doing on every one of his performances. The same observations apply, in a still stronger degree, to the works of Mr Scoular, who also takes striking likenesses, but seems to be still, in a great measure, ignorant of the delicacies and capabilities of his art. We rejoice, for the honour of this country, however, that it has given birth to an artist, who, though he has furnished nothing to this Exhibition, is destined, we are confident, to raise the celebrity of the island in the art of sculpture, to an eminence which it has never yet attained. Those of our readers who have been in Italy, need not be informed that we allude to Mr Campbell, who is now completing his education at Rome, under the auspices of Canova and Torwaldsen, and whose productions have fully justified the sanguine expectations which his friends formed of his future eminence before leaving this country. These two great masters have already pronounced him to be the first young sculptor in Italy; and, judging from his first essays, some of which are at present in this city, we have no hesitation in predicting, that, if he continues to advance as he has hitherto done, he will be an ornament to his country, and give to the name which he bears the same distinction in sculpture, which it has already attained in the sister art of poetry.

We observed with pleasure the great number of pictures in this Exhibition which were sold; and still more, that many of the first characters in the country were among the purchasers. This is the real and only effectual encouragement of art; and, when the inmense sums which are lavished by all classes on furniture are considered, it is evident that the wealth of the island is capable of bringing both painting and sculpture to their greatest perfection, if it only takes that direction. We earnestly hope that the directors of the institution, and all those whose rank and fortune qualify them to take a lead in the fashion of the day, will endeavour to give this impulse to the public taste; and, from the rapid increase in the admiration for the Fine Arts since the termination of the war, we think we can promise to artists of real merit much more liberal encourage ment than they have hitherto obtained.

REMARKS ON MATURIN'S MELMOTH. THIS is certainly a most singular performance, to which, after all the epithets of eccentric, extravagant, &c. &c. have been exhausted, that of extra-mundane may, with some propriety, be added. Now that credulity, even that degree of credulity inseparable from honesty and goodnature, has given place to hard-hearted scepticism,-now that, as a kind of compensation for our fathers having all believed too much, we have resolved to believe too little; one would think this would scarcely be a time when a supernatural narrative could be acceptable to the public,-particularly one of which the enemy of mankind is the hero. Especially when we consider that this dark potentate, though his existence is established by the same authority as those truths we most humbly acknowledge, has, for some time, absconded from fashionable belief. Like the train of witches and necromancers who were formerly associated with him, he seems to belong only to the dark ages, and to have fled before the lights of science and philosophy, as birds of night before the sun. Some grave old people, and some innocent young people, on whom this intolerable brightness has not flashed, still believe, indeed, in the exist ence of this agent of evil, and, like himself, believe and tremble, and not without reason, for those who enter tain this belief cannot but find it confirmed by the visible proofs that daily occur of the extent of his dominion.

There is one point of resemblance between this author and his hero. They both, in a different way, possess very considerable powers, which seem to have some invisible and mysterious limit, beyond which they cannot pass. The wild and wonderful, the odd and eccentric, seems to be Mr Maturin's chosen province :— into the regions of nature and probability he is either unable or unwilling to penetrate. Perhaps this is saying too much, but, if he does make an advance into these quiet precincts, his love of extravagance and exaggeration immediately leads him back into his wonted path. The false taste which endeavours to fatigue the reader with

constant attempts to astonish with the wonderful, or bewilder with the mystical, has no doubt been encouraged, if not produced, by that passion for strong excitement which we have so often pointed out as equally the misfortune and the fault of the present period. Its misfortune,-because it was in some degree unavoidable; the birth of the rising generation having been like that of Bacchus in the Heathen mythology, whose existence be gan among flames and thunders, and all the dread phenomena of nature. Those, whose first recollections were of revolutionary horrors which we can scarce yet think possible, after having witnessed their atrocity; and which seem to have been permitted as a tremendous experiment to show what man could be, after trampling on human laws, and extinguishing to himself the light of religion: those who, after seeing "Chaos thus come again" in their earliest years, have since witnessed in breathless suspense the rapid course of successive victories, demolished thrones, and new dominions, rising suddenly amidst the raging conflict, like volcanic islands from a troubled sea;-then the progress of victorious armies, in an opposite direction, and the downfall of that mighty spirit for which Europe seem→ ed too narrow:-And, after all this, like the sudden shifting of a scene, the breaking loose of that evil genius of the age, who, like his precursor in the Apocalypse, was permitted to come in great wrath, because his time was but short: Those, we say, to whom such marvels have been familiar from their infancy, cannot easily now reduce their imaginations within the vulgar" visible diurnal sphere" of common existence. Add to this, the excitement of the fashionable poetry of the day, and the restlessness of mind that is encouraged by that rage for travelling which has succeeded to the tumults of war.

