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which Newcome also pronounces that of an epileptic at the lunar pcriods.

With regard to the declaration of our Lord, in reference to this same lunatic, that "This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting," it must be connected with what precedes it. When the disciples inquired, "Why could we not cast him out?" Jesus said to them, "Because of your unbelief." It was, therefore, not from any effect the fasting and prayer had immediately on the daimon itself, that they were required to resort to them, but to increase that faith which was necessary in themselves, in order to perform the cure. The whole of the Bible shows us that, whenever any work was to be performed, in which the spiritual required to be more than usually awakened and exalted in man, and on which the blessing of heaven, the union of the divine with the human will, was more especially sought, then prayer and fasting were the means resorted to, in order to deaden the bodily life, to quicken the spiritual, and to obtain that benediction, which sanctified and accomplished the purpose of man by making it that of God. The direction of our Lord, therefore, would only be an application to this case of two principles, which we find everywhere maintained in Scripture, especially in the New Testament-viz., the omnipotence of faith over nature and matter; and the necessity of crucifying the flesh; of bating our own life, and of maintaining an incessant communion, by prayer, with the source of a higher life, in order to raise our wills to a union with the divine will, and thus to awaken within us that spiritual power which triumphs over the material; that wonderful faith, which St. John calls "the victory that overcometh the world," and of which our Lord emphatically declares, that it can move mountains, and transplant trees into the sea. Faith, indeed, not only in him who works, but in those who benefit by the miracle, appears everywhere absolutely necessary to this victory over matter. In Matt. ix. 22, our Lord tells the woman who touched the hem of his garment,

"Thy faith hath made thee whole." In Matt. ix. 28, before curing the blind men, he asks them, "Believe ye that I am able to do this?" In the same way, we read, in Acts, xiv. 9, of St. Paul, when curing the cripple at Lystra, that "steadfastly beholding him, and perceiving that he had faith to be healed," he then "said, with a loud voice, Stand upright on thy feet. And he leaped and walked." Our Lord, indeed, goes so far as to say, in Mark, ix. 23, addressing the father of the lunatic child, "All things are possible to him that believeth." And, on the other hand, so fatal is this want of faith, in the party to be benefited by the conquest of material evil, and all cure of disease is such, that we read, in Mark, vi. 5, 6, our Lord himself "could there do no mighty work." "And he marvelled because of their unbelief." In like manner, it would appear from our Lord's own words, that had not Martha believed, Lazarus had not been raised from the dead"Said I not unto thee, that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?"—John, xi. 40. And, if any one should doubt this power of faith over matter to be a literal truth, and ask, how is it possible for the moral condition of one man's mind, to exert a command over physical disease in another? [supposing these daimoniac cases to be purely physical]-we would reply by asking, how could the moral condition of Peter's mind exert a command over the waves, and reverse the laws of gravitation so long as faith prevailed; but the moment this gave way to fear, then how became he again the slave of matter, so that he began to sink, and cried out, " Lord, save me, or I perish," meriting that reproach of his Lord, "O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?"-Matt. xiv. 31.

There we pause for the present. The field of thought and language which we have to investigate is a wide one, and may not be lightly hurried over: and the special limits to which the requirements of periodical publication confine us, will only allow us to accomplish a portion of the survey. Its completion must be reserved for another number.

VOL. XXXII.-NO. CLXXXIX.

U

HAROLD, THE LAST OF THE SAXON KINGS.'

Ir is a real pleasure in these days, when the shelves of the circulating libraries are crowded with hot-pressed volumes scarcely worth their binding -when book-making has become a trade in which every tyro dabbles— when pens and printers are working away, like the very devil, for no other ostensible purpose than that of producing what, after a few weeks of ephemeral existence, speedily passes. into oblivion,-it is pleasant, and very refreshing to our jaded nerves and weary eyes, to hail the work of a man of genius; to linger over the bright and beautiful images which his pen can call into existence; to revel in the brilliant fancies, rich with poetic colouring, and in the splendour with which he has contrived to invest the ancient records of the dim and dreamy past, to secure to ourselves a temporary oblivion of the dull incidents and weary transactions of the unpoetic present.

