The great first cause why our English literature has
obtained so high a character for truth and nature is, that it has always reflected,
as in a mirror, the age which was passing over it. The chivalric romances were filled
with the spirit of their times. The dramas, with their passionate poetry and rich
variety of incident, were transcripts of their own wild and adventurous day. The
Revolution next left its mental imprint. Milton embodied the stern energy of resistance which had been in action,
while the satire of "Hudibras,"² and the light and licentious comedies which followed, were no less faithful
pictures of the wit and profligate indulgence which then prevailed. The ensuing age
was one of political intrigue rather than of excitement. It equally gave its literary
tone. People reasoned rather than felt, were moral by maxims, and witty in
antithesis. The genius of style was abroad. Observation was just rather than
profound, keen rather than deep. Wit was carried to its perfection, and also to its
excess; people were witty on every thing. Essays, letters, satires, sermons, were
the
circulating coin. The novels, excellent in plot, coarse, but vigorous in delineation
of character, were comedies put into narrative, their merits and their defects
equally of their actual period. This cycle also revolved, and its successor was one
of wild imagination and strong passion. The few paint the feeling of the many; and
the many adopt such words as if they were their own. The great writers, we can
scarcely say of our time, embodied the excitement, the morbid sensibility, the
visionary philosophy, the melancholy ever attendant upon imaginative feeling, which
were the characteristics of an essentially poetical age; and such was the one just
departed. Another great change is now passing over our literature, because it is also
passing over our time; not less powerful, though perhaps less marked. The former
change was more violent; it was wrought by enthusiasm, which, for the time, carries
all before it. The present is being worked by opinion, which, if more still, is also
more lasting. To-day has nothing in common with Yesterday. People required to be
amused in order to be instructed; now, they only permit themselves to be entertained
while laying the flattering unction to their souls that it is the vehicle of
information. For every why, we ask a wherefore. We will not allow an author to
display his talents merely as the knights broke each other's limbs of old, for
honour: we expect that he should have a purpose in this display, and that purpose
one
of tangible benefit. It is this that makes the excellence of the writer before us.
With that keen perception of reality, which is the executive power of genius, he has
entered into the spirit of his own times. Mr. Bulwer is the first novelist who has
placed his best reward, and his great aim, in the utility of his writings. He has
seen, that in order to improve, we must first enlighten; and that ridicule, if not
the test of truth, is, at least, a good conductor to its lightning. His genius has
taken service with reality. In every event he has wrought out, in every character
he
has created, he has never had the actual [Page 438]out of mind; and his works are
living pictures, filled with the crimes and the virtues, the thoughts and the
feelings, the hopes and the fears which are now among us in daily operation. Young,
rich, and high-born, Mr. Bulwer³ lacked many of
the ordinary excitements to exertion. It is a fact not to be disputed, that the
aristocracy have not "progressed" in proportion to the other classes. A young
nobleman of the present day has not a better education than his ancestor in the time
of Elizabeth. If we look
back to the old records, we shall find that the classics, the modern tongues, some
knowledge of philosophy, and the information collected by foreign travel, were held
indispensable to the formation of a gentleman. What more is now required among the
higher ranks? We doubt whether even as much be effected. It would seem that
education, in ceasing to be a distinction, had lost half its attraction. The evaded
study and dissipation of a public school is succeeded by the equally evaded study
and
dissipation of a college; and too many of our youthful aristocracy begin life with
self-sufficiency for knowledge, prejudices for opinions, and with pleasure a habit
rather than an enjoyment. The great error of their condition is, that their road
through life is too royal a one, using that phrase quite in its ancient acceptation.
We must remember, that to this class Mr. Bulwer belongs, in order to do justice to the energy of mind which has so
nobly preferred exertion to indulgence, and has set out by acknowledging the general
sympathies, and advocating the general rights of mankind. In the history of an
author, it is labour wasted to inquire what first turned his mind to its peculiar
pursuit. Even if the fact could be ascertained, it would be useless as an example,
for no circumstance affects two men alike; and if brought forward only to support
a
theory, the theory which cannot be carried into action is rather ingenious than
useful. That the subject of our sketch was early addicted to reading is nothing; so
are thousands, from whose labour fruit never comes. Literary taste is often
confounded with literary talent by others, quite as much as by ourselves. The
Cambridge prize poem on Sculpture, afterwards published in a small volume of poems,
printed for private circumstance, was his first literary effort.⁴ Mr. Bulwer is essentially
imbued with the spirit of poetry: perhaps, born a few years sooner, he would have
been a poet only; but, though circumstances do not make genius, they certainly have
much to do with its direction. He had early read largely, and seen much of society:
his judgment thus [Page 439]balanced his imagination, and the same accuracy of
observation which has since shown itself to be one of his most characteristic merits,
told him, that the celebrity of one age must be sought in an opposite path by its
successor. We had been rich in poetry, even to luxury; and when has not luxury led
to
satiety? Mr. Bulwer's literary
career may even thus early be divided into the two worlds of romance and reality.
