On the twenty-fourth of June, the marriage of the young princess was celebrated in the church of St. Mary. King Henry gave his daughter away. The duke of Alva acted as his sovereign's proxy. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the prince of Eboli placed on the finger of the princess, as a memento from her lord, a diamond ring of inestimable value; and the beautiful Elizabeth, the destined bride of Don Carlos, became the bride of the king his father. It was an ominous union, destined, in its mysterious consequences, to supply a richer theme for the pages of romance than for those of history.

The wedding was followed by a succession of brilliant entertainments, the chief of which was the tournament,—the most splendid pageant of that spectacle-loving age. Henry was, at that time, busily occupied with the work of exterminating the Protestant heresy, which, as already noticed, had begun to gather formidable head in the capital of his dominions.[276] On the evening of the fifteenth of June, he attended a session of the parliament, and arrested some of its principal members for the boldness of their speech in his presence. He ordered them into confinement, deferring their sentence till the termination of the engrossing business of the tourney.

The king delighted in these martial exercises, in which he could display his showy person and matchless horsemanship in the presence of the assembled beauty and fashion of his court.[277] He fully maintained his reputation on this occasion, carrying off one prize after another, and bearing down all who encountered his lance. Towards evening, when the games had drawn to a close, he observed the young count of Montgomery, a Scotch noble, the captain of his guard, leaning on his lance, as yet unbroken. The king challenged the cavalier to run a course with him for his lady's sake. In vain the queen, with a melancholy boding of some disaster, besought her lord to remain content with the laurels he had already won. Henry obstinately urged his fate, and compelled the count, though extremely loth, to take the saddle. The champions met with a furious shock in the middle of the lists. Montgomery was a rude jouster. He directed his lance with such force against the helmet of his antagonist, that the bars of the visor gave way. The lance splintered; a fragment struck the king with such violence on the temple as to lay bare the eye. The unhappy monarch reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen but for the assistance of the constable, the duke of Guise, and other nobles, who bore him in their arms senseless from the lists. Henry's wound was mortal.{120} He lingered ten days in great agony, and expired on the ninth of July, in the forty-second year of his age, and the thirteenth of his reign. It was an ill augury for the nuptials of Elizabeth.[278]

The tidings of the king's death were received with demonstrations of sorrow throughout the kingdom. He had none of those solid qualities which make either a great or a good prince. But he had the showy qualities which are perhaps more effectual to secure the affections of a people as fond of show as the nation whom Henry governed.[279] There were others in the kingdom, however,—that growing sect of the Huguenots,—who looked on the monarch's death with very different eyes,—who rejoiced in it as a deliverance from persecution. They had little cause to rejoice. The sceptre passed into the hands of a line of imbecile princes, or rather of their mother, the famous Catherine de Medicis, who reigned in their stead, and who ultimately proved herself the most merciless foe the Huguenots ever encountered.

CHAPTER IX.

While the occurrences related in the preceding chapter were passing, an event took place which, had it happened earlier, would have had an important influence on the politics of Europe, and the news of which, when it did happen, was everywhere received with the greatest interest. This event was the death of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, in his monastic retreat at Yuste. In the earlier pages of our narrative, we have seen how that monarch, after his abdication of the throne, withdrew to the Jeronymite convent among the hills of Estremadura. The reader may now feel some interest in following him thither, and in observing in what manner he accommodated himself to the change, and passed the closing days of his eventful life. The picture I am enabled to give of it will differ in some respects from those of former historians, who wrote when the Archives of Simancas, which afford the most authentic records for the narrative, were inaccessible to the scholar, native as well as foreign.[280]

Charles, as we have seen, had early formed the determination to relinquish{121} at some future time the cares of royalty, and devote himself, in some lonely retreat to the good work of his salvation. His consort, the Empress Isabella, as appears from his own statement at Yuste, had avowed the same pious purpose.[281] She died, however, too early to execute her plan; and Charles was too much occupied with his ambitious enterprises to accomplish his object until the autumn of 1555, when, broken in health and spirits, and disgusted with the world, he resigned the sceptre he had held for forty years, and withdrew to a life of obscurity and repose.

