Number Eleven. Hanging more merciful than transportation? We deny it, and so does Mr. Wordsworth in Number Five.

Number Twelve is an excellent argument in favour of hanging everybody. Number Thirteen refers to a time which Mr. Wordsworth might see but will not, viz., the Present.

Number Fourteen. We accept Mr. Wordsworth's apology, and extend him the mercy he craves; for we feel that he needs it.

So much for the Sonnets; and please God we will get out of the way of Sonnets for the future!

"The Borderers,-a Tragedy,"-is a weak and poor performance, with nothing real or passion-like about it; and that finishes the volume.

Want of space compels us here to break off rather abruptly, and to defer our estimate of Wordsworth's rank and influence till a future opportunity.

Zanoni. By Sir E. L. BULWER, Bart. 3 Vols. London: Saunders and Otley. BULWER'S novels, from Falkland the firstborn, to Zanoni the youngest of the family, bear the evident stamp of a genius as rare as it is admirable. Whenever we take up one of these "delicia," we meet with so many of those

"Truths that wake

To perish never,"

-those bright "thoughts that wonder through eternity"-those sweet reveries in which the imagination loves to indulge-and those vivid descriptions of the vicissitudes of human life which take captive our sympathies, that we are unable to lay it down until the word "Finis" breaks the spell. If the Frenchman who said "Be it mine to sit on a sofa all day long, and read eternal new romances of Merivaux and Crebillon," could have added Bulwer's novels to his list, it would have considerably enhanced the pleasures of his Paradise. Our admiration of them, however, is by no means unqualified. We are not in love with Bulwer's peculiarities. We think he might have given us heroes less worthy of the Treadmill or Penitentiary, and when he does introduce us into respectable company, we are not always patient under their philosophico-sentimental speeches. No matter who Bulwer's hero may be an ancient or modern dissipated dandy like Glaucus or Pelham-a thoughtful and amiable murderer like Eugene Aram-a fascinating seducer like Maltravers, or a "love" of a highwayman like Paul Clifford-he invariably bores us with metaphysical sentiment and sentimental metaphysics. Every one, from sempstresses to savans, must take an intense interest in storics so skilfully developed as Bulwer's; but we are afraid that when he becomes too philosophic or rhapsodical, sempstresses will skip the page, while savans, with Mr. Burchell in the Vicar of Wakefield, will impudently cry Fudge!

"Zanoni" derives its chief interest from its illustrations of the Rosicrucian mysteries, and its connection with the scenes and characters of the French Revolution. The greater part of the work is occupied with the adventures, ghostly and bodily, of a magician, from whom the novel takes its name, and who is truly a marvellous personage. The "sæva Canidia" of Horace, with her philtres and enchantments, is nothing to him. He beats the weird sister who could "sail to Aleppo in a sieve" out and out. Michael Scott, who, we are informed in the Notes to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," "compelled certain demons to twist endless ropes of sand," must hide his diminished head before the far mightier Wizard of Bulwer.

We have our misgivings, however, as to the propriety of bringing such a gentleman into the world, so late as the French Revolution. The prisonmassacres the noyades-the fusillades-the busy guillotine, and the other atrocities of the Reign of Terror, are so awfully real-so startlingly truethat Zanoni, his obedient demons and stock of supernatural horrors, fade away

before them like the blue gleams of phosphor in the broad sunlight. Orthodox ghosts should disappear at cockcrow.

