more true to a high nature than the com- tion. In this point Lord Lytton has all monplace superiority of the scholar-hus- the superiority of the man who was at band, the contemptuous affection or once artist and statesman in his own permuch-bored endurance which is the son, to whom all these differing experiusual sentiment of such a character in ences were alike open, and who had fiction! Mr. Caxton knows a great deal learned the greatest lesson which experibetter; he laughs at her softly, banters ence can teach-that all ambition, even her tenderly, upholds, supports, and ven- the highest, must end more or less in erates, even while he has his gentle joke disappointment; that the most successat her expense, and is amused by her ful career may bring everything but satfrequent non-comprehension of himself isfaction; and that the high ideals of and his quaint words and ways. The re- youth, the better hopes of manhood, fade spect and the love are so true, that he and fail, and have to give way to the ventures to be amused, to smile at her, to merely attainable, leaving a certain subgibe on occasion, but with gibes which dued bitterness and sense of failure, even do not hurt nor wound-delightful ge- in the most complete career. The scholar nial banter, which never withdraws from whose learning comes to so little — the her, in her own eyes or any one else's, soldier who hazards life and limb for a one jot of the reverence that is her due. medal and an obscure captain's half-pay How subtly and finely this is done, and the statesman who has to give up the how much easier it would have been, and ideal rule of the Best, for miserable exaccording to the traditions of conventional pediencies and necessities of party, fiction, to make the simple wife merely which can boast over the other? But it laughable and silly, and no more, the is the philosopher's privilege to anticireader will easily perceive. pate this universal fact, and to submit ; while the rarely fortunate man who has the repose of domestic happiness to fall back upon, has the only ideal compensasation for all that life takes from him. Such is the lesson, unlike that which youth can or ought to draw from its brighter and narrower information, which comes with the wisdom of maturity - a lesson sad but lofty, strangely different from the all-dazzling success which of old awaited the hero, and made him and the

ventures happy. But the very perfection of this lesson, and of the development of experience and world-knowledge which produces it, would be less satisfactory, did we not remember how differently our author felt once - how pleased and proud he was of his juvenile triumphs, how certain of living happy ever after, as one after another of his glorious young heroes received from his glowing hands the laurel and the myrtle wreaths, the crown of happiness and fame.

The other family, the Trevanion group, which is of the world worldly, though full of generosity and honour and fine feeling in the midst of the inevitable bondage of ambition, is less attractive, because, in fact there are fewer elements of attraction possible; but Trevanion himself is one of Lord Lytton's creations- the first real statesman he has placed on his canvas, and perhaps the most characteristic. The troublesome candour of mind which keeps him from ever being what his posi-young audience which applauded his adtion demands, the head of a party; his devouring appetite for work, and conviction that the best thing he can do for his young protégé is to supply him with perpetual occupation; the humorous distresses of his impartial judgment, which form the lighter side of the picture—and the sombre sense of unsuccess, at least of the failure of such success as was worthy his aspirations and dreams, which is its tragic side-are all drawn with a masterly hand. Without in the least degree undervaluing the objects of My Novel" came into the world with Trevanion's ambition- nay, while giving all the prestige gained by the "Caxtons," its full and highest importance to that and all the advantage of its author's name science of government which is the no- to extend its sway and in this great blest of professions - he makes us per- work we think Lord Lytton's genius culceive without a word the superior quali- minated. Something more of the old ties of the lowlier man, the gentle re-romance- -a little Bulwerism from which cluse, whose mild eyes penetrate and the "Caxtons" was free, betrays, perpity the difficulties of the statesman. haps designedly, the well-known hand But in that pity there is no superiority which had now given up all attempt to no elevation of the contemplative over disguise itself; and we do not know what the active, nothing of the artist's self- other modern work could be placed by assertion over the man of greater ambi- the side of this which can successfully

