patchwork. Anecdotes, witticisms, aphoristic expressions, gossip, rumours, extracts from books, large notes of sermons, occasional memoranda of journeys into Kent and Huntingdonshire, with some little personal matter of the true Diary kind, are all thrown together into a miscellany of odds and ends.

Our Diarist could not have lived in a better place than in an Inn of Court for the compilation of such a book. The common dinner and the common supper, the less formal gatherings at the buttery-bar and around the hall fire, and in the summer time the exercise taken in the pleasant garden—an indispensable accompaniment of an Inn of Court—brought together multitudes of the "unbaked and doughy youth of the nation," full of life and spirit, most of them under training for legal practice or public business, and sparkling with all the freshness and volatility, the exuberance and glow which distinguish the opening of young wits. This was the very place to furnish materials for such a note-book as we have described. Among such companions the bon mot of the bar, the scandal of the Court, the tittle-tattle of the town, were the very pabulum of their daily conversation. A witty sarcasm would tell among students not "past the bounds of freakish youth" with infinite effect, and it mattered little—such was the universal freedom of language and manners in those days—how literal the expression, or to what kind of subject it related. Perhaps even additional zest was given to a pithy speech by its want of reserve in relation to transactions which we have come to regard as better left untalked about. Neither was there found any greater difficulty in writing about such matters than in speaking of them. The line of stars which occasionally will be found stretching across our page indicates the occurrence of passages which principally on this ground we have deemed it unadvisable to print.

The time in which our Diarist wrote was distinguished by one event of surpassing interest—the death of the great Queen who had ruled the country for more than forty years. In reference to that event he possessed peculiar opportunities of acquiring information, and what he has told us is essentially of historical authority. His channel of communication with the Court was Dr. Henry Parry, subsequently Bishop of Gloucester and afterwards of Worcester, at that time one of her Majesty's chaplains and on duty in that character at the Queen's death. On the 23rd March 1602-3, the rumours respecting her Majesty's health were most alarming. The public were even doubtful whether she was actually alive. In satisfaction of his curiosity our Diarist proceeded to the palace at Richmond, where the great business was in progress. He found assembled there the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Keeper, and others of the highest official dignitaries. The Queen still lived, and the ordinary daily religious services were still kept up within the sombre palace. Dr. Parry preached before the assembled visitors, and our Diarist was permitted to be one of the audience. The sermon was as little connected as could be with the urgent circumstances which must have drawn off the thoughts of his congregation, but in the preacher's prayers both before and after his discourse he interceded for her Majesty so fervently and pathetically, that few eyes were dry.

Service over, Manningham dined in the privy chamber with Dr. Parry and a select clerical company, who recounted to him the particulars of the Queen's illness; how for a fortnight she had been overwhelmed with melancholy, sitting for hours with eyes fixed upon one object, unable to sleep, refusing food and medicine, and until within the last two or three days declining even to go to bed. It was the opinion of her physicians that if at an early period she could have been persuaded to use means she would unquestionably have recovered, but she would not, "and princes," our Diarist remarks, "must not be forced." Her fatal obstinacy brought her at length into a condition which was irremediable. For two days she had lain "in a manner speechless, very pensive and silent,"—dying of her own perverseness. When roused she showed by signs that she still retained her faculties and memory, but the inevitable hour was fast approaching. The day before, at the instance of Dr. Parry, she had testified by gestures her constancy in the Protestantism "which she had caused to be professed," and had hugged the hand of the archbishop when he urged upon her a hopeful consideration of the joys of a future life. In these particulars our Diarist takes us nearer to the dying bed of the illustrious Queen than any other writer with whom we are acquainted.

Dr. Parry remained with the Queen to the last. It was amidst his prayers that about three o'clock in the morning which followed Manningham's visit to the palace she ceased to breathe.

For the last few years the public mind had been disturbed by claims put forth on behalf of a multitude of pretenders to the now empty throne. The people had been bewildered and alarmed by the production of no less than fourteen different titles advanced on behalf of a number of separate claimants. A strong impression prevailed that on the Queen's death a struggle was inevitable—that the long peace which the country had owed to the Tudors would come to an end with them. The vacancy had now occurred, and every one was anxious to know in what manner the claimants would prefer their claims, and who would arbitrate amongst their clashing interests? Above all things, as likely to involve the most important changes, what course would be taken by the Roman Catholics? It seemed a great opportunity for them, so great that no one imagined they would allow it to slip past.

The statements of our Diarist at this time are of particular interest. The ministers of the late Queen acted with equal promptitude and prudence. Sir Robert Cecil had settled the matter long ago, and all his fellow-ministers now concurred in what he had done. Not an instant was lost; at the very earliest moment, at day-break, in less than four hours after the Queen had ceased to breathe at Richmond, a meeting of the Council was held at Whitehall. A proclamation already prepared by Cecil, and settled by the anxious King of Scotland, was produced and signed. At 10 o'clock the gates of Whitehall were thrown open. Cecil, with a roll of paper in his hand, issued forth at the head of a throng of gentlemen, and with the customary display of tabards and blare of trumpets proclaimed the accession of King James.

"The proclamation," remarks our author, "was heard with great expectation and silent joy, no great shouting." At night there were bonfires and ringing of bells, but "no tumult, no contradiction, no disorder in the city; every man went about his business as readily, as peaceably, as securely, as though there had been no change nor any news of competitors." The quickness and unanimity of the council, combined with the popular feeling in favour of King James, fixed him at once in the new dignity. Opponents were overawed and silenced when they found that the supporters of the King had as it were stolen a march upon them, and that, although he himself was absent, his friends were in possession of all the powers of government on his behalf. The previous agitation subsided almost instantly. The disturbed sea rocked itself to rest.

From this time general anxiety was directed towards the North. "The people is full of expectation, and great with hope of our new King's worthiness, of our nation's future greatness; every one promises himself a share in some famous action to be hereafter performed for his prince or country." The anticipations which the people framed for themselves from the change of sex in their new governor, from the change of age, and from the ambition which they