choose them; but to do justice to any one of the scenes would exceed our limits.

With regard to the characters of this novel, by far the most elaborate and important is that of the hero himself; indeed it is one of the defects of the work that he occupies a disproportionate amount of the reader's attention and interest-so much so as to leave in comparative shade the natural and charming heroine, Matilda Mountvilliers, who, is indeed, the heroine only in virtue of her generous and noble love for the hero: if it were not for this she would share the reader's favour about equally with two other charming creations-the gentle Margaret Arundel, and the wild and wilful but tender and true-hearted daughter of the regicide, Goffe.

Among the lighter and more incidental sketches, the cleverest and most amusing is that of Captain Sillinger, one of the wits of a period and a condition of social manners which proclaimed wit a virtue, and the want of it a union of all the vices. His epigrams-impromptus written à loisir -are as full of point and ill-nature, as they are empty of all the better qualities of wit: a marked feature of the bel esprits of the Restoration. These capital epigrams pointedly remind us that we are reading a work by one of the authors of the "Rejected Addresses."

Upon the whole, we must pronounce " Arthur Arundel" to be a novel if not equal as a whole to " Brambletye House," still claiming to rank in the same class, and possessing the like elements of popularity.

POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.*

THE strong indications of high poetic feeling and talent exhibited in the former productions of this fair authoress, are still more amply manifested in those which are now before us. Notwithstanding a certain degree of abstruseness, and occasional quaintness of expression, which may and probably will render them "caviare to the million," the genius they display, the depth of thought as well as the beauty and propriety of the imagery, set off by a harmony of versification rarely exceeded, must unquestionably secure them no common popularity with all who are capable of appreciating the beauties of a Klopstock, or a Wordsworth. There is much in the opening and principal poem of these volumes, especially, which reminds us of the former. It is couched in a dramatic form, and bears for its title "A Drama of Exile," having for its subject the Exodus of our first parents from the blissful abodes of Eden; or, to use the poetess's own expression,

The new and strange experience of the fallen humanity, as it went forth from Paradise into the wilderness; with a peculiar reference to Eve's allotted grief, which, considering that self-sacrifice belonged to her womanhood, and the consciousness of originating the Fall to her offence" (she goes on to say), "appeared to her imperfectly apprehended hitherto, and more expressible by a woman

than a man.

"There was room at least," (she adds) "for lyrical emotion in those first steps into the wilderness-in that first sense of desolation after wrath-in that first

*Poems by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett.

Author of the "Seraphim," &c.

audible gathering of the recriminating groan of the whole creation'-in that first darkening of the hills from the recoiling feet of angels-and in that first silence of the voice of God."

This she has endeavoured, and not unsuccessfully, to portray in a "form approaching the model of the Greek tragedy," and though she appears, and not unnaturally, to have had the fear of one John Milton before her eyes in regard to her design, and the characters with which it is conversant, yet, she says, and says truly,

"After all, and at the worst, I have only attempted in regard to Milton what the Greek dramatists achieved lawfully in respect to Homer. They constructed dramas on Trojan ground; they raised on the buskin, and even clasped with the sock the feet of Homeric heroes, yet they neither imitated their Homer nor emasculated him."

With respect to the "graver points," of which she speaks as having been objected to by some of her friends, viz., the vision introduced towards the close of the poem, we confess we do not participate in their fears, nor feel the force of their apprehensions. The strong and serious, though by no means enthusiastic, sense of religion, which runs like a lifeblood through the whole poem, cannot for a moment be mistaken, nor can we think it at all calculated to give offence in any quarter free from fanatical hypercriticism.

Of the minor poems which follow, most of which are of a serious, not to say metaphysical cast; our favourite is, we fairly confess, though we question if the authoress herself will sympathize with us, "The Rhyme of the Duchess May." The main incidents of the legend are familiar to all who have ever read of Love and Chivalry, and who are of course aware that

The course of true love never did run smooth.

