ART. XIII. Artless Tales, by Mrs. IVES HURRY, 3 vols. 12mo. INNUMERABLE as have been the efforts of the vain and of the wise to amuse or instruct by fictitious narrative, yet nature supplies fresh models for description and imitation, more various still than all the freaks of her copiers. Storytelling is yet an occupation in which it is possible to be original and di

verting, and to superadd to the charms of diction, the higher graces of morality.

These Artless Tales" well deserve their appellation. They display no tricks of composition, they are neither deformed by affectations of style, nor intricate with complexity of incident. They de

scribe in the language of nature possible occurrences, and uniformly tend to enlist the sympathetic feelings on the side of mildness, benevolence, and virtue. The authoress, who is not unknown in the litary world, has continued to assert that amiable reputation, to which her solicitude for forming aright the juvenile mind is so deservedly entitled from every friend to the progress and improvement of the rising generation.

The first tale is called "The Bastille," from the scene of the chief event." The Tale of other Times" will probably be thought the most interesting, as well on account of the less familiar manners and situations of the heroes, as of its connection with the annals of Spain, a country now so dear, not only to our romantic but to our practical affections, by the heroic devotion which its inhabitants have exhibited to the church of their

forefathers, and the independence of their country.

The excellent moral tendency of "virtue alone is happiness," will secure to it, from purer lips than those of criticism, a verdict of approbation, Marmontel, the precursor and, in some respects, the model of this writer, says that a tale is to comedy, what an epic poem is to tragedy. We ought then, it should seem, to class among the higher and difficult efforts of literature, the neat execution of a short and well-rounded story. And, in fact, the service is great which the light writers render to society: they banish the enemy of confinement, and sooth the gnawings of disease: to grief and disappointment they subtitute a luxurious woe, or an ideal bliss; and by arousing the paipitations of generosity, they confer even on poverty and impotence the delightful triumphant consciousness of interior benevolence and merit.

ART. XIV. The Moral Legacy; or Simple Narratives. 12mo. THESE narratives contain the histories of the gamester; the passionate man; the envious woman; the vain man; the libertine; the prodigal; the miser; the enthusiast; and the adultress. Each of these characters tells his own story, and details the evil consequences of his own conduct. Mankind are rather to be allured by pleasure than deterred by pain; but the author of this work has uniformly endeavour

ed to dissuade his readers from certain vices, by setting before their view the misery to which they lead, rather than invite them to embrace the opposite virtues by representing the happiness which they confer. Nor is there much skill in the narratives themselves: the incidents are common place, and destitute of interest. The adultress is among the least dull of them.

ART. XV. Tules of the Passions, by GEORGE MOORE. 8vo. pp. 414.

NOTWITHSTANDING the defects of her plan, Miss Baillie's series of plays contains so many highly poetical passages, so much knowledge of human nature, and such admirable descriptions, that they cannot fail to interest every reader of taste. Mr. Moore professes to have undertaken the pre

sent work in consequence of reading Miss Baillie's plays, conceiving that the progress of a passion might be as well developed in the form of a tale, as in that of a drama: each tale is to be comprised in one volume, and these volumes are to be published at different intervals.

The passion which forms the sub

ject of the present volume, is Revenge, and the tale is entitled the Courtezan. The introduction is

perfectly German.

"It was midnight; the north wind in melancholy murmurs rushed through the streets of London. Heavy condensed clouds floated with majestic grandeur over the face of a wan moon, ob.

scuring for long intervals its sickly beams. A chilling sleet bedewed the earth; many of the lamps were extinguished, and the few which remained, shed but a faint and trembling light. All was dark, gloomy, and comfortless.

"A solitary pedestrian slowly paced a retired avenue in the s burbs. He was a tall, thin figure, wrapped up in a great coat, his arms folded, and his hat flapped over his eyes. He appeared irresolute in his actions; at intervals halting as if lost in reflection, and then again proceeding forward with a quick. and hurried step. Still his walk was confined to the narrow limits of a single street, and he watched the few persons who passed him with extraordinary eagerness and anxiety.

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Fatigued and wearied, he at length seated himself under the Gothic porch of a chapel that stood within the boundary to which he so rigidly adhered. This retreat, in some measure, screened him from the inclemency of the weather. He had remained in it but a short time, when he was suddenly accosted by one, whose figure and voice struck him with consternation. It was a female form, uncommonly tail and meagre; the pallid hue of her countenance (which received the faint rays of the lamp suspended over the porch) was rendered still more striking by the extreme thinness of her visage. She was covered with a kind of white night-dress; her long black ha ung low onher forehead, and extended in matted, dishevelled locks, over her breast and shoulders. She had a piece of white linen closely bound round her head, and fastened, in a large knot, on the left side. Her sunk and withered cheeks increased the prominent appearance of her features; her were dark and penetrating, her teeth decayed, her lips pale, and her whole persen apparently emaciated with the ravages or disease and penury.

eyes

"Montalbert!" she cried, in a voice of hollow solemnity.

