bay, lisiug in tiers one above the
other, so smooth, so even, so nicely scarfed, that the
imagination can hardly be persuaded that they are not
the work of human engineers. But under water tlie
formation is the same. At one moment you are in
twenty fathoms, the next in forty, the next your cable
will find no bottom ; and it is as certain as any conclu-
sion on such subjects can be, that long ago, long ages
before Rolf, and Knut, and the Vikings, the main fjord
was blocked with ice ; that while the ice barrier was
still standing, and the valleys behind it were fresh-
water lakes, the rivers gradually filled them with a
ddWis of stone and soil. Each level terrace was once a
lake bottom. The ice broke or melted away at inter-
vals. The water was lowered suddenly forty or fifty
feet, and the ground lately covered was left bare as the
ice receded.
We found uur Enu'lishman. His house is under the
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 337
Horn at the bend of the valley, where the ancient fjord
must have ended. It stands in a green open meadow,
approached through alder and birch woods, the first
cataract where the snow-water plunges through the
great chasm being in sight of the windows, and half-a-
dozen inimitable salmon pools within a few minutes'
walk. The house itself was simple enough, made of
pine wood entirely, as the Norway houses always are,
and painted white. It contained some half-dozen
rooms, furnished in the plainest English style, the sum-
mer-house of a sportsman who is tired of luxury, and
finds the absence of it an agreeable exchange. A man
cannot be always catching salmon, even in Norway, and
a smattering of science and natural history would be a
serviceable equipment in a scene where there are so
many curious objects worth attending to. Our friend's
tastes, however, did not lie in that direction. His
shelves w^ere full of yellow-backed novels — French,
English, and German, His table was covered with the
everlasting Saturday Review, Pall Mall Gazette, Times,
and Standard. I think he suspected science as a part
of modern Liberalism ; for he was a Tory of the Tories,
a man with whom the destinies had dealt kindly, in
whose eyes therefore all existing arrangements were as
they should be, and those who wished to meddle with
them were enemies of the human race. He was sad
and sorrowful. The world was not moving to his mind,
and he spoke as if he was ultimus Romanoruni. But
if an aristocrat, he was an aristocrat of the best type —
princely in his thoughts, princely in his habits, princely
338 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
oven in liis .sulnioii fi.sliirig. The pools in tlie river
being divided by diflicult rajjids, he had a boat and a
boatman fur each. The sport was ample but uniform.
There was an ice cellar under the house wlierc we saw
lialf-a-dozen great salmon lying which had been caught
in the morning. One salmon behaves much like
;inotlier; and after one has caught four or five, and
when one knows that one can catcli as many more as
one wishes, impatient people might find the occupation
monotonous. Hapj)ily there was a faint element of
uncertainty still left. It was possible to fail even in
the Rumsdal. We were ourselves launched in boats in
different pools at the risk of our lives to try our hands ;
w'c worked diligently for a couple of hours, and 1 at
least moved not so much as a fin. It was more enter-
tainiu'r a iireatdeal to listen to our host as ho declaimed
upon the iniquities of uur present Radical chief.
Politics, like religion, are matters of faith on winch
reason says as little as possible. One passionate belief
is an antidote to another. It is impossible to continue
to believe enthusiastically in a creed which a fellow-
mortal with as much sense as oneself denies and exe-
crates, and the collision of opinion produces the prudent
scepticism which in most matters is the least mischievous
frame of mind.
Here, too, in these pleasant surroundings we would
gladly have loitered for a day or two ; but the steward
was clamorous over his dirty linen, and it was not to
be. My last impressions of Ronisdal fell into the
form of a few doggrel verses, an indulgence ou which
THE XORWAY FJORDS. 339
I rarely venture, and which for once, therefore, may
be pardoned.
ROMSDAL FJORD.
July II, i88i.
So this, then, was the Rovers' nest,
And here the chiefs were bred,
Who broke the drowsy Saxon's rest
And scared him in his bed.
The north wind blew, the ship sped fast,
Loud clieered the Corsair crew,
And wild and free above the mast
The Raven standard flew.
Sail south, sail south, there lies the land
Where the yellow corn is growing ;
The spoil is for the warrior's hand,
The serf may have the sowing.
Let cowards make their parchment laws.
To guard their treasured hoards ;
The steel shall plead the Rovers' cause.
Their title-deeds their swords.
The Raven still o'er Romsdal's peaks
Is soaring as of yore.
But Viking's call in cove or creek
Calm Ronisdal hears no more.
Long ages noAV beneath the soil
The Ganger has been lying.
In Romsdal's bay his quiet toil
The fisherman is plying.
The English earl sails idly by,
* And from his deck would trace.
With curious antiquarian eye,
'I'iie cradle of his race.
X\o nik NORWAY FJORD!^.
Willi time anil liilo \vn cliange ami cliangt",
Yet still tlie world is yoiiiij,',
Still free the proudest spirits range,
The prize ii for the strong.
Wc deem it chief of glorious things
In parliaments to shine,
That orators are modern kings,
And only not divine.
But men will yet be ruled by men,
Though talk may have its day,
And other Rolfs will ri-e again
To sweep the rogues away.
Tiondlijein, on wliicli our iutentions liad l.eeu i^o
long fixed, was reached at last. The weather had
grown cold again, cold with cataracts of rain. Let
no one go to Norway even in the dog-days without a
winter wardrobe. The sea-water in our baths was at
47°; we had fires in the cabin stove, and could not
warm ourselves ; we shivered under four blankets in
our berths. The mountains wore buried in clouds, and
the landscape was reduced to a dull grey mist; but the
worst of weathers will serve for reading letters, laying
in coal, and wandering about a town.
Trondhjcm ought to have been interesting. It
was the capital of the old Norte kings. There reigned
the Olafs. It lies half-way up the Norway coast in the
very centre of the kingdom, on a broad landlocked bay.
The situation was chosen for its strength ; for a deep
river all but surrounds the peninsula on which the town
is built, and on the land siile it must have been impreg-
luible. The country behind it is excei)tionally fertile,
THE NORWAY FJORDS. -341
and is covered over with thriving farms ; but. streets
and shops are wearisome, and even the cathedral did
not tempt us to pay it more than a second visit. It is
a stern solid piece of building ; early Norman in type,
with doors, windows, and arches of zigzag pattern. It
had fallen out of repair and. was now being restored by
the State; hundreds of workmen were busy chipping
and hammering, and were doing their business so well
that the new work can hardly be distinguished from
the old. But Catholic Christianity never seems to have
got any hearty hold on Norway. St. Olaf thrust it
upon the people at the sword's point, but their imagiur
ations remained heathen till the Reformation gave them
a creed which they could believe. I could find but few
tombs in the cathedral. I inquired where the old kings
and chiefs were buried, and no one could tell me. I
found, in fact, that they had usually come to an end in
some sea-battle, and had found their graves in their own
element. Olaf Tryggveson went down, the last sur-
vivor in the last ship of his fleet, the rays of the sunset
flashing on his armour as the waves closed over him.
St. Olaf died in the same way. The absence of monu-
mental stones or figures in the great metropolitan
church of Norway is strange, sad, and impressive.
The town being exhausted, we drove a few miles
out of it to see a foss, one of the grandest in the
country. We said 'Oh ! ' to it, as Wolfe Tone did to
Grattan. But waterfalls had become too common with
us, and, in fact, the excitement about them lias always
seemed exaggerated to me. I was staying once in a
^42 Tfir. XORIVAV FJORDS.
house in the north of New York State when a gentle-
man came in fresh from Niagara, and poured out Ijia
astonisliment over tlie enormous mass of water fall-
ing into the caldron below. ' Why is it astonishing ?
asked a Yankee who was present. ' Why shouldn't
the water f;dl ? the astonishing thing wouM be if it
didn't fall.'
In short, we left the washerwoman in possession of
the linen, which we could return and pick up when it
was done, and we steamed away to examine the great
Trondhjem Fjord ; fishing and making bad sketches as
the weather would allow. The weather generally allowed
us to do very little, and drove us upon our books, which
we could have read as well in our rooms at home. I
had brought the 'Elective Affinities' with me. I had
not read it for thirty years. Then it had seemed to me
the wisest of all didactic works of fiction. 'Uncon-
scious cerebration,' as Dr. Carpenter calls it, when I
read the book again, had revolutionised ni}' principles
of judgment. I could still recognise the moral purpose.
There are tendencies in human nature, like the chemical
properties of material substances, which will claim
possession of you, and oven appear to have a moral
right over you. But if you yield you will be destroyed.
You can command yourself, and you must. Very true,
very excellent; and sot forth with Goethe's greatest
power of fascination ; but I found myself agreeing with
the rest of the world that it was a monstrous book after
all. To put the taste out I tried Seneca, but I scarcely
improved matters. Seneca's fame as a moralist and
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 343
philosopher was due, perhaps, in the first instaucc, to
liis position about the Court, and to his enormous
wealth, A little merit passes for a great deal when it
is framed in gold, and once established it would retain
its reputation, from the natural liking of men for virtu-
ous cant. Those lectures to Lucilius on the beauty of
poverty from the greatest money-lender and usurer in
the Empire ! Lucilius is to practise voluntary hard-
ships, is to live at intervals on beggars' fare, and
sleep on beggars' pallets, that he may sympathise
in the sufferings of mortality and be independent of
outward things. If Seneca meant all this, why did
he squeeze five millions of our money out of the
provinces with loans and contracts ? He was barren
as the Sahara to me. Not a green spot could I
find, not a single genial honest thought, in all the four
volumes with which I had encumbered myself. His
finest periods rang hollow like brass sovereigns. The
rain would not stop, so we agreed to defy the rain and
to fish in spite of it. We had the fjord before us for a
week, and we landed wherever we could hear of lake
or river. For twelve hours together the waterspout
would come down upon us; we staggered about in
thickest woollen, with mackintoshes and indiarubber
boots. With flapped oilskin hats we should have been
waterproof, but with one of these I was unprovided ;
and, in spite of collars and woollen wrappers, the
water would find its way down my neck till there
was nothing dry left about me but the feet. Clothes
grow heavy under such conditions; we had to take
341 'J'HE NORWAY FJORDS.
our lightest 1(kIs witli us, and u<jw and tlion came to
grief. I was fishing alone one day in a broad rocky
stream fringed witli alder bushes, dragging my landing-
net with mo. At an open s})ot where there was a likely
run within nach I had caught a four-pound sea trout.
