fered to save him. "In the shape of a gigantic pine-tree," the devouring blaze leaps forth from the summit of the mountain; clouds of ashes, torrents of burning stone, are showered over the doomed city; the melancholy roar of the sea is heard over the din; and judges and accused, spectator and performer, man and beast rush wildly away to escape from the last Days of Pompeii. Or we feel, for we can neither see nor hear, the Child of Night, the murderess Lucretia, gliding between the moonlight and the sleeping girl whom she had destined to a lingering death. Or we wander with Adrian Colonna, the gentleman, the soldier, and the scholar, through the deserted streets of lost Irene. We shudder at the hideous merriment of the human ghouls who are still revelling in the palace of the dead, and horridly drinking to the pestilence. We follow him in the company of his two fair guides to the garden and the villa beyond the precincts of the city. We join the graceful group who have there gathered together to forget the horrors of death, and to live "as if youth and beauty could endure forever." We sicken with Adrian at "the false sentiment" of the purpose; we return with him to desolate Florence; we bend with him over the supposed grave of his betrothed; and our eyes are dim for the brave and faithful lover as he rides away, to seek the only good now left to him in a well-fought field and a knightly death. Or we gaze with John Ardworth upon Westminster Hall; and we feel his triumph like our own. We stand side by side with Randal Leslie in the Lansmere committee-room, and we pity even the intriguer as he throws away his last chance. found, the door flies open; the audacious intruder is free, is successful; he has proved the innocence of his friend, and won the hand of her whom he loves. Or we are deep down in a gloomy vault in Paris. The coiners are merrily at work. Another venture, and they will have no need to tempt fortune more. The most skilful forger of the day is that evening to join their crew. He comes -a diminutive man in a mechanic's blouse, -thin sandy hair, a patch over one eye, altogether an inauspicious-looking comrade. But he shows his workmanship, and the brethren are lost in admiration. With the aid of so accomplished an artist, every man must shortly roll in wealth. Loud and long is the applause; and now they will carouse plague-stricken Florence, in search of his in honor of their brilliant recruit. The leader of the band sits next to M. Jacques Giraumont, by which name he had just been introduced. A keen encounter of wits follows between the two men. The new-comer's bon mots elicit ready shouts of laughter; but still the captain plies him with questions of which nobody can quite see the drift. Have they ever met before? "Never," says M. Giraumont. "It is false!" cries the captain, in a voice of thunder; “buvez donc, Monsieur Favart!" It is the chief of the Parisian detectives in the den of the chief gang of ruffians. In less time than it takes to tell, he and the traitor who brought him in are corpses instead of living men. But the assistants of the murdered officer are thundering for admittance. The captain and his young protégé reach the top of the building and barricade the door. Hark! the police are already on the stairs. But now a rope is thrown from the roof across the narrow street, and slung securely round an opposite post. The young man first essays the horrible and dizzy bridge. Hand over hand, his eyes shut, and his breath held close, he nears, he reaches, the other parapet, and is secure from danger. As he takes his last grasp from the rope there is a scuffle on the other side, a pistol-shot, and the captain, rushing through the smoke, flings himself on to the rope, with blood dripping from his side; he all but reaches the goal, but the police, awed and fascinated at first by his terrible position, recover themselves in time, and a crashing volley drives the bold coiner to the bottom, pierced by half a dozen balls. Or we are in one of the vast amphitheatres of ancient Italy. The dark Egyptian priest, the murderer convicted by the finger of the gods, stands grandly up before the infuriated multitude, who would cast him that moment to the lion; the yelling and ravening thousands are restrained for a few moments by the troops. The priest points madly to Vesuvius. Other gods have inter We could multiply such scenes, and endlessly vary them, till we had filled every column at our disposal. But the above, taken at random, are sufficient to show the wealth of incident and width of imagination which Sir Edward's stories present to us, and how deep an impression they are calculated to make upon the reader. We are carried from land to land, and from age to age. But Italy and