pretty ones," murdered; and he steps up that gloomy hour of life which falls at upon their corpses into a giant of misan- some time or other upon all earnest thropy. His figure itself proclaims his spirits, from which Shakspere himself did character. His stature is Titanic; his hair, not escape, and which, in Godwin, was a dead black; his face, all scarred and produced or exaggerated by the disapscorched with sword and flame; one eye is pointment of the fresh hopes of his youth, gone, but the other has gathered up into and by the overthrow of the pyramidal its solitary orb the fury which fell with it, pile of Political Justice which he had and glares with a double portion of de- reared at such perverted pains. Charles moniac meaning. His voice is thunder; we do not admire; and all his intercourse and as he talks in a torrent of imprecation with his disguised father is in wretched against man, and nature, and Eternal Pro- taste, and brings the tale to a lame and vidence, his stature dilates, his breast swells impotent close. Fine descriptive pasand heaves like an angry wave, and a sages are sprinkled throughout, such as "supernatural eloquence seems to inspire that of "Gambling," the "Storm among and enshroud him." His every thought is the Mountains," &c; but the individual tinctured with gall. "He never sees a fes- incidents are generally quite subordinate tive board, without being tempted to over- to the characters and the moral of the turn it; never a father surrounded with story. From this statement, however, a smiling family, without feeling his soul we must except the escape from the Inthrill with suggestions of murder." Hold-quisition. Nothing in fiction (except the ing man to be a more mischievous reptile robber-scene in "Count Fathom," which than any that crawls on Africa's sands; a is quite destitute of its moral grandeur) viler insect than any that floats in the thick atmosphere of India's jungles; a more malignant monster than any that roams over the Arabian desert; a more ravenous devourer than any that infests the Caribbean Sea-he has sworn both loud and deep to wage against him an unmitigated and eternal warfare. He looks demoniacally even into the faces of little children. He would willingly see the whole race enclosed in the hollow of one curse. He hates God, because he is the father of man; he hates himself, because he is a man. He has no pleasure from any source but hatred: none from the works of creation, on which he casts a malignant scowl; none from love, for he loves no one, not even himself; none from devotion, for he will not kneel; none from hope, for his element is despair; none from anticipation, unless he could expect that the throats of all men were contracted into one, and that one were within the reach of his eager axe. He is the Polyphemus of the miserable; and is drawn by those few rude touches which proclaim the hand of a master. He seems, like that fatal bark in "Lycidas," to have been "built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark;" conceived and finished in

surpasses in interest St Leon's sudden dash from the midst of the procession of the victims of the auto-da-fe, through an unexpected and momentary opening, down the lane; his affair with the Jew, whom he compels to secrete him, and purchase for his use the materials of the elixir of immortal life; his sudden and horrible feeling that he is dying; his haste in compounding the julap; the state of insensibility into which he sinks for a moment; the attempt he makes with the last efforts of expiring nature to swallow the draught of immortality; the sweet sleep, be-dropt with golden dreams, that follows; and his starting to consciousness, a new-made man, eternal youth rioting in his veins, the same Count Leon that he was on the morning of his marriage with Marguerite de Damville.

We must dismiss this enchanting fiction, with its minor beauties of style, its use of Scripture allusions, which are in fine keeping with the spiritual cast of the story; its high tone of morality; its sympathy with all those private affections which the "Inquiry" denounced; its melting pathos. Next to "Ivanhoe," we consider it the most ideal and poetical romance in the English language.

stand "before the dread tribunal of Tocome," to receive the verdict of immortality.