compare with its variety of character, its smile. The fine distinctions of his nationfulness of life and humour and wisdom. ality, too, do but more clearly display the Even Thackeray in his crowded pictures naturalness of the man, who with all his can give us but one Colonel Newcome; strange ways is so widely sympathetic, so but here the multiplicity of the figures genial in his humanity. Who but an Italian does but enhance the sense of easy would have lived shut up in his casino, wealth; and we feel as we read that in- upon meagre fare of stickle-backs, and stead of rare appearances here and there, turned the patient genius of his race to the world is full of those noble sim- work upon the irrigation of the English ple figures, child-like sages, wise com- hill-side? We like him a great deal betpanions, who see through and through us, ter as Dr. Rickeybockey than as the Duke and yet are kind as ignorance never is di Serrano. But yet, such is his creator's tolerant, all-comprehending, all-appreciat- skill, that the quaint and meagre philosoing as gods, but brimful of delicious hu- pher might be a king without surprising man imperfection as schoolboys. The us. What a true gentleman he is, even man who has enriched English literature in his simple fortune-hunting, which is so with two such creations as Riccabocca naive, so straightforward, so Italian! The and Parson Dale, has merited Westmins- book is full of exciting scenes, of highter if ever man did. Two wise men, strained passion, and critical situations; philosophers and scholars - yet so dis- but at the most stirring moment the tinct, so individual, so perfect-distinct, reader is never reluctant to turn aside to too, from Austin Caxton, their brother Riccabocca, to watch his delightful jesusage, each of them himself and no other. itry, which his Jemima routs horse and What lavish yet delicate power is in man by one natural womanly appeal — to these impersonations! It is not an easy note his Machiavellian utterances, and art to create, and win the reverence and his generous doings, his all-sympathizing the love of thousands of readers for, such soul, and the delicious humbug of his types of men; men in themselves above cynicism in words. the common understanding, with little to catch the eye or charm the imagination; displayed to us in all the gravity of middle life—moralists, preachers in their way, commentators upon existence rather than actors in it yet touching our hearts and moving our interest more warmly than any youthful hero beloved of fortune. The Italian noble with the most astute and worldly wisdom on his lips, a cynic in speech, a Quixote in sentiment, with a heart as pure as a girl's and as simple as an infant's-philosopher, scholar, misanthrope, romanticist, his eyes full of genial humour, his heart trembling with tenderness-is more akin to the great hero of Spanish fiction than any modern creation we know of. And yet Riccabocca, in his learning and shrewdness, the practical skill and patient diligence which belongs to his country, and, above all, in the profound and delicate sense of humour which smiles in his eyes, is of a broader development than Quixote. His musings, his embarrassments, his social difficulties, his proud poverty, and the simple, honest mercenariness of his matrimonial speculation, are all threaded through with this humorous self-consciousness. He is the first to see the jest at his own expense, and to smile at it. Such humour dwells next door to pathos, and does not interfere with the tear which has always some share in the VOL. II 58

LIVING AGE.

Parson Dale is a man of very different metal. Spiritual ruler of his little world, deep in many men's secrets, not permitted to stand quietly by and look on, but compelled actively to interfere, to warn and admonish and direct- his philosophy is of a less speculative kind. Machiavel he knows not, but deep is the natural craft with which he points the needful lesson, and guides the refractory intelligence. Fretted by his adversary's trump or his partner's revoke, but ready to put himself to any annoyance for the regulation of a cottage or the guidance of a gardener boy-solemn and impressive in his warnings to the sinner, however highly placed, but complacent about his own journey on unaccustomed horseback-how kindly, how simple, how genial, how wise is this parish priest! He is as English as his brother sage is Italian-true old Tory in politics, genuine Liberal in heart, with an inconsistency which is as admirably true to the type of man as are the gentle human faults which endear his goodness. Would that Providence had established our lot in a parish blessed with a Parson Dale! But, indeed, there can be little doubt that the parish of Hazeldean, with the good squire and his wife for its temporal heads, with Parson Dale for its pope, and that Machiavel lurking in the Casino with his astute counsels, was the happiest parish in all England. The book is over

