WHY, in my old age, I have proposed to myself to record the passages of the earlier life of a person deservedly most dear to me, it is of little consequence for the world to know; though it is from a far higher motive than mere amuseBut if I think it right to direct their publication, after I am no more, that is another question, which ought to be explained.

ment.

It is simply then, because, however my task may be performed, it seems to me that the

early life of De Vere abounds in what may afford useful food for the heart; and exhibits that which no person can wish to imitate without being the better for it. With this reason for my undertaking, I shall, without further preface, proceed to relate how, in my early youth, I first became acquainted with him, and obtained his history up to that epoch. And though I almost immediately afterwards went abroad, and therefore was not an eye-witness of the important passages which directly followed, I shall proceed with the work to its close, as if I had been present, only assuring the reader, from the intimacy which afterwards grew between De Vere and myself, that my sources of information could not be more authentic.

In the year 17, though just of age, and my own master, I grew, I know not why, tired of London; and, after finding that the Mall of St. James's Park (every leaf and lady of which I had got by heart) had lost its charms, and that I could even come away from the Opera before the ballet was half over, I resolved to commence à tour I had planned for the summer, and found myself one night at Dunchurch in Warwickshire.

To be sure I was rather surprised in the

morning, when my windows were opened, and I snuffed the air of a blooming orchard, and heard birds, instead of the cries of Piccadilly; but recollecting myself, I jumped up with all the alacrity of a youth just set free from what had ceased to interest him, in order to enjoy what at least had novelty to recommend it. My horses had been sent on three days before, and I mounted with all the gaiety of one-and-twenty.

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But, reader, do not be afraid of an ordinary tour. No! I am not going to describe landscapes; my object is man. Not Warwick Castle, therefore, that midland splendour, shall detain me; nor even Kenilworth itself, that princely palace of pleasure" of other times; not even though the latter has recently had a thousand interests attached to it, by the witcheries of one who is second alone to the great dramatic poet, in the brilliancy of his elucidations of England's story.*

In truth, though this storied fabric presents

The novel of Kenilworth was published in 1821, and this might, on a comparison with the story, lead to a surmise that the author was a tolerably old gentleman when he wrote. But this passage is not only written in much fresher ink than the rest, but in a different hand, and moreover in a sort of note.-Editor.

volumes of associations by which we are enabled to remember what it was, it is too completely dilapidated to excite either much curiosity or much admiration in viewing what it is. Its grandeur is as a tale that is told. Nevertheless it proved, in the present instance, a source of interest, by furnishing the game of which I was in search.

On leaving Warwick, I was passed by a gentleman well mounted, whose open, yet lofty manner, and speaking countenance, even in the rapid glance I had of him, could not fail to excite my observation. I wished to behold him again, though I checked my first impulse to overtake him. It is too uncivil, thought I. To my satisfaction, however, he himself pulled up, and, without hurrying, I came close to him.

For some yards, each had an undisturbed view of the other, and I was struck with a turn of feature and general physiognomy, in which reflection and reserve seemed at first to predominate, to the exclusion of every thing else. His dignified air gave me the notion of a person of the very first breeding. Yet it seemed not the breeding of London, but had evidently a stamp of its own. Had I been in Spain, I should certainly have saluted him with a "Senor Cavallero;" and I thought of the days of Gil Blas.

But in England we are not made for this, and the stranger resuming his pace, was quickly out of sight.

I know not why, but I seemed sorry to lose him, and could not help wishing to inquire, of his groom, who he was. The groom was dressed in a jockey cap, and rather old-fashioned livery of tawney and red; and lingered awhile behind his master, occupied with something wrong about his saddle.

The sight of the ponderous Keep of Kenil worth, and its mouldering walls, from the mere interstices of which, a whole grove of birch and mountain ash pushed their white stems and red berries, drove the late object of my curiosity out of my head; and I had finished my view of the place, and was preparing to remount, when turning through the arch of an old labelled gateway, I saw him again.

He was just within the precinct; and, as he viewed the ruin, seemed lost in thought. Perceiving me about to enter too, which brought us front to front, he yielded the passage with a high but civil air; and this sort of approximation, even amongst Englishmen, (if they have ever stirred from home,) creates an opening to something more, if they please. In a French