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strong spirit was heard beating against | merit, the very name so presumptuously the bars of its misery-and its life; and assumed would condemn it, as assuredly asking in its despair questions at Destiny as John Galt's "Lady Macbeth" was and the world unseen. Then, in his condemned. But, in spite of this pre"Ernest Maltravers," his "Alice," and liminary prejudice, Bulwer's Burley is not his "New Timon," he seemed backing out only as entirely different from Scott's, as of spiritual speculations into a certain a rough literary man of the nineteenth sneering voluptuousness worthy of Wie- century must be from a rough soldier of land, of Byron, or of Voltaire. And, the seventeenth; but as a picture of a lastly, in his "Caxtons" and "My Novel," strange, wild, half-mad man of genius, there seems to have risen on his path full, nevertheless, of the milk of human what the Germans call an "aftershine" kindness, and of the warmest and noblest of Christianity-a mild, belated, but di- feelings, it is almost perfect, and of itself vine-seeming day, in which he is walking sufficient to immortalise the author. on still, and which he doubtless deeply In contemplating Bulwer's career, we regrets had not sooner gleamed over his are impressed, in fine, with one or two chequered way. His allusions to the ex-reflections of a somewhat interesting and periences of Robert Hall, and to the be- important kind. It teaches us the might nignant influence of the Christian faith in and worth which lie in determined struggle soothing the woes of humanity, which and invincible perseverance. We do not, abound in the "Caxtons" especially, are by any means, dislike those splendid coup exceedingly beautiful, and have opened to de mains of literary triumph we find in Bulwer's genius the doors of many a heart such cases as Byron, Macaulay, Charles that were obstinately shut against him Dickens, and Alexander Smith, all of before. The moral tone of these latter whom arose one morning and found novels, too, is much sweeter, healthier, themselves famous." Nay, we glory in and purer than that of his earlier tales. them, as proofs of the power of the human Their artistic execution is not only equal, mind, and as auguries of the more illusbut we think in many respects superior. trious successes reserved for yet brighter If there is in them less artifice, there is and purer spirits in the future. They more real art; and if they have less of show what man can do, and hint what the glare and bustle of rhetoric, they man yet may do. But we love still have more of the soul of poetry. If they better to see a strong spirit slowly urging dazzle and astonish less, they are infi- his way against opposition, often driven nitely more pleasing, and if they abound back but never discouraged, often pernot so much in rapid adventures, thrill-plexed but never in despair, often cast ing situations, and romantic interest, down but never destroyed, often falling they idealise common life, and show the but never fallen, and at last gaining a element of poetic interest as well as the victory as undeniable as that of a jubilant soul of goodness which are found amongst summer sun. Such was Milton, such the middle classes of society. One cha- Johnson, such Burke, such Wordsworth, racter in his last novel is perhaps the such Disraeli, and such Bulwer. The finest of all his creations-we mean, of success of these men looks less like the course, Burley. In the very daring im- result of accident, or of popular caprice, plied in taking up the name of the most or of magic, and more like the just and original character Scott ever drew, old John Balfour, the stern homicide of Magus Muir, and connecting it with the most novel and striking character Bulwer ever depicted, there was genius. Who would venture even to call the hero of a new play Macbeth, or Lear, or Hamlet? Unless the play were of transcendent

lawful, although late, reward of that high merit which unites moral energy with intellectual prowess, and becomes thus far more useful as an example and a stimulus to others. Not one in a hundred millions can expect such a tropical sunrise of success as befell Byron; but any one who unites a considerable degree of capacity