England-the one the land of poetry and passion, the other of earnest purpose and noble action-are the climes which he specially loves. In one work we behold Paganism dying in dissolute beauty, and Christianity rising pale, noble, and virginlike, in classic Pompeii. In another we behold Medieval Rome, failing in its last effort to become the mighty Rome of the past. Again, passing over the Tuscan hills and a few centuries, we find in Florence the new and blooming Italy of the renaissance. Or, later, still, the light of imagination is made to play on the lovely shores of the bay of Naples, as the author places there the scenes of love, beauty, and noble mysticism which immortalize in our memory Viola and Za noni. theme most congenial to his pen. There is a gauntness and baldness, for instance, about his "Harold" which is quite unlike himself, though like enough to the times which he describes. "The Last of the Barons" is for the same reason less delightful than any of his other works; unless, indeed, it be that the fault is in the reader, whose imagination is less true or whose sympathies are less expansive than those of the novelist. It is not among the ruder and sterner scenes of semi-cultivated life that the special genius of Sir Edward displays itself. Gardens, palaces, and cities, the lettered graces and polished indolence, no less than the feverish emotions and burrowing iniquities of a highly artificial society, are the scenes and the atmosphere which his genius prefers— -nor cares to walk As a delineator of individual character, Sir Edward is possibly inferior to other writers whom we could mention. We might, perhaps, draw a distinction between his characters and those of Scott or Miss Austin, analogous to that which has been drawn between those of Euripides and Shakspeare. Sir Edward's men and women are in many cases typical, as well as special embodiments of character in the novelists we have mentioned, they are particular individuals whom it is impossible to confound with any other. In this power of describing a strongly marked individuality, which shall not at the same time glide into eccentricity, the authors of "Waverley," of "Pride and Prejudice," and, With death and morning on the silver horns." we must add, of "The Mill on the Floss," are facile principes among British novelists. The passions, in a word, under the influence But if we pass from the region of personality of "manner," are his favorite subject-matto those grand and eternal passions which ter: and manners are in one important sense agitate mankind alike in every age and coun- of the word the differentia of civilization. try, we enter upon the ground where Sir Edward has no superiors. Love, hatred, vengeance, avarice, remorse, ambition, are all depicted on his pages in colors that will never fade-in poetry that will never pall. The passion of love, more especially, he has treated with exquisite power,-with an intensity and delicacy of feeling equalled, but not surpassed, by Scott in some of his happiest moments-in "The Bride of Lammermoor," for instance, and in "Rob Roy but approached by no other English novelist. Neither Mr. Dickens, nor Mr. Thackcray, nor George Eliot are the equals of Sir Edward in this respect. The aching of the heart under a severe disappointment of the affections is described by him with a subtle charm which nature has denied to those great masters of fiction, who, much as we may admire their descriptions of the outward phenomena which accompany the sorrows of lovers, seldom arouse our sympathy, or agitate the fons lochrymarum with the same unerring skill as the author of Alice and Lucretia. The twofold aspect of his works of fiction is probably traceable to the chequered character of his career. Circumstances forbade him fully to indulge, what nature has largely bestowed on him, the poetical temperament, Fashion first, and politics afterwards, had a hand in controlling her design. Both are unfavorable to the growth of idealism. Both tend to fix the mind upon the external and the objective. But though these causes may have operated partially to divert Sir Edward's powers from the direction in which they originally pointed, they could not frustrate the bent of his genius. His idealism shows itself strongly in his preference for describing the common characteristics of large classes of men, instead of analyzing the individual. And in “Zanoni,” in “Rienzi,” in "Maltravers," in "Night and Morning," in "Lucretia," are to be found many passages of the highest poctic beauty, which seem, as it were, only wanting for the touch of some enchanter to doff their present robes, and shine out in the divinity of song. Practical and public life has imparted to his Human nature, then, in its generic