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Thus when we are told that Wordsworth owed his fame to his moral elevation rather than to his "intellectual or aesthetic capacities," and that there is hardly an instance of the highest creative imagination in the whole range of his poetry, when we are informed that since Shakspeare no one "has laid bare the burning heart of passion" so perfectly as Byron, and when the question is triumphantly asked, "Where, out of Shakspeare, can we find such a series of female portraits as those" in Bulwer's "Rienzi," we feel inclined, in this association of Byron and Bulwer with Shakspeare, and this oversight of Wordsworth's claim to represent the highest original elements in the English poetry of the present century, to dispute Mr.
"Oh no," answered Vancouver, blandly, "I did not mean in this case. Harrington is very much in earnest. But it is like war, you see. When every one understands it thoroughly, it will stop by universal consent. Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Coming Race'?" "Yes," said Joe. "I always read those books. Vril, and that sort of thing, you mean? Oh yes." "Approximately," answered Vancouver.
Procter and the 'yellow-tressed Adelaide, then only eight or nine years old. Procter gave his visitor a volume of his own poems, and told him anecdotes of the various authors he had known, Hazlitt, Lamb, Keats, and Shelley. Another interesting entertainment was an evening party at Edward Bulwer's house.
He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer's novel of 'The Caxtons. Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy.
He was incessantly industrious, read extensively, and from failure went courageously onwards to success. 'Pelham' followed 'Falkland' within a year, and the remainder of Bulwer's literary life, now extending over a period of thirty years, has been a succession of triumphs. Mr. Disraeli affords a similar instance of the power of industry and application in working out an eminent public career.
Such, barring the style, was the tenor of many of the critiques upon Bulwer's writings which appeared about that period, and which, as is now well known, "wrought him much annoy," versatile and powerful as his genius has since proved itself.
The most respectable booksellers were engaged in a similar seizure of every new novel of Bulwer's, and every new work whatever, that had stood the experiment of success in England.
wrote the 'guru, in answer to his neophyte's half fearful question. Fitly underlined and sufficiently spaced, it was a statement calculated to awe, if only by its mendacity. I wonder if that chapter of Bulwer's would impress one now as it used to do then. It were better, perhaps, not to try. The next news of these mysteries was the conclusion of them.
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 highway-man," 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.
I don't believe you have heard one word I was saying. "'Oh yes, he replied, 'you were saying how much you and Miss Crawford were interested in the book. "'I had done with that, said she, shaking her bouquet at him playfully, 'I was asking you the name of his last work. "'Whose? Ah! Bulwer's I am stupid this morning, I must acknowledge.
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