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tary at War, and a man of property both in England and the West Indies. His mother was the daughter of Sir T. Sewell, Master of the Rolls. There were other children, but the author of the Monk was the eldest. And here it may be observed, that "The Life" is encumbered with so much detail about all the members of the family alluded to, as to serve the purpose of bookmaking according to the most approved priuciples of diffusion, when there is neither unity or distinctness of purpose, nor the power to digest, arrange, and turn to the best account the little that may be scattered over a large space. At school, at Oxford, and in early life, we do not find that Lewis was distinguished for anything beyond a prejudicial facility in the art of composition. "The East Indian," a comedy, for instance, was written when he was only sixteen. "The Monk," we are told, was the offspring of ten weeks labour, when the author was twenty; no great wonder after all. Very probably, its untruthfulness, its false colouring, its puerile combinations, would have been grosser, if the writer's vitiated taste and morbid imagination had been allowed longer time to conjure up extravagant visions. The artificial tawdriness of the piece would in that case have still more predominated over the natural and the healthy.

Lewis was unfortunately situated between his parents, who, before he completed his academical studies, had separated. There appear to have been some indiscretions on the part of the lady, and the father seems to have had an affair with a Mrs. R--. Yet it is relative to these family imprudences, and the distresses and jealousies accompanying them, that Mathew's character is seen to the best advantage; his generous and sensitive nature being not more conspicuous practically, than his sound sober sense, and considerate feeling. We present a specimen, written amid most perplexing and painful circumstances :

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"My dear Mother, I was not conscious of shewing any coolness or reserve when I saw you. Believe that my affection is still as warm for you as ever; but since you desire me to tell you my thoughts, I will openly confess to you that I feel many very different sensations upon your subject. I feel for you the greatest regard, the most eager desire to do anything that can give you even the most trifling satisfaction; and, at the same time, I cannot help recollecting the pain and anxiety you have occasioned to my dear, my worthy father; and that it is owing to your conduct that my sisters are deprived of maternal care and attention, and of receiving the benefit of those little instructions and observations, so necessary to make young women accomplished, and which are in the power of a mother alone to point out to them with success. You ask me how much I know of your difference with my father, and whether I could publicly make allowances for you. You suppose my father has been giving me instructions. You accuse him unjustly: he has never said a syllable to me with regard to you and my behaviour is entirely such as

is dictated by my own heart. If that is good, as yourself has often told me, my conduct must be the same; if my conduct is wrong, my heart is the same; and it will be worth no one's while to seek to have a share of it. No: I will own to you openly, I could not declare in public that I can make allowances for you. In my heart I can excuse you, and believe that your own innocence, and the deceit of others, may have been the occasion of your errors. But these are arguments never received by the world, which is always eager to believe the worst side of everything. But, saying I have arguments to bring against your adversaries (though I swear to you, on my soul, I know of no adversaries that you have), I never could bear to talk coolly upon the subject. But let me put a case to you, and make you remember a circumstance which must speak to your own feelings. My sisters are now at the age when their minds are most capable of receiving lasting impressions: they have been taught to regard me almost as attentively as their father; and from my being more with them, and entering into their amusements with more vivacity than people who are not so near their own age can do, they readily adopt any sentiments they hear me declare. Can you then openly confess that you wish your conduct to be followed by your daughters?"

We presume that the mother's imprudences were not unconnected with expensive habits. Indeed, there is evidence before us that she was the patroness of a very promiscuous system of visiting, and of very frequent musical parties. We now quote a few more sentences of the document we have already drawn from :

There are many reasons which make Oxford an improper abode for you. It is an uncommon thing to see a lady arrive there by herself; and' as there are people who have a right to enquire into my actions, I should be subject to many unpleasant questions; and what answer would you have me give them? You wish to spend the ten pounds I offer you at Oxford, and you tell me your difficulties are over; but they may recur, and I imagine you would not wish positively to throw away ten pounds. I must now beg you to have done with this subject. Never let me again be obliged to write such a letter-so embarrassing, so distressing. I really think it unkind to tax me with coolness and reserve of conduct. I am not conscious of having failed to you in any one point of affection. The way, also, and manner in which you put it, was not a fair one. You must have been conscious that I could not decide in your favour; and to decide against you would give me infinite pain. But I have now done with this painful subject."