His
first works, to use his own words, were brought from —————the poet's golden land,Where thought finds happiest voice and glides alongInto the silver rivers of sweet song,⁵ space between stanzas touched with that imaginative melancholy which after-years deepens into
reflection, and marked with that keen perception which experience ripens into
thought. Poetry is a good foundation for philosophy: we must have felt ourselves to
allow for the feelings of others. To this period belong "Weeds and
Wildflowers," "The Rebel," and his first prose work,
"Falkland."⁶ Each of these productions bears
the same stamp—the broad arrow of genius. But they were too selfishly beautiful:
melancholy had just finished its monopoly, and the age of sympathy, like that of
chivalry, was passed. Ridicule is the re-action of enthusiasm. Sentiment was
considered confined to schools; and, so far from affecting too much feeling, people
were beginning to be ashamed of having any. Mr. Bulwer has since had a brighter and
a higher aim: but these writings belong to those earlier days, when, to quote
himself, "Romance, that bright magician," was wont O'er the dim glades of duller life to flingHues from the sun and blossoms from the spring.⁷ space between stanzas Life has little breathing time; and, even when we do for a moment reflect,
it is rather on our present than our past: the pains and pleasures of memory are put
aside as quickly as the poem which celebrates them. But, if such a feat of mental
magic could be performed, who would be so utterly a stranger to all our thoughts and
feelings, as the self of five years ago with the self of to-day? We cannot but
believe that experience has wrought a great change in Mr. Bulwer's mind. His views of life are
more true, while his ideas of excellence are at once more elevated, and yet more
practical. He seems to have laid it down as a principle, that, though poetry may
"breathe the difficult height of the iced mountain-tops," its most precious gift,
as
he beautifully says, is ———————to sing over allMaking the common air most musical."⁸ space between stanzas He has felt that knowledge was only desirable as the pioneer of utility, and
genius only glorious as the high priest of virtue. It is not too much to say, that
where, in the "Disowned," he puts the developement of these principles
into the mouth of Algernon Mordaunt, whose half dozen pages are one of the noblest
and the truest moral and philosophical essays in our language.⁹

"Pelham," one of the most successful novels of our day, appeared in 1828.¹⁰ Its delineations were too true not to be taken as personal
af- [Page 440] fronts in these days, when every author is identified with his
hero, if in that hero there is any thing that offends. If we except the
"Literary Gazette,"¹¹ which perceived
and did justice to the extraordinary mind then putting forth its powers, "the whole
commons" of periodicals, like those "in Kent, were up in arms."¹² One represented "Pelham," as
an insolent sneer at the middle ranks, reprobated the effeminacy of perfumes, and
talked of an English cook, and the Magna Charta,¹³
their own and their country's Constitution, in a breath. Others, again, considered
it
as an effusion of sheer egotism, and got into a rage with the author, whom they
comforted themselves by denouncing as "a coxcomb." One would think that irony was
like the Delphin classics,¹⁴ and required notes of explanation. People in general do not understand it.
Matthews¹⁵ tells a
good story of this density of apprehension:—a criminal, doomed to perish by the sharp
edge of the law, was willing that the edge should be really sharp. "I will give you
fifty ducats," said he to the executioner, "if you cut off my head at a single
stroke." In the pride of his art, the headsman gave a flourish with his sword. "Fifty
ducats," reiterated the criminal. "Just shake your head," replied the executioner;
he
did so, and it rolled on the scaffold. The matter-of-fact man, believing the story
up
to this point, says, "Well, did he give him the fifty ducats?" In this point device spirit were the coxcombries of
"Pelham," arraigned. "Perfumes, indeed—how effeminate!" "Almond
paste!—I wonder of what materials he thinks he must be made; soap would do for him
as
well as other people." "Feeding his poodle on chicken and sweet-breads!—what wicked
waste, when there are so many poor starving." But wit cuts its bright way through
the
glass-door of public favour; and "Pelham," took its station, not only
as a most entertaining novel, but as a satire, equally just, keen, and amusing. By
the way, it is curious to remark how the affectations of one age are made up of the
affectations of its predecessors: our present has gone back upon classical materials.
