Julia stopped suddenly-for on casting around, she perceived herself no longer in the hearing of her husband. He had taken his hat and overcoat, and left the house precipitately, with a determination never to enter its walls again. The night was an unhappy one to Julia; for it required but little reflection to convince her that her conduct was most unbecoming and cruel toward her husband-though it afforded him no sufficient apology for hastily abandoning her, as he did. She knew also, that his disposition would not allow him readily to grant her forgiveness, even were it in her power to ask it. On the following morning, a hat, supposed to be Henry Lee's, was found near the margin of the river, in the town of ——, in which he resided, at the distance of about twenty miles from Hartford, (Conn.) Search was now immediately made for him; every part of the river in the vicinity was closely examined, and persons were despatched to the neighboring towns, in the hope that possibly he might yet be among the living. This hope was cherished with the more confidence, from the fact that he had always appeared to view the act of self-murder with great horror. Julia, though suffering severely for her own ill-conduct, and filled with fear, could not believe that he had committed suicide. The conclusion, however, in the public mind was, that Henry Lee was dead; and his death, accompanied with the supposed circumstances attending it, was announced in the papers. Time passed on. Julia, for several weeks, still entertained hopes that her husband would return to her. She felt, indeed, that she could not leave this world, without first hearing, from his own lips, the word of pardon. But hope finally ceased to administer to her any relief; and she was compelled not only to look upon herself as a widow, but almost as the murderess of her husband! What remorse--what sorrow did she feel! She awoke from disturbed and frightful slumbers in the morning, only to realize the depth of her grief, in sensible and sober reflection. She could now see what happiness was, from experiencing the extremes of misery. Bitterly did she repent that she had reproached her husband for his poverty, when in comparatively happy circumstances-for she saw before her a scene only of want-a life of wretchedness. We pass over a few years in the life of this unhappy woman, without detailing the many instances of pain which she experienced. Her path was beset with troubles and sorrow, and the messenger of death often seemed about to deliver to her the last summons. We turn to a more pleasant part of the picture.It was in the year 17—, when a gentleman, far advanced in years, rode up to the miserable dwelling of Julia Lee in a costly and splendid carriage. On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young Miss, apparently about ten years of age, who invited him to walk in. He accepted the invitation, and at once made known the object of his visit. He had heard of the wretchedness of the poor woman and her daughter. He had come to afford them relief. His first request was, that the mother should allow him to take her daughter, Mary, and call her his own child. His next was, that she should herself accompany them to his residence in Hartford, and consider herself at home in his family during the few remaining years of his life. Julia consented-though not without some hesitancy, and a secret apprehension that all would not prove right. They reached Hartford just at sunset. The evening was enchantingly delightful; and, in spite of all the causes of her unhappiness, Julia felt invigorated from the ride, and a secret joy stole through her heart at witnessing with how much pleasure her daughter relished this, to her, novel mode of exercise and amuse ment. "This is my house," said the old gentleman, as he reined his horse up to a magnificent mansion on street, near the centre of the town. The truth at once burst upon the mind of Julia. She had seen the house before; it had, in her happier days, been pointed out to her by her friend Adams, as his uncle's. She could not be mistaken ;—it was even so. She had time only to raise her heart in thanks to God for His goodness, before she and her daughter were welcomed into the house by Mr. Harwood and his not less kind and benevolent wife. With that night came more happiness to the bosom of Mrs. Lee, than she had experienced for a long, long time before. Hunger and want disturbed not her repose-and her pillow was no longer a pillow of straw. But for the remembrance of the unpleasant scenes of the past, she would have been happy indeed. But the past could not be blotted from her mind. Her reflections, however, were those of a repenting heart; and most devoutly and sincerely did she pray to be pardoned for the faults, which had already brought upon her so much wretchedness. She felt a secret assurance that she was forgiven. She was awoke in the morning