brimming with character. The states-weakness, his heart falls back into the man Egerton, the noble and princely fond illusions of his early years, and beHarley, romantic wandering knight and fore we know where we are, lo! we are sentimental adventurer, yet capable of all swept back into romance, and find a mothe higher uses of the State when his mentary refuge from the too clear dayhour comes; the young poet Leonard, so | light in that old Arcadia of the poets, finely touched in his visionary yet simple that land where every soul has lingered nature, generous, proud, hasty, impassioned, yet humble as genius is, and as ready to repent as to err; the group of Avenels; the ruined man of letters, Burley,- how fine, how lifelike is every detail! Yet amid all these we turn back to our two philosophers with a deeper attraction. The perfection of Lord Lytton's own philosophy as well as of his creative power is in Riccabocca and Parson Dale.

one time or another; that impossible paradise where the Two dwell, the primitive hero and heroine, the original of all tales. After so many hard and real labours through the stony pathways of life, we leave our heroes, each with his Violante or his Helen, in bliss incomparable, beyond the measure of everyday existence. This power of returning to the old canons of art this possibility now and then of falling back twenty years or so, and interpolating a chapter of youth into the wiser conclusions of maturity,- may or may not increase our reverence for the greatness of the writer; but it is everything for his art. It makes of it just that mingled draught which is most sweet to our lips - the true, the wise, the sad, consenting still to mix themselves with the bright, the ignorant, the happy. Only so can life be truly represented — life which is not all real, strange though the the words may seem, which finds much of its sweetness in illusion, which takes its rare draughts of joy oftenest in dreams dreams truer than the facts, more real than flesh and blood.

We will not enter into any controversy as to the respective greatness of the names which in our age have illustrated the art of fiction. Each has his different gift, and there is room enough in the literary firmament for all these lights. But howsoever others may excel though one may trace more deeply the hidden springs of character, and another fathom with a more penetrating insight the movements of universal nature we remain unshaken in our opinion that "My Novel" is, as a novel, the most brilliant and perfect of contemporary works of fiction. George Eliot goes deeper, is more realistic, more potent in her grasp, more concentrated in power and thoughtfulness; and Thack- While we acknowledge, however, this eray is much more universally behind the charm of youthfulness, this remnant of scenes, more knowing about all the se- Bulwerism which gives an additional atcrets that lie just under the surface. traction to "My Novel," we must not Neither of these great writers is capable, omit to notice how this book comes in to if we may use the expression, of being the deeper unity of Lord Lytton's works. taken in; the one with a serious perti- The lesson that it teaches is the same nacity of gaze which fathoms nature, the lesson which he has dwelt upon in mystic other with a malicious, half-diabolical, story, and which has led him in to the infallible keenness of vision which lets realms of the unseen for examples to ennothing slip-defy all the arts and all force his moral. The very key-note of the simplicities of man-and woman much of his philosophy is to be found in and are beyond the reach of illusion. But the interview which Riccabocca and ParLord Lytton is never beyond it. Even son Dale hold with Leonard Fairfield in while he rises into the depths of wisdom his cottage, when the sages bring all the with his sages, he is still as ready to be force of their wisdom to contest the prindeluded as they are, and as capable of ciple, upon which the half-taught boy seeing through Leonard's poet-eyes, and sets himself so proudly, that knowledge of throwing a mist of the most rainbow- is power. The Parson's admirable, spirtinted romance round Harley L'Estrange, ited, and startling assertion some time as if he were twenty. Human nature has later that the Devil himself is a failure, still corners for him, nooks here and there is, as it were, the spirit of our author's where the gossamer still sparkles with all teaching made into a maxim. Randal the dews of morning, where the glory is Leslie, the elaborately-designed and careever on the grass, and splendour in the fully drawn villain, is an illustration of flower. He is not always a philosopher, the same principle, with a difference, as an analyzer, a revealer of mysteries. By is the Faun-man Margrave - which is times his eyes are veiled over with human' the insufficiency, unsuccessfulness, mean

