gent. And even her hatred of Mary could not prevent her taking sides with that ill-fated princess, when the "Congregation" claimed the right of trying their sovereign for alleged crimes, after having deposed and imprisoned her.

The other sentiment, which, in no small degree, influenced the conduct of the great Queen, was her excessive fondness for admiration as a woman. She filled her solitary throne with a dignity and majesty, which could not be surpassed; and it is difficult, if not impossible, to conceive of a character, which should have strength and impetuosity enough, even if marriage could have given the right, to overawe her lion-like spirit, and assume the reins of government in defiance of her will. Certain it is, that no such prince then lived. But while the queen resolutely excluded all human participation in the lonely eminence on which she stood, the woman was constantly claiming the tribute of sympathy and admiration. Her eager desire was to be a heroine, a beauty, the queen of hearts, the cynosure of gallants' eyes; to reign supreme in the court of love and chivalry; to be the watchword and the war-cry of the knight, and the theme of the troubadour.

Here was the source of the unbounded flattery, which was lavished upon her by courtiers, even to the latest years of her life, and which appears to have, at times, actually deceived her, in spite of her extraordinary penetration. To this sentiment are owing nearly all of the few instances of disaster and disappointment, which occurred during her splendid reign. She preferred to risk the safety of her allies, and the cause of Protestantism on the continent, rather than refuse the command of her troops to her favorite, who had entreated it. To gratify another favorite, and insure his glory, she forgot her habitual economy, levied an army larger than she had ever supported, except at the time of the invasion, and sent it to Ireland under the command of a man who was utterly unfit for the place. And when, beset by enemies, harassed by defeat, and overwhelmed with shame, the impetuous and noble-hearted Essex rushed into the presence of majesty as a lover would have sought his mistress, her woman's heart forgave him all. Had this frame of mind continued, had not the resumed majesty of the queen condemned what the woman forgave, the world would have been spared the consummation of one of the most mournful tragedies in

history, and the last days of Elizabeth might have been serene and happy, instead of being tortured with anguish and despair.

The former of these sentiments made her an object of dread, the latter of ridicule; and both conspired to render her tyrannical. But Elizabeth was not a tyrant in the full sense of the word. She never acted upon the nation with that degrading influence which is always the attendant of selfish, cold-hearted, and perfidious tyranny; she never had the power, and we doubt if she ever had the wish, to make slaves of her people. She understood the English character; she comprehended, appreciated, and admired its nobleness; and she had sagacity enough to see, that this very character constituted her chief glory. A thorough and hearty affection subsisted between her and her people; an affection which was increased and cemented by many circumstances of a nature not to be forgotten. As a nation, England had been persecuted, distressed, and trampled upon during the reign of Mary. The party which triumphed in the ascendency of the Roman Catholic religion was small; the great majority of the people were not very zealous in favor of one side or the other; they had been ready to welcome Protestantism under Edward the Sixth, and they were not disposed to fight against the church of Rome under Mary. The number of zealous Papists, they who were in favor of the rack and the stake, was not more than a thirtieth part of the nation. The other twenty-nine parts, though perhaps nearly equally divided on the question of religion, condemned alike the bigotry of their melancholy sovereign; and looked on with sorrowful indignation while the bloody Mary, assisted by a few narrow-minded bigots, was carrying on the infernal work of persecution. It was a sorrow and a shame to all true Englishmen, whether Catholic or Protestant; and the hated Philip felt the effects of their vengeance till the day of his death.

In these times of tribulation there was one, who shared in the common danger, suffering, and humiliation; and who, from the exalted rank which she occupied, and the station to which she seemed destined, was peculiarly an object of distrust and alarm to the bigots, who were exulting in their day of power. The gloom which overhung the whole country equally surrounded her; the fires of Smithfield and Oxford, VOL. L. No. 106.

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were kindled for her terror as for the terror of the people. She had been made to pass through that sorrowful passage from which few ever returned alive, the Traitor's Gate in the Tower of London.

Her course was one and the same with that of the entire English nation; and the only light which shone upon the darkness, the only hope that cheered the universal despondency, the dependence of all real patriots, the trust of all friends of truth, and the pride of all free and honorable men, were centred in the prison of Elizabeth.

