mind with agitation and pointing the way to revenge. In the energy of despair a portion of the captives have broken their manacles--they rush to liberate their fellows--the air is full of their cry for revenge--the conclave of Europe's wisest statesmen is at fault--a king trembles on his throne--and what, gentle reader, do you suppose is to be the result of these mighty throes and convulsions? why, just nothing, literally nothing at all. A Countess of Blessington surveys the scene from afar; reclining on an Ottoman, beneath a cloud of aromatic odors she recollects the subject of conversation at her last "soiree;" the idea flits across her brain with a gentle pang as it flies, that the energy of O'Connell is becoming exceedingly vulgar, and that the convulsions of a revolution so near her would be extremely trying to her nerves, not to mention those of Messrs. Bulwer and D'Israeli. Her resolution is taken, and at spare intervals between morning visits and soirees, she writes the "_Repealers_," which is at once to settle the agitations of a kingdom, and annihilate O'Connell himself. She has no sooner finished, than washing her hands "forty times in soap and forty in alkali," she despatches the production to Mr. Bulwer, who looking upon the work pronounces it good; and lo! the succeeding number of the New Monthly shall teach you the wonderful virtues of the moral medicaments which come from the Countess of Blessington's specific against Irish agitation. But who is Mr. Bulwer himself? for in this age so wonderful for accomplishing great ends by little means, it has become necessary to know him. Why a literary magician, a sprite of Endor, who by the potency of his charm conjures up the spirits of the mighty dead. Evoked by him the departed prophets arise. A Peter the Great, and a Bolingbroke, a Pope and a Swift, not to mention others of somewhat lesser note, come forth and speak at his command as once they spoke. The departed oracles of English literature are no longer mute. But the visits of the dead are of necessity short. They have no time now for such chit-chat as some may suspect they have hazarded whilst living. They come on a mission of importance which they have barely time to accomplish. The hidden secrets of policy are to be revealed, mightly oracles in philosophy and criticism are to be declared. Truths fall like hailstones, and wit descends in showers. But lo! what figure is that which stalks across the scene and comes to take his part in this play of phantasmagoria with which we have just been entertained. Does he belong to the land of shadows or the world of reality? "Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die." It is an impersonation of the mental and moral qualities of Mr. Edward Lytton Bulwer himself, not a prophet--but more than a prophet. The "most wonderful wonder of wonders." Pope and Swift are overpowered by his wit. The star of Bolingbroke pales before the superior effulgence