and spite enter into the disgrace of Essex; his
antagonists triumph—but will they long? The
heart of our sovereign is difficult to understand,
and often the weaknesses of Elizabeth destroy
the resolutions of the Queen of England. The
favourite may soon make his enemies tremble in
the palace of St. James. I am bound to Essex.
I like Morden. One goes down, the other rises.
The situation is very embarrassing; let me consult
my conscience. Essex is my friend; if he
regain the confidence of Elizabeth, he has my
esteem; if he lose her friendship, he must
necessarily lose mine. The faithful subject must
immolate to his sovereign his dearest affections.
Come, come! one is never embarrassed in
following the path of honour. Morden's sister is
a widow, rich and beautiful. I am free. I have
no heir but that poor nephew; my brother has
died in exile."

Lady Morden comes in, and expresses her
surprise at seeing Lord Strafford. He tells her
that he heard of her accident in the circle of
the Duchess of Buckingham, and had shuddered
at her danger. He inquires for Lord
Morden, and pretends to be surprised to hear
that he is at court, and that Essex is in disgrace.
She tells him of a wonderful memoir
that he has read to the queen, which has done
his business. Finally, he invites Lady Morden
and family to a hunting party he is about to give
at his estate at Brixford, and makes love to the
lady.

Robert is very anxious to know the success
of his memoir, which Will has assisted him to
write, giving it, in fact, its most satirical
touches. A despatch is brought him from Lord
Morden, which informs him of a complete victory;
that Essex is overthrown, and that he is
master of the situation. He encloses a portrait
of Essex, and wishes a telling caricature, ridicule
being a terrible weapon with the English.
Robert is in ecstasies. He sees himself a great
man—member of Parliament, perhaps—
certainly member of the Privy Council. But he
must manage to get Will to draw him a caricature.
Will also wants something. Miss Maria's
drawing-master has been taken ill, and he
would like to take his place, pro tempore.
Robert promises to speak to my lord about it,
and Will gladly engages to draw the caricature,
without knowing its subject or object.

Lord Morden, returned from the court,
accosts his ingenious secretary cheerfully:

"Well, my dear Robert, I have obtained the
honours of a triumph. Congratulate me, my
friend."

"Ah! my lord," exclaims Robert, " with
what impatience have I awaited your return!
Have the kindness to give me some particulars.
I see that my style has struck the court."

"Yes, our memoir has been very fortunate.
The queen listened with the liveliest attention."

"Oh! what an honour!" exclaims the
enraptured Robert; " how capital! how happy
you make me!"

"Just imagine that she wished to hear a
second time the three last pages."

"I was certain that my peroration would
delight her: you have well praised her literary
taste."

"After a moment's reflection, she declared
that the author of the memoir was a man of
merit and ability."

"What!" cried the overjoyed secretary.
"She said that? How intoxicating is such
praise, from the mouth of a sovereign."

"' So devoted a subject,' she added, ' merits
a recompense.'"

"Ah! my lord," said the modest Robert,
"the good of my country, the gratitude of my
fellow-citizens, and the esteem of Elizabeth, are
the only rewards to which I aspire."

"Then, turning towards the chancellor, ' Sir
Duke,' she said, ' I make Lord Morden
chevalier of the Order of Henry the Eighth.'"

" You?" exclaimed the astonished secretary;
"how is this? and what of me?"

"' Let him continue to serve me as a faithful
subject, and there shall be no bounds to my
benefactions.'"

"Yes, my lord, but me —"

"You see, my friend," continued his lordship,
too intent on his own honours to notice
the disappointment of his scribe, and showing
him his decoration—" you see the reward of my
zeal and of my labours."

'' And mine, what is mine, my lord? Have you
not spoken of me?"

"Spoken of you! my dear; and to whom, if
you please? To the queen? She does not
know you."

"Ah! very true. However, this memoir will
make me known to her."

"But it is the matter and not the form which
has fixed her attention. The style is only an
accessory. Besides, the praises she has given
must be flattering to you, and the favours I
have received are, in some sort, reflected upon
you."

"What!" muttered the indignant Robert to
himself, " I have been the footstool of his
elevation! Ah! the blood carries me to the
head!"—a French idiom descriptive of premonitory
symptoms of apoplexy. But he had the
art to suppress his indignation, and pretend to
be satisfied. Lord Morden, touched by his
professions of devotion, commissions him to make
a grand festival that evening with every
imaginable luxury. " Try," he says, " to have
Shakespeare and his company. My house holds
only twelve hundred persons—distribute three
thousand invitations. Send them to all tlie
wealthy citizens. Have an immense crowd,
confusion, and prodigality. Sow gold broadcast
wherever you go."

Lord Strafford calls to congratulate the new
favourite. Lord Morden pretends to regret the
disgrace of Essex. Strafford thinks this tone
wise, as he is sure that Elizabeth loves Essex,and,
at the worst, will only banish him.

"But tell me, my friend," says he, " when
you read your letter to the queen, was she
angry?"

"No, quite cool."