Mandeville is, like Bethlem Gabor, a misanthrope, but wants the energy and grandeur of that extraordinary character. He is not maddened into the feeling by His "Inquirer" is made up of orts and circumstances; he hates, because he has fragments which were over from the great nothing else to do. It is but in him the feast of the "Inquiry." It contains escape of immeasurable ennui. Godwin "matter of much pith and moment," was probably seduced into this miscreation though it be too paradoxical, and stately, by the success of Gabor, forgetting that and dogmatic, to rank among the "Essays to reproduce any character is dangerous, of England." His "Life of Chaucer" and that what will pass, nay tell, in a includes some ingenious dissertations, but sketch, may be intolerable in a full-length is a total misnomer, inasmuch as it conportraiture. The power of this tale-and tains little or no biography. His "Essay it has great power-lies not in story, for on Sepulchres" is full of learning, and story there is little; nor in variety, for seems to have been a favourite with its variety there is none; nor in characters, author; but crushed down under its for character of any prominence there is ominous title, it is now safely deposited but one-Mandeville himself; but in the in the tomb of the Capulets. His "Lives minute and painstaking analysis of hatred, of Milton's Nephews" were another still as it roots itself in the soil of one morbid birth. He is better at writing the life spirit, and gradually, as it grows, covers of a fictitious, than a real personage. His all with the blackness of darkness; and sermons-called curiously "Sketches from in the eloquence of certain insulated pas- History"—which we glanced over, à la sages, collecting the pith of the fell pas- Charles Lamb, at a book-stall in Glasgow, sion, and reminding you of those dark, a good many years ago, are rather dry, soundless wells in the wilderness, into and we do not wonder that he soon ceased which you tremble to look down at noon-to be a preacher. His tragedies were sins day. And what an exit the hero has of youth, and-are forgotten for ever. His at length, leaving the stage with that ghastly gash upon his face, which grins out the intelligence that Clifford has set his mark on him, and that he is his for ever!

We notice in this work, and in his yet later productions, a vaster wealth and profusion of imagery than in his earlier works. We notice this also in Burke's "Regicide Peace," and in Scott's "Life of Napoleon." Whether it spring from a desire to hide the baldness of age by forced and thickening laurels, or arise from the imaginative power rallying all its forces previous to dissolution, certainly the phenomenon is curious; and the contrast between the more than youthful riot of figure and exuberance of language, and the age of the writer, produces in our minds strange and mournful emotions.

"Fleetwood" and "Cloudesley," with many beauties of thought and style, are but faint reflexes of the others, and we may silently drop both from the catalogne of the works, begirt by which he shall yet

"Life of Mary Wolstonecraft" is a slight but interesting sketch of a strange unhappy life. As a historian of the Commonwealth, he labours under the deep disadvantage of having little sympathy with the religious spirit of the period; nor does he narrate with peculiar interest or power, but is careful, inquisitive, ingenious, and rather cold and passionless. His final "Thoughts on Man" were collected into a posthumous volume, which we never saw. He was one of the most indefatigable of authors, and has founded a school, including his son, a youth of promise early cut off; his daughter, the brilliant authoress of "Frankenstein," "The Last Man," &c.; that rare American, afterwards to be commemorated, Brockden Brown, whose "Wieland," "Ormond," "Arthur Mervyn," "Edgar Huntly," &c., track his path closely and daringly, yet possess a distinct originality of their own; and Shelley, whose eagle-winged genius did not disdain to "do errands in the vasty deep, and business i' the veins of

earth," at the bidding of this potent Pro- | genius in the room, he would have settled spero, his father-in-law. Godwin, as we it in five minutes." When the same dishave seen, was for awhile a Dissenting tinguished twain were on one occasion clergyman. Traces of his early habits of making light of Wordsworth, Coleridge thought and reading are to be found in said, "He strides on so far before you his use of Scripture language, in the dic- both, that he dwindles in the distance." tatorial tone and the measured and After Mary Wolstonecraft's death, he solemn march of his compositions. Com- married a second time. One of Godwin's ing to London, he acted for awhile as a principal friends was Curran, who waxed reporter for the public press. His genius ever eloquent in private, when defending seems to have remained totally unsus-him from the abuse it became fashionable pected by his most intimate friends, till to pour upon his head. He was one of the the publication of "Caleb Williams." most candid of men, and spoke well of They even thought him utterly destitute those who were trampling him to the dust. of "natural imagination!" Mary Wol- He did, indeed, exhibit here and there, stonecraft, that crazy, but excessively throughout his career, symptoms of a clever and brilliant creature, after flirting slight_misanthropical tendency; but in with Fuseli and Southey, gave Godwin general well sustained the dignity of the her hand. She died in giving birth to sage and the conscious immortal. He the present Mrs Shelley. In conversation, had courage, too, of no ordinary kind, she was incomparably her husband's su- and needed it all to sustain the reaction perior. This, indeed, was not his forte, of prodigious popularity; every species of and hence he was often put down by the attack, from the sun-shafts of Burke, stupid and superficial, as stupider and Mackintosh, and Hall, to the reptile shallower than themselves. He cared not; calumnies of meaner assailants; and a but, though out-crowed in coteries, he perpetual struggle with narrow circumretired to his study, and wrote "im- stances. He enjoyed, we believe, howmortal things," leaving them to talk ever, a pension for a few years ere his themselves hoarse. Even Coleridge never | death. He is now only a name; but it is did justice to Godwin's powers. Hearing a name as great as the fame of "Caleb him boast of having maintained a dispute Williams," as wide as the civilised world, with Mackintosh for several hours, the and as lasting as the literature of his poet replied, "Had there been a man of native land.