What is its indifference, but stoicism made small for common use; its indolence, but
a copy of the Lacedemonian, who, when an Athenian had been fined for idleness,
requested to be introduced to the gentleman, "who had been punished for keeping up
his dignity;" its gourmandism is but the luxury, without the magnificence of the
Roman; and, as for perfumes, there was an ancient sage who perfumed his feet instead
of his hair. "In the one case," as he justly observed, "the grateful odours ascended
to his own nostrils, while, in the other instance, the sweetness but exhaled in the
general air." Pelham was an incarnation of the spirit of the times, only with some
fine talents and high qualities not quite so general. But the author's own words,
in
the preface to the second edition, best set forth his intentions.

One great charm in "Pelham," and in all Mr. Bulwer's works, is the mind
which shows itself in every part, and continually breaks out in some clear
observation or true remark. An excellent English Rochefoucauld might be formed
from his pages, only with all the [Page 441] feeling and higher sense of
excellence in which the Frenchman is so deficient. We must quote two or three, the
truth of whose thoughts can only be equalled by the grace of their expression.

Lord Byron makes a very true remark in
one of his letters, that the most prolific authors have always been the most popular.
Such has certainly been the case with Mr. Bulwer. "The
Disowned," "Devereux," "Paul Clifford"
"The Siamese Twins," followed each other in rapid succession.¹⁸ The most singular characteristic about these works is their
utter dissimilitude: save in a general tone of benevolence, as the basis of
philosophy, and an extended and liberal view of the general interests of mankind,
these productions are striking contrasts. "Pelham," was a moral
Diorama—a view of London, as it is. "The Disowned" was a poetical and
imaginative picture, but not the less true because the colours were created and
combined rather than copied. It is not, perhaps, fair to ascribe your own supposed
plan to an author, but we have always thought that "The Disowned" was
the finest illustration of ambition possible—an illustration, too, of its many
varieties. The desire of honourable but worldly success in Clarence, is brought into
fine contrast with the dreaming and feverish desire of fame which consumes the young
artist. Again, the disinterested but fatal patriotism of Wolfe, fatal because
confined, is admirably opposed to that of Algernon Mordaunt, whose patriotism takes
the ground-work of knowledge, and works hand in hand with philosophy and charity.
Mordaunt is one of those ideals of excellence which we respect an author for
conceiving. "The Disowned" also developed a new talent, that of
description: there are several landscapes as beautiful and as English as those of
our
natural painter Collins. As an
analysis of cause and effect, the history of Mr. Talbot, the vain man, is a perfect
specimen of moral dissection. His vanity is the opposite of Lord Boradail's conceit.
Vanity and conceit are often confounded: nevertheless, they are very opposite
qualities; as much difference as there is between search and possession; vanity
craves "golden opinions" from all ranks of men; conceit sits down quietly in the
enjoyment of its own property. More poetical in its views, more elevated in its
philosophy, the remarks scattered through "The Disowned," though less
worldly, are not less true than those in its predecessor. They take a higher, though
not a less actual tone; and we doubt if the sarcastic inference be a whit more
accurate than the kindlier one. The difference between their observations is, that
in
[Page 442] the one they are taken in the spirit of satire; in the other, they
are taken in that of philosophy. If "Pelham," and the
"Disowned" were different, "Devereux" was equally
opposed to either. For ourselves, we are free to confess that
"Devereux" is our favorite of all Mr. Bulwer's works. It is at once an
historical, a philosophical, and a poetical novel. The historical scenes have that
which is usually admitted as the great merit of historical fiction, verisimilitude—if
not exactly what people did do, it was exactly what they might be supposed to have
done: to use a theatrical phrase, the illusion is well supported. But they have also
another great and peculiar merit, the lesson pointed for the apprehension of even
the
most careless reader. Moral knowledge is the fine gold extracted from the crucible
of
moral satire. The interview between the Czar and Devereux is an admirable and
forcible exposition of a great truth: we allude to the scene where the influence of
shame in punishment is illustrated by the difference between the Russian and the
German, while under the discipline of the knout.¹⁹ The same remark may apply to the inimitable scenes in Paris.
The spirit of that age of epigrams was never so caught by an English writer before.
