In these difficulties, she found all her measures of defence against the rebellion of Charles, thwarted by the partisans of Urban, and was obliged to have recourse to Provence and the court of France, appointing Louis of Anjou, brother of Charles V., her universal heir. But the unexpected death of that monarch transferred the government to Louis as regent, whose rapacity made him so odious to his country, that the apprehension of internal tumult kept the nobility, who had armed for the defence of Naples, at home, for the protection of their own kingdom. The invasion of Naples was now inevitable, and, after various fortunes, Durazzo besieged Joanna in Castel Novo, defeated and took Otho prisoner, imprisoned the hapless queen, and was solemnly crowned in the cathedral.

During eight months, all the miseries of a harsh captivity were inflicted on Joanna, in hopes that the privations she suffered might subdue her proud spirit to purchase some melioration of her condition, by the cession of Provence; but, constant to her resolution, the only fruits of these measures was a new testament, made in prison, confirming her former grant to Louis of Anjou.

She was probably at this period utterly careless of life. As the captive of Durazzo, it could possess nothing to make it valuable; and had she been restored to the throne, unceasing cares, struggles, and suspicion awaited her, and measures of severity repugnant to her nature would have been daily necessary.

The appearance of a large naval armament in the Bay of Naples from Provence, was the signal for the consummation of a crime which Charles had not, perhaps, at first contemplated. The duke of Anjou had left Provence with an army of thirty-five thousand knights. The scarcely-concealed enmity of Urban VI. threatened a danger of the most imminent kind, and the universal desire for the restoration of Joanna was so evident, that her presence alone seemed necessary to rally all ranks round her standard.

To rid himself of a part of his fears, and to secure to himself at least one ally, Charles granted a base compliance to the embassy of the king of Hungary, who sent at this period to congratulate him on his success, and to demand the death of Joanna, as the reward of his past aid, and the price of his future friendship.

Not daring to trust any Neapolitan to perpetrate the bloody deed, he despatched four Hungarian soldiers to Muro, charged with its execution.

Whether Joanna was, from any peculiar circumstance, led to suspect that the crisis of her fate was at hand, is unknown; but immediately before the time secretly appointed for her death, she made so powerful an appeal to Charles to spare the life of Otho, that he yielded to her intercession, and probably as some sort of reparation of his offences to her, treated him well, and finally restored him to liberty.

In the days of her most brilliant prosperity, Joanna had been re

markable for her constant attention to religious observances, and probably in the hour of her bitter reverse of fortune they constituted her only consolation. At stated hours she performed her devotions alone in the chapel of the castle. On the morning of the twentysecond of May she repaired as usual to the sacred spot, and while she knelt before the altar, imploring forgiveness at the throne of grace for her past offences, whatever they might have been, the Hungarian soldiers secretly entered, and whilst two of them guarded the door, the other two passed a silk cord round her neck, and instantly strangled her.

• Her body, by order of Durazzo, was brought to Naples, and for eight days exposed to the gaze of the populace in the church of St. Clair, that her partisans, by the contemplation of the last sad remains of departed royalty, might be convinced that all further efforts against him were vain. But this had not the effect he intended, for those who had been attached to the 'murdered queen were exasperated beyond recall, and many who had been before indifferent in her cause, were moved to compassion by her unmerited sufferings, and, generously indignant at the cruelty and perfidy of Durazzo, refused to submit to the rule of one whom no benefits could attach nor any duty restrain.' pp. 245—248.

Our anxiety to render justice to this elaborate and elegant historical miscellany,- for we know no other class of compositions in which it can be ranked,--has led us into a long, but, we trust, not uninteresting abstract. The Author is perfectly master of his subject; he has brought to his task considerable industry and erudition. Joanna, indeed, as we have already hinted, is not the most conspicuous character in her own bio graphy, the materials to illustrate which are necessarily doubtful and scanty. But this defect has been supplied by the ample researches which the Author has directed into the various collateral events of one of the most interesting periods of modern history. With a few slight objections, therefore, to the occasional occurrence of taffeta and silken phrases,' and to some affectations and redundancies of diction, we can conscientiously recommend bis volumes to the perusal of those who are desirous of acquiring much useful and elegant information, comprised within a reasonable compass, which has heretofore lain scattered over many scarce, bulky, and inaccessible works.

Art. II. L'Etrangére. Par le Vicompte D'Arlincourt. Avec un

Portrait de l'Auteur. 2 tomes. Paris, 1825. WHEN we observe a more than ordinary quantity of literary

puffing,--a solicitude unusually restless and unquiet to defend the reputation, and to panegyrize the writings of a living author,-a soreness and wincing in that author, or his friends, who are generally as injudicious as himself, under the animadversions of publíc criticism,--any thing, in short, but the patient and tranquil dignity with which real genius marks the silent progress of its works in calm anticipation of those suffrages of futurity, which in due season are sure to rescind the light decrees of fashion, and to silence the capricious and frivolous voices of the vulgar; when we observe these symptoms, we are not without our suspicions, that the author and his work are good for little. The romance now in our hands, and just fresh from the popular pen of the Vicompte d'Arlincourt, is a case in point; for, judging, by the preface of its pretended Editor, whom we cannot mistake, and whom it would be prudery not to declare, from unequivocal testimony, to be the Vicompte himself, we might be led to suppose, that all France was suspended on its fate, and that every circle and every café, instead of ringing with murmurs against the British recognition of South America, or with the portentous schemes of the Holy Alliance

gravesque Principum amicitias et arma

Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus'were occupied exclusively with the merits of l'Etrangére, le Renegat, and le Solitaire.' Crimination and re-crimination, all the artillery of wounded pride are unmercifully discharged upon his critical assailants, and every atom of testimony is scraped together by the indefatigable vanity of authorship, to uphold the credit of compositions which, if they deserved any credit at all, would require much less to be said in their favour. To the trial of this important issue, the Vicompte subpenas every journal which has spoken in his praise. So vitiated also is his appetite for commendation, that he feeds complacently upon the eulogies of the obscurest portion of our own periodical press. The Gazette of Fashion, and the Ladies' Museum, which every well-educated writer would despise as arbiters of literary taste, are dragged into court to give evidence for an author whose popularity is represented as being equal in France to that of Sir Walter Scott in England !

