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sively from the partisans and millionaires : implying by this argument that, as aristocracy ought, in reason, to be the collective representation, or accumulated incarnation, of the principle of honour, so, assuredly, whatever most reflected honour upon a country, it was the bounden duty of the State to honour-by ennobling. As evidence of the grasp taken of his subject, it is especially observable, that in his chapter upon the Poor-laws, in England and the English, the author distinctly suggested the outline of the very reforms afterwards introduced and embodied in enactments. Meanwhile, though thus readily outspoken in his writings, Mr. Bulwer had but seldom raised his voice within the walls of Parliament; faithful in this to his own pithy axiom elsewhere articulated, viz.—" that all life is a drama, in which it is the business of men only to speak in order to do." And certainly what he had undertaken to do, he had here, in the House of Commons, most effectively accomplished. He had obtained the Act conferring a copyright on dramatic authors; he had constrained ministers to inaugurate measures for securing an international law of copyright; he had so efficiently enforced the agitation in regard to the taxes upon knowledge, that he had actually brought the Chancellor of the Exchequer to a compromise, effecting two important ameliorations in what were afterwards to be wholly abolished-the reduction of a fourpenny to a penny stamp upon newspapers, and the diminution of one-half of the grinding duty upon advertisements. Besides, incidentally, in the course of his speeches upon these fiscal changes, throwing out suggestive remarks in reference to the Post-office management, distinctly premonitory of what came at last— Rowland Hill's beneficent scheme for its reorganization. As to Mr. Bulwer's determined opposition to the Irish Coercion Bill, already mentioned, that opposition he manfully maintained throughout, both by speeches in the House of Commons, and by articles in the New Monthly Magazine,* speeches and articles which, being opportunely reprinted in a separate form, and scattered broadcast over the country, tended in a great measure towards the mitigation of the harsher provisions of that iniquitous and ill-considered enactment. Here, assuredly, is no insignificant catalogue of estimable—some of them inestimable-legislative boons, won for his fellowcitizens a quarter of a century ago by Sir Bulwer Lytton, in his twofold capacity as a reformer and as a statesman.

Afterwards Bulwer Lytton published a pamphlet on the memorable change in parties when the King summoned Sir Robert Peel from Rome to govern England. "At this transition moment, when many were in trepidation, every one in expectation, Mr. Lytton Bulwer announced his pamphlet on The Crisis. Interest and curiosity in its pique regarded all parties alike—Whigs, Tories, and Radicals. It was a matter of general uncertainty what might be the drift, what the tendency of the brochure. In a single day, the first edition, a large one, was exhausted. Fourteen other large editions of this celebrated pamphlet (each copy selling at the unusual pamphlet price of three shillings and sixpence) were sold off within

*Of which he was for some time Editor.

little more than a fortnight after the date of its earliest publication. It rapidly exceeded a score of editions, and was ultimately reprinted in a cheap popular form for more general circulation. It is not exaggerating its effect to say that it materially and very considerably influenced the general election following almost immediately upon Sir Robert's arrival in London, and leading to the reinstallation of the Liberal Government.

"Positive testimony that much of this was directly owing to that masterly pamphlet was voluntarily given to the author in a very remarkable way soon afterwards by the new Premier, Viscount Melbourne. The revived ministry was still in process of reformation, when Lord Melbourne sent for the daring and witty pamphleteer, and, while frankly complimenting him upon the good services rendered to the Government, offered him in recognition of it, one of the lordships of the Admiralty: the noble Viscount adding the assurance of his own personal regret, that the principle on which the Cabinet was being reconstituted--that of restoring to their former offices the different members of the previous Administration-precluded him from proposing at the moment any more elevated appointment. Notwithstanding the additional assurance from the Prime Minister of early promotion, thrown in gracefully at the close of the foregoing as a supplementary temptation, Mr. Bulwer, as is well-known, declined the offer made, even under such flattering circumstances: influenced partly in his decision by a dread lest it might, perchance, necessitate his abandonment of his favourite pursuits as a man of letters, but principally, there can be little question, through a still greater dread lest his acceptance of office, at that particular moment, might be regarded by the public as a recompense for services which had, in truth, been rendered by him to the country at large, from motives, beyond all shadow of doubt, the most lofty and disinterested." Years afterwards, during which brilliant novels and brilliant plays had been created (among them Ernest Maltravers and the Lady of Lyons), Bulwer Lytton issued another remarkable pamphlet, consisting of Letters to John Bull. They ran rapidly through ten editions: albeit they were Protectionist, and appeared on the eve of the Protectionists' defeat.

