mances were written, men believed in the existence of nificent in its drapery; the other is remarkable for its chaste gants and spirits of supernatural power, with whom men simplicity and the attention which has been paid to every might hold intercourse, and by whom they might be aided part-a perfection of finish which will bear the nicest scruin performing such feats as mere men could never accom- tiny; the one strikes the untutored mind with astonishplish; and they were, doubtless, principal actors in the ment; the other pleases the man of cultivated taste. day-dreams of men of that age. They are just the kind of Such errors as that of which I was guilty, in my use of beings to help a man over those hard places in his day-the word romance, are, I believe, by no means uncommon. dreams which we poor moderns have to surmount by say- In reading, I have often met with passages somewhat ofing, never mind, it is all imagination, and whilst I am ima-scure, in which I have little doubt the obscurity has been gining I may as well imagine what will suit me. But is the writer of the present day entirely excluded from this field of fiction? Must our day-dreams all be forgotten the moment they are finished? May I not take one of the most probable of my day-dreams and make a romance of it? The great difficulty in the way of doing this is, they are all too extravagant to be believed; and in this philosophical age, I cannot call to my assistance giants, demons, &c. be true; produced in this way. There is an example in point which occurs to me now. In a review which appeared sometime since in one of our literary periodicals, the following sentence occurs: "a lecture, introductory to a course of lectures on any science, is generally expected to bring to light the literature of that science." Stop here, and let me ask you what do you understand by "the literature of a science?" Perhaps you will tell me it does not convey to your mind This, however, I can do, I can write the story, and let any very definite idea; but as belles-lettres, poetry and it become more and more extravagant as I proceed-stop-history, are generally considered as belonging to the deping once or twice to explain every thing at all improbable, partment of literature, as contra-distinguished from that of which has gone before so naturally that the reader shall ac-science, the writer probably means the history of science. knowledge that he can see no reason why it might not all He means no such thing. The whole sentence is--" a lecand in this way I will stretch his faith, (for man's ture, introductory to a course of lectures on any science, is eredence is a very elastic substance if you take hold of it generally expected to bring to light the literature of that the right manner,) until at last I will tell something science, or that knowledge of it which is readily received wäich is past all belief, and which I cannot explain; and and enjoyed by the man of letters merely." Although I then get out of the difficulty by making my hero turn out have no other knowledge of the train of thought which insane. In this way I will have an opportunity of introdu-led the reviewer to use the term literature in the sense in eng my hero in circumstances calculated to call forth his which he has used it, other than that which I gather from a deeper feelings in all their power, and of describing some perusal of the review itself, yet I have little hesitation in of those scenes which exist in imagination alone; in fine, believing that it was something of this kind. In an introof embodying one of my day-dreams. I will do just what ductory lecture, the lecturer has to address persons ignothe old romance-writers did, only adapting myself to the rant of the science which forms his subject; and for this times. Such was the peculiar meaning which I attached reason must confine himself entirely to such subjects as to the term romance, and which lead me to call the present require no previous study to understand them. This portale "a Romance of the Nineteenth Century ;" and such the tion of science has, to the more abstruse portions, very train of thought which led me to attach this meaning to the much the same relation that literature does to the other term. In thinking of this matter after several years have portions of man's knowledge. I want a name for it. Why elapsed, I do not see that I did any very great violence to not call it "the literature of science?" In this way, the rethe word in attaching such a meaning to it, and yet no one viewer has been led to employ the term literature in such but myself would have understood it in that sense; and a way, that, but for the explanation which immediately folunless you did thus understand it, it would appear in the lows, it would either convey no meaning at all, or else a present instance misapplied, or else would convey no meaning different from that which the author intended. I meaning at all. The true meaning of the term romance is, could multiply such instances as these, but these are suffian extravagant tale-in which giants, spirits, et id omne genus,cient to give you a clear idea of the nature of that class of are introduced for the purpose of enabling heroes and hereines to accomplish those things which, as mere mortals, In order to get rid of the air of incredibility