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consolation. But you have not seen my home and all its attractions, ad led Bolingbroke with a smile, which reminded me of his former self. 'I will show them to you' And we turned our steps to the house.
we walked thither, I wondered to find how little melancholy was the change Boliugbroke had undergone. Ten years, which bring man from his prime to his decay, had indeed left a potent trace upon his stitely form, and the still unrivalled beauty of his noble features; but the m vier g:uined all that the form had lost. In his days of more noisy greatness, there had been something artificial and unquiet in the sparklig alterations he had loved to assume. He had been too food of ch'mgmg wisdom by a quick turn into wit-too fond of the affectation of bordering the serious with the gay--the business with the pleasure. If this had not taken from the polish of his manner, it had diminished its dignity, and given it the air of being assumed and insincere. Now all was quiet, earnest and impresive ; there was tenderness even in what was melancholy: and if there yet lingered the affectation of blending the classic character with his own, the character was more noble, and the affectation more unseen.
But this manner was only the faint mirror of a mind which, retaining much of its former mould, had been embellished and exalted by adversity, and which, if it banished not its former frailties, had acquired a thousand new virtues to redeem them.” Vol. ii. pp. 170–172.
With Bolingbroke, Devereux visits Pope, "a man who," as Bolingbroke reinarks, “ is wise, reflective, generous and affectionate; add these qualities to a dazzling wit and a genius deep, if not sublime, and what wonder that we forget something of vanity and something of fretfulness -effects rather of the frame than of the mind; the wonder is that with a body the victim of every disease, crippled and imbecile from the cradle his frailties should not be more numerous." We extract froin this brilliant interview the subjoined sketch.
"Pone, who is always flattered by an allusion to his negligence of fame, sipiled slightly and answered, “What man, alas, ever profits by the lessons of his friends ? How many exact rules has our good Dean of St. Patrick's laid down for both of us how angrily still does he chide us for our want of prudence and our love of good living. I intend, in answer to his charges on the latter score, though I vouch, as I well may, for our temperance, to give him the reply of the sage to the foolish courtier
66 What was that ?' asked Bolingbroke. “. Why, the courtier saw the sage picking out the best dishes at table, • How' said he, with a sneer, are sages such epicures ?'_Do you think, Sir, replied the wise man, reaching over the table to help himself, * do you think, Sir, that God Almighty made the good things of this world only for fools ?'
“ • How the Dean will pish and pull his wig, when he reads your illustration,' said Bolingbroke, laughing. We shall never agree in our reasonings on that part of philosophy. Swift loves to go out of his
way to find privation or distress, and has no notion of Epicurean wisdom;
for my part, I think the use of kriowledge is to make us happier. I would compare the mind to the beautiful statue of love by Praxiteleswhen its eyes were bandaged, the countenance seemed grave and sad, but the moment you removed the bandage, the most serene and enchanting smile diffused itself over the whole face.'
"So passed the morning, till the hour of dinner, and this repast was served with an elegance and luxury which les fils d'Apollon seldom command. As the evening closed, our conversation fell upon friendship, and the increasing disposition towards it which comes with increasing years.
•While my mind,' said Bolingbroke, 'shrinks more and more from the world, and feels in its independence less yearning to external objects, the ideas of friendship return oftener, they busy me, they warm me
Is it that we grow more tender as the moment of our great separation approaches ? or is it that they who are to live together in another state (for friendship exists not but for the good)begiu'to feel more strongly that divine sympathy which is to be the great bond of their future society.'
" While Bolingbroke was thus speaking, and Pope listened with all the love and reverence which he evidently bore to his friend, stamped upon his worn but expressive conntenance, I inly said, “Sure, the love between minds like these should live and last without the cbanges that ordinary affection feel! Who would not mourn for the strength of all human ties, if hereafter these are broken, and asperity succeed to friendship, or aversion to esteem ? 1, a wanderer, without heir to my memory and wealth, shall pass away, and my hasty and unmellowed fame will moulder with my clay; but will the names of those whom I now behold ever fall languidly ou the ears of a future race, and will not there forever be some sympathy with their friendship, softer and warmer than admiration for their fame.' " Vol. ii. pp. 178–179.
