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SIR HENRY BULWER.

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General Taylor, we venture to say, will find him a man after his own heart totally different as have been the currents of their two lives.

It will be a pleasant event in Washington to have the English embassy open house under the auspices of the gentler sex. Lady Bulwer (we believe the minister was made a Baronet a year or two ago) is of noble descent, and, like all English ladies of her rank, very sure to entertain with the best-toned hospitality. Our barrack of a capital, so dependent on society for its happiness, may owe much to a lady's ministrations in this way, as the charming examples of the Spanish Minister's house, and one or two others, have long shown. We hope Lady Bulwer's train will comprise two or three young English ladies of her own class, as well as the gayer class of attachés, who follow, of course, where the Envoy is a wedded man; and that the British Embassy will be, here, what it is in the capitals of The Continent-the model and centre of all things courteous and hospitable.

SAMUEL LOVER.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TRIBUNE:

MR. LOVER's arrival among us is both more and less of an event than many take it to be—in the way of dramatic exhibition, not so much, and in the way of a remarkable presence, much more. My impulse to write to you is partly a dread, for him, of the rock Shakspeare had in his mind when he said "Promising is the very air of the time, Performance is ever the duller for his act.” From various causes I think he will be ultimately better appreciated in this country than he ever was in his own-much as they think of him in England-but, from the ordinary mode of advertisement, and from the common phraseology of newspaper notice, many might go to his "Irish Evenings" expecting something more pretentious and dramatic than they would find, and it is against this possible counter-current of disappointment that I wish to guard his first appearance among us. I am anxious, for our American sake, that there should be no delay, no hesitancy, no lack of completeness, in the recognition of this fine spirit, and it is from having had my heart moved like an instrument under his hand-as the hearts of all are who hear him-that I feel a strong wish for his coming rightly before the public.

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Lover is, as you know, the writer of songs equal (in popular effect) to any of Burns's. He is the author of Tales of humor, in a vein in which he has no equal. His songs are set to his own music, of a twin genius with the words it fuses. His power of narration is peculiar and irresistible. His command of that fickle drawbridge between tears and laughter-that ticklish chasm across which touch Mirth and Pathos-is complete and wonderful. He is, besides, a most successful play-writer, and one of the best miniature painters living. He is a Crichton of the arts of joyance for eye and ear. But it is not of his many gifts that I am now particularly aiming to remind your readers.

I wish, if I may so express it, to anticipate our knowledge of Lover as a man. The probability is that nineteen in twenty, of those who know of his arrival, remember to have heard of him as an admired frequenter of the exclusive circles of London, and expect to see a finished man of the world, whose ore of genius has been tinseled over with superfine breeding, and whose stamp from Nature only comes to day-light in the thought of his songs. Their curiosity to see him, indeed, is half made up of a wish to see what sort of a man gives pleasure to Lords and Ladies, Court Wits and Exclusives, and their preconceived ideal is of a very fine gentleman, of polished coolness, high art in his music and manners, and the most beautiful concealment of his necessary contempt for dollar-paying Republicans. Of some of the social celebrities of England this might be a very just estimate and faithful ideal—but to Lover such anticipation were an injustice, and one which is as well prevented from throwing a prejudice over his past reputation.

In his personal appearance Lover has no smack of superfine clay. He looks made out of the fresh turf of his country, sound,

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STYLE OF THE MAN.

honest and natural. He is careless in his dress, a little absent in his gait and manner, just short and round enough to let his atmosphere of fun roll easily about him, and, if frayed at all in the thread of his nature, a little marked with an expression of care— the result of years of anxieties for the support of a very interesting family. His features seem to use his countenance as a hussar does his jacket-wearing it loosely till wanted-and a more mobile, nervous, changing set of lineaments never played photograph to a soul within. There is always about him the modest unconsciousness of a man who feels that he can always employ his thoughts better than upon himself, and he therefore easily slips himself off, and becomes the spirit of his song or story. He does nothing like an actor. If you had heard him singing the same song, by chance, at an Inn, you would have taken him to be a jewel of a good fellow, of a taste and talent deliciously peculiar and natural, but who would spoil at once with being found out by a connoisseur and told of his merits. He is the soul of pure, sweet, truthful Irish nature, though with the difference from others, that, while he represents it truly, and is a piece of it himself, he has also the genius to create what inspires it. To an appreciative mind, it, of course, adds powerfully to the influence of a song, that the singer himself conceived the sweet thought, put it into words and melted it into music.

Lover (I am trying all this time to convey) is so much better a thing than a fine gentleman, or an accomplished actor or musician-so genuine a piece of exuberantly gifted Nature, still un spoiled from the hand of God-that the appeal, for appreciation of him, is to that within us which is deeper than nationality or fashion-to our freshest and most unsunned fountain of human liking. He has been recognized and admired, for his nature, in

GENIUS AND NATURE.

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the most artificial society in the world. It would be strange, indeed, if he should find himself farther from appreciation of it, in a new Republic.

I have given you no idea of his peculiar style, but have endea

vored only to say what was not likely to be said soon enough by those unacquainted with him.

Yours truly,

W.

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