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CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES.*

THE humour of the amiable author of "Paul Pry," is admirably adapted for the festive epoch of the year, and for the form in which his chefs d'œuvres are now collected. The familiar and yet grotesque objects of life are the simple, but efficient sources of his inspiration; and with a fine belief in the universality of the human heart, and an equally comprehensive notion of its foibles, he can

“Laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair,”

without the more modern resources of social contrasts, personalities, and painful disquisitions on the different allotments, so inevitable on an uneven earth. He can, indeed, like Sterne, with whom he avows a fellow-feeling in all except his sentiment, (which is not only of a questionable character, but too much paraded,) sympathize with humanity at large, and amuse by his masterly sketches of society, without letting his humour take up its abode in dry places, where it can only fructify those lessons of dissatisfaction which are too often contained in the politico-philosophical wit of the present day.

Whether we travel with the familiar characters of John Hogs, or Mr. O'Sullivan, or stay at home with the Squire Dribble's and Sir Hurry Skurry's, or are ourselves visited by Messrs. Scalpel and Pomponius Ego, it is still everywhere the same acute and accurate perception of character, and the same amusing grouping and painting of little details combined to produce a truly grotesque whole. "Delicate Attentions" certainly constitute an extravagantly ludicrous story, which, as a farce, ought to have kept its place on the stage.

All these tales and sketches have, indeed, been written some years, and the results are sometimes as comical as the stories themselves. Thus, Versailles is described as it was in 1825, with broad, unfrequented streets, verdant with tufts of grass; and "Old England," when her majesty's mails, and the "Wonders," "Darts," "Arrows," and "Swallows" were shooting and flying to all parts of the kingdom.

We wish we could have made some excerpts from the very mellow drama of the "Crimson Hermits; or, the River Rock," with its gloomy castle, and thunderstorms, its Daggerdorf's, Pistolberg's, and Cut-throato's; not to mention its "music expressive of craving a blessing," and "music expressive of killing a villager;" but time and space are at discount, and we must content ourselves with recommending heartily to all lovers of humour unalloyed these written and enduring "festivities."

Christmas Festivities: Tales, Sketches, and Characters, with Beauties of the Modern Drama, in four Specimens. By John Poole, Esq.

AGINCOURT AND THE HUGUENOT.*

WE had occasion, in noticing the collected edition of those romances with which Mr. James has enriched the modern library of fiction during the past twenty years, to dwell upon the peculiar and eminent merits of the writer, as a keen searcher into the secrecies of humanity, and an eloquent expounder of the heart's inexhaustible philosophy, as well as being a powerful and brilliant chronicler of human events. It is with real satisfaction that we are able, on the appearance of a new story from this popular contributor to the pleasures of a wide world of readers, to say, that it possesses in an eminent degree-to an amount, indeed, perhaps, hitherto unsurpassed-the same great essentials to successful instruction and interest-the combination of that which relates to the inner and more hidden wonders of the heart and its motives, with all that is bright and picturesque, or that is false or censurable in man's overt actions, and in the history of past times; and that it abounds in beautiful and wise reflections, imparting the soothing influence and stilly spirit of an ever-eloquent nature to bygone days and deeds, and brings them, with truly magic power, within the scope of actual thought and feeling.

Richard of Woodville, the model of a young English gentleman in the early part of the fifteenth century, whose heart has been bestowed upon Mary Markham, the fair protegé of his uncle, Sir Philip Beauchamp, although he has yet to win his gold spurs; meets Prince Henry, benighted after a frolic at Andover, and introduces him, under the assumed name of Hal of Hadnock, to the family circle assembled in a good old baronial hall, with an extent of blazing logs, or rather trees, which it is cheering even to read about at Christmas time.

