just principles, of generous sentiments, of elevated objects, and of
profound piety. Elizabeth, it is true, was vindictive, arbitrary, and
cruel. Two prevailing sentiments filled her mind and chiefly influenced
her conduct throughout life. The first of these was the idea of
prerogative. Any assumption of rights, any freedom of debate, any
theological discussion or profession of sentiments which seemed to
infringe on the sacred limits of royalty was sure to be visited with her
severest wrath. She detested the Puritans, from whom she had suffered
nothing, but whose republican spirit appeared to her at war with royalty
in the abstract, far more than the papists, by whom her life had been
made a life of danger and suffering, but who respected forms and
ceremonies, and whose system encouraged reverence for the powers that be
and loyal sentiment toward the person whom they regarded as the lawful
sovereign. Nothing but the earnest entreaties of Cecil and the imminent
danger of a French invasion could induce her to give assistance to the
Scottish Protestants when they were persecuted by the Queen Regent. 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 a 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,
cynosure of gallants' eyes; to reign supreme in the court of love and
chivalry; to be the watchword and 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 to 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 she 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 VI, 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 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 amid 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
afterward 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 together.
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 Fairyland; the magnificent, the undaunted, the proud
descendant of a thousand years of royalty, and 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 from, 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 idol 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. As a 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.
The incense, then, that was offered to the Queen by such men as Spenser,
Raleigh, Essex, Shakespeare, and Sidney, 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 general enthusiasm, the echo of the
stirring voice of chivalry, and the expression of the feelings of a
devoted yet free people.
An age of tyranny is always an age of frivolity, of heartless levity,
of dwarfish objects and pursuits, of dreadful contrasts--laughter amid
mourning, rioting and wantonness amid 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 times 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
among scenes of cruelty, persecution, and death. Their childhood had
witnessed the successive horrors of the reign of Henry VIII, 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 Shakespeare's _Henry VIII_.
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 dreadful in their rejoicing; their gaudy robes, their
mantles, their vases, their fringes of gold, assume the sable hue of the
grave; and, instead of a baptismal train, it seems like a funeral
procession descending to the tomb.
The mournful scenes which the generation which grew up with Elizabeth
had been compelled to witness, and the terror in which most of the
leading characters in her reign had passed their youth, had undoubtedly
tended to sober their minds and induce them to reflect much upon the
great and solemn duties of life. The character of the age was stamped
with the dignity which hallows tribulation, and with the force and nerve
which the habitual contemplation of danger rarely fails to confer. The
same causes undoubtedly promoted the religious spirit which prevailed.
While bigotry and fanaticism appeared in a small portion of the nation,
it is certain that the age of Elizabeth was marked by the general
diffusion of a spirit of deep devotion. There was enough of chivalry
left to keep alive the fervor which prevailed at an earlier period, and
enough of intelligence to temper this fervor into rational religion. The
feeling of shame at professing faith and devoutness was the growth of a
later day; it was unknown in those times. The gayest courtier that
chanted his love-song in the ear of the high-born maiden, and the
gravest statesman who debated at the table of the privy council, were
alike penetrated with devotional sentiment, and alike ready to offer up
prayers and thanksgiving to the Most High. We are perfectly aware that
the outward signs of piety displayed by a few principal characters are
not a faithful index of the state of religion at any period. It is not
fair to infer, because Elizabeth devoutly commended herself to the care
of the Almighty when forsaken, friendless, an orphan, alone, and
helpless, she was landed at the foot of the Traitor's Stairs in the
Tower of London, or because she returned to the same gloomy fortress
when a triumphant queen, to offer up her praise and gratitude to God for
his marvellous mercies, that she lived in a pious age. Neither are we to
regard it as a sure indication of the prevailing spirit, when Burleigh
solemnly commends his son to the Almighty in his letter of advice; when
the chivalrous Sidney is found composing a prayer, which, for solemnity,
grandeur, and devotion, is scarcely surpassed in the English liturgy;
when the adventurous Raleigh displays an amount of knowledge on sacred
subjects that might be the envy of an Oxford professor of theology, or
when the city of London presents to the young Queen, on the day of her
coronation and in the midst of her glittering pageantry, the Bible, as
the most appropriate and acceptable offering.
