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essential to social order, this great spectacle proves to the universe, that injustice and immorality scatter treasures, swallow up wealth, and quickly render vain the avaricious speculations of nations and of governments. It will be for all ages a perpetual warning, a beacon that may not be destroyed; it will be for them the fire of Sodom and Gomorrah, whose flames seem to blaze upon us again, and strike our imagination with terror."

The rulers of France have gotten a new treasure in their hands. We shall see whether they will profit by the lament. able experience of their predecessors.

The translation is commendably executed in the first volume, but in the second it shews marks of haste.

MONTHLY CATALOGUE, For OCTOBER, 1797.

NOVELS.

Art. 16. The Count de Santerre: a Romance. By a Lady. 12mo. 2 Vols. 75. sewed. Dilly. 1797.

OF all compositions, none seem to baffle the powers of criticism so

much as romance; for the authors of the works which bear that name fancy that they may indulge their imaginations without controul, violate probability with impunity, and present to the reader characters which never did and never can exist. The fair writer of the work before us appears to have made use of this licence in its fullest extent for we have no true delineation of character; and the events, so far from being probable, are scarcely within the verge of possibility; yet the fancy is captivated by some incidents of an unexpected and extraordinary nature, and above all by those gloomy and horrid scenes, on which the authoress exerts all her powers of description; and perhaps her genius never appears to more advantage than in the following account of the manner in which Elinor is forci bly hurried away from the Castle of Loncilles :

Going to the window, she observed that the night, gloomy and comfortless, foretold an approaching tempest. The whole atmosphere soon became dark, except when blue and livid lightnings cast a transient glare over the prospect without. The thunder rolled tre mendously, reverberating from the mountains that surrounded the val ley; and the river, augmented by the torrents of rain that began to fall, roared furiously over the rocks that impeded its violence.

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The terror, of which most minds are susceptible during thunderstorms, prevented ELINOR from moving; and in the sullen pause that succeeded a burst of thunder, she suddenly heard the same noises as had on a former night so much alarmed her. She listened breath less with agitation; but the returning fury of the gust, which dashed the branches of the trees against the casement, drowned every other sound. Again the thunder pealed more loudly than before, and a bright flash of lightning illuminated the air: as it gleamed on the

terrace,

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terrace, ELINOR fancied she saw men passing to and fro on the ter race beneath the window; and during the dead pause that succeeded the universal agitation of the element, she distinctly heard several doors opened in the rooms below her's. Terrified to the last degree, she took up her lamp, and ran as fast as she could along the gallery, with design to alarm the family. But she was too late; already several men were in the great hall, and on the stairs. They were all dressed alike, in Spanish cloaks, black caps fitted tight, not much unlike the montero, with a small stiff orange feather in the side; and they were all masked. But of this circumstance, or the singularity of their dress, ELINOR had not time to take notice; for, seeing her, two of them rushed forwards and seized hold of her. Surprise and terror deprived her of the power even of shrieking; but the ruffians, dreading her returning senses betraying their atrocious designs, gagged and bound her; and tying a handkerchief over her eyes, without a word having been spoken, hurried her down stairs.

The frequent shutting of the doors, the only sound she heard, informed her they were passing through a suite of apartments: at length they stopped, and ELINOR having, by her struggles, displaced the handkerchief, perceived they were in the room hung with purple silk, that terminated the suite in the east wing of the chateau. One of the ruffians now observing that her eyes were uncovered, with a curse again bound them. Some effort seemed now to demand the assistance of the whole party, for those who held ELINOR loosed their hold; but almost iustantly resuming it, dragged her on a few paces: the rustle of the silk behind her, as the hangings fell in their place, leaving her not a doubt that she had been forced through a secret door:

This passed in silence; and the ruffians, seeming to think themselves in security, paused a little, and one of them ungagging ELINOR, said, sneeringly, "Scream and curse, if thou wilt, lady! by Mahomet, the only privilege of thy sex shall not be denied thee, since it is out of thy power to betray us; and it will frighten away the spirits of the eastern chambers."

"Oh!" cried ELINOR, (not comprehending his speech well,) surely I am in the hands of infernal spirits!"

"Fear them not, pretty lady," answered the ruffian, "the Count will keep them at a distance."

