Thus I would desire that the biographies of many of our most illustrious personages of romance should be continued by fitting hands, and that they should be heard of, until at least a decent age.—­Look at Mr. James’s heroes:  they invariably marry young.  Look at Mr. Dickens’s:  they disappear from the scene when they are mere chits.  I trust these authors, who are still alive, will see the propriety of telling us something more about people in whom we took a considerable interest, and who must be at present strong and hearty, and in the full vigor of health and intellect.  And in the tales of the great Sir Walter (may honor be to his name), I am sure there are a number of people who are untimely carried away from us, and of whom we ought to hear more.

My dear Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, has always, in my mind, been one of these; nor can I ever believe that such a woman, so admirable, so tender, so heroic, so beautiful, could disappear altogether before such another woman as Rowena, that vapid, flaxen-headed creature, who is, in my humble opinion, unworthy of Ivanhoe, and unworthy of her place as heroine.  Had both of them got their rights, it ever seemed to me that Rebecca would have had the husband, and Rowena would have gone off to a convent and shut herself up, where I, for one, would never have taken the trouble of inquiring for her.

But after all she married Ivanhoe.  What is to be done?  There is no help for it.  There it is in black and white at the end of the third volume of Sir Walter Scott’s chronicle, that the couple were joined together in matrimony.  And must the Disinherited Knight, whose blood has been fired by the suns of Palestine, and whose heart has been warmed in the company of the tender and beautiful Rebecca, sit down contented for life by the side of such a frigid piece of propriety as that icy, faultless, prim, niminy-piminy Rowena?  Forbid it fate, forbid it poetical justice!  There is a simple plan for setting matters right, and giving all parties their due, which is here submitted to the novel-reader.  Ivanhoe’s history must have had a continuation; and it is this which ensues.  I may be wrong in some particulars of the narrative,—­as what writer will not be?—­but of the main incidents of the history, I have in my own mind no sort of doubt, and confidently submit them to that generous public which likes to see virtue righted, true love rewarded, and the brilliant Fairy descend out of the blazing chariot at the end of the pantomime, and make Harlequin and Columbine happy.  What, if reality be not so, gentlemen and ladies; and if, after dancing a variety of jigs and antics, and jumping in and out of endless trap-doors and windows, through life’s shifting scenes, no fairy comes down to make us comfortable at the close of the performance?  Ah! let us give our honest novel-folks the benefit of their position, and not be envious of their good luck.