plain, unvarnished tale, and their nearer view of the transactions they describe. Were we to attempt the solution of this inquiry, we should be inclined to take a middle course, and to say, in general, that while there is great beauty of a specific kind in the simpler narratives of the primary authorities of our national story, the plau on which later writers have proceeded, is at once the more comprehensive and the more instructive. To state simple facts in their due course and coherence,-to describe collateral circumstances, and to specify dates and localities,-comprise nearly the whole of the task of the chronicler; while the after-historian has to gather up the fragments, to sift discordant evidence, to weigh conflicting authorities, and to pierce throngh the mists and darkness which the reign of prejudice, defective knowledge, and the lapse of years, have thrown round the characters and occurrences of ancient days.

William of Malmesbury belongs, however, to a sort of intermediate class. He makes up his tale partly from the resources which he has found in older writers, and partly from report. He is an admirable story-teller, and we forgive him his occasional flourishes and affectations, in consideration of his richness, his variety, and the bold and expressive touches with which he brings out the marking features of individual character, as well as the peculiar force of critical circumstances. The charge of credulity seems to us to have been somewhat over-urged. He lived in times when to doubt on certain points was an approach to heresy; and he frequently insinuates his suspicions in a way that reflects much credit on his honesty and discrimination. If his vanity has occasionally led him to depreciate the claims of others, bis delinquencies of this kind are neither numerous nor offensive; they are, in fact, nearly confined to the instance of Ethelwerd ; and even in this case, although he may have been unjust to the substantial merits of that historian, he cannot be accused of having exaggerated the fantastic and injurious peculiarities of his composition. Malmesbury's diligence was unbounded. He • collected every thing within his reach. His materials, as he often feelingly laments, were scanty and confined, more especially in the earlier annals. The Chronicles of that era afforded him but little ; yet, of that little he has made the most, through the diligence of his research and the soundness of his judgement. His discrimination in selecting, and his skill in arranging, are equally conspicuous. His inexhaustible patience, his learning, his desire to perpetuate every thing interesting or useful, are at all times evident. Sensibly alive to the deficiencies of the historians who preceded him, he constantly endeavours to give a clear and connected relation of every event. Indeed, nothing escaped his observation, which could tend to eluci

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date the manners of the times in which he wrote. History was the darling pursuit of Malmesbury, and more especially biographical history, as being, perhaps, the most pleasing mode of conveying information. He knew the prevailing passion of mankind for anecdote, and was a skilful master in blending amusement with instruction. Few historians ever possessed such power of keeping alive the reader's attention ; few so‘ably managed their materials, or scattered so many flowers by the way. Of his apt delineation of character, and happy mode of seizing the most prominent features of his personages, it is difficult to speak in terms of adequate commendation. He does not weary with a tedious detail, • line upon line, nor does he complete his portrait at a sitting On the contrary, the traits are scattered, the proportions disunited, the body dismembered, as it were ; but in a moment some master-stroke is applied, some vivid Aash of Promethean fire animates the canvas, and the perfect figure darts into life and expression : hence, we have the surly, ferocious snarl of the Conqueror, and the brutal horse-laugh of Rufus. Malmesbury's history, indeed, may be called a kind of biographical drama, where, by a skilful gradation of character, and variety of personage, the story is presented entire, though the tediousness of continued narrative is avoided. Again, by saying little on uninteresting topics, and dilating on such as are important, the tale, which might else disgust from the supineness or degeneracy of some principal actor, is artfully relieved by the force of contrast; and the mind, which perhaps recoils with indignation from the stupid indifference of an Ethelred, hangs with fond delight on the enterprising spirit and exertion of an Ironside.' pp. xiii, xiv.

