THE REVIEW. We belong to the unpopular family of Tell-truths, and would not flatter Apollo for his Lyre."-ROB ROY. Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, a Florentine Artist; written by himself; now first translated, by Thomas Roscoe, Esq., 2 vols., 8vo. London, Colburn, 1822. It was long since remarked by some German writer, we do not recollect whom, that there would be an end of novel-writing whenever a regular police should be established throughout Europe. The mania for legislation which infects all governing assemblies, has brought about this change in our condition. We are every where hemmed in with a multitude of laws; the regulations of police are as minute and vexatious as the most determined stickler for order can desire; all freedom of action is cramped; the poetry of life no more exists; we are brought down to its dull and mechanical realities; genius and stupidity are driven round its endless circle at one unchangeable pace; all variety of character is effaced. Nations know no difference of manners; the varnish of good-breeding gives to all the same tone; the only distinction between the old and the young, the peer and the peasant, consists in the quantity of money which each can spend. This is the power that puts all in motion, and its results may be calculated with as much precision as those of a steam-engine. Yet the event has not been what was anticipated. Though the sameness of life has diminished the materials for novels, their number has increased. This branch of literature has almost swallowed up every other. As idle readers have become more numerous, it has become more popular, and has drawn to itself nearly all the talent of the age. It has derived new vigour from what should have been its destruction. The remark was, however, founded in truth. The old novel, that of incident and character, has almost entirely disappeared. Those among our late writers, who have attempted to describe real life, have contented themselves with sketches of manners. They have rather dwelt on the peculiarities which arise from particular habits of life, than on the broader lights and shades which mark the essential difference of character. They have supplied the want of incident by an investigation of the causes of action. They have substituted the metaphysics of life for its realities; the wanderings of the heart and the head for the hair-breadth escapes and chivalrous adventures of the Spanish romance. To this description of modern novels there are indeed some splendid exceptions: but we must bear in mind, that the scene of Anastasius is laid in Turkey; a country where no improvements of police have abridged the freedom of action and the author of Waverley has never ventured beyond the pale of legitimate novel-writing. He goes back to better days for his heroes; his are always the lawless adventures of lawless times in lawless countries. It would be matter of small regret, if this alteration in our habits and manners had produced no other change than a difference in the character of our novels; if it had only affected the amusements of our leisure hours. Much as we delight in this species of reading, highly as we estimate its merit and usefulness, we do not know that we should venture to express our grief in very strong terms, were the whole race of these writings extinct; were we now sitting in judgment on the last of the family. Before such an event could possibly happen, public taste must have taken a new di rection; we ourselves should have been carried along with the stream, we should have discovered new objects. of admiration and amusement, and should perhaps be as much astonished that reasonable men could have found pleasure in Tom Jones or Ivanhoe, as we now feel at the enthusiasm which was once excited by Cassandra or Artamenes. But the change, we fear, has been attended with far more serious consequences. It has probably been not less baneful to originality of thought than to eccentricity of character. With the Don Quixotes, the Guzman d'Alfaraches, and the Colonel Jacks, it has swept away the Bacons, the Michael Angelos, and the Calderones. In regulating our minds we have abridged their freedom and lessened their vigour. With the dangers which surrounded men, they have lost the daring spirit which enabled them to cope with them. Since literary men have been taught to manoeuvre in battalions, there is little to be expected from their individual prowess. Valour has not suffered more from the invention of powder than genius has from encyclopædias and compendiums. The facilities of every kind with which we are surrounded have taught us to place no reliance on our own exertions. As the art of book-making has been improved, the intrinsic value of books has been lessened. Our writers have taken a hint from our manufacturers; they have learned to make a more shewy article, but with less substance and less consumption of the raw material. The rich brocades of our ancestors which, stiff with sterling gold, bid defiance to the ravages of time, have given way to lighter stuffs whose fashion and memory pass away in a single season. It is not however in literature that this alteration has been most severely felt. The fine arts have still more |