atire.
The ideal _is_ the true real; the only absurdity lies in the pomp and
circumstance wherewith that simple truth is introduced. There _is_ a
'Dweller on the Threshold,' but it, or he, is nothing more than that
doubt concerning the truth of spiritual things which assails all
beginners in higher speculation, and there was no need to call it or him
by so formidable a name. A sense of humor would have saved Bulwer from
almost all his faults, and have endowed him with several valuable
virtues into the bargain; but it was not born in him, and with all his
diligence he never could beget it.

The domestic series, of which 'The Caxtons' is the type, are the most
generally popular of his works, and are likely to be so longest. The
romantic vein ('Ernest Maltravers,' 'Alice, or the Mysteries,' etc.) are
in his worst style, and are now only in existence as books because they
are members of "the edition," It is doubtful if any human being has read
one of them through in twenty years. Such historical books as 'The Last
Days of Pompeii' are not only well constructed dramatically, but are
painfully accurate in details, and may still be read for information as
well as for pleasure. The 'Zanoni' species is undeniably interesting.
The weird traditions of the 'Philosopher's Stone' and the 'Elixir of
Life' can never cease to fascinate human souls, and all the
paraphernalia of magic are charming to minds weary of the
matter-of-factitude of current existence. The stories are put together
with Bulwer's unfailing cleverness, and in all external respects neither
Dumas nor Balzac has done anything better in this kind: the trouble is
that these authors compel our belief, while Bulwer does not. For, once
more, he lacks the magic of genius and the spirit of style which are
immortally and incommunicably theirs, without which no other magic can
be made literarily effective.

'Pelham,' written at twenty-five years of age, is a creditable boy's
book; it aims to portray character as well as to develop incidents, and
in spite of the dreadful silliness of its melodramatic passages it has
merit. Conventionally it is more nearly a work of art than that other
famous boy's book, Disraeli's 'Vivian Grey,' though the latter is alive
and blooming with the original literary charm which is denied to the
other. Other characteristic novels of his are 'The Last Days of
Pompeii,' 'Ernest Maltravers,' 'Zanoni,' 'The Caxtons,' 'My Novel,'
'What Will He Do with It?