The other charges brought against Elizabeth pertain to her as a woman rather than a sovereign.  They say that she was artful, dissembling, parsimonious, jealous, haughty, and masculine.  Very likely,—­and what then?  Who claimed that she was perfect, any more than other great sovereigns whom on the whole we praise?  These faults, too, may have been the result of her circumstances, rather than native traits of character.  Surrounded with spies and enemies, she was obliged to hide her thoughts and her plans.  Irritated by treason and rebellions, she may have given vent to unseemly anger.  Flattered beyond all example, she may have been vain and ostentatious.  Possessed of great powers, she may have been arbitrary.  Crippled by Parliament, she may have nursed her resources.  Compelled to give to everything, she may have been parsimonious.  Slandered by her enemies, she may have been resentful.  Annoyed by wrangling sects, she may have too strenuously paraded her high-church principles.

But all these things we lose sight of in the undoubted virtues, abilities, and services of this great Queen.  Historians have other work than to pick out spots on the sun.  The dark spot, if there is one upon Elizabeth’s character, was her coquetry in private life.  It is impossible to tell whether or not she exceeded the bounds of womanly virtue.  She was probably slandered and vilified by treacherous, gossiping ambassadors, who were foes to her person and her kingdom, and who made as ugly reports of her as possible to their royal masters.  I am sorry that these malicious accusations have been raked out of the ashes of the past by modern historians, whose literary fame rests on bringing to light what is new rather than what is true.  The character of a woman and a queen so admired and honored in her day, should be sacred from the stings of sensational writers who poison their darts from the archives of bitter foreign enemies.

The gallant men of genius whom Elizabeth admired and honored—­as a bright and intellectual woman naturally would, especially when deprived of the felicities of wedded life—­never presumed, I have charity to believe, beyond an undignified partiality and an admiring friendship.  When Essex stood highest in her favor, she was nearly seventy years of age.  There are no undoubted facts which criminate her,—­nothing but gossip and the malice of foreign spies.  What a contrast her private life was to that of her mother Anne Boleyn, or to that of Mary, Queen of Scots, or even to that of the great Catherine of Russia!  She had, indeed, great foibles and weaknesses.  She was inordinately fond of dress; she was sensitive to her own good looks; she was jealous of pretty women; she was vain, and susceptible to flattery; she was irritable when crossed; she gave way to sallies of petulance and anger; she occasionally used language unbecoming her station and authority; she could dissimulate and hide her thoughts:  but her nature was not