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hausted, the physicians resolved to open the tumor; and as it was feared that the patient, from his debility, would not be able to bear the operation, the physicians, with much precaution, communicated to him their apprehensions. He received this information with great fortitude, and prepared himself by a general confession for what might happen. He caused some relics to be brought to him, and after having adored and kissed them with much devotion, he put his body at the disposal of his medical attendant's. The operation was performed by the skilful surgeon, Juan de Vergara. It a very painful one, and all who were present were amazed at the patience and courage exhibited by Philip.
His condition, however, did not improve. The hand of God was upon him who had caused so many tears to be shed during his long life, and no human skill could avail when divine justice seemed bent to enforce its decree of retribution. Above the gash which the operator's knife had made, two large sores appeared, and from their hideous and ghastly lips there issued such a quantity of matter as hardly seems credible. To the consuming heat of fever, to the burning thirst of dropsy, were added the corroding itch of ulcers, and the infection of the inexhaustible streams of putrid matter which gushed from his flesh. The stench around the powerful sovereign of Spain and the Indies was such as to be insupportable to the bystanders. Immersed in this filth, the body of the patient was so sore that it could be turned neither to the right nor to the left, and it was impossible to change his clothes or his bedding.
So sensitive had he become that the slightest touch produced the most intolerable agony; and the haughty ruler of millions of men remained helplessly stretched in a sty, and in a more pitiable condition than that of the most ragged beggar in his vast dominions. But his fortitude was greater than his sufferings. Not a word of complaint was heard to escape from his lips; and the soul remained unsubdued by these terrible infirmities of the flesh. He had been thirty-five days embedded in this sink of corruption when, in consequence of it, his whole back became but one sore from his neck downward.
It seemed scarcely possible to increase the afflictions of Philip, when a chicken broth sweetened with sugar, which was administered to him, gave rise to other accidents, which added to the fetidness of his apartment, and which are represented, besides, as being of an extraordinary and horrible character. He became sleepless, with occasional short fits of lethargy; and, as it were to complete this spectacle of human misery and degradation, the ulcers teemed with a prodigious quantity of worms, which reproduced themselves with such prolific abundance that they defied all attempts to remove their indestructable swarms. In this condition he remained fifty-three days, without taking anything which could satisfactorily explain the prolongation of his existence.
In the midst of these excruciating sufferings, his whole body being but one leprous sore, his emaciation being such that his bones threatened to pierce through his skin, Philip maintained unimpaired the serenity of mind and the wonderful fortitude which he had hitherto displayed. To religion alone — or what to him was ligion - he looked for consolation. The walls of the small apartment in which he lay were covered with crucifixes, relics, and images of saints. From time to time he would call for one of them and apply it to his burning lips, or to one of his sores, with the utmost fervor and faith. In those days of trial he made many pious donations, and appropriated large sums to the dotation of establishments for the relief of widows and orphans, and to the foundation of hospitals and sanctuaries.
It is strange that in the condition in which we have represented him to be, he could turn his attention to temporal affairs, and had sufficient strength of mind to dictate to his minister and confidential secretary, Cristoval de Mora, some of his views and intentions for the conduct of the government: or, rather, it was not strange; for it was the ruling passion strong in death. In old age, and amidst such torments as appalled the world, Philip displayed the same tenacity of purpose and love of power which had characterized him when flushed with the aspirations of youth and health, and subsequently when
glorying in the strength and experience of manhood.
On the with of September, two days before his death, he called the Hereditary Prince his son, and the Infanta his daughter, to his bedside. He took leave of them in the most affectionate manner; and, with a voice scarcely audible from exhaustion, he exhorted them to persevere in the true faith, and to conduct themselves with prudence in the government of those States which he would leave to them. He handed to his successor the celebrated testamentary instructions bequeathed by St. Louis of France to the heir of his crown, and requested the priest to read them to the Prince and Princess, to whom he afterward extended his fleshless and ulcered hand to be kissed, giving them his blessing, and dismissing them melting into tears.
On the next day the physicians gave Cristoval de Mora the disagreeable mission of informing Philip that his last hour was rapidly approaching. The dying man received the information with his usual impassiveness. He devoutly listened to the exhortations of the Archbishop of Toledo, made his profession of faith, and ordered that the Passion of Christ, from the Gospel of John, should be read to him. Shortly after he was seized with such a fit that he was thought to be dead, and a covering was thrown over his face. But he was not long before coming again to his senses, and, opening his eyes, he took the crucifix, kissed it repeatedly, listened to the prayers for the souls of the departed, which the Prior of the monastery was reading to him, and with a slight quivering passed away, at five o'clock in the morning, on the 13th of September, 1598. Philip had lived seventyone years, three months, and twenty-two days; and reigned forty-two years. - Philip II. of Spain.
EIBEL, EMANUEL, a German poet; born at
Lübeck, October 17, 1815; died there, April
6, 1884. Having completed his studies in the University of Bonn, he spent two years in Berlin. In 1838 he went to Athens as tutor in the Russian Ambassador's family. Here he continued his studies, and traveled in Greece with Curtius. On his return to Lübeck he published in 1840 a volume of poems, and with Curtius a volume of translations from the Greek poets, entitled Classische Studien. His poem Zeitstimme appeared in 1841, and Spanische Volkslieder und Romansen in 1843; King Roderick, a drama (1844); King Sigurd's Betrothal and Zwölf Sonette für Schleswig-Holstein (1846); The Songs of Junius (1848); The Death of Siegfried (1851); the Spanisches Liederbuch, translated in conjunction with Paul Heyse (1852); Neue Gedichte (1856); Brunhilde, a tragedy (1857); Gedichte und Gedenkblätter (1864); Sophonisbe (1868); Heroldsrufe (1871); Spätherbstblätter (1877). After the publication of his first volume of poems the King of Prussia granted him a yearly pension of three hundred thalers. In 1852, at the invitation of King Maximilian II., he went as an honorary professor in the faculty of Philosophy to Munich. After the death of the King he was obliged, in 1868, to resign his position and return to Lübeck.
TO GEORGE HERWEGH.
Thy song resounded in my ear,
So sharp and clear, with thrilling ring,
Had stepped an ancient poet king.
In mail be clad, in steel be shod,
Or, why this clashing of the steel,
These battles which thy song demands, This glow in which thy passions reel
And burn like flaming firebrands? No! thus no German arm is nerved;
We too may fight for what is new, Round freedom's banner we have served, In serried ranks, but e'er preserved
Our ancient loyalty so true.
Put up thy sword, then, in its sheath,
As Peter once when he had sinned;
As Paris in thy ear hath dinned
And he who would with stains of blood
-Translation of BASKERVILLE.
AS IT OFTEN HAPPENS.
“He loves thee not,” thus spoke they to the maid,
“He sports with thee ”- she bowed her head in grief, And o'er her cheek the pearly tear-drops strayed
Like dew from roses; why this rash belief?
His froward heart its sadness would not own,
To weep throughout the night alone.
What though an angel whispered in her ear,
Stretch out thy hand, he's faithful still to thee,” What though, amid his woes, a voice he hear, “She loves thee still, thy own sweet love is she.