Marginalia, Part II [pp. 292-296]

opinion whatever of the poem to which it refers.' The "only rivalled in each by himself," here,
" Give a dog a bad name," &c. Whenever a puts me in mind of
book is abused, people take it for granted that it
is I who have been abusing-it.
Latterly I have read "Saul," and agree with
the epigrammatist, that it "will do"-whoever
attempts to wade through it. It will do, also,
for trunk-paper. The author is right in calling
it " A Mystery:"-for a most unfathomable mys tery it is. When I got to the end of it I found
it more mysterious than ever-and it was really
a mystery how I ever did get to the end-which I half fancied that somebody had cut off, in a fit
of ill-will to the critics. I have heard not a syl. lable about the " Mystery," of late days. " The
People," seem to have forgotten it; and Mr.
Coxe's friends should advertise it under the head
of "Mysterious Disappearance"-that is to say,
the disappearance of a Mystery.
The pure Imagination chooses, from either
Beauty or Deformity, only the most combinable
things hitherto uncombined; the compound, as
a general rule, partaking, in character, of beauty,
or sublimity, in the ratio of the respective beauty
or sublimity of the things combined-which are
themselves still to be considered as atomic-that
is to say, as previous combinations. But, as
often analogously happens in physical chemistry,
so not unfrequently does it occur in this chemis try of the intellect, that the admixture of two
elements results in a something that has nothing
of the qualities of one of them, or even nothing
of the qualities of either... Thus, the range of
Imagination is unlimited. Its materials extend
throughout the universe. Even out of deformities it fabricates that Beauty which is at once its
sole object and its inevitable test. But, in general, the richness or force of the matters combined; the facility of discovering combinable
novelties worth combining; and, especially the
absolute "chemical combination" of the completed mass-are the particulars to be regarded in
our estimate of Imagination. It is this thorough
harmony of an imaginative work which so
often causes it to be undervalued by the thoughtless, through the character of obviousness which
is superinduced. We are apt to find ourselves
asking why it is that these combinations have
never been imagined before.
'" He (Bulwer) is the most accomplished writer of the most
accomplished eraof English Letters; practising all styles and
classes of composition, and eminent in all-novelist, dramatist, poet, historian, moral philosopher, essayist, critic, po.
litical pamphleteer;-in each superior to all others, and
only rivalled in each by himself."
Ward —uthor of" Tremaine."
None but himself can be his parallel.
But surely Mr. Ward (who, although he did
write "De Vere," is by no means a fool) could
never have put to paper, in his sober senses, anything so absurd as the paragraph quoted above,
without stopping at every third word to hold his
sides, or thrust his pocket-handkerchief into his
mouth. If the serious intention be insisted upon,
however, I have to remark that the opinion is
the mere opinion of a writer remarkable for no
other good trait than his facility at putting his
readers to sleep according to rules Addisonian
and with the least possible loss of labor and
time. But as the mere opinion of even a Jeffrey or a Macaulay, I have an inalienable right
to meet it with another.
As a novelist, then, Bulwer is far more than
respectable; although generally inferior to Scott,
Godwin, D'Israeli, Miss Burney, Sue, Dumas,
Dickens, the author of " Ellen Wareham," the
author of " Jane Eyre," and several others.
From the list of foreign novels I could select a
hundred which he could neither have written
nor conceived. As a dramatist, he deserves
more credit, although he receives less. His
"Richelieu," "Money" and "Lady of Lyons",
have done much in the way of opening the public eyes to the true value of what is superciliously termed "stage-effect" in the hands of one
able to manage it. But if commendable at this
point, his dramas fail egregiously in points more
important; so that, upon the whole, he can be
said to have written a good play, only when we
think of him in connexion with the still more
contemptible "old-dramatist" imitators who are
his contemporaries and friends. As historian,
he is sufficiently dignified, sufficiently ornate,
and more than sufficiently self-sufficient. His
"Athens" would have received an Etonian prize,
and has all the happy air of an Etonian prizeessay re-vamped. His political pamphlets are
very good as political pamphlets and very disreputable as anything else. His essays leave
no -doubt upon any body's mind that, with the
writer, they have been essays indeed. His
criticism is really beneath contempt. His moral
philosophy is the most ridiculous of all the moral
philosophies that ever have been imagined upon
earth.
"The men of sense," says Helvetius, "those
idols of the unthinking, are very far inferior to
the men of passions. It is the strong passions
which, rescuing us from sloth, can alone impart
to us that continuous and earnest attention necessary to great intellectual efforts."
When the Swiss philosopher here speaks of
Marginalia.
295
1849.]