destiny of society in our own country. Their influence cannot be overlooked by the statesman, moralist, or philosopher. They are made the advocates of any sentiments in religion or politics which the authors wish to propagate, or which they suppose will be acceptable to the multitude. The unwary may imbibe the poison of vice or infidelity, when seeking only for amusement. Yet few seem to question the utility of such compositions. Most men commend them, or at least silently acquiesce in the arguments adduced in their favor. It may not be a profitless expenditure of time to examine some of these arguments. They are, frequently, defended upon the same ground as poetry.

1. It is said, they are to be prized as works of art. Many of them are equal to the best poems in plot and execution, and some of them may even vie with Homer or Shakspeare. "It is the object of the novel writer," says Scott, "to place before the reader as full and accurate a representation of the events which he relates, as can be done by mere force of an excited imagination, without the assistance of material objects. His whole appeal is made to the world of fancy and of ideas, and in this consists his strength or his weakness, his poverty or his wealth. He cannot, like the painter, present a visible and tangible representation of his towns, his woods, his palaces and his castles; but by awakening the imagination of a congenial reader, he places before the mind's eye landscapes fairer than those of Claude, and wilder than those of Salvator." As a work of art, the novel is composed upon principles similar to those which guide the statuary and painter. Individual traits are selected from different models to form the beau ideal of the artist. His design is to improve upon nature, to present an agreeable union of excellencies, without those apparent defects and blemishes which are usually found in all natural productions. The ele ments of any work of art or poetic description may all exist separately in different individuals or objects, and yet exist nowhere in combination, except in the imagination of the artist. Hence a picture, a statue or a poem may be true to nature, and yet false in point of fact. The statue of Apollo Belvidere never had an archetype, and yet every individual feature may have had its living representative. The same is true of works of fiction; the scenes portrayed, the characters described may all be natural, and yet not real, because the author, by the aid of fancy and taste, selects the materials from a wide range of observation, and from them creates a new whole. The entire his

tory of any man's life cannot be interesting. Many passages in it must be commonplace. But by selecting the striking incidents of the lives of many men, or by feigning those which have a resemblance to reality, and weaving them into one harmonious narrative, the novelist may furnish a biography more entertaining than that of any real hero. A novel, therefore, becomes a species of Epic, and as such may be criticised by the same rules. It is acknowledged that the highest powers of genius are often displayed in the creations of the imagination. Invention is the noblest prerogative of genius. So far as works of fiction, whether in verse or prose, display great talents, devoted to the best ends, they justly command our respect and admiration. It should be remembered, however, that prose fictions exert a far more extensive and powerful influence upon the public mind than poetry. They are vastly more numerous, and they are more generally read. Besides, a prose narrative will produce a more complete illusion in the mind of the reader than a poem. It resembles real history, and wears the semblance of truth. The measured movement and dignified air of poetry, constantly remind the reader of its artificial structure. Men seldom mistake poetic embellishments for facts. Not so with the novel. They portray human life, if not as it is, at least, as it might be. The reader generally gives himself up to the impositions of genius, and derives real pleasure from the temporary belief of the truth of what he reads. There is force, therefore, in the objection that novels mislead and corrupt the young by presenting false views of life, and exhibiting characters such as never did and never will exist. When the painter or sculptor embodies his ideal creations in a material form, no one mistakes the picture or the statue for a real person, yet every individual feature may have its living original. So of the characters of a work of fiction. A real Falstaff probably never existed. Yet all his individual peculiarities might be found in different men. A real Caliban never had a being; still the superstitious notions of the age would furnish the materials for his formation. The genius of the author is displayed in the judicious selection of these materials. It must be admitted that the cultivated mind derives real pleasure from the contemplation of such ideal personages. When once acquainted with them, we become attached to them. They become our familiar friends. If such interesting associates as Sir Roger de Coverly, Monkbarns, or My Uncle Toby, were snatched from us, we should sincerely mourn

their loss. We should find our intellectual pleasure essentially abridged by their absence. Scott has drawn many characters that cannot fail, when properly studied, to refine and elevate the reader. Almost any person may derive pleasure and profit from the contemplation of the lofty enthusiasm of Flora Mac Ivor, the Christian purity and heroic daring of Jeannie Deans, or the angelic tenderness of Rebecca. The same is true of "little Nell," that ethereal vision of loveliness, portrayed by Dickens. If such fruit always grew upon this tree of knowledge, the tasting could never impart the knowledge of evil. We must admit, therefore, that some novels are defensible as works of art. But this class of novels is so small, that, as in the case of the cities of the plain, it may be doubted whether ten unexceptionable specimens could be found, in all the domains of pure fiction, for whose sakes the multitude should be spared. Some of the creations of Scott's prolific genius, will probably continue to be admired as long as the English language is read. But a great proportion of the popular novels of the age are miserable iinitations of original works. The landscapes and beautiful sunsets of Scott have been copied for the thousandth time. His characters have been repeated, revised, and reproduced so often, that they have lost their identity. His strong good sense has been so often diluted with the feeble thoughts of wretched scribblers, as to become vapid and offensive to rational minds. The offspring of his princely intellect, dressed in the livery of others, have lost their nobility, and are compelled to do plebeian service for the multitude. The mass of novels now most read, are not valuable as works of art. They owe their popularity not to their merit, but to their want of it. They minister to the lowest tastes of the vulgar, and afford an unhealthy stimulus to the worst passions of human nature. The republic of letters has become a turbulent democracy, and authors no longer address "the learned reader," but humbly sue for the favor of the reading public. With such patrons, the noblest creations of genius cannot be appreciated. To please the public, works of fiction must be characterized by strong excitement, high-wrought passions, splendid crimes, wild adventures and bloody feuds, rather than by virtuous sentiment, vigorous argument, and elevated affection.