These are not certain signs of a religious age; but they would pass for
something at any period, even if they were mere hypocrisy. They would
show that religion was held in such respect and by so numerous a class
somewhere, as to make it worth while for the Queen and her court to
assume at least the outward badges of piety. But they have additional
force when we reflect at the same time that, at the period when they
were manifested, the Reformation was making a gradual but sure progress
in England; that the question of religion occupied every intelligent
mind and affected the interests of every family; that the lives and
fortunes of millions, the fate of kingdoms, and the progress of
intellectual freedom throughout the civilized world were inseparably
connected with the cause of Protestantism.
If bigotry and fanaticism had been prevalent in England, and the
opposing party of Romanist and Reformer nearly equal, there would have
been witnessed in that country during the sixteenth century a succession
of atrocities and horrors compared with which the wars of the white and
red roses were bloodless. If; on the other hand, the great mass of the
nation had been indifferent, with regard not merely to forms, but to
religion itself, we should not have seen the outward show of piety in
the highest ranks; we should not have seen a house of commons
legislating in favor of Edward's liturgy, and a nation turning to
worship in their vernacular tongue. Nothing but a widely diffused spirit
of piety can account for the character of those miracles of literature
which made the days of Elizabeth glorious, and which are stamped with
nothing more strongly than their deep and wise religion.
Moreover, in the age of Elizabeth, England was more distinguished for
patriotism than any nation in civilized Europe. On the Continent the
feeling of nationality was absorbed, and the distinction of language,
laws, and country absolutely lost, in the zeal for religious belief.
Nations, which for centuries had been enemies, were found leagued
against their natural allies; inhabitants of the same state were
divided, and at war with each other; the prophecy was literally
fulfilled that "the brother shall betray the brother to death, and the
father the son, and children shall rise up against their parents, and
shall cause them to be put to death." "The Palatine," says Schiller,
"now forsakes his home to go and fight on the side of his
fellow-believer of France, against the common enemy of their religion.
The subject of the King of France draws his sword against his native
land, which had persecuted him, and goes forth to bleed for the freedom
of Holland. Swiss is now seen armed for battle against Swiss, and German
against German, that they may decide the succession of the French throne
on the banks of the Loire or the Seine. The Dane passes the Eider, the
Swede crosses the Baltic, to burst the fetters which are forged for
Germany."
Nothing of this kind was seen in England. The number of Catholics who
preferred the triumph of their party to the welfare of their country was
too small to be of any consideration. A few fanatics in the college at
Rheims, and a few romantic champions of the unhappy Queen of Scots, were
the only domestic enemies whom Elizabeth had to fear. With a great
majority of the Romanists, the love of country prevailed over all
religious distinctions; and, when the invasion was threatened by Philip,
they united cordially with the Protestants in the defence of their
native land; they enlisted as volunteers in the army and navy; they
equipped vessels at their own charge, armed their tenants and vassals,
encouraged their neighbors and prepared, heart and hand, for a desperate
resistance of the common foe.
The energies of the nation were naturally brought into vigorous action
by the great objects, interests, and enterprises which the times
presented. The effects of the Reformation were felt just enough to
produce a bold and free exercise of thought, without kindling the
passions to fierce excitement. The storm which burst with all its fury
on the Continent, wrapping nations in the flames of civil war,
prostrating, withering, and overwhelming civil institutions, and marking
its path with desolation did but exert a salutary influence in England.
The lightning was seen flashing in the distant horizon, the rolling
thunder could be heard afar off, but the fury of the storm fell at a
distance; the atmosphere was purified and the soil refreshed, and the
rainbow was glittering in the heavens.
