no

are equally characteristic, and each an indivisible part of the man. When we find him at last awakened to real and deep emotion, and when his history and our interest in him attain their climax in the daring and successful enterprise by which he proves Glanville's innocence, we are longer able to regard our hero with that toleration and good-humoured forbearance, which we have been apt to exercise towards this handsome coxcomb, the fashionable son of Lady Frances Pelham. Yet he is still an exquisite through all. One never loses sight of the dainty gentleman who does not scruple to risk his life on his friend's behalf, but who, with a half comic dismay, shudders at the risk of his complexion; and it is no small power which, while it makes us confident of Mr Pelham's nerve, and vigour, and cool courage, in the desperate expedition he is bound on, makes us quite aware, at the same time, of the wry face which Mr Pelham's politeness conceals, as he partakes of the duck and green pease which the philosophical Job has provided for his distinguished visitor. We do not wonder that Pelham has been taken for a real autobiography; the character is so well and delicately sustained in its two aspects, and we feel so vividlysometimes with amusement, often with admiration at once the consistence and the diversity of the two natures which are combined in this one man, that we find it difficult to believe that so real an individual is simply a creature of the imagination.

Pelham is the proper centre of his own little world. We are not disturbed by any independent and separate interest in the book; for we humbly submit that Sir Reginald Glanville is much too sublime a personage to interfere with ordinary sympathies. Lady Frances, whose counsels of policy look so perfectly real, so sincere in their insincerity the learned Vincent-Lady Roseville and her circle-the noble makers of law-and the clever or ruffianly disturbers of the same-are all secondary lights to the steady shining of our hero. He is the book in his own person, and all its little circle of events hang upon his movements. The only things in the book which are

equally independent of Pelham and of the story, are those long critical conversations in which the author, of malice prepense, and in avowed defiance of criticism, too often indulges himself. The author of Pelham is, of necessity, an authority in the rules of his own art; but we cannot but think this a blunder, and not the less so that it is done with deliberation. If the first object of a novelist is to interest his audience in his characters, it is surely a very unfair exercise of his privilege, when he has interested them, and called into existence that pleasant anxiety which is the great attraction of a novel, to trifle with it by interposing a chapter of talkpure talk-which might just as well be a dialogue between A and B, amiably bent on increasing the knowledge of their fellow-creatures, as part of an animated and rapid history. We do not fancy, for our own part, that we pay any great compliment to the author of a novel when we find ourselves able to read his book philosophically; and it must be a dull story indeed, and an insipid hero, which does not tempt the reader to a flying skip over those pages of reflections which break the action of the book. Wherefore, we would respectfully hint a suggestion to future artists-print the philosophical conversation, the moral essay, oh trusty historian! in an appendix, and merit the universal applause alike of those who read them, and of those who read them not.

We suppose Pelham to have been the first literary work of distinction of our own day in which that strange class which lives without the range of the laws, whose trade it is to break them, and whose language and haunts are alike strange to the daylight observation of the world, finds a place. It is no honour to have "set the fashion" in this particular; yet we cannot find fault with the introduction of this element into Pelham. There is something very wonderful in the skill with which the thieves' hiding-place, whither the hero penetrates in search of Dawson, is described and invaded. One feels a sympathetic excitement-half resolution and half terror-when one feels oneself with Pelham, fairly within this den and deadly labyrinth. There

is something very characteristic, too, in Mr Pelham's perfect unconsciousness of the world of common people who intervene between his own airy height and those lowest depths to which he is introduced by Job Johnson. There is a little of this in all Bulwer's early novels. He knows only great people, great people's servants, and this crowd which knows neither law nor social position-lower down than the lowest foundation of society the pest and penalty of cities. This is perfectly in keeping, however, with the character of Pelham. He is not aware of any meaning in the word "rank," when he has stepped out of Mayfair; and he is just the dauntless, unhesitating, fastidious gentleman, to whom it is possible to penetrate into the very abyss of social evil and moral degradation, a visit to which would slur the purest respectability, and come forth afraid of nothing but his complexion, and injured only by Captain Ferdinand De Courcy's duck and green pease.