I threw again ; a larger fish rose and carried off my fly.
1 mounted a 'doctor,' blue and silver, on the strongest
casting line in my book, and on the second cast a
salmon came. The river in the middle was running
like a mill-sluice. I could not follow along the bank
on account of the trees ; my oidy hope was to hold on
and drag the monster into the slack water under the
shore. My poor little rod did its best, but its best was
not enough ; the salmon forced his way into the waves,
round went the reel, ofif flew the line to the last inch,
and then came the inevitable catastrophe. A white
streak flashed wildly into the air, the rod straightened
out, the line came home, and my salmon and my bright
doctor sped away together to the sea.
We were none the worse for our wettings. Each
evening we came home drip])ing and draggled. A
degree or two more of cold would have turned the rain
into snow. Yet it signified nothing. We brought back
our basketfuls of trout, and the Norwegian trout are
the best in the world. We ancliored one evening in a
chasm with the mountain walls rising in precipices on
both sides. The next morning as 1 was lying in my
berth I heard a conversation between the steward and
the captain. The captain asked the orders for the day ;
the steward answered (he was the wit of the ship),
77/^5' NOR IV AY FJORDS. 345
' Orders are to stretch an awning over the fjord that
his lordship may fish.'
. But the weather so far beat us that we were obliged
to abandon Lofoden. We were now at the end of July,
and it was not likely to mend, so we determined to turn
about and spend the rest of our time in the large fjords
of South Norway. Trondhjem had been our furthest
point ; we could not coal there after all, so we had to
make for Christiansund on the way. I was not sorry
for it, for Christiansund is a curious little bustling place,
and worth seeing. It is the headquarters of the North
Sea fishing trade near the oj^en ocean, and the harbour
is formed by three or four islands divided by extremely
narrow channels, with a deep roomy basin in the middle
of them. One of our crew was ill, and had to be taken
for two or three days to the hospital. The arrange-
ments seemed excellent, as every public department is
in Norway. The town was pretty. The Norwegians
dress plainly ; but they like bright colours for their
houses, and the red-tiled roofs and blue and yellow
painted fronts looked pleasant after our clouds of mist.
The climate, from the proximity of tlie ocean, is said
to be mild for its latitude. The snow, we were told, lay
up to the lower windows through tlic winter, but that
went for nothing. There were stocks and columbines
in the gardens ; there were ripe gooseberries and red
currants and pink thorn and laburnum in flower. The
harbour was full of fishing smacks, like Brixham
trawlers, only rather more old-fashioned. Gay steam-
ferry boats rushed about from island to island ; large
346 THE NORWAY F'JOKDS.
sliips were loading; well-dressed strangers were in the
streets and shops ; an English yacht had come like our-
selves to take in coal, and was moored side by side with
us. Tiiere are fewer people in the world than we
imagine, and wo fall on old acquaintances when we least
expect them. The once beautiful was on board,
whom I had known forty-five years before. She had
married a distinguished engineer, who was out for his
holiday.
We stayed atChristiansund or in the neighbourhood
till our sick man was recovered, and then followed
(under better auspices as regarded weather) ten days
of scenery hunting which need not be described. We
went to Sondal, Loerdal, Nordal, and I don't know how
many ' dais,' all famous places in tiieir way, but with a
uniformity of variety which becomes tedious in a story.
One only noticeable feature I observed about the sheds
and poorer houses in these out-of-the-way districts.
They lay turf sods over the roofs, Avhich become thick
masses of vegetation ; and on a single cottage roof you
may see half-a-dozen trees growing ten or fifteen feet
high. For lakes and mountains, however beautilul, the
appetite becomes soon satiated. They please, but they
cease to excite ; and there is something artificial in the
modern enthusiasm for landscapes. Velasquez or Rubens
could appreciate a fine effect of scenery as well as
Turner or Stanfield ; but with them it was a frame-
work, subordinate to some human interest in the centre
of the picture. I suppose it is because man in these
democratic (lays has for a time ceased to touch the
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 347
imagination that our poets and artists are driven back
upon rocks and rivers and trees and skies ; but the
eclipse can only be temporary, and I confess, for myself,
that, sublime as the fjords were, the saw-mills and farm-
houses and fishing-boats, and the patient, industrious
people wresting a wholesome living out of that stern
environment, affected me very much^ more nearly. I
cannot except even the Geiranger, as tremendous a
piece of natural architecture as exists in the globe.
The fjord in the Geiranger is a quarter of a mile wide
and 600 fathoms deep. The walls of it are in most
places not figuratively, but literally, precipices, and the
patch of .sky above your head seems to narrow as you
look up, I hope I was duly impressed with the wonder
of this ; but even here there was something that im-
pressed me more, and that was the singular haymaking
which was going on. The Norwegians depend for their
existence on their sheep and cattle. Every particle of
gi-ass available for hay is secured ; and grass, peculiarly
nutritious, often grows on the high ridges 2000 feet up.
This they save as they can, and they have original ways
of doing it. In the Geiranger it is tied tightly in
bundles and Hung over the cliffs to be gathered up in
boats below. But science, too, is making its way in
this northern wilderness. The farmhouses, for shelter's
sake, are always at the bottom of valle3's, and are
generally near the sea. At one of our anchorages, shut
in as usual among the mountains, we observed one
evening from the deck what looked like a troop of
green goats skipping and bounding down the cliffs. We
3iS 'JIIF NO K WAY IJOKDS.
discovered tlirough a binocular tliat tlicy were bundles
of liay. Tlic clever bonder bad carried up a wire,
like a telegrapb wire, from bis courtyard to a pro-
jecting point of mountain : on tliis ran iron rings
as travellers wbicb brougbt tlie grass directly to bis
door.
Twice only in our wanderings wo bail fallen in witb
our tourist countrymen : once at Lrerdal, wbere a liigb
road comes down to a pier, and is inot tbere by a
corresponding steamer; tbe second time coming down
from tbe Geiranger, wben we passed a boat witb two
ladies and a gentleman, Englisb evidently, tbe gentle-
man toucbing bis bat to tbe Yacbt Club flag as we
went by. Strange and pleasant tbe sbort glimpse of
Englisb faces in tbat wild cbasm ! But we were plunged
into tbe very middle of our countrymen at tbe last spot
in wbicb we went in searcb of tbe picturesque — a spot
wortb a few words as by far tbe most regidarly beauti-
ful of all tbe places wbicb we visited. At tbe bead of
one of tbe long inlets wbicb runs soutb, I tbink, out of
tbe Hai'danger Fjord (but our rapid movements were
confusing) stands Oddo, once a boly place in Scandi-
navian mytbological bistory. Tbere is anotber Odde in
Iceland, also sacred — 1 suppose Odin bad sometbing
to do witb it. The Odde Fjord is itself twenty miles
long, and combines tbe softest and grandest aspects of
Norwegian scenery. Tbe sliores are exceptionally well
cultivated, richer than any wbicb we bad seen. Every
half-mile some pretty farmhouse was shining red through
clumps of trees, tbe many cattle-sheds speaking for the
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 349
wealth of the owner. Above, through the rifts of higher
ranges you catch a sight of the Central Ice-field glacier
streaming over among the broken chasms and melting
into waterfalls. At Odde itself there is an extensive
tract of fertile soil on the slope of a vast moraine,
which stretches completely across the broad valley.
On the sea at the landing-place is a large cnurch and
two considerable hotels, which were thronged with
visitors. A broad road excellently engineered leads
down to it, and we found a staff of English-speaking
guides whose services we did not require. We had seen
much of the ice action elsewhere, but the perform-
ances of it at Odde were more wonderful even than at
Romsdal. The moraine is perhaps 450 feet high ; the
road winds up the side of it among enormous granite
boulders, many of them weighing thousands of tons,
which the ice has tossed about like pebble-stones. On
reaching the crest you sec a lake a ([uarter of a mile
off; but before you come to it you cross some level
fields, very rich to look at, and with patches of white-
heart cherry-trees scattered about, the fruit, when we
came there at the end of August, being actually ripe
and extremely good. These fields were the old lake
bottom ; but the river has cut a dyke for itself through
the top of the moraine, and the lake has gone down
some twenty feet, leaving them dry.
The weather (penitent, perhaps, for having so long
persecuted us) was in a better humour. Our days at
Odde were warm and without a cloud, and we spent
them chiefly by the lake, which was soft as Winder-
356 THE NORWAY F/ORDS.
mere. Wc had coinu into a land of iruit; not cherries
only, but wild raspberries and strawberries were offered
us in leaves by the girls on the road. The road itself
followed the lake margin, among softly rounded and
wooded hills, the great mountains out of sight behind
them, save only in one spot where, througli a gorge,
you looked straight up to the eternal snow-field, from
wliich a vast glacier descended almost into the lake
itself, the ice imitating precisely the form of falling
water, crushing its way among the rocks, parting in two
where it met a projecting crag, and uniting again
behind it, seeming even to heave and toss in angry
waves of foam.