We did not expect such plain, sensible, and really tender things from Monk Lewis; and as it is an agreeable surprise, we shall be excused for giving further proofs of his judgment and delicate feeling. It would appear that his mother had it in contemplation to publish a version of domestic misunderstandings in the shape of a novel, and thereby have her revenge. But the son interposes in the following manner :—

"I do most earnestly and urgently supplicate you, whatever may be its merits, not to publish your novel. It would be useless to say that it should be published without your name. Everything is known in time, and it would be the bookseller's interest to have your name known, in order that people may read it from curiosity. He would not fail to insert in the newspapers that It is whispered, that such a novel is written by Mrs. Lewis,' and then would follow paragraph after paragraph, with all our family affairs ripped up, till every one of us would be ready to go mad with vexation. I cannot express to you in language sufficiently strong how disagreeable and painful my sensations would be, were you to publish any work of any kind, and thus hold yourself out as an object of newspaper animadversion and impertinence. I am sure every such paragraph would be like the stab of a dagger to my father's heart. It would do a material injury to Sophia; and although Maria has found an asylum from the world's malevolence, her mother's turning novel-writer would (I am convinced) not only severely hurt her feelings, but raise the greatest prejudice against her in her husband's family. As for myself, I really think I should go to the Continent immediately upon your taking such a step. Pray write me a line immediately, to assure me that you have laid aside your intention of publishing; and that, even if you have already made a bargain for your novel, you will break it; for I will not suppose that after what I have said you will refuse my request."

How much is it to be regretted that Lady Bulwer had not a friend to address and counsel her effectively in similar terms.

From Lewis, had he known "how to observe," or had he turned the capacities and sound sense which we now perceive he possessed to a close observation of mankind, we should certainly have had descriptions and criticisms in his journals and correspondence going beneath the surface, of which we have hardly a specimen in these volumes; and something more sterling than all the dramas and spectral stories which he concocted. His intercourse with the great and the fashionable was upon a large scale; he was welcomed and courted in many a splendid drawing-room. His visits to foreign parts were frequent; and he was not always a mere tourist. He was, for example, at one time attached to the British embassy at the Hague; and yet it is hardly possible to alight upon one striking observation in any of his letters on any occasion; the mere outside of things, and anecdotes reaching no deeper, constituting the style of his correspondence. We cannot give a higher specimen than that which we now quote:

"As for me, the Hague and the Dutch are as insufferable as ever. But of late I have cut the society of the place, and got into a very agreeable coterie, which assembles every other night at the house of one of the cleverest women I ever met with, a Madame de Matignon. She is the daughter of the celebrated Baron de Bretenie, who lives with her. We have also the Marquise de Bebrance, the Princess de Leon, the Princesse de Montmorencie, the Vicomte de Bouille, the Duke de Polignac, the beau

Dillon (of whom you must certainly have heard), and, in short, the very best society of Paris. This, you must suppose, is pleasant; everybody is at their ease; some play at tric-trac; others work; others font la belle conversation,' and so well, with such wit and novelty of thought, that I am much entertained by it. You will easily conceive that, after such a society, the Dutch assemblies must be dreadful. I, therefore, seldom go near them; and, indeed, a late proof of their stupidity would have terrified a man possessed of more courage than myself. An unfortunate Irishman, known by the name of Lord Kerry, being the other night at one of the Dutch assemblies, and quite overcome with its stupidity, yawned so terribly that he fairly dislocated his jaw. It was immediately set again; but he has suffered much from the accident, and is still confined to his bed. He is a man upwards of fifty; and, consequently, must have been frequently ennuied before. But such peculiar ennui was more than he had bargained for, or had power to resist. You may think this is a made anecdote; but I assure you that I have told you the plain matter of fact. There is a Duchesse de la Force here, a sort of idiot, whom I wish you could see. She would entertain you much. Her conversation is composed of the same set of phrases, which she vents upon all occasions. One of them is Et les détails?' She said, the other day, without minding her question or his reply,' Eh bien! M. Dillon, y a-t-il quelques nouvelles?'—' Il n'y en a pas, Madame.'-' Vraiment! et les détails?' When they told her that the Queen of France was dead, she asked for the détails? She would make an excellent character in a comedy."

