and female predilection.  These great and sage statesmen were judged of by the Queen only with reference to the measures they suggested, and the reasons by which they supported their opinions in council; whereas the success of Leicester’s course depended on all those light and changeable gales of caprice and humour which thwart or favour the progress of a lover in the favour of his mistress, and she, too, a mistress who was ever and anon becoming fearful lest she should forget the dignity, or compromise the authority, of the Queen, while she indulged the affections of the woman.  Of the difficulties which surrounded his power, “too great to keep or to resign,” Leicester was fully sensible; and as he looked anxiously round for the means of maintaining himself in his precarious situation, and sometimes contemplated those of descending from it in safety, he saw but little hope of either.  At such moments his thoughts turned to dwell upon his secret marriage and its consequences; and it was in bitterness against himself, if not against his unfortunate Countess, that he ascribed to that hasty measure, adopted in the ardour of what he now called inconsiderate passion, at once the impossibility of placing his power on a solid basis, and the immediate prospect of its precipitate downfall.

“Men say,” thus ran his thoughts, in these anxious and repentant moments, “that I might marry Elizabeth, and become King of England.  All things suggest this.  The match is carolled in ballads, while the rabble throw their caps up.  It has been touched upon in the schools—­whispered in the presence-chamber—­recommended from the pulpit—­prayed for in the Calvinistic churches abroad—­touched on by statists in the very council at home.  These bold insinuations have been rebutted by no rebuke, no resentment, no chiding, scarce even by the usual female protestation that she would live and die a virgin princess.  Her words have been more courteous than ever, though she knows such rumours are abroad—­her actions more gracious, her looks more kind—­nought seems wanting to make me King of England, and place me beyond the storms of court-favour, excepting the putting forth of mine own hand to take that crown imperial which is the glory of the universe!  And when I might stretch that hand out most boldly, it is fettered down by a secret and inextricable bond!  And here I have letters from Amy,” he would say, catching them up with a movement of peevishness, “persecuting me to acknowledge her openly—­to do justice to her and to myself—­and I wot not what.  Methinks I have done less than justice to myself already.  And she speaks as if Elizabeth were to receive the knowledge of this matter with the glee of a mother hearing of the happy marriage of a hopeful son!  She, the daughter of Henry, who spared neither man in his anger nor woman in his desire—­she to find herself tricked, drawn on with toys of passion to the verge of acknowledging her love to a subject, and he discovered to be a married man!—­Elizabeth to learn that she had been dallied with in such fashion, as a gay courtier might trifle with a country wench—­we should then see, to our ruin, FURENS quid FAEMINA!”