Although the extracts we have already made from this work have been exceedingly copious, we are, nevertheless, tempted by the fine execution of several other passages to continue them, from such portions of the Novel, as both in character, as well as incident, are purely fictitious.
The author is distinguished by no trait more remarkable than the fine glow with which he describes the material world, and the pbilosopbic movings awakened in his mind by its beautjes--take for example the following:
"I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother,' said I, throwing myself on the green turf by his side ; ' in truth you have chosen a fitting and fair place for siudy.'
66 • I have chosen,' said. Aubrey, 'a place meet for the peculiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we better read of the power and benevolence of God, than among the living testimonies of both. Beautiful !-how very beautiful – is this happy world; but I fear,' added Aubrey, and the glow of his countenance died away,— 1 fear that we enjoy it too much.
“ We hold different interpretations of our creed, then,' said I, for I esteem enjoyment the best proof of gratitude ; nor do I think we can pay a more acceptable duty to the Father of all Goodness, than by showing ourselves sensible of the favours he bestows upon us.' " Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not.
• Yes,' resumed I, after a pause-yes, it is indeed a glorious and fair world which we have for our inheritance. Look, how the sunlight sleeps yonder upon fields covered with golden corn, and seems, like the divine benevolence of which you spoke, to smile upon the luxuriance which its power created. This carpet at our feet, covered with flowers that breathe, sweet as good deeds, to Heaven—the stream that breaks through that distant copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending its voice through the hill and woodland, like a messenger of glad tidings, --the green boughs over our head, vocal with a thousand songs, all inspirations of a joy too exquisite for silence,--the very leaves, which seem to dance and quiver with delight,--think you, Aubrey, that these are so sullen as pot to return thanks for the happiness they imbibe with heing ;-what are those thanks but the incense of their joy? The flowers send it up to Heaven in fragrance-the air and the wave in music. Shall the heart of man be the only part of His creation that shall dishonour His worship with lamentation and gloom ? When the inspired writers call upon us to praise our Creator, do they not say to us, — Be joyful in your God?'
“ How can we be joyful with the judgment-day ever before us ?' said Aubrey-how can we be joyful,' (and here a dark shade crossed his countenance, and his lip trembled with emotion,)' while the deadly passions of this world plead and rankle at the heart. Oh, none but they who have known the full blessedness of a commune with Heaven, can dream of the whole anguish and agony of the conscience, when it feels itself sullied by the mire and crushed by the load of earth!' Aubrey paused, and bis words—his tone-his look-made upon me a powerful impression. I was about to answer, when, interrupting 'me, he said, 'Let us talk not of these matters,--speak to me on more worldly topics.
Vol i. pp. 71-72.
It was the misfortune of Devereux to be the aversion of a mother, whom he himself loved with a perfect idolatry-how passionate and thrilling is this aposthrophe of filial love.
“ Yes! how fondly, how tenderly I loved her!
What tears-secret, but deep-bitter, but unreproaching—have I retired to shed, when I caught her cold and anaffectionate glance. How (unnoticed and uncared for) have I watched, and prayed, and wept, without her door, when a transitory sickuess or suffering detained her within ; and how, when stretched myself upon the feserish bed, to which my early weakness of frame often condemned me, bow eagerly have I counted the moments to her punctilious and brief visit, and started as I caught her footstep, and felt my heart leap within me as she approached; and then, as I heard her cold tone, and looked upon her unmoved face, how bitterly have I turned away with all that repressed and crushed affection
which was construed into sullenness or disrespect. O mighty and enduring force of early associations, which almost seems, in its unconquerable strength, to partake of an innale prepossession, that binds the son to the mother, who concealed him in her womb, and purchased life for him with the travail of death!-fountain of filial love, which "coldness cannot freeze, por injustice imbitter, nor pride divert into fresh channels, 'nor time, and the hot suns of our toiling manhood, exhaust even at this moment, how livingly do you gush upon my heart, and water with your divine waves the memories tbat yet flourish amidst the sterility of years!" Vol. i. p. 79.