But we draw no false inferences: the dust is diamond-dust, and it sparkles;—it is
not
thrown in our eyes. We see that it was a time equally witty and worthless; and the
same glance which takes in its brilliancy also reveals its baseness. Lord Bolingbroke's²⁰ character is the
most original feature in "Devereux." Historical personages have often
lent "the magic of a name" to the fictitious page: but this is the first instance
of
historical research, philosophical investigation, and the fellow-feeling of a noble
mind being devoted to embody, and to appreciate the merits of one to whom historians
(we will not say history) have shown scant mercy and less justice. The various
conversations in which Bolingbroke takes part, the just observations which throw such light on his
sentiments, the eloquent appreciation of his excellence, the clear reasoning on his
motives, are the perfection (if we may use such a phrase) of dramatic biography. Mr.
Bulwer himself says, "that to
do justice to a great man is the highest of literary pleasures;" and in this analysis
of Bolingbroke, we know not
which most to admire, the truth of the defence, or the generous warmth of the
defender. The tomb of one great man is the altar of another. One very futile
objection against this noble impersonation has been urged by the Chinese of
criticism, or rather its Chancery barristers, who refer every thing to
precedent;—that, forsooth, "a novel is not the proper place for political or
historical discussion." Why, we would ask, is truth to be debarred from taking its
most effective, because most popular form? Such critics are either strangely behind,
or wilfully blind, to their own time, who deny the importance of the novel. In works
of imagination, a novel has been the Aaron's rod²¹ which has swallowed up the rest. If a few great
writers choose any one vehicle for their talent, hundreds of their inferiors will
choose the same mode, and follow in the track in which they never could have led.
We
do firmly believe great popularity is [Page 443] never gained without great
desert. All will admit, that the first-rate talent of our time has been developed
in
the novel. It is an error to say, that this is because it is the most amusing; it
is
rather because it is the most appropriate. Still, in literature, as in life, the sins
of the fathers are visited upon the children, even unto the third and fourth
generation; and works, like Scott's,
which have done more towards giving us real ideas of the days of yore, and drawn
closer the links of the past and present, than any chronicle ever written; or works
like Godwin's, and these of the author
now before us, full of the most important truths, are to receive for their heritage
the ill name of works in which, if the scene were laid in former days, a dungeon,
a
beauty, white plumes and iron fetters, a little valour, and a great deal of love,
(love à l'impossible en passant,²² ) were all that could be required; or if of modern life,
the lover first raked, and then reformed; the heroine was first miserable and then
married. Such was the circulating cycle, and hence the novel was held, nay, is still
held by many, to be the Paria of literature. Truly may it be said, that to change
an
opinion is difficult; but to remove a prejudice is impossible. Before we resume our
analysis, we cannot but remark on the singular silence preserved towards the most
rising author of their day, in the two pseudo-called great Reviews, the Edinburgh and Quarterly. The former might have hesitated to censure in the very beginning, made wise
by experience: for nothing is more mortifying than your own prophecy unfulfilled;
and
it is somewhat disagreeable to find the general judgment in direct opposition to your
criticism. We may suppose that Byron,
Wordsworth, Coleridge, &c. have served as
landmarks. Every one of these names are now standard ones in our "land's language;"
and the Reviewer is remembered by his injustice. Mr. Jeffrey was the Judge Jeffries of
literature,²³ —a most partial and unjust judge. The
faculty of appreciation, that highest sign of a great mind, was wanting in his: and,
take the range of our first-rate authors, they are all instances of public opinion
reversing the verdict which proceeded from his tribunal. As for the Quarterly, we all know it is too well
trained, to wander beyond the districts of Moravia.²⁴ It has not room, forsooth, for works that are in every one's hands, whose
thoughts and whose feelings are actuating thousands; but, let a dull tragedy, now
as
much forgotten as the Emperor of Constantinople,²⁵ whose name it bears; or a
volume of travels, whose young writer carefully records the slender ankles and dark
eyes of every Spanish girl with whom he had a flirtation; or let the laureate of
"Wat Tyler," and the apotheosis of George III.²⁶ put forth the poetical annals of the pantry, and mark in
italics the pathos of a young lady, not ringing her bell for coals or candles;—let
any of these issue from Albermarle-street, and the Quarterly at once finds room for
analysis and adulation. The truth is, that we have no great literary review, each
being engrossed in politics, busy deciding whether Sadler is a fool, or Malthus a demon. Still, we wonder
that observa- [Page 444] tion has not been more awake to the tremendous power the
novel possesses as an engine for the dissemination of opinion: but more of this when
we come to "Paul Clifford."

