ding to our _present lights_, we should say
that the sustaining of the main characteristic interest of the novel, is
incompatible with the more intense efforts of reflection or of poetry.
One cannot be dragged on and chained to the spot at the same time. Some
one _may_ arise who shall combine the genius of Lord Byron and of Sir
Walter Scott; but till the prodigy makes his appearance, I shall
continue to think that no intellectual chymistry could present to us, in
one compound, the charms of _Ivanhoe_ and of _Sardanapalus_.

I should be very ungrateful--I who have been an idle man--if I
underrated the novel. It is hardly possible to imagine a form of
composition more fit to display the varied powers of an author; for wit
and pathos, the tragic and the comic, descriptions, reflections,
dialogue, narrative, each takes its turn; but I cannot consent that it
carry off all our regard from its elder sister, the drama. In the novel
every thing passes by in dizzy rapidity; we are whirled along over hill
and valley, through the grandeur and the filth of cities, and a thousand
noble and a thousand grotesque objects flit over our field of vision. In
the drama, it is true, we often toil on, slow as a tired pedestrian; but
then how often do we sit down, as at the foot of some mountain, and fill
our eyes and our hearts with the prospect before us? How gay is the
first!--even when terrible, she has still her own vivacity; but then she
exhausts at once all the artillery of her charms. How severe is the
second!--even when gayest, she is still thoughtful, still maintains her
intricate movement, and her habit of involved allusions; but then at
each visit some fresh beauty discloses itself. It was once my good
fortune--I who am now old, may prattle of these things--to be something
a favourite with a fair lady who, with the world at large, had little
reputation for beauty. Her sparkling sister, with her sunny locks and
still more sunny countenance, carried away all hearts; she, pale and
silent, sat often unregarded. But, oh, Eugenius! when she turned upon
you her eyes lit with the light of love and genius, that pale and
dark-browed girl grew suddenly more beautiful than I have any words to
express. You must make the application yourself; for having once
conjured up her image to my mind, I cannot consent to compare her even
to the most eloquent poetry that was ever penned.

Undoubtedly the first dramatic writer amongst our contemporaries is