CUI bono? Cui bono? Cui bono? good Mr. Maturin! You regret, in your Preface that necessity compels you to appear before the public in the unseemly character of a writer of Ro mances but surely there are many romances of a tenor and tendency which it would not be unbecoming in any clergyman to write,...compositions in which the powers of invention are called in to promote the interests of morality,and the aid of fiction is only evoked to serve the cause of truth. True it is, however, that such are neither the ways nor means, the object nor ends, of the Diabliana in which you delight to revel; and never did you revel more errantly from every good purpose than in Melmoth or the Wanderer. Yet "the hint of this tale (says the author) was taken from a passage in one of my sermons," and is intended to show, that there is no human price at which a man will sell the salvation of his immortal soul. We have heard of the seria mista jocis, and have often been pleased with that style; but we know of no case in which the sancta mista profanis has given, nor can we surmise a case in which it could give satisfaction. And, had he consulted his understanding, Mr. Maturin must be too sensible a man to believe that his proposition needed the illustration of a tissue of impossibilities to make it out, even were it advisable to speculate through four volumes on so absurd, while at the same time so sacred a question. Limited to probabil

ity, a fine novel might have been constructed on similar grounds. "Reason, you rogue, reason!" cries Sir John Falstaff to Pistol; "Think'st thou I'll endanger my soul gratis?"...The extent to which the dearest stake of mankind is exposed, not in consequence of direct offers from Satan in person, but indirectly, through his temptations to vice and crime, we could have supposed to be a fitting and useless theme for a Clergyman to employ his pen upon, if obliged to write novels; but we can form no conception of any justifiable motive to induce him to adopt a fable destitute of instruction, unnatural, and absolutely stinking of the infernal sulphur throughout. His prayers might have taught him to solicit being kept from the Devil, and not to figure the Evil Spirit stirring and at home in all the familiar transactions of life. In short, he might and ought to have avoided the monstrous framework in which he has exhibited this picture, or rather series of pictures, more disgusting and hideous than the poetical demonology of the noble lord, from whom he has borrowed his morbidness, his horrors, his atrocities, and his hellishness, outByroning Byron in these unamiable, inhuman, worse than useless, and abominable qualities.

With these general opinions of Mr. Maturin's new romance, it can hardly be imagined that we looked with much complacency to the details and execu tion. Yet we must say that Melmoth

possesses a sort of wild intercst, which displays great though perverted talent in the writer.

Melmoth is a being who has lived a century and a half owing to a compact with the foul fiend. His descendants reside in Ireland, and a visit which he pays to an old miser, the mortal represensation of the family, frightens him to death, and transfers the property to a young student his nephew. Among his uncle's papers he reads the story of One Stanton, who had had numerous struggles with the Devil-possessed Melmoth; and immediately after a Spaniard, one Monçada, who had been similarly exposed, is wrecked on the coast, and becomes an inmate with the young gentleman, to whom he relates his adventures. These consist in his being made a monk, escaping, getting into and out of the Inquisition, and finally taking refuge in the house of a Jew-doctor, who tells him the story of sundry skeletons in his study. This introduces an Indian tale,* which is hardly finished when the Devil-man, Melmoth senior, arrives at his paternal abode (not hell, nor even St. Patrick's Purgatory, but the Wicklow Lodge of the Melmoths) and prepares for his transformation, or death, we cannot tell which. An account of this event is given, and the fourth volume concludes.

Only further prefacing, that as a composition Melmoth presents many inelegancies, and even grammatical errors; that there is often apparent a facetious vein, not bad per se, but very anomalously linked to the matter: and that there is a prevailing tediousness in de fining sensations, sentiments, and all sorts of feelings; we shall pursue our customary course in selecting a few passages, most readily separable from a work which it is not our intention to follow minutely, to enable our readers to exercise their own judgment on the pretensions of the author.

Talking of ancient superstitions, we find the relation (as we think) spoilt by the use of fashionable phraseology: the person described is a Wicklow Sybil.

"No one knew so well as she to find

where the four streams met, in which, on the same portentous season, the chemise was to be immersed, and then displayed before the fire, (in the name of one whom we dare not mention to ears polite'), to be turned by the figure of the destiued husband before morning. No one but herself (she said) knew the hand in which the comb was to be held, while the other was employ ed in conveying the apple to the mouth,

while, during the joint operation, the shadow of the phantom-spouse was to pass across the mirror before which it was performed. No one was more skilful or active in removing every iron implement from the kitchen where these ceremonies were usually performed by the credulous and terrified dupes of her wizardry, lest, instead of the form of a comely youth exhibiting a ring on his white finger, an headless figure should stalk to the rack, (Anglicè, dresser,) take down a long spit, or, in default of that, snatch a poker from the fire-side, and mercilessly take measure with its iron length of the sleeper for a coffin. No one, in short, knew better how to torment or terrify her victims into a belief of that power which may and has reduced the strongest minds to the level of the weakest; and under the influence of which the cultivated sceptic, Lord Lyttleton, yelled and gnashed and writhed in his last hours, like the poor girl who, in the belief of the horrible visitation of the vampire, shrieked aloud, that her grandfather was sucking her vital blood while she slept, and expired under the influence of imaginary horror. Such was the being to whom old Melmoth had committed his life, half from credulity, and (Hibernicè speaking) more than half from avarice."