The spot he had selected for his residence was situated about seven leagues from the city of Plasencia, on the slopes of the mountain chain that traverses the province of Estremadura. There, nestling among the rugged hills, clothed with thick woods of chestnut and oak, the Jeronymite convent was sheltered from the rude breezes of the north. Towards the south, the land sloped by a gradual declivity, till it terminated in a broad expanse, the Vera of Plasencia, as it was called, which, fertilized by the streams of the sierra, contrasted strongly in its glowing vegetation with the wild character of the mountain scenery. It was a spot well fitted for such as would withdraw themselves from commerce with the world, and consecrate their days to prayer and holy meditation. The Jeronymite fraternity had prospered in this peaceful abode. Many of the monks had acquired reputation for sanctity, and some of them for learning, the fruits of which might be seen in a large collection of manuscripts preserved in the library of the monastery. Benefactions were heaped on the brotherhood. They became proprietors of considerable tracts of land in the neighborhood, and they liberally employed their means in dispensing alms to the poor who sought it at the gate of the convent. Not long before Charles took up his residence among them, they had enlarged their building by an extensive quadrangle, which displayed some architectural elegance in the construction of its cloisters.

Three years before the emperor repaired thither, he sent a skilful architect to provide such accommodations as he had designed for himself. These were very simple. A small building, containing eight rooms, four on each floor, was raised against the southern wall of the monastery. The rooms were low, and of a moderate size. They were protected by porticos, which sheltered them on two sides from the rays of the sun, while an open gallery, which passed through the centre of the house, afforded means for its perfect ventilation. But Charles, with his gouty constitution, was more afraid of the cold damps than of heat; and he took care to have the apartments provided with fire-places, a luxury little known in this temperate region.

A window opened from his chamber directly into the chapel of the monastery; and through this, when confined to his bed, and too ill to attend mass, he could see the elevation of the host. The furniture of the dwelling—according to an authority usually followed—was of the simplest kind; and Charles, we are told, took no better care of his gouty limbs than to provide himself with an arm-chair, or rather half a chair, which would not have brought four reals at auction.[282] The inventory of the furniture of Yuste tells{122} a very different story. Instead of "half an arm-chair," we find, besides other chairs lined with velvet, two arm-chairs especially destined to the emperor's service. One of these was of a peculiar construction, and was accommodated with no less than six cushions and a footstool, for the repose of his gouty limbs. His wardrobe showed a similar attention to his personal comfort. For one item we find no less than sixteen robes of silk and velvet, lined with ermine or eider-down, or the soft hair of the Barbary goat. The decorations of his apartment were on not merely a comfortable, but a luxurious scale;—canopies of velvet; carpets from Turkey and Alcaraz; suits of tapestry, of which twenty-five pieces are specified, richly wrought with figures of flowers and animals. Twelve hangings, of the finest black cloth, were for the emperor's bed-chamber, which, since his mother's death, had been always dressed in mourning. Among the ornaments of his rooms were four large clocks of elaborate workmanship. He had besides a number of pocket-watches, then a greater rarity than at present. He was curious in regard to his timepieces, and took care to provide for their regularity by bringing the manufacturer of them in his train to Yuste. Charles was served on silver. Even the meanest utensils for his kitchen and his sleeping apartment were of the same costly material, amounting to nearly fourteen thousand ounces in weight.[283]

The inventory contains rather a meagre show of books, which were for the most part of a devotional character. But Charles's love of art was visible in a small but choice collection of paintings, which he brought with him to adorn the walls of his retreat. Nine of these were from the pencil of Titian. Charles held the works of the great Venetian in the highest honor, and was desirous that by his hand his likeness should be transmitted to posterity. The emperor had brought with him to Yuste four portraits of himself and the empress by Titian; and among the other pieces by the same master were some of his best pictures. One of these was the famous "Gloria," in which Charles and the empress appear, in the midst of the celestial throng, supported by angels, and in an attitude of humble adoration.[284] He had the painting hung at the foot of his bed, or according to another account, over the great altar in the chapel. It is said, he would gaze long and fondly on this picture, which filled him with the most tender recollections; and as he dwelt on the image of one who had been so dear to him on earth, he may have looked forward to his reunion with her in the heavenly mansions, as the artist had here depicted him.[285]{123}

A stairway, or rather an inclined plane, suited to the weakness of Charles's limbs, led from the gallery of his house to the gardens below. These were surrounded by a high wall, which completely secluded him from observation from without. The garden was filled with orange, citron, and fig trees, and various aromatic plants that grew luxuriantly in the genial soil. The emperor had a taste for horticulture, and took much pleasure in tending the young plants and pruning his trees. His garden afforded him also the best means for taking exercise; and in fine weather he would walk along an avenue of lofty chestnut-trees, that led to a pretty chapel in the neighboring woods, the ruins of which may be seen at this day. Among the trees, one is pointed out,—an overgrown walnut, still throwing its shade far and wide over the ground,—under whose branches the pensive monarch would sit and meditate on the dim future, or perhaps on the faded glories of the past.