It is the catastrophe only that is new as well as startling. "The Duchess May," an orphan, is betrothed by her guardian, despite her own contrary feelings, to the "Lord Leigh of Leigh," while she herself doth not only seriously incline to a certain Sir Guy Linteged, but elopes with and marries him. Three little moons have scarcely filled their horns ere the disappointed suitor besieges his more fortunate rival's castle. One after another its defenders fall, the walls are sapped, and about to give way. In this extremity, Sir Guy orders his favourite steed, the one which had enabled him to carry off his bride, to be brought to the summit of the highest tower, a difficult feat for the grooms to accomplish, but which the gentle voice of his lady, whom the noble animal follows like a dog, effects. From this situation it seems to be the good knight's intention to spring headlong down and perish among his enemies, but he is diverted by his lady, who expresses her determination of joining in the leap. Sir Guy calls to his followers to unclasp her hands as she clings to his stirrup.

"Friends and brothers, save my wife,

Pardon, sweet, in change for life-
But I ride alone to God!"

Straight, as if his Holy name
Did upwreathe her as a flame-
Toll slowly!

She upsprung, she rose upright!
In his selle she sate in sight;

By her love she overcame.

And her head was on his breast,
Where she smiled as one at rest-
Toll slowly!

"Ring," she cried, "O vesper bell,
In the beechwood's old chapelle !

But the pasing bell rings best!"
They have caught out at the rein
Which Sir Guy threw loose-in vain-
Toll slowly!

For the horse, in stark despair,
With his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.

And he hangs, he rocks between—
And his nostrils curdle in-
Toll slowly!

And he shivers head and hoof

And the flakes of foam fall off,

And his face grows fierce and thin!

And a look of human woe,

From his staring eyes did go

Toll slowly!

And a sharp cry uttered he,
In a foretold agony

There are other

Of the headlong death below.
And" Ring, ring thou passing bell!"
Still she cried, "i' the old chapelle !"
Toll slowly!

Then back-toppling, crashing back—
A dead weight flung out to wrack,
Horse and riders overfell!

*

poems of great pathos and beauty, among which we may particularize "The Child Asleep," and "Catarina to Camoens," but want of space forbids any further extract.

LADY TRAVELLERS IN ITALY AND GERMANY.*

WHETHER in the capacity of guides or of travelling companionswhether to explore, mark out, and describe the road we should take, or make that road pleasant by their companionship-commend us to female travellers, rather than to those of our own harder and less impressible sex-commend us in particular to Mrs. Ashton Yates, in the one capacity, or to Mrs. Shelley in the other-or, still better, to the two united. Our excellent Murray is, doubtless, the prince of professional cicerones, uniting as he does the intelligence and industry of the best of them, with an honesty which, though it is the most valuable quality for

A Winter in Italy. By Mrs. Ashton Yates. 2 vols.-Rambles in Germany and Italy. By Mrs. Shelley. 2 vols.

such an office, is unluckily the rarest that is ever found combined with it. But, alas for the "Winter in Italy," or the "Ramble in Germany," that is to depend for the daily bread of its facts, its reflections, its feelings, and its varied wants and excitements, on a John Murray alone! As a courier, to be consulted at every stage, or to prepare the way before us, mark the localities for lengthened sojourn, for temporary recreation, or for momentary refreshment, Murray is "your only wear." But to sit beside us in our vehicle, to accompany us in our formal walks or stray wanderings from the beaten track, to quicken our reflections, to excite our sympathies, or to give a tone and temper to our feelings, we desire something more than is consonant or even consistent with the staid and sober character of a guide. And the desideratum has never been better supplied than in Mrs. Ashton Yates or Mrs. Shelley, as the case and temper of the traveller may be. We shall describe the characteristics of these lady-travellers respectively, in order that the reader who is in search of such aid and companionship may judge for himself, as to which of them is best suited to his tastes and requirements. And first of the one who will certainly prove the choice and favourite of the great majority of those travelling English who purpose to pass their next "Winter in Italy." Mrs. Ashton Yates presents, in fact, a rare union of the "guide, companion, friend." Her industry, intelligence, and acquired knowledge of the scenes and matters she treats of, mark her peculiar fitness for the first of these; her cheerful and excitable temperament insures her acceptance as the second; and her warm and universal sympathy with those wants and feelings which constitute our common nature in all its grades, and under all its social phases, claims for her the last and most endearing feature of the union.

