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as free from malice, and intending no evil. In his confession to the sister of Wieland, he says, that he acted merely for amusement, without anticipating the possibility of the evils which ensued. In reply to her accusations, "I am not this villain," he exclaims; "I have slain no one; I have prompted none to slay; I have handled a tool of wonderful efficacy, without malignant intentions, but without caution; ample will be the punishment of my temerity, if my conduct has contributed to this evil." How can this be reconciled with his commendation of Wieland for having slain his wife, and his diabolic injunction to complete the sacrifice by the destruction of his children? And after they were destroyed, to order Clara and Pleyel to be added to the list of victims, could not surely comport with harmless intentions. Yet an effort seems to be made by the author to excuse or palliate the agency of Carwin, and to throw on the credulity and weak-mindedness of Wieland, the whole guilt of these horrible transactions.

We shall not urge the charge which has been often made against this work, that the whole story is too improbable, and the actors in it too unlike human beings, to admit of even the transient credibility which should attach to a novel. We think that this charge is not altogether just. The incidents are certainly extraordinary; they were intended to be so. The characters were also intended to be extraordinary. In effecting these intentions, the very charge proves the author's success. If the transactions had been more conformable to worldly experience, and the personages more like the ordinary classes of mankind, the work would certainly have been more natural, and, no doubt, would have been to many readers more attractive. But it would have been less remarkable for those bold demonstrations of genius it now possesses in its wild originality, the force and grandeur of its delineations, its combinations of awfulness and pathos, and the singular scope and nature of its contemplations and reasonings.

Arthur Mervyn, in point of importance, as well as of arrangement, is the next novel of the series contained in the edition before us. It is much the longest, and by far the most diversified in its characters and details. It is inferior to Wieland in grandeur of conception and pathetic effect. But, if we may use the expression, it possesses more common-place interest; it belongs more to this world, and is therefore better calculated to win favour from the generality of readers. On commencing its perusal, after having passed through the sublimely agitating scenes of Wieland, we felt as if we were descending from the region of supernatural beings to the residence and society of men. In Wieland, our faculties were strained to a height of sublime terror, and our feelings agitated with preternatural horrors, from VOL. VIII.-No. 16.

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"The sun had nearly set before I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the path I had formerly taken, and entered High Street after night-fall. "The market-place, and each side of this magnificent avenue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapt in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wonder and suspicion, and as I approached, changed their course to avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar; and their nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful perfume.

"I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now they were closed above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already alighted on my frame. I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I approached a house, the door of which was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be a hearse. Presently, a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, 'I'll be damned if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It wasn't the fever that ailed him, but the sight of the poor girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room? What carried them there?'

"The other surlily replied, 'Their legs, to be sure.' 'But, what should they hug together in one room for? To save us trouble, to be sure. And I thank them, with all my heart. But, damn it, it wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me to stay a few minutes.' 'Pshaw! he could not live. The sooner dead, the better for him, as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my life, since I was knee-high, but, curse me, if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just then.-Hey!' continued he, looking, and observing me, standing a few paces distant, what's wanted? Any body dead?"

But we fear we have already occupied too much space with these descriptions. The awfulness of the topic, and its rarity as an object for the exertion of literary skill, together with our conviction, that in easy and correct sketching, and in strong and impressive colouring, our author has been excelled by none of his competitors, have induced us to quote so largely from his effort as we have done. Such descriptions, it is true, have a horror-breathing spirit around them, which it might be supposed would render them peculiarly disagreeable. But, to the generality of minds, the fact is otherwise. From whatever is sublime, although it should be awful and terrific, we derive enjoyment of an elevated and fascinating character. Amidst the uproar and commotion of the contending elements in a tempest, if we are in any degree sheltered from its fury, with what exalted delight can we look on? With the same feelings of enjoyment do we witness dramatic representations, and read tragic tales, of calamity and horror.

It is indeed a strange principle of our nature, which causes us to derive pleasure from such sources; but it is a principle that will be readily recognised and admitted by all. Nor is it altogether

inexplicable. All sentient beings are fond of excitement; and there is nothing which the active spirit of man more abhors than a state of torpor and insipidity.

"Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,

The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?-
No; the wild bliss of nature needs alloy,
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy."

Nor does it argue the existence of any inhumane or depraved feeling, that we are capable of drawing enjoyment from representations of sorrow and distress. We may pity, we may deplore the affliction we behold. The joy of grief, is an expression-it is a sensation, intelligible to every mind. The imagination often feasts on the horrible. It must not be supposed, howthat the pleasure arises from the horror, or that joy is derived from the mere contemplation of misery. Scenes of affliction are often deeply interesting, from being connected with objects really worthy of admiration and sympathy, which show themselves in more glowing colours and picturesque attitudes, from the darkness and gloom that surround them.

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What species of penal visitation can be so awful to human contemplation as the plague? It is emphatically "the scourge of God" and of all other instruments of Divine vengeance, possesses features the most terrific and sublime. It is more destructive than the thunders of battle, or the roaring of the ocean in its rage. The concussion of the earthquake, the bursting of the volcano, or the sweeping of the tornado, are harmless to man, in comparison with the deadly breath of pestilence. It is the mightiest instrument of destruction used by the "King of Terrors." When he brandishes this fatal weapon, nations fall before him; he marches in triumph over myriads; he spreads desolation about the memorials of human wisdom and grandeur. When He who governs all, goes forth in his strength, and clothed in his terror when the Almighty visits the earth in anger, and tramples in vengeance on the offending generations of men

then, according to the sublime language of the sublimest of all books, "Before him goes the pestilence!" Is it surprising, therefore, that such a scene should attract even while it terrifies, as the glance of the reptile fascinates the eye of the charmed bird that shudders to behold it. Besides, to those who are under no apprehension of ever experiencing or witnessing the horrors. produced by this mighty destroyer, descriptions of them gratify curiosity, excite interest, and awaken sympathy in a sufficient degree to overbalance whatever unpleasant feelings the contemplation of them might produce.

We have enlarged so much on the subject of pestilence, to illustrate which was the main object of Brown in writing this work, that we shall refrain from giving any detail of its busy

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