Charles had once been the most accomplished horseman of his time. He had brought with him to Yuste a pony and a mule, in the hope of being able to get some exercise in the saddle. But the limbs that had bestrode day after day, without fatigue, the heavy war-horse of Flanders and the wildest genet of Andalusia, were unable now to endure the motion of a poor palfrey; and, after a solitary experiment in the saddle on his arrival at Yuste, when he nearly fainted, he abandoned it for ever.[286]

There are few spots that might now be visited with more interest, than that which the great emperor had selected as his retreat from the thorny cares of government. And until within a few years the traveller would have received from the inmates of the convent the same hospitable welcome which they had always been ready to give to the stranger. But in 1809 the place was sacked by the French; and the fierce soldiery of Soult converted the pile, with its venerable cloisters, into a heap of blackened ruins. Even the collection of manuscripts, piled up with so much industry by the brethren, did not escape the general doom. The palace of the emperor, as the simple monks loved to call his dwelling, had hardly a better fate, though it came from the hands of Charles's own countrymen, the liberals of Cuacos. By these patriots the lower floor of the mansion was turned into stables for their horses. The rooms above were used as magazines for grain. The mulberry-leaves were gathered from the garden to furnish material for the silkworm, who was permitted to wind his cocoon in the deserted chambers of royalty. Still the great features of nature remain the same as in Charles's day. The bald peaks of the sierra still rise above the ruins of the monastery. The shaggy sides of the hills still wear their wild forest drapery. Far below, the eye of the traveller ranges over the beautiful Vera of Plasencia, which glows in the same exuberant vegetation as of yore; and the traveller, as he wanders among the ruined porticos and desolate arcades of the palace, drinks in the odors of a thousand{124} aromatic plants and wild-flowers that have shot up into a tangled wilderness, where once was the garden of the imperial recluse.[287]

Charles, though borne across the mountains in a litter, had suffered greatly in his long and laborious journey from Valladolid. He passed some time in the neighboring village of Xarandilla, and thence, after taking leave of the greater part of his weeping retinue, he proceeded with the remainder to the monastery of Yuste. It was on the third of February, 1557, that he entered the abode which was to prove his final resting-place.[288] The monks of Yuste had been much flattered by the circumstance of Charles having shown such a preference for their convent. As he entered the chapel, Te Deum was chanted by the whole brotherhood; and when the emperor had prostrated himself before the altar, the monks gathered round him, anxious to pay him their respectful obeisance. Charles received them graciously, and, after examining his quarters, professed himself well pleased with the accommodations prepared for him. His was not a fickle temper. Slow in forming his plans, he was slower in changing them. To the last day of his residence at Yuste,—whatever may have been said to the contrary,—he seems to have been well satisfied with the step he had taken and with the spot he had selected.

From the first, he prepared to conform, as far as his health would permit, to the religious observances of the monastery. Not that he proposed to limit himself to the narrow circumstances of an ordinary friar. The number of his retinue that still remained with him was at least fifty, mostly Flemings;[289] a number not greater, certainly, than that maintained by many a private gentleman of the country. But among these we recognize those officers of state who belong more properly to a princely establishment than to the cell of the recluse. There was the major-domo, the almoner, the keeper of the wardrobe, the keeper of the jewels, the chamberlains, two watchmakers, several secretaries, the physician, the confessor, besides cooks, confectioners, bakers, brewers, game-keepers, and numerous valets. Some of these followers seem not to have been quite so content as their master with their secluded way of life, and to have cast many a longing look to the pomps and vanities of the world they had left behind them. At least such were the feelings of Quixada, the emperor's major-domo, in whom he placed the greatest confidence, and who had the charge of his household. "His majesty's bedroom," writes the{125} querulous functionary, "is good enough; but the view from it is poor,—barren mountains, covered with rocks and stunted oaks; a garden of moderate size, with a few straggling orange-trees; the roads scarcely passable, so steep and stony; the only water, a torrent rushing from the mountains; a dreary solitude!" The low, cheerless rooms, he predicts, must necessarily be damp, boding no good to the emperor's infirmity.[290] "As to the friars," observes the secretary, Gaztelu, in the same amiable mood, "please God that his majesty may be able to tolerate them,—which will be no easy matter; for they are an importunate race."[291] It is evident that Charles's followers would have been very willing to exchange the mortifications of the monastic life for the good cheer and gaiety of Brussels.