We have seldom been more surprised and disappointed than on leaving Pelham to take up the succeeding novels of Sir E. B. Lytton. From this brilliant picture of life and manners, from the easy grace and animation of its dramatis persona, the admirable distinctness and reality of its hero, and all its sparkle of wit and philosophy, we come down, more rapidly than agreeably, like a man who has put forth his foot to descend one step, and, with a sudden shock, finds himself descend half-a-dozen, to a merely ordinary novel, a story intricate and much interrupted, with two separate interests, which do not naturally weave into each other, and various philosophical essays, slackening still more the much-retarded action. That there is much ability displayed in the book, good writing, close thinking, and a plot of considerable interest, by no means makes amends to the disappointed reader for his unexpected downfall. We are so little prepared for it, indeed, t we are sore and injured in our di pointment; nor do the success the Disowned regain the lo Devereux, too, is a very a piece of historical w plete and dignified,

the higher inspiration; but we confess that these level flats of good composition look dreary and unfeatured to us, when we contemplate them either from the elevation of their author's beginning, or the higher eminence of his concluding works. We will grant that they are good novels; and we grant also that the man who had written these alone, must have bad a claim to fame and its rewards; but he had better not have written Pelham at the commencement of his career-he had much better not have written My Novel at its climax. An inferior reputation might be founded upon this little library of fiction; but when we give their author the highest place in our opinion, we drop these books out of the catalogue as unworthy of his fame.

We cannot help fancying-are we wrong?-that in his many dedications and prefaces the author himself mingles a half contempt with the secret fondness which Nature compels him to have for his literary progeny; -even though the book he is introducing may be no better than its predecessors, you cannot help feeling that he himself has reached a higher standing - point, and is even half ashamed, with the fine shame and dissatisfaction of a constantly advancing genius, that these past efforts should, by possibility, be accepted as all he can do. And full of talent, full of poetic powers and instincts as these books are, we cannot acknowledge as a public benefactor the man who has brought so much of this heated and unwholesome atmosphere into the common day. In these manife histories there is but one deity, the name of him is Love; bu that love which is the light of and household, the origin of charities, the deepest and vasive of gives u

excuse the author on their account. What an edifying example is that of the lofty, the sentimental, the gifted Maltravers! Once-twice-thrice-four times does this exalted spirit "fall in love"-it is, in fact, the principal vocation of his life; his other pursuits come by the way. He makes a great reputation in literature, he is about to make a great reputation in politics; but these are merely the amusements of his ethereal existence, and its occupation is to break the hearts of other people, and to have his own smitten so often, that his power of heartbreak is something beyond belief. But what interest could survive four loves? And to keep up the languid emotion, at last the hero is led into a frightful dilemma, which, if not quite unprecedented in fiction, is at least perfectly inexcusable. To appal us, and eventually Maltravers himself, with the dread that "he has fallen in love" with his own child, is alike bad policy, bad art, and bad morals. Imagination has nothing to do with such a horror; and though she taxes her invention to prove it a mistake, she is still guilty of the idea, an idea for which nothing can excuse her-an unwarrantable betrayal of the trust which her audience had in her legitimate powers.

Does it seem a work of supererogation to turn from the present, so noble and admirable, of this great writer, to his past, with all its brilliant faults and imperfections? But even now this past of his is spreading itself over the country with a breadth and universal extent which it never possessed before. That these books will succeed in exciting into interest the great proportion of those who read them that one likes "to see the end" even of the history of Maltravers-is not to be denied; but we do not think the author can have much satisfaction other than this, when he thinks of some of these questionable people whom he has added to the world.

We know no writer who has so many periods in his literary history; nor can we classify Sir E. B. Lytton's works better than by the painter's jargon, with its early and late Raphaels, its pictures after such and such a style. In "his first manner" Pel

ham stands alone; and then at intervals we have the legitimate historical novel, the mystical sentimental, the criminal picturesque. Paul Clifford, Eugene Aram, and some part of Night and Morning-which, however, we are bound to admit, is a powerful and striking story, full of interest and character, which may very well take ground on its own merits-represent the last. We take the Last of the Barons, Devereux, and Harold, as the best specimens of the historical, and are content to leave the rest within the vague and dreamy precincts of the sentimental. One of the latest of the series, Lucretia, we are at a loss to put into any class. It is an elaborate illustration of the darkest and most unmitigated crime, written for what purpose we know not, unless it be to enforce our author's opinion of the diabolical character of intellect without heart or principle-a doctrine which he urges more or less through all his works, and which has come to perfection at last in the bloodless, but too often baffled schemer, Randall Leslie.