First on the list of this family circle, which comprises the chief characters in the story, is the gaunt and stern old knight himself; then his fair daughter, Isabel; next, his ward and niece, the Lady Catherine Beauchamp, beautiful, but vain and coquettish, betrothed to her kinsman, Sir Henry Dacre, also one of the party, but whose melancholy eye rests solely on the Lady Isabel-for the betrothed do not love; then there is the sweet Mary Markham; and lastly, Sir Simeon of Roydon, a distant relative, fair to look at, possessed of courtly ease, and assisted by everything that dress can do to set off his person to advantage:

"Notwithstanding dress, however, and good features, and a countenance under perfect command, there were certain minute but very distinct signs to be perceived by an eye practised in the study of the human character, which betrayed the fact, that his smooth exterior was but a shell containing a less pleasant core. There was a wandering of the eyes, which did not always seem to move in the same orbits; there was an occasional quiver of the lower lip, as if words, which might be dangerous, were restrained with difficulty; there was a look of keen, eager, almost fierce inquiry when anything was said, the meaning of which he did not at once comprehend; and then a sudden return to a bland and sweet expression, almost of insipidity, which spoke of something false and hollow."

Richard, rebuffed by the old knight in his love for Mary Markham, resolves upon seeking honour and winning his spurs at the court of

Agincourt: a Romance. By G. P. R. James, Esq. 3 vols. 8vo. The Huguenot: a Tale of the French Protestants. By the same Author. 1 vol. 8vo.

Burgundy; and he starts in company with the prince, who is recalled, by the sudden illness of his father. They had not, however, got beyond the precincts of the village of Abbot's Ann, when they were called upon to rescue Catherine de Beauchamp, thrown into the river by the perfidious Sir Simeon, and whom they deposit, in their belief, lifeless, under the care of the abbot and monks of the adjacent abbey.

From this time, to the day of the battle of famed Agincourt, Richard of Woodville and Sir Henry Dacre are calumniated wanderers in divers lands. Sir Simeon manages, by insinuations which knightly honour cannot attain, to cast foul suspicions on Sir Henry; while Richard suffers mainly from the persevering confidence and grateful attachment of a lovely young minstrel girl, whom he saved from Sir Simeon's lawless and profligate violence.

The scene

"The breath of one foul vapour can obscure the sun, and the tongue of one false villain can tarnish the honour of a life." And there is no relief to the gloomy melancholy of Sir Henry, upon whom even the phantom of a doubt lies like a plague-spot till the end. where, with his wound still fresh, the knight declares his affection to Isabel, and mistakes her agitation for sensitiveness, in regard to the suspicion that hangs over his fair fame, is wrought with the author's characteristic skill and effect.

The manner in which King Henry, on assuming the robes of royalty, casts off the leaven of his youth, is told by Ned Dyram, a youth given by the king to Richard de Woodville, on his way to Westminster:

"My reception may not be very warm,' said Woodville, thoughtfully.

"You may judge yourself, better that I can, master mine,' replied Ned Dyram. 'Did you ever sit with him in the tavern, drinking quarts of wine?'

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No,' answered Richard of Woodville, smiling.

"Then you shall be free of his table,' said Ned. 'Did you ever shoot deer with him, by moonlight?'

"Never,' was his master's reply.

"Then you may chance to taste his venison,' rejoined the man. ever brawl, swear, and break heads for him, or with him?'

'Did you

"No, truly,' said the young gentleman. I fought under him, with the army, in Wales, when he and I were both but boys; and I led him on his way, one dark night, two days before his father died; but this is all I know of him.'

"Then, perchance, you may enter into his council,' answered Dyram; for, now that he is royal, he thinks royally; and he judges man for himself, not with the eyes of others."

Richard de Woodville is, however, most favourably received by the young monarch, and after a variety of adventures, amusingly descriptive of the metropolis in 1413, he starts for Ghent, where is the Count of Charolois, son of John the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, then detained at the court of Charles the Sixth of France; and to whom he has letters from King Henry, as well as to Sir Philip Morgan, the most distinguished diplomatist of the day, and to Sir John Grey, an exile, recalled by the young king to his property and titles, and whom Woodville finds, in a well-told meeting, to be the father of Mary Markham.