which the they never could do; and they are a class of productions accompanying tale would otherwise have worn, I deterpeculiar to a superstitious age. The modern novels are mined (as I have already mentioned) to make the hero turn their legitimate successors. They are in fact, "Romances out to be insane; and in so doing, introduced a new element of the Nineteenth Century." The age of the romance, in into the plan of the piece. Not only were the incidents of its original type, is passed, and we can no longer read them the tale to be such as might form a part of a sane man's daywith the interest our fathers could. I have sometimes dreams, but also such as might form a part of an insane wished that for a time I could yield myself up fully to the man's story. In general, it is a very difficult matter for an belief of supernatural interference in the affairs of men, in author to write a piece having two co-principal objects beorder that I might read some of these old romances with fore his mind, and not, in following after one of them, lose the zest with which they were once read: but such a wish sight, for a time at least, of the other. In the present inis vain-they are now "with the years beyond the flood." stance, however, the two objects were so similar, that but The character of our fictions, like that of every thing else, little difficulty could arise from this source. It has been changes from age to age; and, on mature deliberation, I remarked by those who have been much with the insane, Think the change in this instance has been for the better. that an insane man's impression, respecting himself and It is true that in the old romances greater marvels were ac- things around him, very frequently take their coloring from complished, and man was shown in circumstances calcu- his previous subjects of thought and feeling; so that in the lated to awaken deeper feeling than those in which he now-case of an inveterate and romantic day-dreamer, the effect a-days appears; but there was little attention paid to the of insanity is simply to make him believe those things which accurate delineation of human character, or to the descrip- he once only imagined to be true; to give to the creations tion of those minuter incidents which give so high a degree of his fancy an acknowledged existence-like the newly inof finish to modern fictions. There is very much the same vented apparatus of Monsieur Daguerre, to stamp the beaudifference between the two that there is between the Egyp-tiful picture, once formed but for a moment, indelibly upon Lan and Grecian styles of sculpture; the one is grand in its the mind. To give an illustration of this fact with respect proportions, with all its features strongly marked, and mag- to insanity, coincided precisely with my original design. VOL. VI-51 errors which I wish you to avoid. Another point which I intended to illustrate was this: An insane man will often tell his story with so much plausibility, and with such an appearance of truth, (believing it to be true as he does,) that it is only by sudden outbreaks you can discover his true character. How well the illustration of this point coincided with my original design, I will leave you to judge. In the explanation which the hero of the piece gives of the remarkable fulfilment of his dream, I have made that explanation turn, in part, upon the fact, that external circumstances often affect the character of our dreams;-the first gusts of the storm, which occurred whilst he was yet sleeping, caused him to dream of shipwreck. Many years since, I saw this fact stated in some treatise upon the subject of dreaming; and, since then, have often noticed it in my own case. Only the other night, in my dream, I found myself wandering along a streamlet, whose verdant banks were covered with the most beautiful wild-flowers, when suddenly I was overtaken by a tremendous snow-storm; and if I had not awakened in time to save myself, I should, in all probability, have been buried many fathoms deep beneath the drifting snow. On opening my eyes, I found that the covering had fallen off from over me; and I have no doubt that it was this which caused the sudden change in my land of vision, from smiling spring, to cold unsparing midwinter. Before closing this letter, there is another point to which I wish to call your attention for a moment. If you turn to the accompanying tale, you will find that I have made the hero, when after his shipwreck a consciousness of his existence first returns to him, hesitate for a moment to speak, lest, by so doing, he should find present appearances all a dream. This passage was suggested to me by my own experience of the impression made upon my mind by dreams. Often when I have awakened from a frightful dream, the impression of its all being a reality has been so deep, that I have been compelled to convince myself that it was but a dream by some motion of my limbs. The situation of a man who had been drowned, in such circumstances as those in which my hero went to the bottom, would, on awaking, be so analogous to those just mentioned, that there is no violence done to nature in transferring the incident from the one case to the other. Sleep has been well termed "Death's twin-sister." In works of fiction, the author is often compelled to describe feelings of which