ness, and misery of selfish Knowledge |mour in our eyes and blind us to the fact. vulgarly supposed to be Power. How He does blind us so far that we accept far we may receive this as true to fact the graceful outline enveloped in rainwhether, indeed, the world has wisdom bow-mists of beautiful effect as the symenough in reality to neutralize the advan-bol of WOMAN -woman the consoler, wotages of the unscrupulous possessor of man the inspirer, as he himself says. Knowledge and whether, after all, Self- The abstraction is enough for him-he ishness is, so far as external successes has no need for anything further; neither, go, not the best policy—are questions we suppose, has the majority of readers, into which we need not enter. But at all or the typical would not have been so events, in an age of which Selfishness is long and so placidly accepted instead the special vice (as indeed it is in most of the personal. There is one other ages), the lesson is a worthy one; and point in which the tether is equally visthe curious lines of thought involved ible. The poor are out of Lord Lytton's merit the attention of the reader. Fiction range. He understands gentlemen-and which takes the trouble to enforce such a he understands the cunning hanger-on lesson at all—a moral entirely within its of gentlemen, the rogue, the money-lendrange and which can be embraced in er, the blackleg but he does not unstory without any artificial strain of inci- derstand the other classes into which dent or purpose takes by that very aim humanity is divided. In his later books, a higher place than that which nowadays and especially in " My Novel," he attains the art seems dropping into. To make a to a certain power in the one group of novel into a personal plea against some the Avenels; and he is also partially public or private wrong, or to interweave successful in some of the attendant and with romance a demonstration of the or- secondary figures in "What will he do dinary daily economical miseries of life, with it?". a work which we have not tradesmen's overcharges, house-agents' left ourselves space to discuss, but which devices, &c., is as little harmonious to contains in the noble vagabond Waife the uses of fiction as can well be con- one of his finest creations. But all his ceived. But the bigger principle fits well previous works are signally unsuccessful into its place in the large and wide picture in this special region. His peasants and of men and women, of life and thought. his Cockneys talk an unimaginable jargon, and are as fictitious as the villagers in an opera. It is curious to recognize the points in which one man of genius compensates the world for the deficiencies of another. Dickens evidently felt the same insuperable difficulties in the portrayal of a gentleman.

Of men and women; perhaps it would be wiser to say of men only; for Lord Lytton, with all his gifts, did not possess that of drawing women. It is rare among men almost if not quite as rare as the faculty of representing men is among women, though the failure in the one case is very much less remarked No, we have no time to speak of Waife upon, and less noticeable indeed, from the wayward as the genius that produced fact that women have but lately come to him, faulty, foolish, generous, noble-the occupy leading places in works of fiction. most wise, witty, tender, patient, and acA beautiful and sweet abstraction of wo-complished of vagabonds: it is doing mankind, with hair, eyes, throat, &c., nicely put in, with smiles and tears handy, and a few pretty speeches, is all that is really necessary for a heroine of the good old-fashioned type. Lord Lytton has two of these types, the heroic and the gentle, as indeed Sir Walter also had; and most novelists of eminence keep within these safe lines. The sentimental splendour of Violante, the sugary sweetness of Helen, may dazzle the hasty reader; but how to come to any sort of realization of these young women we are unable to inform him. Every mortal man has his tether and here is one region in which Lord Lytton's tether is apparent, though he does his best by glowing diction and lavish sentiment to throw gla-art.

