his own friends and himself, as intimately his discreditable characters have an unas he is allowed to become acquainted happy trick of claiming kindred with us. with that "most respectable family," the Without desiring to undervalue the great Newcomes, and those who are associated ability of Mr. Dickens, it must be allowed, with it. This, however, being premised, for example, that his bad people have the we certainly should judge him happy, if, unreal though convenient quality of selfamong his peculiar score, he can find isolation from the tolerable part of humatches for the great-minded gentleman, manity-to which, of course, every reader Colonel Newcome; the high and sweet belongs. We cut them with a perfect lady, the Countess of Florac; the (consid- conscience; we cannot even exchange a ering the disadvantages of her bringing nod with such unmistakeably disreputable up) remarkably right-minded Miss Ethel; persons. But the three writers above the frank and honorable boy Clive; the mentioned are more profound in their ethhonest and independent, and withal amiable nology. They display to the conscience Miss Honeyman; the immaculate matron, of the "most respectable persons," the Mrs. Laura; the unpretentious wife-and- links by which they are more than bloodhome-loving member of parliament, her relatives of the most unknowable scounhusband; the meek man of genius, J. J., drels. Again, the good people in Mr. not to speak of others of less significant, Thackeray's writings are apt to displease or a more mixed quality, as F. Bayham, us, strange as this may seem, for the very Sherrick, George Barnes, Lady Walham, same reason. The heroes and heroines of De Florac, Lord Kew, Miss Cann, and less veracious writers permit themselves half-a-dozen others, who are "all right at to be admired at a distance, and without heart," as the cant and very questionable insisting that we shall be like them, for phrase goes. Against this galaxy of ex- the very sufficient reason that this is imcellence, what have we of the utterly possible. But Mr. Thackeray's good peoabominable to put in the scale? Only ple affront us with a display of our own Barnes Newcome, Mrs. Mackenzie, Mrs. possibilities. If we are not as good as Hobson Newcome, and Lady Kew, all of they are, we ought to be, and we know whom, except the last, let it be allowed, it; and we are obliged to blush at mean(for it is true,) are extremely common ness, malice, vanity, and folly, which characters, though we have not, commonly, the means of becoming so thoroughly and philosophically acquainted with them as in these instances. Why do we go on calling ourselves "miserable sinners" on Sundays, if we are to abuse Mr. Thackeray on week-days for making out many of us to be somewhat less than saints? The plain fact is, that Mr. Thackeray is decried for exactly that quality which constitutes his originality, namely, his faithfulness to some important point, or points of truth, hitherto denied or disregarded. We are all, nominally, orthodox on the point of human imperfection in the abstract, but now that Mr. Thackeray insists on proving in detail, that there is really some substantial verity in the charge, he meets with a most heretical roar of disapprobation. He is the Athanasius of the doctrine of human peccability.

This subject, the farther it is examined, brings the greater credit to our client. Other writers have represented the world in as evil a light, but few have done the work with such conscience-convicting truth. Mr. Thackeray makes a third with Shakespeare and Fielding in this, that all

others, so clearly sharing the same humanity with ourselves, have abandoned, or refused to take up with. Furthermore, between perfect heroes and heroines, and imperfect readers, the distance is not measurable; and, as all mathematicians know, the relations between infinity and zero are remarkable, and by beginners in algebra these entities, (or nonentities) are apt to be confounded. But between imperfect readers and much less imperfect Colonels Newcome and Countesses de Florac, the distance is perfectly intelligible, and not, by any slight of conscience, to be confused with nullity.

These qualities of Mr. Thackeray's recent writings, while they scandalize large classes, confer upon his books an inexpressible attraction and value for those who really believe in original sin and human imperfectibility. If Mr. Thackeray wrote only half as well as he does, many people who now criticise, would be wholesale admirers of his works. He is not half-cracked, which is unfortunate for his reputation with those who judge of genius by the fracture. He has a feeling of the responsibility of possessing intellectual

power, or, at all events, he acts as if he had, (which is all that concerns us,) and neglects no means of making it efficient and productive. His business is to paint the world, and for that purpose he goes to look at it, and does not wish Nature out of the way, as Fuseli did, in order that his egotistical fancy may have unimpeded play; and his successive works bear that unmistakable badge of conscientious workmanship, successive improvement.