We are perfectly dazzled by the rich resources of the author's powerful and creative intellect, when he surrounds us with the mysterious and shadowy inhabitants of the spiritual world, and contrives to shed a sublime grandeur around such threadbare and exploded puerilities as the old magic and astrology; but we cannot help thinking that, had these wonders been placed among the shadows of a darker age than the eighteenth century, they would have appeared more like realities. At present, they have much the same effect as the phantasmata of the magic lantern at day-time. The principal power of Fiction, we believe, depends upon the nearness of its approach to reality. It is the shadow of truth-the imitator of nature, and when it becomes unnatural loses its chiefest charm. For this reason, we must confess, however the admirers of Mrs. Radcliffe may impugn our taste, that we are heartily tired of those supernatural marvels which demonology and magic have been ransacked to supply. To mention one-third of the wonders with which this novel is filied, would be as wearisome to our readers as it would be profitless. Among many other things of the same kind, we are told of the astonishing effects of the elixir which bestows immortal youth upon those who are lucky enough to possess it. Zanoni (who is a conjuror after the old pattern, with a familiar spirit, and a large book filled with cabalistic hieroglyphics) can become invisible at pleasure, and like Puck "put a girdle about the earth in forty minutes." He finds it convenient sometimes to melt away into a blue cloud-pops upon people unexpectedly in the oddest places, and prophesies "coming events" like a Moore's Almanac. The unhappy man, however, forfeits his magical powers by marrying a Venetian actress, and receives a threatening letter in consequence, from a Mr. Mejnour, one of the craft, who declares that he shall be punished by being continually stared at by a lady Goblin, called the "Dweller of the Threshold," who has very unpleasant eyes, and the power of making everybody who has the misfortune to be given up to her, very uncomfortable. A young Englishman named Glyndon, who becomes a pupil of Mejnour's in the black art, but fails in performing the initiatory duties required of him, is also devoted to the tender mercies of the "Dweller of the Threshold" From the dreadful things which happen to this Glyndon and Zanoni, we learn that it is no joke to get into the clutches of this vindictive sprite.

Viola, the inamorata of Zanoni, is one of the finest of this novelist's creations. So gentle, so guileless, so radiant with beauty is she, that we are persuaded no "poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling" ever saw a sweeter or a lovelier vision. The history of Viola's father is one of the greatest curiosities in the book. He is a musician, who is described as being uncommonly fond of his fiddle; he occasionally addresses it in very respectful and polite terms. Whenever the fiddler is pleased, he is made to communicate his joys to his dear fiddle, and when vexed, the most touching shakes of his bow reveal his sorrows to the stringed companion. At last the poor fiddler chooses to die, as sentimentally as he had lived, when strange to tell, the faithful fiddie breaks its strings at the exact moment of its master's decease! We make no comment upon this extraordinary episode, but turn with much pleasure to the author's masterly sketches of some of the events and characters of the French Revolution. Here we are relieved by the departure of all his ghosts, who vanish into thin air, or drop through some trap-door in the stage. Robespierre, that incarnation of sneaking cruelty, and his guilty associates, are done to the life. The terrible and thrilling picture that is given of the dreadful doings of the revolutionary tribunal, reminds us strongly of Carlyle's singular eloquence upon the same subject. We are sorry that our limits forbid our making any extracts.

Taken as a whole, the novel appears to us somewhat inferior to its prede

cessors. Nevertheless, it contains many fine passages, sometimes a touch of genuine pathos or a specimen of pure poetry. Sometimes we stand amazed at the lofty and impassioned language which occasionally occurs, but are soon disenchanted by some rhapsodical extravagance. Sometimes, "thoughts that breathe" expressed in "words that burn" compel our admiration for a time, but too soon lose their force and beauty in a misty vagueness and visionary rapture. The genius of the author is evidently able to take a much higher and bolder flight than it has hitherto done, and even reach “ the highest heaven of invention;" but it is kept to earth, like a chained eagle, by the sickly sentimentalisms with which it is burdened.