Our modern writers have got into an odd way of imitating the stuff of each other about their hero's eyes; Mr.Maturin's has got squinters as supernatural and odd as any Vampire's among them.

"John's eyes were in a moment, and as if by magic, rivetted on a portrait that hung on the wall, and appeared,

even to his untaught eye, far superior to the tribe of family pictures that are left to moulder on the walls of a family mansion. It represented a man of middle age. There was nothing remarkable in the costume, or in the countenaoce, but the eyes, John felt, were such as one feels they wish they had never seen, and feels they can never forget. Had he been acquainted with the poetry of Southey, he might have exclaimed in his after-life,

'Only the eyes had life,

They gleamed with demon light.'-Thalaba.

"From an impulse equally resistless and painful, he approached the portrait, held the candle towards it, and could distinguish the words on the border of the painting,-Jno. Melmoth, anoo 1646."

N.B. This was in 1816, and the portrait was that of the human-satan still alive and ill-doing. The following is a sample of genuine mediocrity, in the original romance-writing manner. John has got Stanton's memoirs to peruse:

"He sunk for a few moments into a fit of gloomy abstraction, till the sound of the clock striking twelve made him start, it was the only sound he had heard for some hours, and the sounds produced by inanimate things, while all living beings around are as dead, have at such an hour an effect indescribably awful. John looked at his manuscript with some reluctance, opened it, paused over the first lines, and as the wind sighed round the desolate apartment, and the rain pattered with a mournful sound against the dismantied window, wished what did he wish for ?-he wished the sound of the wind less dismal, and the dash of the rain less monotonous.He may be forgiven, it was past midnight, and there was not a human being awake but himself, within ten miles when he began to read."

As a specimen of the disgusting exaggeration of incarnate diabolism in a man who has cut his father's throat, and exults in it, we may quote the following:-A monk and a novice have been discovered to be of different sexes, whom the warmest passion tempted to disguise and profanation: the parricide

(relating the catastrophe in a subterraneous dungeon of the convent,) says,

"They were conducted here; I had suggested the plan, and the Superior consented to it. He would not be present, but his dumb nod was enough. I was the conductor of their (intended) escape; they believed they were departing with the connivance of the Superior. I led them through those very passages that you and I have trod. I had a map of this subterranean region, but my blood run cold as I traversed it; and it was not at all inclined to resume its usual temperament, as I felt what was to be the destination of my attendants. Once I turned the lamp, on pretence of trimming it, to catch a glimpse of the devoted wretches. They were embracing each other, the light of joy trembled in their eyes. They were whispering to each other hopes of liberation and happiness, and blending my name in the interval they could spare from their prayers for each other. That sight extinguished the last remains of compunction with which my horrible task had inspired me. They dared to be happy in the sight of one who must be for ever miserable,-could there be a greater insult? I resolved to punish it on the spot. This very apartment was near,-I knew it, and the map of their wanderings no longer trembled in my hand. I urged them to enter this recess (the door was then entire) while I went to examine the passage. They entered it, thanking me for my precaution,-they knew not they were never to quit it alive. But what were their lives for the agony their happiness cost me? The moment they were inclosed, and clasping each other (a sight that made me grind my teeth), I closed and locked the door. This movement gave them no immediate uneasiness,-they thought it a friendly precaution. The monient they were secured, I hastened to the Superior, who was on fire at the insult offered to the sanctity of his convent, and still more to the purity of his penetration, on which the worthy Superior piqued himself as much as if it had ever been possible for him to acquire the smallest share of it. He de

scended with me to the passage,-the monks followed with eyes on fire. In the agitation of their rage, it was with difficulty they could discover the door after I had repeatedly pointed it out to them. The Superior, with his own hands, drove several nails, which the monks eagerly supplied, into the door, that effectually joined it to the staple,never to be disjoined; and every blow he gave,doubtless he felt as if it was a reminiscence to the accusing angel, to strike out a sin from the catalogue of his ac cusations. The work was soon done, -the work never to be undone. At the first sound of steps in the passage, and blows on the door, the victim uttered a shriek of ferror. They imagined they were detected, and that an incensed party of monks were breaking open the door. These terrors were soon exchanged for others, and worse,-as they heard the door nailed up, and listened to our departing steps. They uttered another shriek, but O how different was the accent of its despair! they knew their doom.

*

It was my penance (no,-my delight) to watch at the door, under the pretence of precluding the possibility of their escape, (of which they knew there was no possibility); but, in reality, not to inflict on me the indignation of being the convent gaoler, but of teaching me that callosity of heart, and induration of nerve, and stubbornness of eye, and apathy of ear, that were best suited to my office. But they might have saved themselves the trouble,-I had them all before ever I entered the convent. Had I been the Superior of the community, I should have undertaken the office of watching the door. You will call this cruelty, I call it curiosity,—that curiosity that brings thousands to witness a tragedy, and makes the most delicate female feast on groans and agonies. I bad an advantage over them—the groan, the agony I feasted on, were real. I took my station at the door-that door which, like that of Dante's hell, might have borne the inscription, "Here is no hope," with a face of mock penitence, and genuine-cordial delectation.

