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o As there can be no occasion for prisoners or gaolers, Of attornies, or hangmen where there are no Magistrates, there shall be neither hangınen, at. tornies, gaoler, or prison.”
“ We have thus got rid in a moment of what has embarrassed the whole world from the earliest period.
Of the Finances. There shall be established in extraordinary cases only a general and voluntary tax."
Upon Respiration--My tax is purely voluntary, for those who do not chuse to respire will have no occafion to pay any thing," &c. &c.
The reit of it is pursued in such a strain of irony as cannot fail of delighting the reader. The fatire is so exquisitely keen, that those do not feel the wound on whom it cuts the deepeft, or it never could have been published in France.
Much commendation is due to the Translator, who (using his own words) has infused the spirit of the original-much commendation too is due to hin for the suppression of indelicate scenes which would have precluded the modest British female from perusing the disastrous history of my Uncle : he might have spared two or three situations more perhaps, but they irresistibly excited such pleasing emotions” that he could not find in his heart to expunge them. As a specimen of the translator's attention to Horace
Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus
Interpresan he has transfused the spirit of the following passages into our own idiom. “ The ancient mode of dying in bed was exploded. The modern one,
of making a public exit into the other world, appeared to have given much more satisfaction ; every one seemed pleased with it ; at least, no one said any thing about it.”—“Vanity and self-love transform us into ftrange creatures. There is no man, however low his condition, but thinks himself superior to every one else. I have no doubt but my shoc-black would accept the office of first consul. All I hope is that it will not be offered to him.”
With all the wit, the humour, and the satire of this work we should not have been tempted to quote fo largely from a novel but for the celebrity which it his acquired all over Europe.
Tales of Wonder: Written and collected by M. G. Lewis, Esq. M. P.
Author of the Monk, Castle Spectre, Love of Gain, &c. 2 Vols. large
8vo. PP. 480. 21. 2s. FAR AR from being inclined to join in the cenfure which has been directed
against Mr. Lewis for compiling the present volumes, we think he is much better employed than in most of his former productions, at least, with reference to his well-known romance, entitled The Monk, a work that has tended more to vitiate juvenile minds, and poison the fountains of morality than any thing of the kind that has fallen within our notice for a long period
. Indeed we hardly know of any work of fo licentious a complexion, and of so mischievous a tendency, except the political crudities of the detestable Ci. tizen PAINE. From all that we have read or heard of Mr. Lewis and his works, he seems to us to possess a fingular turn of mind, His fancy appears
to be chiefly attracted by, and absorbed in, the terrible, the horrible, the hideous, and the impoffible; nor can we conceive what has been his bent of education that has led him into so uncommon a track of study. He certainly does not want abilities, or knowledge, but his talents are strangely perverted, and he sometimes seems even to be employed in throwing a ridicule upon
him. felf. But to the present work. It consists of as many tales as the author could collect in order to scare the minds of children, and impress a'terror upon the imagination through life. Some indeed of the compositions to be found in these volumes, are of a pathetic, interesting, and moral caft; but they bear a small proportion to the works of the other tendency. Several pieces were written by Mr. Lewis himself, and others are well known. We fhall extract an imitation from the German, by Walter Scott, as a specimen of the works which these volumes. contain, as he seems to be the best of the new species of horror-breeding Bards.
THE WILD HUNTSMEN.
perftition, very generally believed by the peasants of Germany. Whoever wishes
“ The Wildgrave * winds his bugle horn;
To horse, to horse, halloo, halloo !
And thronging ferfs their Lord pursue.
Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
The mountain echoes startling wake.
Had painted yonder spire with gold,
Loud, long, and deep the bell had told.
Halloo, halloo, and hark again!
Two stranger horsemen join the train,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell :
The left, the swarthy hue of hell.
His smile was like the morn of May;
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.
" He wav'd his huntsman's cap on high,
What sport can earth, or fea, or sky,
• To match the princely chase, afford ?'-
And for devotion's choral swell,
• Yon bell yet summons to the fane :
To-morrow thou may'st mourn in vain.'-
The sable hunter hoarse replies ;
And bells, and books, and mysteries.'
Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede
“ With pious fools go chaunt and pray ;
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill,
Each ftranger horseman follow'd ftill.
A stag more white than mountain snow ;
"Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho!'
He gasps the thundering hoofs below;
Still forward, forward ! On they go.
A field with Autumn's blessings crown'd;
A husbandman with toil embrown'd.
Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry,
In scorching hour of fierce July."
The left still cheering to the prey :
Awas, • Away, thou hound so barely born,
• Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!" Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,
• Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! s. So said, so done-a single pound
Clears the poor labourer's humble pale : Wild follows man, and horse, and hound,
Like dark December's stormy gale, “ And man, and horse,' and hound, and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along, While joying o'er the wasted corn
Fell Famine marks the madd’ning throng. “ Again up roused, the timorous prey
Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; Hard run, he feels his strength decay,
And trusts for life his fimple skill. « Too dangerous folitude appear'd;
He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; Amid the flock's domestic herd
His harmless head he hopes to shroud. - O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady blood.hounds trace ; O'er moss and moồr, unwearied ftill,
The furious Earl pursues the chase. “ Full lowly did the herdsman fall;
O spare, thou noble Baron, spare - Tbese herds, a dow's little all;
• These flocks, an orphan’s fleecy care.”* Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left still cheering to the prey; The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way. 156 Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'-
He cheers his furious hounds to go. 66 In heaps the throttled vi&tims fall;
Down sinks their mangled herdsman near ; The murd'rous cries the stag appal,
Again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear.
While big the tears of anguish pour,
66 But man and horse, and horn and hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go ; The facred chapple rung around
With hark away, and holla, ho ! 6 All mild, amid the rout profane,
The holy hermit pour'd his prayer:
Revere his altar, and forbear!
" Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride, . Draw vengeance on the ruthless head ;
. Be warn’d at length, and turn aside.'« Still the fair horfeman anxious pleads,
The black, wild whooping, points the prey Alas! the Earl no warning heeds,
But frantic keeps the forward way. 6 Holy or not, or right or wrong,
• Thy'altar and its rights I fpurn; « Not sainted martyrs' sacred long,
• Not God himself, shall make me turn.' " He spurs his horse, he winds his horn,
- Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The fag, the hut, the hermit, go. 66 And horse and man, and horn and hound,
And clamour of the chase was gone : For hoofs and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone. 66 Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ;--
He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call: for not a found
Could from his anxious lips be borne. " He listens for his trusty hounds ;
No distant baying reach'd his ears ; His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears. " Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave; And not a found the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave, * High o'er the finner's humbled head
At length the folemn silence broke ; And from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke. "-Oppressor of creation fair!
. Apoftate fpirit's harden'd tool! Scorner of God! scourge of the poor!
: The ncafure of thy cup is full,