From this glacier the lake was chiefly fed, and was
blue, like skimmed milk, in consequence. We walked
along it for several miles. Fishing seemed hopeless in
water of such a texture. As we turned a corner two
carriages dashed by us with some young men and dogs
and guns — cockneys out for their holiday. ' Any sport,
sir ? ' one of them shouted to me, seeing a rod in my
hand, in the cheerful familiar tone which assumed that
sport must be the first and only object which one could
have in such a place. They passed on to the hotel,
and the presence of so many of our own countrymen
was inclining us to cut short our own stay. Some of
the party, however, wished to inspect the glacier. We
were ourselves assured that there were salmon in the
lake, which, in spite of the colour, could be caught
there. It was the last opportunity which we should
have as after Odde our next move was to be Christi-
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 35t
ania. So we ugieed to take one more day there and
make the most of it. We got two native boats, and
started to seek adventures. Alas ! Ave had the love-
liest views ; but the blue waters of Odde, however fair
to look upon, proved as ill to fish in as at the first
sight of them we were assured they must be. Our
phantom minnow^s could not be seen three inches off,
and the stories told us we concluded to be fables
invented for the tourists. I, for my own part, had
gone to the- furthest extremity of the lake, where it
ended in a valley like Borrodale. I was being rowed
listlessly back, having laid aside my tackle, and wishing
that I could talk to my old boatman, who looked as if
all the stories of the Edda were inside him, when my eye
was suddenly caught by a cascade coming down out of
a ravine into the lake which had not been bred in the
glaciers, and was as limpid as the Itchen itself. At the
mouth of this it was just possible that there might be
a char or something with fins that could see to rise.
It was my duty to do Avhat I could for the yacht's
cuisine. I put together my little trout rod for a last
attempt, and made my boatman row me over to it.
The clear Avater Avas not mixing Avith the blue, but
pushing its Avay through the milky masses, Avhich were
eddying and rolling as if they Avere oil. In a moment
I had caught a sea trout. Immediately after I caught
a second, and soon a basketful. They had been attracted
by the purer liquid, and Avcre gathered there in a
shoal. They Avere lying Avith their noses up the
stream at tlie furthest point to Avhicli they could go. I
352 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
got two or tlirce, anil those tlic largest, by tlirowing my
(ly against the rocks exactly at the fall. I) came
afterwards and caught more and bigger fish than I did ;
and our sj^ort, which indeed we had taken as it came
without specially seeking for it, was brought to a good
end. The end of August was come, and with it the
period of our stay in the Qords. We had still to see
Christiania, and had no time to lose. But of all the
bits of pure natural loveliness which we had fallen in
with, Odde and its blue lake, and glacier, and cherry
orchards, and wild strawberries has left the fairest im-
pression ; perhaps, however, only because it was the
last, for we were going home ; and they say that when
a man dies, the last image which he has seen is
pliotographed on his retina.
But now away. The smoke pours through the
funnel. The engine is snorting like an impatient horse.
The quick rattle of the cable says that the anchor is
off the ground. We were off, and had clone with fjords.
The inner passages would serve no longer; we had to
make for the open sea once more to round the foot of
the peninsula. It is at no time the softest of voyages.
The North Sea is not the home of calm sunsets and
light- breathing zephyrs, and it gave us a taste of its
quality, which, after our long sojourn in smooth water,
was rather startling. If the wind and sea are ever
wilder than we found them in those latitudes, I have
no desire to be present at the exhibition. We fought
the storm for twenty-four hours, and were then driven
for refuge into a roadstead at the southern extremity
THE XORIVAY FJORDS. 353
of Norway, near Maadal, The neigliboiirhood was
interesting, if we had known it, for at Mandal Mary
Stuart's Earl of Bothwell was imprisoned when he
escaped from the Orkneys to Denmark. The dungeon
where he was confined is still to be seen, and as the
Earl was an exceptional villain, the authentic evidence
of eyesight that he h;i,d sj)ent an uncomfortable time in
his exile would not have been unwelcome. But we
discovered what we had lost when it was too late to
profit by our information. We amused ourselves by
wandering on shore and observing the effect of the
change of latitude on vegetation. We found the holly
thriving, of which in the north we had not seen a trace,
and the hazel bushes had ripe nuts on them. There
was still a high sea the next day ; but we made thirty
miles along the coast to Areudal, an advanced thriving
town of modern aspect built in a sheltered harbour,
with broad quays, fine buildings, and a gay parade. It
was almost dark when we entered ; and the brilliant
lights and moving crowds and carriages formed a singu-
lar contrast to the unfinished scenes of unregenerate
nature which we had just left. The Norse nature, too,
hard and rugged as it may be, cannot resist the effect
of its occupations. Aristotle observes that busy sea
towns are always democratic. Norway generally, though
Republican, is intensely Conservative. The landowners,
who elect most of the representatives, walk in the ways
of their fathers, and have the strongest objection to new
"ideas. Arendal, I was told, sends to Parliament an
eloquent young Radical, the admired of all the news-
354 'I'll/'- NORWAY FJORDS.
paiicis. There is, 1 believe,' no present likelihood that
he will brin;^ iibotit a revolution. Ijiit tliere is no
knowing wlieii the king is an absentee. We .si)eiit one
ni<f]it at Arcnilal. In the morning the storm had left
us, and before sunset we were at anchor at Christiania.
It was Sunday. Tiic weather w;is warm, the water
smooth, the woody islands wdiich surround and shelter
the anchorage were glowing in gold and crimson.
Christiania, a city of domes and steeples, lay before
us with its fleets of steamers and crowded shipping.
Hundreds of tiny yachts and pleasure-boats were
glancing round us. There is no sour Sabbatarianism
in Norway. One of the islands is a kind of Cremorne.
When night fell the music of the city band came fitfully
across the water ; blue lights blazed and rockets flashed
into the sky with their flights of crimson stars. It was
a scene which we had not expected in these northern
regions; but life can have its enjoyments even above
the sixtieth parallel.
There is much to be seen in Christiania. There is
a Parliament liouse and a royal palace, and picture
galleries and botanical gardens, and a museum of
antiquities, and shops where articles of native work-
manship can be bought by Englishmen at three times
their value, and ancient swords and battleaxes, and
drinking-horns and rings and necklaces, genuine, at
present, for all I know to the contrary, but capable of
* Written in i!>;Si. The iiiovcinciit for separation from Sweden lias
advanced raiiiilly in tlio last leu years.
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 355
imitation, and likely in these days of progress to bo
speedily imitated. If tlic Holy Coat of Treves has
been multiplied by ten, why should there not be ten
swords of Olaf Tryggveson ? But all these things are
written of in the handbook of Mr. Murray, where the
curious can read of them. One real wonder we saw
and saw again at Christiania, and could not satisfy our-
selves with seeing; and with an account of this I shall
end. It was a Viking's ship; an authentic vessel in
Avhich, while Norway was still heathen, before St. Olaf
drilled his people into Christianity with sword and
gallows, a Norse chief and his crew had travelled these
same waters, and in which, when he died, he had been
laid to rest. It had been closed in with peat, which
had preserved the timbers. It had been recovered
almost entire — the vessel itself, the oars, the boats, the
remnants of the cordage, even down to the copper
caldron in which he and his men had cooked their
dinners ; the names, the ago, the character of them all
buried in the soil, but the proof surviving that they
had been the contemporaries and countrymen of the
* Danes ' who drove the English Alfred into the marshes
of Somersetshire.
Ouryaclit's company were as eager to see this extra-
ordinary relic as ourselves. We went in a body, and
never tired of going. It had been found fifty miles
away, had been brought to Christiania, and had been
given in charge to the University. A solid weather-
proof shed had been built for it, where we could study
its structure at our leisure.
356 THE NORWAY FJORDS.
I'Ikj tir.st tliiii>^f tlial stiiick ii.s all was tlie beauty
of tlio niuilcl, as little resembling the oM drawings of
Norse or Saxun ships as the figures which do duty there
as men resemble Imniau beings. White, of Cowes,
could not build a vessel with liner lines, or offering less
resistance to the water. She was eighty feet long, and
seventeen and a half feet beam. She may have drawn
three feet, scarcely more, when her whole complement
■was on board. She was pierced for thirty-two oars,
and you could see the marks on the side of the rowlocks
where the oars had worn the tiud)cr. She ha<l a single
mast, stepped in the solid trunk of a tree which had
been laid along the keel. The stump of it was still in
the socket. Her knee timbers were strong; but her
planks were unexpectedly slight, scarcely more than
half an inch thick. They hatl been formed by careful
splitting; there was no sign of the action of a saw, and
the ends of them had been trimmed off by the axe.
They had been set on and fastened with iron nails, and
the seams had been carefully caulked. Deck she had
none — a level floor a couple of feet below the gunwale
ran from stem to stern. The shields of the crew formed
a bulwark, and it was easy to see where they had been
fixed. Evidently, therefore, she had been a war-ship ;
built for fighting, not for carrying cargoes. But there
was no shelter, and could have been none ; no covered
forecastle, no stern cabin. She stood right open fore
and aft to wind and waves ; and though she would have
been buoyant in a sea-way, and in the heaviest gale
would have shipped little water, even Norsemen could
THE NORWAY FJORDS. 357
not have been made of such impenetrable stuff that
they would have faced the elements with no better
protection in any distant expedition. That those who
sailed in her were to some extent careful of themselves
is accidentally certain. Among the stores was a plank
with crossbars nailed upon it, meant evidently for
landing on a beach. One of our men, who was quick
at inferences, exclaimed at once : ' These fellows must
have worn shoes and stockings. If they had been bare-
legged they would have jumped overboard and would
not have wanted a landing-plank.'
I conclude, therefore, that she was not the kind of
vessel of which the summer squadrons were composed
that came down our English Channel, but that she was
intended either for the fjords only, or for the narrow
waters between Norway and Sweden and Denmark at
the mouth of the Baltic. Her rig must have been
precisely what we had been lately seeing on the Sogne
or Hardanger; a single large sail on a square yard fit
for running before the wind, or with the wind slightly
on the quarter, but useless at any closer point. The
rudder hung over the side a few feet from the stern, a
heavy oar with a broad blade and a short handle, shaped
so exactly like the rudders of the Roman vessels on
Trajan's Column, tliat the Norsemen, it is likely, had
seen the pattern somewhere and copied it.
Such is tliis strange remnant of the old days which
has suddenly started into life. So vivid is the impres-
sion which it creates, that it is almost as if some Sweyn
or Harold in his proper person had come back among
35.S T[!F. NORW'A Y FJORDS.