I

66

I

could hear every word that transpired. For the first hours they tried to comfort each other, they suggested to each other hopes of liberation-and as my shadow, crossing the threshold, darkened or restored the light, they said, That is he ;"-then, when this occurred repeatedly, without any effect, they said, "No, no, it is not he," and swallowed down the sick sob of despair to hide it from each other. Towards night a monk came to take my place, and to offer me food. I would not have quitted my place for worlds; but I talked to the monk in his own language, and told him I would make a merit with God of my sacrifices, and was resolved to remain there all night, with the permission of the Superior. The monk was glad of having a substitute on such easy terms, and I was glad of the food he left me, for I was hungry now, but I reserved the appetite of my soul for richer luxuries. heard them talking within. While I was eating, I actually lived on the famine that was devouring them, but of which they did not dare to say a word to each other. They debated, deliberated, and, as misery grows ingenious in its own defence, they at last assured each other that it was impossible the Superior had locked them in there to perish by hunger. At these words I could not help laughing. This laugh reached their ears, and they became silent in a moment. All that night,however, I heard their groans,--those groans of physical suffering, that laugh to scorn all the sentimental sighs that are exhaled from the hearts of the most intoxicated lovers that ever breathed. I heard them all that night. I had read French romances, and all their unimaginable nonsense. Madame Sevignè herself says she would have been tired of her daughter in a long tete-a-tete journey, but clap me two lovers into a dungeon, without food, light, or hope, and I will be d--d (that I am already, by the bye) if they do not grow sick of each other within the first twelve hours. The second day hunger and darkness had their usual influence. They shrieked for liberation, and knocked loud and

long at their dungeon door. They exclaimed they were ready to submit to any punishment; and the approach of the monks, which they would have dreaded so much the preceding night, they now solicited on their knees. What a jest, after all, are the most awful vicissitudes of human life!-they supplicated now for what they would have sacrificed their souls to avert four-andtwenty hours before. Then the agony of hunger increased, they shrunk from the door, and grovelled apart from each other. Apart-how I watched that. They were rapidly becoming objects of hostility to each other,-oh what a feast to me! They could not disguise from each other the revolting circumstances of their mutual sufferings. It is one thing for lovers to sit down to a feast magnificently spread, and another for lovers to couch in darkness and famine, to exchange that appetite which cannot be supported without dainties and flattery, for that which would barter a descended Venus for a morsel of food. The second night they raved and groaned, (as occurred); and, amid their agonies (I must do justice to women, whom I hate as well as men), the man often accused the female as the cause of all bis sufferings, but the woman never, never reproached him. Her groans might indeed have reproached him bitterly, but she never uttered a word that could have caused him pain. There was a change which I well could mark, however, in their physical feelings. The first day they clung together, and every movement I felt was like that of one person. The next the man alone struggled, and the woman moaned in helplessness. The third night,-how shall I tell it ?-but you have bid me go on. All the horrible and loathsome excruciations of famine had been undergone; the disunion of every tie of the heart, of passion, of nature, had commenced. In the agonies of their famished sickness they loathed each other, they could have cursed each other, if they had had breath to curse. It was on the fourth night that I heard the shriek of the wretched female, her lover, in the agony of hunger, had

"Monster! and you laugh?""Yes, I laugh at all mankind, and the imposition they dare to practise when they talk of hearts. I laugh at buman passions and human cares,-vice and virtue, religion and impiety; they are all the result of petty localities, and artificial situation. One physical want, one severe and abrupt lesson from the tintless and shrivelled lip of necessity, is worth all the logic of the empty wretch. es who have presumed to prate it from Zeno down to Burgersdicius. Oh! it silences in a second all the feeble sophistry of conventional life, and ascetitious passion. Here were a pair who would not have believed all the world on their knees, even though angels had descended to join in the attestation, that it was possible for them to exist without each other. They had risked every thing, trampled on every thing buman and divine, to be in each others sight and arms. One hour of hunger undeceived them. A trivial and ordinary want, whose claims at another time they have regarded as a vulgar interruption of their spiritualized intercourse, not only by its natural operation sundered it for ever, but, before it ceased converted that intercourse into a source of torment and hostility inconceivable, except among cannibals. The bitterest enemies on earth could not have regarded each other with more abhorrence than these lovers. Deluded wretches! you boasted of having hearts, I boast I have none, and which of us gained most by the vaunt, let life decide. My story is nearly finished, and so I hope is the day. When I was last here I had something to excite me ;-talking of those things is poor employment to one who has been a witness to them. On the sixth day all was still. The door was unnailed, we entered, they were no more. They lay far from each other, farther than on that voluptuous couch into which their passion had converted the mat of a convent bed. She lay contracted in a heap, a lock of her long