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the Historian rather cursorily. He promises a fourth volume, with an Index and an Appendix, in which the narrative shall be continued to the present time.

Such is a general outline of the history of the Inquisition; a tribunal of which the establishment was the grossest outrage ever offered to reason, religion, and right feeling. We have not, in this place, entered into a minute description of the various modes in which it inflicted personal suffering, because they are of common notoriety; neither have we been solicitous to analyse the different processes which it employed in its visitations of individuals, since they have often been described with competent accuracy, though never with so much precision and detail as in the present volumes. Faithless in all its proceedings, relentless in its persecutions, bent sternly on the condemnation of its victims, this ferocious tribunal refused all the means of establishing innocence, and pushed on its trials through the different stages of deception, privation, terror, and torture, to their termination in a sentence to agonizing death. A remarkable proof of its remorseless tenacity in retaining even its most atrocious usages, is to be found in the infernal ingenuity with which its directors evaded the law which prohibited them from administering torture more than once. When the accused had sustained his allotted term of agony without making the desired confession, the Inquisitors present sent him back to his dungeon with the official intimation that the further application of the torture was suspended! Nor was the spirit of the bloody tribunal,' meliorated by time, though its practice was necessarily altered by the improvement of the public mind. Llorente is guarded upon this point, but enough appears to shew, that though the treatment of prisoners was in many respects bettered, and public executions no more tolerated, yet that the machinery of the Institution was carefully preserved, and that a favourable opportunity of reviving its energies would not have been let slip. So late as 1791, an unfortunate Frenchman was confined in the prisons of the Inquisition; and though we are persuaded that much is kept back, it plainly appears that he was treated with so much treachery and inhumanity, as to drive him to the commission of suicide.

After the preceding remarks, it cannot be necessary for us to say more in commendation of the work before us, than that we have been deeply interested by these volumes, and that we regard them as by far the most valuable existing collection of documents on the subject of which they treat.

ART. VI. The Autumnal Excursion, or Sketches in Teviotdale with other Poems. By Thomas Pringle. 12mo pp. 136. 1819.

E have not seen any descriptive poem since Dr. Leyden's "Scenes of Infancy," that has pleased us much better than the leading piece in this little volume. Its Author is evidently a young poet, but he possesses a delicate and cultivated mind. Born in a part of our Island distinguished by its romantic scenery, his earliest associations have been favourable to the love of poetry, while he appears to be in no small degree indebted to a good classical education for the formation of a correct taste. We do not mean to characterise the volume as containing specimens of first-rate excellence. Mr. Pringle's productions are not marked by force or brilliancy, so much as by delicacy and tenderness. The thoughts, though seldom original, are never unpoetical, and are expressed, we think, in language always appropriate, and versification sufficiently melodious.

The scenes of the Autumnal Excursion' are those of the Author's infancy;

The scented heath, the sheafy vale,

The hills and streams of Teviotdale.'

The district of Teviotdale (we give Dr. Leyden's description) takes its name from the river Teviot, which rises in an elevated mountainous tract in the south of Scotland, from a rude rock, termed the Teviot-stone, descends through a beautiful pastoral dale, and falls into the Tweed at Kelso. The vale of the river is above 30 miles in length, and comprehends every variety of wild, picturesque, and beautiful scenery. The first part of its course is confined and overshadowed by abrupt and savage hills, diversified with smooth, green declivities, and fantastic copses of natural wood. Beneath Hawick, the vale opens, and several beautiful mountain-streams fall into the river. As the stream approaches the Tweed, the scenery becomes gra. dually softer, and, in the vicinity of Kelso, rivals the beauty of an Italian landscape. The inhabitants of this frontier district, inured to war froin their infancy, had, at an early period of Scottish history, attained a high military reputation. They devoted themselves to the life of the predatory warrior, and the shepherd; and the intervals of their incursions were often employed in celebrating their martial exploits. Hence this district became the very cradle of Scottish song, in every variety of melody, from the harsh, and simple, but energetic, war-songs of the Liddisdale borderers, to the soft and pathetic love-strains of the bank of the Tweed.'

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Such is the country through part of which the Autumnal Excursion' is supposed to be made. We present our readers an extract in which the Poet alludes to the persecutions of the VOL. XIII. N.S. 2 P

covenanters in Scotland, when Grahame, of Claverhouse, made himself so odiously conspicuous, whose conduct and character have lately become, in consequence of a very certain popular novel, the subject of much warm discussion.