The worthy prior of the convent, in addressing Charles, greeted him with the title of paternidad, till one of the fraternity suggested to him the propriety of substituting that of magestad.[292] Indeed, to this title Charles had good right, for he was still emperor. His resignation of the imperial crown, which, as we have seen, so soon followed that of the Spanish, had not taken effect, in consequence of the diet not being in session at the time when his envoy, the prince of Orange, was to have presented himself at Ratisbon, in the spring of 1557. The war with France made Philip desirous that his father should remain lord of Germany for some time longer. It was not, therefore, until more than a year after Charles's arrival at Yuste, that the resignation was accepted by the diet, at Frankfort, on the twenty-eighth of February, 1558. Charles was still emperor, and continued to receive the imperial title in all his correspondence.[293]

We have pretty full accounts of the manner in which the monarch employed his time. He attended mass every morning in the chapel, when his health permitted. Mass was followed by dinner, which he took early and alone, preferring this to occupying a seat in the refectory of the convent. He was fond of carving for himself, though his gouty fingers were not always in the best condition for this exercise.[294] His physician was usually in attendance during the repast, and might, at least, observe how little his patient, who had not the virtue of abstinence, regarded his prescriptions. The Fleming, Van Male, the emperor's favorite gentleman of the chamber, was{126} also not unfrequently present. He was a good scholar; and his discussions with the doctor served to beguile the tediousness of their master's solitary meal. The conversation frequently turned on some subject of natural history, of which the emperor was fond; and when the parties could not agree, the confessor, a man of learning, was called in to settle the dispute.

After dinner,—an important meal, which occupied much time with Charles,—he listened to some passages from a favorite theologian. In his worldly days, the book he most affected is said to have been Comines's Life of Louis the Eleventh,[295]—a prince whose maxim, "Qui nescit dissimulare, nescit regnare," was too well suited to the genius of the emperor. He now, however, sought a safer guide for his spiritual direction, and would listen to a homily from the pages of St. Bernard, or more frequently St. Augustine, in whom he most delighted.[296] Towards evening, he heard a sermon from one of his preachers. Three or four of the most eloquent of the Jeronymite order had been brought to Yuste for his especial benefit. When he was not in condition to be present at the discourse, he expected to hear a full report of it from the lips of his confessor, Father Juan de Regla. Charles was punctual in his attention to all the great fasts and festivals of the Church. His infirmities, indeed, excused him from fasting, but he made up for it by the severity of his flagellation. In Lent, in particular, he dealt with himself so sternly, that the scourge was found stained with his blood; and this precious memorial of his piety was ever cherished, we are told, by Philip, and by him bequeathed as an heirloom to his son.[297]

Increasing vigilance in his own spiritual concerns made him more vigilant as to those of others,—as the weaker brethren sometimes found to their cost. Observing that some of the younger friars spent more time than was seemly in conversing with the women who came on business to the door of the convent, Charles procured an order to be passed, that any woman who ventured to approach within two bowshots of the gate should receive a hundred stripes.[298] On another occasion, his officious endeavor to quicken the diligence of one of the younger members of the fraternity is said to have provoked the latter testily to exclaim, "Cannot you be contented with having so long turned the world upside down, without coming here to disturb the quiet of a poor convent?"

He derived an additional pleasure, in his spiritual exercises, from his fondness{127} for music, which enters so largely into those of the Romish Church. He sung well himself, and his clear, sonorous voice might often be heard through the open casement of his bedroom, accompanying the chant of the monks in the chapel. The choir was made up altogether of brethren of the order, and Charles would allow no intrusion from any other quarter. His ear was quick to distinguish any strange voice, as well as any false note in the performance,—on which last occasion he would sometimes pause in his devotions, and, in half-suppressed tones, give vent to his anger by one of those scurrilous epithets, which, however they may have fallen in with the habits of the old campaigner, were but indifferently suited to his present way of life.[299]

Such time as was not given to his religious exercises was divided among various occupations, for which he had always had a relish, though hitherto but little leisure to pursue them. Besides his employments in his garden, he had a decided turn for mechanical pursuits. Some years before, while in Germany, he had invented an ingenious kind of carriage for his own accommodation.[300] He brought with him to Yuste an engineer named Torriano, famous for the great hydraulic works he constructed in Toledo. With the assistance of this man, a most skilful mechanician, Charles amused himself by making a variety of puppets representing soldiers, who went through military exercises. The historian draws largely on our faith, by telling us also of little wooden birds which the ingenious pair contrived, so as to fly in and out of the window before the admiring monks![301] But nothing excited their astonishment so much as a little hand-mill, used for grinding wheat, which turned out meal enough in a single day to support a man for a week or more. The good fathers thought this savored of downright necromancy; and it may have furnished an argument against the unfortunate engineer in the persecution which he afterwards underwent from the Inquisition.

