ough she could not bear to acknowledge the fact. Some of
those in whom she had trusted most proved false to her--like Essex. Her
splendid progresses through the country, her three thousand dresses,
could no longer cheer the sad, lonely old woman, who had outlived so
many of her early friends and counsellors. The violent Tudor temper
which she inherited from her father became more and more ungovernable,
and sometimes it showed itself towards the unlucky maids of honor.

"The Queen," says Sir Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sidney, in 1600:

hath of late used the fair Miss Brydges (daughter of the
Lord Chandos), with words and _blows_ of anger; and she with
Miss Russell, were put out of the coffer-chamber, lying
three nights at Lady Stafford's, before they could return to
their wonted waiting.

And what was their offence? They had ventured to take medicine without
leave; and had broken some rule of court etiquette by "going through the
private galleries to see the lords and gentlemen play at the _ballon_."
This was early in 1600. But shortly afterwards the queen, with one of
her capricious changes of temper, made the full _amende_ for her words
and blows of anger to poor Bess Russell, on the occasion of her sister
Anne's marriage to Lord Herbert, son and heir to Edward, fourth Earl of
Worcester. On June 9, 1600, Lady Russell went to court to fetch her
daughter Anne away, "of whom the queen in public used as gracious
speeches as she had been heard to indulge in of any." She sent her lords
and maids in waiting to escort the bride and her mother to their house
at Blackfriars. "All went in a troop away"--the court attendants filling
eighteen coaches.

The marriage took place on June 16 at Blackfriars, and the queen honored
the ceremony with her presence. The bride met the queen at the
waterside, where Lord Cobham, who had offered Her Majesty the use of his
house, had provided a "lectica made like half a litter, wherein she was
carried by six knights to Lady Russell's house." The mere name
Blackfriars now conjures up a vision of the smokiest and dirtiest parts
of smoky, dirty, dearly-beloved London. A vision of grimy houses crowded
together, and piled up story on story to utilize every inch of the space
that is now so valuable--of tall factory chimneys; Powell's glass-works;
bustling wharves; huge warehouses; of yelling railway trains, whistling
and thundering over the great iron bridges that span the Thames