A short beak, and crooked tayl,
He hath, and bores tusshe sansfayle,
Black is hys hede as pytche

It is a beast ferliche."*

For, although he will eat wild fruit, yet he loves human flesh better than anything. The remark that the Ypotame' is more wonderful than an 'olifaunte,' affords an additional proof to us that this romance was written during the third Henry's reign; for in the year 1255, his brother-in-law, King Louis, sent him an elephant as a present. It was landed at Sandwich, and conveyed from thence to London, amid, as may be well supposed, great marvelling of the people. A tolerably correct portrait of this 'strange and wonderful beast,' as Matthew Paris calls him, is still to be seen in the illuminated copy of this chronicler's works in the Cottonian collection.

Alexander, nothing daunted by the wild beasts around him, causes large fires to be made to keep them off, and his tent to be set up, with two hundred golden lamps hanging before it, and shedding brighter light than all beside, his priceless carbuncle stone. Thus they pass the night in safety, but on the following day they are glad to accept two huge greyhounds, kindly sent them by a neighbouring king, whose complexion is blue, and who has the cat-like quality of seeing in the dark. Dragons and gigantic crabs next attack them, but Alexander presses onward, meets Porus, sends him a challenge, like a Christian knight, fights, and vanquishes him-and then, in true chivalrous manner, vows eternal friendship, and takes him with him a tolerable journey, for it is to the world's end. Arrived here, they behold two gold images placed on brass pedestals, and made, we are informed, by Hercules. Again our hero sets off toward the north, to subdue Magog. Here he meets with a nation of giant cannibals, also a people who dwell under the water, and divers other marvels: in the midst of all which the romancer describes a nation on the east of Africa, a 'wonder fayre folke,' clothed in scarlet and green, and who drink wine too—

and dies. He is finally 'lapped in golde,' and 'laid in a temple of Appolyn,' and thus endeth King Alisaundre.'

The writer of this curious romance was, doubtless, a sober, serious man, an ecclesiastic in all probability, who sought to instruct as well as amuse his hearers, and to give them lessons in geography, as well as a narrative of his hero's exploits. Very different was the next writer,-he is also anonymous,-the author of Richard Cuer de Lion,' a most spirited romance, which, from the very peculiar style of the writer, has, we think, been greatly misunderstood.

'Many romans men make newe,
Of gode knightés, and of trewe:
Of ther dedes men make romauns,
Both in Englande and in Fraunce ;'-

and many are these gallant knights,-Alexander, Charlemagne, King Arthur; but, naturally enough, the writer considers that a tale of the monarch whose exploits in the Holy Land were still fresh in the popular mind, would be more interesting; So I will tell you a tale of King Richard,' says he; and it is a choice one too, for

In Frenshe bokys this rhyme is wroughte;
Lewéd menne, knowe it noughte,

Lewéd menne can Frenshe none

Among an hondred unnethis one.'

We are rather surprised that even Mr. Weber should consider these lines a proof that Richard Cuer de Lion' is actually a translation from the French, when we remember how common it is for the trouvéres to assert that their tales are derived either from the 'Breton lays,' or 'choice Latin,' even in cases where they may be traced to quite a different source. Indeed, the art of literary puffing boasts a venerable antiquity, and seems to have arisen from the strife of minstrels, who crowded to public festivals, all eager to obtain a hearing, and who therefore set forth-often, as may be seen in the remains of the French and Anglo-Norman trouvéres, with much cleverness-the superiority of their own compositions. Now, by pretending that his story was derived from the French, the writer evidently prided himself upon his superior station, for the 'lewed menne,' the commonalty, can frenshe none;' and yet, to them, a tale of Cœur de Lion would possess far more interest than one about the heroes of other days.

The story opens quite in a romantic way. King Henry, determined to marry the fairest woman alive, sends out messengers to make diligent search. They, however, are scarcely

arrived in the midsea,' when they behold a beautiful vessel making toward them. This vessel is described with much glee, for ‘al was whyte as whale'sbon,' and every nail was gold, and the yard-arms were gold, and the mast was ivory, and the cordage white silk. Extravagant enough all this, may the reader say, but to the hearer of the thirteenth century, it was merely a little exaggeration; for vessels were then richly painted, often splendidly gilded, and although silken sails and cordage might be too expensive, still the sails were often elaborately embroidered. The passengers were worthy of their vessel-noble knights and ladies, with one in the midst bright as the sun thro' glas,' and a crowned king sitting by her on a chair of carbuncle stone. This king greets the messengers, tells them he is King of Antioch, and is bound with his daughter, Cassidorien, to England. The messengers rejoice, for the lady with this eastern name is evidently the fairest of women; so they conduct the king and his daughter to King Henry, who joyfully marries her. Now it certainly at first sight seems strange, that if the writer were an Englishman, he should be ignorant that Richard's mother was Elinor of Aquitaine, a woman, too, of some celebrity in her time. But it would be stranger still if a Frenchman made this mistake, for Elinor was even better known to French history; her birth, her first and second marriages, having all taken place in France. She had been crowned Queen of France, too, as well as of England. Now we must bear in mind that the popular knowledge of regal genealogy scarcely in the present day extends a century back. The names of our great monarchs, indeed, stand out like towering land-marks, and the rudest among us have some faint notion of Alfred, William the Conqueror, or Queen Elizabeth, but we much doubt whether one in a hundred of those who have duly passed through a course of school history can tell, whether the mother of George the Third was French or German, still less what part she took in public affairs.