66

Percival Keene: By CAPTAIN MARRYAT. London: Colburn. 3 Vols. SINCE the days of Fielding and Sterne no writers, perhaps, have exercised a greater influence over the imagination, the taste, and the fancy of the English nation, than the Novelists. The great founders of this school, by a rich vein of poetic fancy, deep pathos, or sprightly humour, combined with an intimate acquaintance with the human character, have at length almost wrought a revolution in our literature. The historian who would now be read, must be amusing; the philosopher must be intelligible; and all who would instruct the public must unite what is pleasing with the useful. It has often been wondered that the ancients had not discovered this form of composition. It may be determined, without any hesitation, that the modes and usages of society in the palmy days of Roman power and Grecian refinement, must have offered as good a field for the production of the novel as our own and yet these nations have left no trace of its existence. It has indeed been asserted by some writers that the manners of the ancients gave no scope for delineations of this kind, comparable to that which modern society, with its rigid rules and extravagant follies, supplies; since Grecian and Roman society, being divided into two distinct classes, freemen and slaves, was little adapted to the display of social sympathies. We do not, however, believe that this is by any means a solution of the difficulty, for we have in modern times an instance of a nation still sunk in this relict of paganism, which has produced some few really valuable works of fiction. We are therefore certain that this was not the real cause of the absence of the novel. The ancients had their historians and poets, philosophers and legislators, and the productions these have left behind remain the wonder and delight of the world. They are the text-books of our Universities, and are acknowledged as the only true standards of literary excellence-nor has mo dern Europe, with all its advantages, been enabled to surpass or equal them; and it is very difficult to imagine that the materials for the novel were wanting in societies in which the arts and sciences flourished in their highest perfection, and in which the human character was exhibited in every light and shade. Political economists tell us that "according to the demand so is the supply." Here in our opinion is the true solution. In the early ages, if novels had been written, their circulation must have been limited, on account of the immense expense incurred in the purchase of books, and the people generally would have been unable to read them, even shold they fortunately have possessed them. There being then no demand, there was no supply; and so their place, both at Athens and Rome, was supplied by the Drama.

Poetry is always the forerunner of civilization, and is rather the producer than the product of refinement. In our own land songs and ballads formed our first literature. These soon gave way to regular poems of chivalry; and as refinement advanced, the minstrels, instead of rising into dramatists, as the Greek rhapsodists had done, settled down into romancers. The Athenian and the Roman poets had to please the refined inhabitants of a metropolis, while the more modern Bard amused the unsophisticated villager.

Thus did the wild and heroic chant gradually develop itself into the prose romance. In this form Fielding and Smollett found our imaginative prose, and by their surpassing genius, they so remodelled and ennobled it, that it soon gained a triumph over the Drama in popular esteem. But it was Scott who raised the novel to its highest eminence; and the moral dignity and purity it attained under him justly won for it a popularity which it had not merited or acquired before.

But to descend "from great things to small," we turn to the book before us. Our task certainly offers few attractions, and we feel assured that any one, who, supposing" Percival Keene" to be a fair specimen, should read it as their first novel, would unhesitatingly affirm, that no good could possibly accrue from the perusal of such books, and that the less people had to do with novels the better. There is nothing throughout the whole work to make it even attractive, much less instructive; no beauty of language, or grace of expression to atone for a want of exalted sentiments or refined feelings; and we look in vain for the least outbreak of a poetic fancy or exalted imagination. On the contrary, it abounds with low and degrading phrases, stale jokes, and worn-out puns; it is pervaded by a total indifference either to truth or morality, and is fraught with a constant repetition of the most exquisite vulgarisms. Indeed, the chief feature in the narrative is the exhibition, to use the words of Hamlet, of a "most plentiful lack of wit."

From the puerile language in which the author has deemed fit to clothe his thoughts, we take it for granted that the book is intended for youth. If so, let us ask what parent would wish his child to become a disciple of one who draws vice in glowing colours, who looks over with most indulgent eye every crime he enumerates, and whose whole tenor would imply the impossibility of avoiding the commission of the grossest immoralities? We extract a passage, wherein the author describes Percival's emotions upon hearing of the death of his father (for as far as the boy knew, Mr. Keene was his father), as an example of our author's fine feeling and correct appreciation of filial proprieties. The boy is informed by his mother that his father has been killed in action; and the anguish of the son is thus described :— "What's the matter, mother?' said I.

Oh! my child, my child!' replied my mother, wringing her hands, 'You are an orphan; I am a lonely widow.'

"How's that?' said I.

'How's that?' said my grandmother,' Why are you such a fool as not to understand that your father is dead?'

Father's dead, is he?' replied I, I will go and tell aunt Milly,' and away I went out of the parlour to Milly, whom I found reading a newspaper.

'Aunt,' said I, father's dead, only to think! I wonder how he died.'

He was killed in action, dear,' said my aunt; look here, here is the account, and the list of killed and wounded. D'ye see your father's name, Benjamin Keene, marine ?'

Let me read all about it, aunt Milly,' replied I, taking the paper from her; and I was soon very busy with the account of the action. "-(p. 139. vol. I.)