In the Last of the Barons, a gorgeous but melancholy picture, we have a great deal too much costume to come at the heart of the time. It is an admirable masquerade, where all the personages speak well up to their character; but in spite of its fine qualities, it is not the age it represents, and the abrupt and tragical conclusion of the story—that is, of Sybil and the philosopher-strikes us

as an

unnecessary pain. In this novel, as in the Last Days of Pompeii, there is a singular effect produced by the song of the tymbestres in one book, and by the "Ho, ho, the merry, merry show!" of the other. The horror of this ghastly mirth strikes a powerful and striking discord in the first instance, though we become disgusted as it continues. In Harold again-which we ought_to_except with an apology from all that we have said respecting the atmosphere of the others-in Harold, there is singular and very telling use made of the same art which is so wonderfully employed in Macbeth in the prophecies of the witches-"To keep the word of promise to the ear, and break it to the hope." True to her words come all the prophecies of the Vala, Hilda, but

in so different a sense from her interpretation of them, that it is easy to realise the death of horror and despair which strikes the unhappy sorceress, when she learns the real events to which she has been looking forward with so much faith.

And now there is a pause and period to the labours of our author: he has retired upon his laurels, or he is entering new fields of conquest. Which is it? Without any sound of trumpet or ostentation of announce ment, a new fame begins to steal upon the world. Let us not be overmodest. It is the kindly pages of Maga which introduces the newcomer to his audience; but it would be mock humility to refrain from our due and natural admiration on such a score. It is an English landscape which brightens upon this canvass; and here is no overstrained romantic passion, but the sweet yet powerful bonds of common life in an English home. As this home enlarges before us-as we see the philosopher, with his quiet dignity, his learning, his humour, his great book-and Captain Roland, that knightly gentleman, the preux chevalier of modern fiction, in their loving brotherly intercourse and the womanly humble wife, who is so reverent of the scholar, and whose matter-of-fact comprehension interprets his learned allusions so quaintly and after so amusing a fashion-and Pisistratus, with his manly youth, open to every influence -and even Jack Tibbets and Mr Squills-we gradually become, not so much lookers-on, as members of the family party. We can no longer find fault with the learned disquisitions which now illustrate the delicate character of Austin Caxton, nor weary of conversations, however slight their bearing may be upon the immediate story, which command a play of language so animated and graceful, a fund of illustration sometimes so quaint and humorous, and always so appropriate. The dialogue, indeed, is managed with so much spirit and individuality, the speakers are so distinctly, not A and B, but themselves, that criticism is silenced, and we forget that, in this sparkling and attractive talk, we are detained from the action of the tale. Even the sin

ner of the book is not an irreclaimable sinner; and though we stand aside in respectful sympathy while Roland covers his face and weeps in despair, his noble heart overwhelmed with the shame and grief of a father, we have hope for the son, who does at last redeem himself, and has his name restored to the family chronicle, not as a disgrace to it, but as its latest hero. And Trevanion, with his love for both sides of an argument-and the boyish love of Pisistratus, which it takes him such a manful strain of his stout good heart to overcome, and the brave way he does this without a touch of sentimentality-and Fanny, with her still and gentle character, born to be a marchioness, and not for Pisistratus - and the chivalric old beau, and lofty gentleman, who has the fortune to be Fanny's husbandthese are all fine and delicate delineations; nor is the hurried glance of the Bush-be it correct or incorrect to the learned-at all unsatisfactory to the reader, and we see Pisistratuswhen he comes home a giant from the wilderness, and is afraid of running over the omnibuses when they cross his course in Oxford Street. The easy and felicitous expression in which this pleasant history is clothed, the elegance of its quaint humour, the beauty and purity of its leading characters, are enough to make a reputation of the highest class. In the case of Sir E. B. Lytton they did more; they covered a multitude of sins-they persuaded that more sensitive public which was dubious of the author of Ernest Maltravers, into the heartiest applause and sympathy. It was impossible to believe, on rising from The Caxtons, that even the novels we had before condemned could be so objectionable as we fancied them. This group of manly and high-hearted Englishmen - the scholar, the soldier, and the young man, whose hopes and endeavours did honour to both-charmed us, into so great a satisfaction with the author of their history, that we ceased to remember that he had ever offended us.

