It concerns us more to study the diversities of human races than their resemblances. To what practical results this study may tend when it arrives at somewhat of scientific accuracy, we presume not to foretell. It has important bearings upon the political economy of nations. Such studies show that nations are subject to natural laws, similar to those which affect the organization of individuals; that, like them, they have a period of growth, of full development, and decline. The laws which govern that development are not less definite than those which affect individual life. Man is not less certainly destined and adapted by the constitution of his mind for social existence in all its stages, than he is by the constitution of his body for physical life. They are both alike the result of divine wisdom and foresight-not of human contrivance, and the tendency which every society has to assume a definite order is a tendency towards the most perfect system which is compatible with the organization of the race, and, generally speaking, the tendency both in direction and degree which it ought to have. Systems of policy which are suited to one country may not be suited to the organization presented by another, and systems which are suited to one period of a nation's development must be unsuited to it in a subsequent stage of its growth. Such inquiries lead us into reflections on the future history of nations, and the causes which may influence, or may be made to influence, their development and character. Nations now passing to decay may be renovated by the intermixture of races. Such an event is no new one in the history of empires. Nations now degraded may be elevated by the introduction of Christianity and civilization. Features of the human character, hitherto held in abeyance by the superior influence, in Indo-European races, of love of conquest and aggrandizement, may be developed and expanded on a new stage. When the epoch,' says an eloquent American writer, 'of the civilization of the negro family arrives in the lapse of ages, they will display in their native land some very peculiar and interesting traits of character, of which we, a distinct branch of the human family, can at present form no conception. It will be -indeed, it must be-a civilization of a peculiar stamp; perhaps we may venture to conjecture, not so much distinguished by art as by a certain beautiful nature; not so marked or adorned by science, as exalted and refined by a new and lovely theology,-a reflection of the light of heaven, more perfect and endearing than that which the intellects of the Caucasian race have ever yet exhibited. There is more of the child, more of unsophisticated nature, in the negro race than in the European. The Peninsula of Africa is the home of the negro, and the appropriate and distinct seat of his future glory and civilization-a civilization which we will not fear to predict will be as distinct in all its features from that of all other races, as his complexion and natural temperament and genius are different. If the Caucasian race is destined, as would appear from the precocity of their genius, and their natural quickness and extreme aptitude for the arts, to reflect the lustre of the Divine wisdom, or, to speak more properly, of the Divine science, shall we envy the negro if a later but far nobler civilization await him,-to return the splendour of the divine attributes of mercy and benevolence in the practice and exhibition of the milder and gentler virtues? . . sweeter graces of the Christian religion appear almost too tropical and tender plants to grow in the soil of the Caucasian mind; they require a character of human nature, of which one can see the rude lineaments in the Ethiopian, to be implanted in, and grow naturally and beautifully withal.' . The Are the Indian tribes of the vast regions of America destined to extinction? That such is their fate is the opinion of most of those who have chronicled the history and character of those numerous tribes. But will it be believed that those races whose architectural remains from California to Peru'surprise the traveller and confound the antiquary,' have no further part to play in the history of the world? Among those remains are pyramids, temples, grottoes, bas-reliefs, and arabesques; while 'their roads, aqueducts, and fortifications, and the sites of their 'mining operations, sufficiently attest their attainments in the 'practical arts of life."* Shall it be believed that those tribes have been created for no other end than to people the new world, and wage with each other perpetual wars until the advancing tide of civilization should engulf them in its waves, and leave their forests, lakes, and broad prairies to be peopled with the inhabitants of the old world? Will a retrospective survey of the world's history, and enlarged views of the designs of Almighty Providence in regard to the future history of the human family not rather warrant the presumption, that, when once the American Indians have yielded to the influence of the Christian religion, and the civilization which accompanies it-influences which were as obstinately resisted by the Africans as by them,—that the peculiar psychological characters which distinguish the red Indian will come out in a new aspect, and exhibit mankind in a new and more dignified position than he has ever yet assumed, in which moral qualities and moral excellencies shall assert that supremacy and claim that admiration which have been hitherto yielded to intellectual superiority or mere physical power? * Morton's Crania Americana, p. 84. 369 ART. II. The Novels of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. Ir is as a novelist only that we are about to speak of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer.* It is as a novelist that he made his way to popularity; and whatever may be his merits as historian, poet, or politician, it is probable they would never have attracted very much attention if he had not secured the ear of the public by his celebrity as the author of Pelham.' However that may be, it is with his novels alone that we are about to occupy ourselves. They belong to a branch of literature which criticism too often neglects, chiefly, perhaps, from the difficulty of dealing, in a narrow compass, with works at once so light and so voluminous. But it is a branch of literature on which it is peculiarly important that a correct judgment should be passed. In whatever estimation it may be held, the very gravest censor and the most averse to its gay and too pleasing illusions, will be ready to admit the great influence it is capable of exercising over the popular mind. The very circumstance that the novel is read by those who read nothing else that it is read in the hours of unsuspecting ease and idleness-that it is read, at least on its first appearance, by so many at the same time, which adds something of popular enthusiasm to the else solitary pleasures of literature, all this tends to give the novel a