We have thus, without impairing the gratification which such of our readers as have not seen the work, may derive from a perusal of it, affordert some specimens of the ability with which it is executed. Taken as a whole, we are disposed to assign to it fully as high a place as to “Pelbam,” or the “Disowned.” The interest of the plot is more perfect than that of either, whilst the spirit of its dialogue and the vivacity of its delineations, are as brisk and sparkling. It is liable, however, to the objection of being a repetition of the good and bad things in both those novels. Thus, the character and situation of the hero as a lover and a husband, are, with a very little variety, the same as Mørdaunt's in the latter work, and all the fashionable and literary conversation smacks of both of them. As to his success in the very delicate and perilous undertaking of painting the society of the wits, both French and English, of that day, we hardly know what to say of it. Some of it appears to us very well doue-but upon
the whole, we are dissatisfied with this part of the work. As to transfusing the spirit of Parisian manners and conversation, in all their perfection, into English, we take it to be totally out of the question. The very difference of idioms-of the genius of the language-to go no further, forbids it. That perfect freedom, chastened by the most exquisite refinement, and, in its turn giving so much piquancy to this refinement—which is the great charm of French conversation-degenerates in such imitations, into a vulgar familiarity, a snappish flippancy, and the buffounery of a comedy dell'arte. Rousseau's description of this unrivalled style of conversation in the “Nouvelle Heloise," is well known; and both he and Madame de Staël agree that it exists no where else but at Paris, and that none but those who have been familiar with the best company there, can have an adequate idea of it. Placed, for instance, by the side of that painted from the life by Grimm, what shall we say of this picture? We do not know how far contemporary authority may bear him out, but such expressions as sacre bleu and vive ia bagatelle, would be quite shocking in decent society now.
We cannot help adding, with respect to the lesson inculcated by the love of the hero for Isora, that it appears to us a very false one. It is, that first love, boyish love as it is called, is the perfection of the passion, and that even this can exist only for a moment, and is “no sooner blown than blasted." The result is, of course, that the death of the dear one in the first extasies of this blissful trance in the bloom of young desire and purple light of love' -is devoutly to be wished. You must become a widower in the honey-moon, or survive your passion-for the wife, it seems, must cease to be an object of passion. This is a feature in which this picture differs from that of Mordaunt's love, and in which it is, in our judgment, decidedly inferior both in truth and interest. It is a German fantasy, and has, we venture to say, no foundation in nature, whatever it may have in custom, as we shall endeavour to shew more at large hereafter. Artificial, however, and strained as his system in this respect is, he often rises to a inost brilliant and poetical strain, when he dwells upon the raptures of the passion.
That, bating this little exception, however, the moral of “Devevereux” is more perfect and better sustained than that of its
predecessors, will appear even from some of the extracts which we have furnished, whilst there is no forced arrangement in the destinies of the several dramatis persona to establish, to be sure, a very pleasing, but often an unnatural poetical justice. The story ends with a signal act of retribution, in the punishment of the atrocious villainy of the Jesuit Montrueil-on whose dark and terrific character, so full of profound hypocrisy and unrepented criine, the author has lavished the whole wealth of his imagination; but he leaves his hero with a widowed and desolate heart, supporting the burden of existence, only through the consolations of that religion which are better than man's pbilosophy.
That the work is disfigured by some of the defects of “Pelham" and the “ Disowned,” we have already remarked. The fondness of the author to depict the heartless frivolity and absurd dandyism of high life, breaks out with its usual effect of dullness and insipidity; while, on the contrary, scenes of passion are sometimes overdone, and the style and diction are still more frequently overcharged. But in spite of these spots, enough remains to vindicate the claiin of the author of “Pelbam,” to be regarded as one of the most promising writers of the present day. If we could hope that he would hear a monitory, though friendly voice, from this side of the Atlantic, we should conjure him to restrain rather than to encourage that teeming fertility