-and in Spain with Charles V., exterminated
root and branch by the pen of Cervantes.

One of the most brilliant effervescences, however, of those crumbling
institutions, is connected with Spanish history, in the person of Don
John of Austria;--a prince who, if consecrated by legitimacy to the
annals of the throne, would have glorified the historical page by a
thousand heroic incidents. But the sacrament of his baptism being
unhappily unpreceded by that of a marriage, he has bequeathed us one
of those anomalous existences--one of those incomplete destinies,
which embitter our admiration with disappointment and regret.

On both sides of royal blood, Don John was born with qualifications
to adorn a throne. It is true that when his infant son was entrusted
by Charles V. to the charge of the master of his household, Don
Quexada, the emperor simply described him as the offspring of a lady
of Ratisbon, named Barbara Blomberg. But the Infanta Clara Eugenia
was confidentially informed by her father Philip II., and
confidentially informed her satellite La Cuea, that her uncle was
"every way of imperial lineage;" and but that he was the offspring of
a crime, Don John had doubtless been seated on one of those thrones
to which his legitimate brother Philip imparted so little
distinction.

Forced by the will of Charles V. to recognize the consanguinity of
Don John, and treat him with brotherly regard, one of the objects of
the hateful life of the father of Don Carlos seems to have been to
thwart the ambitious instincts of his brilliant Faulconbridge. For in
the boiling veins of the young prince abided the whole soul of
Charles V.,--valour, restlessness, ambition; and his romantic life
and mysterious death bear alike the tincture of his parentage.

That was indeed the age of the romance of royalty! Mary at
Holyrood,--Elizabeth at Kenilworth--Carlos at the feet of his
mother-in-law,--the Bearnais at the gates of Paris,--have engraved
their type in the book of universal memory. But Don John escapes
notice--a solitary star outshone by dazzling constellations.
Commemorated by no medals, flattered by no historiographer, sung by
no inspired "godson," anointed by neither pope nor primate, his nook
in the temple of fame is out of sight, and forgotten.

Even his master feat, the gaining of the battle of Lepanto, brings
chiefly to our recollection that the author of Don Quixote lost his
hand in the action; and in the trivial page before u