from its predecessors for early opinions to be safely trusted to walk alone. But its feelings and its thoughts, "the deep and the true," daily become more familiar; the fine passage is remembered—the exquisite expression quoted—and the laurel puts forth its green boughs, leaf by leaf, till it stands forth a stately tree. This poem is dedicated to his mother—genius making affection as beautiful in expression as it is in spirit. We cannot conceive a more touching tribute. Mr. Bulwer's father died when he was but three years of age, and the care of his education* [1] devolved on a mother, whose love and whose pride must equally be gratified by the result.
We have now, as far as our power extends, done our duty (for what is justice but a duty?) to this extraordinary writer. If we have cordially expressed our admiration, it is because we have cordially felt it. We have neither attempted to detail the stories nor describe the characters; the meagre sketch of a tale, or the bare outline of a character, is as a skeleton, which requires to be clothed in flesh before it can rise up in grace or beauty. We have endeavoured to give our own strong impression—to select some of the most detachable merits, and then to say to our readers, judge for yourselves on the right of our opinion, bearing in mind that we can set forth only a very small part of sixteen volumes, full of all the various developement of mind and feeling.
A transition from the author's works to the author's self has been a common consequence of fame in all ages. Though we do not quite go the length of the Genevese, who, publishing an account of Rousseau's visit to his native city, deems it worthy of mention that Jean Jacques wore a cap trimmed with fur, but that he would not decide whether it was lined with fur or not, for he never took it off: still, by that rule which leads us to judge of others' feelings by our own, we think the curiosity, personal though it be, about a distinguished author, is, to say the least, very excusable. We often hear complaints that the author does not sustain the beau ideal of his hero; this complaint, at least, cannot be made of Mr. Bulwer. His appearance is distinguished, his features chiselled and regular, and the whole expression of his face highly intellectual as well as handsome. Generally, though we confess to having but a slight personal knowledge, Mr. Bulwer is silent and reserved in society; but this may in some measure arise from his extreme distaste to mixing with it: for at times nothing can exceed the flashing wit of his gayer converse, unless it be the originality and interest of his more serious discourse. Mr. Bulwer is married,† [2] and is we believe among the instances that genius is very compatible with domestic happiness. Prediction has an easy task in fore telling a future when its prophecy is founded on a past of such promise. When we say that he gave us the idea of one whose habits were fastidious and tastes refined—when we find in him the descendant of an ancient and aristocratic family, and know him to be one nursed in all the lavish indulgence of wealth, the more are our causes of ad-