more works a healthy and vigorous tone which is than its specific aspects, is the field in which too often wanting in our best contemporary Sir Edward shines, and desires to shine. novels. But it has not cooled the warm and And the higher the epoch of civilization generous feelings, nor checked the suspicious which he depicts, the more marked is his regard of mere worldly prosperity, which besuccess. Though he paints with the happi- long to all his works alike. The craving afest effect those broad characteristics of hu- ter a satisfaction which the world can neither manity which are common to all ages, yet, give nor take away, a disbelief in the solidity to do full justice to his powers, he demands of all happiness which is not based on the a stage of high civilization. The play of the affections, are still as strong in him as ever. passions half visible through the cloak of It is not so much the play of human nature conventionality, like the muscles of a strong merely for its own sake, as the success of man working underneath his garments, is the human conduct in achieving the great end of our being, which he seeks to represent ton's novels by saying that it exactly correthrough his characters; thereby swelling sponds to these words of Lord Bacon. There the aggregate of differences between himself are, no doubt, many virtues which cannot be and the exclusive man of letters. So that there is often a seeming antithesis between the descriptive and the reflective portions of his stories, the former being so easily satisfied with broad strokes and apparently superficial lincaments, the latter diving so deeply and nobly into the most interesting problems of humanity. But again we say, this only arises from the fact that Sir Edward is a practical writer, who makes his characters subservient to his story, rather than his story to his characters. What he wishes to lay before his readers is some actual result issuing from the behavior of particular individuals. If these are lifelike, to answer that purpose, he asks for nothing more. The general effect of the wholecharacter, incidents, and moral put together -is what he principally looks to. If this is successful he is satisfied. 66 taught through fiction. The sterner and more practical virtues of self-denial, industry, and perseverance are among the number. But there are certain sentiments which may materially influence our conduct that can assuredly be so impressed upon us. A belief in the goodness of women, respect for an honorable passion, a conviction that truth and fidelity are still to be found among men, that chivalry is not ridiculous, that ambition is not always selfish, it is quite within the power of literature to countenance or discourage. Here, then, Sir Bulwer Lytton has always given the weight of his popularity to the right side. For "the immorality" of his works has now become an exploded superstition; and well it might in an age which adores "Jane Eyre," and does not proscribe "Sword and Gown." In "Pelham," "Lucretia," "Paul Clifford," and That it is as a rule eminently successful, is, Godolphin," we see the purifying effects we suppose, beyond question. Mr. Thack- of a virtuous love upon worldly, self-induleray's novels often teach us how to think, gent, and criminal natures. In “Zanoni” but very seldom how to act. They teach us that wonderful prose-poem-and in “Eucharity through the hard schooling of univer- gene Aram 99 we see its power over the pride sal scepticism; but they set before us no high of intellect, and its loyalty in misfortune and. examples of men who do not need our char- disgrace. In the contrast between Lumley ity. Mr. Thackeray, it must be remem- Ferrers, and Ernest Maltravers, between bered, made his reputation as a satirist. Randal Leslie and Leonard Fairfield, we see But his later success has been so brilliant, the intrinsic vileness of unscrupulous ambithat the public are apt to forget this propri- tion and the true nobility of honorable toil. ety of his mind, and to assume "Vanity In "Rienzi" the intoxication of sudden power Fair" and "The Newcomes" not only as is set forth in the fall of the unhappy triinimitable prose satires, but as sound stand-bune; and the remorse awaiting those who ards of fiction. We cannot regard this opinion otherwise than as a delusion. There is no moral, properly speaking, to any of Mr. Thackeray's fictions, except that humanity is a gigantic "do." There is in none of his characters any gradual deterioration or improvement. Beckey Sharpe ended just as she began: she was bad from the first. Blanche Amory, Arthur Pendennis, Barnes Newcome, Harry Warrington, never change, never expand, either for better or worse. And the reflections of Sir George Warrington when comfortably