Two individuals—­the one attired as a respectable burgher; the other as a clerical personage in gown and bands-made their appearance upon a stage, opposite the seats of their Highnesses, and pronounced a long dialogue in rhyme.  One of the speakers rejoiced in the appellation of the “Desiring Heart,” the other was called “Common Comfort.”  Common Sense might have been more to the purpose, but appeared to have no part in the play.  Desiring Heart, being of an inquisitive disposition, propounded a series of puzzling questions, mythological in their nature, which seemed like classical conundrums, having reference, mainly, to the proceedings of Venus, Neptune, Juno, and other divinities.  They appeared to have little to do with Matthias or the matter in hand, but Common Comfort knew better.  That clerical personage, accordingly, in a handsome allowance of rhymes, informed his despairing colleague that everything would end well; that Jupiter, Diana, Venus, and the rest of them would all do their duty, and that Belgica would be relieved from all her woes, at the advent of a certain individual.  Whereupon cried Desiring Heart,

          Oh Common Comfort who is he? 
          His name, and of what family?

To which Comfort responded by mentioning the Archduke, in a poetical and highly-complimentary strain, with handsome allusions to the inevitable Quintus Curtius and Scipio Africanus.  The concluding words of the speech were not spoken, but were taken as the cue for a splendid charade; the long-suffering Scipio again making his appearance, in company with Alexander and Hannibal; the group typifying the future government of Matthias.  After each of these, heroic individuals had spouted a hundred lines or so, the play was terminated, and Rhetoric took her departure.  The company had remained at table during this long representation, and now the dessert was served, consisting of a “richly triumphant banquet of confectionary, marmalade, and all kinds of genteelnesses in sugar.”

Meanwhile, Don John sat chafing and almost frenzied with rage at Namur.  Certainly he had reasons enough for losing his temper.  Never since the days of Maximilian had king’s brother been so bearded by rebels.  The Cross was humbled in the dust, the royal authority openly derided, his Majesty’s representative locked up in a fortress, while “the accursed Prince of Orange” reigned supreme in Brussels, with an imperial Archduke for his private secretary.

The Governor addressed a long, private, and most bitter letter to the Emperor, for the purpose of setting himself right in the opinion of that potentate, and of giving him certain hints as to what was expected of the imperial court by Philip and himself.  He expressed confidence that the imperial commissioners would have some effect in bringing about the pacification of the Netherlands, and protested his own strong desire for such a result, provided always that the two great points of the Catholic religion and his Majesty’s