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Updated: May 11, 2025
And he went into the outer shop, and returned with a volume of Bulwer's "Ernest Maltravers." "What! are you a novel reader, Mr. Mackaye?" "How do ye ken what I may ha' thocht gude to read in my time? Yell be pleased the noo to sit down an' begin at that page an read, mark, learn, an' inwardly digest, the history of Castruccio Cesarini an' the gude God gie ye grace to lay the same to heart."
The immorality must be found, if anywhere, as Portia insisted, in the charm with which vice is invested. But is it so invested in this play? It used to be urged against Bulwer's early novels that they made scoundrels fascinating, and that boys after reading them would prefer rascals to honest men. If that had been the fact, the novels would have been justly open to that censure.
Some of us exhumed neglected treasures, and I remember that I was fooled by Bulwer's commendation of Charron into reading that feebler Montaigne. The Southerner, always conservative in his tastes and no great admirer of American literature, which had become largely alien to him, went back to his English classics, his ancient classics.
Disraeli had got into the House of Commons at last, and his "Vivian Grey" was fully ten years old. So was Bulwer's "Pelbam" the author of which also aided in forming the literary element of the House of Commons in the Queen's first Parliament. Mrs. Gore, Mrs. Trollope, Miss Mitford, Mrs. S. C. Hail, and Harriet Martinean represented under very different aspects the feminine side of fiction.
Bulwer's "Autobiography of Pelham," a faithful and complete account. "Lawson's Hotel" has likewise its merits, as also the "Hotel de Lille," which may be described as a "second chop" Meurice.
They have a right to be; for while genius may do harm as well as good, Bulwer never does harm, and in spite of sickly sentiment and sham philosophy, is uniformly instructive, amusing, and edifying. "To love her," wrote Dick Steele of a certain great dame, "is a liberal education;" and we might almost say the same of the reading of Bulwer's romances.
The cranes that flew over Khartoum in their thousands, and with their curious cry, put him in mind of the poems of Schiller, which few ever read, but which he admired highly, though he only knew them in Bulwer's translation. He wrote little disquisitions on Plutarch and purgatory, on the fear of death and on the sixteenth chapter of the Koran.
He had been known, also, to write poetry, and had a retired and romantic air greatly bewitching to those who read Bulwer's novels. In short, it was morally certain, according to all rules of evidence, that if he had chosen to pay any lady of the village a dozen visits a week, she would have considered it as her duty to entertain him.
I accordingly overhauled the chests of the crew, but found nothing that suited me exactly, until one of the men said he had a book which ``told all about a great highwayman, at the bottom of his chest, and, producing it, I found, to my surprise and joy, that it was nothing else than Bulwer's Paul Clifford.
My object is to reinstate it; and you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young politician in Bulwer's 'My Novel, who seeks to restore the family fortunes, and brighten up the lonely old house in Yorkshire, is it? You remember?" "Yes," I said. "Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you say: granted; but he is resolute and brave and his object is noble."
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