idea most erroneously entertained. At page 55, Vol. I., we are told that Philip, "as he spoke, slid his purse into the woman's hand.” At page 110, “a hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection, and he flung his purse into the nearest hand outstretched to receive it." At page 87, "Lilburne tossed his purse into the hands of his valet, whose face seems to lose its anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold." It is true that the "anxious embarrassment" of any valet out of a novel would have been rather increased than diminished by having a purse of gold tossed at his head; but what we wish our readers to observe, is that magnificent contempt of filthy lucre with which the characters of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer "fling," “slide,' "toss," and tumble whole purses of money about.

"

But the predominant and most important failing of the author of Devereux," in point of style, is an absolute mania of metaphor - metaphor always running into allegory. Pure allegory is at all times an abomination a remnant of antique barbarism appealing only to our faculties of comparison, without even a remote interest for our reason, or for our fancy. Metaphor, its softened image, has indisputable force when sparingly and skilfully employed. Vigorous writers use it rarely indeed. Mr. Bulwer is all metaphor or all allegory-mixed metaphor and unsustained allegory and nothing if neither. He cannot express a dozen consecutive sentences in an honest and manly manner. He is king-coxcomb of figures of speech. His rage for personification is really ludicrous. simplest noun becomes animate in his hands. Never, by any accident, does he write even so ordinary a word as time, or temper, or talent, without the capital

The

T. Seldom, indeed, is he content with the dignity. and mysticism thus imposed; for the most part it is TIME, TEMPER, and TALENT. Nor does the commonplace character of anything which he wishes to personify exclude it from the prosopopoeia. At page 256, Vol. I., we have some profound rigmarole, seriously urged, about piemen crying "all hot! all hot!" "in the ear of Infant and Ragged Hunger," thus written; and, at page 207, there is something positively transcendental all about Law. a very little thing in itself, in some cases, but which Mr. Bulwer, in his book, has thought proper to make quite as big as we have printed it above. Who cannot fancy him, in the former instance, saying to himself, as he gnaws the top of his quill, "that is a fine thought!" and exclaiming in the latter, as he puts his finger to the side of his nose, ah, how very fine an idea that is!"

This absurdity, indeed, is chiefly observable in those philosophical discussions with which he is in the wicked habit of interspersing his fictions, and springs only from a rabid anxiety to look wise, to appear profound, even when wisdom is quite out of place, and profundity the quintessence of folly. A "still small voice" has whispered in his ear that, as to the real matter of fact, he is shallow a whisper which he does not intend to believe, and which, by dint of loud talking in parables, he hopes to prevent from reaching the ears of the public. Now, in truth, the public, great-gander as it is, is content to swallow his romance without much examination, but cannot help turning up its nose at his logic.

"The men of sense,' says Helvetius, “those idols of the unthinking, are very inferior to the men of passions. It is the strong passions which, rescuing us from Sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and

earnest attention necessary to great intellectual efforts." Understanding the word "efforts" in its legitimate force, and not confounding it altogether with achievements, we may well apply to Mr. Bulwer the philosopher's remark, thence deducing the secret of his success as a novelist. He is emphatically the man of " "pas

sions."

With an intellect rather well balanced than lofty, he has not full claim to the title of a man of genius. Urged by the burning desire of doing much, he has certainly done something. Elaborate even to fault, he will never write a bad book, and has once or twice been upon the point of concocting a good one. It is the custom to call him a fine writer, but in doing so we should judge him less by an artistical standard of excellence than by comparison with the drivellers who surround him. To Scott he is altogether inferior, except in that mock and tawdry philosophy which the Caledonian had the discretion to avoid, and the courage to contemn. In pathos, humour, and verisimilitude he is unequal to Dickens, surpassing him only in general knowledge and in the sentiment of Art. Of James he is more than the equal at all points. While he could never fall as low as D'Israeli has occasionally fallen, neither himself nor any of those whom we have mentioned have ever risen nearly so high as that very gifted and very extraordinary man.

66

It is

In regard to Night and Morning," we cannot agree with that critical opinion which considers it the best novel of its author. It is only not his worst. not as good as Eugene Aram," nor as "Rienzi”. and is not at all comparable with "Ernest Maltravers." Upon the whole it is a good book. Its merits beyond doubt overbalance its defects; and if we have not dwelt upon the former as much as upon the latter, it is because

the Bulwerian beauties are precisely of that secondary character which never fails of the fullest public appreciation.

SKETCHES OF CONSPICUOUS LIVING CHARACTERS OF FRANCE. TRANSLATED BY R. M. Walsh. LEA AND BLANCHARD.

[Text: Grabam's Magazine, April, 1841.]

THE public are much indebted to Mr. Walsh for this book, which is one of unusual interest and value. It is a translation from the French, of fifteen biographical and critical sketches, written and originally published in weekly numbers at Paris by some one who styles himself "un homme de rien" the better to conceal the fact, perhaps, that he is really un homme de beaucoup. Whatever, unhappily, may be the case with ourselves, or in England, it is clear that in the capital of France, at least, that hot-bed of journalism and Paradise of journalists, nobody has a right to call himself nobody" while wielding so vigorous and vivacious a pen as the author of these articles.

We are told in the Preface to the present translation that they met with the greatest success, upon their first appearance, and were considered by the Parisians as perfectly authentic in their statement of facts, and "as impartial in their appreciation of the different personages sketched, as could be desired." "As impartial, etc., means, we presume, entirely so; for in matters of this kind an absolute impartiality, of course, is all, but still the least, "that could be desired."

Mr. Walsh farther assures us that Chateaubriand wrote the author a letter of a highly complimentary

tenor," which was published, but of which the translator "unfortunately does not happen to have a copy in his possession." A more unfortunate circumstance is that Mr. W. should have thought it necessary to bolster a book that needs no bolstering, by the authority of any name, however great; and the most unfortunate thing of all, so far as regards the weight of the authority, is that Chateaubriand himself is belauded ad nauseam in those very pages to the inditer of which he sent the letter of the " complimentary tenor." When anybody shall puff us, as this Mr. Nobody has bepuffed the author of The Martyrs, we will send them a letter "of a complimentary tenor too. We do not mean to decry the general merit of the book, or the candor of him who composed it. We wish merely to observe that Chateaubriand, under the circumstances, cannot be received as evidence of the one, nor his biography as instance of the other.

These sketches of men now playing important parts in the great drama of French affairs would be interesting, if only from their subjects. We have here biographies (sufficiently full) of Thiers, Chateaubriand, Laffitte, Guizot, Lamartine, Soult, Berryer, De La Mennais, Hugo, Dupin, Béranger, Odillon Barrot, Arago, George Sand, and the Duke de Broglie. We are most pleased with those of Thiers, Hugo, Sand, Arago, and Béranger.

Among many good stories of Thiers, this is told. A prize had been offered by the Academy of Aix for the best eulogium on Vauvenargues. Thiers, then quite a boy, sent a Ms. It was deemed excellent ; but the author being suspected, and no other candidate deserving the palm, the committee, rather than award it to a Jacobin, postponed their decision for a year.