peculiar influence over society. To a short life it may indeed be generally destined, but, as with other ephemera, the prolific numbers of the tribe compensate for the speedy mortality of the individual. As a class, they are indestructible, and where their influence is of a mischievous character, their power is not to be slighted, because each puny insect of the swarm scarce keeps throughout the day upon the wing. When Moses brought his plagues upon the Egyptians, it was no enormous dragon that he summoned to his aid, nor did he call the lions from the desert, but he waved his rod, and the air filled with flies, and it was an army of locusts that he poured over the plain. The novel has undergone a striking change, since the days of Richardson and Smollett, in its form, as well as in the tone of manners it illustrates. In the old narrative novel the story is told in full detail of incident, and in strict order of time. The reader is conducted step by step through the labyrinth of the tale. There are no sudden transitions; there is no part of the *We are, of course, aware that Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer now designates himself Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, but as all those who, like ourselves, know this gentleman only from his writings, still speak of him by the name under which he won his laurels, we hope we shall be excused for having retained it throughout the present article. NO. II. 2 B way but is trodden by his feet. It is presumed that the reader feels extremely solicitous to be informed of every particular; that he has a fund of patience quite inexhaustible; and that he is listening throughout, not only with the utmost avidity, but with entire good faith. He does not require to be always excited, always equally amused. He can wait. It is an understood compact between him and the author that the one should give a steadfast, enduring attention, which the other, in due process of time, will surely reward with the discovery of things strange and affecting, moving to tears or laughter, very wonderful and very instructive. In the new dramatic novel matters are not allowed to proceed after so quiet a fashion. All here is bustle, change, excitement; whatever other fault may be committed, not a moment must be given to dulness; if curiosity flag, the pauses of expectation are to be filled with sprightly dialogue or glowing description. Here the writer generally plunges at once into the midst of affairs; for he has a strong suspicion that his reader is without a particle of patience. He has as little confidence in his credulity, and suspects that he does but sham faith; he therefore delights in thrusting his actors themselves upon the scene, and in escaping himself from all scrutiny. There is a slyness in his manner when he speaks of our hero,' as if he desired to be thought no more credulous or admiring than others. We have heard a critical censure passed on the use of this expression, which, we believe, Sir Walter Scott first made general, because it appears to betray the fictitious nature of the composition, and the want of credulity of the narrator himself. We apprehend that such a mode of speaking was naturally induced upon the writer by the known temper of the generation he was addressing. In this latter species of novel the story is never told in the manner of the sober chronicle, but scenes here and there are vividly portrayed, and the rest is left to tell itself, or to remain in obscurity. It is told as if by the aid of that magical mirror which exhibited, at a certain hour in every day, the plight and condition of some distant adventurer, and which only aggravated suspense by the broken revelations which passed in rapid succession along its surface. Perhaps there is no form of composition better fitted for the display of the varied talents of authorship; so many are the resources which are open to the writer to enhance, or prolong, the interest of his narrative. He can at will allay the fever of curiosity, and divert and relieve his readers with displays of wit and humour, poetry or philosophy, and then again plunge them into mimic afflictions, or the perplexity of tangled events. The narrative novel belongs to our forefathers; the dramatic to our own day and generation. Gil Blas may be called to mind as a good instance of the former; we must look to the imperishable works of Sir Walter Scott for the first, as well as most perfect, specimen of the latter. But, although the distinction between these two classes of the novel is obvious, it is not easy on all occasions to make the application of it. We find it difficult to agree with Sir Edward Bulwer in the manner in which he applies it to his own works. In one of his prefaces he describes Pelham' and Devereux' as belonging to the narrative, Eugene Aram' and The Last Days of Pompeii' to the dramatic novel. We should rather have said that all Sir Edward's works belong to the dramatic order. In all of them the story is told in those sudden, bold transitions, or in that vivacious dialogue, which the novelist has evidently adopted from the scenes of the drama. It is true that both in Pelham' and Devereux' the heroes narrate their own history, but they do this so completely in the style of the modern novelist, that the reader is apt to forget entirely that it is any other than Sir Edward Bulwer who is speaking. 96 6 A writer at once voluminous and popular must, it is evident, be gifted with talents which fall not to the lot of every one who adventures in literature. And very distinguished talents Sir E. L. Bulwer undoubtedly possesses. He who can peruse such novels as Paul Clifford, Eugene Aram,' The Last Days of Pompeii,' and find in them nothing to praise or admire, may reckon on it that the fault lies, not in the novelist, but in his own indisposition or inaptitude to receive that kind of amusement which works of fiction are calculated to afford. A lively, versatile, and, unless when defaced by affectations, a not inelegant style, a sarcastic vein, descriptive power, and, above all, the ability to tell his story well, to construct a plot and sustain its interest; if these are not sufficient to lead us through the pages of the three clear printed volumes, then is there no such thing as the literature of idleness. But it is in the lighter efforts of the novelist, or rather in those scenes which lie between the comic and the tragic, that our author appears, we think, to the greatest advantage. When he enters upon deep tragedy he is rarely successful. The impassioned strain and fatal circumstance -the soliloquy, the invocation-the start, the shudder, the frenzy, and the dream-all these are introduced with no other effect upon our nerves than to make us dread their repetition. We have enumerated amongst the excellences of Sir Edward Bulwer his ability to tell his story. This will seem an insignificant matter, and a trivial ground for praise, to those only who have never tried to tell a long story, or who have never been |