And though we generally have the strongest objection to any admission on the part of the novelist that his story is a novel, and not a veracious history, we are tempted to waive our

objections in presence of the initial chapters of the My Novel of Pisistratus Caxton. These glimpses of the family circle which is at rest awhile in that blessed exemption from the great events of life, which we never appreciate till the black shadow is stealing amongst us that household calm into which children are being born, but from which none are departing where Austin and Roland sit in the old hall, with their young representative beside them, doing his man's part, now that it is his turn, to "make up the balance;" and albeit, very peevish about the corn-laws, and somewhat impatient of everybody's advice in the conduct of his story, working very comfortably behind the screen, calling Blanche to advise with him, the happy fellow, and writing a novel, which surely must be a good one, coming into being under such pleasant circumstances. Mark you, there is a mighty difference between the love that sighs and dreams under an Italian moon, and that manlier and stouter Eros, who comes into the winter hearth of nights, where the elder people sit in the calm of their age, where the wife is full of the sweet familiar cares of every day, which are almost pleasures, and where the cradle is not banished out of sight and hearing. Our author has made this discovery by good fortune; and honour to the fire, the household centre, with its kindly glow and sparkle in the gloaming and the daylight-its hearty cheer by night! Who can tell how many evil vapours its healthful blaze has cleared away.

We cannot help lingering with a friendly regard upon those glimpses of the Caxtons which remain to us. The picture is so perfect that we are always glad to return to it; and though it is just possible that in the course of My Novel the initial chapters were not quite so welcome, it is certain that, now when we are satisfied as to the fate of Leonard and Helen, of L'Estrange and Violante, we return to them with affection. Down to the very latest of these chapters the characters are so nicely and delicately sustained, the learning of the scholar comes in to such quaint purpose, and every member of the family bears his or her part so well, that we would have no diffi

culty in distinguishing the speaker, did the author spare himself the trouble of telling us their names.

My Novel itself, which has less unity of interest in its wider field, its larger extent of time and wider range of character, requires perhaps a greater discrimination in its verdict of approval. Rich to overflowing with character, a wise and weighty book, it is impossible to deny this to be; and the faults we find in it are extremely trivial, in comparison with the beauties which we are glad to acknowledge and admire. The plot is somewhat complicated, the interest is too much divided, and has a long retrospective interruption, which keeps back the story at a point where we are very unwilling to have it retarded. These are faults which injure a serial story very much more than they can do one which comes to the public only as one entire and completed work. We cannot say, either, that we have ever been quite reconciled to the somewhat melodramatic abduction and rescue of Violante. Granted that Italian craft could compass such a piece of old-fashioned and hackneyed violence in London, in the middle of the nineteenth century, it does not seem to us that this is a legitimate device for fiction, which depends for its effect, not so much upon what is true to fact, as upon what is true to nature. A matter of fact may happen to be a most extravagant outrage on common truth and order; but these exceptions are not the proper materiel for fiction, as has been too often supposed. In real life it does occasionally happen that a very rich uncle comes home from India at a crisis of family fortune, and changes dismay into rejoicing. In real life, sometimes a man who has planned to do some great evil in the morning, is suddenly cut off in his sleep, and does no more ill in this world for evermore. But when a novelist ventures to employ such an incident, if it should be the truest fact that ever befel, we are straightway down upon him with all the darts of an offended criticism; and, impaling his unhappy event upon the point of our spear, with what triumph do we exhibit to the world this coup de théâtre-this sure mark of an exhausted inventionthis improbable, absurd, unnatural