2. It is often argued that novels are useful in imparting lessons of morality, inculcating virtue and preventing crime. If this were always true, or true in a majority of cases, their

utility would be established beyond a doubt. Some novels are written with a direct reference to their moral bearing. But even when the intentions of the author are good, he often fails in the choice of means. This was true of Richardson, to whom allusion has been already made. When the ideal characters which genius has portrayed impersonate noble virtues, and are always made to act consistently with their professions, the study of them undoubtedly tends to lead the soul away from unworthy pursuits, and prompts to a virtuous life. When crime meets with its just reward, the tempted soul is sometimes deterred, by such exhibitions, from a course of vice. It cannot be denied, therefore, that works of fiction may be made useful aids to morality. But where one man writes fiction to correct the public morals, a hundred others write to feed the vices of the community. The labors of wickedness are always better rewarded by the world than those of virtue. Besides, the great mass of readers care very little for the moral bearing of a tale. If the story furnishes excitement, they seldom seek for any thing higher. The professed moral of a tale," says Scott, "is usually what the reader is least interested in; it is like the mendicant who cripples after some splendid and gay procession, and in vain solicits the attention of those who have been gazing upon it." The moral of a tale depends more upon the conduct of the narrative than upon the catastrophe. It is not enough that virtue should ultimately triumph and vice be punished. There may be so much that is forbidding in the life of the good man, and so much that is attractive in the life of the bad man, that the reader will wholly sympathize with the latter. "If," says the writer above quoted, "the author introduces scenes. which excite evil passions, if he familiarizes the minds of his readers with impure ideas, or sophisticates their understanding with false views of morality, it will be an unavailing defence, that, in the end of the book he has represented virtue as triumphant." If tried by the standard presented here by the great luminary of the modern world of fiction, few popular novelists would escape censure. Fielding, Smollet, Sterne and Swift seemed to think a large seasoning of vulgarity and filth neces sary to render their works palatable to the reading public. No man can contemplate their obscene pictures without moral degradation. The virgin purity of an unsophisticated mind is soiled and polluted by them. The contagion of vice which thus enters the soul upon the wings of an idle thought, may fix

a plague-spot there which will ultimately prove its ruin. It is not good to be made familiar with vice. We soon learn to "pity, then embrace." When highwaymen and courtesans are made the heroes and heroines of popular tales, who will be sponsor for the security of the public morals? The immoral tendency of Bulwer's novels is, I think, justly maintained. His heroes are generally great criminals, violating all the laws of God and man, and yet exhibiting in their conduct so much generosity and magnanimity that they inevitably enlist the sympathies of the unreflecting reader. His earliest work, called Falkland, is the history of an adulterer, the most noble and kind of his race, who was led, by the force of circumstances, to violate the sacred rights of hospitality and ruin the wife of his friend. Paul Clifford, the hero of another of his novels, is the commander of a band of robbers in Berkshire. He is conducted safely through his career of villany and escapes "unwhipped of justice." In Devereux, an amiable gentleman murders his brother's wife and afterwards becomes an interesting religious enthusiast in Italy. Eugene Aram was a veritable culprit, whose history is here embellished with the choicest ornaments of wit and fancy, and the very gallows is ennobled by the martyrdom of a high-minded, large-souled, intellectual hero. "The Disowned," professing the noblest creed, boasting of the purest philanthropy, becomes the murderer of his benefactor. Bulwer seems to delight in portraying the unsocial passions of men, and dragging out to view every thing that is dark, unlovely and misanthropic in the human soul. If his object is to make these vices odious, why does he exalt what is diabolical and elevate what is mean, by surrounding his robbers and murderers with a halo of glory? Why not leave the burglar to rot in his grave? Why attempt to rescue a real hero of the Newgate Calendar from merited ignominy? If he wishes to benefit the world, why does he hold true virtue so much in the background, and make mere selfishness, flattery and intrigue the chief means of success in life? "Bulwer's. novels," says an eminent critic, "show us the virtues caricatured, vices seductively garnished, generous qualities degraded by paltry motives, petty objects magnified, vulgarities glossed by passion, and manners tinged with affectation. Whatever is veritable, honest, useful and truly noble, finds little place in this bizarre, fictitious world." We do not pretend that Bulwer vindicates the crimes he has so graphically depicted, in express