he knows nothing by experience. In such cases, he may often be guided by his knowledge of his feeling in analogous circumstances, and use the information thus obtained just as safely, as if he had learned it from the actual experience of the feelings which he describes. If I mistake not, it is the laying hold of such little incidents as the one referred toincidents which would escape the notice of the casual observer, but which, the moment they are mentioned, strike the reader as perfectly natural-which gives their characteristic finish to the writings of some of our best modern authors of fiction. Other incidents of a graver importance form the outline and general filling up of the picture; but these, like the small touches of a master hand, give the last finish to the piece, and make the painted canvass seem almost to breathe. The law is the standard and guardian of our liberty; it circumscribes and defends it; but to imagine liberty without a law, is to imagine every man with a sword in his hand to destroy him who is weaker than himself; and that would be no pleasant prospect to those who cry out most for liberty. Clarendon. IMRI : OR, THE BRIDE OF A STAR. RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE, E PART III. "Twas summer-time-the first bright dewy eve Robed in the glories of luxuriant JuneThat month in which young hearts are prone to weave Dreams of the beautiful that fade so soon! From 'mongst the stars look'd down the crescent moor Sadly, perchance, upon a bridal throng, Whose hearts with joyful nature were in tune; Hope on each leaf, and in the mockbird's songIn each young heart which o'er the waves was borne alo The graceful tamarind and the lofty palm The broider'd pennant of each fairy boat- One bark was there, around whose masts were tw Leora's head on Imri's breast was laid, "Thou know'st I would not: I have found far more "In thine affection than I e'er had dream'dThe fairy-spell which bound my heart is o'er""Twas but a meteor-shape that round me glean'd, Whose beauty lured, yet was not what it seem'd. "But now, when life's sweet star begins to shine "With a soft light with which it ne'er has beam'd "For aught of gloom or sadness here to-night; "Oh! why should we be sad when all around is bright? “Come, let us drown thy gloom in some sweet song"Why trample on the flower while in its prime, "Or let sad thoughts around thy spirit throng? "Come, we will have a tale of olden time, "Breath'd forth in sounds of sweet and simple rhyme : "Io shall take her lute and wake its strings "To tell of gentle love in some fair clime; "As music round thy heart its magic flings, "Thou wilt forget all save the gentle song she sings." And Io, who had sadly sat the while Those mournful words that burnt upon her heart, No song of high and daring deeds I sing- THE CAPTIVE. Within Byzantium's walls a captive lay, A Grecian captive, pining for a ray Of that transcendant and all-holy light That gilds with loveliness all things to-night. Long months of dark and weary solitude The captive's spirit had almost subduedA spirit which no circumstance could rein Was almost conquer'd by the galling chain. A heart with high resolves of good endow'd, Which never had to earth's cold idol bow'd, But which had striv'n with all man's feeble pow'r To keep unwither'd virtue's noble flower, Was sinking now 'neath cold and biting scorn, And oft by jealousy and envy torn. Oh! who may show the varying fount of thought Thro' which such bitter change of heart is wrought! Sometimes a sunny hope his hours beguiled; And then, desponding as a very child, He counted on his limbs each weary link, Too much absorb'd in misery to think. Alas! that erring man's contracted span That he should seek with so much force to bind Anderi's thoughts were 'mongst his native hills, Of lute and voice, which mem'ry made his own, It was the sentinel, who had for years Kept watch around that cell of gloom and tears. His pale lips mov'd but still gave forth no tone : From lips which such a spell had round him thrown. With many a trembling blush these lines she read. THE LETTER. Thou who hast round me thrown a mighty spell— Ida! to thee, I cannot say, farewell! Of thee, whose gentleness has chain'd my heart- I only ask, when on a stranger sod, For thine, of which I could but claim a part: The lute fell listlessly upon the deck, He could not feel her heart's warm pulses bound! She had gone softly home unto the skies There is no tear in Imri's flashing eye, As they bear homeward now the lifeless bride- He presses that pale form unto his side! Like that sad stroke which leaves our treasur'd ark They bear her home, and lay her in the bower Ne'er seem'd they half so lovely in his sight! LAMENT. O'er the far desert beaming, A gem on some fair brow, is one bright star, But for my heart there beameth The flow'r to dust returneth, And thou who sweetly sleepeth A dreamless sleep, upon thy flow'r-clad bier, I know thy spirit shineth "Twas but the breeze that strayeth I deem'd 'twas life that started When hope began to sparkle Among the flowers with which my path was star'd, The bud of beauty I so strove to guard Begun to darkle. Oh, earth! thou hast no measure For love like that which clings around my heart;And now, one last embrace before we part, My faded treasure! With meek and chasten'd heart did Imri