MR. BULWER'S NEW NOVEL.*

LITERARY SPECTATOR.

THERE are many instances of individuals who, in opposition to the ex- pectations and calculations respecting them, have turned out to be possessed of remarkable powers. Of all these examples, perhaps, none can be pointed out of so striking a character as that of the author of Pelham and the two works published subsequently—The Disowned, and the one before us, Devereux. We believe it to be true that the possession of the talents he displays was not even suspected by his most intimate friends ; and certainly in his first book on Greece, which he published with his name, there were few indications of genius beyond the ambition of publication. A first and a second work never had so wide an interval of merit,—for, though of different kinds, the works are still susceptible of some comparison : the recent instance of Lord BYRON'S early attempt and his later chef-d*Geuvres does not exceed it. Fortunately for Mr. BITLWER, the nature of his first undertaking was inoffensive, and its execution was regarded with indulgence : he was not driven into bitterness and bile by the causticity of the critical remarks passed upon it.

We have expressed our opinion freely upon the two preceding novels. Pelham we have always held to be clever, but offensive ; The Disowned, clever, but unsatisfactory ; and with Devereux we are not altogether content. The whole three, however, show talent-- in that we are all agreed ; and if we were not, the immense reputation his books have acquired would settle the question : no one can please the multitude without a considerable portion of power of some sort. Yet, we are much mistaken if the novel which cost the author the least trouble, and which least satisfied himself, viz. his Pelham, is not only the foundation but the sole source of his fame. Pelham is a lounger's book ;—it is whollyin the novel-reader's beat, and it naturally interested a large public. The Disowned was carried down chiefly by the reputation of Pelham, and partly by the nature of a portion of the materials, which were not alien from ordinary romance : but the author is greatly deceived if he fancies that his rhapsodies, his essays, his discussions of philosophy and sentiment, are valued, or even read by the multitude—they are, with grief be it spoken, skipped. What the loungers will do with Devereux, we arc at a loss to guess : he will be undoubtedly condemned as a bore, and though he may pe- * Devereuz, a Tale. By the Author of Pelham. 3 vols. London, l$29. Colburn. netrate into apartments where Pelham was held among! the most precious of pleasures, it will only be to be treated with secret dislike and open indifference. The romance is but a small part of itself—an accidental ingredient in a collection of characters, disquisitions, anec- dotes, sketches, and dialogues, in illustration of a particular epoch of manners and literature. They who go the round of the circulating library will be sorely discontented, and cry with Prince Hal, " only a liaporth of bread to all this sack!"

Devereux is a sort of Jeune Anacharsis, of the times from CHARLES the Second to Queen ANNE, rather than a novel ; or like Ducis's Tra- vels, by the late Mr. MILLS, a pretence to talk of arts, philosophy, and Manners, under the disguise of a work of fiction. Count Devereux is but the stalking-horse : Bora NGBROKE is the trae hero of the novel ; and his life, character, and philosophy, the main subject. BOLINGBROKE is, how- ever, far from being the only great real personage of those times who comes in for his share of representation : there is scarcely a name in France or England who does not appear either to take a part in a scene or a dialogue : of crowned heads, in particular, we have a great store, from Louis the Fourteenth in Paris, to the Czar PETER in St. Petersburg, : poets, orators, and preachers, philosophers, soldiers, and projectors, all pass and repass in the motley group, each maintaining lns pet dogma or fighting his favourite battle. In the execution of this division of the work, we are inclined to question its truth, rather than its spirit. All these scenes are lively enough, but are they faithful? Is Mr. BULWER'S St. John the St. John of POPE ? A writer who in- troduces the persons of history into his fiction, represents them in action, endows them with speech, and opens their inmost sentiments, takes upon himself a very serious responsibility. In these days, how- ever, when all responsibility except of the pecuniary kind is laughed at or treated with indifference, this consideration is not likely to pre- vent a young man's rushing to the resuscitation and discussion of scenes and questions where a much older and perhaps a more qualified person would fear to tread. Every one knows the minute and painful learn- ing which it demanded in BARTHELEmy to compose his Jeune Ana- charsis : in a season or two we expect to see the same subject thrown into a novel, and all the manners and literature of Athens hit off by some young man three months gone with the knowledge of Greek, but whose confidence is not therefore the less bold, and whose powers of in- vention are the more buoyant as being less clogged with learning. The truth is, we have no confidence in Mr. BULWER'S information. We do not stop to discuss the fidelity of his views of the characters or the philosophy of the times he treats, for it would take us beyond our depth in several senses : but we may say, that it is not with a feeling of satisfaction we take any of his views ; they strike us as being crude ‘and new-fangled. A young writer must have a fancy in literature and philosophy—some favourite discovery, some original line of study, or newly disinterred author, which he would proner all over the world, to prove the depth of his own research and the originality of his thinking Independent of this fault (for such we deem the rash introduction of real persons in a fiction), there is much to like in Devereux. There are numerous shrewd remarks, derived in truth from the author's own observation, and many examples of a pleasing and original vein of sen- timent. In short, Devereux is rather to be classed with LANDOR'S Conversations and SOUTHEY'S Colloquies than with the novels of the day. This is a truth which the publisher at least sooner or later will discover.