Of Malmesbury himself, but little is known; and the few imperfect sketches of his intellectual and moral character are only to be collected from the casual intimations supplied by his own writings. His descent was Anglo-Norman, and the date of his birth may be inferred to have been about 1195. In early life, he assumed the ecclesiastical profession in the monastery from which he derives his distinctive name; and gradually advanced through its various offices, until he ultimately refused the appointment of abbot. His death is, on very uncertain authority, supposed to have taken place about 1243. He distinguished himself by an unremitting pursuit of knowledge, and his multifarious reading is evident from the exuberance with which he pours out his classical stores.

The volume before us contains his great work, of which the first book contains the history of the English' until the union of the Saxon monarchies in the person of Egbert. His materials are arranged in the following order: the history of the kingdom of Řent comes first; then, the West Saxons, the Northumbrians, the Mercians, the East Angles, and the East Saxons, succeed, and occupy the whole of the first division. The second book brings down his history to the Norman invasion; and the remaining three detail the various events of English history until the reign of Stephen, and the escape of the Empress Matilda from Oxford. Of its literary character, as well as of its value as an historical document, we have al. ready given our own opinion, accompanying it with a portion of the critical estimate furnished by Mr. Sharpe, who has entitled himself to the highest credit by his admirable execution of a difficult task. We could not fully exemplify the manner of Malmesbury as an historian, without more copious extracts than would suit our convenience, or gratify our readers ; but, as a specimen of the romantic decorations with which he has relieved the sobriety of authentic narrative, we shall venture on the following legend.

• I shall relate what I recollect having heard, when I was a boy, from a certain monk of our house, a native of Aquitain, a man in years, and a physician by profession. “When I was seven years old,” said he, “ despising the mean circumstances of my father, a poor citizen of Barcelona, I surmounted the snowy Alps, and went into Italy. There, as was to be expected in a boy of that age, seeking my daily bread in great distress, I paid more attention to the food of my mind, than of my body. As I grew up, I eagerly viewed many of the wonders of that country, and impressed them on my memory. Among others, I saw a perforated mountain, beyond which the in. habitants supposed the treasures of Octavian were hidden. Many persons were reported to have entered into these caverns for the purpose of exploring them, and to have there perished, being bewildered by the intricacy of the ways. But, as hardly any apprehension can restrain avaricious minds from their intent, I, with my companions, about twelve in number, meditated an expedition of this nature, either for the sake of plunder, or through curiosity. Imitating, therefore, the ingenuity of Daedalus, who brought Theseus out of the Labyrinth by a conducting clue, we, also, carrying a large ball of thread, fixed a small post at the entrance. Tying the end of the thread to it, and lighting lanthorns, least darkness as well as intricacy, should obstruct us, we unrolled the clue, and fixing a post at every mile, we proceeded on our journey along the caverns of the mountain, in the best manner we were able. Every thing was dark and big with horror; the bats flitting from holes, infested our eyes and faces : the path was narrow, and made dreadful on the left hand by a precipice, and a river flowing beneath it. We saw the way bestrewed with bare bones: we wept over the carcases of men yet in a state of putrefaction, who, induced by hopes similar to our own, had in vain attempted, after their entrance, to return. After some time, however, and many alarms, arriving at the further outlet, we beheld a lake of softly murmuring waters, where the waves came gently rolling to the shores. A bridge of brass united the opposite banks. Beyond the bridge were seen golden horses of great size, mounted by golden riders, and all those other things which are related of Gerbert. The mid-day beam of Phoebus darting upon them with redoubled splendour, dazzled the eyes of the beholders. Seeing these things at a distance, we should have been delighted with a nearer view, meaning, if fate would permit, to carry off some portion of the precious metal. Animating each other in turn, we prepared to pass over the lake. All our efforts, however, were in vain : for, as soon as one of the company, more forward than the rest, had put his foot on the hither edge of the bridge, immediately, wonderful to hear, it became depressed, and the further edge was elevated, bringing forward a rustic of brass, with a brazen club, with which, dashing the waters, he so clouded the air, as completely to obscure both the day and the heavens. The moment the foot was withdrawn, peace was restored. The same was tried by many of us, with exactly the same result, Despairing, then, of getting over, we stood there some little time; and, as long as we could, at least glutting our eyes with the gold. Soon after, returning by the guidance of the thread, we found a silver dish, which being cut in pieces and distributed in morsels, only irritated the thirst of our avidity without allaying it. Consulting to gether, the next day, we went to a professor of that time, who was said to know the unutterable name of God. When questioned, he did not deny his knowledge, adding, that so great was the power of that name, that no magic, no witchcraft could resist it. Hiring him at a grent price, fasting and confessed, he led us, prepared in the same manner, to a fountain. Taking up some water from it in a silver vessel, he silently traced the letters with his fingers, until we understood with our eyes, what was unut ble with our tongues.