"The Count de SANTERRE!" almost shrieked the agonized ELI NOR, who now conceived the full extent of her misfortune, and she only heard him say, "The same, if it so please thee!" before she sunk fainting on the floor.

When she revived, she found herself environed by a number of ferocious wretches in a thick wood. The torches that two of them held, shewed her, in their savage countenances, how little was to be hoped from tears or intreaty. In hopeless agony she cast her eyes round to the rest, but they were all masked. One of the gang now gave a loud shrill whistle, and a carriage drew up, into which four of them got with their unhappy prize; but before they did so, they replaced the handkerchief on her eyes, which had been taken off at the time she fainted.

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The carriage now proceeded, and ELINOR, having in vain besought the men to tell her whither she was going, addressed her pure soul to heaven.

"Oh, power Supreme!" said she involuntarily aloud.

"Let us see," said a ruffian, "if he can assist thee?"

"Peace! blasphemous miscreant!" cried ELINOR, whose indigna tion terror could not controul," nor dare to defy that power which can annihilate us all."

"Civil words, fair lady!" retorted the villain, " or, by Maho

met

A prodigious burst of thunder, and lightning so bright as even through the handkerchief to dazzle ELINOR's eyes, forced a sensation of awe even on the minds of those wretches: the altercation ceased, and the gloomy silence that succeeded it remained unbroken the whole time they travelled.

The rain, which continued for some hours to fall in torrents, by pattering on the foliage, convinced the fair prisoner, that the road her conductors were pursuing led through a wood; and the quick striking of the horses' hoofs shewed they were going very rapidly.

At length the carriage sounded as if going over a draw-bridge, and presently stopped. The men now assisted ELINOR to alight, or rather forced her, for she struggled much, and shrieked with redoubled violence.

Sullen echoes only answered her cries; and when she succeeded in her efforts to uncover her eyes, she found herself in the hall of a Gothic castle. Several hauberdgeons, lances, and helmets, hung on the dew-stained walls; and above them were ranged the banners of many a warlike host, that might, perhaps, have waved in the armies of the immortal HENRY, but now covered with dust, and in texture resembling cobwebs rather than silk.

ELINOR was now unbound by one of the masked ruffians, of whom two only remained with her. She gazed around her, and clasping her hands, with a look of almost frantic despair and anguish, deep groans burst from her bosom. One of the men was silent, but the other, whose voice betrayed him to be the same who had before spoken, said, "Well, lady! does thy apartment please thee?

"True, its furniture befits not so delicate an inhabitant, but love will make it seem a palace."

"Love!" repeated ELINOR unconsciously.

"Aye, lady! love. The Count de SANTERRE, my worthy mas. ter, loves thee."

This (though long-expected) dreadful certainty compleated the wretchedness of the unfortunate ELINOR. She doubted not that she was destined a victim to lawless violence, and distracting emotions swelled her heart almost to bursting. The two men, after a moment's longer delay, now departed in silence; and as they went, the blast that rushed through the opened door shook the shattered armour that hung on the walls, sounding, in fancy's ear, like the fall of a warrior in the field of blood and carnage.'

The Count de Santerre, at whose instigation the ruffians committed this violent and atrocious act, is represented as a monster REV. OCT. 1797.

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stained

stained with every vice; who, in his method of disposing of his wives, seems to bear a nearer affinity to Blue-beard than to any other. hero of our former acquaintance: but, in spite of all his art and contrivance, Elinor finds means to escape from her prison, and, after having overcome many obstacles, is at last happily married to Henry, for whom she had conceived a very early attachment. Those high notions of love and honour, which have always been characteristic of romances, are well preserved through the whole work: but we have few maxims of morality, none of prudence, and the religious sentiments, when they occur, are overcast with childish superstition and monastic gloom. The style is that of florid description, in which propriety is sometimes overlooked; while the story is intricate and perplexed.

Art. 17. The Church of St. Siffrid. 12mo. 4 Vols. 14s. Boards.