The good old town of Ghent, with its tall houses, its cheerful markets, and its municipal pageants, is also well described. We have the large pile of ancient architecture, called the Graevensteen, for many centuries the residence of the Counts of Flanders, the stern and gloomy towers of the Vieux Bourg, for one of which the diplomatist appears to have been a fit resident; the old battlemented mansion outside the city walls, the sharp cutting of whose round arches had mouldered

away in the damp atmosphere, and whose casements were destitute of even the small lozenge of glass, which in those days was all that even princely mansions could boast, and where resides the exiled father; and, lastly, we have the large old wooden hall, also outside the town, where the persecuted Hussites used then to assemble in secrecy.

De Woodville is not long in obtaining employment, and he wins his golden spurs by a successful achievement, the rescue of John the Bold from his courtly detention, while hunting in the great forest of Hallate, of which that of Chantilly now constitutes an insignificant remnant, and which we regret we cannot, for its spirit, extract at length. In an attempt made afterwards to deliver the son of the Lord of Croy from imprisonment, Woodville is himself made prisoner, and the very knight unhorsed by him in the forest of Hallate, the Count de Vaudemont, becomes his jailer. He is, however, released, chiefly through the means of poor Ella Brune, in time to reach the field of Agincourt the eve before the battle, and in which he engages, against the king's consent, in Dacre's armour, his own having been taken from him when he was made prisoner.

The account of the battle must be given in Mr. James's own words -none can be better; but we may premise, that he makes the Constable D'Albret deny what is generally admitted in history, that Henry had offered to give up Harfleur, and pay for all damage done, if a free passage were granted to the then English town of Calais.

King Henry, attended by his marshal, Sir Thomas of Erpingham, has, after riding along the English lines, resumed his position in the centre of the main

Battle of Agincourt.

"They are near enough, my liege,' said the old knight; is your grace ready?' "Quite,' replied Henry. 'Have you left a guard over the baggage?' "As many as could be spared, sire,' replied the marshal. Shall we begin?' "Henry bowed his head; and the old knight setting spurs to his horse, galloped along the face of the three lines, waving his truncheon in his hand, and exclaiming, 'Ready-ready! Now, men of England-now!'

"Then in the very centre of the van, he stopped by the side of the Duke of York, dismounted from his horse, put on his casque, which a page held ready, and then, hurling his leading staff high into the air, as he glanced over the archers with a look of fire untamed by age, he cried aloud,Now, strike!'

"Each English yeoman suddenly bent down upon his knee, and kissed the ground. Then starting up, they gave one loud, universal cheer, at which, to use the terms of the French historian, the Frenchmen were greatly astounded.' Each archer took a step forward, drew his bow-string to his ear, and, as the van of the enemy began to move on, a cloud of arrows fell amongst them, not only from the front, but from the meadow on their flank, piercing through armour, driving the horses mad with pain, and spreading confusion and disarray amidst the immense multitude which, crowded into that narrow field, could only advance in lines thirty deep.

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Forward-forward!' shouted the French knights.

On, for your country and your king! cried the Constable D'Albret; but his archers and cross-bowmen would not move; and, plunging their horses through them, the French men-at-arms spurred on in terrible disarray, while still amongst them fell that terrible shower of arrows, seeming to seek out with unerring aim every weak point of their armour, piercing their visors, entering between the gorget and the breastplate, transfixing the hand to the lance. Of eight hundred chosen men-at-arms, if we may believe the accounts of the French themselves, not more than a hundred and forty could reach the stakes by which the archers stood. This new impediment produced still more confusion; many of the heavy-armed horses of the French goring themselves upon the iron pikes, and one of the leaders who cast himself gallantly forward before the rest, being instantly pulled from his

horse, and slain by the axes of the English infantry; whilst still against those that were following were aimed the deadly shafts, till seized with terror, they drew the bridle and fled, tearing their way through the mingled mass behind them, and increasing the consternation and confusion which already reigned.

