filled up with elaborated dialogues and abounding in poetical conceits and inflated sentiments. The most successful instance of this kind is, "The Lady of Lyons." There are many reasons why that play should be popular: it appeals only to the outer and ad cap

tandum range.

Another great element in the success of Bulwer is the felicitous manner in which he tricks out a common-place sentiment, and hangs a glittering sound about it, which deceives the masses into the belief of its being poetry; the tinsel is so well laid on that at a little distance it has really the look of pure gold; it deceived the critics at first; what wonder then, if the crowd were deluded; but a sure test of poetry is this: if you can read it time after time, and derive fresh delight from every perusal, you may be sure it is poetry; if on a second or third time it stales, the conclusion is certain that it is only verse, however sprightly or sounding. There is, however, one exception to this in the writings of Pope. Although deficient in what we call "Genius," there is a wonderful pleasure derived from the reperusal of his works. This springs from the point, finish, and wit which sparkle in every line he has written. Pope and "Hudibras" abound in significant couplets; they are full of epigrams. Pope might almost be called the Poet of Epigrams. Now, although Bulwer in his New Timon has imitated the suavity of Pope's metre, he has entirely missed the condensed meaning and brilliant sarcasm. Singular as it may appear, the old secluded man has a far profounder knowledge of fashionable life than the courtly author of "Money," notwithstanding he is one of the "haut ton,” and an elegant baronet. Pope's knowledge of fashionable life is deeper than the other's; it goes into the whole nature of man, modified by dandyism, and all the disturbing elements of dissipated life. Bulwer forgets the man, and paints only the conventional phase of high breeding.

This is even more apparent in his dramas than in his other

writings; but even in his chief productions, "Pelham" and the best of his novels, the predominant idea is the artificial and not the natural. The man is entirely lost in the modification; it is in this that Dickens shines so far superior to most of his contemporary novelists; nature is paramount in all his works, with the now and then exceptions of that class of characters where the author of Pickwick is allowed even by his greatest admirers to fail. Bulwer also fails in the impression that's left on the reader's mind; although infinitely superior to Dickens in the faculty of constructiveness, he yet falls short of giving that conviction; we know that it can be mathematically demonstrated, but there the matter ends: and as Hudibras says,

"A man convinced against his will,
Is of the same opinion still."

The predominant power, therefore, in Bulwer's works, is art in its artificial sense; falling short of that art which obliterates the marks of its existence, he displays the carpentery of his trade. The garment is not one piece so admirably woven that it produces the idea of unity; but it is several pieces sewn together, and the stitches and joinings are visible, On the other hand, Sheridan Knowles is, to a great extent, a play wright, and not a dramatist, yet he has little art in its artistic sense. When art gives a grace to nature it has done its work.

"Music resembles poetry-in each

Are nameless graces, which no art can teach,
And which a master's hand alone can reach."

That is very true so far as it goes; no art can endow with genius, but the artistic sense of beauty enables genius to achieve its highest triumphs. Skill would never have enabled Raphael to produce his masterpieces without genius, while all his genius would have been lost had he lacked the Divine workman's power of rendering it intelligible to the world.

The difference between nature and artifice, (we use this word to distinguish it from art,) is too apparent to need any elaborate exposition. A short specimen from Bulwer will suffice.

"Melnotte.-Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which could love fulfil its prayers,

This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world,
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!

Pauline. My own dear love!

Melnotte. A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,

Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens
Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends
That were not lovers; no ambition, save

To excel them all in love; we'd read no books
That were not tales of love-that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!

And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
We'd guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light

Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps,

And every air was heavy with the sighs
Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes,

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth

I' the midst of roses!-Dost thou like the picture?
Pauline.-Oh! as the bee upon the flower, I hang

Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!

Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee, like Pauline?

Melnotte. (bitterly.)—Oh, false one!
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man;
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care.

Thou had'st found no honey on my tongue ;-Pauline.
That is not love.

Pauline.-Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!

'Tis true I might not at the first been won,

Save through the weakness of a flattered pride;

But now!-Oh! trust me,-could'st thou fall from power
And sink

Melnotte. As low as that poor gardener's son

Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?

Pauline.-Even then,

Methinks thou would'st be only made more dear
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep
Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught
By the poor glittering of a garish flame !

But oh, the wings once scorched,—the brightest star
Lures us no more; and by the fatal light
We cling till death!

Melnotte.-Angel!

(Aside.)-O conscience! conscience!

It must not be !-her love hath grown a torture
Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant,

And- -ha! he comes.-S
-Sweet love, one moment leave me.
I have business with these gentlemen-I-I

Will forthwith join you.

Pauline. Do not tarry long!"

[Exit into House, L. s. E.

We can feel no hesitation in deciding on the merits of such writing as this.

Of a different grade, but of the same kind, is the following extract from another dramatist of the playwright school. Bourcicault is however far lower in the scale, and has no spark of that temperament which enables the other to write very elegant verses.

“Meddle. (To Max.)—I have something very particular to communicate. Max.-Can't listen at present.

[Exit, L.

Med. (To Dazzle and Young Courtly.)—I can afford you information, which I

Daz.-Oh, don't brother!

Young C.-Go to the devil!

[Exeunt, L.

Med. Now, I have no hesitation in saying that is the height of ingratitude.-Oh-Mr. Cool-can you oblige me?

[Presents his account.

Cool. Why, what is all this?

Med. Small account versus you to giving information concerning the last census of the population of Oldborough and vicinity, six and eight pence. Cool. Oh, you mean to make me pay for this, do you?

Med.-Unconditionally.

Cool. Well, I have no objection-the charge is fair-but remember, I am a servant on board wages,-will you throw in a little advice gratis—if I give you the money?

Med.-Ahem!-I will.

Cool.-A fellow has insulted me. I want to abuse him-what terms are actionable?

Med. You may call him anything you please, providing there are no wit

nesses.

Cool.-Oh, may I? [Looks round.] Then, you rascally, pettifogging Scoundrel!

Med.-Hallo!

Cool. You mean-dirty-disgrace to your profession.

While we are on comparisons, we will select part of a scene from another dramatist, who, a few years since, was the most popular of his class. Sheridan Knowles has so much bluntness and directness of purpose about his plays, that at first we are almost persuaded he is a dramatist, and we candidly admit he is undoubtedly the best playwright of his day; but his appropriations are so extensive as to deprive him of the right of being called a very fertile or lavish writer, and his dialogues are too often written under the influence of imitativeness, or memory, to entitle him to the praise of being an original one.