MRS SHELLEY.

MUCH as we hear of Schools of Authors, there has, properly speaking, been but one in British literature-at least within this century. There was never, for example, any such thing as a Lake school. A school supposes certain conditions and circumstances which are not to be found among the poets referred to. It supposes, first of all, a common master. Now, the Lake poets had no common master, either among themselves or others. They owned allegiance neither to Shakspere, nor Milton, nor Wordsworth. Each stood near, but each stood alone, like the stars com

posing one of the constellations. A school, again, implies a common creed. But we have no evidence, external or internal, that, though the poetical diction of the Lakers bore a certain resemblance, their poetical creed was identical. Indeed, we are yet to learn that Southey had, of any depth or definitude, a poetical creed at all. A school, again, supposes a similar mode of training. But how different the erratic education of Coleridge, from the slow, solemn, silent degrees by which arose, like a temple, the majestic structure of Wordsworth's mind! A school, besides,

implies such strong and striking resem- | Mary Wolstonecraft, Brockden Brown of blances as shall serve to overpower the America, Shelley, and Mrs Shelley. specific differences between the writers Old Godwin scarcely got justice in who compose it. But we are mistaken if "Tait's Magazine" from Mr De Quincey. the dissimilarities between Wordsworth, Slow, cumbrous as he was, there was Coleridge, and Southey be not as great always a fine spirit animating his most as the points in which they agree. Take, elephantine movements. He was never for example, the one quality of specula- contemptible-often commonplace, intive intellect. That, in the mind of Cole- deed, but often great. There was much ridge, was restless, discontented, and dar- in him of the German cast of mind-the ing; in Wordsworth, still, collected, brood-same painful and plodding diligence, added ing perpetually over narrow but profound to high imaginative qualities. His great depths; in Southey, almost totally quies- merit at the time-and his great error, cent. The term Lake School, in short, as it proved afterwards-lay in wedding applied at first in derision, has been re- a partial philosophic system with the unitained, principally, because it is con- versal truth of fiction. Hence, the elevenient-nay, suggests a pleasing image, ment which made the public drunk with and gives both the public and the critics his merits at first, rendered them obliglimpses that do make them less for-vious afterwards. "Caleb Williams,” once lorn," of the blue peaks of Helvellyn and Skiddaw, and of the blue waters of Derwent and Windermere.

denounced by Hannah More as a cunning and popular preparation of the poison which the "Political Justice" had contained in a cruder form, is now forgotten, we suspect, by all but a very small class. "St Leon," "Fleetwood," "Mandeville,"

The Cockney School was, if possible, a misnomer more absurd-striving, as it did, in vain to include, within one term, three spirits so essentially distinct as Haz-and "Cloudsley," with all their varied litt, Keats, and Leigh Hunt: the first a merits, never attracted attention, except stern metaphysician, who had fallen into through the reflex interest and terror exa hopeless passion for poetry; the second cited by their author's former works. Thus the purest specimen of the ideal-a ball political excitement has been at once a of beautiful foam, "cut off from the water," raising and a ruining influence to the writand not adopted by the air; the third, a ings of a great English author-ruining, fine tricksy medium between the poet we mean, at present, for the shade of and the wit, half a sylph and half an neglect has yet to be created which can Ariel, now hovering round a lady's curl, permanently conceal their sterling and and now stirring the fiery tresses of the imperishable worth. After the majority sun-a fairy fluctuating link, connecting of the writings of Dickens have perished Pope with Shelley. We need not be at-after one-half of Bulwer's and onepains to cut out into little stars the Black-fourth of Scott's novels have been forwood constellation, or dwell on the differ- gotten-shall some reflective spirits be ences between a Wilson, a Lockhart, and found following the fugitive steps of Caleb a James Hogg. Williams, or standing by the grave of One school, however, there has appeared Marguerite de Damville, or sympathiswithin the last fifty years answering to ing with the gloom of Mandeville, or all the characteristics we have enume- of Bethlem Gabor, as they do well to rated—namely, the Godwin School, who, be angry even unto death. If sinceby a common master-the old man elo- rity, simplicity, strength of thought, and quent himself a common philosophical power of genius, can secure immortality as well as poetical belief, common train- to any productions, it is to the fictions ing, that of warfare with society, and many of Godwin. specific resemblances in manner and style, Mary Wolstonecraft-since we saw her are proclaimed to be one. This cluster countenance prefixed to her husband's includes the names of William Godwin, memoir-a face so sweet, so spiritual,

