north-west against the British possessions in India, which, on account of the immense preparations necessary for such an expedition, cannot take place otherwise than slowly, the Anglo-Indian government would have plenty of time to take the necessary prevention against it, which should especially consist in securing, either by amicable arrangement or by an armed force, the attachment or the submission of those countries which separate the British possessions from the Indus, a river which constitutes the natural boundary of British India, and to which the Anglo-Indian army must advance, if military and political reasons have any influence in the council at Calcutta. The count goes on to remark that the Indus being now proved to be navigable for more than nine hundred miles, not only makes it a boundary to be easily defended, but, what is of still more importance, it can be rendered the medium on which the army collected on its banks can be easily supplied with ammunition, artillery, &c.

After having given an estimate of the strength to which the AngloIndian army might be easily raised, (he did not calculate on the drain to China) and stated how its divided parts might be best located and disposed of for meeting any attempt to invade India, (having always his eye particularly directed to Russia,) the count proceeds to remark, that for the sake of still greater security, the army "might extend, if possible, its outposts to Peshawur, Cabool, and the Soliman chain of mountains;" and that "as the British commander may easily judge, from the direction of the hostile preparations, on which part of the Indus (the upper, middle, or lower) the attack is intended, he will be able so to distribute his own forces as to meet the the proper point."

enemy

at

Still, it is impossible to regard the insidious conduct of Russia as other than furnishing strong grounds for vigilance, decisive action, and indeed for random measures. How easy and how customary for the Autocrat to avow and disavow, to cashier or to screen, his agents, just as it suits his purpose. It may be true that Nicholas disclaimed Viscovitsch and recalled Simonovitsch,-that one committed suicide so as to save the emperor's responsibility, and that the other was for a time treated as a disgraced servant. How convenient all this for a grasping and treacherous despot! But not to enlarge further with regard to the perfidy and pretensions of Russia, or to straggle longer in and about the East, we conclude with this significant fact, that according to one speaker's testimony a few nights ago in the House of Commons, the recalled and disgraced Simonovitsch is now GovernorGeneral of Poland.

ART. IV.

1. The Palfrey; a Love Story of Old Times. By LEIGH HUNT. How and Parsons.

2. The Christian Pilgrim; a Poem of Palestine. By EDMUND PEEL, Benchurch. Newby.

"THE Palfrey" will rank as one of the most characteristic and refreshing of Leigh Hunt's many pleasant works. The story, which is taken from an old French narrative poem, of a date in fact prior to Chaucer, has now been by an agreeable licence transplanted to an English soil, and with as genial an air as if the tale had been indigenous amongst us. It is cast into the reign of Edward the First; while Kensington, the birth-place of Queen Victoria, is happily chosen for the principal scene of action. Very naturally therefore is the poem dedicated to her Majesty, and in Mr. Hunt's most graceful and simple manner.

With regard to the old French poems which were in vogue prior to Chaucer's era, Mr. Hunt gives us some critical notices in the preface which are worthy of being transcribed. He says, "I cannot conclude this, I fear, long preface to a short story, without recommending to poetical readers a closer intimacy than has yet been cultivated with these first spring-blossoms of French and British genius, called Lais and Fabliaux. All the world is acquainted with the reputation of the Provençal or Southern French lyrical poets, the precursors of Petrarch; but the very existence, in England and Northwestern France, of a light narrative poetry, of genuine and sometimes exquisite merit, heralding and assisting to inspire the geniuses of Chaucer and Boccaccio, is a fact better known to poetical antiquaries than familiar, as it deserves to be, to the lovers of verse in general. Its prolixity (the result of a want of information for the many) the reader may soon learn the art of skimming over. The cynical plain-speaking of some of the stories, sometimes on the most revolting subjects, and of an excess almost amounting to a sort of horrible innocence, is still more easily avoided by those who choose to take the alarm. But the gushing tenderness of others, the simple and sensitive words of honest passion and delight, free from the haunting fears of criticism and correctness; the healthy and hearty vigour, sometimes even sublimity; the belief in everything good and lovely; the fresh and laughing morning lip, carolling in the sunshine and happy in the arms of nature,-these are suggesters of first principles in poetry always salutory to recur to, and the more so in proportion as society advances, because custom and convention perpetually tend, not only to make us forget, but be ashamed of them. Above all, it appears to me calculated to do our native poetry good,

6

on a side upon which, great and abundant as it is on all others the very highest, it is not so complete as the rest-I mean that of animal spirits. It might assist us in that respect, as our graver feelings were encouraged into purity and depth of utterance by the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, the best gift ever bestowed by critic upon modern genius. Courage is a drug' upon both sides of the Channel, and abundant also are the harvests of wit and humour; yet Béranger in France, and Christopher North' in Scotland, are almost the only living authors who, in a poem not comic, would have animal spirits enough to venture to say of a knight, in speaking of his contempt of the luxuries of the table, that his sugar-plums were the points of broken swords, and his mustard lances, and his pepper made of powdered hauberks!' adding, with a sublimity which Milton himself would not have surpassed had he written on his meditated subject of King Arthur' instead of Paradise Lost,' that he 'went to sleep to the noise of thunder,' and that his drink—and here again the animal spirits come grandly into play-'his drink was the great dust and the breath of horses.' Chaucer never beat that; who

had good fellowship and sublimity both."

