but at being shut out of the radiant presence of the queen.

Essex and Raleigh were associated in two expeditions, one directed with
complete success against Cadiz, the other being a complete failure. The
Burleigh faction succeeded in getting for Raleigh whatever credit there
was in both cases, though Essex was better entitled to it.

But it was Ireland that wrought the ruin of Essex. A dispute in the
council on the subject caused the queen to box the favourite's ears,
which caused him to retire in resentment for many months. Soon after his
return to court, he brought upon himself his own appointment to the
lord-deputyship of Ireland. His conduct there displeased her; from her
scolding letters, he concluded that his enemies in the council were
undermining his position in his absence. He deserted his post, hurried
to London, and burst, travel-stained as he was, into Elizabeth's
chamber. For the moment she appeared disposed to forgive him, but was
not long in deciding that his insolence must be punished, and he was
placed in confinement.

So he continued for about a year, in spite of appeals to the queen. The
adverse party in the council had the predominance. At last, however, he
was granted a degree of liberty, and Francis Bacon tried to conciliate
Elizabeth towards her former favourite. But the unfortunate man allowed
his resentment to carry him into dangerous courses. His house became a
rendezvous of the discontented. Finally, a futile attempt on his part to
raise the citizens of London in his favour consummated his ruin. He was
soon a prisoner; his condemnation was now a foregone conclusion;
Elizabeth signed the warrant with fingers which did not tremble; and, to
the universal astonishment, the favourite was executed.

Elizabeth's meeting with her last parliament displays in a marked degree
the tact which never deserted her when she thought fit to employ it.
Their protest against the practice of monopolies, instead of rousing her
ire, brought from her a notably gracious promise to redress the
grievances complained of. This was in 1601. In the next year, when she
became sixty-nine, there was no relaxation in her gaieties; but under
the surface, Elizabeth was old and sad.

Her popularity had never been the same since the death of Essex; and the
memory of the man she had cherished and finally sent to his doom,
well-deserved as that was, was a perpetual source of grief to her. In
March 1603, she was stricken with her