Yet all this is not sufficient to sanction Mr Maturin's bold attempt to carry us, not above, but below this visible diurnal sphere ;-to bring home to our imagination, in the most familiar, yet repulsive form, the Enemy of mankind, who has been so long

banished from boudoirs and fashionable

drawing-rooms, and whose influence is as universally denied, as certainly experienced. To be sure, the appetite

for absurdity, not to say impiety, that swallowed Frankenstein, did afford some encouragement to show how much ability might be wasted on a very disgusting and improper subject. But yet, Mr Maturin's profession should have done something more to prevent him from touching the brink of all we hate. But it is vain to give the least idea of this extraordinary performance, without a skeleton of the story, and some extracts as specimens of the style. The opening of the book is natural and simple, relating the dependence of a poor lad, John Melmoth, on an old miser of an uncle, and his sudden call from college to attend this uncle on his death-bed.

"As the carriage drew near the Lodge, (the name of old Melmoth's seat,) John's heart grew heavier every moment. The

recollection of this awful uncle from in

fancy,-when he was never permitted to approach him without innumerable lectures, not to be troublesome,-not to go too near his uncle,-not to ask him any questions,-on no account to disturb the inviolable arrangement of his snuff-box, hand-bell, and spectacles, nor to suffer the glittering of the gold-headed cane to tempt him to the mortal sin of handling it,and, finally, to pilot himself aright through his perilous course in and out of the apartment without striking against the piles of tobacco-pipes, and snuff-cannisters, not to books, globes, old newspapers, wig-blocks, mention certain hidden rocks of rat-traps and mouldy books beneath the chairs,together with the final reverential bow at

the door, which was to be closed with cau tious gentleness, and the stairs to be descended as if he were shod with felt.'This recollection was carried on to his school-boy years, when at Christmas and Easter, the ragged poney, the jest of the school, was dispatched to bring the reluctant visitor to the Lodge,-where his pastime was to sit vis-a-vis to his uncle, without speaking or moving, till the pair resembled Don Raymond and the ghost of Beatrice in the Monk,-then watching him as he picked the bones of lean mutton out of his mess of weak broth, the latter of which he handed to his nephew with a needless caution not to take more than he liked,'-then hurried to bed by daylight, even in winter, to save the expence of an inch of candle, where he lay awake and restless from hunger, till his uncle's retir vernante of the meagre household to steal ing at eight o'clock gave signal to the goup to him with some fragments of her own scanty meal, administering between every mouthful a whispered caution not to tell his uncle. Then his college life, passed in

persons of this description. We shall not inflict upon our readers the horrors attending the miser's death-bed, or the manner in which his neighbours and servants enjoyed the scene of his departure; though there are some features of the description very natural, and others, we doubt not, very national: but then our author never stops in the right place. Over doing, Anglice, exaggeration, seems a passion with him. Even the beautiful children of his fancy, (and some of them are very beautiful,) do not escape from the consequences of this false taste; when he sets them before us, rich in native bloom, he is sure to add a heightening of rouge, or an ill placed wreath of roses, to spoil the general effect. And as for the horrors which he delights to accumulate on the heads of his culprits, or even of his innocent sufferers, they are heaped with such unsparing profusion, that they remind us of an expression applied to his hero, "Hell grew darker at his frown."

But the outline of the story remains to be traced.-The idea which gave rise to it made, as the author tells us, a part of one of his sermons. He remarked to his audience, that, however careless, licentious, or even deeply depraved, human beings may be, the sense of immortality, and the dread of the future penalty of sin, is so great, that the lowest wretch, or even the greatest malefactor, would not yield up the dim and feeble hope of future happiness for the highest earthly gratification; even should the tempter have power to offer life prolonged beyond the date of humanity, abundant wealth, and powers beyond the common lot, in exchange for the immortal soul, thus devoted to perdition. To illustrate this doctrine is the pious intention of this extraordinary performance. John Melmoth, heir to the miser, stays in his comfortless habitation, brooding over the mystic terrors produced by a picture, and scarce legible manuscript, from which it appeared that an ancestor of his, who should, in the course of nature, have slept with his fathers, above a hundred years before, still existed upon earth, and might hourly be expected to do some mysterious mischief in the dwelling of his forefathers; of all which the deceased miser seems to have had an innate conscious