with indomitable determination, may be- | rary celebrity. We fear that literature, as come, if not a Bulwer, yet in his own de-a profession, will never thrive to any great partment an eminent and influential man. extent in this country. The gains of We are still more struck with this per-authors are becoming smaller and smaller severance, when we remember Bulwer's in each section of the century; and the position in society. Possessed of rank fact that. all our literature threatens soon and ample fortune, he has laboured as to be "afloat in the great gulf-stream of hard as any bookseller's hack in the em- cheapness," will probably, we at least pire; proving thus that his love for litera-think, reduce them further still. In this ture was as sincere as his ideal of it was case, we must. depend more than ever high, and redeeming it from a certain upon the supplies from non-professional shade of contempt which has of late, men, non-commissioned officers, shall we justly or unjustly, rested upon it. It call them? in the great literary army. cannot be denied that various causes, Nor need we fear that this will at all such as the poverty of many of our deteriorate the value of literary producauthors, and the mean shifts to which it tions. It will have, we think, precisely has often reduced them; the dissipation the opposite effect. Professional litteraand blackguardism of a few others; the teurs are often forced by necessity to put envious spirit and quarrelsome disposition to press productions totally unworthy of of a third class; the vast amount of me- their talents, and in general to dilute and diocre writing which now pours from the weaken by diffusion their powers. It is press; the number of pretenders whom obvious that those who write only when the hot and sudden sunlight of advancing|leisure permits, and the spur of impulse knowledge has prematurely quickened into reptile life; not to speak of the engrossment of the public mind with commercial speculation and politics, and the contemptuous indifference of many of our aristocracy and many of our clergy to literary things and literary men, have all combined rather to lower Polite Letters in the eyes of the public. And nothing, on the other hand, can tend, or has tended, more to reinstate it in its proper place of estimation than the fact, that not a few, distinguished and successful in other professions, in arts or in arms, at the bar or in the pulpit, have gloried in casting in their lot with this despised professionhave submitted to its drudgeries, borne its burdens, and aimed at and gained its laurels. Eminent lawyers have become litterateurs. Eminent officers have become writers of travels. Eminent clergymen have become editors of periodicals and authors of scientific treatises. Eminent physicians, men of fashion, barristers, lords of session, and even peers of the realm, have all aspired to the honour connected with the name of Poet. And Bulwer has brought this to a bright climax, by blending the lustre of rank and riches with the distinctions of the highest lite

excites, are less liable to this temptation. And looking both to the past and present, we find that the greatest and best, on the whole, of our writers have not been authors by profession. Shakspere's profession was not authorship, but the stage. Milton was a schoolmaster and a secretary. Addison, too, was a secretary of state. Pope was a man of private fortune. Fielding was a justice. Richardson kept a shop; so did Godwin. Cowper lived on his patrimony, and on gifts from his relatives. Burns was a farmer and gauger. Wordsworth was a stampmaster. Croly is a rector. John Wilson was a professor. Shelley was a gentleman of fortune, and heir to a baronetcy. Byron was a peer. Carlyle has an estate. Browning is a man of fortune and family. Of Jeffrey, Macaulay, Sidney Smith, Hall, and Foster, we need not speak. And our present hero is the proprietor of Knebworth, as well as a scholar, orator, wit, novelist, and poet.

We close this paper, by expressing our very hearty congratulations to Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton on his recent reception and appearances in Edinburgh; our warm gratitude for the hours of pleasure and profit his numerous works have given us; and

an ardent wish that his future life may a practical and a Christian course, and be calm and bright; and that the current catch on its last waves the hues of hea of thought and feeling in his future works ven's light, blended with the tints of fancy may take, still more decidedly than of late, and of poetry!

BENJAMIN DISRAELI.*

THERE are two races, the contrast be- in shapes of sublime trial and ideal contween whose former and present position test. Their gods were themselves-walkis so deep and marked, as to produce the ing on the mountain-tops of imagination, most melancholy reflections. We refer, and covered with celestial glory as with of course, to the Greeks and the Jews. snow. Their hell was the contorted reThe ancient Greek was the noblest of na-flection of their own Macedonian defiles ture's children; he was not so much a or Albanian deserts; and their heaven was man as he was a petty god-or, rather, some statue that had walked down from its pedestal. Mrs Jameson says of the Venus de Medici, that she looks as if she would come down if she could, while the Hercules Farnese looks as if he could come down if he would. Were he thus to descend, he were the alter idem of the nobler of the ancient Greeks, in whom beauty and grandeur met together-elegance and energy embraced each otherand in whom, if symmetry seemed sometimes to disguise strength, strength was ever present, albeit half-seen, to support the symmetry. Their very children were taught to contend for prizes for beauty, and had statues erected to them if they succeeded. Their style of dress was itself a dream of beauty. Their language was as picturesque as it was expressive and rich. They inhabited a country which to all the romantic variety of Scottish landscape added the richness and warmth of an oriental clime: now towering up into the snowy grandeur of Olympus, and now softening into the unparalleled luxuriance of the Vale of Tempe; here rugged as the defile of Thermopyla, and there panoramic as the Bay of Athens. The creations of their genius were just the projected images of their own beautiful selves. The heroes of their song were themselves,

The Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, M.P.: a Literary and Political Biography, addressed to the New Generation.--Tancred. By B. DISRAELI.

the coloured image of their own Cretan vales. Towering over this magnificent people-the heroes of a hero-land, the Mont Blancs of a mountain region-were the grand men of Greece, men whose names sound yet like peals of thunder -Pericles, Epaminondas, Demosthenes, Socrates, Aristotle, Alexander, Plato, Homer-in whom the beauty of the land became all but divine, its strength Herculean, and its sublimity that of an Alp in the evening sun, or a hero of celestial race when his set time is come, and when he feels himself growing into a god. And then its statuary, so cool, and clear, and bright, and its oratory and logic, naked, nervous, and gigantic as a Thracian gladiator; and its drama, at once formal and fiery, passionate as the bosoms and one as the wall of Pandemonium; and its philosophy, seeking to draw down the secrets of the gods to men, even as Franklin afterwards led down the lightning from its cavern like a lion in a leash; and its poetry, either in its narratives and pictures, clear and literal as a mirror in the statechamber of kings-or, in its choruses and dramatic raptures, deep and dithyrambic as that melancholy music which seeks, it is said, not altogether in vain, to soothe the agonies of the lost, and

"To mitigate and suage, With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and chase Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain,

From mortal or immortal minds!"

Such was Greece, such were the Grecians. | began to flow with milk and honey, to What is it, and what are they now? gleam with supernatural glory, and to Even in their late-won and blood-ce- ring with divine voices. In the midst of mented freedom, what are they? Alas! we must still say,

"'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more;"

and throw the shroud of silence over the corpse of the beautiful!

that land there arose, like a high palace, the Temple, with its marble and gold, its profound symbols, and mute and mighty prophecies; around were seen the stately steps of kings, walking like gods in the earth, because bearing in their hands the Still more striking, however, is the con- sceptres which God had lent, and was to trast between the ancient and the mo- resume; up streamed the smoke of indern Jews. As the Greeks were the fa- cense, which, though ascending in vofourite people of nature, the Jews were lumes, hiding the sun, hid not the white the chosen people of God. As the Greeks garments and the oracular gems of the seemed their own deities come down to ministering priests; on every side were men, the Jews were the representatives heard the cries of prophets speaking from of that inscrutable ONE who filleth im- the immediate inspiration of the Most mensity, and the praises thereof. In High, and whose eyes shone with the Him they lived, and moved, and had lustre of very visions of God; and behold! their being. As a nation, they rose and to it at length arrived God's only begotsunk on God as on a wave-now heaven- ten Son, meek and lowly, a Hebrew of high, and now deep as the centre. Their the Hebrews, riding upon an ass, and yet progress seemed the progress of God's welcomed by hosannas, which, first echoed plan in the world; their decline, the tem- by all Jerusalem, at last were taken up porary retreat of the awful billow. In by distant lands, and have swelled into a their prosperity, they were like angels diapason as wide as the world. A nation basking in the face of their Father-so peculiar and so sacred were the Jews, under their beatings, and burdens, they that, even when bowed, broken, and disstill continued, like Balaam's ass, to see persed at last, it was under a burden no God where none else beheld him. Along less weighty than the blood of the Eterwith the meteors which marked their ad-nal Son of God. His blood, invoked by, vance in the wilderness-the pillars of fell on them like a fiery rain; and stagfire and of cloud-there hung a mystic gering and shrieking under it, they have haze of miraculous destiny over all their wandered ever since among the nations. motions. God cut a passage for them Such were they; but how great the through the water of the Red Sea, and change! Hear the words of that master through the fire of that great and ter- in our literary Israel, Scott, on this subrible wilderness. He translated them ject:-"Thou hast spoken the Jew,' said while yet alive to himself, and lo! the Rebecca to Bois-Guilbert, as the persenation became as insulated as it was cution of such as thou art has made him. powerful; and was verily "a royal nation Heaven in ire has driven him from his and a peculiar people." He fed them country, but industry has opened up to with meat from heaven, and gave them him the only road to power and to influ drink from the depths which slumber ence, which oppression has left unbarred. under the rocks of the desert. When he Read the history of the ancient people slew them, it was by no hand but his own of God, and tell me if those by whom Je-Abraham slaying, as it were, his son; hovah wrought such marvels among the and heaps on heaps their " carcasses fell nations were then a people of misers and in the wilderness." As he had lighted usurers! And know, proud knight, we up the wilderness with strange splendours number names amongst us to which your during their passage, and made Sinai boasted northern nobility is as the gourd speak to them in thunder, so, when he compared to the cedar-names that asbrought them into the Promised Land, it cend far back to those high times when