US fViiin the gravu. If \vc wore iictually to set; siicli n
man \vc should be less conscious perliaps of our personal
superiority tlian wc are apt to imagine. A law of
compensation follows us through our intellectual and
mechanical progress, Tlie race collectively knows and
can execute innneasurahly greater tilings than the
Norsemen. Individually tliey may have been as ready
and intelligent as ourselves. The shipwright certainly
who laid the lines of the Viking's galley would have
something to teach as well as to learn in the yard of
a modern yacht builder.
But enough now of Norway. Our time was out ; our
tour was over; wo seated ourselves once more on our
wishing carpet, and desired to be at Cowes ; we were
transported thither with tlie care and almost the speed
with which the genius of the lamp transported tbe
palace of Aladdin ; and we felt that we had one
superiority at least which the Viking wouKl have
cu\ied us.
NORWAY ONCE MORE.
WHEN I published two years ago a sketch of a
suminev holiday iu the Norway fjords I sup-
posed that I had seen my last of Norse mountains
and lakes, and bonder farms, and that this httle record
would be all which would remain to me of a time
which was so delightfid in the enjoyment. The poor
'Severn,' which in 1881 was our floating home, now
lies among the krakens at the bottom of the North
Sea, or ground to pieces by the teeth of the rocks
which one treacherous July morning seized and
devoured her. Fai'hfuUy the poor yacht had done
her duty, bearing us from lake to lake and wonder
to wonder, like Prince Ahmed's enchanted carpet. She
had been cut off in her youth, before her engines had
rusted or screw-shaft cracked. She had ended in
honour, and had not been left to rot away ingloriously
or subside into tug or tender.
Dead, however, as was the ' Severn's ' body, the. soul
*or idea of her was not dead, but in another year had
revived again, and gathered a second botly about it,
3r,o XORIVAV ONCE MORE.
more beautiful tlinu the lirst. In spite of Destiny, her
owner per.sovcrotl in his rcsohition to penetrate again
tliose virgin inlets, wliich arc yet unhaunted by tourists;
to fish again in those waters where the trout are still
/crcc rki^Jtroj, unrcarcd in breeding ponds, and unwatched
by gamekeepers. He invited me to be once more his
companion, and here, in consequence, is a second record
of our wanderings, set idly down for my oavu pleasure.
In one sense the whole experience was new, for in 1881
winter stayed to spend the summer in Norway, and
when it did not rain it snowed. In 1884, fur half July
at least, we were treated to slcy and mountain which
were dazzling in their brilliancy, and to the tropical
temperature of which we had read in guide-books,
hitherto with most imperfect belief. But besides, I
have actual novelties (three at least) which deserve to
be each in some way related — one an incident in-
structive to English visitors in those parts, one a freak
of nature in a landscape, the third a small idyllic figure
of Norwegian life. If I can do justice to these, or even
to either of them, I flatter myself that I shall not be
reproached with being tedious. They will come in
their places, and I will note each as I arrive at it.
We were going to amuse ourselves — to fish, perhaps,
in the first instance, but not entirely to fish. We had
no river of our own. The best salmon streams were all
let, and we had to depend on the hospitality of the
native proprietors. And of the brown trout, which are
so large and so abundant in the inland waters, there
are none in those which communicate with the fjords,
JVO/?IVAV ONCE MORE. 361
for tliey are eaten up by their large relations from the
sea, which annually spend the autumn there. We
meant to loiter at our pleasure among the large
estuaries while the woods were still green and the
midnight sun was still shining on the snow peaks ; to
anchor where we could find bottom, which in those long
water-filled crevasses is usually out of cable reach ; in
the way of fishing, to take what might offer itself,
and be as liappy with a little as with much. Our
party was small — our host, myself, and my son A., who
had just done with the University, and had his first
acquaintance to make with the Salmonidae.
We steamed out of Harwich in the first grey of
morning on June 27. The engines waking into life,
and the rattling of the anchor chains, disturbed our
dreams; but we sank to sleep again under the even
pulsation of the screw. When we came on deck we
were far out in the North Sea, the water shining like
oil, the engines going a hundred to the minute, our
head pointing as on our first expedition to Udsire
Light, 500 miles NN.E. of us, and the yacht rushing
steadily on at an accurate nine knots. Yacht life is
active idleness — we have nothing to do, and we do it.
Vessels come in sight and pass out of it. We examine
them with our binoculars, ascertain what they ai'e and
whither they are bound. We note the water, and judge
the depth of it by the colour. We liave the chart
before us; we take our observations, and prick down
our position upon it with a precision which can be
ixieasured by yards. We lie on sofas and read novels ;
ir,2 NOA'irAY OjYce moke.
I read a tianslatioii, in M.S., wliidi our cntcilainer
himself was just conipleting, of a Norse novel, a story
of an old rough sea raptain who in an ill day for him-
self fell amonir the Methodists, had his tough heart
nearly broken hy thcni, and recovered only his wits and
his native strength of soul when his life was leaving his
body. When we tire of our studies we overhaul our
fishing tackle, knot casting lines, and splice new traces.
Our host himself is an experienced fisherman. His
skill in this department is inherited. He tells us a
story of his great-grandfather, who, when he could walk
no longer, for gout an<l rheumatism, fished from the
back of a steady old cart-horse, and had the mane and
tail of his charger shaved off to prevent his flies from
catching in them.
At midday we see a smack ahead of us making
signals. She lowers a boat. We stop our engines and
the boat comes alongside, with tliree as choice specimens
of English sea rnirians as eye had ever rested on. They
had mackerel to dispose of. They wanted to exchange
their mackerel for schnapps. They would uot take
money. It was to be ?.piriU or no trade. They looked
already so soaked with spirits that a gallon of alcohol
might have been distilled out uf the blood of either
of them. They had a boy with them with a bright
innocent laughing face. Poor little fellow, flung by the
fates into such comjianionship ! They got no schnapps
from us, and we got no mackerel. They rowed back,
and probably, before the day was out, fell in with le.ss
scrupulous passers-by.
NORWAY ONCE MOKE. 363
Our yacht is proud of her punctuality. We know
our speed aud we know our distance each within a
decimal fraction. We had sent word that we should
reach Bergen at 3 o'clock on Sunday afternoon. At
the mouth of the Qord which leads up to the great
emporium of the fish trade we were five minutes before
our time, but the error was accounted for by three
hours of a favourable tide. As we passed in we saw
the glassy swell combing over the rock where the
'Severn' lies buried. On that fatal morning it so
happeneil that the sea was absolutely still ; the
treacherous surface was unbroken oven by a line of
foam, and slie had rushed blindly upon her fate. We
do as the wise men bid us do, waste no time in
mourning over the unalterable past. We were not
wrecked this time. In a few minutes we were flying
up the low deep narrow channels between the islands
which fringe the western side of the Scandinavian
peninsula. The smallest boats traverse these natural
roads without danger from wmd or wave; the largest,
when the entrance is once jmssed, fear nothing from
rock or shoal, the few dangerous spots being faithfully
marked by perches. Instead of fog and mist and rain,
with which Norway had last welcomed us, we saw it
now under the softest, bluest, calmest summer sky.
Snow was still visible on the high intciior ranges, but
in patches which were fast dissolving, the green farm-
steads and woods and red-roofed houses gleaming as if
we were in a land of eternal sunshine. In two hours
we were at Bergen, the City of Hills. Twice T had
364 NO/!fVAy ONCE MORE.
Ix'cn there before. I lia<l studied its markets and its
museums, and I thought I knew what it was like. But
Berjien itself I had never seen till now. The ro(;f of
cloud which had lain half down the mountain had now
lifted off. As it was Sunday the shipyards were silent.
The harbour was dotted over with boats, with smart
young ladies in bright dresses and with coloured
parasols. Steam-launches rushed to and fro. The
merchants' villas shone wliite among the elms and
limes. Brigs and schooners were resting at their
anchors. Even the huge and hideous Hull steamers
suggested life and prosperous energy. ' Have you many
rich people here ? ' I asked of a citizen who came on
board. ' Not rich,' he said, ' but plenty who can have
everything they wish for.' In Norway too they have at
last caught the plague of politics. Parties run high,
and Bergen is for progress and Radicalism : but Radicals
there, as the same gentleman explained to me, would
be called Conservatives in England; they want ministers
responsible to the Storthing, economy in the Govern-
ment, and stricter adherence to the linos of the
Constitution — that is all. We landed and heard the
Lutheran evening service at the cathedral, which has
been lately repaired — the wave of church restoration
having spread even to Norway.
We gave one clear day to Bergen, and oil July 2, with
pilot on board, we lifted anchor and sped away through
the iidand channels up north to the Sogue Fjord. We
had no clear route laid out for us. Our object, as
before, was to find quiet nooks or corners where we
NORIFAY ONCE MORE. 365
could stay as long as Ave pleased, with the yacht for
quarters, go ashore, fish, botanise, geologise, and make
acquaintance with the natives and their ways. The
Sogne runs up into the heart of the Giant Mountains
— the homo of the Trolls and Jotuns; the shores on
either side rising sheer out of the narrow channel ; the
great glaciers, showing between the rents of the crags,
four thousand feet above us, pouring out their torrents
of melted ice, and in such sultry weather as we were
then experiencing tinting the lakes with blue. Our
Bergen friends had marked out a few places which
they thought might answer for us, and we tried them
one after the other. We saw scenery of infinite variety
— now among precipices so vast that the yacht seemed
dwarfed into a cock-boat; now in sunny bays with
softer outlines, where the moraines, left by the ice,
were covered with thriving homesteads, pretty villages
with white church and manse and rounded pine woods.
There, for the most part, are the homes of the Norway
peasantry. Eleven-twelfths of the whole surface of the
country is rock or glacier or forest, uncultivated, un-
inhabitable by living creature, brute or human. But
the Norwegian makes the most of the stinted gifts
which Nature has allowed him. A\nierever there is a
rood of soil which will feed cattle or grow an oat-crop,
there his hand is busy. If he cannot live there, he
carries over his sheep and cows in his boats to feed.
