other, and often hiding himself completely in anonymity. He was
versatile, not deep. Robert Louis Stevenson also employs various styles;
but with him the changes are intuitive--they are the subtle variations
in touch and timbre which genius makes, in harmony with the subject
treated. Stevenson could not have written 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde' in
the same tune and key as 'Treasure Island'; and the music of 'Marxheim'
differs from both. The reason is organic: the writer is inspired by his
theme, and it passes through his mind with a lilt and measure of its
own. It makes its own style, just as a human spirit makes its own
features and gait; and we know Stevenson through all his transformations
only by dint of the exquisite distinction and felicity of word and
phrase that always characterize him. Now, with Bulwer there is none of
this lovely inevitable spontaneity. He costumes his tale arbitrarily,
like a stage-haberdasher, and invents a voice to deliver it withal. 'The
Last Days of Pompeii' shall be mouthed out grandiloquently; the
incredibilities of 'The Coming Race' shall wear the guise of naive and
artless narrative; the humors of 'The Caxtons' and 'What Will He Do with
It?' shall reflect the mood of the sagacious, affable man of the world,
gossiping over the nuts and wine; the marvels of 'Zanoni' and 'A Strange
Story' must be portrayed with a resonance and exaltation of diction
fitted to their transcendental claims. But between the stark mechanism
of the Englishman and the lithe, inspired felicity of the Scot, what a
difference!

Bulwer's work may be classified according to subject, though not
chronologically. He wrote novels of society, of history, of mystery, and
of romance. In all he was successful, and perhaps felt as much interest
in one as in another. In his own life the study of the occult played a
part; he was familiar with the contemporary fads in mystery and
acquainted with their professors. "Ancient" history also attracted him,
and he even wrote a couple of volumes of a 'History of Athens.' In all
his writing there is a tendency to lapse into a discussion of the "Ideal
and the Real," aiming always at the conclusion that the only true Real
is the Ideal. It was this tendency which chiefly aroused the ridicule of
his critics, and from the 'Sredwardlyttonbulwig' of Thackeray to the
'Condensed Novels' burlesque of Bret Harte, they harp upon that facile
string, The thing satirized is after all not cheaper than the s