So the poet, the novelist, the playwright, and the pamphleteer moved forward till he became a Cabinet Minister in Lord Derby's second Government; and in the two years of office which he enjoyed, raised into settled and enduring form two gigantic colonies, Queensland and British Columbia.

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UR travellers arrived at Rotterdam on a bright and sunny day. There is a cheerfulness about the operations of commerce-a life-a bustle-an action, which always exhilarate the spirits at the first glance. Afterwards they fatigue us; we get too soon behind the scenes, and find the base and troublous passions which move the puppets, and conduct the drama.

But Gertrude, in whom ill-health had not destroyed the vividness of impression that belongs to the inexperienced, was delighted at the cheeriness of all around her. As she leaned lightly on Trevelyan's arm, he listened with a forgetful joy to her questions and exclamations at the stir and liveliness of a city from which was to commence their pilgrimage along the Rhine. And indeed the scene was rife with the spirit of that people at once so active and so patient, so daring on the sea, so cautious on the land. Industry was visible everywhere, the vessels in the harbour, the crowded boat, putting off to land, the throng on the quay, all looked bustling, and spoke of commerce. The city itself, on which the skies shone fairly through light and fleecy clouds, wore a cheerful aspect. The church of St. Lawrence rising above the clean, neat houses, and on one side trees thickly grouped, gaily contrasted at once the waters and the city. "I like this place," said Gertrude's father, quietly; "it has an air of comfort."

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And an absence of grandeur," said Trevelyan.

"A commercial people are one great middle class in their habits and train of mind," replied Vane; and grandeur belongs to the extremes,an impoverished population and a wealthy despot."

They went to see the statue of Erasmus, and the house in which he was born. Vane had a certain admiration for Erasmus, which his companions did not share; he liked the quiet irony of the sage, and his knowledge of the world; and, besides, Vane was of that time of life when philosophers become objects of interest. At first they are teachers, secondly, friends; and it is only a few who arrive at the third stage, and find them deceivers. The Dutch are a singular people; their literature is neglected, but it has something of the German vein in its strata,-the patience, the learning, the homely delineation, and even some traces of the mixture of the humorous and terrible, which form that genius for

the grotesque so especially German,—you find this in their legends and ghost stories. But in Holland activity destroys, in Germany indolence nourishes, romance.

They stayed a day or two at Rotterdam, and then proceeded up the Rhine to Gorcumn. The banks were flat and tame, and nothing could be less impressive of its native majesty than this part of the course of the Great River.

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'I never felt before," whispered Gertrude, tenderly, "how much there was of consolation in your presence; for here I am at last on the Rhine,— the blue Rhine, and how disappointed should I be if you were not by my side!"

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But, my Gertrude, you must wait till we have passed Cologne before the glories of the Rhine burst upon you.”

"It reverses life," said the moralizing Vane, "and the stream flows through dulness at first, reserving its poetry for our perseverance."

"I will not allow your doctrine," said Trevelyan, as the ambitious ardour of his native disposition stirred within him. "Life has always action; it is our own fault if it ever be dull; youth has its enterprise, manhood its schemes; and even if infirmity creep upon age, the mind still triumphs over the mortal clay, and in the quiet hermitage, among books, and from thoughts, keeps the great wheel within everlastingly in motion. No, the better class of spirits have always an antidote to the insipidity of a common career, they have ever energy at will__”

"And never happiness!" answered Vane, after a pause, as he gazed on the proud countenance of Trevelyan, with that kind of calm, half-pitying interest which belonged to a character deeply imbued with the philosophy of a sad experience, acting upon an unimpassioned heart. “And in truth, Trevelyan, it would please me if I could but teach you the folly of preferring the exercise of that energy of which you speak to the golden luxuries of REST. What ambition can ever bring an adequate reward? Not surely the ambition of letters-the desire of intellectual renown!"