We have not lived in this world long enough to remember the sensation which the announcement of a new poem by Lord Byron, or a new novel by the author of Waverley, used to produce; but it has been described to us by those who have. We, however, do remember-for it is not very long since the state of pleasant excitement into which this capital was plunged, when it became known to the reading public that the arrival of a new historical novel by the author of "The Last of the Barons" was daily expected. We were glad of it; not that we had any reason to fear that an old popular favourite was likely to be displaced, but we were not without some degree of apprehension that the taste of the age had become so vitiated by feeding upon those quaint conceits, with which the dishes served up for its intellectual entertainment are now so highly seasoned, as to have had its relish impaired for the deeper interest, the more healthy and invigorating tone

of the old novel. But genius will always, as long as the world lasts, have power to sway the minds of men; and it is impossible for even the most unenlightened and superficial of readers, to peruse the pages of any one of Sir Bulwer Lytton's productions, without being attracted by an irresistible charm -the charm of pure and classic beauty -of deep and romantic interest—with which he manages to invest the driest details of history, or the most ordinary incidents of life, and which he weaves, like a golden tissue, into his web of fiction. Who is there that has hung over the dazzling eloquence and deep pathos of "Rienzi❞—who is there that has wept over the exquisite tenderness of "Night and Morning," or the mournful beauty of "Zanoni"-who that has lingered over the pages of "Pelham," where the deeper pathos of tragedy is gracefully mingled with the most playful humour -and not felt the breathing, the indescribable charm, with which this great artist invests whatever subject he touches? Like the orator of whom our own sweet poet has written :

"He rules, like a wizard, the world of the heart, To call up its sunshine, or draw down its showers."

In laying the scene of a story so far back in the ages of antiquity, every author has many and formidable difficulties to contend with; even the knowledge and learning of antiquaries can bring very little to bear upon times so remote. The memorials which are left in the ancient chronicles and old legends, are so very vague and unsatisfactory, that we have about as clear and accurate an idea of what our own ancestors did and said, of their social and domestic life, eight centuries ago, as we have at this moment of the precise nature of the conversation which is going on in the moon. We have, it is true, a few records of their chivalry, their feudal system, their

By the Author of "Rienzi," "The

"Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings." last of the Barons," &c. London: R. Bentley. 1848.

priesthood, and other matters; but the materials are both scanty and difficult of access. To render a fiction, therefore, the scene of which is laid in times so long gone by, either interesting or attractive-to be able to fill up with real, living, breathing characters, those dim and uncertain outlines-to invest them with feelings and humours, with hearts of flesh and blood, like our own-to develop passions and affections which we have ourselves experienced to impart to the dream-like characters of old tradition that fresh and deep interest which we feel about the beings of times with which we are familiar, and people that we know -to fill up with proper and living colours the faded outlines of the ancient canvas-is a task of incredible difficulty, and one in which no English writer since the days of Sir Walter Scott, and until the appearance of "The Last of the Barons" (we do not mention "Rienzi," for we have really much more knowledge of the history of those times than of our own), has been completely successful.

It is a curious reflection why the task of painting the manners and weaving romances out of our ancient history, should have been reserved for writers of the present century, and that which has just passed. While we have tragedies and comedies in abundance, we have no such thing as a novel describing the character of those times. Possibly the true reason may be, that the genius and imagination of the people was more likely to be attracted by the theatrical display of dramatic representations, than by the more quiet and tranquil enjoyments which have so completely succeeded them. It is not un-. likely that the drama also found peculiar favour in the eyes of those who were fond of martial displays, so much more attractive to the eye than the accomplishment of reading, in which they were but indifferently versed.

The species of literature called the prose romance, has probably owed its origin to the singer of songs and ballads, who went about from house to house, narrating, in spirit-stirring words, the deeds of chivalry. The cd ballad passed gradually into the romance, and the romance has now supplanted the drama; but there is no reason to suppose that the genius which gave birth to those and similar ballads,

could not have woven the incidents they contain into the shape of romance, had that form been suitable or agreeable to the taste of the age. A distinction between the drama and the novel has been drawn by Goethe, in his "Wilhelm Meister," which also goes some way in solving the question. "The drama," he says, "has characters and deeds-the field of romance is incident, feelings, and manners;" and, therefore, in proportion as mankind become more educated, and their taste more fastidious, they will cultivate the latter, and neglect the former.

