146 The French Annuals. [ Fes. 
This, as far as poetry goes—we ‘admit the rank is higher—is not 
better than 
« Thou, Dalhousie! thou great god of war! 
Lieutenant-general of the Earl of Mar!” 
There are many other Buonapartean compositions in the Annales; 
but as the Annales are romantiques, and conducted in the most ultra 
principles, and by the most renowned writers, of the anti-classical 
school—Victor Hugo, Ch. Nodier, &c. &c.—it is only fair to give a 
specimen of their romanticism upon a favourite subject—the secret 
societies of the middle ages. We select a dramatic sketch, by M. 
Loéve-Veimars, who, we may remark, in passing, has translated—but, 
alas! into prose—Monk Lewis’s ballad of the Water King, in this 
Annual :— 
A ScENE OF THE SecrET TRIBUNAL. 1362. 
(Hans, Groner, and several Squires round a fire in a wood. Night. 
Hans. It is your turn, George, to tell a story. 
Geo. 1 am going to tell you how the evil spirit twisted the necks of seven 
monks of the convent of Koenigslutter.—There was, once upon a time, in the 
monastery of Keenigslutter, seven monks, who cared for nothing but to troll the 
dice and to drink, who uttered as many oaths as words, and who would, any 
day, have left the Kyrie Eleison to follow a petticoat and two pretty feet 
under it. It was in vain for the abbot to preach to them, or to impose 
penances, or to pray to God to convert them: he gained nothing by it. What 
was the consequence? One day Don’t you hear a noise of footsteps. 
behind this tree? 
Hans. Bah! It is only a salamander coming to dance in our fire. 
Geo. One day, then, as they were sitting in the refectory, chatting jovially 
and drinking (the wine had got into their brains), they forgot that there was 
an abbot in the cloister, a God in heaven, or a devil in hell; and they called 
upon Old Nick to come and make merry with them.—Stir the fire ; this wood 
is very gloomy. 
Hans. What are you afraid of ? 
Geo. Nothing.—Scarcely had they called on the devil, but the great gate, 
grating on its hinges, opens, and—— 
A Squire. Holy Virgin! itis he! Look !—Iook! 
Hans. It is he p—who is it ? 
Geo. God keep us! Do you not see below there, in the trunk of the large 
willow, a ghost, which is only waiting for cock-croaw? Don’t you see his 
sparkling eyes, which glow like burning coals ? 
Hans. Are not you ashamed, George? Itis only a Will-o’-the-wisp ! 
Geo. No, I say, it is a human face. How torn he is, and covered with 
rags! It can’t be the devil; for Brother Hildebrand told me that he is always 
dressed out iu silk and velvet when he wishes to buy a poor soul. 
A Squire. He approaclies.—Who goes there ? 
Geo. Make the sign of the crass, I say, all of you, to keep us from harm. 
Hans. Who are you, wretched creature? what are you doing in the forest 
this freezing night P—See, George, how his sides are hollow and meagre ! 
how he lifts over his head his shrivelled hands !—Speak, ill-omened bird! or 
my spear will untie your tongue. What do you want? 
Cart. Fo warm myself. 
Hans. His voice is as hollow as that of famine itself—Approach! Why 
do you wander alone in the night? 
Cart. The nights are my days; owls and bats are the nightingales which 
