Not long after, he experienced another humiliating reverse from France, then ruled by a younger rival, Henry the Second, the son of Francis. The good star of Charles—the star of Austria—seemed to have set; and as he reluctantly raised the siege of Metz, he was heard bitterly to exclaim, "Fortune is a strumpet, who reserves her favors for the young!"
With spirits greatly depressed by his reverses, and still more by the state of his health, which precluded him from taking part in the manly and martial exercises to which he had been accustomed, he felt that he had no longer the same strength as formerly to bear up under the toils of empire. When but little more than thirty years of age, he had been attacked by the gout, and of late had been so sorely afflicted with that disorder, that he had nearly lost the use of his limbs. The man who, cased in steel, had passed whole days and nights in the saddle, indifferent to the weather and the season, could now hardly drag himself along with the aid of his staff. For days he was confined to his bed; and he did not leave his room for weeks together. His mind became oppressed with melancholy, which was, to some extent, a constitutional infirmity. His chief pleasure was in listening to books, especially of a religious character. He denied himself to all except his most intimate and trusted counsellors. He lost his interest in affairs; and for whole months, according to one of his biographers, who had access to his person, he refused to receive any public communication, or to subscribe any document, or even letter.[2] One cannot understand how the business of the nation[{4}] could have been conducted in such a state of things. After the death of his mother, Joanna, his mind became more deeply tinctured with those gloomy fancies which in her amounted to downright insanity. He imagined he heard her voice calling on him to follow her. His thoughts were now turned from secular concerns to those of his own soul; and he resolved to put in execution a plan for resigning his crown and withdrawing to some religious retreat, where he might prepare for his latter end. This plan he had conceived many years before, in the full tide of successful ambition. So opposite were the elements at work in the character of this extraordinary man!
Although he had chosen the place of his retreat, he had been deterred from immediately executing his purpose by the forlorn condition of his mother, and the tender age of his son. The first obstacle was now removed by the death of Joanna, after a reign—a nominal reign—of half a century, in which the cloud that had settled on her intellect at her husband's death was never dispelled.
The age of Philip, his son and heir, was also no longer an objection. From early boyhood he had been trained to the duties of his station, and, when very young, had been intrusted with the government of Castile. His father had surrounded him with able and experienced counsellors, and their pupil, who showed a discretion far beyond his years, had largely profited by their lessons. He had now entered his twenty-ninth year, an age when the character is formed, and when, if ever, he might be supposed qualified to assume the duties of government. His father had already ceded to him the sovereignty of Naples and Milan, on occasion of the prince's marriage with Mary of England. He was on a visit to that country, when Charles, having decided on the act of abdication, sent to require his son's attendance at Brussels, where the ceremony was to be performed. The different provinces of the Netherlands were also summoned to send their deputies, with authority to receive the emperor's resignation, and to transfer their allegiance to his successor. As a preliminary step, on the twenty-second of October, 1555, he conferred on Philip the grand-mastership—which, as Lord of Flanders, was vested in himself—of the toison d'or, the order of the Golden Fleece, of Burgundy; the proudest and most coveted, at that day, of all the military orders of knighthood.
Preparations were then made for conducting the ceremony of abdication with all the pomp and solemnity suited to so august an occasion. The great hall of the royal palace of Brussels was selected for the scene of it. The walls of the spacious apartment were hung with tapestry, and the floor was covered with rich carpeting. A scaffold was erected, at one end of the room, to the height of six or seven steps. On it was placed a throne, or chair of state, for the emperor, with other seats for Philip, and for the great Flemish lords who were to attend the person of their sovereign. Above the throne was suspended a gorgeous canopy, on which were emblazoned the arms of the ducal house of Burgundy. In front of the scaffolding, accommodations were provided for the deputies of the provinces, who were to be seated on benches arranged according to their respective rights of precedence.[3] [{5}]
CEREMONY OF ABDICATION.
On the twenty-fifth of October, the day fixed for the ceremony, Charles the Fifth executed an instrument by which he ceded to his son the sovereignty of Flanders.[4] Mass was then performed; and the emperor, accompanied by Philip and a numerous retinue, proceeded in state to the great hall, where the deputies were already assembled.[5]
Charles was, at this time, in the fifty-sixth year of his age. His form was slightly bent,—but it was by disease more than by time,—and on his countenance might be traced the marks of anxiety and rough exposure. Yet it still wore that majesty of expression so conspicuous in his portraits by the inimitable pencil of Titian. His hair, once of a light color, approaching to yellow, had begun to turn before he was forty, and, as well as his beard, was now gray. His forehead was broad and expansive; his nose aquiline. His blue eyes and fair complexion intimated his Teutonic descent. The only feature in his countenance decidedly bad was his lower jaw, protruding with its thick, heavy lip, so characteristic of the physiognomies of the Austrian dynasty.[6]
In stature he was about the middle height. His limbs were strongly knit, and once well formed, though now the extremities were sadly distorted by disease. The emperor leaned for support on a staff with one hand, while with the other he rested on the arm of William of Orange, who, then young, was destined at a later day to become the most formidable enemy of his house. The grave demeanor of Charles was rendered still more impressive by his dress; for he was in mourning for his mother; and the sable hue of his attire was relieved only by a single ornament, the superb collar of the Golden Fleece, which hung from his neck.
Behind the emperor came Philip, the heir of his vast dominions. He was of a middle height, of much the same proportions as his father, whom he resembled also in his lineaments,—except that those of the son wore a more sombre, and perhaps a sinister expression; while there was a reserve in his manner, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, as if he would shroud his thoughts from observation. The magnificence of his dress corresponded with his royal station, and formed a contrast to that of his father, who was quitting the pomp and grandeur of the world, on which the son was about to enter.[{6}]