University he studied, and what a stern taskmaster he was under, while taking up the degrees of M. B. The author has kept nothing secret, has made no vain display, but fearlessly announced his position, and is proud that he has sprung from those ranks, which will ere long make themselves respected-those "corner stones which the builders rejected."

The author cannot appropriate to himself all the praise that was bestowed upon his last romance, but is inclined to think that his industry in raking together and selecting much. ancient, interesting, and almost forgotten-matter, had much to do with its success.

To render an historical romance only merely readable, the author must work hard before he begins it; he must read whole volumes of dry, and often uninteresting matter, must dig out of the dark and dusty mines of antiquity, all that is picturesque and poetical, and be very

choice in his selections in searching for the hidden gold in these dusky recesses, lest he should bring forth more dross than pure metal. Nay more, he must have a love for his labour; for if he once pursues his task with reluctance, all is then over. Neither is this all; for when the materials are selected, they require a nicety of arrangement, they must be placed carefully together, or they will resemble the confused threads which we see underneath ancient embroidery rather than the upper part where the beautiful effects are represented. True, a master-hand could toss the material together in a brief space of time, when it is thus arranged, although he might begrudge the labour of preparing it, for the work is then half done to his hands; but an inferior workman with fair judgment need not to despair, although he cannot give an equal charm to the task when it is completed. No matter how great

the genius may be, he must undergo the same labour in digging up the dry bones, before he can even form them into a skeleton; and although he may more readily arrange them with just and anatomical skill, yet an inferior artist may by stern industry give them a shape near enough to the original, and by drawing the skin carefully over, and infusing the life and blood, and passions, and feelings, that flow in the present day, so animate it, as to give to the whole a look of life. History is full of pictures ; its pages teem with poetry; dramatic incidents. almost every where abound; but all cannot seize upon them alike, for the imagination must be left loose, to bound over the dim and doubtful passages which the historian scarcely dared to venture upon. True, these beautiful bits often lie too far and wide apart to strike the general reader, or have too common a look to call forth the attention of all; but let the fancy once

have the rein, and a thousand rich colourings will instantly break upon that which before looked dead and dull, and unworthy of notice. Thus the mere plodding reader will wade heavily through the pages, and make himself acquainted with certain events. Not so with the poetical reader; he will pause, and wonder what effect such an incident had on the beholders of it at that period; think how the actor felt while undergoing what he did; guess at his looks, how he stood, in what voice he spoke, what changes his features underwent, what costume he wore, where the scene took place, recal the high vaulted and gothic hall, the open plain or the dark forest,-in a word, make a picture from that which to others would scarcely seem worthy of notice, and set it in a quaint, old oaken frame, where it will carry the look of antiquity about it, yet have mingled withal a life and a freshness. Many say, How dull

are the pages of the old chroniclers!—what dry stuff is Dooms-day book, the writings of Matthew Paris, Froissart, Holingshed, Stow, Rapin, &c.-how tedious are the works of Wace, Gower, and Chaucer, the writings of Occlever, Lidgate and Skelton. So they must be to those who have no love for the past ages; but once have a passion for them, and where will you discover such rich and unworked mines? Sometimes one thought from these fine old fellows has given the author the key to whole chapters.

Take but one instance which the author has availed himself of in the present work. Thomas à Becket having defied King Henry and all his nobles, on the day of trial in the hall at Northampton, is compelled to make his escape in disguise. It is a cold night in autumn, the old chroniclers only just mention this simple incident, they scarcely name the privations he underwent. But let the reader of history con