To return to "Devereux." The character of the hero seems to us to be
one of Mr. Bulwer's most powerful
and original conceptions: the influence of circumstances upon nature is finely and
profoundly traced. "Devereux is imaginative, affectionate, passionate
by nature; worldly, cold, and guarded in his crust of circumstance. The poetry
inherent, and the philosophy acquired, are exquisitely developed. We never could read
the account of his boyhood without the most intense interest,—the warm love of the
child thrown back upon itself by unkind coldness and unjust preference. We shall only
say, fortunate are those who do not sympathize with the affectionate, yet unloved
boy, whose heart becomes sullen as sadness always does when utterly unshared. There
is terrible injustice in the treatment of children: how arbitrary is the authority
exercised over them! How much does the anger or the fondness lavished upon them
depend on the temper of the moment! What a contradiction between the much we expect
them to acquire, and the little we expect them to observe! At one time they are to
learn all that demands comprehension and industry,—(think how much pure abstract
knowledge a child is expected to master;) and then, at another period, they are
treated like a machine, that neither sees nor hears; or, at least, seeing and hearing
as one who understandeth not; saving that memory is a most faithless faculty, a
mirror in which a man looks, and "straightway forgetteth what manner of man he is,"
or was. Our own experience might teach us a different lesson. But preference, and
its
consequence, neglect, is the child's most cruel wrong. The bitter feeling of
comparing our own lot with another's, will come quite soon enough without its being
taught in infancy. Early injustice is like the thread of silk planted with the
tulip—it colours all the after leaves. Its influence runs through all Devereux's
future character; the warm emotions concealed—the affectionate temper
checked—restraint deepening into reserve, and self-dependance hardening into
self-reliance, are all traced with the accuracy of an anatomist, and with a beauty
even beyond their truth. The awakening of all his better nature under the affection
of his uncle, and that kind old uncle himself, are transcripts from one of the very
best and dearest pages of human life. As for Sir William, we do not insist upon every
reader liking him as much as we do ourselves; but we must own, if they do not, we
shall have a very bad opinion of them. It is curious to mark the likeness of position
and the dissimilarity of character between Pelham and Devereux: both are young,
noble, panting, first, for pleasure, next for worldly distinction; and both are fops,
"mandarins of the first class;"²⁷ but still how different.
Pelham's worldliness is the philosophy of his calm, calculating, yet high nature:
that of Devereux, on the contrary, is a disguise and a security. The coxcombry of
Pelham is like a cast from his features; that of Devereux is a mask to his face. The
difference is imagination in the one, the want of it in the other. This is especially
shown in their love: —love, which if but an episode in the active life of man, is
a
lasting influence in his ideal one. We do not think the most susceptible [Page 445] reader is very unquiet about the success of Pelham's suit: we think the very
coldest must be touched by Devereux's generous and devoted attachment to the
beautiful and desolate Spanish girl. Love was never more passionate in Byron, more true in Shakspeare, more lovely in nature,
than it is here "gently bodied forth." We have hitherto dwelt on other merits than
the rich passionate colours given by the heart. But the whole history of Isora is
touched by that poetical spirit, which does not, it is true, make nature more
beautiful than nature often is, but shows that beauty in its fairest light, the light
of imagination. There is, to us, something inexpressibly touching in Devereux's
abiding affection, when, to quote an exquisite passage from the "
Milton" in after-years,²⁸ "her memory made the moonlight of his mind," and Her thoughts stole o'er like a spirit's lay?Singing the darkness of his fate away.²⁹ space between stanzas

One great peculiarity in Mr. Bulwer's writings is, the singular originality of his minor characters:
they are not merely "two or three puppets to fill up the scene," whose only
distinguishing mark is a name, but each is some embodied thought, and distinguished
by some natural touch: in short, people in his books are as different as they are
in
real life. Mr. Bulwer combines, to
a rare degree, the power of creation with the faculty of observation; and it is this
union which gives such infinite variety to "his storied page of human life."³⁰

"Paul Clifford" came next; as different to its brethren as if they
had not had "one common father."