On the ancient lake-bottoms, formed when the fjords
were filled with ice, and left dry when the water fell,
there are tracts of land which would be called rich and
366 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
beaiitiliil in ;iiiy (•uuiitry in the wuilil. In sucli spots,
and in .such wcatht^r, wu might well be teinptt.'d to
linger! Tourists make long jouincjys to sec Windcr-
njcrc or Loch Katrine. Wc had Windermere and Loch
Katrine ten times magnified at every turn of the wind-
iii"'' Soune — wc could choose as wc pleased between
desolate grandeur and the gentler homes of industry
and humaa life.
Any one of these idaces might have suited us had
wc been obliged to stay there, but we had free choice
to go anywhere, atid we wanted all the various charms
combined. We wanted a good haibour. Wc wanted
trout or salmon for ourselves, and sea-fisii for the crew,
fresh meat being hard to come by. At one place we
were promised a sheep, if the bears had not eaten it.
1 believe in that instance we did get the sheep, being
a lean, scraggy thing which the bears had de.spised ;
but we had many mouths to feed, and the larder could
not be left to chance. The flowers everywhere were
most beautiful; the wild roses, which in iSSi had been
checked by the coki, were still short-lived, but the
fullest, reddest, and most abundant that I had ever
seen. The long daylight intensifies the colours. The
meadows were enamelled with harebells. On the uioist
rocks on the lake sides grew gigantic saxifrages, pure
white, eighteen inches high. On a single stem I
counted three hundred blossoms, and they were so
hanly that one plant lived in full flower for a fortnight
in a glass on our cabin table. There were curious
aspects of human life too. One night, July 2 — St.
JVO/?lVAV ONCE MORE. 367
John's Day by the old reckoning — as wc lay at anchor
in a Korfie, which from the land must have been in-
accessible, we saw a large fire blazing, and figures
leaping tJuough the flame. It was the relic of a
custom, once wide as the Northern hemisphere, on the
festival of the summer solstice, old as the IsraeHtish
prophet who saw tiie children passed through the fire
to Moloch. I observed the same thing forty-three
years ago in the market-place at Killarney. Thousands
of years it has survived, down to these late times of
ours, in which, like much besides, it will now end
— dissolved in the revolutionary acids of scientific
civilisation.
These things had their interest, but we were still
dissatisfied, and we flew from spot to spot in a way to
make the pilot think us maniacs. 'Tout va bien,' said
the Paris Terrorist in 1793; ' mais le pain manque.'
All was well with us, but fish were wanting ; and Avhen
we had wasted a week of our month in following the
directions of our acquaintance at Bergen, we decided
to lose no more time in exploring, and to make for
quarters of which we had ourselves had experience on
our first visit. I shall mention no names, for one of
these places is a secret of our own, and we do not wish
them to become tourist-haunted. No road goes near
them, nor ever can, for they are protected on the land
side by mountains steeper and vaster tlian the walls of
Rasselas's enchanted valley. But yacht-visitors might
reach them, nay, have actually reached, not the one
I speak of, but another, leaving an unpleasant taste
368 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
behind tluMn. I will not cxtund their opportunities of
inakint,' KiiLjIishiiien uiipopuhir.
Well, then, to decide was to execute. A few hours
later we found ourselves anchored in a landlocked bay
which I will call for convenience' sake Bruysdal. There
are fifty Bruysdals in Norway, and this is not one of
them. That is all which I need say. It forms the
head of a deep inlet, well stocked with dabs and
haddock, and whiting, and wolf-fish and other monsters.
The landscape is at once grand and gentle; mighty
snow-capped mountains cleft into gorges so deep and
dark that the sun, save in the height of sunimer, can
never look into them, while on the immediate shores
rich meadow-land and grassy undulating hills stretch
along the fjord for miles; and from the estate of a
prosperous yeoman who rules paternally over his moun-
tain valley, a river runs in near our anchorage, •which,
after leaving a lake half a mile from the sea, Avinds
down with an ever-flowing stream, through heathery
pine-clad slopes and grassy levels covered with wild
roses and bilberries. The cuckoos were calling in the
woods as we came up ; widgeon and wild duck were
teaching their young broods to take care of themselves;
oyster-catchers flew to and fro — they have no fear of
men in a place where no one cares to hurt them. Boats
with timber were passing down the river to a saw-mill
opposite the mouth. The lake out of which it flows is
two miles long, and ends in a solitary glen, closed in by
precipices at the head and on either side. There was
beauty here, and grandeur, with food of all kinds, from
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 369
mutton to bilberries, now ripe and as large as outdoor
grapes. Above all, we knew by past experience that
sea-trout swarmed in the lake, and trout in the river.
The owner's acquaintance we had made before, and the
old man, learning from the pilot who we were, came on
board at once with liis son and the schoolmaster to pay
his respects. He himself was hale and stout, age
perhaps about sixty ; with dark hair which as yet had
no grey streaks in it ; in manner very much that of a
gentleman doing the honours of his country and his
dominions with rough dignity. His lake, his river, all
that he had, he gave us free use of. The fish had not
come up in any number yet, but perhaps there might
be some. He accepted a glass of wine, being temperate
but not severely abstemious. The younger ones touched
nothing of that kind — To-tallers they called them-
selves. They were two fine-looking men, but without
the father's geniality, and with a slight tinge of self-
righteousness. The interest of the moment was a bear
which they had just killed among them, having caught
him committing murder among the sheep. As the
flocks increase, the bears multiply along with them;
and the shooting one is an event to be made much of.
This particular offender's head came home with us,
swinging in the rigging, and looked so savage, grinning
there, as much to reduce the pleasure of the crew in
going ashore among the bilberries.
At Bruysdal all our desires were at last fulfilled.
'The steward could get his milk and mutton. The sea
fish swarmed. The spot itself combined the best
y^o JVOA'ir.tV OXC/i MORE.
beauties of tlic Norwegian landscapes — \\\V\ nature
and thriving Ininian liistory. In the hike, as our enter-
tainer had said, there were not many iisii, but there
were enough. The water was as clear as tlic air. A
tropical sun sIiddg ficncly on its windless surface,
conditions neither of them especially favourable for
salmon-fishing; but, rowing along the shores, on the
edge 'between the deep and the shallow,' with our
phantom minnows, we caught what satisfied, without
surfeiting, tlie appetite for destiuction; salmon-pecl,
sewin, sea-trout, or whatever we pleased to call them,
from three to nine pounds weight, gallant fellows that
would make the reel spin and scream. And then the
luncheon, never to be forgotten, on biscuits soaked in
the ice-cold stream, tlie purple bilberries, the modest
allowance from tlic whisky flask, and the })ipe to follow,
in the heather under the shade of a pine-tree or a
juniper, surrounded by ferns and flowers of exquisite
variety. I should have no good opinion of any man
who, in such a scene, had anything left to wish for.
One day there was another bear-hunt. Three sheep
had been killed in the night again, in the glen at the
head of the lake. The bonder's people turned out, and
the cries of the beaters among the crags, and the cow-
horns echoing from cliff to cliff, brought back memories
of old days, on the middle lake at Killarney ; when
the Herberts reigned at Mucross, anil the bay of the
bloodhounds was heard on the hills, and the driven
deer would take the water, and meet his end from a
rifle bullet, and the huntsman would wind his death-
^OJiWAY OMCE MORE. -S^X
note on the bugle. Beautiful ! all that was, and one
cannot think of it without regret that it is gone. But
it was artificial, not natural. Our Norway bear-hunt
Avas nature and necessity, the genuine chase of a
marauding and dangerous animal. This time unfor-
tunately it was not successful. The brown villains had
stolen off through a pass in the mountains, and escaped
the penalties of their sins.
Settled down as we were in Bruysdal we did not
hurry ourselves, and took our pleasure deliberately.
One evening after dinner our host and A. went to the
la,ke ; I stayed behind, and was rowed about by one of
the crew with a fly rod in the mouth of the river. The
soft midnight gloaming, the silence broken only by the
late call of the cuckoo in the woods, made me careless
about the trout, and, after catching four or five, I pre-
ferred to talk to my companion. As a seaman he hail
been all over the world. He had been np the great
rivers in the tropics, had seen pythons and alligators
there, and was rather disappointed to find no alligators
in the fjords. Alligators, I explained to him, would
find a difficulty in getting a living there. In the winter
they would be frozen into logs, and would be found
dead when they thawed again, and on the whole they
preferred a warm climate. As the thermometer had
been standing at 80° that day in our deck cabin, and
was 70° at that moment though it was midnight, my
account was clearly unsatisfactory, but he dropped the
subject, and from alligators travelled to human beings.
He admired his own countrymen, but could not abso-
372 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
lately approve of them. Tfc Iiarl seen savages little if
at all superior to apes, but nowhere had he fallen in
with men of any clescriplion, who made such brutes of
themselves as Englishmen and Scotchmen when the
drink was in them. He himself had drunk water only
for fifteen years, and intended to keep to it. I could
not but admit that it might be so. Those precious
beauties wIkmh we had just seen in the North Sea were
illustrations not to be gainsaid.
One difficulty Avas to know when to go to bed. The
sun might set, but the glow lasted till it rose again ;
and the cool night air was so deiicitjus and so invigor-
ating that to sleep was a waste of our opportunities.
That evening when I went to my cabin, I stood looking
out through the port-hole on the pink flushed hills and
water, the full moon just rising behind a hollow between
the high mouutaius and pouring a stream of gold upon
the fjord. Now would be the time, I thought, if any
Nixie would rise out of the water and sins: a sons: to
me of the times long ago. It would have been a rash
experiment once. The knight who listened to the
Nixie's song forgot country, and home, and wife, and
child, plunged wildly into the waters, and was borne
away in the white arms of the seducing spirit, never to
be seen on earth again. But the knight was young—
and I, with the blood creeping slowly in my old veins,
felt that for my part I could listen safely, and should
like for once to hear such a thing. Alas ! as I stood at
the window there came no Nixie, but the pale figure
floated before me of , first as she was in her beauty
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 373
five-and-forty years ago, then dissolving into the still
fair, but broken and aged, woman as I had last seen
her, fading away out of a life which had blighted the
promise of the morning. Her widowed daughter sleeps
beside her, having lost first her young husband and
then the mother whom she worshipped. The Nixies
are silent. The Trolls work unseen among the copper
veins in the mountain chasms, and leave unvexed the
children of men. Valhalla is a dream, and Balder has
become a solar myth; but ghosts still haunt old eyes
which have seen so many human creatures flit across
the stage, play their parts, sad or joyful, and vanish as
they came.