settled in his Norfolk estates, represent very accurately the generally unsatisfactory feeling with which we rise from the perusal of all Mr. Thackeray's novels. They have, in fact, but little of that "poetic justice" by which, according to both Bacon and Aristotle, fiction corrects history: "Quare et merito etiam divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quia animum erigit, et in sublime rapit; rerum simulachra ad animi desideria accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, et historia) submittendo." Now, we shall best describe the moral effect of Sir Bulwer Lyt act upon the creed of Eloisa, in the picture of Walter de Montreal. In "Night and Morning," and in "The Last of the Barons," the beauty of self-sacrifice and fidelity is illustrated by two brothers; and, finally, in "The Caxtons," we have the happiness of domestic life, and the self-rewarding power of Duty, depicted in colors which at once raised the painter into an entirely new sphere of popularity. It is the presence of this strongly marked didactic element in Sir Edward's novels which forms the bond of connection between himself and the exclusively modern school of novelists. Standing, as we have already pointed out, between two widely different epochs of fiction, he unites in his own productions the peculiarities of each,-the romantic and picturesque element of the Waverleys, with the more direct moral purpose of Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, and George Eliot. We should not, by the by, forget that Sir Edward has himself raised the question (Preface to "Night and Morning," 1845) of whether "a moral purpose is or is not in harmony with the undidactic spirit percepti ble in the higher works of the imagination." when they began to disgust all refined and But after acknowledging that such purpose cultivated intellects by the apotheosis of should not be the predominant spirit of fic- utility, and the desecration of our national tion and poetry, he adds, as it seems to us traditions,-then the man of imagination, of very justly:broad general views, the champion of intelligence and letters, at once abjured their com"But subordinate to this, which is not the panionship, and set himself to resist their duty, but the necessity, of all fiction that out- policy. In each case he chose his party lasts the hour, the writer of imagination may when its prospects of success were remote, well permit to himself other purposes and ob- and its popularity at a low ebb, regardless jects, taking care that they be not too sharply of any thing but what he considered to be in defined, and too obviously meant to contract the poet into the lecturer-the fiction into the hom- each case the triumph of intelligence over ily. The delight in Shylock is not less vivid for prejudice. When he found his first expecthe humanity it latently but profoundly incul- tations disappointed,-when he discovered cates; the healthful merriment of the Tartuffe is that the little finger of the ten-pounder was not less enjoyed for the exposure of the hypocrisy heavier than the loins of the boroughmonger, it denounces. We need not demand from Shak--when his taste and understanding were speare or from Molière other morality than that which genius unconsciously throws around it the natural light which it reflects; but if some great principle which guides us practically in the daily intercourse with men becomes in the general lustre more clear and more pronounced-we gain doubly, by the general tendency and the particular result." The taste of the present age at all events runs strongly in favor of "a moral purpose.' All the most successful novels of the last twenty years have either had, or seemed to have, such an object. Even Mr. Thackeray's satires have their moral, such as it is; i.e., that all is vanity. We need scarcely point to "Jane Eyre," "Uncle Tom," "Adam Bede," "Martin Chuzzlewit," or "David Copperfield," in proof of our remark. And whether the doctrinal vein which permeates Sir Edward's novels spring exclusively from his own conceptions of art, or be the result of conformity to a prevailing sentiment, its management, at all events, is in the highest degree creditable to his literary skill. It is never wholly lost sight of, yet never obtrusive to the detriment of the main interest. Like Charles II.'s model minister, it is never in the way and never out of the way. alike shocked by the uneducated bullies and callous cosmopolites who were gradually domineering over Parliament, he at once threw in his lot with the apparently losing side, and brought all the weight of his eloquence, his zeal, and his knowledge to the aid of Conservatism. Of his oratory it is perhaps sufficient to say that it is worthy of the pre-Reform