"Paul Clifford" is at once a political satire, a romance of middle
life; a practical and moral treatise, put forth in the popular form of a novel. The
satire is levelled at existing persons and abuses—the romance is the poetry which
passion and feeling extract from the daily events of common life—the moral is that
drawn from the temptation which leads, and the punishment which follows, the crimes
we know to be hourly committed. For the first time, Mr. Bulwer seems to have felt what an
engine of power was the novel for present utility; how forcibly it could be brought
to play on the vice whose result is misery—the indolence whose result is injury, and
the selfishness which is at once its own best and worst punishment. What
leading-article in a review ever brought forward the evil influence of laws, that
punish rather than guard, upon the lower classes, with such energy and truth as the
dramatic exposition of their hardship and insufficiency in "Paul
Clifford?" It is a great and noble distinction for an author (and we know
no other modern novelist that can "lay the flattering unction to his
soul"³¹ ) to be able to say,
"I have written in the hope of [Page 446] pointing attention to great abuses—to
awful suffering. The feelings, the weaknesses, the wretchedness of a great body of
my
countrymen have been utterly neglected; to their benefit I dedicate my talents—the
spirit of 'Paul Clifford' is the cause of the people." As a matter of taste, we have
owned to liking "Devereux" the best; but as matter of principle, we
give the preference to " Paul Clifford." The use of the last is more
actual and immediate.

Whether in lively satire, keen remark, or accurate reflection—whether in deducing
the character from circumstance—whether in painting the nice distinction of natural
good feeling which favourable position ripens into virtue, or natural strong passion,
or weakness, which events harden into crime—the desire of benefit from an obvious
lesson, or practical inference necessarily drawn by the reader, the same desire of
conferring a moral benefit on the author's kind is paramount through all. Fiction
is
the eloquence of experience, and to be useful it must be actual. The character of
William Brandon³² is as yet our author's most powerful conception. The lava-flood of
passion, which bursts in one red flood, chills, hardens—never to melt again—the evil
knowledge brought by too early experience (for experience may come too soon—the fruit
must be mature that the east wind will not injure); the bitter consciousness of
surpassing talent, unused and useless—the pride, which though inherent in the nature,
has no outward cause of display, and takes refuge and fights under the shield of
scorn—passion, talent, and knowledge—these best gifts of our kind, and yet those that
may be turned to the worst purpose—never were these more finely developed than in
William Brandon. One single touch of human kindliness in this proud and cold man is
in his gentle and fatherly love for Lucy, his orphan niece. It may seem fanciful,
but
it has always reminded us of the tuft of blue violets Frazer records with such expression
of pleasure, when he finds them growing, lonely and lovely, on the high and icy
mountains of Himala.³³ Lord Mauliverer is an inimitable
satire on aristocratic indulgence; he is the far niente³⁴ of indolent luxury embodied in all its
selfishness. One single expression sets forth his whole system of action. Brandon,
at
a tête-à-tête dinner, refuses or neglects some dainty
of the table, and Mauliverer exclaims, "Oh, hang your abstemiousness, it is d——d
unfriendly to eat so little!" This slight speech is the essence of one who desires
companionship for its pleasantness, and not for its sympathy. Lucy Brandon, the
heroine, is an entire contrast to all Mr. Bulwer's former female portraits.
Isabel and Isora³⁵ were high-wrought, beautiful, and ideal—as if poetry
had lent its aid to life, to show "how divine a thing a woman might be made;" but
Lucy is a sweet, simple, gentle creature—entirely a girl—only a very lovely and
loveable one, till circumstances discover that gold lies beneath the stream which
had
hitherto only "broke into dimples and laughed in the sun." It is the "unconquerable
strength of love," giving its own force to a nature essentially timid and feminine.
One of the great merits of this work is the many slight touches, which, like the
finishings of a portrait, give such identity to a picture. The descriptions are
singularly accurate, from that of the small and most wretched streets in London on
a
wet night, to the ancient manor-house with its one old chestnut tree "worth a
forest." The affections delineated are such as are in constant play, brightening and
sweetening from the lofti- [Page 447] est to the lowest; while the deeper
colouring of passion is terrible from its truth. The scattered observations are as
valuable for their justice as they are remarkable for their acuteness. Take the
following admirable remark for an instance;—"Showy theories are always more seductive
to the young and clever than suasive examples, and the vanity of the youthful makes
them better pleased by being convinced of a thing than by being enticed to
it."³⁶ One personage we must not omit—Peter Mac Grawler, critic, editor,
thief, cook, hangman. We doubt whether "the last" of that man was "worse than the
first."³⁷ We are reforming
all abuses so much, that, perhaps, in a few years, the redoubtable Peter will be an
historical memento of a base and cowardly school of criticism, which may then have
left "but the name" "of its faults and its sorrows behind." The personal attacks;
the
virulent sneers; the coarse and false statements; the foolish opinions of a set whose
incognito is indeed their existence—for who would or could care for the abuse of an
individual whose own character was below contempt, or who would not despite the
judgment of one whose only right to pronounce such judgment lay in his own previous
failure in some similar attempt to that which he denounces? Who shall deny that the
great body of critics are made up of unsuccessful writers?—the inferior magazines
and
journals are truly the refuge for the literary destitute. Men who are anonymous are
usually abusive, and want of principle and want of responsibility are only too
synonymous. Nothing can be perfect in this world, but two rules would greatly conduce
to the perfectability of criticism:—the first to speak, not of the author, but of
his
works; his pages, not himself, are amenable to your remarks: secondly, to do away
with the present anonymous system; this would have a double advantage; it would force
the critic to be just, if not generous, for his own sake—for men weigh opinions for
which they are to be instantly answereable; and also, when the critic is known, the
public would be able to judge, from previous knowledge of what he had himself done,
how far he was competent to decide on the labours of others; but our present literary
bush-fighting is as deteriorating as it is disgraceful. There are some excellent
remarks, and written in the best spirit of criticism, in the dedicatory epistle to
"Paul Clifford."

