feeling and higher sense of excellence in which the Frenchman is so deficient. We must quote two or three, the truth of whose thoughts can only be equalled by the grace of their expression.
"Since benevolence is inseparable from all morality, it must be clear, that there is a benevolence in little things as well as in great; and that he who strives to make his fellow creatures happy, though only for an instant, is a much better man than he who is indifferent to, or, what is worse, despises it. I do not see that kindness to an acquaintance is at all destructive to sincerity as a friend." "The object of education is to instill principles which are hereafter to guide and instruct us; facts are only desirable so far as they illustrate those principles; principles ought, therefore, to precede facts." "Learning without knowledge is but a bundle of prejudices." We would call particular attention to the truth of the next remark. "They never spoke of things by their right names, and, therefore, those things never seemed so bad as they really were: insensibly my ideas of right and wrong became perfectly confused, and the habit of treating all crimes as subjects of jest in conversation, soon made me regard them as matters of very trifling importance."
Lord Byron makes a very true remark in one of his letters, that the most prolific authors have always been the most popular. Such has certainly been the case with Mr. Bulwer. "The Disowned," "Devereux," "Paul Clifford," "The Siamese Twins," followed each other in rapid succession. The most singular characteristic about these works is their utter dissimilitude: save in a general tone of benevolence, as the basis of philosophy, and an extended and liberal view of the general interests of mankind, these productions are striking contrasts. "Pelham" was a moral Diorama—a view of London, as it is. "The Disowned" was a poetical and imaginative picture, but not the less true because the colours were created and combined rather than copied. It is not, perhaps, fair to ascribe your own supposed plan to an author, but we have always thought that "The Disowned" was the finest illustration of ambition possible—an illustration, too, of its many varieties. The desire of honourable but worldly success in Clarence, is brought into fine contrast with the dreaming and feverish desire of fame which consumes the young artist. Again, the disinterested but fatal patriotism of Wolfe, fatal because confined, is admirably opposed to that of Algernon Mordaunt, whose patriotism takes the ground-work of knowledge, and works hand in hand with philosophy and charity. Mordaunt is one of those ideals of excellence which we respect an author for conceiving. "The Disowned" also developed a new talent, that of description: there are several landscapes as beautiful and as English as those of our natural painter Collins. As an analysis of cause and effect, the history of Mr. Talbot, the vain man, is a perfect specimen of moral dissection. His vanity is the opposite of Lord Boradail's conceit. Vanity and conceit are often confounded: nevertheless, they are very opposite qualities; as much difference as there is between search and possession; vanity craves "golden opinions" from all ranks of men; conceit sits down quietly in the enjoyment of its own property. More poetical in its views, more elevated in its philosophy, the remarks scattered through "The Disowned," though less worldly, are not less true than those in its predecessor. They take a higher, though not a less actual tone; and we doubt if the sarcastic inference be a whit more accurate than the kindlier one. The difference between their observations is, that in
