escorted the young prince along the streets of the capital. Don John was
on horseback, wrapped in a long green cloak, riding between the Bishop of
Liege and the Papal nuncio. He passed beneath countless triumphal
arches. Banners waved before him, on which the battle of Lepanto, and
other striking scenes in his life, were emblazoned. Minstrels sang
verses, poets recited odes, rhetoric clubs enacted fantastic dramas in
his honor, as he rode along. Young virgins crowned him with laurels.
Fair women innumerable were clustered at every window, roof, and balcony,
their bright robes floating like summer clouds above him. "Softly from
those lovely clouds," says a gallant chronicler, "descended the gentle
rain of flowers." Garlands were strewed before his feet, laurelled
victory sat upon his brow. The same conventional enthusiasm and
decoration which had characterized the holiday marches of a thousand
conventional heroes were successfully produced. The proceedings began
with the church, and ended with the banquet, the day was propitious, the
populace pleased, and after a brilliant festival, Don John of Austria saw
himself Governor-General of the provinces.

Three days afterwards, the customary oaths, to be kept with the customary
conscientiousness, were rendered at the Town House, and for a brief
moment all seemed smiling and serene.

There was a reverse to the picture. In truth, no language can describe
the hatred which Don John entertained for the Netherlands and all the
inhabitants. He had come to the country only as a stepping-stone to the
English throne, and he never spoke, in his private letters, of the
provinces or the people but in terms of abhorrence. He was in a "Babylon
of disgust," in a "Hell," surrounded by "drunkards," "wineskins,"
"scoundrels," and the like. From the moment of his arrival he had
strained every nerve to retain the Spanish troops, and to send them away