of enormous resources, were stripped of all.  Such of the industrial classes as could leave the place had wandered away to Holland and England.  There was no industry possible, for there was no market for the products of industry.  Antwerp was hemmed in by the enemy on every side, surrounded by royal troops in a condition of open mutiny, cut off from the ocean, deprived of daily bread, and yet obliged to contribute out of its poverty to the maintenance of the Spanish soldiers, who were there for its destruction.  Its burghers, compelled to furnish four hundred thousand florins, as the price of their capitulation, and at least six hundred thousand more for the repairs of the dykes, the destruction of which, too long deferred, had only spread desolation over the country without saving the city, and over and above all forced to rebuild, at their own expense, that fatal citadel, by which their liberty and lives were to be perpetually endangered, might now regret at leisure that they had not been as stedfast during their siege as had been the heroic inhabitants of Leyden in their time of trial, twelve years before.  Obedient Antwerp was, in truth, most forlorn.  But there was one consolation for her and for Philip, one bright spot in the else universal gloom.  The ecclesiastics assured Parma, that, notwithstanding the frightful diminution in the population of the city, they had confessed and absolved more persons that Easter than they had ever done since the commencement of the revolt.  Great was Philip’s joy in consequence.  “You cannot imagine my satisfaction,” he wrote, “at the news you give me concerning last Easter.”

With a ruined country, starving and mutinous troops, a bankrupt exchequer, and a desperate and pauper population, Alexander Farnese was not unwilling to gain time by simulated negotiations for peace.  It was strange, however, that so sagacious a monarch as the Queen of England should suppose it for her interest to grant at that moment the very delay which was deemed most desirable by her antagonist.

Yet it was not wounded affection alone, nor insulted pride, nor startled parsimony, that had carried the fury of the Queen to such a height on the occasion of Leicester’s elevation to absolute government.  It was still more, because the step was thought likely to interfere with the progress of those negotiations into which the Queen had allowed herself to be drawn.

A certain Grafigni—­a Genoese merchant residing much in London and in Antwerp, a meddling, intrusive, and irresponsible kind of individual, whose occupation was gone with the cessation of Flemish trade—­had recently made his appearance as a volunteer diplomatist.  The principal reason for accepting or rather for winking at his services, seemed to be the possibility of disavowing him, on both sides, whenever it should be thought advisable.  He had a partner or colleague, too, named Bodman, who seemed a not much more creditable negotiator than himself.  The chief director of the intrigue was, however, Champagny, brother of Cardinal Granvelle, restored to the King’s favour and disposed to atone by his exuberant loyalty for his heroic patriotism on a former and most memorable occasion.  Andrea de Loo, another subordinate politician, was likewise employed at various stages of the negotiation.