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However meagre the letters may be, or the notices selected by the biographer from the journals, we may very reasonably presume that the society of such an amiable and warm-hearted creature, and one too whose brain and pen were so fertile of fruit, though not of the richest flavour or heaviest species, would be agreeable, and found even by persons of the highest genius and acquirements to be, in their moments of relaxation, delightful. We introduce our next extract in connection with this supposition:

"Among the visitors at Oatlands, during the period to which Lewis alludes in the foregoing letter, were Lord Erskine, and the witty and accomplished Lady Anne Cullen Smith, with both of whom he was on terms of intimacy and friendship; and one evening, after dinner, these three amused themselves in writing what is not inaptly called, thread paper rhymes.' It was commenced by the following impromptu of Lord Erskine, on returning Lewis's pencil :

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Your pencil I send you, with thanks for the loan;

Yet writing for fame now and then,

My wants I must still be content to bemoan,

Unless I could borrow-your pen !'

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His lordship having indulged in a not very complimentary comparison at the expense of the ladies, was thus answered by Lewis :

"Lord Erskine, at women presuming to rail,
Says, wives are tin canisters tied to one's tail;

While fair Lady Anne, as the subject he carries on,
Feels hurt at his lordship's degrading comparison.
Yet wherefore degrading? Considered aright,
A canister's useful, and polish'd, and bright;
And should dirt its original purity hide,

That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied !'

To which Lord Erskine immediately rejoined:

"When smitten with love from the eyes of the fair,
If marriage should not be your lot,

A ball from a pistol will end your despair-
It's safer than canister-shot!'"

Had the present biographer been a person competent to supply the want which uniformly marks Lewis's sketches of individuals, we must have found, instead of the mass of matter in these volumes, which possesses no sort of public interest, portraits of many distinguished characters, no longer moving on the world's stage, and notices of the early days of others, who are still amongst us, that might have satisfied a laudable curiosity. It is quite manifest that when introducing the eccentric Lady Cork, and an account of some of her vagaries, there was room for harmless yet piquant sketches. The scene, however, to which these sketches might have been attached is good so far as it goes, and therefore we introduce it :

"Her ladyship took a great fancy to Mr. Thomas Moore, then in the zenith of popularity and the darling of the day; and one evening took it into her head to gratify her guests with some passages of dramatic_reading. Mr. Moore was the fascinating medium selected for this flow of soul,' upon which it seemed the lady had set her heart, but against which it proved the gentleman had set his face: he was exceedingly sorry—was particularly engaged-had besides a very bad cold-a terribly obstinate hoarseness; and declared all this with an exceedingly good evening' expression of countenance. Her ladyship was puzzled how to act, until Lewis came to her relief; and in a short time she made her appearance with a large Burgundy pitch plaster, with which she followed the wandering melodist about the room, who in his endeavours to evade his wellmeaning pursuer and her formidable recipe, was at length fairly hemmed into a corner. Whether he there exerted his eloquence in protestations of gratitude, or in prayers for assistance we never heard, but as they say of the heroes of romance, he at length effected his escape.' Having one day taken into her head to have a raffle,' or lottery, for a charitable purpose, she mentioned her idea to Lewis, who entered into the project with great willingness, and under his direction the whole affair was managed. As it was arranged that everybody was to win something, Lewis took care that the prizes should be of a nature that would create the most ludicrous perplexity to their owners. Accordingly, on the evening appointed (for the raffle took place at a soirée), the assembled guests were parading the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms burdened

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