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"As there can be no occafion for prifoners or gaolers, or attornies, of hangmen where there are no Magiftrates, there fhall be neither hangmen, attornies, gaoler, or prifon."

"We have thus got rid in a moment of what has embarrassed the whole world from the earliest period.

Of the Finances.-There fhall be established in extraordinary cafes only a general and voluntary tax."

Upon Refpiration-"My tax is purely voluntary, for those who do not chuse to refpire will have no occafion to pay any thing," &c. &c.

The reft of it is pursued in fuch a strain of irony as cannot fail of delighting the reader. The fatire is fo exquifitely keen, that thofe 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 (ufing his own words) has infufed the fpirit of the original-much commendation too is due to him for the fuppreffion of indelicate fcenes which would have precluded the modest British female from perufing the difaftrous hiftory of my Uncle : he might have fpared two or three fituations more perhaps, but "they irrefiftibly excited fuch pleafing emotions" that he could not find in his heart to expunge them. As a fpecimen of the tranflator's attention to Horace

Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus

he has transfufed the fpirit of the following paffages 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
fatisfaction; every one feemed pleafed with it; at leaft, no one faid any
thing about it."-" Vanity and felf-love transform us into ftrange creatures.
There is no man, however low his condition, but thinks himself fuperior to
every one elfe. I have no doubt but my fhoe-black would accept the office of
first conful. All I hope is that it will not be offered to him."

With all the wit, the humour, and the fatire 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, Efq. M. P. Author of the Monk, Castle Spectre, Love of Gain, &c. 2 Vols. large 8vo. PP. 480. 21. 2s.

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AR from being inclined to join in the cenfure which has been directed against Mr. Lewis for compiling the prefent volumes, we think he is much better employed than in most of his former productions, at leaft, with reference to his well-known romance, entitled The Monk, a work that has tended more to vitiate juvenile minds, and poifon 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 fo mifchievous a tendency, except the political crudities of the deteftable Citizen PAINE. From all that we have read or heard of Mr. Lewis and his works, he feems to us to poffefs a fingular turn of mind. His fancy appears


to be chiefly attracted by, and abforbed 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 inte fo uncommon a track of ftudy. He certainly does not want abilities, or knowledge, but his talents are ftrangely perverted, and he fometimes feems even to be employed in throwing a ridicule upon himfelf. But to the prefent work. It confifts of as many tales as the author could collect in order to feare the minds of children, and impress a terror upon the imagination through life. Some indeed of the compofitions, to be found in these volumes, are of a pathetic, interefting, and moral caft; but they bear a fmall 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 fpecimen of the works which these volumes contain, as he feems to be the best of the new fpecies of horror-breeding Bards.



The tradition of the "Wild Huntsmen" (Die Wilde Jager) is à popular fu perftition, very generally believed by the peasants of Germany. Whoever wishes for more information refpecting thefe imaginary Sportsmen, will find bis cu riofity fully fatisfied, by perufing the first Volume of the German Romance of "the Necromancer;" (Der Geifter-banner.) The original of this Ballad is by Bürger, Author of the well-known" Leonora."


"The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn;

To horse, to horse, halloo, halloo !

His fiery courfer fnuffsthe morn,

And thronging ferfs their Lord purfue.

"The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake;
While answering hound, and horn, and steed,
The mountain echoes startling wake.
"The beams of God's own hallow'd day
Had painted yonder fpire with gold,
And, calling finful man to pray,

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd.
"But fill the Wildgrave onward rides;
Halloo, halloo, and hark again!
When, fpurring from oppofing fides,

Two ftranger horfemen join the train,
"Who was each stranger, left and right,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell :
The right-hand iteed was filver white,
The left, the fwarthy hue of hell.
"The right-hand horfeman, young and fair,
His fmile was like the morn of May;

The left, from eye of tawny glare,


Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

"The Wildgrave is a German title, correfponding to the Earl Warden

of a royal foreft."

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"He wav'd his huntsman's cap on high, Cry'd, Welcome, welcome noble Lord! What sport can earth, or fea, or sky,

To match the princely chafe, afford?'

- Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,"—
Cry'd the fair youth, with filver voice;
-And for devotion's choral fwell,

Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise.
" To-day th' ill-omen'd chafe forbear;
Yon bell yet fummons to the fane :
To-day the warning spirit hear,

To-morrow thou may'ft mourn in vain.ʼ-
Away, and fweep the glades along!'-
The fable hunter hoarfe replies;
To muttering monks leave matin fong,
And bells, and books, and myfteries.'-
The Wildgrave fpurr'd his ardent fteed,
And, launching forward with a bound,
Who for thy drowsy prieftlike rede
Would leave the jovial horn and hound?
Hence, if our manly fport offend :

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"With pious fools go chaunt and pray ;
Well haft thou fpoke, my dark-brow'd friend,-
Halloo halloo! and hark away !"

"The Wildgrave fpurr'd his courfer light,

O'er mofs and moor, o'er holt and hill, And on the left, and on the right,


Each stranger horfeman follow'd still.

Up fprings, from yonder tangled thorn, A ftag more white than mountain fnow; And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn,

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Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!' "A heedlefs wretch has crofs'd the way,


He gafps the thundering hoofs below;

But, live who can, or die who may,
Still forward, forward! On they go.
"See where yon fimple fences meet,

A field with Autumn's bleffings crown'd;
See, proftrate at the Wildgrave's feet,
A husbandman with toil embrown'd.

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Away, thou hound fo bafely born, 'Or dread the fcourge's echoing blow!' Then loudly rung his bugle-horn,

Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!

"So faid, fo done-a fingle pound
Clears the poor labourer's humble pale:
Wild follows man, and horfe, and hound,
Like dark December's ftormy gale,
"And man, and horfe, and hound, and horn,
Destructive sweep the field along,
While joying o'er the wafted corn

Fell Famine marks the madd'ning throng. "Again up roufed, the timorous prey

Scours mofs and moor, and holt and hill;
Hard run, he feels his ftrength decay,
And trufts for life his fimple skill.
"Too dangerous folitude appear'd;
He feeks the fhelter of the crowd;
Amid the flock's domeftic herd

His harmless head he hopes to shroud.
"O'er mofs and moor, and holt and hill,
His track the steady blood-hounds trace;
O'er mofs and moor, unwearied still,
The furious Earl pursues the chase.
"Full lowly did the herdfman fall;

O fpare, thou noble Baron, fpare
Thefe herds, a widow's little all;
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care."
"Earneft the right-hand stranger pleads,
The left ftill cheering to the prey;
The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds,
But furious keeps the onward way.
"Unmanner'd dog! To ftop my sport
Vain were thy cant and beggar whine,
Though human fpirits of thy fort

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• Were tenants of these carrion kine!"

Again he winds his bugle horn,

-Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'

And through the herd, in ruthless fcorn,

He cheers his furious hounds to go.

"In heaps the throttled victims fall;

Down finks their mangled herdsman near ;

The murd'rous cries the tag appal,

Again he starts, new-nerv'd by fear.

"With blood befmear'd, and white with foam,

While big the tears of anguish pour,

He feeks, amid the foreft's gloom,
The humble hermit's hallow'd bour.

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"But man and horse, and horn and hound,
Faft rattling on his traces go;
The facred chapple rung around

With hark away, and holla, ho!
"All mild, amid the rout profane,
The holy hermit pour'd his prayer:
Forbear with blood God's house to stain
Revere his altar, and forbear!

"The meaneft brute has rights to plead,
Which, wrong'd by cruelty, or pride,
'Draw vengeance on the ruthless head ;-

Be warn'd at length, and turn afide.'-, "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.
"Holy or not, or right or wrong,
Thy altar and its rights I fpurn;
Not fainted martyrs' facred long,

Not God himself, fhall make me turn.'-
"He fpurs his horse, he winds his horn,
Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"
But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne,
The flag, the hut, the hermit, go.

"And horfe and man, and horn and hound,
And clamour of the chafe was gone:
For hoofs and howls, and bugle found,
A deadly filence reign'd alone.

"Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ;---
He ftrove in vain to wake his horn,
In vain to call; for not a found
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
"He liftens for his trufty hounds;
No diftant baying reach'd his ears;
His courfer, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.
"Still dark and darker frown the fhades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a found the ftill invades,
Save what a diftant torrent gave,

"High o'er the finner's humbled head
At length the folemn filence brokę;
And from a cloud of fwarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.
"Oppreffor of creation fair!

Apoftate fpirit's harden'd tool! Scorner of God! fcourge of the poor! The meafure of thy cup is full,

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