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.

1.

Ir 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 manœuvre 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

to deplore its chilling influence. The sun of pictorial genius which rose in the fifteenth century on the banks of the Arno, and, after having for two hundred years filled Italy with its refulgence, lit up the landscape of Holland and Flanders with the glowing tints of its evening rays, has now sunk in darkness. Not one streak of light remains above the horizon; there is no warmth in the atmosphere to mark how glorious has been the day. The cold and gloom of night are only rendered more sensible by the flittering tapers which glimmer around us. What we have serves to make us feel but more acutely how much we have lost.

Yet though around us we see nothing that rises above mediocrity, we find it difficult to persuade ourselves that any change has really taken place in the powers of the human mind. We know not why the talents which were so liberally granted to the sixteenth century, should be denied to the nineteenth. We cannot believe that Providence is capricious in its mode of acting-that genius is showered down at one time, and totally withheld at another; a profusion of flowers is not scattered over one age merely to form a hortus siccus for its successors. Particular periods have indeed been distinguished by extraordinary efforts of intellect. There have been generations who seem to have towered above their fellows in all that is great and wise. But the blame or merit of this unequal distribution rests not with Providence. The men were not so much different as the circumstances in which they were placed. Nature is always equally bountiful; they are human institutions which determine the character of the age.

The life of Benvenuto Cellini is now before us. He was an eminent artist in the most glorious period of art. He was the contemporary of Michael Angelo, of Raffaelle

and of Titian. The graceful footsteps of Leonardo ad Vinci and Correggio were yet fresh on the stage when he began to mix in the bustle of the world. His old age saw the youth of the Carracci. In the term of his life is comprehended nearly the whole golden age of the fine arts. He stands before us strongly marked with all the features of his time. He is a fair specimen of the great men with whom he lived, and of whom he was one. We see in him the same fearlessness of disposition, the same irritability of temperament, the same confidence in his own powers, the same versatility of genius, the same ardent aspirations after fame. As his story is that of nearly all the great artists, an attention to the circumstances of his life will enable us to account for the difference between them, and those of the present day. We ask pardon indeed of those giants of art for comparing them with modern painters. They are men of other worlds. They bear no more resemblance to artists such as now are, than Orlando does to a colonel of the guards.

We do not at present intend to analyze the composition of society in the days of Benvenuto. It would not be difficult to shew that it was much more favourably constructed for the encouragement of the arts than the society of later times. As there was then less individual pretension, artists were more public property. This enquiry, however, would lead us too far. We may probably take some other opportunity of returning to the subject. But, though we decline entering into this more extensive field, we cannot help adverting to some circumstances more immediately connected with artists.

It is impossible not to be struck with the difference in the education and habits of life of the great masters, and in those of their degenerate successors. Theirs was a life of hardship and exertion, and not unfrequently of