dicate only one department of his genius: as a dramatist he was not far inferior to his great contemporaries, as a novelist he revealed an amazing power of paradox, and a bewildering fe

as a millionaire. He could write, too, in more ser

got the worst of the encounter. As a result he took a voyage to Italy for the benefit of his health. His adventures remind us alternatively of those of Brant?me and Benvenuto Cellini. At a later period he was associat

gold. Geese in his eyes became swans, and in every lump of literary coke he saw a diamond of the purest ray. It was

the author, I could not but admire its gaiety, grace, unexpected turns, and happy co

on, says the poet

tirely reconstructed by Méry on the absurd foundation imagined by Mr. * * *. The dénouement he invented-for though the third act was not finished, he spoke of

critics of this kind ar

been (and probably was) the happiest of men, and his peculiar powers must have lightened his critical labours as much as they benefited those he cr

al, political, and religious idea that occupies our dull brains had entered into the consciousness of the men of the 'forties. They thought quickly and talked brilliantly. Their young men were youths-full of fire, enthusiasm, love, and fun. They did not talk about the advantages of devotion to business in early life. They were not born tired. Wonderful, too, as