The Sun.
London, England, 1848-12-01 00:00:00

MAGAZINE DAY
BLACKWOOD.
Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton resumes his admirable
serial tale of " The Caxtons"—a narrative which has
imperceptibly gained upon our affections while it has
gradually secured our admiration. Although in a
great measure reminding us of the odd jocularity of
Sterne in its style, it is nevertheless infinitely beyond
a mere imitation. The resemblance is only such as
arises from a congeniality of temperament in the two
writers, and is perfectly compatible with the most
perfect independence of genius. if anything had
been required to demonstrate the extraordinary ver-
satility of this distinguished and industrious author,
a more brilliant evidence could scarcely have been
afforded than the domestic story which now
constitutes the principal attraction in Black-
wood. It is as unlike anything he has
ever before written as the mystic and beau-
tiful " Zanoni" is unlike the great prose epic of
" Eugene Aram," or as the flippant and sparkling
sarcasms of " Pelham" are different from the gor-
geous tableaux of " The last Days of Pompeii," or as
the rude drollery of " Paul Clifford" is the very
opposite of the melodious and poetic descriptions of
" Harold," or as the meditative chapters of the
" Student" are far from bearing any resemblance to
the graceful passages of " Night and Morning."
The stranger, who; goes by the name of Francis
Vivian, but who is no other we conjecture than the
lost scapegrace son of Captain Roland, becomes in
the present instalment of the novel the protege of
Pisistratus, and by correcting French manuscripts
for Mr. Trevanion, obtains a competent livelihood.
Brave old Roland falls ill from excessive agi-
tation, and in depicting his terrible malady, Bulwer
writes this exquisite and thrilling passage—a passage
the deep and awful truthfulness of which we have all
of us more or less most bitterly experienced :
" Happy those who are strange to that indescribable
silent bustle which the sick-room at times presents—
that conflict which seems almost hand to hand between
life and death—when all the poor, unresisting, uncon-
scious frame is given up to the war against its terrible
enemy; the dark blood flowing—flowing; the hand on
the pulse, the hushed suspense, every look on the physi-
cian's bended brow; then the sinaplasms to the feet, and
the ice to the head; and now and then, through the lull
or the low whispers, the incoherent voice of the sufferer
—babbling, perhaps, of green fields and fairyland, while
your hearts are breaking! Then, at length, the sleep—
in that sleep, perhaps, the crisis—the breathless watch,
the slow waking, the first sane words—the old smile
again, only fainter—your gushing tears, your low—
'Thank God! thank God!"
In this manner the old soldier recovers—lying after-
wards convalescent in a tavern called the Lamb,
near London-bridge. We miss Sir Sedley Beaude-
sert in this, the eighth, part of " The Caxtons ,_•" and
we regret it the more as the character has afforded
promise of being one of the most felicitously pen-
cilled in the whole of the Bulwer-Lytton Gallery.
The little ,incident in the Opera Colonnade--(a spot
which the writer describes, in a phrase of rather un-
necessary circumlocution, as the narrow passage run-
ning from Charles-street into Piccadilly, the other
precincts of her Majesty's theatre being familiarly
known as the Opera Piazza)—is admirably told, and
it is by no means difficult to perceive that, slight as
it is, it is destined to affect the tortunes of Fanny Tre-
vanion most powerfully. The love scene which follows
is beautiful beyond measure, short though it be.
While distracted with the knowledge of his love for
the young heiress, Pisistratus is poring over his
labours in the library of Trevanion, when he acci-
dentally discovers a miniature of Fanny among the
volumes.
" The painter had seized her peculiar expression—her
ineffable smile—so charming, so malicious; even her fa-
vourite posture,—the small head turned over the rounded
Hebe-like shoulder—the eye glancing up from under the
hair. I know not what change in my madness came
over me; but I sank on my knees, and, kissing the mi-
niatureldidn againot again,doo door
0 p en burst— intol
did tneoatr
sees. tSnuec h
shadow tears!
hear and
the
steal over the floor; a light hand rested on my shoulder,
trembling as it rested. I started—Fanny herself was
bending over me!
"' What is the matter?' she asked tenderly. What
has happenod?—your uncle—your family—all well?
Why are you weeping?'
" I could not answer; but I kept my hands clasped
over the miniature, that she might not see what they
contained.
"' Will you not answer? Am I not your friend?—al-
most your sister? Come, shall I call mamma?'
"' Yes—yes; go—go.'
" ' No, I will not go yet. What have you
.there?—
what are you hiding?'
" And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took
mine; and so—and so—the picture became visible!
There was a dead silence. I looked up through my
tears. Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek
was very flushed, her eyes downcast. I felt as if I had
committed a crime—as if dishonour clung to me; and
yet I repressed—yes, thank Heaven! I repressed the
cry that swelled from my heart, that rushed to my lips
—' Pity me, for I love you! I repressed it, and only
a groan escaped me—the wail of my lost happiness!"
They separate in confusion, and without any explana-
tion whatever. At last the passion and the interest of
the tale has commenced in earnest. A clever paper,
biographical and critical, on " Mrs. Hemans" opens
the number. It would have been immeasurably
more to our taste if it had not contained such a very
silly eulogium of Miss Mitford at the expense of
Washington Irving : see page 644. A terrible
chapter, called "Prophecies for the Present," will
be devoured with emotion, referring, as it does, to the
predictions of the Solitary of Orval, those of the
Jesuit of Poictiers, and those of Robert Fleming—
declaring that the world will be destroyed, " within
a period of fifty years from the present time."
There is something very awful in the German vatici-