by the voice of her daughter, who, with joyous countenance, was eagerly calling her attention to the ornaments of the room, and the happy contrast between their present and former condition. "Oh, how happy should we be, mother," said she, "if my dear father were here! Would he not come, mother, if he knew we lived in so pretty a place? I am sure he would. Can you not send for him, mother?" Mrs. Lee could not repress her tears. "Do you not know, my daughter, that your father is dead? We can never see him again ;" answered the mother. "But we will be happy now, mother. I am sure I would not weep-for you have wept enough. I will work for you, and be a good girl, mother. This kind old gentleman will take care of us." The little girl was correct in the belief that the old gentleman would provide for them; for he proved a guardian to them, indeed. They all soon became warmly attached to each other; and Mr. Harwood was every day strengthened in the opinion, that he had extended the aiding hand in the right direction. He immediately placed Mary at school, where she made great progress. Mrs. Lee had not neglected the moral and intellectual improvement of her daughter; and the superior advantages now secured to her for acquiring a finished education, were highly appreciated by both. In the course of a few years, during which time nothing unusual transpired in the history of the family, Mary found herself esteemed one of the most accomplished proved my entire destruction, have I encountered. I have sought rest in various undertakings, in which others seemed to experience it; but sought in vain. I despair of ever realizing it, until the past shall be irrevocably buried in oblivion." "It cannot be that your character is stained by crime, and that you are fleeing from the hand of justice!" exclaimed Mary, with surprise. "If so, we have no protection for you here. Explain yourself," said she, "or we shall be obliged to call the police." young ladies in her circle of acquaintance. She was particularly partial to the study of the French, and frequently expressed the wish that she might become a perfect scholar in that language. Mr. Harwood narrowly watched the disposition and inclination of his adopted daughter. He saw with peculiar pleasure her love of knowledge, and witnessed her extreme anxiety to become mistress of her favorite study. He soon determined to place her in a situation, where her wishes could not fail to be gratified. He had a brother-in-law, named Jeffreys, who resided in France, having married "I am guilty of a great offence," replied the poor a French lady, and adopted that country as his perma-beggar; "but I flee from no human hand of justice. nent residence. In choosing France for his home, he The upbraidings of my conscience alone, are what chose its language also, and soon nearly ceased to speak most disturb me, and what I would most wish to be his own. Mr. Harwood at once made arrangements relieved of. Would that it were in my power to heal to place Mary under his protection. She had now the wound that I, a long time ago, inflicted in the heart reached the age of seventeen, when he communicated of her whom I solemnly swore to protect, defend, and to her the object he had in view. She received the support, before all others! But the deep, dark gulf of proposition with much joy. Though warmly attached death forever separates us! Poor girl! she sunk in to home, she nevertheless entertained the idea that it sorrow to the grave, with no one to soothe the aching would be a very pleasant thing to visit France, aside heart-hastened to her end, it may be, by the very from the advantages afforded of perfecting herself in want of the necessaries of life to sustain her! And the French language. her sweet infant too must have soon followed her!-a Arrangements being completed, Mary took her de- daughter, who would have been our comfort and solace parture for Paris. On the voyage, which was a long through life! Oh the danger-the fatal results of pasand tedious one, she more than once wished herself sion! She reproached me for my poverty--she earsafely in the arms of her mother. Her courage, how-nestly affirmed that she would be happier without me! ever, did not entirely forsake her; and she finally With wounded pride, jealous, and filled with passion, reached the end of her journey without experiencing | I hastily abandoned her. I purposely refused myself any serious difficulties. She was kindly received by Mr. Jeffreys, who had been apprised of her intended visit. She now pursued her studies under the direction of one of the most popular teachers in Paris--devoting ber attention more particularly to the acquisition of the language of the country. She was also much aided in her pursuit, by the son of Mr. Jeffreys, whose qualifications enabled him to be of great service to her. But a few months had passed, before she found herself prepared to