DEAR CHRISTOTHER,
I Have, for the sake of variety, chosen, instead of another dramatic criticism, to present your readers, in this Number, with one of the "Kleine Romane" of my excellent friend, the Baron de La Motte Fouque. Nor have I selected one of his longer and more serious compositions under this title, but preferred one of the numerous (I might say numberless) fairy tales, which he has thrown off with the playful grace of a genuine master. To shadow out the various modifications and contentions of good and evil in this life, typified and impersonized by-fairies, demons, &c. is a favourite system of the Baron. Hence his partiality to the superstitions of his country—to which, by his inventive genius, and his moral and philosophic powers, he has given an interest and importance altogether new. That your readers may duly appreciate this little Tale, it may be permitted us to remind them, that among the mountains, in the north of Germany, there is one which has been said to possess, among other minerals, the magnet, in such abundance, that the labours of the husbandman were there found to be impracticable. As one fable naturally begets another, it followed, of course, that this difficulty was ascribed to the immediate agency of malignant demons. It remained however, for the genius of Fouque, to moralize this legend; and probably, one ought not to rate the intelligence of any reader so low as to suppose that the moral of the following tale will not immediately be discovered. It may be considered, indeed, but a new modification of our own old chivalric legend of a knight, assailed by all the delusive horrors of witchcraft and sorcery, which vanish, one after another, before his invincible courage and constancy. (A legend, by the way, which has been so well given in the "Bridal of Triermain," and in vol. III. of Drake's "Literary Hours.") It will doubtless be perceived, that the adventures of Conrad are, in reality, no more than those of many a poor Farmer—who, with courage and perseverance, struggles against the difficulties of his fortune—and, at last, even from sterile fields, on which he is haunted by the demons of apprehension, indolence, and despondency, may, by contented industry, gain a competent livelihood, a comparative affluence. Your friend, R. P. G.
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The source from which it is derived satisfies us of its authenticity. As affording an insight into the habits and secret actions of a very extraordinary set of wretches, some of whom are said even yet to disgrace the wilder parts of the country . . .
The Captain approached him coolly and deliberately. " You will prosecute no one now, you bloody informer," said he; " you will convict no more boys for taking an ould rusty gun an' pistol from you, or for givin' you a neighbourly knock or two into the bargain." Just then from a window opposite him, proceeded the shrieks of a woman who appeared at it with the infant in her arms. She herself was almost scorched to death; but with the presence of mind and humanity of her sex, she was about to thrust the little babe out of the window. The Captain noticed this, and with characteristic atrocity, thrust, with a sharp bayonet, the little innocent, along with the person who endeavoured to rescue it, into the red flames, where they both perished. This was the work of an instant. Again he approached the man; "your child is a coal now," said he, with deliberate mockery, "I pitched it in myself on the point of this," showing the weapon, "and now is your turn," saying which he clambered up by the assistance of his gang, who stood with a front of pikes and bayonets bristling to receive the wretched man, should he attempt in his despair to throw himself from the wall. The Captain got up, and placing the point of his bayonet against his shoulder, flung him into the fiery element that raged behind him. He uttered one wild and piercing cry, as he fell back, and no more; after this nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire, and the rushing of the blast; all that had possessed life within were consumed, amounting either to eleven or fifteen persons.
Turning hastily at the sound, she perceived Mary deadly pale, grasping, as it were convulsively, each arm of the chair which supported her, and bending forward in the attitude of listening : her lips were trembling and bloodless, cold drops of perspiration stood upon her forehead, and in an instant after, exclaiming in a piercing tone, ' Hark ! they are calling me again ! it is—it is the same voice ! Oh no ! no!—Oh my God! save me, Betsy, —hold me—save me !' she fell forwards upon the floor.
My whole condition—no—not all of it—not yet— my present condition flashed with new horror upon me. But I did not again swoon. The choking sensation which had made me faint, when I first discovered how I was entombed, gave way to a livelier, though less overpowering, emotion. I shrieked even as I started from my slumber. The previous discovery of the closed aperture, with the instant oblivion that followed, seemed only a part of my dream, and I threw my arms about and looked eagerly for the opening by which I had entered the horrid place— yes, looked for it, and felt for it, though it was the terrible conviction that it was closed—a second time brought home to me—which prompted my frenzied cry. Every sense seemed to have tenfold acuteness, yet not one to act in unison with another. I shrieked again and again—imploringly—desperately—savagely. I rilled the hollow chamber with my cries till its iron walls seemed to tingle around me. The dull strokes of the accursed pump seemed only to mock at while they deadened my screams.
It now occurred to me, it was necessary the bodies should be thrown overboard. I took up one of them, dragged it to the side, and plunged it into the waves; but the dash of the heavy body into the sea, reminded me more forcibly of my loneliness. The sea was so calm, I could scarcely hear it ripple by the vessel's side. One by one I committed the bodies to their watery grave. At last my horrible task was finished.
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