"At the same moment, the arrows of the English archers being expended, the stakes were drawn up; and encouraged by the evident discomfiture of the French van, the first line of the English host rushed upon the struggling crowd before them sword in hand, rendering the disarray and panic irremediable, slaughtering immense numbers with their swords and axes, and changing terror into precipitate flight.

Up to this period, Henry, surrounded by some of his principal knights, stood immovable upon the slope of the hill; but seeing his archers engaged hand to hand with the enemy, he pointed out with his truncheon a knight in black armour, with lines of gold, about a hundred yards distant upon his left, saying, • Tell Sir Henry Dacre to move down with his company to support the van. The enemy may rally yet. A squire galloped off to bear the order; and instantly the band to which he addressed himself, swept down in firm array, while the king, with the whole of the main body, moved slowly on to insure the victory.

"No further resistance, indeed, was made by the advanced guard of the French. Happy was the man who could save himself by flight; the archers and the crossbowmen separating from each other, plunged into the wood; many of the men-atarms dismounting from their horses, and casting off their heavy armour, followed their example; and others, flying in small parties, rallied upon the immense body led by the Dukes of Bar and Alençon, which was now advancing in the hope of retrieving the day. It was known that the Duke of Alençon had sworn to take the King of England alive or dead; and the contest now became more fierce and more regular. Pouring on in thunder upon the English line, the French men-atarms seemed to bear all before them; but though shaken by the charge, the English cavalry gallantly maintained their ground; and, as calm as if sitting at the counciltable, the English king from the midst of the battle, even where it was fiercest around him, issued his commands, rallied his men, and marked with an approving eye, and often with words of high commendation, the conduct of the foremost in the fight.

"Wheel your men, Sir John Grey,' he cried, and take that party in the green upon the flank. Bravely done upon my life; Sir Harry Dacre seems resolved to outdo us all. Give him support, my Lord of Hungerford. See you not that he is surrounded by a score of lances! By the holy rood, he has cleared the way!— Aid him-aid him; and they are routed there!'

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"That is not Sir Harry Dacre, my lord the king,' said a gentleman near. He is in plain steel armour. I spoke with him but a minute ago.' "On-on,' cried Henry, little heeding him. Restore the array on the right, Sir Hugh Basset. They have bent back a little. On your guard-on your guard, knights and gentlemen! Down with your lances. Here they come !' And at the same moment, a large body of French, at the full gallop, dashed towards the spot where the king stood. In an instant, the Duke of Gloucester, but a few yards from the monarch, was encountered by a knight of great height and strength, and cast headlong to the ground. Henry spurred up to his brother's defence, and covering him with his shield, rained a thousand blows, with his large heavy sword, upon the armour of his adversary, while two of the duke's squires drew the young prince from beneath his horse.

"Beware-beware, my lord the king!' cried a voice upon his left; and turning round, Henry beheld the knight in the black armour, pointing with his mace to the right, where the Duke of Alençon, some fifty yards before a large party of French chivalry, was galloping forward with his battle-axe in his hand direct towards the king. Henry turned to meet him; but that movement had nearly proved fatal to the English monarch; for, as he wheeled his horse, he saw the black knight cover him with his shield, receive upon it a tremendous blow from the gigantic adversary who had overthrown the Duke of Gloucester, and, swinging high his mace, strike the other on the crest a stroke that brought his head to his horse's neck. A second dashed him to the ground; but Henry had time to remark no more, for Alençon was already upon him, and he had now to fight hand to hand for life. Few men, however, could stand before the English monarch's arm; and in an instant, the duke was rolling in the dust. A dozen of the foot-soldiers were upon him at once. Spare him-spare him!' cried the king; but ere his voice could be heard, a dagger was in the unhappy prince's throat.

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When Henry looked round, the main body of the French were flying in con