to join in the grand triumphal procession, where the whole strength of the company is already assembled, arrayed in costumes of Moorish and Christian chivalry, to celebrate the “Terrible Escalade,” the “Rescue of Virtuous Innocence”—­the “Grand Entry of the Christians into Valencia”—­“Appearance of the Fairy Day-Star,” and “Unexampled displays of pyrotechnic festivity.”  Do you not, I say, perceive that we are come to the end of our history; and, after a quantity of rapid and terrific fighting, brilliant change of scenery, and songs, appropriate or otherwise, are bringing our hero and heroine together?  Who wants a long scene at the last?  Mammas are putting the girls’ cloaks and boas on; papas have gone out to look for the carriage, and left the box-door swinging open, and letting in the cold air:  if there were any stage-conversation, you could not hear it, for the scuffling of the people who are leaving the pit.  See, the orange-women are preparing to retire.  To-morrow their play-bills will be as so much waste-paper—­so will some of our masterpieces, woe is me:  but lo! here we come to Scene the last, and Valencia is besieged and captured by the Christians.

Who is the first on the wall, and who hurls down the green standard of the Prophet?  Who chops off the head of the Emir Aboo What-d’ye-call’im, just as the latter has cut over the cruel Don Beltran de Cuchillay &c.?  Who, attracted to the Jewish quarter by the shrieks of the inhabitants who are being slain by the Moorish soldiery, and by a little boy by the name of Ben Davids, who recognizes the knight by his shield, finds Isaac of York egorge on a threshold, and clasping a large back-kitchen key?  Who but Ivanhoe—­who but Wilfrid?  “An Ivanhoe to the rescue,” he bellows out; he has heard that news from little Ben Davids which makes him sing.  And who is it that comes out of the house—­trembling—­panting—­with her arms out—­in a white dress—­with her hair down—­who is it but dear Rebecca?  Look, they rush together, and Master Wamba is waving an immense banner over them, and knocks down a circumambient Jew with a ham, which he happens to have in his pocket. . . .  As for Rebecca, now her head is laid upon Ivanhoe’s heart, I shall not ask to hear what she is whispering, or describe further that scene of meeting; though I declare I am quite affected when I think of it.  Indeed I have thought of it any time these five-and-twenty years—­ever since, as a boy at school, I commenced the noble study of novels—­ever since the day when, lying on sunny slopes of half-holidays, the fair chivalrous figures and beautiful shapes of knights and ladies were visible to me—­ever since I grew to love Rebecca, that sweetest creature of the poet’s fancy, and longed to see her righted.

That she and Ivanhoe were married, follows of course; for Rowena’s promise extorted from him was, that he would never wed a Jewess, and a better Christian than Rebecca now was never said her catechism.  Married I am sure they were, and adopted little Cedric; but I don’t think they had any other children, or were subsequently very boisterously happy.  Of some sort of happiness melancholy is a characteristic, and I think these were a solemn pair, and died rather early.