Robinsons. 1797:

This performance is well written; the plot sufficiently abounds in incident; the story is told with perspicuity and consistency; and the moral sentiments are useful and unexceptionable. Sir Roger l'Esterling, a Welsh Baronet of very antient pedigree, whose small share of understanding is absorbed in his absurd attachment to feodal honours and customs, gives the hand of his youngest daughter Ethelreda, very early in life, to the Hon. Mr. Carloville, an adventurer, abandoned by his family for his extravagance and vices. From this unhappy marriage, and Carloville's desertion of his wife, originate all the leading circumstances of sorrow and distress detailed in the work. The characters are well discriminated and strongly contrasted. The profligate, artful, intriguing Carloville deceives with ease the rustic simplicity and total ignorance of the world which are so conspicuous in Sir Roger; whose early death exposes his daughter to the ill treatment of her villanous husband. The frivolous characters of young Sir Francis l'Esterling and Lord Caerlon, their pedantic use of French and Italian phrases on all occasions, and their exclusive love of all that is foreign in taste and manners, exhibit a pair of travelled coxcombs with considerable vivacity. The ambitious, intriguing, phlegmatic, tyrannical, unprincipled conduct of Mr. Conway brings into many calamitous situations his generous, brave, unsuspecting, disinterested son. The characters of Lady Mariamne and Lady Octavia Conway are pointedly contrasted by the delicate, sensible, highspirited, and affectionate Ethelreda (Mrs. Carloville). The author has, with great justice and equity, rewarded virtue and punished vice in the catastrophe of his story. Carloville dies in prison. The pro fligate Mariamne undergoes all the horrors of remorse on a death-bed, in the flower of her youth. The frivolous, imprudent, and indelicate Lady Octavia is cheated out of half her fortune, and deserted by a lover whom she clandestinely encouraged. The lady, whom Carloville had married previously to his engagement with Ethelreda, is restored to her rank and fortune; and to crown the whole, young Cons way is married to the long injured Ethelreda.

We must observe, however, that there is not much novelty of situation nor of character in this tale; and we think that Ethelreda's imprisonment in the Castle of St. Srid, though in her case volur

tary

tary, reminds us too closely of the Mysteries of Udolpho; while Carloville bears too strong a resemblance to Montano: yet, on the whole, we have been both entertained and interested in the perusal of this novel.

EDUCATION, &c.

Art. 18. Mental Amusement: consisting of Moral Essays, Allegories, and Tales. Interspersed with poetical Picces by different Writers: (now first published.) Calculated for the use of Private Families, and Public Schools. 12mo. Is. 6d. Boards.

Sael. 1797.

As this collection is made with a view to inculcate humanity and its finest feelings, and as the Essays have all a moral tendency, as well as an entertaining form, the author is entitled to respect; and his book may safely be recommended to young readers of either sex. Art. 19. The Principles of English Grammar: &c. By John Knowles. 12mo. Is. 6d. bound. 1796.

Fourth Edition. Vernor and Hood.

In our Review for November 1794, we noticed the third edition of this work, and bestowed on it that praise to which we thought it entitled. The improvements of this impression are not pointed out: nor are we indeed informed that any are made.

Art. 20. Elements of French Grammar, as taught at Vernon Hall. 12mo. Printed at Liverpool. 28. bound. Vernor and Hood, London. 1797.

This little work seems to be written with judgment; it has also the merit of being clear, easy, and concise; and we can recommend it, on the whole, as a good introduction to the knowlege of the French language.

Rudiments of constructive Etymology and Syntax, for the Use of Schools. Second Edition, enlarged and improved. 12mo. 2s. bound. Knott. 1797.

In the Review for November 1795, we gave our approbation of the work before us; to which we can now add that the present edi tion is enlarged and improved. The following paragraph, extracted from the peface, deserves the attention of those to whom the education of youth is intrusted :

He (the editor) has also endeavoured, in the selection of sentences for examples and exercises, to exhibit to the pupil the graces of language: by which he is prompted to a cultivation of the mind; not restrained in ignorance, or[nor Jallured to puerility. The opinion of the editor differs from those who prefer trite or vulgar sentences, from the idea that such are best adapted to the capacities of children. He humbly thinks, that if pure language, or graceful diction, were constantly presented to the pupil, his infant genius would infallibly imbibe a taste for its beauty, his mind expand to the precepts it conveys, and thereby a correct and elevated judgment be established. For want of this, the mind grovels in mental obscurity and ignorance; or rises only by extraordinary efforts, or self-taught discernment.'

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