imself familiar with sentiments at the wickedness
of which his soul revolts.

Vice is here exposed in its innermost workings. In Francis it resolves
all the confused terrors of conscience into wild abstractions, destroys
virtuous sentiments by dissecting them, and holds up the earnest voice
of religion to mockery and scorn. He who has gone so far (a distinction
by no means enviable) as to quicken his understanding at the expense of
his soul--to him the holiest things are no longer holy; to him God and
man are alike indifferent, and both worlds are as nothing. Of such a
monster I have endeavored to sketch a striking and lifelike portrait,
to hold up to abhorrence all the machinery of his scheme of vice, and to
test its strength by contrasting it with truth. How far my narrative is
successful in accomplishing these objects the reader is left to judge.
My conviction is that I have painted nature to the life.

Next to this man (Francis) stands another who would perhaps puzzle not
a few of my readers. A mind for which the greatest crimes have only
charms through the glory which attaches to them, the energy which their
perpetration requires, and the dangers which attend them. A remarkable
and important personage, abundantly endowed with the power of becoming
either a Brutus or a Catiline, according as that power is directed. An
unhappy conjunction of circumstances determines him to choose the latter
for, his example, and it is only after a fearful straying that he is
recalled to emulate the former. Erroneous notions of activity and
power, an exuberance of strength which bursts through all the barriers
of law, must of necessity conflict with the rules of social life. To
these enthusiast dreams of greatness and efficiency it needed but a
sarcastic bitterness against the unpoetic spirit of the age to complete
the strange Don Quixote whom, in the Robber Moor, we at once detest and
love, admire and pity. It is, I hope, unnecessary to remark that I no
more hold up this picture as a warning exclusively to robbers than the
greatest Spanish satire was levelled exclusively at knight-errants.

It is nowadays so much the fashion to be witty at the expense of
religion that a man will hardly pass for a genius if he does not allow
his impious satire to run a tilt at its most sacred truths. The noble
simplicity of holy writ must needs be abused and turned into ridicule at
the daily assemblies of the so-called wits; for what is there so holy