Of the invented characters, and of that part of Devereux which comes under the head of novel, we can speak favourably: there is much well-drawn character, much stirring incident, a good deal of effective interest preserved ; the story is artfully contrived, and it is only by the permission of the author that the reader is at all allowed to anticipate the future. Devereux is the history of three brothers, brought up under the eye of their widowed mother in the castle of their uncle. This uncle is a wealthy knight, who in his time has been a roisterer with CHARLES the Second and ROCHESTER, and whose present delight and pride are the recollection of that part of his life and the reflection of its anecdotes and bon mots. The characters of the three young Devereux are all strongly though differently marked ; and the peculiarities of their tempers are still more decidedly heightened by the machinations of their tutor, a French Jesuit, Julian Montreuil —whose object it of course is to turn the talents of his pupils, their expected wealth, and family influence, to the aggrandizement of his own order, or the furtherance of its objects. His immediate plot on England is the restoration of the Stuarts. Julian Montreuil, the Jesuit, is a character drawn with no common power : the reader will feel that it is his spirit which presides over the whole story. A young Spanish lady, Isora, is the heroine : she is the daughter of a political emian-6 who dies in this country. Isora is contended for by two of the brothers,—the one, openly and honourably ; the other, darkly and disgracefully, under the auspices of the Abbe: Montreuil, to whose machinations she ultimately falls a victim. Jean Desmarais, valet, fatalist, philosopher, and spy, is another conspicuous character, whose peculiarities are developed with considerable skill. It requires but few persons to bring about the catastrophe of the novel. When the principal event takes place, the bereavement of Devereux, he wanders abroad a soldier of fortune, as his father did before him ; and then all the characters of history become mixed up with his daily affairs. The author ought, however, to remember, that if be would write a novel on which his contemporaries are to dwell with any thing like tenacity, he must never introduce a single person whose presence is not absolutely necessary to the conduct of his story. It is very difficult to fix upon a passage of Devereux which, while it is interesting to read as a detached piece, will serve as a fair speci- men of the work. If we quote a scene (and there are many clever enough to be quoted) between Richard Cromwell and Devereux, or Devereux and Peter the Great, what has that to do with the novel ?

The following passage, taken from the earlier part of the.work, gives a beautiful description of the scenery of Devereux Court, and of an interview between two of the brothers, the eldest and the youngest.

" There were many ways (as I before said) by which I could return home all nearly equal in picturesque beauty ; for the country in which my uncle's' estates were placed, was one where stream roved and woodland flourished even to the very strand, or cliff of the sea. The shortest route, though one the least frequented by any except foot-passengers, was along the coast and it was by this path that I rode slowly homeward. On winding a curve iii the road about one mile from Devereux Court, the old building broke slowly, tower by tower, upon me. I have never yet described the house, and per- haps it will not he uninteresting to the reader if I do so now. " It had anciently belonged to Ralph de Bigod. From his possession it had passed into that of the then noblest branch of the stern of Devereux, from whence, without break or flaw, in the direct line of heritage, it had ultimately descended to the present owner. It was a pile of vast extent, built around three quadrangular courts, the furthest of which spread to the very verge of the grey tall cliffs that overhung the sea : in this court was a rude tower, which, according to tradition, had contained the apartments ordinarily in- habited by our ill-fated namesake and distant kinsman Robert Devereux, the favourite and the victim of Elizabeth, whenever he had honoured the mansion with a visit. There was nothing, it is true, in the old tower calcu- lated to flatter the tradition, for it contained only two habitable rooms, communicating with each other, and by no means remarkable for size or splendour ; and every one of our household, save myself, was wont to dis- credit the idle rumour which would assign to so distinguished a guest so unseemly a lodgment. But, as I looked from the narrow lattices of the chambers, over the wide expanse of ocean and of land which they commanded— as I noted, too, that the tower was utterly separated from the rest of thehouse, and that the convenience of its site, enabled one, on quitting it, to escape at once, and privately, either to the solitary beach, or to the glades and groves of the wide park which stretched behind—I could not help indulging the belief that the unceremonious, and not unromantic noble, had himself selected his place of retirement, and that, in so doing, the gallant of a stately court was not, perhaps, undesirous of securing at well chosen moments a brief relaxation from the heavy honours of country homage—or that the patron and poetic admirer of the dreaming Spenser might have preferred to all more gorgeous accommodation, the quiet and unseen egress to that sea and shore, which if we may believe the accomplished Roman, are so fertile in the powers of inspiration.