speak the language quite fluently; and the pleasure she derived from conversing with young Jeffreys, and others with whom she became acquainted, tended greatly to relieve her mind from the depression she frequently experienced, in reflecting on the distance which separated her from her home and dearest friends. About two years had elapsed since her arrival in France, when Mary received a letter from her mother, earnestly desiring her to return home. She was sitting at the open window of the parlor, perusing this letter, when a man, miserably clad, and with dejected countenance, came toward her-and, addressing her in broken French, humbly begged a morsel of bread to save himself from starvation. Her heart was open to the petition, and his request was at once granted. Observing him to be an Englishman, and anxious to learn what misfortune could have reduced him to so miserable a condition, she addressed him in her own tongue, and invited him into the house. "Sir," said she, "you are a stranger in these parts, I presume; what calamity can have brought you to so wretched a condition ?" time for reflection, before embarking for a distant land, where I well knew I should be beyond the knowledge of all who should seek me! Nay, I took especial pains to create the impression that I had put an end to my existence. But a few months after-having determined to return to her-I heard incidentally that she had died under that awful impression! The circumstances were related in a journal which fell into my hands at the time; and though names were withheld, I was convinced I could not be mistaken. I then dared not return; and sought to banish the recollection of the subject, by constantly searching for new objects to interest and absorb my attention. I have travelled the world over; but life itself has been constantly a burden to me. I have lost all hope of ever bettering my condition. I am indeed far more miserable than even my appearance indicates. No, lady, I flee from the pursuit of no living being; for no punishment can be more severe than that I have already suffered." "But where," eagerly inquired Mary, "is your native place?" "I am an American," he replied; "and proud am I of my country-though I expect never to return to it." "From what part of America are you?" she continued-more and more interested in his history. "The town of, in the state of Connecticut. My father was a poor man; and my wife, who before our marriage, was usually designated as the 'accomplished Julia,' died before she attained the age of maturity." "I am what the world may well call a son of misfortune," he replied; "many a dark cloud has hovered over my path, and many a storm, which has nearly is my father!" She was on the point of throwing herself into his arms, when he arose to meet her, anxiously inquiring: ERNEST MALTRAVERS: By the Author of "Pelham," "Eugene Aram,"" Rienzi," &c. &c. In two volumes. New York. Harpers & Brothers. 1837. The inexhaustible fountain of Mr. Bulwer's "Mary, my child! Can it be possible that you live to witness the sorrow and misery of your wicked father! Oh, I discover in you now the image of your own poor mother! Tell me--how came you here? What genius continues to pour out upon the literary breeze of fortune hath borne you onward to so favor-world its beautiful effusions. Its waters seem as able a condition? Oh, my wife! would to heaven I could call thee to life again!" he exclaimed, weeping and sobbing most bitterly. "Stay, father!--she lives! she lives!" cried Mary. "My own dear mother still lives to bless you!" pure and limpid as the mountain stream, and sweet as the honey of Hymettus. But alas! those who drink of them too deeply, I fear will find them poison to the soul! Among the writers of the present day, there are "What! Julia-my wife? still lives! Gracious hea-none who have a stronger hold upon the public ven! may I dare to meet her! Oh lead me-yes-lead taste than Edward Lytton Bulwer. Even on this me before her. I deserve no favor from her; but she side of the Atlantic, his productions are eagerly knows I was not alone to blame-and she will forgive sought after by every class of readers. He has me-yes, she will forgive me!" something to fascinate all; love-sick scenes for "Oh, I bless the fortune that has brought us together!" said Mary. "Compose yourself, my father--love-sick girls and amorous boys; fashionable life and you shall soon know all. Mother still resides in for modish gentlemen, who look to an English Connecticut. We were wretchedly poor and needy; novel as "a glass wherein to dress themselves;" but a good old gentlemen, by the name of Harwood, heroic achievements for gallant and romantic came one day and took us to his home in Hartford, youth; profound reflection for the philosophic mind, where she is invited to remain so long as he lives. It is and intimate knowledge of human life for the man by his kindness and