But of all those forms in which the novel is presented to our notice, the historical is certainly the most attractive, as it is also the most artistic and elegant. The evil most to be dreaded from a perusal of novelsnamely, that of relaxing the mind, and of unfitting it for the performance of the graver duties of life-need not be apprehended here; but from the interest with which they invest the characters and the incidents of the longforgotten past, the mind is gradually imbued with a desire to learn more of the history of times thus rendered so attractive; and so a taste for real history is generated and created, while, at the same time, our better feelings and sympathies are excited; and from what we have read for amusement at first, we at length derive instruction and profit. We speak thus not without some experience; for we are not ashamed to confess that we are indebted to the novels of Sir Walter Scott for any little taste for the cultivation of the history of Scotland we now possess; and had it not been for "Harold, the last of the Saxons," we fear that Thierry's "History of the Norman Conquest" would have for a long time occupied, with uncut leaves, the shelves of our book-case; and the records of that period of ancient English history have rested but lightly upon our mind, with no deeper trace than those of other fleeting associations of our school-boy days.

The period which the author has selected for the scene of his romance is singularly felicitous, in regard of those associations which appeal to national sympathies. There are few more interesting subjects of contemplation, or more suggestive of reflection, than the unavailing struggles of a people in the

He

cause of nationality; and full of brilliant thought and profound observation as are many of the previous writings of Sir E. Bulwer-the more brilliant and the more profound from his complete and thorough knowledge of the workings of the human heart-there is a certain touching and pathetic sadness in his tone, as he lingers over the ancient memories of departed freedom, which is irresistibly attractive. has succeeded in stirring the hearts, and in exciting the gentler affections of his readers, by the beautiful picture he draws of the last Saxon; so fraught with simple and manly grace, so true, so noble so full of all the qualities which command the applause of men, and yet doomed to so early and so sad a fate the gentler affections of his simple and honest heart so rudely torn asunder his brief and brilliant career. We see him, as he departs on his journey to the court of William, departing -to use the language of the ancient chronicler as if on a party of pleasure, surrounded by gay companions, with his falcon on his wrist, and his hounds running before him. We see him beneath the standard of England, sustaining with dauntless valour the desperate chances of the unequal fight, and granted, by the generosity of the invader, a grave upon the coast he had guarded so well. The whole picture rises before us, fresh from the creative hand of this glorious master; and we linger spell-bound, as it were, by its exquisite beauty and wonderful power. That the difficulty to which we have adverted obtruded itself on the notice of Sir E. Lytton, is shown in his preface. He states:-"That the main consideration which withheld him from his task, was his sense of the unfamiliarity of the ordinary reader with the characters, events, and, so to speak, the very physiognomy of a period ante Agamemnona, before the brilliant age of matured chivalry, which has given to song and to romance the deeds of the later knighthood, and the glo. rious frenzy of the crusades."

In his dedicatory preface, also, the author enters fully into a discussion of the difficulties which beset him in striking into this new path-the chief of which he seems to consider the following out his conception of extracting romance from "actual history," without incurring the censure of pedantry,

by reason of a too accurate adhesion to the result of his researches into the chronicles of the time. In our opinion he has been completely successful. He has woven a romance of rare beauty out of the incidents of the time, without, in any instance, as far as we can trace, the slightest deviation from accurate historical detail, save in regard of the connexion between Harold and Edith; and for this very trifling and unimportant deviation he has incurred the censure of a hebdomadal critic, because, forsooth, the said critic is at a loss whether to treat the work as history or as romance. If this be really so, he is one of the stupidest of his class; and his dulness is the less excusable, because if he had given himself the trouble of reading the preface, he would have seen that there was not the slightest ground for such petty cavilling. He complains that the notes set up a claim for the fiction, notwithstanding the writer's denial of the pretension to the dignity and importance of histo ry, and that it is, therefore, impossible to reconcile the two. This observation is not only uncandid, but it is untrue. Had the critic read the preface, he would have seen what was the writer's object.