" However this be, I had cheated myself into the belief that my conjecture was true, and I had petitioned my uncle, when, on leaving school, lie assigned to each of us our several apartments, to grant me the exclusive right to this dilapidated tower. I gained my boon easily enough ; and,—so strangely is our future fate compounded from past trifles,—I verily believe that the great desire which thenceforth seized me to visit courts, and mix with statesmen —which afterwards hurried me into intrigue, war, the plots of London, the dissipations of Paris, the perilous schemes of Petersburg, nay, the very hard- ships of a cossack tent—was first formed by the imaginary honour of in- habiting the same chamber as the glittering but ill-fated courtier of my own name. Thus youth imitates, where it should avoid ; and thus that which should have been to me a warning, became an example.

"In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this tower was situated a trap- door, the entrance into a lower room or rather cell, fitted up as a bath; and here a wooden door opened into a long subterranean passage that led out into a cavern by the sea-shore. This cave, partly by nature, partly by art, was hollowed into a beautiful Gothic form ; and here, on moonlight evenings, when the sea crept gently over the yellow and smooth sands, and the summer tempered the air from too keen a freshness, my uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout and rheum dwelt so ceaselessly as at present on his imagination, assembled his guests. It was a place which the echoes pecu- liarly adapted for music ; and the scene was certainly not calculated to diminish the effect of • sweet sounds.' Even now, though my uncle rarely joined us, we were often wont to hold our evening revels in this spot ; and the high cliffs circling either side in the form of a bay, tolerably \veil con- cealed our meetings from the gaze of the vulgar. It is true (for these cliffs were perforated with numerous excavations), that sonic roving peasant, mariner, or perchance smuggler, would now and then, at low water, intrude upon us. But our London Nereids and courtly Tritons were always well pleased with the interest of what they graciously termed • an adventure;' and our assemblies were too numerous to think an unbroken secrecy indis- pensable. Hence, therefore, the cavern was almost considered a part of the house itself ; and though there was an iron door at the entrance which it gave to the passage leading to my apartments, yet so great was our confi- dence in our neighbours or ourselves, that it was rarely secured, save as a defence against the high tides of winter. "The stars were shining quietly over the old grey castle (for castle it really was), as I now came within view of it. To the left, and in the rear of the house, the trees of the park, grouped by distance, seemed blent into one thick mass of wood; to the right, as I now (descending the cliff by a gradual path,) entered on the level sands, and at about the distance of a league from the main shore, a small islet, notorious as the resort and shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely relieved the wide and glassy azure of the waves. The tide was out ; and passing through one of the arches worn in the bay, I came somewhat suddenly by the cavern. Seated there on a crag of stone I found -Aubrey.

" My acquaintance with Isora and her father had so immediately succeeded the friendly meeting with Aubrey which I last recorded, and had so utterly engrossed my time and thoughts, that I had not taken of that interview all the brotherly advantage which I might have done. My heart now smote me for my involuntary negligence. I dismounted, and fastening my horse to one of a long line of posts that ran into the sea, approached Aubrey, and accosted him.

Alone, Aubrey? and at an hour when my uncle always makes the old walls ring with revel ! Hark, can you not hear the music even now ? it comes from the ball-room, I think, does it not ? "

Yes !' said Aubrey, briefly, and looking down upon a devotional book, which (as was his wont) he had made his companion.' " And we are the only truants !—Well, Gerald will supply our places, with a lighter step, and perhaps a merrier heart.' " Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately (I loved that boy, with something of a father's as well as a brother's love), and as I did bend over him, I saw that his eyelids were red with weeping.