generosity also that I am here of the world. Withal, the incidents of his tales pursuing my studies. I was preparing to return have often the deepest interest, though the plot is having, the moment you accosted me, received a letter not always without objection; and they are confrom my mother, desiring me to embark for home im- veyed in a style, which though by no means faultless, is often brilliant and always vigorous and striking. mediately." "The poor man was nearly overcome at so unexpected a meeting-with intelligence at once so gratifying, and the prospect of being again united to the bosom companion of his early days. No time was now lost. The next packet that sailed, took the father and daughter to the shores of their own native country and home. And here let me remark, that on leaving, Mary failed not to give young Jeffreys a most pressing invitation to visit America at as early a day as his engagements would permit. I need not describe the meeting of the long separated husband and wife. Suffice to say, it was affecting in It is a sad thing that such uncommon powers should be so much misapplied. There is no man more capable than Mr. Bulwer of bringing efficient aid to the cause of virtue; none who could more powerfully inculcate a sublime morality; none who could more successfully penetrate the recesses of the heart, and expose its wicked workings, and its deceitful imaginings; none who could more beautifully portray the loveliness of virtue, or make vice more ugly. What an ally to a school of Ethics! Even our instructors in the extreme. Each felt to have been most in the wrong-each begged most earnestly to be forgiven by the other. The day was one of mutual congratulation the pulpit would scarcely decline the aid of such and joy; and that night were their hearts unitedly an auxiliary. While the professors of moral phiraised to God in humble and sincere prayer for the par-losophy, instead of imbuing the mind with practidon of all their misdeeds-for His protection against cal wisdom, lose themselves in the mazes of metathe unhappy consequences of PASSION-and for His physics, and the preacher of the gospel, intent constant guidance and blessing. only on its mysterics, neglects the inculcation of In less than one year from that time, Mr. Harwood those moral precepts which it was mainly deand his aged companion were both called to their re-signed to sustain and enforce, the talented novelist ward in Heaven; and Mary Lee, his adopted and only would come to the rescue." Holding the mirror child, came into possession of his immense estate, sub- up to nature, he would shew to vice its deformity, ject only to an annuity to her parents, sufficient to en- and win over converts to virtue by her attractive sure them a comfortable and affluent support while graces. He would pursue the wicked through all living. their deceitful windings, trace them through every doubling, and penetrate and expose their base and He would make meanness ignoble motives. blush-abase the selfish-unmask the hypocrite, and detect the cheat. He would appal the gambler, disgust the gross voluptuary with himself, and wither the seducer with the sight of his unhappy victims. On the other hand, his genius Mary's invitation to young Jeffreys was accepted. His visit was one of unusual interest to him, and not less so to her, whose hand he came to solicit. They were united and blessings ceased not to attend them. They avoided THE PERILS OF PASSION, by attending to the voice of wisdom, "whose ways," in the beautiful language of Scripture, are ways of pleasantness, and whose paths are peace." would give new charms to virtue. His pen would ried lady ought ever to read such productions. teach a sublime morality. It would elevate the They defile the mind of lovely and innocent wosoul by examples of nice honor, noble disinterest-man. They introduce into that mind, impure edness, heroic sacrifices, and a manful triumph and indelicate images of which it never would over the passions. It would hold up for our imitation, a purity without spot or blemish, a generous philanthropy, and all the gentler affections united to the severer virtues. Such are the elerated paths in which the novelist should tread. They lead to a renown not unworthy of the ambition of any man. The benefactor of his race is best entitled to the wreath of glory. If he who makes a blade of grass to grow where none had grown before, called forth the praise of one deeply versed in the philosophy of life, what language can convey the admiration which is due to him, who makes not a single virtue only spring up in the waste of the human heart, but eradicates every noxious plant, and sows thick the seeds of moral excellence. History has been said to be philosophy teaching by example: and fictitious history, if true to nature, has scarcely less claim to this exalted praise, than the faithful annals of the most philosophic