Charles took, moreover, great interest in the mechanism of timepieces. He had a good number of clocks and watches ticking together in his apartments; and a story has obtained credit, that the difficulty he found in making any two of them keep the same time drew from him an exclamation on the folly of attempting to bring a number of men to think alike in matters of religion, when he could not regulate any two of his timepieces so as to make them agree with each other; a philosophical reflection for which one will hardly give credit to the man who, with his dying words, could press on his son the maintenance of the Inquisition as the great bulwark of the Catholic faith. In the gardens of Yuste there is still, or was lately, to be seen, a sun-dial constructed by Torriano to enable his master to measure more accurately the lapse of time as it glided away in the monotonous routine of the monastery.[302]{128}

Though averse to visits of curiosity or idle ceremony,[303] Charles consented to admit some of the nobles whose estates lay in the surrounding country, and who, with feelings of loyal attachment to their ancient master, were anxious to pay their respects to him in his retirement. But none who found their way into his retreat appear to have given him so much satisfaction as Francisco Borja, duke of Gandia, in later times placed on the roll of her saints by the Roman Catholic Church. Like Charles, he had occupied a brilliant eminence in the world, and like him had found the glory of this world but vanity. In the prime of life, he withdrew from the busy scenes in which he had acted, and entered a college of Jesuits. By the emperor's invitation, Borja made more than one visit to Yuste; and Charles found much consolation in his society, and in conversing with his early friend on topics of engrossing interest to both. The result of their conferences was to confirm them both in the conviction, that they had done wisely in abjuring the world, and in dedicating themselves to the service of Heaven.

The emperor was also visited by his two sisters, the dowager queens of France and Hungary, who had accompanied their brother, as we have seen, on his return to Spain. But the travelling was too rough, and the accommodations at Yuste too indifferent, to encourage the royal matrons to prolong their stay, or, with one exception on the part of the queen of Hungary, to repeat their visit.

But an object of livelier interest to the emperor than either of his sisters was a boy, scarcely twelve years of age, who resided in the family of his major-domo, Quixada, in the neighboring village of Cuacos. This was Don John of Austria, as he was afterwards called, the future hero of Lepanto. He was the natural son of Charles, a fact known to no one during the father's lifetime, except Quixada, who introduced the boy into the convent as his own page. The lad, at this early age, showed many gleams of that generous spirit by which he was afterwards distinguished,—thus solacing the declining years of his parent, and affording a hold for those affections which might have withered in the cold atmosphere of the cloister.

Strangers were sure to be well received who, coming from the theatre of war, could furnish the information he so much desired respecting the condition of things abroad. Thus we find him in conference with an officer arrived from the Low Countries, named Spinosa, and putting a multitude of questions respecting the state of the army, the organization and equipment of the different corps, and other particulars, showing the lively interest taken by Charles in the conduct of the campaign.[304]

It has been a common opinion, that the emperor, after his retirement to Yuste, remained as one buried alive, totally cut off from intercourse with the world;—"as completely withdrawn from the business of the kingdom and the concerns of government," says one of his biographers, "as if he had never taken part in them;"[305]—"so entirely abstracted in his solitude," says another{129} contemporary, "that neither revolutions nor wars, nor gold arriving in heaps from the Indies, had any power to affect his tranquillity."[306]

So far from this being the case, that not only did the emperor continue to show an interest in public affairs, but he took a prominent part, even from the depths of his retreat, in the management of them.[307] Philip, who had the good sense to defer to the long experience and the wisdom of his father, consulted him, constantly, on great questions of public policy. And so far was he from the feeling of jealousy often imputed to him, that we find him on one occasion, when the horizon looked particularly, dark, imploring the emperor to leave his retreat, and to aid him not only by his counsels, but by his presence and authority.[308] The emperor's daughter Joanna, regent of Castile, from her residence at Valladolid, only fifty leagues from Yuste, maintained a constant correspondence with her father, soliciting his advice in the conduct of the government. However much Charles may have felt himself relieved from responsibility for measures, he seems to have been as anxious for the success of Philip's administration as if it had been his own. "Write more fully," says one of his secretaries in a letter to the secretary of the regent's council; "the emperor is always eager to hear more particulars of events."[309] He showed the deepest concern in the conduct of the Italian war. He betrayed none of the scruples manifested by Philip, but boldly declared that the war with the pope was a just war, in the sight of both God and man.[310] When letters came from abroad, he was even heard to express his regret that they brought no tidings of Paul's death, or Caraffa's![311] He was sorely displeased with the truce which Alva granted to the pontiff, intimating a regret that he had not the reins still in his own hand. He was yet more discontented with the peace, and the terms of it, both public and private; and when Alva talked of leaving Naples, his anger, as his secretary quaintly remarks, was "more than was good for his health."[312]{130}