" My brother—my own dear brother,' said!, 'what grieves you ?:—are we not friends, and more than friends ?—what can grieve you that grieves not me ? '

" Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me with a long, searching intentness of eye ; Ins lips moved, but he did not answer. " Speak to me, Aubrey,' said I, passing my arm over his shoulder; has any one any thing hurt you ? See, now, if I cannot remedy the evil.' " Morton,' said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, 'do you believe that Heaven preorders as well as foresees our destiny ?'

" It is the schoolman's question,' said I, smiling, ` but I know how those idle subtleties vex the mind—and you, my brother, are ever too occupied with considerations of the future. If Heaven does preorder our destiny, we know that Heaven is merciful, and we should be fearless, as we arm ourselves in

that knowledge.' " Morton Devereux,' said Aubrey, again repeating my name, and with an evident inward effort that left his lip colourless, and yet lit his dark dilating eye with a strange and unwonted fire= Morton, Devereux, I feel that I am predestined to the power of the Evil One !' • " I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. Good Heavens !' I exclaimed, what can induce you to cherish so terrible a phantasy ? what can induce you to wrong so fearfully the goodness and mercy of our Creator ?'

" Aubrey shrunk from my arm, which had still been round him, and covered his face with his hands. I took up the book he had been reading: it was a Latin treatise on predestination, and seemed fraught with the most gloomy and bewildering subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointed out the various incoherences and contradictions of the work, and the doctrine it espoused—so long and so earnestly did 1 speak, that at length Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and relieved. " I wish,' said he timidly, I wish that you loved me, and that you loved me only ;—but you love pleasure, and power, and show, and wit, and revelry ; and you know not what it is to feel for me, as I feel at times for you—nay, perhaps, you really dislike or despise me !' " Aubrey's voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded these words, and I was instantly impressed with the belief that some one had insinuated an inuendo against my affection for him.

" ' Why should you think thus ? ' I said : has any cause occurred of late to make you deem my affection for you weaker than it was ? Has ally one hinted a surmise that I do not repay your brotherly regard ? '

" Aubrey did not answer.

" Has Gerald,' I continued, jealous of our mutual attachment, uttered aught tending to diminish it ? Yes, I see that he has.' " Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing downward, and still silent.

" Speak,' said I, in justice to both of us—speak ! You know, Aubrey, how I have loved and love you : put your arms round me, and say that thing on earth which you wish me to do, and it shall be done !'

"Aubrey looked up ; he met my eyes, and he threw himself upon my neck, and burst into a violent paroxysm of tears.

" I was greatly affected. I see my fault,' said I, soothing him; you are angry, and with justice, that I have neglected you of late; and, perhaps, while I ask your confidence, you suspect that there is some subject on which 1 should have granted you mine. You are right, and, at a fitter moment, I will. Now let us turn homeward : our uncle is never merry when we are absent; and when my mother misses your dark locks and fair check, I fancy that she sees little beauty in the ball. And yet Aubrey,' I added, as he now ruse from my embrace, and dried his tears, I will own to you that I love this scene better than any, however gay within and I turned to the sea, starlit as it was, and murmuring with a silver-voice, and I became suddenly silent.

"There was a long pause. I believe we both felt the influence of the scene around us, softening and tranquillizing our hearts ; for, at length, Aubrey put his hand in mine, and said, you were always more generous and kind than I, Morton, though there are times when you seem different from what you are ; and I know you have already forgiven me.' "1 drew him affectionately towards me, and we went home."

Quite in another tone is the following smart contest between the Jesuit and his pupil.

"The next morning I communicated to the Abbe my intention of proceed- ing to London. He received it with favour. 'I myself,' said he, shall soon• meet you there ;—my office in your family has expired, and your mother, after so lung an absence, will perhaps readily dispense with my spiritual advice to her. But time presses—since you depart so soon, give me an audience to- night in your apartment. Perhaps our conversation may be of moment.

" 1 agreed—the hour was fixed, and I left the Abbe to join my uncle and his guests. While I was employing, among them, my time and genius with equal dignity and profit, one of the servants informed me, that a man at the gate wished to see me—and alone.

" Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend me there. In a few mi- nutes a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and meanness, made his appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and presented a letter, which, he said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands, with,' he added in a low tone, a special desire, that none should, till I had carefully read it, be made acquainted with its contents.' I was not a little startled by this request ; and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the seal. A letter, inclosed in the envelope, in the Abbe's own hand-writing, was the first thing that met my eyes. At that instant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose countenance evinced something of sur- prise and consternation at beholding him ; and, hastening up to me, grasped my hand vehemently, and, while his eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried, Do not read it—not a word—not a word—there is poison in it !' And, so saying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from him with one hand, and, pushing him aside with the other, said, "'Pardon me, Father—directly I have read it you shall have that plea- Sure—not till then,' and, as I said this, my eye falling upon the letter, disco- vered my own name written in two places—my suspicions were aroused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood, with the view of addressing some question to him respecting his employer, when, to my sur- prise, I perceived he was already gone. I had no time, however, to follow him. " Boy,' said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing me with his lean bony hand,—' boy, give me that letter instantly. I charge you not to disobey me.'