Many of the dramatis personae in this work are
lightly-sketched caricatures, woodcuts à la Cruikshank of individuals in that high
rank to which our meaner ambitions direct themselves, "like the sparks which fly
upward,"³⁸ and, we must add, to
end in smoke. They are curious and bitter illustrations of "the might and magic of
a
name," One would think that the wrong and the despicable must be immutable terms;
not
so—much depends on position, whether we look down or
up. Bachelor Bill being exclusive in Fish-lane, and
giving a "hop and a feed," seems a ridiculous and vulgar person—the Duke of
Devonshire³⁹ giving a fête to "the fashionable world," with all its
nice distinctions, is "quite another thing."

The Spartans had made no small advance in practical philosophy when, in order to
show their children the shame of inebriety, they made their slaves drunk. It is not
enough to denounce a vice—you will do more by disgracing it. We have heard some
pseudo-genteel readers object to the hero's being only "a highwayman!" Besides the
obvious answer, that human nature is human nature all the world over, [Page 448]
we will just give the author's own view of the case: "For my part, I will back an
English highwayman, masked, armed, mounted, and trotting over Hounslow Heath, against
the prettiest rascal the Continent ever produced."⁴⁰ These did not possess such bad materials for a hero; the days are
quite past for readers to be contented with the condescending court-suits which
enchanted our grandmothers, or with "dark-haired young gentlemen, born to be the
destruction of every one connected with them." Mr. Bulwer required a hero surrounded
with difficulties, and beset with the temptations to which poverty is subjected in
real and social life—such a hero is Paul Clifford. Critics, like copy-books, are
ruled by columns—our limits forbid its extract; but we must say how eloquent and how
just is the sketch of our late
monarch.⁴¹ It
is a fine historical picture, discriminating between good and evil, neither trenching
upon the sanctity of the grave with false panegyric nor with coarse insult, and
drawing from faults, it were vain to deny, a warning, not a reproach.—The
"Siamese Twins" came last. We think scant justice has been done to
the passages of the Corinthian order of poetry with which it abounds—the splendid
address to Earl Grey; the beautiful
descriptions of sleep; the noble tribute to Burns; the exquisite single lines, "painting by words," such as hopes That colour while they point the goal; or such a description as The storm slept dark on the dull sea.

The author says, in the preface to the second edition, "that he would himself rest
his fame on 'Milton.'"⁴² It would rest
on a sure foundation. "Milton" is a noble poem, "a worthy offering to
the immortal dead." "The Westminster" has a fine remark on Channing's Essay on Milton: it says—"The spirit of Milton
was upon him, and possessed him; and he writes as one constrained to do so by
thoughts too fervid, intense, and expansive to be restrained. He speaks as a priest,
under the immediate influence of the god at whose altar he was ministering—so should
genius be honoured!"⁴³ We can have nothing to say that will better apply to this poem. We have heard
the term satire objected to, as applied to "The Siamese Twins;" we
confess it does not belong to the Sunday-newspaper school of satirists, in which real
names and nicknames, personality and brutality constitute what is called a powerful
article; but if abuse is not the whole of wit, to wit—the keen and the ready—this
poem may well lay claim. If Mr. Bulwer wants any thing, it is that innate gaiety, which in a writer, like
good spirits in a companion, carries us along with it. Mr. Bulwer's serious satire is more
apparent than his more playful vein, simply because the one has, and the other has
not, the impress of his own mind. Nothing, especially in poetry, divides opinion more
than great originality; readers are at fault when no good old rule is at hand to
serve as a guage—and when at a loss, it is always safest to condemn. To be the first
to praise requires more self-reliance than the generality of people possess, and the
"Siamese Twins" is too different [Page 449] from its
predecessors for early opinions to be safely trusted to walk alone. But its feelings
and its thoughts, "the deep and the true," daily become more familiar; the fine
passage is remembered—the exquisite expression quoted—and the laurel puts forth its
green boughs, leaf by leaf, till it stands forth a stately tree. This poem is
dedicated to his mother—genius making affection as beautiful in expression as it is
in spirit. We cannot conceive a more touching tribute. Mr. Bulwer's father died when he was but
three years of age, and the care of his education⁴⁴ devolved on a mother, whose love and whose pride must equally be
gratified by the result.

