To mention Kenilworth, and such a host
Of questions will rain down, from those who read
Scott's wizard pages, as will doubtless make
The precious tide of talk run free again.
And when I'm sitting in my grandame chair,
If e'er I live such honored place to fill,
I'll hush the noisy young ones, should they tease
And trouble their Mamma, with sugared bribes
Of tales from Kenilworth.
Monday, Oct. 12, 1840.
Masses of luxuriant ivy clasped and enfolded the crumbled walls and mouldering turrets of Kenilworth, which once resounded with the revels of nobility and royalty. I was not prepared to find it so entire a ruin. The absence of all living inhabitants must plead my excuse for seeking an interview with its founder, Geoffry de Clinton, the clear-minded and plain-spoken knight, who was so often favored in his fortalice with a visit from the courtly monarch, Henry the First; as well as for imagining, on yonder broken heights, the lofty form and frowning features of Simon de Montfort, who, scarcely a century after, summoned his retainers, and led the malcontent barons to the battle-field against his sovereign, Henry the Third.