"True," said Trevelyan, quietly, "that dream I have long renounced: there is nothing palpable in literary fame; it scarcely perhaps soothes the vain-it assuredly chafes the proud. In my earlier years I attempted some works which gained what the world, perhaps rightly, deemed a sufficient meed of reputation, yet it was not sufficient to recompense myself for the fresh hours I had consumed, for the sacrifices of pleasure I had made. The subtle aims that had inspired me were not perceived; the thoughts that had seemed new and beautiful to me, fell flat and lustreless on the soul of others; if I was approved, it was often for what condemned myself! And I found that the trite commonplace and the false wit charmed, while the truth fatigued, and the enthusiasm revolted.

"For men of that genius to which I make no pretension, who have dwelt apart in the obscurity of their own thoughts, gazing upon stars that shine not for the dull sleepers of the world, it must be a keen sting to find the product of their labour confounded with a class, and to be mingled up in men's judgment with the faults or merits of a tribe.

Every great genius must deem himself original and alone in his conceptions; it is not enough for him that those conceptions should be approved as good, unless they be admitted as inventive, if they mix him with the herd he has shunned, not separate him in fame as he has been separated in soul. Some Frenchman, the oracle of his circle, said of the poet of Phedre-'Racine and the other imitators of Corneille ;' and Racine, in his wrath, nearly forswore tragedy for ever. It is in vain to tell the author that the public is the judge of his works. The author believes himself above the public, or he would never have written; and," continued Trevelyan, with enthusiasm, "he is above them; their fiat may crush his glory, but never his self-esteem. He stands alone and haughty amidst the wrecks of the temple he imagined he had raised 'TO THE FUture,' and retaliates neglect with scorn.

"But is this, the life of scorn, a pleasurable state of existence? Is it one to be cherished? Does even the moment of fame counterbalance the years of mortification? And what is there in literary fame itself present and palpable to its heir? His work is a pebble thrown into the deep; the stir lasts for a moment, and the wave closes up to be susceptible no more to the same impression. The circle may widen to other lands and other ages, but around him it is weak and faint. The trifles of the day, the low politics, the base intrigues, occupy the tongue, and fill the thought of his contemporaries; he is less known than a mountebank or a new dancer; his glory comes not home to him; it brings no present, no perpetual reward, like the applauses that wait the actor, or the actorlike mummer of the senate; and this, which vexes, also lowers him; his noble nature begins to nourish the base vices of jealousy, and the unwillingness to admire. Goldsmith is forgotten in the presence of a puppet: he feels it, and is mean; he expresses it, and is ludicrous. It is well to say that great minds will not stoop to jealousy; in the greatest it is most frequent.

"Few authors are ever so aware of the admiration they excite as to afford to be generous, and this melancholy truth revolts us with our own ambition. Shall we be demigods in our closet, at the price of sinking below mortality in the world? No! it was from this deep sentiment oi the unrealness of literary fame, of dissatisfaction at the fruits it produced, of fear for the meanness it engendered, that I resigned betimes all love for its career; and if by the restless desire that haunts men who think much, to write ever, I should be urged hereafter to literature, I will sternly teach myself to persevere in the indifference to its fame."

"You say as I would say," answered Vane, with his tranquil smile; "and your experience corroborates my fame. Ambition, then, is not the root of happiness. Why more in action than in letters ?"

66 Because," said Trevelyan, "in action we commonly gain in our life all the honour we deserve: the public judge of men better and more rapidly than of books. And he who takes to himself in action a high and pure ambition, associates it with so many objects, that, unlike literature, the failure of one is balanced by the success of the other. He, the

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