"'You forget yourself, Sir,' said I, endeavouring to shake him off, you forget yourself: there is no longer between us the distinction of pupil and teacher ; and if you have not yet learnt the respect due to my station, stifles Inc to tell you that it is time you should.'

"'Give me the letter, I beseech you,' said Montreuil, changing his voice from anger to supplication; I ask your pardon for my violence ; the letter does not concern you but me ; there is a secret in those lines which you see are in my hand-writing, that implicates my personal safety. Give it me, my dear, dear sun—your own honour, if not your affection for me, demands that you should.'

"I was staggered. His violence bad confirmed my suspicions, but his gen- tleness weakened them. Besides,' thought I, the hand-writing is his, and even if my life depended upon reading the letter of another, I do not think my honour would suffer me to do so against his consent.' A thought struck sue-

" Will you swear,' said I, that this letter does not concern me ? ' "'Solemnly,' answered the Abbe, raising his eyes. "'Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it ? '

" Upon peril of my soul, I will.' " Liar—traitor—perjured blasphemer ! ' cried I, in an inexpressible rage, ` look here, and here!' and I pointed out to the priest various lines in which ray name legibly and frequently occurred. A change came over Montreuil's face ; he released my arm and staggered bad against the wainscoat ; but re- covering his composure instantaneously, he said, I forgot, my son, I forgot— your name is mentioned, it is true, but with honourable eulogy, that is all.' " ' Bravo, honest father,' cried I, losing my fury in admiring surprise at his address—' bravo However, if that be all, you can have no objection to allow me to read the lines in which my name occurs; your benevolence can- not refuse me such a gratification as the sight of your written panegyric.'

" Count Devereux,' said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark face worked with suppressed passion, this is trifling with me, and 1 warn you not to push my patience too far. I will have that letter, or—' he ceased abruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword.

" Dare you threaten me ? ' I said, and the natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened. by vague but strong suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.

" Dare I !' repeated Montreal!, sinking and sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. Dare 1 !—ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and for ever your most deadly foe ; deadly—ay—deadly, deadly !' and he shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacing, that I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.

" The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hitherto waited. Draw, then,' he said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier. " Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my weapon,—I was deceived—I found him far more adroit than myself in the art of offence ; and perhaps it would have fared ill for the hero

of this narrative, had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct against my. life all the science he possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the constitu- tional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably saw' that it would be as dangerous to him

to take away the life of his pupil, as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whe- ther or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist in attaining an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are hound to believe) released so many thousands of souls. But meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the con- tinuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion, we mutually drew back. Recovering my presence of mind, (it

was a possession I very easily lost at that time,) I saw the unseemliness of

fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though awk- wardly enough, into a laugh, and affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, re-sheathed my sword and dis- missed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss over our rencontre, now approached me." " Count,' he said with a collected and cool voice, suffer me to request you to exchange three words with me, in a spot less liable than this to inter- ruption.' ''Follow me, then !' said I—and I led the way to a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. How is this ? ' I said, pointing to his unarmed side—' have you not come hither to renew our en- gagement?' No?' answered Montreuil, I repent me of, my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all possibility of indulging it again. That letter, young man, I still demand from you ; I demand it from your own sense of honour and of right—it was written by me—it was not intended for your eye—it contains secrets implicating the lives of others beside myself—now- read it if you will.' '" You are right, Sir!' said I, after a short pause ; there is the letter ; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour to secure his safety.—But the tie between us is broken now and for ever!' " So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away.. I re- entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper—I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, uddressed to me in French : " A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the contents of which it is essential for his safety that he should know. C. D. B?

" Umph !' said a very satisfactory intimation, considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger !' and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was already gorse; immediately on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse, and taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him, as lie passed the front court, address a few words to my valet, Des- marais, who happened to be loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him. The dirty fellow,' said the Frenchman, pointing to his spattered stock- ings with a lacrymose air, 'splashed me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while I was screaming for very anguish, he stopped and. said, "Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but that the letter requires no answer.'"