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442 the one they are taken in the spirit of satire; in the other, they are taken in that of philosophy. If "Pelham" and the "Disowned" were different, "Devereux" was equally opposed to either. For ourselves, we are free to confess, that "Devereux" is our favourite of all Mr. Bulwer's works. It is at once an historical, a philosophical, and a poetical novel. The historical scenes have that which is usually admitted as the great merit of historical fiction, verisimilitude—if not exactly what people did do, it was exactly what they might be supposed to have done: to use a theatrical phrase, the illusion is well supported. But they have also another great and peculiar merit, the lesson pointed for the apprehension of even the most careless reader. Moral knowledge is the fine gold extracted from the crucible of moral satire. The interview between the Czar and Devereux is an admirable and forcible exposition of a great truth: we allude to the scene where the influence of shame in punishment is illustrated by the difference between the Russian and the German, while under the discipline of the knout. The same remark may apply to the inimitable scenes in Paris. The spirit of that age of epigrams was never so caught by an English writer before. But we draw no false inferences: the dust is diamond-dust, and it sparkles;—it is not thrown in our eyes. We see that it was a time equally witty and worthless; and the same glance which takes in its brilliancy also reveals its baseness. Lord Bolingbroke's* character is the most original feature in "Devereux." Historical personages have often lent "the magic of a name" to the fictitious page: but this is the first instance of historical research, philosophical investigation, and the fellow-feeling of a noble mind being devoted to embody, and to appreciate the merits of one to whom historians (we will not say history) have shown scant mercy and less justice. The various conversations in which Bolingbroke takes part, the just observations which throw such light on his sentiments, the eloquent appreciation of his excellence, the clear reasoning on his motives, are the perfection (if we may use such a phrase) of dramatic biography. Mr. Bulwer himself says, "that to do justice to a great man is the highest of literary pleasures;" and in this analysis of Bolingbroke, we know not which most to admire, the truth of the defence, or the generous warmth of the defender. The tomb of one great man is the altar of another. One very futile objection against this noble impersonation has been urged by the Chinese of criticism, or rather its Chancery barristers, who refer every thing to precedent;—that, forsooth, "a novel is not the proper place for political or historical discussion." Why, we would ask, is truth to be debarred from taking its most effective, because most popular form? Such critics are either strangely behind, or wilfully blind, to their own time, who deny the importance of the novel. In works of imagination, a novel has been the Aaron's rod which has swallowed up the rest. If a few great writers choose any one vehicle for their talents, hundreds of their inferiors will choose the same mode, and follow in the track in which they never could have led. We do firmly believe great popularity is