"He whom she addressed answered to the name, and gazed upon ber a few under some agitation, demanded the moments in silent astonishment: he then, countersign which had been proposed as a mutual confirmation on their meeting.

Revenge!" exclaimed the courtetorted with the passion she named, and zan, while her countenance seemed dis. her shattered frame convulsed with emotinued, " for our conference, you must tion. "This is not a place," she congo with me."

"He hesitated; she gazed upon him contemptuously. Montalbert requested her to proceed, and immediately followed."

meeting of these mysterious personThis, it appears, was the first bert through several obscure streets, ages. The lady conducts Montalobserved (no doubt with surprise,) and at last up a staircase, where he that there was a general want of cleanliness; he is then introduced

to an apartment, where his conductress points to her dying father, and takes that opportunity of telling him a part of her history, and what is still more, surprising, some of his own life. It afterwards appears, the most important particulars of that the man who had seduced the courtezan was also the false friend

of Montalbert, and the betrayer of his wife. The whole story is so completely unnatural, and the incidents so extremely improbable, that it is not worth while to give a detailed analysis of it. The bond of union between the hero and the heroine is revenge; and their mode of gratifying this passion, is not by making any direct attack upon the author of their calamities, but by ruining his nephew, who is most fortunately sent up to London, just as the plan is formed. Women and dice are the agents employed, and prove successful: the young man is ruined, and, at the instigation of his persecutors, fights a duel, mar

"

passages which prove the author capable of producing something better. Nothing, however, is more provoking than to read a bad novel, which is not always absurd enough to be laughed at. We may be interested for a few pages, by a natural description, or a resemblance to something which we may have seen in real life, and then comes an incident altogether ridiculous. The last scene in this story, which the author has evidently laboured to render impressive, is extremely ill managed; he puts religious sentiments into the mouth of the man who is on the point of compleating a scheme of the most diabolical nature.

ries a prostitute, and commits a forgery. A timely discovery, and half a dozen convenient deaths, clear up the business. Edward, the young victim, proves to be not the nephew of the seducer, but the son of Montalbert, who was seeking his destruction; the forged bill is of course destroyed; the lady, whom the young man had been compelled to marry, very politely dies; the courtezan and her original seducer die, at the sight of each other, and Montalbert goes mad. Such is the termination of the first of these tales of the passions. Notwithstanding the many absurdities which this volume contains, there are many ART. XVI. The Itinerant; or Memoirs of an Actor. By S. W. RILEY, 3 vols.

12mo.

amusement from the chit-chat of a tea-table, or the broils of an alehouse. The novels which abound with strange events are those which excite the strongest interest. Fielding, Smollett, Richardson, and the German La Fontaine, all paint life as it is, and all are frequently flat. St. Leon, the Monk, Arthur Mervin, and Caleb Williams, fix the reader to his chair, occupy his mind, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, and leave him with that oppressive exhaustion of spirits, which is the best evidence of the previous excitement.

NOVELS are written, either for the depicting of life, as it commonly is, when they consist of characters, and feelings, and situations, and actions, and events, as they usually occur, or for the delineation of particular passions, when they abound with situations more rare and exciting than those of ordinary life, or merely for the amusement of the readers, when those materials are selected, which are most likely to attract attention and excite interest, without any greater regard to probability, than what is necessary to prevent the reader being offended by any gross violation of nature. Of the first class, the principal evil is a tendency to degenerate into dullness; for although there is a something t plain and simple description, which casts a degree of interest upon events so common, that they are hardly noticed when seen, although we like to see, in the mirror of fancy, things which we have seen a hundred and a hundred times in real life, yet the mind cannot de- The hero, by an accidental visit rive very great and very long to a country theatre, imbibes a * After this article was sent to the printer, we learnt that Mr. Riley is well known by that name, which therefore we must suppose to be his real name, in many provincial towns. He must not blame us, however, for placing his "memoirs" in this rather than in the biographical chapter. From the complection of the work it was impossibic, without farther information, to have done otherwise. EDIT.

The volumes before us profess to contain the real memoirs of one of those heirs to misfortune, a strolling player, now and then interwoven with narratives, a little more strange than the occurrences of common life, that the story might be made more exciting than it would have been, without this admixture. It belongs to the first class of novels, and is liable to the evils incident to it.*