Three children are born to this queen, Richard, John, and a daughter; but meanwhile suspicion arises in the mind of the Earl of Salisbury, that she is not altogether a good Christian. It appears that although she attends service, she always contrives to leave the chapel before the consecration of the host. The earl communicates his doubts to the king, and most unchivalrously promises to compel the queen by main force to stay out the whole service. The queen goes as usual with her children, attends devoutly until the wonder-working words are about to be pronounced; she then turns to depart, but is firmly held by the uncourteous earl, when, rising into the air, with one of her children in each hand, she cleaves the roof, and vanishes. The daughter is carried off by the mother; but John, of whom with hearty English feeling the writer declares

• He was accursed of flesche and bone,' falls, and is taken up with a broken leg. This marvellous story is, however, not original; the selfsame catastrophe having befallen one of Richard's great-grandmothers, as is set forth by a contemporary chronicler, who naively declares that the story must be true, for the hole in the church roof was yet to be seen.

Although of such questionable parentage on the mother's side, Richard grows up, not only a valiant knight, but very devout; and his father having given him a part of the kingdom, he sets out to seek adventures with Sir Thomas Multon and Sir Fulke D'Oyly, in the disguise of palmers, and proceeds to the Holy Land. There they visit many places wholly unknown to earlier or later travellers, such as the cities of Sudan, Turry, and Caiphas! and then, on their return through Germany, are seized by the king, and imprisoned. Richard does not at all brook his captivity, although the king's daughter pays him a visit. Ardor, the king's son, does the same, but with a less friendly purpose, for he insults him, and gives him so hearty a cuff on the head, that Richard staggers backward. Ardor, notwithstanding this unknightly conduct, has some little remains of chivalrous feeling; so he promises Richard that he shall be allowed to return the blow on the morrow. Now, at this Richard was very glad, for he had lived on little save bread and water; a diet, as the writer feelingly remarks, very unsuited for fight-loving Englishmen. On this night, however, his jailer provides him with a good supper; and thus fortified, when on the morrow Ardor presents himself to receive the cuff

, Richard clenches his fist, and returns it with such abundant usury, that the young prince is rendered for ever unable to give another. The rage and sorrow of the king at the death of his heir is furious; he determines to put Richard to death—but how? Jailers and executioners all stand in awe of his terrible fist. At length it is determined to send a lion into his dungeon, the king wisely judging that a lion's scull would be rather too hard for his prisoner's heaviest blows. Richard, however, takes these preparations very quietly; merely providing himself with several handkerchiefs; but the lion

hungry was, and megre,

"
And bit his tail for to be egre,
Faste about on the wawes,
Abrode he spredde al his pawes;
And roréd lowde, and gapyd wide,' -

but all was in vain. Richard “sterte hym to,' thrust his kerchiefed hand down the lion's throat, and plucked out his heart. On went Richard, no man withstanding him, from his dungeon to the palace hall, where he ate the lion's heart to the great edification of the company, the king himself bestowing on him the title of Cour de Lion.'

Richard now returns home, and is warmly welcomed; but he determines to set forth with a large armament to Palestine. From many portions of this part of the narrative we feel half inclined to believe this curious romance to be the production of one who had visited the Holy Land himself, and not as a pilgrim, but a soldier. The description of the voyage is given with such spirit-of the fighting, both on sea and land, with such hearty good will,--some of the slighter peculiarities, too, of Saracen dress and warfare, with such minuteness, that if he did not set lance in rest there, we think he must have drawn a good tough English bow. The hearty, but rodomontade spirit in which the whole narrative is told, strongly resembles the manner in which an adventure-loving traveller, with a keen sense of humour, would endeavour to astonish his stay-at-home auditory; trying how far he could tax their credulity, and yet unwilling to let them know that he was actually quizzing them.

Arrived in the Holy Land, King Richard mounts his grey steed, takes his redoubtable axe,-made on purpose to break the Sarazins bones,'—in his hand, and lays about him with such hearty good will, that he excites the jealousy of the King of France, and the terror of Saladin. The King of France is sorely abused here, and so are the French--the anti-Gallican feeling breaking out vehemently in this part of the narrative, the doctrine that one Englishman is equal to ten Frenchmen being reiterated with a heartiness which shows how orthodox a portion of his creed it was to the narrator. Owing to this feud with the King of France, King Richard had to attack the richly laden Saracen dromond all by himself; at his summons, however,

• To hym comen marineres enow.
Kyng Richard bade hem fasté rowe;
• Row és on faste, who that ys feynt
In evil water may he be dreynte.'
They rowed hard, and sung thereto,

• With hevého, and rumbelowe.”
And through St. Edmund's help the dromond was taken.

In the midst of all his fighting, Richard, however, falls grievously sick of ague. He loses his appetite ; and, of all things, he now vehemently longs for pork. Now pork, our