and an Omelet as if it were an Aldus. We hear of a "crisp fifteener" in the one page, and of a “crisp fricassee" in the other. His admiration hesitates between Caxton and Kitchener-between Valdarfer and Very. And when, on leaving Paris, he gave a dinner at his favourite restaurateur's to a dozen of the primest French Bibliomaniacs, an illuminated representation of old Wynken de Worde gleamed behind the chair of the Amphytriou Eruditus, and every flask of Chambertin on the festal board was flanked by "AN UNCUT EDITIO PRINCEPS." Yet it is perhaps in the descriptions of his visits to some of the old monasteries on the Danube, that his double enthusiasm is at the highest pitch. He arrives, un beau matin, within view of the Convent of MÖLK -he breakfasts leisurely at the foot of the bill on which it standshe ascends and delivers his credentials-he is conducted by the hospitable fathers through all their venerable cloisters, and is at length received beneath the vaulted roof of their library. With what a flow of eloquence does he retrace the beautifully illuminated MSS., the Libri Rarissimi, the unique etchings and wood-cuts, the peerless missals! Suddenly the clock strikes twelve, and the Frater Bibliothecarius whispers, “Dinner!"-Instantly springs up a new but kindred train of recollections -the hasty walk to the refectory, the antique splendour of that noble hall, the assembled brethren, the presiding Abbot, the solemn Grace, the beautiful boar's-head, the bursting haunch, the long-necked cobwebbed bottles, the tall old glasses with arsenic ornaments within the stalk, the balmy Johannisberg, the mild Markbrunner, the heavenly Hockheimer, the friendly ring of the saluting bumpers, the joyous stave of the old chaplain, the crafty bargain about the Boccaccio negotiated inter pocula, the western sun staining with admonitory glories the painted window over against the successful negotiator, the sudden half-sorrowful, half-ecstatic departure.-There is a life and truth about the whole affair that must send their charm into every bosom, and force, even from the man that prefers a book to a titlepage, a momentary echo of, "I should like to dine with this Nongtong-paw." Vol. I. pp. 323–331. Here our extracts must close. We would, if our voice could reach this gifted author, warn him of an error which is fatal to any degree of genius-we mean writing too fast, and too much for writing's sake. The last five or six Waverley novels are indisputably inferior to their earlier fellows. The extreme and astonishing copiousness of that extraordinary writer cannot bear him through such overhaste. We do not mean that this fountain, which gushes wine, is less plentiful, but it is decidedly deteriorated in raciness and flavour. The earlier Waverley works were tragedy and comedy of the first order-the latter have been melodrame. We mean, the interest has been thrown upon the incidents, not on the feelings-on the events, instead of the passions; and the consequence has been that, delightful as these books still are, they are unequivocally less so, than those which appeared a few years back. In like manner the other great name of the age, Lord Byron, has of late been " writing himself out." The tragedies are very different things indeed from Childe Harold and from Manfred-the Island is in lamentable contrast with the Giaour. With these examples before his eyes, we trust "the author of Valerius and Adam Blair" will not run upon the same rock-of which there are some indications of danger in the present work. With such capabilities as he has displayed, it needs only a due degree of care and labour to gain the very highest rank in the roll of literary genius. FAUST; a Drama, by Goëthe; and Schiller's Song of the Bell. Translated by Lord Francis Leveson Gower. 8vo. London, Murray. 1823. THE story of Faustus-that is, of a man selling his soul to the Evil Spirit—is one of very ancient invention, and has always been a favourite in most parts of the world. Even the legend of Faustus himself is one almost universally and immemorially known. "The Devil and Dr. Faustus" have ever been coupled in our country,-and Madame dẹ Staël begins her account of Goëthe's piece, by stating that, "Parmi les pièces de marionnettes, il y en a une intitulée le Docteur Faust, ou la Science Malheureuse, qui a fait de tout temps une grande fortune en Allemagne The origin of this idea may, we think, be traced to that craving after the tangible,-that desire to personify and embody all passions and feelings, which have ever been the characteristics of a rude age. Hence, in all the early legends of a people, we meet with stories of the bodily appearance of the Evil One, and sometimes even of good spirits to counteract his power. The incitations of bad passion which rise within the human bosom, are, in these rude conceptions, placed in the mouth of a distinct and individual being, whose pleasure, if not interest, it is to tempt mankind into a wickedness, and thence into a punishment, equal to his own. Thus, the seductions of passion to resign future hope for present indulgence, have been the foundation of the fiction of men making a direct compact with Satan,bargaining away their souls as the price of temporal grati fication. So prevalent was this tradition, throughout the northern parts of Europe at least, that almost every district has its own adventure of the kind,-and in many there exists a distinct and peculiar formula to be used on such occasions. But, it is certain that, however the idea may have been debased by the more vulgar parts of superstition, and its consequent adaptation to tastes of a similar degree,-the conception of a human being evoking, by the mere force of intellect and study, the spirits of the Universe, and making with them a compact productive of super-human, and almost unlimited, power, is abundantly susceptible of poetry of the very highest and most magnificent order. Accordingly, we find that more than one master-mind has em ployed itself on this subject. Marlow's Faustus-Goëthe's Faust, and Lord Byron's Manfred, are all devoted to it*. Lord Byron, indeed, has been accused of borrowing from both these works;-it is said, Goëthe himself made the charge with respect to his own. But we must say we think we never knew an allegation of plagiarism more unfounded. The only point of similarity is that the hero of each piece possesses supernatural power. There is no shadow of resemblance in the story,-and even the manner which this power has been acquired by Manfred, is wholly distinct from, and unlike the sorcery of either Faustus. Marlow's hero regularly" writes a deed of gift with his own blood," "of body and of soul"-drawn out with great exactness, and specifying the conditions to be performed by each party, as does also the German Faust. Now, the power which Manfred possesses over the spirits, which do his bidding, is unbought by any condition of this kind. It is acquired, as it would seem, by the unaided force of Mind, directed to these studies and objects, and is wholly free *To this list might, perhaps, be added Maturin's Melmoth, a work which, in despite of the false taste and over-writing by which it is disfigured, abounds in passages of the highest power and beauty. The death of the Miser, in the first volume, and some parts of Isidora's seduction, are, each in its different way, admirable. But we would cite the story of Walberg's family as being, as a whole, by far the excelling part of the book. The force of writing is there not carried into extravagance the horror of situation does not, as in some other places, sink into what is disgusting ;—it is a tale of the finest tragedy, told with a vigour and a truth to nature, the cause of the latter of which is but too painfully hinted at. But Melmoth differs from Faustus and from Manfred, as combining the nature of the tempter, with the state of the tempted. We are not presented with the struggles of his falling, or, the agonies of his remorse. His fate had been sealed long before he is made known to us; he is the Mephistopheles rather than the Faustus of the story. He does not present us with the human mind under the influence of the devilish compact. He is little more an incarnation of the Evil One-a minister and steward of hell. from any compromise or undertaking on his part. This we have always regarded as one of the highest displays of poetic thought which that splendid effort exhibits. When Manfred approaches his end, he does not quake like a coward felon-he feels the nobleness of his nature, and the supremacy which it gives him over the foul spirits. When they taunt him as "his soul is ebbing from him," he replies in these expressions of scorn, and utter defiance : Thou false fiend, thou liest ! My life is in its last hour,-that I know, And length of watching-and strength of mind-and skill Upon my strength-I do defy-deny- Spirit. Have made thee Man. But thy many crimes What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punished but by other crimes. Thou never shalt possess me, that I know: * Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me; But was my own destroyer, and will be [The Demons disappear. |