The Sun.
London, England, 1866-02-12 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

Sir Bulwer Lytton's New Work.

The Lost Tales of itfiletus. By the Right Hon. Sir
Edward Buiwer Lytton, Bart., M.P. John
Murray.

Our English Boccacciii has never given a more
signal attestation of his genius than by the produc-
tion of this exquisite volume. It is doubtless true
that whatever may be the intrinsic value of the
other sources of his reputation—and they are suffi-
ciently numerous--the paramount and distinctive
fame of Sir Edward Lytton is the one long since
acquired by him as a Novelist. In that character
essentially, in defiance henceforth of all the fluctua-
tions and mutations of popular taste, he must ever
hold his own as the BULWER of English Literature.
And yet, quite apart from his repute as a Novelist,
ho has won distinction for himself of various
kinds and in hardly any one instance of what
can be called a secondary importance. As the
Poet of " King Arthur" (of itself a title of glory)
—as the Dramatist of " Richelieu," of " Money,'
and of " The Lady of Lyons"—as the Essayist of
"The Student," and of " Caxtoniana"--as the Lyrist
of the "Poems" (published like these "Lost Tales of
Miletus," by Murray)—as the administrative crea-
tor and organiser of British Columbia—Sir Bulwer
Lytton occupies, in each of -those widely contrast-
ing departments of intellectual enterprise, as
high ground, as recognisably conspicuous a distino-
tion—in his several capacities as Minister, that
is, as Lyrist, as Essayist, as Dramatist, as Poet—as
in that other and earlier eminence attained by him in
his more frequently assumed, and for that one reason
alone, we believe, his more widely appreciated capacity
as a Prose-Romancist, or in one word as a Novelist.
It is in this last-mentioned character, however, that
he has achieved for himself, we must repeat, his para-
mount or distinctive reputation in literature. As
the raconteur, as the fabulist, as the prose story-
teller, he has, for one thing, entered the lists of
letters the most frequently. It was there and as
such—with that device of Novelist upon his shield—
that he may be said to have won his spurs in the
lists of literature, and to have received the knightly
accolade. More than once since then, it might be
asserted without anything like extravagance, he has
achieved those distinctions, again and yet again,
by entering into the old familiar arena, so to
speak, with his vizor closed, now, par exemple,
as the author of " Godolphin," now again as
the author of " The Caxtons." It is, however, to
our thinking, among the distinctive peculiarities of
his genius, at once as Poet and as Novelist, that he is
never more unquestionably or more recognisably the
Poet than in the manifestation of his capacity as
Novelist, than when he takes pen in hand as a
Prose-Romancist. Insomuch is this the case with
him, that occasionally although writing in prose,
his prose is as rhythmical as though it were de-
signedly versification. Instance, many portions,
sometimes nearly a whole book together, of his
noble historical romance of " Harold"—a work the
composition of which, indeed, in the mere rapidity,
or rush of it—being written (the whole three
volumes) within the compass of no more than
three weeks—seems to breathe appreciably of the
influence of what the scholiasts called the poetic
eastrum or afflatus. Take as one momentary ex-
emplar of the rhythmical flow and pulsation of the
poetic prose of " Harold," those closing words of ch.
3, b. vii., where the deadly shafts of war, hurtling
through the air, hiss into the froth and turmoil of the
blood-stained water in quest of the life of Gyffyth
the Welsh monarch, when the voice of the
future sovereign of the Saxon race, the last of the
Saxon Kings of the hereafter, is heard resound-
ing above the clang of battle—" ' Hold !' cried
Harold the Earl—raising his hand on high—' No
dastard dart at the brave!' " Or take again almost
any portion of what might strictly be called the
"Romance" pur et simple, intensely and essentially
the Romance among all the romances, historical or
otherwise, coming to us from the hand of the same
author; his Romance of "Zanoni !" And it really
matters nothing whether attention be directed to
this end—for the proving of our case—to the be-
ginning of that work, to the middle of it, or to its