Never in the history of England had there been a time when energy and
wisdom were more needed than that period. The nation was compelled, by
irresistible force of circumstances, to stand forth as the champion of
Protestantism. The eyes of all civilized countries were fixed upon her;
some, with imploring looks; some, glaring upon her with jealousy,
fierceness, and settled hatred. Enemies were springing up, with whom
peace was hopeless. A popish princess was heir to the throne of
Scotland, with a powerful ally ready to support her pretensions to the
English crown. On the Continent were allies, whom England was compelled
to support at the risk of a war with the mightiest empire that had risen
since the fall of Rome. And an armament was preparing for the invasion
of Britain, of an extent that seemed to render resistance hopeless, by a
monarch whose resources appeared inexhaustible, while Ireland was in
open rebellion and ready to receive the Spanish fleets into her ports.
From all these difficulties and impending calamities, the nation
gathered a harvest of glory that alone would make her name famous
forever. It is with a feeling of joy and exultation that we trace the
history of England during these years of terror and of triumph. We
behold her extricating herself from embarrassments that seemed endless,
and turning them into the means of safety; encouraging and supporting
her allies without exhausting her own resources, and finally crushing
the vast engines which were put into operation for her destruction.
The blood quickens in our veins, as we read of the wisdom and the
sublime moral courage, of the daring adventure, the romantic enterprise,
the chivalrous bravery, and the brilliant triumphs of that age of great
men. We see Cecil and Wotton negotiating with Scotland so wisely as to
win the confidence and affection of that nation, and to destroy the
influence of France in that country forever; Walsingham, fathoming the
secrets of the French court, or watching in silence, but certainty, the
progress of conspiracies at home, and crushing them on the eve of
maturity; the Queen, with a prudence which seems almost sublime,
rejecting a second time the proffer of the sovereignty of Holland;
Drake, circumnavigating the earth, and returning laden with the spoils
of conquered fleets and provinces; Cavendish, coming up the Thames to
London, with sails of damask and cloth of gold, and his men arrayed in
costly silks; Lancaster, dashing his boats to pieces on the strand of
Pernambuco, that he might leave his men no alternative but death or
victory; Raleigh, plunging into the fire of the Spanish galleots, and
fighting his way through overwhelming numbers, with a courage that
rivalled the incredible tales of chivalry, planting colonies in the
pleasantest vales of the New World, or ascending the Orinoco in search
of the fabled Dorado; Sidney, gallantly returning from battle on his
war-horse, though struggling with the agony of his death-wound, and
giving the cup of cold water to the wounded soldier, with those noble
words which would alone be enough to preserve his memory forever; Essex,
tossing his cap into the sea for very joy when the command is given, in
compliance with his earliest entreaties, for the assault on Cadiz, and
with that failing of memory so becoming to a brave man, forgetting the
cautions of his sovereign, and rushing into the thickest of the fight;
the naval supremacy of England completely established by the defeat of
the Armada, and the great deep itself made a monument of the nation's
glory.
The boast of the age of Elizabeth was the splendid specimens of humanity
which it produced. "There were giants in those days." Individuals seemed
to condense in themselves the attainments of hosts. The accomplishments
and prowess of the men of those times inspire us with something like the
feeling of wonder with which the soldier of the present day handles the
sword of Robert Bruce, or the gigantic armor of Guy of Warwick. When
we read the beautiful verses "addressed to the author of the _Faerie
Queene_," by Raleigh, it is difficult to believe that they were penned by
the same person whose system of tactics was adopted so triumphantly at
the Spanish invasion; who was equally eminent as a general, a seaman, an
explorer, and a historian; and who shone unsurpassed for knightly graces
and accomplishments amid the stars of the court. Such instances were
not rare and prodigious. Raleigh was not the Crichton of his age; if
the compliment belongs to anyone peculiarly, it is Sidney; but as we
read over the list of distinguished persons to whom Spenser addressed
dedicatory stanzas to be "sent with the _Faerie Queene_," we become more
and more at a loss to distinguish the greatest among them; and we could
believe that many ages had been searched for so noble a catalogue.