158 Grown to this faction, in the Temple Garden, Shall send, between the red rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

We are introduced to the heroic Margaret of Anjou, who after so long and bravely upholding the fortunes of “the meek usurper,” is wandering a widow in foreign lands; the fatal battles of Towton and Tewkesbury have been fought and the hopes of the Red Rose quenched in blood. One of the most interesting points in this novel is the account of the Vehme-gericht or secret assembly, which held such vast and mysterious power at this period.

Passing on down the stream of history our author has other living pictures for us to contemplate. In the “ Monastery ” or the “ Abbot,” works considered by their

author comparative failures, probably from the fact that |

supernatural machinery was in them called into play, we get a glimpse of Scottish society in the times of Mary Stuart and her great rival Elizabeth. The rude life on the Scottish border, the simple cottage-home under the shadow of the monastery, with its feudal vassals and men-at-arms, and the lawless raids of the moss troopers, are contrasted with the fortunes of the luckless queen, now a prisoner in Lochlevin, cheered only by the wit of charming Catherine Seyton; now a fugitive in an open boat under the guidance of love-lorn Douglas, one of that family of whom the old song says “ Douglas, Douglas, tender and true;” anon taking her stand at Langside, and seeing her bravest and best friends falling all around her. Sadly we turn away from the picture, for another and a yet sadder scene is in our mind’s eye, a certain morning at Fotheringay Castle is recalled, and a pale, beautiful woman, guilty, or not guilty, we say not, but very lovely and very weak, stands before us, clasping the white neck for love of which Rizzio, and Darnley, and many another paid dearly. Another wave of the enchanter’s wand, and she whose warrant struck off that shapely head is before us. Neither in history nor in the pages of Scott is Elizabeth a pleasing subject of contemplation; but those who would gain a thorough insight into the manners and way of life of Elizabethan times, may do so in right good company in the pages of “ Kenilworth.” The first idea of the story was suggested to Scott by a ballad called “ Cumnor Hall,” and from this poetical version of an old story connected with the hand- some, good-for-nothing Earl of Leicester, sprang the mar- yellous story of love and sorrow, gay pageant and courtly beauty, which has made the days of Elizabeth almost as familiar as those of Victoria. We have stood by the tomb of Tony Foster, a much better man, by the way, than the “Tony fire-the-faggot” of the novel, within the gaunt old church of Cumnor; hard by was the site of the hall, of which no trace now remains, yet as we stood by the carved and elaborate Elizabethan tomb the place became haunted ground to us. Again— The dews of summer eve did fall, The moon, pale regent of the sky,

Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby.

Amy Robsart and grave Tressilian, roystering, ne’er-do- weel Lambourne (the name is still extant in Cumnor village); smooth-tongued, remorseless Varney, not painted

‘in bright colours with a glitter of false heroism about |

him, like the villain of the novels of to-day; Dudley, fair and false; Wayland Smith, from the pleasant vale of White Horse; Flibbetigibbet, most delightful of imps;

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Blount in his yellow roses, reminding us of Malvolio

in his yellow stockings; that pleasant pedant, Erasmus Holyday, and the quaint throng of mummers and maskers, all these flitted past us as we stood in Cumnor Church. Pass we on a little to the next reign, and we can follow the “Fortunes of Nigel” and listen to the talk, half scholarly, half childish, of Mary Stuart’s son, who hated tobacco and had too much reason to fear a naked sword. Few places are more rich in historical associa- tions and antiquarian interest than London, and here we have a view of the metropolis at the beginning of the 17th century, with its narrow streets, its gable-ended houses and open shop-stalls, each distinguished by its sign; it is the London of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, of Lord Bacon. We may taste the tender mercies of the Star Chamber, one of the evils which cost King Charles his head a little later; we may take refuge in the sanctuary of Alsatia, or Whitefriars, down by the river, and learn the condition of society and the London streets by watching a brawl between the serving- men of two rival nobles, or by joining in the cry of “clubs ” and assisting in a free fight among the London *prentices. Still we glide on pleasantly down the stream of time and our teacher shows us in three novels the reign of that monarch who “never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one.” In ‘“ Woodstock” we meet those grim, puritan Ivonsides who turned the tide of victory at Naseby and Marston Moor, and we seem to hear the clash of battle which inspired the noble lines— And hark! like the roar of billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line,

“For God! For the cause! For the Church! For the laws! For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine.”

Now, however, “ Worcester’s crowning fight,” as Crom- well called it, has crushed the hope of the Cavaliers, Charles the First has been put to death at Whitehall window, and we are introduced to Charles the Second, lately escaped from the uncomfortable quarters of the Royal Oak and other hiding-places, and seeking shelter in the family of the grand old Cavalier Sir Henry Lee, whose daughter Alice is one of the finest pictures in the gallery of Scott’s heroines. They are bad times for Royalists, and men like Roger Wildrake have to look to themselves. In “ Peveril of the Peak,’ we come to better days, “when the king enjoys his own again” | and is wasting his substance in riotous living with such companions as Nell Gwynne, Buckingham, and Rochester. The political atmosphere is full of plots | and intrigues; the Popish plot, and the machinations | of Titus Oates fill men’s minds with alarm: no one is safe from arrest or suspicion, and we may see the inside of Newgate and the Tower in company with the stout old knight of the Peak and his son, and wonder at the mysterious dumb maiden, Fenella, or listen to the brave Countess of Derby. Or later on, in “Old Mor- tality,” we are shown a phase of Scottish life among the Covenanters, who were determined not to dance, however | much the Government might pipe to them, and who set their faces against any kind of public amusement which “the man of sin,” as they civilly named the king, might | contrive. Perhaps the memories of the Civil War and | the strict rule of the Puritans gave a double zest to dhe

|

Royalist leaders who were sent to put down the seditious meetings of the people. Certainly, such men as Claver- house showed them no mercy; we see in the novel such