We have now, as far as our power extends, done our duty (for what is justice but
a
duty?) to this extraordinary writer. If we have cordially expressed our admiration,
it is because we have cordially felt it. We have neither attempted to detail the
stories nor describe the characters; the meagre sketch of a tale, or the bare outline
of a character, is as a skeleton, which requires to be clothed in flesh before it
can
rise up in grace or beauty. We have endeavoured to give our own strong impression—to
select some of the most detachable merits, and then to say to our readers, judge for
yourselves on the right of our opinion, bearing in mind that we can set forth only
a
very small part of sixteen volumes, full of all the various developement of mind and
feeling.

A transition from the author's works to the author's self has been a common
consequence of fame in all ages. Though we do not quite go the length of the
Genevese, who, publishing an account of Rousseau's visit to his native city, deems it worthy of mention that Jean Jacques wore a cap trimmed
with fur, but that he would not decide whether it was lined with fur or not, for he
never took it off: still, by that rule which leads us to judge of others' feelings
by
our own, we think the curiosity, personal though it be, about a distinguished author,
is, to say the least, very excusable. We often hear complaints that the author does
not sustain the beau ideal of his hero; this complaint,
at least, cannot be made of Mr. Bulwer. His appearance is distinguished, his features chiselled and
regular, and the whole expression of his face highly intellectual as well as
handsome. Generally, though we confess to having but a slight personal knowledge,
Mr.
Bulwer is silent and reserved
in society; but this may in some measure arise from his extreme distaste to mixing
with it: for at times nothing can exceed the flashing wit of his gayer converse,
unless it be the originality and interest of his more serious discourse. Mr. Bulwer is married,⁴⁵ and is we
believe among the instances that genius is very compatible with domestic happiness.⁴⁶ Prediction has an easy task in foretelling a future when
its prophecy is founded on a past of such promise. When we say that he gave us the
idea of one whose habits were fastidious and tastes refined—when we find in him the
descendant of an ancient and aristocratic family, and know him to be one nursed in
all the lavish indulgence of wealth, the more are our causes of ad-
May.—vol. xxxi. no.
cxxv2 g[Page 450] miration for one whose talents have disdained repose, and whose pages
have ever advocated the cause of right. Sophocles, in the days of old, could dream away his summer midnight on the
reeds by the Ilyssus,⁴⁷ listening to the moonlight
music of the nightingales. Mr. Bulwer early felt that a modern writer had nothing in common with this
literary luxury, and his genius has ever seemed held by him as a trust rather than
an
enjoyment. We should think the great success of his writings in other countries must
be very gratifying.⁴⁸ Praise from
afar comes the nearest to fame. Mr. Bulwer has already produced four standard novels, works replete with
thought and mind, and he yet wants some years of thirty. A still more active career,
that of public life, now lies before him. If first-rate talents, enlarged and liberal
views, strong and noble principles, can make one man's future an object and benefit
to his country, we are justified in the high anticipations with which we look forward
to Mr. Bulwer's future. Last year,
he was eagerly solicited by a large body of its most respectable inhabitants, to
stand for Southwark. Reluctance to oppose Mr. Calvert⁴⁹ made him decline the honour; but we cannot
conclude this article better than by part of his first declaration of public faith—"I
should have founded my pretensions, had I addressed myself to your notice, upon that
warm and hearty sympathy in the great interests of the people, which, even as in my
case, without the claim of a long experience or the guarantee of a public name, you
have so often, and I must add, so laudably, esteemed the surest and the highest
recommmendation to your favour. And, gentlemen, to the eager wish, I will not
hesitate to avow that I should have added the determined resolution to extend and
widen, in all their channels, those pure and living truths which an alone circulate
through the vast mass of the community that political happiness so long obstructed
from the many, and so long adulterated even for the few.