having murmured. What had Essex to say to him? Was it, asks Oldys,
shrewdly enough, to ask him pardon for the wicked slanders which he
had been pouring into James's credulous and cowardly ears? We will
hope so; and leave poor Essex to God and the mercy of God, asserting
once more that no man ever brought ruin and death more thoroughly on
himself by his own act, needing no imaginary help downwards from
Raleigh, Cecil, or other human being.

And now begins the fourth act of this strange tragedy. Queen
Elizabeth dies; and dies of grief. It has been the fashion to
attribute to her, I know not why, remorse for Essex's death; and the
foolish and false tale about Lady Nottingham and the ring has been
accepted as history. The fact seems to be that she never really held
up her head after Burleigh's death. She could not speak of him
without tears; forbade his name to be mentioned in the Council. No
wonder; never had mistress a better servant. For nearly half a
century have these two noble souls loved each other, trusted each
other, worked with each other; and God's blessing has been on their
deeds; and now the faithful God-fearing man is gone to his reward;
and she is growing old, and knows that the ancient fire is dying out
in her; and who will be to her what he was? Buckhurst is a good man,
and one of her old pupils; and she makes him Lord Treasurer in
Burleigh's place: but beyond that all is dark. 'I am a miserable
forlorn woman; there is none about me that I can trust.' She sees
through Cecil; through Henry Howard. Essex has proved himself
worthless, and pays the penalty of his sins. Men are growing worse
than their fathers. Spanish gold is bringing in luxury and sin. The
last ten years of her reign are years of decadence, profligacy,
falsehood; and she cannot but see it. Tyrone's rebellion is the last
drop which fills the cup. After fifty years of war, after a drain of