him injustice, indeed, to introduce him at the end, who merits one of the chief niches in the gallery. We place this bowed and travel-worn figure, lowly yet lofty, by the side of Austin Caxton, Riccabocca, and Parson Dale. He completes the cycle worthily, though in his essence he is a vagabond - a wanderer over the face of the earth. Perhaps Lord Lytton hoped in his Guy Darrell, in his Harley L'Estrange, to strike a higher note; but his genial and gentle sages are his greatest achievement. We can suggest no shadow on their perfection, nothing that could raise him and them to a purer, more real or more ideal elevation. They are the quintessence of his work and of his

The forehead, indeed, was the man's most remarkable feature. It could not but prepossess the beholder. When, in private theatricals, he had need to alter the character of his countenance, he did it effectually, merely by forcing down his hair till it reached his eyebrows. He no longer then looked like the same man.

The person I describe has been already introduced to the reader as Graham Vane. But perhaps this is the fit occasion to enter into some such details as to his parentage and position as may make the introduction more satisfactory and complete.

The same reason which prevents us | commune, might rather be noticeable for entering into the last of the Caxton group an aspect of hardy frankness, suiting well of novels, also forbids the discussion of with the clear-cut, handsome profile, and Lord Lytton's other appearances before the rich dark auburn hair, waving carethe world. His public life and his poet-lessly over one of those broad open foreical works are alike beyond our space. heads, which, according to an old writer, But we leave these with the less regret seem the "frontispiece of a temple dedithat while his success in both is well cated to Honour." known, it is as a novelist that his fame was won, and as a novelist he will be known to posterity. Taking him all in all, no man of his generation has achieved the same brilliancy of success, or has so true a claim to be the leading and typical novelist of his day. Most of us have recognized him in that capacity since our earliest recollection. And if we cannot raise him to the side of Scott, he is at least the one of all our contemporaries who has most followed Scott's traditions, and kept in the line marked out by that Father of Story. The many though brilliant faults of his youth were more than made up in his riper age. It would be unbecoming on our part to say anything here of the tale now publishing in our pages, which unites the Bulwer of the past with the Lytton of recent years, in a union which has become affecting by the fact that so much of the work will be posthumous. But we need have no hesitation in repeating what all critics and readers have allowed, that no nobler monuments could be raised to the name of an author, and no finer or more high-toned productions given to the literature of a country, than the three noble Tales which mark the maturity of Lord Lytton's intellect, and the highest level which pure fiction has reached in the present age.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE PARISIANS.

BY LORD LYTTON.

BOOK SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

IT is several weeks after the date of the last chapter; the lime-trees in the Tuileries are clothed in green.

In a somewhat spacious apartment on the ground-floor in the quiet locality of the Rue d'Anjou, a man was seated, very still, and evidently absorbed in deep thought, before a writing-table placed close to the window.

Seen thus, there was an expression of great power both of intellect and of character in a face which, in ordinary social

His father, the representative of a very ancient family, came into possession, after a long minority, of what may be called a fair squire's estate, and about half a million in moneyed investments, inherited on the female side. Both land and money were absolutely at his disposal, unencumbered by entail or settlement. He was a man of a brilliant, irregular genius, of princely generosity, of splendid taste, of a gorgeous kind of pride closely allied to a masculine kind of vanity. As soon as he was of age he began to build, converting his squire's hall into a ducal palace. He then stood for the county, and in days before the first Reform Bill, when a county election was to the estate of a candidate what a long war is to the debt of a nation. He won the election; he obtained early successes in Parliament. It was said by good authorities in political circles that, if he chose, he might aspire to lead his party, and ultimately to hold the first rank in the government of his country.

That may or may not be true; but certainly he did not choose to take the trouble necessary for such an ambition. He was too fond of pleasure, of luxury, of pomp. He kept a famous stud of racers and hunters. He was a munificent patron of art. His establishments, his entertainments, were on a par with those of the great noble who represented the loftiest (Mr. Vane would not own it to be the eldest) branch of his genealogical tree.

He became indifferent to political contests, indolent in his attendance at