hero of its pages. In history, he will dwell only "on marvels wrought by single hand," till he deems they say, "Go and do thou likewise." Every thing is seen through an exaggerated medium. He prepares himself for great difficulties, which he is to vanquish—gigantic obstacles, which he is to overcome. Instead of these, he is surrounded by small impediments, which seem below his ideal dignity to encounter. His most favourite acquirements are useless, because none of them have been called into action by his own peculiar circumstances; and he reproaches Fortune, where he should accuse Fiction.
Few books have been more dangerous to a young man of this temperament, in middle life, than Vivian Grey. No romance is so hazardous as that of real life: the adventures seem so possible, yet so exciting. There is something so pleasant in the mastery of mere mind: the versatility of manner, the quick eye of the hero to the weakness of others, appear so completely in the power also of the reader; his vanity adds force to his imagination, and our youth rises from the perusal convinced of the hardship of his particular situation, shut out from the diplomatic and political career, for which his now