conclusion. Whether we turn to those opening pas-
sages of " Zanoni," where in poetic prose, in prose
it might almost be said lyrical in its character, the
love of Gaetone Pisani for his violin, his alter ego,
his praaturo, Liz narniton, Is eing, ay to 0pt..0.1,
as in alternate strophes and antistrophes !
Whether we turn again to one of the central
incidents of the same story, where, to the
rattle of the castanets, Glyndon dances with
Fillide in the bandit's lair—Tara- rara-ra ! Tara-
rara-ra !—by the sheen of the moonlight. Or,
whether, last not least of all—as proving the truth
of what we are here insisting upon—we turn to those
closing chapters of the same exquisite fiction [a
work of art, by the way, that—it is interesting to re-
member now immediately upon the morrow of the
great sculptor's death at Rome—was dedicated, at the
time of its original publication, in fitting terms, by
Bulwer, " Artist in Words," to Gibson, " Artist
whose ideas speak in Marble"] to those concluding
chapters, to that crowning book of " Zanoni," in
which the blood-stained Demons of the Great Revo-
lution in France, the formidable Leaders of the,
Reign of Terror, live and breathe once more in a
lurid atmosphere all their own : appearing and dis-
appearing in ghastly succession until the final clank
of the guillotine becomes audible—when a shriek is
heard " and the crowd laugh amidst the shout of
the countless thousands—and the axe descends and
blackness rushes on thy soul, Maximilien Robes-
pierre !" Numerous other instances quite as
notable in their way as those already given,
might be adduced from others among the famous
prose fictions of Sir Bulwer Lytton, demonstrating
quite as clearly as the foregoing excerpts from his
" Harold" and his "Zanoni," that he is, in the
manifestation of his genius, never more intensely or
more essentially a Poet than in his character as a
Novelist, than in his capacity as a Prose-Romancist.
Who that is in any way familiar with his historical
romance of " The Last of the Barons"----a work
that we have reason to know was regarded by
that naturally most fastidious critic of his-
torical romances, the late Mr. Hallam, with the
highest admiration Mr. Hallam viewing it
as the very archetype of what a historical
romance ought to be—as realistic of a whole
epoch—who that has once read that great
work, " The Last of the Barons," can possibly have
forgotten the ominous, the almost eltrich song of the
" Tymbesteres," recurring again and yet again, like
a haunting refrain amidst the harmonious flow
of the stately and impassioned narrative ? And, who
is there that, so remembering it, can fail to recognise
in the author of the work, the Poet, no less than
the Romancist ? As for the whole structure of the
Tale of Murder that more than thirty years ago
helped to win for Bulwer his early repu-
tation—it is as poetically conceived, as a tragic
work of art—with the vague and awful shadow
as of an inevitable Nemesis, perpetually ad-
vancing nearer and nearer upon the hero of the
story—as any one, even the noblest amongst
the dramatic m4sterpieces of the old classic Demi-
gods of Tragedy, as the Eumenides of 2Eschylus, let
us say, or, as the Edipus of Sophocles. As poetically
conceived, we maintain, as a tragic work of art, as
either the Eumenides or the Edipus, what though
the principal figure brought before us in this later
Tale of Murder wore neither sock nor buskin, spoke
not from behind the hollow screen of the tragic
mask, but appeared, on the contrary, under the
simple guise, and clad in the homely broadcloth of a
Schoolmaster of Lynn. Again, as to the entire
conception of " The Last Days of Pompeii," is not
the mind, is not the heart, is not the intensely
sympathetic nature of the Poet quite as distinctly
recognisable in that —in the whole dream of the story,
in the loves of Glaucus and tone, in the creation
of Arbaces the Egyptian, in the exquisite ima-
gining of Nydia the Flower Girl, the blind
guide through the bewildering darkness of the last
awful incident of the catastrophe—quite as dis-
tinctly recognisable, we repeat, as the Fictionist, as
the Prose-Romancist? Enough, however, if while
thus expatiating upon what appears to us to be
the inextricable blending together in the genius cf
Sir Bulwer Lytton, of the Poet and the Romancist,
of the Poetic-Fabulist and of the Prose-Fabulist,
we have in any way realised more vividly to the