play had not been preferred for representation.
Maturin came to London, and was duly lionised, but he wanted conduct and knowledge of the world; ‘deluged’ Murray with manuscripts for the ‘Quarterly,’ of which only a review of Sheil's ‘Apostate’—said to have given Gifford unspeakable trouble to rewrite—could be accepted, and was only prevented by the earnest remonstrances of Scott from retorting upon Coleridge. His next tragedy, ‘Manuel,’ was produced at Drury Lane on 8 March 1817, with Kean again in the title-rôle, and was acted five times; ‘Fredolfo,’ another tragedy, followed at Covent Garden on 12 May 1817, with Macready as Wadenberg. Both these pieces, though inferior, should hardly have been utter failures with the audiences that had applauded ‘Bertram,’ but they were unlucky. The first entirely depended upon Kean, whose dissatisfaction with his part paralysed his powers. Maturin received nothing from the performance of either, and though Murray allowed him the entire profit of the printed edition, the publisher protested against Byron's proposal to divide the proceeds of his ‘Siege of Corinth’ and ‘Parisina’ between Maturin and Coleridge with such energy, that the idea had to be given up. Another tragedy, ‘Osmyn,’ entrusted to Kean for his opinion, was lost or destroyed while in the actor's possession.
Maturin returned to novel-writing, and ‘Women, or Pour et Contre,’ appeared in 1818, and in 1820 his masterpiece, ‘Melmoth the Wanderer.’ ‘The Albigenses’ was published in 1824, the year of his death. In the same year he had printed ‘Six Sermons on the Errors of the Roman Catholic Church,’ and in 1821 he had allowed his name to be prefixed to ‘The Universe,’ a long poem in blank verse, really written, as would appear, by the Rev. James Wills [q. v.] His last years were a struggle with ill-health, as well as embarrassment. He died at Dublin on 30 Oct. 1824, his death, it is alleged, being hastened by taking a wrong medicine. His literary remains and correspondence are said—though the statement appears hardly credible—to have been destroyed by one of his sons, the Rev. William Maturin [q. v.], who was offended at his father's connection with the theatre. The loss was no doubt considerable, though it is impossible that Maturin should have corresponded with Balzac as represented, and very improbable that he corresponded with Goethe. Another son, Edward (1812–1881), emigrated to the United States, became professor of Greek in the college of South Carolina, subsequently lived in New York, published several romances and poems, and revised the translation of St. Mark's Gospel for the American Bible Union.
Maturin himself condemned all his early writings as deficient in reality. ‘The characters, situations, and language are drawn merely from imagination; my limited acquaintance with life denied me any other resource.’ This objection, however, does not lie against the most celebrated among them, for ‘Montorio’ belongs to a species of novel where everything that is not plagiarism must be invention, and where the accurate portrayal of life is absolutely excluded. The merits of the school of Mrs. Radcliffe may be variously estimated, but its productions must be judged by their own laws, and every condition of these is fulfilled by ‘Montorio.’ ‘The Wild Irish Boy,’ on the other hand, is in the main an extravagant caricature of modern life; and ‘The Milesian Chief’ is an unsuccessful mixture of both styles. ‘Women,’ in some measure a religious novel, is also remarkable as the only one of the author's novels which affords any insight into the Irish society of his time, or from which much can be learned respecting his own opinions. In ‘Melmoth’ the author returns to the manner of ‘Montorio’ with matured powers, and the advantage of an impressive conception. Melmoth himself is hardly a creation, he is rather a compound of ‘Faust’ and ‘The Wandering Jew;’ yet the sentiment of supernatural awe is successfully evoked, and would be still more potent but for the extreme confusion and involution of the narrative. ‘Melmoth’ had great influence on the rising romantic school of France, and was half imitated, half parodied, in a sequel by Balzac, whose combination of it with the popular German story of ‘The Bottle Imp’ has given hints to Mr. Stevenson. ‘The Albigenses,’ Maturin's last novel, is in some respect his best. It is full of eloquent passages, and though defective as a picture of actual life and manners, is not wanting in poetical truth. The three tragedies, especially ‘Bertram,’ exhibit real poetical feeling, and by the aid of spirited declamation and theatrical illusion might conceivably succeed for a time on the stage; but they will not bear serious criticism. The controversial discourses are rather platform addresses than sermons, but sufficiently effective to justify Maturin's contemporary reputation as a popular preacher. Of the nature of his literary talent he says himself: ‘If I possess any talent, it is that of darkening the gloomy, and of deepening the sad; of painting life in extremes, and representing those struggles of passion when the soul
