never disputed by these our goodly forefathers, the " cups, that cheer," were no sooner dismissed, than those, that inebriated, supplied their places, and continued their services, till noisy mirth

"disturb'd the midnight ear,

Of sober Chloe, gone to bed betimes."

I now come to the more prominent portion of the picture, the HARVEST-HOME- the glory of antiquity, the pride of our forefathers, the lament of the poet, and the pretext of cavillers, who are ever ready to perpetuate old forms, and to condemn new practices, good or evil. This motley assemblage-this indiscriminate admixture of lord and plebeian; of man and master; of noisy hinds, and knowing artizans; of brawny dames, and buxom virgins; of squalling brats, and squeaking fiddlers; in short, this heterogeneous mass of vulgar jollity, which can only be defended on the principle, "that occasional intoxication is the best reward for habitual industry,"—is really made the subject of panegyric, in the fashionable pages of polite literature, at the commencement of the nineteenth century!

It is, doubtless, a gratifying sight to behold the sound oaktable's massy frame" bending beneath a ponderous load of reeking viands-of well-fed mutton, and the huge surloin; of puddings, baked and boiled; of wholesome vegetables; and "all that made our great forefathers brave,"

"Ere the cloy'd palate countless flavours try'd,

And cooks had Nature's judgment set aside."

It is still more gratifying to contemplate the happy countenances of" rustic youths, brown with meridian toil;" of maids, whose cheeks, like full-blown roses, exhibit the picture of health in all its pristine purity; of smiling dames, and chubby children, whose delight, at seeing such unusual fare, is only surpassed by their pleasure in partaking of it. It is to them a feast whereof the bloated epicure has no conception.

If we could draw a veil over the remaining portion of the picture, then, indeed, would the language of descriptive poetry awaken in us a lively sense of the original, without the sacrifice of truth; but the sketch is still unfinished; for on the same canvass are depicted “ beauty and the beast," symmetry and deformity, vigour and imbecility.

After supper, (for that is invariably at the commencement of the feast) the usual beverage, strong home-brewed ale, is freely circulated amongst the jocund party, while decorous conversation,

"and the frequent song,

Unheeded, bear the midnight hours along."

This, with many an awkward attempt at dancing to the

VOL. I. NO. II.

R

cleaver and marrow-bone, or the no less musical efforts of the village-fiddler, 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, succeeds.

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 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 uncontroulable 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 Elizabeth— the 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 ale-house, 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," &c. 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 exigences 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 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 busting 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. masculine 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 pic

young,

Her

ture. Varney, 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 has been precipitated through a trapdoor, 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 dependant 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.