Our readers would hardly give us credit for our statements of the inordinate rate at which the Vicompte estimates his own productions, if we adduced no instance. We, therefore, cite the following passage from the preface of the supposed Editor, as a sample of the insufferable self-satisfaction with which he enlarges on the merit of his last publication.

• I stop here.-If it were necessary to bring together upon this occasion the commendations with which the jouruals of every country have commemorated M. D'Arlincourt, a volume of preface would be insufficient; and so long a series of panegyric would be tedious. I will only remark, before I conclude, that in foreign countries, it is Le Renegat, which, of all the romances of the author of Le Solitaire, has produced the most general effect. The present publication, L'Etrangére, is perhaps the most remarkable amongst them. The extreme simplicity of its action, the very few incidents or characters which preserve the thread of the narration, its unbroken unity of place, are entirely in the ancient taste (tout-à fait du goût antique); and, added to this, never were a more animated interest, more heartrending scenes, more ardent love, a purer moral, and more pathetic situations, more prominently revealed in any work of imagination.'

Then, after a debate, which is as ridiculous as its subject, whether the works of the Vicompte belong to the classical or the romantic school, the momentous decision is thus pronounced ;-not indeed in so many words, but in substance: If, by the romantic kind, be implied bad taste, or extravagant and monstrous exaggerations of language and sentiment, M. D'Arlincourt is not, and never was, romantic. But if the romantic comprehends every thing in which sublime conception and fine writing consist, why then, M. D'Arlincourt is romantic-with a vengeance.

• In fact, what impartial readers have constantly remarked in the works of the Author of Le Solitaire, is, the skilfulness of his plots, which, while they are subject to all the unities and rules prescribed by reason, have all the severity of the classic school, and nothing of the romantic, but a diction glowing with images. Foreigners more equitable in their judgements of French authors than the French themselves,' (Is it possible, we ask, whether this can be seriouly said?)

have particularly enlarged upon the pure taste which presides over M. D'Arlincourt's compositions, and the harmonious correctness of their style. Never in his romances (if those productions can be called romances which partake at once of history, poetry, and romance) does he present supernatural beings for his heroes; monsters with crooked claws, spectres, demons, and vampires. His incidents are clear and simple, not overladen with characters and episodes. It is only the disorders and passions of the heart, that he strives to delineate; and if he sometimes affrights his readers with strong and terrible images, his pictures are not those of corporeal monsters, but of the agitations of the soul. Hence, his writings have charmed all ages, all (both] sexes, all classes, and all nations.

Preface, pp. 41–46. This is enough, in all conscience; but the eulogy upon • L'Etrangere' is not done; for, after dwelling upon its various excellencies, the supposed Editor threatens us, in the genuine

6

spirit of theatrical puffing, with its being positively the last

time.

The character of Arthur,' he observes, is so sketched as to leave profound impressions on the heart; and many young men may probably read with profit the last romance of the Bard of Charlemagne. The last romance! It is with regret we write these words: but it unfortunately seems certain, that M. D'Arlincourt will henceforward renounce this class of composition. History will occupy his leisure; he also hopes to return to Poesy. In each career may he attain new triumphs !'

In this tone of self-adulation, does the Vicompte talk of his own productions ;-for no one can be duped by the shallow pretence of putting it into the mouth of a supposed Editor. Let us then briefly examine the work; not, indeed, following it through the whole mass of its sentimental absurdities, but only so far as to enable our readers to judge, to what extent its execution corresponds to such magnificent pretensions.

The scene is laid in Brittany during the reign of Philip Augustus in the thirteenth century. At the opening of the story, a grand fête, an anniversary commemoration of the retreat of the English before the triumphant legions of the immortal Philip Augustus,' is celebrated at the ancient feudal castle of Montolin, situated in a beautiful lake. Arthur of Ravenstal, the hero of the romance, then in his twentieth year, arrives in the midst of these splendid rejoicings, having just emerged from perfect seclusion, in which, according to the dying injunctions of his father, he had been educated by Olburgius, who accompanies his pupil to the castle. The territorial domains of young Arthur were administered by the lord of Montolin, his relative; and the latter had long cherished the project of uniting his daughter (Izolette) to the young and opulent Ravenstal. This singular youth turns out a red-hot enthusiast; he is described as placing all his happiness in ideal sublimities, in imaginary blessings between life and eternity, ⚫ enjoyments less pure than the pleasures of heaven, but much exceeding those of earth.' He is moreover contemplative, impetuous, proud. Approaching the castle of Montolin in a gondola, along the lake which is covered with boats and little vessels in their gayest trim, he espies a white cottage embosomed in trees, and learns that it is the abode of The Strangera sort of lady of the lake, a mysterious, solitary, beautiful being, of whom nobody knows any good, and every one suspects harm. She is of course the heroine. Suddenly, a form is seen in a humble boat gliding across the stream, as if in fear, and in silence. It is the mysterious stranger. Arthur sees,