It was as though the secrets of the grave were revealed; and that, to convince us of the perishable coil of which mortals are formed, it is given us to behold how much more durable are the commonest utensils of daily use than the frames of those who boast themselves lords of the creation.
But here am I moralizing, when I ought to be taking advantage of this glorious day by a promenade in the Bois de Boulogne, where I promised to conduct Madame d'O----; so _allons en voiture_.
Read the _Disowned_, and like it exceedingly.

It is full of beautiful thoughts, sparkling with wit, teeming with sentiment, and each and all of them based on immutable truths.

The more I read of the works of this highly gifted writer, the more am I delighted with them; for his philosophy passes through the alembic of a mind glowing with noble and generous sentiments, of which it imbibes the hues.
The generality of readers pause not to reflect on the truth and beauty of the sentiments to be found in novels.

They hurry on to the _denoument_; and a stirring incident, skilfully managed, which serves to develope the plot, finds more admirers than the noblest thoughts, or most witty maxims.

Yet as people who read nothing else, will read novels, authors like Mr.Bulwer, whose minds are overflowing with genius, are compelled to make fiction the vehicle for giving to the public thoughts and opinions that are deserving of a higher grade of literature.
The greater portion of novel readers, liking not to be detained from the interest of the story by any extraneous matter, however admirable it may be, skip over the passages that most delight those who read to reflect, and not for mere amusement.
I find myself continually pausing over the admirable and profound reflections of Mr.Bulwer, and almost regret that his writings do not meet the public as the papers of the _Spectator_ did, when a single one of them was deemed as essential to the breakfast-table of all lovers of literature as a morning journal is now to the lovers of news.