ness. The contents of the manuscript we shall not quote, but merely advert to it as the subject of poor John's gloomy meditations, and the vestibule through which we enter into the wondrous edifice before us. It relates to one Stanton, whose travels had been interrupted, and the best part of his life embittered by his meeting with the incarnation of a fiend in the person of this same ancient yet unaltered Melmoth. Of his eyes, which glowed with a supernatural light, which, to borrow a simile from Miss Baillie, made them appear like "The morning star mixed with infernal fire;" of his conversation, rich in anecdote, but frequently betraying, with an unconsciousness rather too careless for such a sagacious personage, his personal presence among the scenes and actors of a former age; (aërial music, too, of peculiar sweetness, announced his approach when he drew near to his intended victims.)-Of all these mystic terrors, a vague idea seems to prevail in different places; but no where a distinct sense of the powers and intentions of the Demi Devil, except in the mind of Stanton, whose temptations and torments we shall spare the reader, only assuring him that they far exceeded all those which were permitted to try the faith and patience of St Anthony. John still continues in his dismal home, listening to the storm that shook the gloomy mansion, and haunted with all the terrors produced by the mysterious though unfinished manuscript. But, while we are wishing for a gleam of sunshine, or a breathing of quiet to this victim of secret and undefined terror, the picture of his mysterious ancestor (for such it seems he was) tormented him with visionary horrors. At length, unable to resist the impulse of his harrowed feelings, he cut it to pieces, and threw it in the fire; mark the result.

"As Melmoth saw the last blaze, he threw himself into bed, in hope of a deep and intense sleep. He had done what was required of him, and felt exhausted both in mind and body; but his slumber was not so sound as he had hoped for. The sullen light of the turf-fire, burning but never blazing, disturbed him every moment. He turned and turned, but still there was the same red light glaring on, but not illuminating, the dusky furniture of the apartment. The wind was high that

night, and as the creaking door swung on its hinges, every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the lock, or of a foot pausing on the threshold. But (for Melmoth never could decide) was it in a dream or not, that he saw the figure of his ancestor appear at the door? hesitatingly as he saw him at first on the night of his uncle's death,-saw him enter the room, approach his bed, and heard him whisper, You have burned me, then; but those are flames I can survive.-I am alive,-I am beside you.' Melmoth started, sprung from his bed, it was broad day-light. He looked round,-there was no human being in the room but himself. He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his right arm. He looked at it, it was black and blue, as from the recent gripe of a strong hand.”

pp. 146-148.

The next chapter opens with an aggravation of the storm, and a very characteristic description of the blundering humanity of the Irish peasant ry, sparing no exertion to save the crew of a sinking vessel, yet odd and eccentric in their language, and manner of showing these good feelings that prompted their activity. The ancestor appears on a rock enjoying the miseries of the wreck. John, appalled by this spectacle, falls down into the sea, is brought to land half dead, and with him a stranger, the only survivor of the crew. After a lingering pause, only animated by the conversations of a rather amusing Irish nurse, the hapless John, and his still more wretched guest, recover sufficiently to converse. The guest appears to be a Spaniard, whose tale of woe, certainly possessing strong interest, describes him as the elder son of a noble family, born before his father and mother were regularly married, but whom they wished to be brought home and acknowledged; when, unfortunately, a spiritual director, who ruled the whole family with absolute sway, possessing, as he did, the key of every one's conscience, and under the seal of confession, the secrets of the whole family,-demands the hard-fated Monçada as a victim to the honour of the family, to be made a monk, that the youngest, more regularly born, might inherit, without exposing the irregular birth of the first. The young gentleman abhors the monastic life, and is with the utmost difficulty persuaded (chiefly by the tears and entreaties of his

Here is opened a scene of the darkest hypocrisy, the profoundest dissimulation, and the most horrid cruelty. The monks, without a single exception, are shown in the most revolting form that debased human nature can assume. There is a kind of perverse ingenuity exhibited in furnishing such a succession of artifices for purposes the most atrocious, which these fathers exert, first to secure and then torment their prey. In an attempt to escape by the pretended assistance of a false brother, he is betrayed into the hands of the Inquisition, loaded with accusations of the blackest crimes, including fratricide, for the death of his generous brother, murdered in an attempt to liberate him. We feel for the crimes charged on this innocent victim of superstition. But as to his sufferings, we have already supped so full of horrors among the base and inhuman monks, that the Inquisition has nothing to show that can create greater abhorrence. We must here interrupt our narrative, to express our astonishment at the construction of a mind that could deliberately furnish from itself the materials of the scenes described in this monastery. Titus Andronicus falls far short of the deliberate abominations of craft and cruelty here laid open, and what is still more formidable to the imagination, when the whole inward mechanism of a convent is thus laid open to view, like the inside of a clock or watch taken to pieces for examination, the conclusion that necessarily results from the discovery is, that the very nature of the institution is alike adverse to the practice of devotion and the attainment of tranquillity, the objects, it is to be supposed, of those who choose this mode of escaping from worldly cares and turbulent passions. The impression left on the mind is not only a detestation of the conventual life, but a shrewd suspicion that neither piety nor freedom can exist under the influence of a religion, the ministers of which are all hypocrites or tyrants.

Mr Maturin certainly bears a charmed life, if there be any truth in the picture.

(To be continued.)