The same interest he showed in the French war. The loss of Calais filled him with the deepest anxiety. But in his letters on the occasion, instead of wasting his time in idle lament, he seems intent only on devising in what way he can best serve Philip in his distress.[313] In the same proportion he was elated by the tidings of the victory of St. Quentin. His thoughts turned upon Paris, and he was eager to learn what road his son had taken after the battle.[314] According to Brantôme, on hearing the news, he abruptly asked, "Is Philip at Paris?"—He judged of Philip's temper by his own.[315]

At another time, we find him conducting negotiations with Navarre;[316] and then, again, carrying on a correspondence with his sister, the regent of Portugal, for the purpose of having his grandson, Carlos, recognized as heir to the crown, in case of the death of the young king, his cousin. The scheme failed, for it would be as much as her life was worth, the regent said, to engage in it. But it was a bold one, that of bringing under the same sceptre these two nations, which, by community of race, language, and institutions, would seem by nature to have been designed for one. It was Charles's comprehensive idea; and it proves that, even in the cloister, the spirit of ambition had not become extinct in his bosom. How much would it have rejoiced that ambitious spirit, could he have foreseen that the consummation so much desired by him would be attained under Philip![317]{131}

But the department which especially engaged Charles's attention in his retirement, singularly enough, was the financial. "It has been my constant care," he writes to Philip, "in all my letters to your sister, to urge the necessity of providing you with funds,—since I can be of little service to you in any other way."[318] His interposition, indeed, seems to have been constantly invoked to raise supplies for carrying on the war. This fact may be thought to show that those writers are mistaken who accuse Philip of withholding from his father the means of maintaining a suitable establishment at Yuste. Charles, in truth, settled the amount of his own income; and in one of his letters we find him fixing this at twenty thousand ducats, instead of sixteen thousand, as before, to be paid quarterly and in advance.[319] That the payments were not always punctually made may well be believed, in a country where punctuality would have been a miracle.

Charles had more cause for irritation in the conduct of some of those functionaries with whom he had to deal in his financial capacity. Nothing appears to have stirred his bile so much at Yuste as the proceedings of some members of the board of trade at Seville. "I have deferred sending to you," he writes to his daughter, the regent, "in order to see if, with time, my wrath would not subside. But, far from it, it increases, and will go on increasing till I learn that those who have done wrong have atoned for it. Were it not for my infirmities," he adds, "I would go to Seville myself, and find out the authors of this villany, and bring them to a summary reckoning."[320] "The emperor orders me," writes his secretary, Gaztelu, "to command that the offenders be put in irons, and in order to mortify them the more, that they be carried, in broad daylight, to Simancas, and there lodged, not in towers or chambers, but in a dungeon. Indeed, such is his indignation, and such are the violent and bloodthirsty expressions he commands me to use, that you will pardon me if my language is not so temperate as it might be."[321] It had been customary for the board of trade to receive the gold imported from the Indies, whether on public or private account, and hold it for the use of the government, paying to the merchants interested an equivalent in government bonds. The merchants, naturally enough, not relishing this kind of security so well as the gold, by a collusion with some of the members of the board of trade, had been secretly allowed to remove their own property. In this way the government was defrauded—as the emperor regarded it—of a large sum on which it had calculated. This, it would seem, was the offence which had roused the royal indignation to such a pitch. Charles's phlegmatic temperament had ever been liable to be ruffled by these{132} sudden gusts of passion; and his conventual life does not seem to have had any very sedative influence on him in this particular.

For the first ten months after his arrival at Yuste, the emperor's health, under the influence of a temperate climate, the quiet of monastic life, and more than all, probably, his exemption from the cares of state, had generally improved.[322] His attacks of gout had been less frequent and less severe than before. But in the spring of 1558, the old malady returned with renewed violence. "I was not in a condition," he writes to Philip, "to listen to a single sermon during Lent."[323] For months he was scarcely able to write a line with his own hand. His spirits felt the pressure of bodily suffering, and were still further depressed by the death of his sister Eleanor, the queen-dowager of France and Portugal, which took place in February, 1558.

A strong attachment seems to have subsisted between the emperor and his two sisters. Queen Eleanor's sweetness of disposition had particularly endeared her to her brother, who now felt her loss almost as keenly as that of one of his own children. "She was a good Christian," he said to his secretary, Gaztelu; and, as the tears rolled down his cheeks, he added, "We have always loved each other. She was my elder by fifteen months; and before that period has passed I shall probably be with her."[324] Before half that period, the sad augury was fulfilled.

