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440 in these days, when every author is identified with his hero, if in that hero there is any thing that offends. If we except the "Literary Gazette," which perceived and did justice to the extraordinary mind then putting forth its powers, "the whole commons" of periodicals, like those "in Kent, were up in arms." One represented "Pelham" as an insolent sneer at the middle ranks, reprobated the effeminacy of perfumes, and talked of an English cook, and the Magna Charta, their own and their country's Constitution, in a breath. Others, again, considered it as an effusion of sheer egotism, and got into a rage with the author, whom they comforted themselves by denouncing as "a coxcomb." One would think that irony was like the Delphin classics, and required notes of explanation. People in general do not understand it. Matthews tells a good story of this density of apprehension:—a criminal, doomed to perish by the sharp edge of the law, was willing that the edge should be really sharp. "I will give you fifty ducats," said he to the executioner, "if you cut off my head at a single stroke." In the pride of his art, the headsman gave a flourish with his sword. "Fifty ducats," reiterated the criminal. "Just shake your head," replied the executioner: he did so, and it rolled on the scaffold. The matter-of-fact man, believing the story up to this point, says, "Well, did he give him the fifty ducats?" In this point device spirit were the coxcombries of "Pelham" arraigned. "Perfumes, indeed—how effeminate!" "Almond paste!—I wonder of what materials he thinks he must be made; soap would do for him as well as other people." "Feeding his poodle on chicken and sweet-breads!—what wicked waste, when there are so many poor starving." But wit cuts its bright way through the glass-door of public favour; and "Pelham" took its station, not only as a most entertaining novel, but as a satire, equally just, keen, and amusing. By the way, it is curious to remark how the affectations of one age are made up of the affectations of its predecessors: our present has gone back upon classical materials. What is its indifference, but stoicism made small for common use; its indolence, but a copy of the Lacedemonian, who, when an Athenian had been fined for idleness, requested to be introduced to the gentleman, "who had been punished for keeping up his dignity;" its gourmandism is but the luxury, without the magnificence of the Roman; and, as for perfumes, there was an ancient sage who perfumed his feet instead of his hair. "In the one case," as he justly observed, "the grateful odours ascended to his own nostrils, while, in the other instance, the sweetness but exhaled in the general air." Pelham was an incarnation of the spirit of the times, only with some fine talents and high qualities not quite so general. But the author's own words, in the preface to the second edition, best set forth his intentions.

"Nor have I indulged in frivolities for the sake of frivolity: under that which has the most semblance of levity, I have often been the most diligent in my endeavours to inculcate the substances of truth." "By treating trifles naturally, they may be rendered amusing ; and that which adherence to nature renders amusing, the same cause may also render instructive."

One great charm in "Pelham," and in all Mr. Bulwer's works, is the mind which shows itself in every part, and continually breaks out in some clear observation or true remark. An excellent English Rochefoucauld might be formed from his pages, only with all the