We stayed a whole week at Bruysdal. There was
another spot which we knew of, as wild, as inaccessible,
and as fertile, when we tried it last, in the desired
sea-tiout; and besides sea-trout there were char — not
miserable little thinsfs like those that are caueht in
Derwentwater and Crummock, but solid two and three
pounders that would fight for their lives like gentlemen.
Across the mountain to Elversdale (that, again, is
'not the right name) an eagle might fly in half an hour,
but he would fly over sheets of glacier and peak and
ridges six thousand feet high. In fact, for human feet
there was no road from Bruysdal thither, and the way
round by water was nearly a hundred miles. But what
were a hundred miles to the fiery dragon in the yacht's
engines ? All he asks for is a ton or two of coal, and
he thinks as little of taking you a hundred miles as
you think yourself of an afternoon walk. We had the
374 A'OA-fVAY ONCE MOKE.
ship's washing, too, to pick U]) on the way, and, bcsiflea
tlie washing, the letters and newspapers which had
been accumulating for a fortnight — something to amuse
us in the few hours wliich would be required for our
transportation. After a week or two's absence from
London one finds oneself strangely indifferent to what
seems so important when one is in the middle of it.
Speeches in Parliament remind one of the scuffling
of kites and crows which Miltou trdks of. On this
occasion, however, we had all of us a certain curiosity
to hear what had become of the Franchise Bill,
especially as our host is a sound hereditary Liberal,
sounder and stauncher a great deal than I am, and had
duly paired on the Government side before he sailed.
We bore the news, when it reached us, with extra-
ordinary equanimity. Our appetite for luncheon waa
not aftected. The crew did not mutiny, though three-
fourths of them must have been among the two millions
expectant of votes. For my own particular, I was
conscious of pleasure greater than I had ever expected
to receive from any political incident in the remainder
of my life. In the first place, it is always agreeable to
see men behave courageously. The Peers had refused
to walk this time through Coventry with halters about
their necks. In the next, if they persevered, it might,
one "way or another, bring another sliam to an end.
The House of Lords had seemed to be something, and
they were becoming a nothing. The English Sovereign,
loo, is in a position not altogether befitting a human
being with an inunortal soul. No man or woman ought
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 375'
to be forced to say this or tliat, to profess to approve of
what he or she detests, in obedience to majorities in
the House of Commons. Some day, perhaps, an English
Sovereign will be found to say : ' If you want an orna-
mental marionette at the top of you, to dance at your
bidding, you must find some one else. I, for one,
decline to figure any longer in that character. I will
be a reality, or I will not be at all.' In constitutional
countries those who hold high offices do tend to drift
into a similar marionette condition. A dean and
chaj)tor who receive a mandate to choose A. B. as their
bishop, who invite divine assistance to help them to
elect a fit person, and then duly appoint the said A. B.,
they too are not to be envied. Sovereigns and high
persons of all kinds in such situations are idols set up
in high places, with the form of dignity and without
the power; and if we must have idols they should be
wood or stone, or gutta-percha, as more flexible, not
human creatures, with blood running in the veins of
them. I had been very sorry to see the English peers,
ostensibly the flower of the whole nation, la^Dsing
gradually into a similar gilded degradation, the lay
lords sinking to the level of the spiritual, and by the
wise to be mentioned only with a smile. They had at
last stood fast, though, alas, it was only for a time.
They had recovered the respect of all honest men in
doing so, and seemed on the way to become honest
men themselves again in one shape or another, and not
despised humbugs.
I liave high honour for the Peers; I think them an
376 NOA'ir.'IV ONCE MORE.
ex(X'll(jiit iiistitutiuii, jioliticiil .'iiul social, but one must
draw a line somewhere, and I draw one at dukes. From
their cradle upwards all persons, things, circumstances,
combine to hide from dukes that they are mortal, subject
to limitations like the lost of ns. A duke, at least an
English duke, though he may be called a peer, yet is a
peer only by courtesy. He has no social equal. He is
at the summit of the world, and has no dignity beyond
his own to which he can aspire. He grows up in
possession of eveiything which the rest of mankind are
striving after. In iiis own immediate surroundings, on
his vast estates, among his multitudinous dependents,
he has only to will to be obeyed. When he goes out
among his fellow-creatures, they bow before so great a
presence with instinctive deference. In him, offences
are venial which would be fatal to an ordinary man.
The earth, so far as he is able to know anything of it,
is a place where others have to struggle, but where he
has only to desire. To do without wliat at any moment
he happens to wish for, whicli moralists consider so
important a part of education, is a form of discipline
denied to a duke from his cradle, and if the moralists
are right he is so much the worse for the want of it.
I think we could do without dukes. That is the
only reform which I wish fur in the Upper House. At
any rate, they are over large figures for a quiet Norwe-
gian valley. 'There came three Dukes a-ridiug.'^
Several dukes have looked in at Ehersdale of late
*Iieither of these was the gootl duke alhuleJ to at page 329.
ATO/dlFAV ONCE MORE. 377
years in their floating palaces. They have gone for
sport there, as in fact we were doing ourselves, and it is
hard to say that they had not as good a right as we had.
But the Norse proprietors, at least some of them, are
Republicans, and are not altogether pleased to see these
lordly English looking in upon their quiet homes. The
shores of the fjord, the rivers, the lakes, are their pro-
perty. They are liberal and hospitable ; the land they
live in is their own ; but they are courteous and gra-
cious, and have been willing hitherto to allow their
visitors all fair opportimities of entertaining themselves.
They are aware, however (it cannot be a secret to
them), that if a Norwegian, or any stranger, American,
French, or German, travelling without introduction in
Scotland, were to ask for a day's sporting in a preserved
forest or salmon river, he would not only be refused, but
would be so refused as to make him feel that his request
was an impertinence. The Lord of the soil in Norway
perhaps may occasionally ask himself why he should
be expected to be more liberal. His salmon and trout
are an important jmrt of his winter provision. He
nets them, salts and stores them for the long nights and
short days, when the lakes are frozen, and the valleys
are full of snow, and there is no food for man or beast,
save what is laid up in summer. Why should he give
it away ?
There are two rivers in Elvcrsdale and two sets of
lakes, the respective valleys meeting at the head of the
fjord, where on a vast and prettily-wooded moraine
there stands, as usual, a white church, the steeple of
37S NORWAY ONCK MORE.
whicli shows far up ulmi^f the glens, the scattered pea-
sants gathering thither in their boats on Sundays. Two
great owners divide the domain, one of tliem having
the best fishing. It was in one of his lakes close to the
fjord that in iSSl we filled our baskets, and now hoped
to fill them again. For this lake, at what we considered
an unusually high price, we got leave; but we soon
found that it had been given us in irony. The sultry
weather had melted the edges of the great glacier which
we could see from our dock. The ice-water, pouring
down in a cataract, tinted the limpid water into a colour
like soap-suds, and not a fish would take. Round and
round the lake we rowed, with wearisome repetition ;
nothing came to our minnows. In the boats we sat,
tormented, ourselves, by tiies such as are seen nowhere
but in Norway. There is one as big as a drone, and
rather like one, but with a green head, and a pair of
nippers in it that under a magnifying-glass are a wonder
to look at. This, I suppose, is the wretch described by
' Three in Norway,' who speak of a fly that takes a piece
out of you, and flies to the next rock to eat it. We
were tortured, but caught nothing save a few tiny char
which ventured out upon the shallows when the mon-
sters were lying torpid. We soon saw how it was.
Where we were there was nothing to be done, but two
miles up the valley, above the hay meadows and potato
fields, was another lake into which no glacier water
ran, splendidly rich in char and trout. There flies
might torment, but there was at least sport — legitimate,
ample, and subject to no disappointment. Thither we
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 375
applied for leave to go, and (it was perhaps the first
time that such a thing ever happened to any English-
man in that country) we met with a flat refusal. The
owner was tired of being called upon to provide sport
for strangers of whom he knew nothing. He gave no
reason; when we pressed for one he answered quietly
that the fish were his, and that he preferred to keep
them for himself. In our first impatience we anathe-
matised him to ourselves as a brute, but we reflected
that he was doing only what every one of us at home
in possession of a similar treasure would do as a matter
of course. England is more advanced than Norway,
but English principles and habits are making way
there ; that is all. This is the first of my three
novelties.
By the proprietor of the other glen and the other
lakes we were entertained more graciously. He
remembered us. He and his family had visited the
drowned yacht. His boys had been fed with sugar-
plums, his daughters had been presented with books
and coloured prints, which still liung about his farm-
house. His waters were not the best; but the scenery
about them was at any rate most beautiful, and river,
lakes, boats, all that he had, was placed at our disposal.
Three lovely days we s^icnt there — rocks and moun-
tains, trees and cataracts, the belts of forest, and the
high peaks above them soaring up into the eternal blue.
_, These were our surroundings, changing their appearance
every hour as the shadows shifted with the moving sun.
The rare trout rose at the fly, the rarer salmon-trout
38o NO K WAY ONCE MO A' P..
run at the pliautums at distant intervals. In the hot
midday we would land and seek shade from nut bush
or alder. The ice-cold rivulets trickled down out of the
far-off snow. The cuckoos called in the woods. The
wild roses clustered round us, crimson buds and pale
pink flowers shining against the luxuriant green of the
leaves. The wild campanulas hung their delicate heads
along the shores, fairest and daintiest of all the wild
flowers of nature, like pieces of the azure heaven itself
shaped into those cups and bells. The bilberry clus-
tered among the rocks, hanging out its purple fruit to
us to gather as we sat. All this was perfectly delight-
ful, and it was only the brutal part of our souls that
remained a little discontented because we had not fish
enough, and sighed for the yet more perfect Eden from
which we were excluded.