At this period—as we shall see hereafter—the attention of the government was called to the Lutheran heresy, which had already begun to disclose itself in various quarters of the country. Charles was possessed of a full share of the spirit of bigotry which belonged to the royal line of Castile, from which he was descended. While on the throne, this feeling was held somewhat in check by a regard for his political interests. But in the seclusion of the monastery he had no interests to consult but those of religion; and he gave free scope to the spirit of intolerance which belonged to his nature. In a letter addressed, the third of May, 1558, to his daughter Joanna, he says: "Tell the grand-inquisitor from me to be at his post, and lay the axe at the root of the evil before it spreads further. I rely on your zeal for bringing the guilty to punishment, and for having them punished, without favor to any one, with all the severity which their crimes demand."[325] In another letter to his daughter, three weeks later, he writes: "If I had not entire confidence that you would do your duty, and arrest the evil at once by chastising{133} the guilty in good earnest, I know not how I could help leaving the monastery, and taking the remedy into my own hands."[326] Thus did Charles make his voice heard from his retreat among the mountains, and by his efforts and influence render himself largely responsible for the fiery persecution which brought woe upon the land after he himself had gone to his account.

About the middle of August, the emperor's old enemy, the gout, returned on him with uncommon force. It was attended with symptoms of an alarming kind, intimating, indeed, that his strong constitution was giving way. These were attributed to a cold which he had taken, though it seems there was good reason for imputing them to his intemperate living; for he still continued to indulge his appetite for the most dangerous dishes, as freely as in the days when a more active way of life had better enabled him to digest them. It is true, the physician stood by his side, as prompt as Sancho Panza's doctor, in his island domain, to remonstrate against his master's proceedings. But, unhappily, he was not armed with the authority of that functionary; and an eel-pie, a well-spiced capon, or any other savory abomination, offered too great a fascination for Charles to heed the warnings of his physician.

The declining state of the emperor's health may have inspired him with a presentiment of his approaching end, to which, we have seen, he gave utterrance some time before this, in his conversation with Gaztelu. It may have been the sober reflections which such a feeling would naturally suggest that led him, at the close of the month of August, to conceive the extraordinary idea of preparing for the final scene by rehearsing his own funeral. He consulted his professor on the subject, and was encouraged by the accommodating father to consider it as a meritorious act. The chapel was accordingly hung in black, and the blaze of hundreds of wax-lights was not sufficient to dispel the darkness. The monks in their conventual dresses, and all the emperor's household, clad in deep mourning, gathered round a huge catafalque, shrouded also in black, which had been raised in the centre of the chapel. The service for the burial of the dead was then performed; and amidst the dismal wail of the monks, the prayers ascended for the departed spirit, that it might be received into the mansions of the blessed. The sorrowful attendants were melted to tears, as the image of their master's death was presented to their minds, or they were touched, it may be, with compassion for this pitiable display of his weakness. Charles, muffled in a dark mantle, and bearing a lighted candle in his hand, mingled with his household, the spectator of his own obsequies; and the doleful ceremony was concluded by his placing the taper in the hands of the priest, in sign of his surrendering up his soul to the Almighty.

Such is the account of this melancholy farce given us by the Jeronymite chroniclers of the cloister life of Charles the Fifth, and which has since been repeated—losing nothing in the repetition—by every succeeding historian, to the present time.[327] Nor does there seem to have been any distrust of its correctness till the historical scepticism of our own day had subjected the{134} narrative to a more critical scrutiny. It was then discovered that no mention of the affair was to be discerned in the letters of any one of the emperor's household residing at Yuste, although there are letters extant written by Charles's physician, his major-domo, and his secretary, both on the thirty-first of August, the day of the funeral, and on the first of September. With so extraordinary an event fresh in their minds, their silence is inexplicable.

One fact is certain, that, if the funeral did take place, it could not have been on the date assigned to it; for on the thirty-first the emperor was laboring under an attack of fever, of which his physician has given full particulars, and from which he was destined never to recover. That the writers, therefore, should have been silent in respect to a ceremony which must have had so bad an effect on the nerves of the patient, is altogether incredible.

