for forgiveness, reinstated Langton in the See of Canterbury, and resigned his crown to the representative of St. Peter, have we much reason to believe that his motives were sincere, or tended to any thing further, than the means of being revenged upon his rebellious barons.

He was mean, cruel, hypocritical, passionate, revengeful, libidinous, and cowardly; and possessed not an atom of that daring decision which so strongly marked the character of his father: nor can the opposition which he showed to Rome be considered, for a moment, as arising from a spirit of true bravery.

Langton, on the other hand, was bold and decisive; nor did his ambition alone lead him to seek his own aggrandisement; but, when he had once firmly grasped the reins of power, he drove onward, in spite of the menaces of the pope, or the threats of the king, and did more towards the passing of Magna Charta than any other individual of that age. The author had

at first an intention of bringing down his work to that eventful period, but he feared that doing so, would throw more characters into his story than he could well manage; and, moreover, require a greater knowledge of those events, than came within the compass of his limited learning.

Those mail-clad senators (perhaps unintentionally) began to lessen the burthens of the people by throwing off their own. Or it might be that the monarch, jealous of the power the barons had assumed, began to pay more attention to the grievances of the lower classes; not from any motive of love, but that he might hinge his vengeance upon their complaints, and thereby avenge himself upon their feudal lords. King John rarely did an act of kindness, unless he was compelled to it, or had some motive of deep policy, or private pique, or could lessen the power of some one he hated by the deed.

Some of the oaths uttered by this monarch may at first seem startling; but they are such as he is said to have used, and scarcely any historian, which the author has read, has omitted to mention them: they seem essential in the working out of his character, and are highly characteristic of those stormy bursts of passion, to which he so often gave vent.

The learned critic will easily perceive that the author has played a few tricks with the solemn architecture of history; but this became essential, to render his story amusing. He who writes to please, is compelled to have recourse to his own invention: a little love, and a few dangers, are as necessary for his purpose, as the scenes and decorations are to a theatre; they are the gilded frame in which his picture must be placed, to draw even the slightest at

tention.

Thus he has been compelled to add, here a turret, and there a pillar; and sometimes he has

stuck in a window at random, without regarding the form of its arch, or even knowing whether it would let in the light to some splendid apartment, or only ornament a dead wall: he can but hope that fancy will "lend enchantment to the view." Whether he succeeds or fails, he has done his best; and some must lose, that others may win: for he is but a drop in the great ocean of talent that now rolls over England. If he has failed in furnishing what is termed a complete romance, he still has some faith in a few of the scenes which he has depicted, and more in the kind disposition of his critics and readers, who have hitherto taken up his humble productions, with that best of all feelings, a willingness to be pleased.

On one division of his story the author has much reliance: he has laid his scene in Sherwood Forest; and however timidly he may have trod among kings, and prelates, and barons, he has planted his foot boldly in the fastnesses of

the old woods. Sherwood Forest has long been to him one of those vast temples of nature, in which the heart fills with an overflowing worship-in which the spirit bows down before the solemn grandeur that pervades the silent space, and is hushed amid its own contemplation. And though now far away from its dim solitudes, he still remembers a few spots, with their green gloom, their sylvan beauty, and holy silence, which never were more lovely when Robin Hood blew his loud bugle, and marshalled his merry men under the greenwood tree.

Many of these pages were written during the last summer, amid those beautiful sylvan scenes that may yet be found around London, in the neighbourhood of Sydenham, Beckenham, Penge, and Norwood; and, although the author was not overshadowed by such giants of the forest as stretch their broad arms over the wild glens of Sherwood, still he sometimes