Another "wanderer o'er eternity" was Brockden Brown, the Godwin of America. And worse for him, he was a wanderer, not from, but among men. For Cain of old, it was a relief to go forth from his species into the virgin empty earth. The builders of the Tower of Babel must have rejoiced as they saw the summit of their abortive building sinking down in the level plain; they fled from it as a stony silent satire on their baffled ambition, and as a memorial of the confusion of their speech

so far withdrawn from earthly thoughts, steeped in an enthusiasm so genuine; we have ceased to wonder at the passionate attachment of Southey, Fuseli, and Godwin to the gifted being who bore it. It is the most feminine countenance we ever saw in picture. Fuseli once, when asked if he believed in the immortality of the soul, replied in language rather too rough to be quoted verbatim, “I don't know if you have a soul, but I am sure that I have." We are certain that he believed in the existence of at least one other immor--it scourged them forth into the wildertal spirit that of the owner of the still, serene, and rapt countenance on which he hopelessly doted. It is curious that, on the first meeting of Godwin and his future wife, they "interdespised "-they recoiled from each other, like two enemies suddenly meeting on the street, and it required much after-intercourse to reconcile them, and ultimately to create that passion which led to their union.

Mary Wolstonecraft shone most in conversation. From this to composition, she seemed to descend as from a throne. Coleridge describes her meeting and extinguishing some of Godwin's objections to her arguments with a light, easy, playful air. Her fan was a very falchion in debate. Her works-"History of the French Revolution," "Wanderer of Norway," "Rights of Women," &c.-have all perished. Her own career was chequered and unhappy; her end was premature-she died in childbed of Mrs Shelley; but her name shall live as that of a deep, majestical, and high-souled woman-the Madame Roland of England-and who could, as well as she, have paused on her way to the scaffold, and wished for a pen to "record the strange thoughts that were arising in her mind." Peace to her ashes! How consoling to think that those who in life were restless and unhappy, sleep the sleep of death as soundly as others-nay, seem to sleep more soundly, to be hushed by a softer lullaby, and surrounded by a profounder peace, than the ordinary tenants of the grave. Yes, sweeter, deeper, and longer is the repose of the truant child, after his day of wandering is over, and the night of his rest is come.

ness, where they found peace and oblivion. A self-exiled Byron or Landor is rather to be envied; for though "how can your wanderer escape from his own shadow?" yet it is much if that shadow sweep forests and cataracts, fall large at morning or evening upon Alps and Apennines, or swell into the Demon of the Brocken. In this case, misery takes a prouder, loftier shape, and mounts a burning throne. But a man like Brockden Brown, forced to carry his sorrow into the press and thick of human society, nay, to coin it into the means of procuring daily bread, he is the true hero, even though he should fall in the struggle. To carry one's misery to market, and sell it to the highest bidder, what a necessity for a proud and sensitive spirit! Assuredly Brown was a brave struggler, if not a successful one. Amid poverty, neglect, non-appreciation, hard labour, and the thousand nïaiseries of the crude country which America then was, he retained his integrity; he wrote on at what Godwin calls his "story-books;" he sought inspiration from his own gloomy woods and silent fields; and his works appear, amid what are called "standard novels," like tall, wind-swept American pines amid shrubbery and brushwood. His name, after his untimely death (at the age of thirty-nine), was returned upon his ungrateful country-from Britain, where his writings first attained eminent distinction, while even yet Americans, generally, prefer the adventure and bustle of Cooper to the stern, Dante-like simplicity, the thoughtful spirit, and the harrowing and ghost-like interest of Brown.