and marrow-bone, or the no less musical efforts of the villagefiddler, beguiles the fleeting hours, till the meridian of night is numbered with the past. Tea is then introduced; and did this terminate the performance, I would still refrain from objecting to a measure, which, if I could not participate in it, I would at least forbear to condemn: but, alas! this is only an interlude, and the drop-scene is yet to be witnessed. From that time mirth loses its character; conversation is lost in the general clamour; and merriment is no longer restricted to the bounds of propriety. The song is vociferated in compliment to the master and mistress, whose good qualities occupy an hour or two in tedious recital; and happy is the wight whose pneumatical organs allow him to be loudest in their praise. How often have I been compelled to listen to music,

"For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear."

"A Health to mine Host and Hostess," "The Barley Mow," &c. with appropriate songs, succeed.

The scene of action, too disorderly and indecorous to describe, is hereafter strewed with down-pins, and it becomes the duty of the living to dispose of the dead-a circumstance, which gives rise to much merriment, in the ludicrous attempts to convey drunken Hodge, in the wheelbarrow, to some place of security for the remainder of the night. This is generally performed by others so ill equal to the task, that a few tumbles in the mire, if not a wallow in the horse-pond, complete the farce, and finish the performance.

It is not at all surprising, that persons possessing such good taste as our forefathers are acknowledged to have done, should avail themselves of the opportunity, which the termination of harvest afforded, for gratifying their own propensities, by providing an entertainment for their labourers, on a scale commensurate with the established notions of hospitality; and far be it from me to question their honest and honourable intentions. Such manners were coincident with the age in which they lived; but, if a revolution (for the better in many respects) has since been effected, and it is demanded "Has wealth done this?" -I 66 answer, No-a combination of events and causes; to wit, a diffusion of knowledge; a better government of the appetite; the introduction of science; the increase of population; and the uncontrollable power of necessity."

KENILWORTH.*

The subject of this romance is, perhaps the most arduous of any, which its author has yet attempted. There is no period in the history of the world, to which the mind of an Englishman reverts with greater reverence and pride, than that of Elizabeththe age, when all that can dignify or embellish life received a mighty impulse; when philosophic wisdom escaped from its dim recesses, and was shed abroad among the people; when the useful was tinged with the romantic, and poetry became at once the sweetest and the most manly. To realize this æra; to bring before our eyes, not only its manners, but its living genius; to place us amidst its various characters, from the company at a village alehouse, to its renowned queen-is an aim, from which an author of the highest reputation might shrink. In this, however, the great novelist has, in a considerable degree, succeeded. He has set before us, in all the vividness of present life, the customs, the formalities, and the pleasures of Elizabeth's court; made us partakers in the jealousies and contests of its most illustrious statesmen, and enabled us to feel every gesture, attitude, and tone, of the celebrated Queen herself, as though we had been yesterday in her presence. But he has not introduced us into the diviner assembly of the time, into the haunts of its philosophers and poets. He has, indeed, made Raleigh one of his persons, and told the incident of his throwing down his rich cloak before the Queen, to tread on, with singular vivacity; but he represents him only in the grace and bravery of his youth. Spenser and Shakspeare are just brought in, as part of a crowd, to receive a few condescending words from the Earl of Leicester, at the moment of his triumph over his rival This is, we think, using unauthorized freedom with those illustrious names. True it is, that when the favourite of Elizabeth nods on the dramatic poet, our novelist refers to the different aspects, in which their contemporaries and posterity regard them; but the name of Shakspeare is too sacred to point a moral or adorn a tale," even though the tale be by the author of Waverley. What a fine triumph would it have been for the novelist; what an eternal elevation of his art, had he called up with power the mightiest spirit of the time, imagined his choicest hours, and enabled us to listen delighted among his convivialities, to his spontaneous poetry and wisdom!