This pious and precocious youth obtains no censure for his indifference : indeed, the author makes him wonder why even his widowed-mother should show any symptoms of distress.

"What did puzzle me was, that my mother should show so much feeling on the occasion. I did not know the world then, and that decency required a certain display of grief. Aunt Milly appeared to be very unconcerned about it, although, occasionally, she was in deep thought. I put down the paper as soon as I had read the dispatch, and said to her, Well I suppose, I must go to school now, aunt?'

'Oh no, dear,' replied she, you can't go to school for a few days now-it wouldn't be proper; you must remain at home, and wait till you have put on mourning.'

I'm glad of that, at all events,' replied I. "—(p. 140.)

Here is certainly a delightful instance of filial affection, and that too in a child who had never received from the hands of his father any other than the kindest treatment. The author, however, although writing for youth, seems highly to approve of his hero's behaviour. In the following passage Percival calls his father by the tender appellation of "Ben;" and we suppose this is mentioned for the sake of teaching still more emphatically the necessity of paying honour to parents.

"If the truth was known,' says the boy, ‘I am afraid that the death of Ben was a source of congratulation to all persons who were then in the parlour.' [His mother and grandmother.] As for me, I was very glad to have a few days holiday, being perfectly indifferent as to whether he was dead or alive.'”—(p. 141. vol. I.)

Percival, we are told, was to be sent to sea; and his grandmother, being anxious to give him good advice, would very properly lecture him in the evening upon the necessity of "minding what he was about," and informing him that if he did not, "she hoped he would get a good beating." To her kind cautions he thus refers:

"Such was the burden of her song, till at last I got very tired of it, and on the third evening I broke away from her, saying, " Law, granny, how you do twaddle !" upon which she called me a good-for-nothing young blackguard, and felt positively sure that I should be hanged."--(p. 153. vol. I.)

We cannot even here congratulate the author upon his success. We cannot discover anything new or pleasing, or worthy of being recorded, but we plainly see a tendency to sneer at and ridicule every sentiment of respect and duty towards superiors. We next quote part of an animated conversation which took place between Captain Flat and Mrs. Keene, the mother of the hero of the tale :

"Is that clock of your's right, Mrs. Keene?'

It is, but I am fearful that your thoughts run faster than the clock, Mr. Flat ; you are thinking of the dress-bugle for dinner.'

No, I wasn't, Mrs. Keene,' said Flat, rising, and walking out of the shop. 'I'll tell you,' said he, turning round as he went out, what I was thinking of, Mrs. Keene, not of myself, I was thinking of my bull pup.' "--(p. 105. vol. I.)

The tragic termination of this episode speaks for itself.

As a further illustration of Captain Marryat's delicacy of taste, we extract the following anecdote. Keene had mixed some gunpowder with his grandmother's snuff, she soon discovers there is something wrong, and young Percival recommends her to throw it into the fire.

"Well, I suppose it's the best thing I can do,' replied the old woman, who went to the grate, and leaning over poured the snuff out on the live coals. The result was a loud explosion and a volume of smoke, which burst out of the grate into her face, the pinner and lappets singed, her spectacles lifted from her nose, and her face as black as a sweep's. The old woman screamed, and threw herself back; in so doing, she fell over the chair upon which she had been sitting, and somehow or another tripped me up, and lay with all her weight upon me. I had been just attempting to make my escape during the confusion- for my mother and Milly were equally frightened-when I found myself completely smothered by the weight of my now almost senseless granny; and, as I have before mentioned, she was a very corpulent woman. Had I been in any other position, I should not have suffered so much; but I had unfortunately fallen flat on my back, and was now lying with my face upwards, pressed upon by the broadest part of the old woman's body; my nose was flattened and my breath completely stopped.

"How long my granny might have remained there groaning I cannot tell; probably, as I was somewhat a spoiled child before this, it might have ended in her completely finishing me; but she was roused up from her state of half syncope by a vigorous attack from my teeth, which, in the agony of suffocation, I used with preternatural force of jaw from one so young. I bit right through everything she had on, and as my senses were fast departing, my teeth actually met with my convulsive efforts. My granny, roused by the extreme pain, rolled over on her side, and then it was that