We then went confidently to the mountain, but we found the further outlet beset, as I believe, with devils, hating, forsooth the name of God, which was able to destroy their inventions. In the morning, a Jew-necromancer came to me, excited by the report of our attempt ; and, having inquired into the matter, when he heard of our want of enterprise, Yon shall see,' said he, venting his spleen with loud laughter, how far the power of my art can prevail.' And immediately entering the mountain, he soon after came out again, bring. ing, as a proof of his having passed the lake, many things which I had noted beyond it ; indeed, some of that most precious dust which turned every thing touched by it into gold : not that it was really so, but only retained this appearance until washed with water; thing effected by necromancy can, when put into water, deceive the sight of the beholders." ;

The Saxon Chronicle is a record of high and original authority, containing the testimony of contemporary writers to the

most important transactions of our forefathers, both by sea and • land, from their first arrival in this country to the year 1154.' It comprises, though in a scattered form, a great mass of invaluable information concerning the government, history, and habits of our ancestors; their agriculture, their architecture, their coinage, their traffic, their laws, liberties, and religion.

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Mr. Ingram has, moreover, enriched the present edition with many previously unpublished specimens of Saxon poetry.

Philosophically considered,' he observes, this ancient record is the second great phenomenon in the history of mankind. For, if we except the sacred annals of the Jews, contained in the several books of the Old Testament, there is no other work extant, ancient or modern, which exhibits at one view, a regular and chronological panorama of a PEOPLE, described in rapid succession by different writers, through so many ages, in their own vernacular LANGUAGE. Hence it may safely be considered, not only as the primeval source from which all subsequent historians of English affairs have principally derived their materials, and consequently the criterion by which they are to be judged, but also as the faithful depository of our national idiom; affording at the same time, to the scientific investigator of the human mind, a very interesting and extraordinary example of the changes incident to a language, as well as to a nation, in its progress from rudeness to refinement.'

Every thing relating to the authors of this Chronicle lies in perfect obscurity, notwithstanding the ingenious attempts of the present Editor to elicit something like illustration from other sources. As a composition, its prevailing characteristic is simplicity its facts are put forward in the most inartificial way possible. For instance:

A. D. 448. This year John the Baptist shewed his head to two monks, who came from the eastern country to Jerusalem for the sake of prayer, in the place that whilom was the palace of Herod.'

A. D. 455. This year Hengest and Horsa fought with Wurtgern the king, on the spot that is called Aylesford. His brother Horsa being there slain, Hengest afterwards took to the kingdom with

his son Esc.'

Occasionally, however, the annalist ventures on a somewhat more highly coloured language.

A. D. 473. This year Hengest and Esc fought with the Welsh, and took immense booty.' And the Welsh fled from the English like fire.'

And sometimes the fine English spirit breathes through the simple expression in words that burn.'

A. D. 878. This year about mid-winter, after twelfth-night, the Danish army stole out to Chippenham, and rode over the land of the West-Saxons; where they settled and drove many of the people over sea; and of the rest, the greatest part they rode down, and subdued to their will-ALL BUT ALFRED THEIR KING. He, with a little band, uneasily sought out the woods and fastnesses of the moors.'

The following extract will afford a fair example of the general character of this venerable chronicle.