Kenilworth opens with a very spirited scene, at "the Bonny Black Bear," an inn a few miles from Oxford. While the guests are taking their evening recreation, a stranger, who is soon dis

*Kenilworth; a Romance. By the Author of "Waverley," "Ivanhoe," &e. In three vols. 8vo. Edinburgh and London, 1821.

covered to be the graceless nephew of the landlord, joins their revels. To his inquiries after one of his old acquaintances, Anthony Foster, a superstitious villain, who had brought light to kindle the pile round Latimer and Ridley, and had changed his religion, according to the exigencies of the time, he receives answer, that the bigot lives at Cumnor-place, an old mansion in the neighbourhood, and that some beautiful girl is there in his custody. This narrative incites Michael Lambourne, the reckless adventurer, to intrude on the solitude of Foster, in the hope of profiting by a share of the mystery. Tressilian, a gentle and unobtrusive guest of the landlord, offers to join in the expedition, and they accordingly set out together, in the morning, for Cumnor-place. An admirable description of the park, and entrance to the ruined mansion, follows, which, for noble picturesque effect, is equal to any thing in the best works of the author. At the house the adventurers obtain an interview with its fierce and ungainly master; and Tressilian discovers, that the embowered fair-one is the daughter of a Cornish gentleman, once called Amy Robsart, to whom he had given his heart in vain, and who had fled from her father's mansion. This lady proves to be the concealed bride of the Earl of Leicester, who madly enamoured of her beauty, and fearing the jealous temper of the Queen, had fitted up apartments in the old mansion, with great sumptuousness, for her residence, until a favourable opportunity should occur for acknowledging her as his wife. There is something exceedingly delicious in the idea of these hidden pomps, and of their young, beautiful, and artless mistress. Perhaps at this point, or the stolen visit of Leicester which follows, the interest of the romance is at its height, and the reader is prepared to expect images of more pure and exquisite beauty, heightening the effect of the bustling scenes, than the tale actually discloses. Leicester, compelled to attend on the Queen, repairs to London, and there is immersed in all the perils of an intrigue, to supplant the Earl of Sussex in Elizabeth's favour. Thither Tressilian follows, in the belief that Amy has been seduced by Varney, an attendant on the Earl, to implore the Queen's interference, for the restoration of the lady to her father. The whole scene of the court, where the two great rivals, Sussex and Leicester, meet, is depicted in the most masterly style. Not only are all the varieties of its external appearance, in exactest costume, bright and breathing before us; but all the turns of hope, terror, ambition, and love, in the chief persons, are pourtrayed in their most delicate gradations. Nothing can be more happily conceived, than the demeanour of Elizabeth throughout this scene. Her mascu

line impetuosity, softened by female love, and the partial suppression of both these feelings by a sense of personal majesty, are represented so as to form a striking historical picture. Var

ney, the devoted pander to his master's will, on being asked, whether he is married to Amy? answers, boldly, "Yes;" and Leicester, though mortified and indignant, dares not avow the truth. The interview closes on Leicester's triumph; but the Queen insists on the production of Amy at Kenilworth, where she prepares to visit her favourite. To prevent the discovery which obedience to this command would render inevitable, Varney engages an astrologer and alchemist to medicate the food of the sad prisoner, so as to bring on languor and sickness, which may serve as an excuse for her absence. But this plan defeats its own object; for the lady, indignant at the request of her husband, that she should sanction his minion's falsehood, and believing that her keepers design to poison her, flies from Cumnor-place, and after a variety of adventures, rather tediously related, arrives, in disguise, at the princely castle, of which she is the rightful mistress. We have then a most magnificent description of the Queen's progress, of her reception, and all "the princely pleasures of Kenilworth Castle." While his wretched wife is exposed to various insults, Leicester, flattered almost to madness by the amatory expressions of the Queen, dares to avow respectful love for her person, and is scarcely rejected. At this crisis, the Queen meets Amy in the garden, hears her broken story, and, without comprehending the full extent of Leicester's infidelity, perceives that she has been deceived. A reconciliation, however, takes place; and Amy is sent from the castle, under pretence that she is insane. Varney, whose personal ambition incites him to risk all, to place his master with Elizabeth on the throne of England, next persuades him that his wife is faithless, and that Tressilian is the object of her unholy love. Thus inflamed by jealousy, he provokes his imagined rival to fight him, and is on the point of taking his life, when a letter from the Countess, which should have been delivered on his arrival, proves her fidelity and Tressilian's innocence. Penitent at last, he avows his marriage to the Queen, and sends to Cumnor-place, to prevent any wrong to his Countess. But his messenger is killed-the hand of vengeance is uplifted—and he just arrives himself in time to learn that, by the machinations of Varney and Foster, his wife had been precipitated through a trap-door, into a vault, and dashed into pieces!