historian. It may be doubted, indeed, whether the sober narration of actual events teaches half so effectually as the scenes of the drama, or the vivid creations of the novelist. How full of horror are the crimes of Richard, when blazoned by the genius of a Shakspeare! In the history we read the story of the monarch's crimes, but in the drama we behold the hellish workings of a demoniac spirit. have dreamed, and with which it should never become familiar. Say that it is true to nature: shall he who caters for the public, and mainly for the female public, fill his pages with what is vicious or disgusting, under the plea that it is natural? What apology is it for introducing us into a brothel, that the revolting scenes are delineated with truth? "Is everything that is natural to be represented on the stage?" asked Voltaire, in reference to the vulgarities of Shakspeare-illustrating his remark at the same time by an allusion as coarse and as vulgar as those of the author whom he criticised. By no means. He who selects an improper subject, which in its development must bring a burning blush upon the modest cheek, is worthy of all censure. To say the least, it is in wretched taste. What cannot decently be read by a gentleman to a lady, is not fit to be read by either, and especially by the latter. Good sense, therefore, will promptly reject whatever is impure, nor soil its pages with a tale equally offensive to modesty and taste. But "the head and front" of Mr. Bulwer's offending hath not this extent only. The whole force of his genius is sedulously employed in softening down the ugliness of vice. His favorite object seems to be to lessen our abhorrence of crimes, by exhibiting them in connection with eminent qualities. Vice, thus associated with elevation of character and exalted virtues, is forgotten or forgiven in our admiration of them; and our principles are undermined by the love of virtue itself. The great moralist has said,—and truly said, Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, But however qualified Mr. Bulwer may be for the office of censor morum, and however great the services he might render, as the apostle of truth and virtue, by a proper direction of his acknowledged abilities, it cannot be denied that there is much in his writings the tendency of which is directly and grossly immoral. I do not speak of the want of what is usually called "poetical justice;" I do not here complain of his preference for fictions, which terminate "with the affliction of the good and the triumph of the unprincipled;" of vice to the mere influence of habit. The I do not insist that he should violate the ordinary occurrences of human life, which often exhibit virtue in distress and vice in prosperity; though the instructor of manhood would naturally prefer so to cast his plot, and to mould his fable, as to give to merit its due, and to vice its condign punishment; but I impute to Mr. Bulwer the fostering of vice by exhibiting it in the most alluring colors by softening down its revolting features, and taking off the odium which it always should inspire; and notwithstanding the beautiful moral sentiments which are scattered through his works, I will venture to affirm that no young man rises from the perusal of his last novel, without a consciousness that certain vices seem to him more venial than before. No young lady-nay, no mar crimes of his heroes are redeemed by resplendent qualities, and the genius of the writer wins our pity for villains, who should rouse our indignation. The instances of this predilection are not unfrequent in the works of Mr. Bulwer. Take the character of Reginald Glanville, the real hero of Pelham, who begins life with seduction, and well nigh ends it with murder and the gallows. Yet withal he is a most interesting character, and excites our admiration and sympathy. Take Eugene Aram. What laborious efforts to clothe that felon with all the inspiration of genius, with the acquisitions of the scholar, and the sentiments of a man of virtue, while he delights by his intelligence, and is invested with all the graces of a fine exterior and prepossessing manners! Who VOL. IV-7 Justice is not done, however, to the character of Maltravers by this general outline. He is represented in the work as of a noble and com rises from his history without a sigh for his fate? | Norman line, with all the pride of that noble race, Who reads the catastrophe without sympathy for and all the virtuous aspirations of well bred and the murderer? And are these sentiments which well educated youth. Mr. Bulwer draws his should be cultivated by the wise and good? character for the reader in his prefatory address. Would Mr. Bulwer desire to diminish the odium" He is a man with the weaknesses derived from against crime, and to eradicate the ingenuous re- humanity-with the strength that we inherit from voltings of the heart from deeds of infamy? Would