Yet the story of the obsequies comes from one of the Jeronymite brethren then living at Yuste, who speaks of the emotions which he felt, in common with the rest of the convent, at seeing a man thus bury himself alive, as it were, and perform his funeral rites before his death.[328] It is repeated by another of the fraternity, the prior of Escorial, who had ample means of conversing with eye-witnesses.[329] And finally, it is confirmed by more than one writer near enough to the period to be able to assure himself of the truth.[330] Indeed, the parties from whom the account is originally derived were so situated that, if the story be without foundation, it is impossible to explain its existence by misapprehension on their part. It must be wholly charged on a wilful misstatement of facts. It is true, the monkish chronicler is not always{135} quite so scrupulous in this particular as would be desirable,—especially where the honor of his order is implicated. But what interest could the Jeronymite fathers have had in so foolish a fabrication as this? The supposition is at variance with the respectable character of the parties, and with the air of simplicity and good faith that belongs to their narratives.[331]

We may well be staggered, it is true, by the fact that no allusion to the obsequies appears in any of the letters from Yuste; while the date assigned for them, moreover, is positively disproved. Yet we may consider that the misstatement of a date is a very different thing from the invention of a story; and that chronological accuracy, as I have more than once had occasion to remark, was not the virtue of the monkish, or indeed of any other historian of the sixteenth century. It would not be a miracle if the obsequies should have taken place some days before the period assigned to them. It so happens that we have no letters from Yuste between the eighteenth and twenty-eighth of August. At least, I have none myself, and have seen none cited by others. If any should hereafter come to light, written during that interval, they may be found possibly to contain some allusion to the funeral. Should no letters have been written during the period, the silence of the parties who wrote at the end of August and the beginning of September may be explained by the fact, that too long a time had elapsed since the performance of the emperor's obsequies, for them to suppose it could have any connection with his illness, which formed the subject of their correspondence. Difficulties will present themselves, whichever view we take of the matter. But the reader may think it quite as reasonable to explain those difficulties by the supposition of involuntary error, as by that of sheer invention.

Nor is the former supposition rendered less probable by the character of Charles the Fifth. There was a taint of insanity in the royal blood of Castile, which was most fully displayed in the emperor's mother, Joanna. Some traces of it, however faint, may be discerned in his own conduct, before he took refuge in the cloisters of Yuste. And though we may not agree with Paul the Fourth in regarding this step as sufficient evidence of his madness,[332] we may yet find something in his conduct, on more than one occasion, while there, which is near akin to it. Such, for example, was the morbid relish which he discovered for performing the obsequies, not merely of his kindred, but of any one whose position seemed to him to furnish an apology for it. Not a member of the toison died, but he was prepared to commemorate the event with solemn funeral rites. These, in short, seemed to be the festivities of Charles's cloister life. These lugubrious ceremonies had a fascination for him, that may remind one of the tenacity with which his mother, Joanna, clung to the dead body of her husband, taking it with her wherever she went. It was after celebrating the obsequies of his parents and his wife, which occupied several successive days, that he conceived, as we are told, the idea of rehearsing his own funeral,—a piece of extravagance which becomes the more credible when we reflect on the state of morbid excitement to which his mind may have been brought by dwelling so long on the dreary apparatus of death.

But whatever be thought of the account of the mock funeral of Charles, it appears that on the thirtieth of August he was affected by an indisposition which on the following day was attended with most alarming symptoms. Here also we have some particulars from his Jeronymite biographers which{136} we do not find in the letters. On the evening of the thirty-first, according to their account, Charles ordered a portrait of the empress, his wife, of whom, as we have seen, he had more than one in his collection, to be brought to him. He dwelt a long while on its beautiful features, "as if," says the chronicler, "he were imploring her to prepare a place for him in the celestial mansions to which she had gone."[333] He then passed to the contemplation of another picture,—Titian's "Agony in the Garden," and from this to that immortal production of his pencil, the "Gloria," as it is called, which is said to have hung over the high altar at Yuste, and which, after the emperor's death, followed his remains to the Escorial.[334] He gazed so long and with such rapt attention on the picture, as to cause apprehension in his physician, who, in the emperor's debilitated state, feared the effects of such excitement on his nerves. There was good reason for apprehension; for Charles, at length, rousing from his reverie, turned to the doctor, and complained that he was ill. His pulse showed him to be in a high fever. As the symptoms became more unfavorable, his physician bled him, but without any good effect.[335] The Regent Joanna, on learning her father's danger, instantly despatched her own physician from Valladolid to his assistance. But no earthly remedies could avail. It soon became evident that the end was approaching.[336]

Charles received the intelligence, not merely with composure, but with cheerfulness. It was what he had long desired, he said. His first care was to complete some few arrangements respecting his affairs. On the ninth of September, he executed a codicil to his will. The will, made a few years previous, was of great length, and the codicil had not the merit of brevity. Its principal object was to make provision for those who had followed him to Yuste. No mention is made in the codicil of his son Don John of Austria. He seems to have communicated his views in regard to him to his major-domo, Quixada, who had a private interview of some length with his master a few days before his death. Charles's directions on the subject appear to have been scrupulously regarded by Philip.[337]