A detailed examination of Mrs. Yates's "Winter in Italy" will confirm at every page the above estimate of her intellectual character. Unlike most of our writing travellers, Mrs. Yates spares us the thousandtimes-told tale of preliminary steamboats, posters, and railroads, and takes us up at once at the spot in regard to which she the spot in regard to which she proposes to interest and to enlighten us. Her "Winter in Italy," which is what her title calls upon us to look for at her hands-is not preceded by a whole tedious autumn in getting there. Her first letter-for the work takes that most available and agreeable of all forms when moulded by the hand of a cultivated and intellectual woman-is dated from Perugia, and, after devoting a second epistle to a rapid glance at the notabilities of that singular old city and its environs, the third finds our traveller at Rome, where a considerable portion of her "winter" ("made glorious summer by that sun of Italy!") is destined to be passed; and we do not know where a more available or companionable account of the eternal and imperial city may be found.

From Rome our traveller proceeds, by Cisterna and Mola di Gaeta, to Naples, where a considerable portion of her "Winter in Italy" was to be passed; and, on reaching this " pezzo di cielo caduto in terra," her travelling enthusiasm reaches its height; all her historical associations with this divine spot, whether ancient, Middleaged, or modern, burst forth with renewed freshness; the descriptive, the reflective, and the sentimental, divide her between them, and she becomes at once that "guide, companion, friend," which we have noted at the outset as being exactly what is needed by the inexperienced traveller in a case of this kind.

It must not be supposed, however, that so active and excitable a traveller as Mrs. Yates, allows her "Winter in Italy" to be absorbed by its two principal cities alone. On the contrary, there is no one among the notable features of this beautiful land which she does not place before the reader, in a form that either recalls it vividly to the memory, or impresses it on the imagination, as the case may be. From Naples Mrs. Yates returns to Rome (by way of Palestrina and the Abruzzi) and having made a second brief sojourn with "the mother of dead empires," hastens on to Florence, and thence, by Bologna, Ferrara, Padua, &c., to Venice. Here a sufficient stay is made to note all the remarkable features of this most remarkable of Italian cities; having done which our traveller returns home by the Tyrol, where, however (at Inspruck), her record closes; so that for once we have a book on Italy which is not half taken up with getting there and getting back again.

Mrs. Shelley (for whose charming work we have left ourselves a most inadequate space-scarcely enough to even glance at its general features) is less fitted for an agreeable travelling companion. She is a woman who thinks for herself on all subjects, and who dares to say what she thinks; a woman, moreover, whose masculine and original mind has been strengthened in its habits of thought and reflection, not only by the acquisition of high and varied accomplishments but by a daily association for many years with several of the very highest and finest intellects of an age which has been unrivalled for its intellectual wealth. The travelling reflections and feelings of such a woman will therefore be peculiarly acceptable to that "fit audience though few," who give the tone to intellectual society in this country; and if, as is probable, almost every one of that audience have themselves visited the scenes she describes, their gratification will be enhanced rather than weakened by that circumstance, in the case of an original thinker like Mrs. Shelley. This lady's book comprises "Rambles" taken during the years 1840, '42, and '43, and the Italian tours include nearly the same points as those noted in Mrs. Yates's book: the track is consequently more beaten, and less varied than that pursued in the German department of the work. The volumes are divided into three different parts, the first of which includes a brief summer's residence on the Lake of Como. The second part is confined entirely to Germany, and includes a steam voyage up the Rhine, and a brief residence at several of the popular German wateringplaces. The third and last part of these pleasant "Rambles," is a continuation of the second-opening at Prague in the summer of 1842, and taking us thence, by Saltzburg and the Tyrol, through Verona and Padua, to Venice. Here the travellers (for it is to be noted that Mrs. Shelley was accompanied in all her "Rambles" by her son, and two of his college friends) set up their rest for the two autumn months, and then, after passing the winter and early spring of 1843 in Florence and Rome, we find them (without its being very apparent how they got there) summering at Sorrento, and there (rather abruptly) the book closes. It is, nevertheless, a very charming one, and will amply repay an entire perusal, not only to the most intellectual, but to the most idle of stay-athome readers.