the soul; not often obstinate in error, more often he break down the barriers between virtue and irresolute in virtue; sometimes too aspiring, somevice, and teach the rising generation, who pore times too despondent; influenced by the circumover his speculations by the midnight lamp, to stances to which he yet struggles to be superior, look upon those barriers as erected by the false and changing in character with the changes of prejudices of society? If he would not, let him time and fate; but never wantonly rejecting those no more introduce to us the most corrupting vices great principles, by which alone we can work out in the most alluring guise. Above all, let him the science of life,-a desire for the good, a pasnot assail human virtue in its weakest point. Let sion for the honest, a yearning after the true." not his tales furnish apologies for an offence, to which the passions, though unprompted, too naturally lead. He seems to have flattered himself,* that his works have at least had a tendency to di-manding presence; his spirit resolute and intrevert the young from the imitation of the villains of the Byron school, by the examples which he sets before them. Speaking of Pelham, he says, "it contributed to put an end to the satanic mania-to turn the thoughts and ambition of young gentlemen without neckcloths, and young clerks who were sallow, from playing the corsair and boasting that they were villains." He seems to be content to have multiplied crime by diminishing its intensity; for let him be assured that there is not one who will play the corsair for ten thousand who would be seduced by the imposing character of Ernest Maltravers, and by the alluring scenes of illicit love, which are spread before their eyes in the pernicious work, the title of which stands at the head of this article. "The satanic mania" will always find a salutary check in the terrors of Jack Ketch; but the Lovelaces, and the Lotharios, and the Maltravers' will riot without a compunctious visiting, when even the restraints of public opinion are withdrawn, and illicit love has ceased to inspire for the shameless culprits, the just indignation of every virtuous mind. It is my purpose to offer some remarks upon the adventures of Maltravers; not indeed from the critic's chair, Mr. Editor, for I am no critic. I am a plain old man-bred up in the simple manners of the "Old Dominion," where seduction is heard of only in romances, and conjugal infidelity may be said to be unknown. Her judicial decisions, from the revolution to the present day, have not the blot of a single case of crim. con.; and unless our manners are corrupted by foreign romances, or our own home manufacture of the like pernicious stuff, we may hope to retain for generations to come, a purity which has never been surpassed in any age or nation. ERNEST MALTRAVERS is one of the last works of Mr. Bulwer. The hero is a young man of the Preface to Pelham. pid, his manners fascinating and graceful. His character is decidedly intellectual; his mind highly cultivated, his tastes refined, his conversation brilliant and profound, and his aspirations are all for literary renown, or the noble distinction of a great, a pure and disinterested statesman. His love of virtue is deep-seated and pervading; his principles elevated and noble, his tendencies decidedly religious; while his firmness and decision forbid the fear of vacillation, either from infirmity of temper or the seductions of the passions. He is indeed certainly not the creature of feeling,— by no means particularly susceptible. Except in his liaison with Alice Darville, (which by the way is wholly at variance with his character, as afterwards developed,) he exhibits little of the ardor of youth in his intercourse with the sex. He is on the other hand rather cold and fastidious, either from pride, insensibility, or devotion to higher objects, and difficult of conquest, though the favorite of the fair. From such a character, we should scarcely have expected, in his very outset, the grossest violations of that virtue after which he is represented as so anxiously yearning-yet the author plunges him at once into guilt. He had been educated at Gottingen, in obedience to his own whim, and was returning to a kind and indulgent father, in the north of England. He travels on foot, and finds himself benighted on a wild and desolate common. He makes for a light which proceeds from an humble cottage, whose only inmates are a ruffian, with his beautiful daughter, a girl of fifteen. The offer of a guinea for a guide, and the exposure of his watch excite the cupidity of the villain, who urges him to spend the night there. He consents, but the daughter takes occasion to warn him as she retires, that he would be robbed and murdered. A scene ensues, which reminds one of a similar incident in the history of Ferdinand Count Fathom. The doors are locked, the keys remo |