Far inland, where the mountain crest
O'erlooks the waters of the west,
And, 'midst the moorland wilderness,
Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess,
Curtain'd with ceaseless mists, which feed
The sources of the Clyde and Tweed,-
There injur'd Scotland's patriot band
For Faith and Freedom made their stand;
When traitor Kings, who basely sold
Their country's fame for Gallic gold,-
Too abject o'er the free to reign,-
Warn'd by a Father's fate in vain,—
In bigot fury trampled down

The race to whom they owed their crown.
There, worthy of his masters, came
The despot's champion, Bloody Grahame,
To stain for aye a warrior's sword,
And lead a fierce, though fawning horde,
The human bloodhounds of the earth,
To hunt the peasant from his hearth!
-Tyrants! could not misfortune teach
That man has rights beyond your reach?
Thought ye the torture and the stake
Could that intrepid spirit break,
Which even in woman's breast withstood
The terrors of the fire and flood!-

Yes-though the sceptic's tongue deride
Those martyrs who for conscience died;
Though modish history blight their fame,
And sneering courtiers hoot the name
Of men who dar'd alone be free
Amidst a nations slavery;

Yet long for them the poet's lyre

Shall breathe its notes of heavenly fire;

Their names shall nerve the patriot's hand
Uprais'd to save a sinking land;

And piety shall learn to burn

With holier transport o'er their urn!

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Oh, ne'er shall he, whose ardent prime
Was foster'd in the freeman's clime,
Though doom'd to seek a distant strand,

Forget his glorious native land!-pp. 10-13.

We recon mend to the attention of our readers the Notes on the above extract at the end of the volume.

The dream of past times restored, is well painted in the following lines:

Even now, far distant fancy leads

Through twilight groves and blooming meads,
And, lovely in the hues of truth,

Restores the scenes-the friends of youth!

I hear their voices on the breeze,
While, walking by the hedge-row trees,
I weave my blissful reveries!
-I see the dusky track afar,
Where, lighted by the evening star,
I sought that home of youthful love.
The balmy west-wind stirs the grove,
And waves the blossom'd eglantine,
I taught around its porch to twine ;-
The sire-the friendly band I see-
They rise with smiles to welcome me !-
-Again, sweet Fancy's dream is gone,

And midst the wild I walk alone!'-p. 41.

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Of the Miscellaneous Pieces,' the Author says, the greater part are also early productions,-composed amid the scenes they describe, to amuse the Summer solitude of College vacations' They consist of brief effusions on various subjects, and various measures, among which we think there are not a few vourable specimens of lyric writing. His songs, in general, e well conceived, and characterized by chasteness and sweetss of expression. To justify, in some degree, the favourable inion we have passed, we give our readers

THE WREATH.'

I sought the garden's gay parterre
To cull a wreath for Mary's hair;
And thought I surely here might find
Some emblem of her lovely mind;
Where taste displays the varied bloom
Of Flora's beauteous drawing-room.

And, first, of peerless form and hue,
The stately Lily caught my view,
Fair bending from her graceful stem
Like Queen with regal diadem ;
But, though I view'd her with delight,
She seem'd too much to woo the sight-
A fashionable belle-to shine

In some more courtly Wreath than mine.

I turn'd and saw a tempting row
Of flaunting Tulips full in blow,
But left them with their gaudy dyes
To Nature's beaux-the butterflies.

Bewilder'd 'mid a thousand hues
Still harder grew the task to chuse :
Here, delicate Carnations bent
Their heads in lovely languishment,-
Much as a pensive Miss expresses,
With neck declin'd, her soft distresses !
There, gay Jonquilles in foppish pride
Stood by the Painted Lady's side,
And Hollyhocks superbly tall
Beside the Crown-Imperial :

But still, midst all this gorgeous glow

Seem'd less of sweetness than of show;

While close beside, in warning grew

The allegoric Thyme and Rue.

There, too, stood that fair-weather Flower,
Which, faithful still in sunshine, hour
With fervent adoration turns

Its breast where golden Phoebus burns-
Base symbol (which I scorn'd to lift)
Of friends that change as fortunes shift !

Tir'd of the search, I bent my way
Where Teviot's haunted waters stray;
And from the wild-flowers of the grove
I fram'd a garland for my love.
The slender circlet first to twine
I pluck'd the rambling Eglantine,
That deck'd the cliff in clusters free,
As sportive and as sweet as she;
I stole the Violet from the brook,
Though hid, like her, in shady nook,
And wove it with the Mountain Thyme,
The myrtle of our stormy clime.
The Hare-bell look'd like Mary's eye,
The Blush-Rose breath'd her tender sigh,
And Daisies, bath'd in dew, exprest
Her innocent and gentle breast.

And, now, my Mary's brow to braid,
This chaplet in her bower is laid,
A fragrant Emblem, fresh and wild,
Of simple Nature's sweetest Child.'

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