money all but fabulous expended on keeping Ireland quiet, the volcano
bursts forth again just as it seemed extinguished, more fiercely than
ever, and the whole work has to be done over again, when there is
neither time nor a man to do it. And ahead, what hope is there for
England? Who will be her successor? She knows in her heart that it
will be James: but she cannot bring herself to name him. To
bequeath the fruit of all her labours to a tyrant, a liar, and a
coward: for she knows the man but too well. It is too hideous to be
faced. This is the end then? 'Oh that I were a milke maide, with a
paile upon mine arm!' But it cannot be. It never could have been;
and she must endure to the end.

'Therefore I hated life; yea, I hated all my labour which I had taken
under the sun; because I should leave it to the man that shall be
after me. And who knows whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?
yet shall he have rule over all my labour wherein I have showed
myself wise, in wisdom, and knowledge, and equity . . . Vanity of
vanities, and vexation of spirit!' And so, with a whole book of
Ecclesiastes written on that mighty heart, the old lioness coils
herself up in her lair, refuses food, and dies. I know few passages
in the world's history more tragic than that death.

Why did she not trust Raleigh? First, because Raleigh, as we have
seen, was not the sort of man whom she needed. He was not the
steadfast single-eyed statesman; but the many-sided genius. Besides,
he was the ringleader of the war-party. And she, like Burleigh
before his death, was tired of the war; saw that it was demoralising
England; was anxious for peace. Raleigh would not see that. It was
to him a divine mission which must be fulfilled at all risks. As
long as the Spaniards were opposing the Indians, conquering America,