It may be questioned, however, whether the time spent not only in learning the quaint language in which these narrative and antique French poems are written, but in ferreting out their stray beauties, would be repaid, unless it were for the sake of resetting the gems in the manner and with the skill that have been exhibited in the specimen before us.

The subject of the "Love Story of Old times" consists principally of a charming little romantic incident that seems to have found special favour in Germany as well as in France, viz., that of a palfrey which had been presented by a lover to his mistress, having run off with her from the church-door to her own knight's castle; and thus saving her at the last moment from an abhorred union. Our poet has accommodated this incident to his purpose, infusing into the story the feelings and features of a strictly national character. A poor knight, but having a wealthy uncle, is the accepted wooer of the daughter of old Sir Guy, who looks more to money than to youth and young folks' fancies. When therefore the two ancients meet at Sir Guy's castle, to talk over the business of the lovers, the old uncle is suddenly enchanted by the young lady, and is preferred on account of his riches by the father. But all ends well, and, of course, in a great measure through the agency of a palfrey.

Such will give our readers some notion of the characters and incidents of the story, which are worked up, as we have intimated, in Leigh Hunt's most felicitous style, and with his usual kindly sympathies for whatever is pure, simple, or quaint in nature or in life. The opening of the poem is peculiarly striking as well as illustrative of Hunt's genius and tastes.

'Tis June, and a bright sun burneth all.
Sir William hath galloped from Hendon Hall
To Kensington, where in a thick old wood
(Now its fair Gardens) a mansion stood,
Half like fortress and half like farm,

A house which had ceased to be threatened with I
The gates frown'd still, for the dignity's sake,
With porter, portcullis, and a bit of a lake;
But ivy caressed their warm old ease,
And the young rooks chuckled across the trees,
And burning below went the golden bees.
The spot was the same where, on a May morn,
The Rose that toppeth the world was born.

Sir William hath galloped, and well was bent
His palfrey to second a swift intent;
And yet, having come, he delayeth his knock,
E'en though a sweet maiden counteth the clock
Till she meet his eye from behind the chair,
Where sitteth Sir Guy with his old white hair.
But the youth is not rich, and day by day
Sir Guy groweth cold, and hath less to say.
And taunteth his wit with haws and hums,
Coughing with grandeur and twirling his thumbs,
Till visiting turneth to shame and gall,

And Sir William must speak what endangereth all.

We next give the meeting of the two ancients. There is healthy humour in the fancies as well as a nice diversity in the characters, which the passage pleasantly brings out.

Sir Grey and Sir Guy, like proper

old boys,

Have met with a world of coughing and noise;
And after subsiding judiciously dine-
Serious the venison, and chirping the wine.
They talk of the court, now gathering all

To the sunny plump smoke of Earl Mount Hall;
And pity their elders laid up on the shelves,
And abuse every soul upon earth but themselves;
Only Sir Grey doth it rather to please,

And Sir Guy out of honest old spite and disease;
For Sir Grey hath a face so round and so red,
The whole of his blood seemeth hanging his head;
While Sir Grey's red face is waggish and thin,
And he peereth with upraised nose and chin.

Natheless, Sir Grey excepteth from blame
His nephew Sir Will. and his youthful flame;
And each soundeth t'other, to learn what hold
The youth and the lady may have of his gold.
Alas! of his gold will neither speak,

Though the wine it grew strong and the tongue grew weak;

And when the sweet maiden herself appears,
With a breath in her bosom, and blush to her ears,
And the large thankful eyes of the look of a bride,
Sir Grey recollecteth no creature beside;

He watcheth her in, he watcheth her out,

He measureth her ankle, but not with his gout;

He chuckleth like chanticleer over a corn,

And thinks it but forty years since he was born.

There are several sweet artistic illustrations; and altogether the piece is a gem. Mr. Hunt promises some more specimens of Norman song, if the present meets with approbation. We confidently look forward for several of these sweet offerings.

"The Christian Pilgrim" appears to be Mr. Peel himself, in company with an Asiatic missionary, who had been converted to Christianity. The pilgrimage embraced a number of the most famous parts of Palestine; being seriously descriptive, and evincing warm religious feeling. The poem is thrown into the Spenserian stanza, which is managed with musical ease as well as a knack at smooth composition. The distinctive character of the piece is happy description, without, however, novelty of sentiment or even proofs of exquisite perception of coy images and bold points of scenery and incident; for there is a plethora of words rather than a terse and masterful selection. We present one specimen which seems to have been thrown off at the moment when the scene described actually took place; or at least when the remembrance of it was minutely accurate and fresh in the writer's eye as well as mind. It describes Arabian cavalry descending a precipitous and rugged mountain-pass.

Hark to the trampling of a mountain host;
Behold the flashing of a stately show!

Arm❜d men, and horses clothed with thunder, coast
The crags-a squadron bold, of Araby the boast.

It was a strange, a spirit-stirring sight,
The bridle loose upon the floating mane,
To see those horses hanging from the height,
Or plunging, undirected by the rein,
Into the hollow, down the path of pain;
The rider like a statue, sitting still,
Attempting not to spur or to restrain
The courser sure of foot, to shoot at will
The steep, to jump the dike, or clamber up the hill.

Soon as the rear of that superb array
Had disappear'd behind the deep ravine,
The travellers went rejoicing on their way,