era. He is one of the few men in the present House of Commons who have compelled attention to the highly wrought diction and impassioned appeals which constituted the glorious eloquence of our grandfathers. We have no hesitation in saying that his last speech upon Reform has never been surpassed in Parliament. In the exquisite finish of his periods, in the felicity of his illustrations, the remarkable clearness of his statements, and the happy play of his wit, he rose to the full stature of the orator. There was, moreover, a character stamped upon the speech, producing the invaluable impression that it was not worked up for the occasion, but was drawn from the abundant riches of an intellectual treasury ready at any moment to answer the demands of its possessor. Taken altogether, Sir Bulwer Lytton is as As we note the influence of active life upon favorable a specimen of the literary stateshis natural disposition, may we, in turn, note man as could possibly be selected. With the influence of his natural disposition upon the wide reading and high power of generalhis active life? In his views of political ization which were so effective in the late questions he is remarkable for rising above Lord Macaulay, he combines a real heartfelt all purely empirical considerations; and has sympathy with the more spiritual cravings always shown himself a sympathizer with the of our nature. No sneer at enthusiasm, no more generous and spiritual of any two con- mockery of humanity has ever sullied his flicting parties. When the ancient fabric of pages. His chief parliamentary efforts are Georgian Toryism, which had so long tow- associated with the interests of literature and ered proudly over the land, was assailed by the cause of the constitution. His books the champions of progress and development, reflect his experience of the world in the he, in common with thousands of impulsive most charitable and generous spirit; and his and sanguine young men, joined the ranks public life carries out the promise of his of the assailants. But when the disciples of books with honesty and consistency. Long progress, not content with redressing anom- and deep study has supplied him with genalies, began to cast stones at institutions,-eral principles, which he has not disdained to fill out, and corroborate by a careful in- | mirable. Disraeli left literature for politics. duction of particulars. His speeches are full Macaulay left politics for literature. Bulof facts, and his arguments, where necessary, wer Lytton yet retains his grasp of both; are based on figures. Because he is one of and is at once an ornament of the House of our finest orators, he is not, therefore, one Commons and, through his works, a cherof our least practical statesmen. He has ished guest at the fireside. Long may he shown that he possesses high administrative continue to charm us in his twofold capacity; ability as well as senatorial eloquence. And to enliven the wearisome statistics of modern whatever be his future career, he stands be- debate by his bursts of eloquence, and to fore us at the present moment a solitary spec- supply the antidote to much that is perniimen of a combination as rare as it is ad- cious in the stream of contemporary fiction. FAST YOUNG LADIES. Here's a flashy set of us, Wide-awakes our heads adorn, Fast young ladies; Skirts hitched up on spreading frame, Riding habits are the go, Fast young ladies, When we prance in Rotten Row, Fast young ladies, On the theme of "that 'ere 'oss," Fast young ladies. There we scan as bold as brass, Fast young ladies; On the turf we show our face, Fast young ladies! We are not to be hooked in, I require a chap with tin, Love is humbug; cash the chief All poor matches come to grief, Not to marry is my plan, Fast young ladies. Bother that romance and stuff! Fast young ladies. Give me but my quiet weed, Fast young ladies; Pay my bills, porte-monnaie store, -Punch. A SHORT PORTRAIT OF QUEEN ANNE.-She was a dull woman, with a dull husband. They had little to say for themselves; their great pleasures were in eating and drinking. The queen was absurdly fond of etiquette; and as there was nothing to startle decorum in the court morals, the mistress in King William's time had given something of a livelier stir to the gossip. Swift describes Anne in a circle of twenty visitors as sitting with her fan in her mouth, saying about three words once a minute to some that were near her, and then, upon hearing that dinner was ready, going out. In the evening she played at cards, which, long before, and afterwards, was the usual court pastime at that hour. She does not appear to have been fond of music, or pictures, or books, or any thing but what administered to the commonest animal satisfactions. |