Sunday came, and it was very pretty to see, on the
evening before and in the early morning, the boats
streaming up the fjord and down from the inland lakes.
One boat passed the yacht, rowed by ten stalwart young
women, who handled their oais like Saltash fishwives.
With a population so scattered, a single priest has two
or more churches to attend to at considerable distances,
pastors being appointed according to the numbers of
the flock, and not the area they occupy. Thus at
Elversdale there was a regular service only on alternate
Sundays, and this Sunday it was not Elversdale's turn.
But there was a Samling — a gathering for catechising
and prayer — at our bonder's house, where the good man
himself, or some itinerant minister, officiated. Several
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 381
hundreds must have collected, the children being in
the largest proportion. The Norse people are qniet,
old-fashioned Lutherans, who never read a newspaper,
and have never heard of a doubt about the trutli of
what their fathers believed. When the meeting: was
over, many of them who were curious to see an English
yacht and its occupants came on board. The owner
welcomed the elders at the gangway, talked to them
in their own tongue, and showed them over the ship.
A had handfuls of sugar-plums for the little ones.
They were plain-featured for the most part, with fair
hair and blue eyes — the men in strong homespun
broadcloth, the women in black serge, with a bright
sash about the waist, and a shawl over the shoulders
with bits of modest embroidery at the corners. They
were perfectly well-behaved, rational, simple, unself-
conscious, a healthy race in mind and body whom it
was pleasant to see. I could well understand what the
Americans mean when they say that, of all the colonists
who migrate to them, the Norse are the best — and
many go. Norway is as full as it can hold, and the
young swarms who in old days roved out in their pirate-
ships over France and England and Ireland now pass
peaceably to the Far West.
Our time was slipping away, we had but a few days
left. Instead of exploring new regions we agreed to go
back once more to Bruysdal, and its trout, and its bears.
We knew that there we should be welcome again.
And at Elversdale, too, we were leaving friends. Even
the stern old fellow who had been so sulky might have
382 NO Ji IV AY ONCE MORE.
opened his arms if" \vc li;ul stuycd a little Ic^ngor. But
we (lid not put liiiii lu the test. The evening before
we sailed, our landlord came to take leave, brinjjinf; Ijis
Avite with him, a sturdy little woman with a lady's
manners under a rough costurao. He was presented
with a few pounds of best Scotch oatmeal, a tin of
coflfee for his old mother, and a few other delicacies in
true Homeric style. He in turn came ne.xt morning at
daybreak, as the anchor was coming up, with a fresh-
run salmon, which he had just taken out of his trammels.
We parted with warm hopes expressed that we miglit
one day meet again; and the next quiet Englishman
who goes thither will find all the waters open to him as
freely as they used to be.
Yacht life gives ample leisure. I had employed
part of mine in making sketches. One laughs at one's
extraordinary performances a day or tAvo after one has
completed them. Yet the attempt is worth making.
It teaches one to admire less grudgingly the work of
real artists who have conquered the dilliculties. JJooks
are less trying to vanity, for one is producing nothing
of one's own, and submitting only to be interested or
amused, if the author can succeed in either. One's
appetite is generally good on these occasions, and one
can devour anything; but in the pure primitive element
of sea, and mountains, and unprogressive peasantry I
had become somewhat fastidious. I tried a dozen
novels one after the other without success; at h\st,
perhaps the morning we left Elversdale, I found on the
library shelves ' Le Pere Goriot.' I had read a certain
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 383
quantity of ' Balzac ' at other times, in deference to the
high opinion entertained of him. N , a fellow of
Oriel and once member for Oxfurd, I remembered
insisting to me that there was more knowledge of
human nature in 'Balzac' than in Shakespeare. I
had myself observed in the famous novelist a knowledge
of a certain kind of human nature which Shakespeare
let alone — a nature in which healthy vigour had been
corrupted into a caricature by highly seasoned artificial
civilisation. Hothouse plants, in which the flowers had
lost their grace of form and natural beauty, and had
gained instead a poison-loaded and perfumed luxuriance,
did not exist in Shakespeare's time, and if they had they
would probably not have interested him. However, I
had not read ' Lc Pere Goriot,' and as I had been
assured that it was the finest of Balzac's works, I sat
down to it and deliberately read it through. My first
impulse after it was over was to plunge into the sea to
wash myself. As we were going ten knots, there were
objections to this method of ablution, but I felt that I
had been in abominable company. The book seemed
to be the very Avorst ever written by a clever man.
But it, and N 's reference to Shakespeare, led me
into a train of reflections. Le Pere Goriot, like Kinsr
Lear, has two daughters. Like Lear, he strips himself
of his own fortune to provide for them in a distin-
guished manner. He is left to poverty and misery,
while his daughters live in splendour. Why is Lear so
grand ? Why is Le Pere Goriot detestable ? In the
first place, all the company in Balzac are bad. Le
384 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
I'ere Goriot is so wiai)|)<'il u|» in his (ieliglitf'ul children,
that tlieir vfiy vices cliaiiii iiiiii, and their scented
boudoirs seem a kind of Paradise. Lear, in the first
scene of the play, acts and talks like an idiot, but still
an idiot with a moral soul in him. Take Lear's own
noble nature from him, take Kent away, and Edgar,
and the fool, and Cordelia — and the actors in the play,
it must be admitted, are abominable specimens of
humanity — yet even so, leaving the story as it might
have been if Marlowe had written it instead of Shake-
speare, Goneril and Regan would still have been terrible,
while the Paris dames of fashion are merely loathsome.
What is the explanation of the difiference ? Partly, 1
suppose, it arises from the comparative intellectual
stature of the two sets of women. Strong natures and
weak may be cciually wicked. The strong are interest-
ing, because they have daring and force. You fear
them as you fear panthers and tigers. You hate, but
you admire. M. Balzac's heroines have no intellectual
nature at all. They are female swine out of Circe's sty ;
as selfish, as unscrupulous as any daughter of Adam
could conveniently be, but soft, and corrupt, and
cowardly, and sensual ; so base and low that it would
be a compliment to call them devils. I object to being
brought into the society of people in a book whom I
would shut my eyes rather than see in real life. Goneril
and Regan would be worth looking at in a cage in the
Zoological Gardens. One would have no curiosity to
stare at a couple of dames caught out of Coventry
Street or the Quadrant. From Shakespeare to Balzac,
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 385
from the i6tli century to the 19th, we have been pro-
gressing to considerable purpose. If the state of litera-
ture remains as it has hitherto been, the measure of our
moral condition, Europe has been going ahead with a
vengeance, I put out the taste of ' Le Pere Goriot '
with ' Persuasion.' Afterwards I found a book really
worth reading, with the uninviting title of * Adventures
in Sport and War/ the author of it a young Marquis de
Compi^gne, a ruined representative of the old French
noblesse, who appears first as a penniless adventurer
seeking his fortune in America as a bird-stufifer, and
tempted by an advertisement into the swamps of Florida
in search of specimens, a beggarly experience, yet told
with naiveU and simplicity, truth and honour surviving
by the side of absolute helples&ness. Afterwards we
find our Marquis in France again, fighoing as a private
in the war with Germany, and taken prisoner at Sedan ;
and again in the campaign against the Commune, at
the taking of Paris, and the burning of the Tuileries —
a tragic pictui-e, drawn, too, with the entire unconscious-
ness of the condition to which Balzac, Madame Sand,
and the rest of the fraternity had dragged down the
French nation.
But by this time we are back in Bruysdal, and I
come now to the second of my three incidents in which
the reader was to be interested: — a specimen of what
Norway can do when put upon its mettle in the way of
landscape effect. The weather had changed. When we
left, the temperature in our deck cabin was 80°. The
mercury in our barometer stood at 30 and 3"ioths.
c c
386 NORWAY ONCE MOKE.
When WO returned the pressure had relaxed U) 29, while
the temperature had fallen nearly forty degrees. Our
light ilannels had gone back to the drawers, and the
thickest woollens would hardly keep out the cold. The
rain was falling as in a universal shower bath, lashing
into bubbles the surface of the fjord. The cataracts
were roaring down ; the river was in a flood, tJje shore
and the trees dimly visible through the descending
torrent. Here, if ever, was a fishing day for those who
were not afraid of being dissolved like sugar. Our host
challenged us to venture, and we were ashamed to
hesitate. In huge boots and waterproof and oilskin
hats (may the wretch who made my mackintosh for me
in London be sent to the unpleasant place and punished
appropriately) we were rowed up into the lake, sent out
our spinners, and were soon iu desperate battle each
with our respective monster, half-blinded by wind and
rain. On days like this the largest fish roam the waters
like hungry pike. We had two hours of it. Flesh and
blood could stand no more. We made one cii'cuit of the
lake ; neither we nor the boatmen could face a second,
and we went home with our spoils. Enough said about
that. Now for my landscape. On one side of Bruysdal
the mountains rise from the water in a series of preci-
pices to the snow-line, and are broken into deep wooded
gorges. Down these the cataracts were raging ; very
fine in their way, but with nothing uncommon about
them. The other side of the valley is formed quite
differently. A long broad plateau of smooth unbroken
rock ascends at a low orradient for miles, reachins event-
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 3S7
ually an equal altitude, and losing itself among the
clouds. At the hollow where the lake lies, this plateau
is as if broken sharjjly off, ending in an overhanging
precipice perhaps a mile long, and from 300 to 400 feet
high; higher it may be, for the scale of everything is
gigantic, and the eye often underrates what it sees. Over
the whole wide upper area the rain had been falling for
hours with the fury of a tropical thunder shower. Thei'e
being no hollows or inequalities to collect the water, and
neither grass nor forest to absorb the flood, it ran straight
down over the smooth slopes in an even shallow stream.