The best parts of the work, decidedly, are the first secret luxuries of Cumnor-place, the scenes in Elizabeth's court, and the festivities and distractions of Kenilworth Castle. Almost all the scenes, however, are too long for entire extraction, and too complete and dependent to admit of a fair exhibition of fragments. We must venture, however, on giving the scene where the Queen confronts Leicester with his wife, as it is, perhaps, the most various, spirited, and characteristic in the novel.

"Leicester was at this moment the centre of a splendid groupe of lords and ladies, assembled together under an arcade, or portico, which closed the alley The company had drawn together in that place, to attend the commands of her Majesty, when the hunting-party should go forward; and their astonishment may be imagined, when, instead of seeing Elizabeth advance towards them, with her usual measured dignity of motion, they beheld her walking so rapidly, that she was in the midst of them ere they were aware; and then observed with fear and surprise, that her features were flushed betwixt anger and agitation, that her hair was loosened by her haste of motion, and that her eyes sparkled as they were wont, when the spirit of Henry VIII. mounted highest in his daughter. Nor were they less astonished at the appearance of the pale, extenuated, half-dead, yet still lovely female, whom the Queen upheld by main strength with one hand, while with the other she waved aside the ladies and nobles who pressed towards her, under the idea that she was taken suddenly ill. "Where is my Lord of Leicester?" she said, in a tone that thrilled with astonishment all the courtiers who stood around—“Stand forth, my Lord of Leicester!"

If, in the midst of the most serene day of summer, when all is light and laughing around, a thunderbolt were to fall from the clear blue vault of heaven, and rend the earth at the very feet of some careless traveller, he could not gaze upon the smouldering chasm, which so unexpectedly yawned before him, with half the astonishment and fear which Leicester felt at the sight that so suddenly presented itself. He had that instant been receiving, with a political affectation of disavowing and misunderstanding their meaning, the half uttered, half intima→ ted congratulations of the courtiers upon the favour of the Queen, carried apparently to its highest pitch during the interview of that morning; from which most of them seemed to augur, that he might soon arise from their equal in rank to become their master. And now, while the subdued yet proud smile, with which he disclaimed those inferences, was yet curling his cheek, the Queen shot into the circle, her passions excited to the uttermost; and, supporting with one hand, and apparently without an effort, the pale and sinking form of his almost expiring wife, and pointing with the finger of the other to her half-dead features, demanded in a voice, that sounded to the ears of the astounded statesman like the last dread trumpet-call, that is to summon body and spirit to the judgment-seat, "Knowest thou this woman?"

As, at the blast of that last trumpet, the guilty shall call upon the mountains to cover them, Leicester's inward thoughts invoked the stately arch, which he had built in his pride, to burst its strong conjunction, and overwhelm them in its ruins. But the cemented stones, architrave, and battlement, stood fast; and it was the proud master himself, who, as if some actual pressure had bent him to the earth, kneeled down before Elizabeth, and prostrated his brow to the marble flag-stones, on which she stood.

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Leicester," said Elizabeth, in a voice, which trembled with passion, "could I think thou hast practised on me-on me thy Sovereign -on me thy confiding, thy too partial mistress, the base and ungrate ful deception, which thy present confusion surmises-by all that is holy, false lord, that head of thine were in as great peril as ever was thy father's?"

Leicester had not conscious innocence, but he had pride to support