astounding triviality.
Thus a most important despatch--in which the King, with his own hand,
was supposed to be conveying secret intelligence to Mendoza
concerning the Armada, together with minute directions for the
regulation of Guise's conduct at the memorable epoch of the
barricades--contained but a single comment from the monarch's own
pen. "The Armada has been in Lisbon about a month--quassi un
mes"--wrote the secretary. "There is but one s in quasi," said Philip.
Again, a despatch of Mendoza to the King contained the intelligence
that Queen Elizabeth was, at the date of the letter, residing at St.
James's. Philip, who had no objection to display his knowledge of
English affairs --as became the man who had already been almost
sovereign of England, and meant to be entirely so--supplied a piece of
information in an apostille to this despatch. "St. James is a house of
recreation," he said, "which was once a monastery. There is a park
between it, and the palace which is called Huytal; but why it is called
Huytal, I am sure I don't know." His researches in the English language
had not enabled him to recognize the adjective and substantive out of
which the abstruse compound White- Hall (Huyt-al), was formed.
On another occasion, a letter from England containing important
intelligence concerning the number of soldiers enrolled in that country
to resist the Spanish invasion, the quantity of gunpowder and various
munitions collected, with other details of like nature, furnished besides
a bit of information of less vital interest. "In the windows of the
Queen's presence-chamber they have discovered a great quantity of lice,
all clustered together," said the writer.
Such a minute piece of statistics could not escape the microscopic eye
of Philip. So, disregarding the soldiers and the gunpowder, he
commented only on this last-mentioned clause of the letter; and he did
it cautiously too, as a King surnamed the Prudent should:--
"But perhaps they were fleas," wrote Philip.
Such examples--and many more might be given--sufficiently indicate
the nature of the man on whom such enormous responsibilities rested,
and who had been, by the adulation of his fellow-creatures, elevated
into a god. And we may cast a glance upon him as he sits in his
cabinet-buried among those piles of despatches--and receiving
methodically, at stated hours, Idiaquez, or Moura, or Chincon, to settle
the affairs of so many millions of the human race; and we may watch
exactly the progress of that scheme, concerning which so many
contradictory rumours were circulating in Europe. In the month of
April a Walsingham could doubt, even in August an ingenuous
comptroller could disbelieve, the reality of the great project, and the
Pope himself, even while pledging himself to assistance, had been
systematically deceived. He had supposed the whole scheme rendered
futile by the exploit of Drake at Cadiz, and had declared that "the
Queen of England's distaff was worth more than Philip's sword, that the
King was a poor creature, that he would never be able to come to a
resolution, and that even if he should do so, it would be too late;" and
he had subsequently been doing his best, through his nuncio in France,
to persuade the Queen to embrace the Catholic religion, and thus save
herself from the impending danger. Henry III. had even been urged by
the Pope to send a special ambassador to her for this purpose--as if the
persuasions of the wretched Valois were likely to be effective with
Elizabeth Tudor--and Burghley had, by means of spies in Rome, who
pretended to be Catholics, given out intimations that the Queen was
seriously contemplating such a step. Thus the Pope, notwithstanding
Cardinal Allan, the famous million, and the bull, was thought by
Mendoza to be growing lukewarm in the Spanish cause, and to be
urging upon the "Englishwoman" the propriety of converting herself,
even at the late hour of May, 1588.
But Philip, for years, had been maturing his scheme, while reposing
entire confidence--beyond his own cabinet doors--upon none but
Alexander Farnese; and the Duke--alone of all men--was perfectly
certain that the invasion would, this year, be attempted.
The captain-general of the expedition was the Marquis of Santa Cruz, a
man of considerable naval experience, and of constant good fortune,
who, in thirty years, had never sustained a defeat. He had however
shown no desire to risk one when Drake had offered him the
memorable challenge in the year 1587, and perhaps his reputation of
the invincible captain had been obtained by the same adroitness on
previous occasions. He was no friend to Alexander Farnese, and was
much disgusted when informed of the share allotted to the Duke in the
great undertaking. A course of reproach and perpetual reprimand was
the treatment to which he was, in consequence, subjected, which was
not more
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