On reaching the cliffs it fell over and scattered into spray,
and there it seemed to hang extended over a mile of
perpendicular rock, like a delicately transparent lace veil
undulating in the eddies of the wind. It was a sight
to be seen once and never to be forgotten. Water is a
strange Pi'oteus — now transparent as air, now a mirror,
now rippled and the colour of the sky. It falls in foam
in the torrent. It is level as quicksilver, or it is broken
into waves of infinite variety. It is ice, it is snow, it is
rain, it is fog and cloud, to say nothing of the shapes
it takes in organic substances. But never did I see
it play so singular a part as when floating to and fro in
airy drapery, with the black wet rock sho^ving like a
ghost behind it. The whole valley was dim with the
falling rain, the far mountains invisible in mist, the near
rocks and trees drenched and dripping. Some artist of
the Grosvenor Gallery might make a picture of the
place as a jmrt of Hades, and people it with moist spirits.
In honour of our endurance and our success, and to
5SS ^ OK WAY ONCE MORE.
put US in heart again for the next day, we had a bottle
of champagne at dinner, I in silence drinking to myself
the health of the House of Lords in general as well as
that of our entertainer. And now I have only to relate
the disgrace which befell myself when the next day
came, to end what I have to say about our fishing. I
had a precious phantom minnow, a large one which had
come victorious out of that day's conflicts. Before put-
ting it on again ray eye was caught by the frayed look
of the gut trace. It seemed strong when I tried it ; but
perhaps I wished to save myself trouble., and treated it
as Don Quixote treated his helmet the second time.
Well, we started in our boat again, a hundred yards
below the point where the river leaves the lake. We
were rowing up the strong stream, I carelessly letting
out my line, and in that place expecting nothing, when
there came a crash ; the slack line was entangled round
the reel, which could not run, the rod bent double from
the combined weicrht of some sea-trout huger than usual
and the rapid water. Alas ! in a moment the rod had
straightened again, and sea-trout, phantom, and my own
reputation as a fisherman were gone together. I could
not get over it, and the sport had lost its charm. We
caught several fish afterwards, and my son got one
nearly ten pounds Aveight. I was glad for him, but for
myself the spirit had gone out of me. In the afternoon,
the river being in high order, we put our lighter rods
together to try the pools with salmon flies. D
caught a salmon-peel of four pounds weight. I had
another smaller one ; afterwards scrambling along some
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 389
steep slippery rocks I reached a promising-looking run,
and, letting my fly go down over it, I rose a true salmon
and a big one. I drew back and changed my fly. A
salmon, under such conditions, will almost always come
again if you wait a minute or two and throw him a
new temptation. I was looking to be consoled for my
morning's misfortune, when at the moment a native
boat dashed over the spot loaded with timber. My
salmon vanished into space, and I saw him no more.
I ought to have been disgusted. I discovered myself
reflecting instead, that after all the salmon was better
off as he was, and I no worse — a state of luind unper-
mitted to a fisherman, and implying that my connection
with the trade, now more than fifty years old, may be
coming to an end. Alas, that all things do come to an
end 1 Life itself runs to an end. Our Norway holiday
was running to an end, though the prettiest part of it
was still to come. We had to look in at Bergen again
on our way home to pick up letters, &c. Bergen was
nearly 200 miles from us, and to break the distance we
were to anchor somewhere about half-way. Our last
day at Bruysdal was a Sunday again. We were popular
there, and on Sunday evening we had a small fleet about
us, with boys and girls and music. An ingenious lad
had fitted a screw propeller of his own making to his
boat, which he worked with a crank. With this, and
the Norwegian flag flying, he careered round and round
the yacht at a most respectable pace, the lads and lasses
following in their Sunday dresses, like the nymphs and
Tritons after Neotune's car. A boat came on boaril \xb
390 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
with two mou in lier whom we did not know. Tliey
had a sick relation at liome, and wanted medicine. We
gave them what we had. They innocently asked how
much they were to pay, bringing out their pocket-books,
and were perplexed when D laughed and told them
'nothing' They doubted, perhaps, the efficacy of the
remedies. Anyhow they were gratified. Tiie Bruysdal
community fired a gun wheu we steamed away next
day, and saluted us with their flag from the school-
house ; there too Ave shall find a welcome if we ever
return : meanwhile we were gone, for the present to see
it no more.
In the evening we turned into a spot which our
pilot knew of as a quiet anchorage, which I will call
Orlestrund. We were by this time far away from the
mountains. We found ourselves in a soft landlocked
bay, with green meadows and low softly-wooded hills;
the air w^as sweet with the scent of the new-mown hay;
there were half-a-dozen farmhouses, which seemed to
share between them the richly-cultivated and smiling
soil. A church stood conspicuous near the shore ; on
one side of it was what seemed to be a school ; on the
other, among high trees, we saw the roof and chimnevs
of the pastor's house, a respectable and even superior-
looking residence. Work for the day Avas over when
we let fall our anchor. It was about eight o'clock, a
lovely summer evening, with three hours of subdued
daylight remaining. The boys and young men, dis-
missed from the fields, were scattered about the bay in
Doats catchinof haddock and Avhitinfj. Lookinn round
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 391
the pretty scene we saw a group outside the gate of the
manse, which was evidently the pastor and his family,
himself an elderly gentleman, his wife, and six young
ones, descending from a girl of perhaps sixteen to little
ones just able to take care of themselves. They were
examining the yacht, and it was easy to see what
happened. The old couple, with the three youngest
children, turned in to their gate and disappeared. The
others, the eldest girl and two brothers, had got leave
to go out in the boat and look at us, for they flew along
the shore to their boat-house, and presently came out
on the fjord. Not wishing to seem too curious they
lingered awhile with their lines and caught four or five
haddock. They then gradually drew nearer, the girl
rowing, her two brothers in the stern. D beckoned
to them to come closer, and then, in Norse, invited
them on board. They were roughly dressed, not better
perhaps than the children of the peasantry, but their
looks were refined, their manner modest and simple,
free alike from shyness and forwardness. The daughter
spoke for the rest. She was tall for her years, with
large eyes, a slight but strong figure, and features almost
handsome. D took her round the ship. She moved
gracefully, answered questions and asked them with as
much ease as if she had been among friends and rela-
tions. She kept her young brothers in order by a woi'd,
and in short behaved with a composure which would
have been surprising in any girl of such an age when
thrown suddenly anioug strangers. She asked if we
had ladies on board, and seemed disappointed, but not
392 NORWAY ONCE MORE.
the least disturbed, when we told her that there were
only ourselves. Presently she began to speak English,
with a fair accent too, better than most French or
Germans ever arrive at. We asked her if she had been
in England. She had never been away from Orlestrund.
She had taught herself English, she said quite simply,
' from book.' D accuses her of having asked
him if he could speak Norse, after he had been talking
in that language to her for ten minutes. I insisted,
with no knowledge of the language myself, but merely
drawing my inference from the nature of things, that a
creature of such fine behaviour could not have put it
as question, but must have observed, ' And you too
speak Norse ! ' We asked her name. She was called
Theresa. Theresa certainly, but I could not catch the
surname with entire clearness. She wished to bring
her father to see us. We would gladly have seen both
the father and the mother who in such a spot had
contrived to rear so singular a product. She gathered
up her two boys, sprang into her skiff, seized the oars,
and shot away over the water. We saw her land and
vanish into the shrubbery. In a few minutes she
appeared again, but only with a little sister this time.
She came to tell us that her father could not leave his
house at so late an hour. He was sorry he could not
use the opportunity of making our acquintance. He
desired to know who we were. D wrote his name
and gave it her. She went down the gangway again,
and joined her sister, who had hid herself in her shawl
in timid modesty.
NORWAY ONCE MORE. 393
They glided off into the gloaming, and we saw them
no more. Very pretty, I thought, this Norse girl, so
innocent, so self-possessed, who seemed in that lonely
spot, surrounded only by peasants, to liave educated her-
self into a character so graceful. If our modern schools,
with competition and examinations, and the rights
of woman, and j)rogress of civilisation, and the rest of
it, turn out women as good and as intelligent as this
young lassie, they will do better than I, for one, expect
of them. Peace be with her, and a happy, useful life
at the side of some fit companion ! In the wide garden
of the world, with its hotbed luxuriance and feverish
exotics, there will be one nook at any rate where nature
combined with genuine art will bloom into real beauty.
So ends my brief journal — ends with Theresa, for I
can add nothing which will not be poor and trivial after
•so fair a figure — and, indeed, there is nothing more to
say. The next morning we hastened on to Bergen.
The afternoon which followed we were out again on the
North Sea, which we found this time in angry humour.
But the engines made their revolutions accurately. The
?og gave the speed which was expected, and we made
the passage to Harwich again in the exact period
which had been predetermined. We were late, indeed,
by twelve minutes, after allowing for the difference of
longitude, and these minutes lost required to be ac-
counted for. But we recollected that we had stopped
precisely that number of minutes on the Dogger Bank to
take soundings, and the mystery was perfectly explained.
It reminded me of a learned Professor of Oxford, who
394 NORIVAY ONCE MORE.
was encfaged on sacred chronolo;?y. He told us one
night in Common Room that he had the dates of every
event complete from the Creation till the present day.
He had been so minutely successfid that his calculations
were right to twelve hours. These hours had puzzled
him till he recollected that when the sun was arrested
by Joshua it had stood still for a whole day, exactly the
period which he wanted, and the apparent error had
only verified his accuracy.
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
bread street hill, e.c., and
bungay, suffolk.
DATE
JAN 4
m 4
OCT 2 3 1 969
OCT 2 3 |98S M
7^
1967
367 Z
AA
001 325 813
IffTingTs
JUN 3
lifflj/l/V
1980
5-198^-
5
ffil
-Cl£C-
I9fi9 5
NOV
2 1970
NOV 1 ^ 19T0 1
219"
fj
4iy/0 9
MAY 'i 3 19'«
MAY ^ ;i ly/z a
JUNl
ri9TT
MAY 3
1 1973 I
-4UN-1
g-iam-
MAR 1 5
msA
GAYLORD
3 1210 00339 0679 M