There is no bond so strong as the bond of common perils and sufferings; and, when the young princess ascended the throne, it was amidst the thankful acclamations of a liberated and happy people, who loved her for the dangers she had shared with them, and for whom she entertained the interest and affection due to fellow-sufferers. This feeling was prolonged in an uncommon manner throughout her reign; for it so happened, that there was no danger which threatened the Queen during her whole life, that was not equally formidable to the people. So difficult was the question of succession, that the prudent Burleigh never ventured to express his mind upon the subject; and carried down to the grave the secret of his opinion. Any change would have been for the worse; as it would either have plunged the nation into a civil war, or have placed a Roman Catholic prince on the throne. The dangers, which menaced the crown of Elizabeth, were alike formidable to the cause of freedom in England and of the Protestant religion in Europe. The invasion of England, which was attempted by the French under the Queen Regent of Scotland, and afterwards the gigantic preparations of Philip, foreboded more than the ordinary horrors of an offensive warfare. These enemies came with the stake and the fagot in their hands; they came not merely to invade, but to convert ; not merely to conquer, but to persecute; they were stimulated not merely by ambition, but by bigotry; they were prepared not merely to enslave, but to torture. It was therefore not a matter of indifference to the English nation whether Elizabeth were to be their Queen, or whether some other prince should ascend the throne. In her reign and hers alone, they saw the hope of peace, freedom, and prosperity. Never, therefore, were nation and ruler more closely and firmly knit to gether.

The sentiment of loyalty, consequently, was never more sincere and enthusiastic in the hearts of Englishmen than at that period. To the nation at large the Queen really appeared, what the flattery of her courtiers and poets represented her. She was to them, in truth, the Gloriana of Faery land; the magnificent, the undaunted, the proud descendant of a thousand years of royalty, the "Imperial Votress." She was only a tyrant within the precincts of the court. There, she reigned, it is true, with more than Oriental despotism; and she seems to have delighted occasionally in torturing mean spirits by employing them upon such thankless offices as their hearts revolted froin, though they had not the courage to refuse them. But beyond the immediate circle of the palace she was the Queen and the mother of her people. To the nation at large, too, she was equally a heroine, a beautiful ideal enshrined in their hearts. Living on "in maiden meditation fancy-free," rejecting the proposals of every prince, disregarding the remonstrances of her subjects where marriage was spoken of, there was something in the very unapproachableness of her state which both commanded the respect and excited the imagination of her people. woman they regarded her, just as she wished them to regard her, as the throned Vestal, the watery Moon, whose chaste beams could quench the fiery darts of Cupid. She was to them, in fact, the Belphoebe of Spenser, ، with womanly graces but not womanly affections," - ،، passionless, pure, self-sustained, and self-dependent"; shining "with a cold lunar light and not the warm glow of day." This feeling was increased by the spirit of chivalry which still lingered in English society, and, like the setting sun, poured a flood of golden light over the court.

As a

The incense, then, that was offered to the Queen by such men as Spenser, Raleigh, Essex, Shakspeare, and Sydney, the most noble, chivalrous, and gifted spirits that ever gathered round a throne, is not to be judged of, as the flattery which cringing courtiers pay to a dreaded tyrant; but rather as the outpouring of a genuine enthusiasm, the echo of the stirring voice of chivalry, and the expression of the feelings of a devoted yet free people. The editor of the American edition of Spenser remarks, that "the wits of Elizabeth's reign were an exception to the principle involved in the mem

orable observation of Tacitus, Gliscente adulatione magna ingenia deterrebantur.'" The view we have taken will explain this exception. The wits of Elizabeth's reign did not insult themselves or lose their self-respect by offering homage to the Queen; the loyalty which prompted their flattery was a sentiment which rather elevated than degraded the mind, which was responded to by the entire nation, and which had its origin in a chivalrous disposition or in a profound patriotism.

An age of tyranny is always an age of frivolity; of heartless levity; of dwarfish objects and pursuits; of dreadful contrasts; laughter amidst mourning; rioting and wantonness amidst judgments and executions; dancing and music at the hour of death. Such was the frivolity of the days of Nero ; such was the mirth of the "death dance" in the days of Robespierre. Nothing like this sickly and appalling joy could be seen in the time of Elizabeth. There were masques and balls and tournaments at the court, and gay revels as the stately Queen went from castle to castle, and palace to palace, in her visits to her princely subjects. But such amusements did not form the chief object or occupation of the Court of Elizabeth. The Queen, and those who had grown up with her, had passed through too many dangers, and witnessed too much suffering, to allow them to become frivolous or very light-hearted. They had lived amidst scenes of cruelty, persecution, and death. Their childhood had witnessed the successive horrors of the reign of Henry the Eighth, and their youth had suffered from the bloody fanaticism of Mary. Sorrow and tribulation had overspread the morning of their life like a cloud.

Miss Aikin, in the beginning of her charming work upon the Court of Queen Elizabeth, has described the gorgeous procession which filed along the streets of London at the baptism of the infant princess. The same picture also forms the closing scene of Shakspeare's "Henry the Eighth." As we look upon the gay and splendid train, marching in their robes of state, beneath silken canopies, and then glance our eye along the map of history till we trace almost every actor in the pageant to a bloody grave, we can scarcely believe that it is a scene of joy and festivity that we are witnessing. The angel of death seems to hover over them; there is something