"In the notes," says Sir Edward Lytton, "which I have thought neces sary aids to the better comprehension of these volumes, my only wish has been to convey to the general reader such illustrative information as may familiar ize him more easily with the subject matter of the book, or refresh his me mory on incidental details not without a national interest. In the mere references to authorities, I do not pretend to arrogate to fiction the proper character of a history. The references are chiefly used either when wishing particularly to dis tinguish from invention what was borrow ed from a chronicle, or when differing from some popular historian, to whom the reader might be likely to refer, it seemed well to state the authority upon which the difference was founded."

Was there ever more miserable petty cavilling than in the strictures to which we have adverted, or was there ever a more deliberate " suppressio veri” than in the assertion, that these valuable notes have been added for the purpose of ostentatiously parading the historical erudition of the author? In the passages of rare and touching

beauty with which this work abounds, not the least interesting is the author's allusion, in the preface from which we have been quoting, to the circumstances under which it was written.

"Again," says the author to his friend, Mr. D'Eyncourt :

"I seem to find myself under your friendly roof; again to greet my provident host, entering that Gothic chamber in which I had been permitted to establish my unsocial study; heralding the advent of majestic folios, and heaping libraries round the unworthy work. Again, pausing from my labour, I look through that castle casement, and beyond that feudal moat, over the broad landscapes which, if I err not, took their names from the proud brother of the Conqueror himself; or when, in those winter nights, the grim old tapestry moved in the dim recesses, I hear the Saxon thegn winding his horn at the turret door from which the prelate of Bayeux had so unrighteously expelled him. What marvel that I lived in the times of which I wrote,-Saxon with the Saxon,-Norman with the Norman, -that I entered with no gossip less venerable than that current at the court of the Confessor, or startled by pallid guests when I deigned to meet them with the last news which Harold's spies had brought over from the camp at St. Valery.

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But far beyond these recent associations of a single winter (for which heaven reward thee !), goes the memory of a friendship of many winters, and proof to the storms of all. Often have I come for advice to your wisdom, and sympathy to your heart, bearing back with me, in all such seasons, new increase to that pleasurable gratitude which is perhaps the rarest, nor the least happy sentiment that experience leaves to man.'

The tale opens with a scene in which we are introduced to some of the characters. These passages are of a beauty and effect so dazzling, that it would be difficult to surpass them by anything we can now recollect within the compass of English literature. They are followed by some historical notices of great vigour and accuracy, which may account for the slight interest which the first volume possesses for the mere novelreader; but to others who are capable of appreciating or enjoying such things, that very portion of the book which has such slender claims for the former,

must possess a deep attraction for them. It contains an accurate and lucid account of the history of those early times, finished with an elegance and classic beauty which show that the author has only to make the attempt, in order to take a high rank amongst the historical writers of his age. Less diffuse than Thierry, he has all the glowing eloquence of Gibbon, and the classic beauty of Turner. But, in order that our readers may have an early taste of these beautiful descriptions, in which the work abounds, we shall present to their notice one or two selections from the opening chapters:

"Merry was the month of May, in the year of our Lord 1052. Few were the boys and few the lasses who overslept themselves in that buxom month. Long ere the dawn the young crowds had sought mead and woodland, to cut poles and wreath flowers. Many a mead then lay fair and green beyond the village of Charing, and behind the isle of Thorney (amidst the brakes and briars of which where then rising fast and fair the Hall and Abbey of Westminster). Many a wood lay dark in the starlight along the slopes rising above the dank Strand, with its numerous canals or dykes, and on either side of the great road into Kent; flutes and horns sounded far and near through the green places, and laughter, and song, and the crash of breaking boughs.

"As the dawn came gray up the east, arch and blooming faces bowed down to bathe in the May dew. Patient oxen stood dozing by the hedge-rows-all fragrant with blossoms till the gay spoilers of the May came first from the woods with lusty poles, followed by girls with laps full of flowers, which they had caught asleep. The poles were prankt with nosegays, and a chaplet was hung round the horns of every ox. Then, towards day-break, the processions streamed back into the city through all its gates. Boys with their May-gads (peeled willow wands twined with cowslips) going before; and clear through the lively din of the horns and flutes, and choral voices singing some early Saxon amidst the moving grove of branches, strain, precursor of the later song

"We have brought the summer home.'

"Often in the good old days, before the Monk King reigned, kings and ealdermen had thus gone forth a-Maying: but these merriments savouring of heathenesse, that good prince misliked; ne

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