bow Above the heart of her who was so dear; He parted the fair tresses from her brow, And kiss'd her lip with mingled love and fear; Then passed away without a word or tear. He left no sign by which to tell his fate ; most-all the energies of his nature developed in They knew that life's green leaf was scathed and sere-pursuit of the object of his ambition. Human That he would wander on without a mate, His heart a funeral mound all lone and desolate. My task is done-its witchery is past For gentle hearts my wild-flower wreath I twine; BULWER. EGERIA. Genius and talent are the gifts of nature; to direet the one and cultivate the other, are more pro perly the province of man. Upon the latter depends their utility. In this, as in all its blessings, Providence has left man a free agent ;-still, the artificer of his destiny-open to become the Milton, or the Byron, the Napoleon, or the Washington of his age. nature, both in its phases of virtue and vice, he has strongly depicted. The human heart, like the Magician, he has probed to its core, and made himself familiar with all its deep affections and the secret springs of its action. Yet the heroes of his fancy are not those of real life; their virtues are virtues too sublimated for earth, and the picture of their vices is not the biography of crime. The story of his Linden, or his Devereux, we cannot divest of its ideal character. Whether with Clarence and his Flora we listen to the "glad shout of joy" from their menials, or stand with Devereux over the pale corpse of his "murdered Isora," we still feel the exhibition before us to be but "the shadow of a dream." His style and imagery are chaste and classical; his language generally flowing and rhetorical-seldom redundant-often nerforce and described with elegance. There is a vous and strong. His scenes are conceived with vein of racy sentiment pervading some of his pieces, which constitutes a prominent attraction. His plots are conducted with the skill of a master, and the interest felt by the reader rarely permitted to subside before the denouement of the tale. All his works contain much of tragical; many, we conceive, an undue proportion. Human nature, we have said, he has strongly depicted; traits of individual character, too, are sometimes admirably portrayed; yet, we repeat, notwithstanding the has failed in most of his efforts to present us with power of his pen in exciting the feelings, that he Talent and genius, Bulwer certainly possesses. In the field of the literature of his day, he stands like noble Hector among his Trojan compeers— towering, prominent, alone. His course, with the flight of the mountain-bird, has been onward and upward. The eyrie of his fame now rests on the heights of the Andes, shaded with the glories of a posthumous immortality. With a prolificness unexampled, he has issued from the laboratory of ima-aught which is true to life. To recognize the chagination the most beautiful specimens of intellectual mechanism. They have gone forth as the bright spirits of a dream; claiming the admiration and arresting, with the grasp of the dying gladiator, the attention of the votaries of fiction. Let us pause for a moment to contemplate this giant intellect, encircled with the airy nothings to which it has given "A local habitation and a name." racter of any one of his great personages, it is first necessary to presuppose a concatenation of circumstances which could never occur. The objection, perhaps, may be sweeping in its application-common to all fiction-not confined to Bulwer. His heroes certainly wear the aspect of the improbable. We receive them as knights of romance, whether we acknowledge their bearing and temperament calculated for a sphere more congenial to the marvellous in the extremes of vice and virtue, than our own. We should pronounce a Maltravers, or a Ferrers, an anomaly in life. Excellence in the compartment of literature to which Bulwer has devoted "the best days of youth and of manhood," is a meed of praise only awarded The extensive circulation of Bulwer's novels is to the efforts of the gifted. The "poeta nascitur" conclusive of their author's popularity. His geof Horace may with strict propriety be applied to nius has conformed itself to the taste of the day, the novelist to him at least whose writings are or, more properly, has contributed largely to the destined to survive the exit of their author. To formation of that taste. The influence of his wrihis strong natural powers of invention, Bulwer has tings, especially upon the minds of the young, must added an intensity of application and diligence of be felt by all who have perused them. This conresearch rarely equalled. At a wave of his sideration suggests an inquiry relative to the chawand, the past is before him. Incidents and illus-racter of that influence. Its solution forms the trations replete with historical reminiscences, are true standard by which his merits as selected ad libitum from the annals of the Grecian, and a social being must be tested. His very ceRoman and modern ages. The competitor of Scott lebrity enhances the importance of the inquiry. for the laurelled wreath of Fiction, the mighty Whatever contributes to increase his pleasures, powers of his mind have been tasked to their ut- man naturally embraces, and seldom pauses to an author |