Page:Cassell's Illustrated History of England vol 2.djvu/576

562 Council, in one of those grandiloquent speeches which were put into her mouth on all such occasions, full of high-sounding professions of her love of her people, and her determination to spend her heart's blood sooner than anybody should hurt them. A hundred and forty members attended with the speaker, and the queen said that she would redress all their grievances, and was most thankful that they had brought to her knowledge "the harpies and horse-leeches" which infested her beloved people—as if she had not known and heard of them again and again for years! "I had rather," she said, "that my heart and hand should perish than that either heart or hand should allow such privileges to monopolists as may be prejudicial to my people. The splendour of regal majesty hath not so blinded my eyes that licentious power should prevail with me more than justice. The glory of the name of a king may deceive those powers that know not how to rule, as gilded pills may deceive a sick patient; but I am none of those princes, for I know that the commonwealth is to be governed for the good and advantage of those that are committed to me, not of myself, to whom it is entrusted, and that an account is one day to be given before another judgment-seat. I think myself most happy that, by God's assistance, I have hitherto so prosperously governed the common-wealth in all respects, and that I have such subjects that for their good I should willingly lose both kingdom and life."

Yet after all the like impositions which had been practised upon them, the Commons were willing to be deceived once more: though the populace pursued the carriage of Cecil with curses and menaces whenever he appeared abroad, so great were their sufferings, yet the members of the Lower House returned the most adulatory thanks to the queen for her most gracious promises, and voted her the unexampled grant of four subsidies, and eight tenths and fifteenths. The Parliament once dismissed, not a further thought was given to the redress of the evils complained of: nay, Elizabeth, in dismissing them, could not refrain from exercising a little irony at the expense of the leaders of this agitation, and Cecil regarded it as a feat worthy of his highest self-estimation to have cajoled the representatives of the people, and conceded to them nothing.

Whilst these events had been taking place in Parliament, Mountjoy had defeated the queen's enemies in Ireland. He had united his forces with those of the President of Munster, and kept the Spaniards shut up in Kinsale. On Christmas Eve the Earl of Tyrone advanced to the assistance of the besieged, with 6,000 Irish and 200 fresh Spaniards, who had landed at Castlehaven under the command of Ocampo. His plan was to surprise the English before daylight, and to have a second division of his army ready with a supply of provisions to throw into the town. But Mountjoy was already aware of his approach, which was delayed by the fears of Ocampo—only too well founded—of the fatal want of discipline amongst the natives, and by his endeavours to bring them into some regularity. Mountjoy surprised these wild hordes as they were crossing a stream, and thoroughly routed them. The Spaniards, left on the field alone, surrendered, and Tyrone retreated northwards with the remnant of his army. About 500 Irish were killed.

The Spaniards in Kinsale yielded the place on this defeat of their allies, on condition of being allowed to return home with their arms and ammunition. Tyrone was then pursued by Mountjoy with great vigour, and after a number of defeats, retired still more northward. Munster was reduced, and Tyrone offered to submit on favourable terms; but Mountjoy could obtain no such terms from the queen; she insisted on unconditional surrender. Her ministers strongly advised her to concede and settle the state of Ireland, which was now costing her £300,000 a year to defend it against the natives. Sometimes she appeared disposed to comply, and then again was as obstinate as ever; and matters remained in this position till 1603, when Mountjoy, hearing that the queen was not likely to live long, agreed to receive Tyrone's submission, to grant him and his followers a full pardon, and restore the whole of his territories, with some few exceptions. Tyrone then accompanied Mountjoy to Dublin, where they heard of the death of Elizabeth; and Tyrone burst into tears and regretted his too hasty surrender. The deed, however, was done, and tranquillity ensured to Ireland for a short time.

The last warlike demonstration of the reign of Elizabeth was an expedition to the coast of Spain to prevent the passage of fresh fleets to Ireland. Admirals Levison and Monson proceeded thither with a fleet; but, tempted by a carrac of immense value in the harbour of Sesimbria, they seized it and returned home. This was such a desertion of their duty in compliance with their greed of prize-money, that in Elizabeth's days of vigour would have cost the commanders dearly. Whilst they were guarding their treasure homewards the Spanish fleet might have made sail. No time was lost in sending back the fleet under Monson, who found six Spanish galleys out, and stealing along the French coast. Before he could pursue them they were met by a squadron of Dutch and English ships, and after some hard fighting three of them were sunk, and three escaped into Sluys.

The reign of Queen Elizabeth was now drawing to a close. She was approaching her seventieth year, and till lately had still listened to the voice of flattery as if she were yet in the glory of her youth. But nature had begun to give her stern warnings, and the failing of her strength brought deep melancholy. However in the pride of her strength and the terrible energy of her will she had intrigued for the disturbance of foreign thrones, or imprisoned and put to death such as she chose at home, when the shadows of life's evening began to close around her, and the judgment of that Power which knows no partiality, and calls for a just account from prince as well as private individual, grew over her like a gigantic gloom, then her conscience rose above the flatteries of her courtiers and the colourings of her own passions, and she grew moody, restless, and miserable. At one time she affected an unnatural gaiety; at another she withdrew into solitude, and was often found in tears. One of her household says in a letter—"She sleepeth not so much by day as she used, neither taketh rest by night. Her delight is to sit in the dark, and sometimes with shedding tears to bewail Essex."

Yet she still strove against the advancing infirmities of age. She would insist to the last on making her annual progress and on hunting. Only five months