the Divine Presence shook the mercy- for base underlings, and an irresponsible seat between the cherubim, and which gang of minor and malignant critics, to derive their splendour from no earthly injure any reputation, and derogate from prince, but from the awful voice which any name, and wish to devote a paper to bade their fathers be nearest of the con- place this brilliant man's literary merits gregation to the Vision. Such were the in a proper point of view. princes of the House of Jacob.' Re- Before giving our own opinion of Disbecca's colour rose as she boasted the raeli's literary and intellectual qualities, ancient glories of her race; but faded, as we have a few remarks to make on that she added, with a sigh, 'Such WERE the biography of him which now lies before princes of Judah-now such no more. us. It is an able production, but is neuThey are trampled down like the shorn tralised in a great measure by its spirit grass, and mixed with the mire of the of fierce, slow, partisan, bloodhound haways. tred. Every line of it is written in reThe spectacle of the decay of the venge as in red ink. We know nothing Greeks is not nearly so melancholy as positively of the author; but one might that of the Jews. The Greeks resemble imagine that it was the work of the disdethroned kings; the Jews banished missed secretary or the disgraced valet of angels. The one nation has fallen from the brilliant Hebrew. Since Bourrienne's an earthly height; the other, like Lu-Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, we rememcifer, from heaven. The Greeks have ber no book which sets itself with such always met with sympathy; there is, even deliberate determination, with such unstill, a strong and fierce prejudice burn-flagging animosity, with such remorseless ing against the Jews. The Greeks have malignity of purpose, to damage a public made very considerable efforts to recover character. Even its concessions are meant from their degradation; the Jews, as a to be fatal, and its praise is always the class, are still writhing in the dust of prelude to a sentence of perdition. Emermean callings, and of the still lower spirit son speaks of some whose "blame is a of contempt with which these are re- kind of praising”—this author's praise is garded. No one, when a Greek passes, a kind of blaming. To renew a former cries out in scorn, "There's a Greek;" figure, you hear the voice of the sleuthbut many, when they see the dark eye hound in every paragraph. Now it is a and bent figure of a son of Abraham pass-deep-mouthed incessant bay; now it is ing by, still sneer out the bitter taunt, the growl of disappointment at finding "There's a Jew." Still, too true is the the scent cold; and now it is the cry of memorable contrast of Coleridge, as ex- fresh delight at coming upon it again. pressing the two uttermost poles of national condition between the cry of Isaiah, "Hear, oh heavens, and give ear, oh earth!" and that of "Old Clo'" from a street-broker.

Were there but two beings in the earth, and these two enemies, they would but typify Benjamin Disraeli and his unknown biographer. The latter at least I writes as if he were created for the purpose of trying to degrade and dishonour the name of the former.

We fancy that we perceive the continued prevalence of this ungenerous feeling in the recent attacks of a large por- Now, without judging as to the motion of the press upon Benjamin Disraeli; tives, we beg leave to demur as to the and we shall try, in this paper, to do all wisdom of the course here pursued. If we can to counteract it. We are no Jews Disraeli be such a tenth-rate man as this nor Greeks either; no admirers of Dis- biography would imply, whence this exraeli's political character, or of all his lite-treme eagerness to vilify and blacken him? rary works; but we love fair play; we If he be little else than a fool, why be at know Disraeli to be a man of high ge- such pains to prove him a villain? The nius, and altogether independent of our very effort and elaboration exerted in depraise; but we know also, how easy it is monstrating the latter of these proposi