that the latter is inferior to the former, is a difference mainly of the times lived in and depicted by these writers. Does any one suppose that Fielding would have dared to describe a Squire Western, or a Lady Bellaston, for the edification of subscribers to modern circulating libraries ? Could the respective virtues and failings of a Joseph Andrews and a Tom Jones have been set forth, in a time when the lips of novelist and dramatist are absoMr. Thackeray's peculiar "style" reaches lutely locked, with regard to that which perfection in the "Newcomes." We say still exercises, as it ever did, and ever his peculiar style, because, in that exquisite must, the chief moral energies of almost novel "Esmond," he has proved himself all men, during many, and those the most capable of assuming a style, which, though dramatic years of their lives? We do not throughout sustained and faultless, is evi- complain of this refinement of modern dently not that which pleases him best, speech, though we doubt whether it goes however much it may be preferred by much deeper. On the contrary, we many of his readers, and those, perhaps, heartily wish the reform were the best worth pleasing. The chief fault thorough than it is, and that men should of his ordinary and own style is also the never rise, even from their talk over fault of Fielding's; namely, a habit of their wine, with the flavor in their mouths winking the eye, as it were, at the reader, and minds of a phrase, or a sentiment as he goes on. We suppose that most which ought to make them blush to "join readers like this, as those are generally the ladies." Reforms often advance from popular favorites who do it. For our superficial to profound, and a pure tongue parts, we could well dispense with the is a laudable hypocrisy, if it be nothing compliment to ourselves supposed to be better. Art, it is true, has hitherto been implied, for the sake of the gain to the a sufferer by the improvement. That it novelist's dignity. With the single draw-will not be so in the long run, we are conback, however, of this defect, Mr. Thackeray's present style is a marvel of completeness and culture; and, to appreciate it properly, the degrees through which this writer has passed in attaining it should be examined. Mr. Thackeray was a "crack writer" fifteen years ago. It is exactly fifteen years ago that there appeared in the "Times" newspaper an article on Fielding, which is too marked in its manner, and in its anticipation of the views expressed in the "Lectures on the English Humorists," for there to be a moment's doubt as to the authorship. The "Times" literary articles are always in the most striking style that can be had for money. But let the reader, who has easy access to a file of that newspaper, compare the article in question (September 3, 1840) with the "Lecture on Fielding in the English Humorists." There is exactly the same order of views and intellectual merit in both, but there is nearly as much difference between the two styles as there is between smoke and flame.

The difference between Fielding and Thackeray, in respect of that breadth of handling in which it has been complained

vinced: for every thing that really betters life must better that which is its representative: but life, as we have said, is not as yet, probably, very substantially better in this respect; and the novelist and dramatist are meanwhile under the unhappy necessity of representing a society which dares not, and ought not to dare, to seem no better than it is. The breadth of treatment which is thus impossible for the modern novelist, is substituted in Mr. Thackeray's works by a subtlety of hand. ling which is almost equally admirable, and which would scarcely be compatible with the strength of light and shade we find in Fielding. Mr. Thackeray is as much the originator of this kind of writing as Fielding was of the other; and if there are numerous little indications of reverence and imitation of the latter in the works of the former, the two writers, in their main characteristics, are absolute opposites, although, as we have said, that opposition is probably no more than the natural reflection, by two first-rate minds, of the opposite social character of their times. We are all of us disciples of that school of the new science of moral anato

my, of which Mr. Thackeray is the master; | evidence of immortality which we cannot and it is emphatically true of him, as of resist, and the tears, perhaps, come by all other great writers, that he is only way of unconscious protest against the "outrunning the age in the direction ordinary baseness of our mortal lives. which it is spontaneously taking."

we hope that Mr. Thackeray may think it | But if we are to judge a man by his works, worth his while to correct in a future edi- it must be by all his works, and as the tion. First, the unnatural refusal of Clive biographer of Keats admirably says, the to give up the profession of an artist,-"works" of an author are his works infor to him it was clearly nothing dearer deed. St. Bernard says, that, at the Last than a profession, and only that nominally, Day, it will not be asked what we did or for he did not live by it,-when he saw what we believed, but what we loved. If plainly that the name of artist vexed the we would know what Fielding loved, we pride of his mistress, and greatly dam- must question not our superficial knowaged his chance with her. Secondly, the ledge of his actual life, but "Tom Jones," very unsatisfactory character of the con- "Amelia," and "Joseph Andrews," clusion, which not only leaves us almost from which we find not only that he sinin doubt as to whether Clive and Ethel cerely loved what is gracious in human were married after all, but also with an life, but that he comprehended and loved unpleasant impression that it is not much the source of that graciousness. Colematter whether they are or not. Mrs. ridge says that the young man's mind Mackenzie is the person who occupies the must already be corrupt which can receive foreground, to our mind's eye, as we damage from these novels. They are not close the book, and the very name of that works, however, which we would recomperson is as bad to one's nerves as a blast mend to young people. The minds of of east wind. Why did not Mr. Thacke- almost all young men are more or less ray let us witness the final disappearance corrupt-at least it would be very dangerof the cloud, which for the moment ob- ous in education to act on the assumption scured the fortunes and disturbed the of the reverse. But apart from that questempers of the hero and heroine? We tion, it is certainly not advisable that are not made "sadder and wiser" by this young minds should be familiarized with sorry conclusion, but only put out of sorts, the idea of the possibility of such general and left irritable;-the only moral we are laxness of manners as Fielding depictsdisposed at the moment to draw being, of course without astonishment, since he that we also have our Mrs. Mackenzie lived in them himself. somewhere among our "friends" or relations, and that we will henceforth be like Clive, and let her know our minds about her, instead of excusing her to ourselves, or decently containing our rage, as hith

erto.

It would be as hard to criticise one of Fielding's novels as to criticise a fine day -they have so few faults and so few peculiarities. Their excellence is "as broad and general as the casing air," and is only to be praised in terms which would be true of nature herself. It is impossible for any one, who brings to the perusal a proper amount of experience and observation, to read any of these works without a sense of moral invigoration, which is as delightful as it is unlike the result of nearly all other novel reading. Few things are more startling than the contrast between this tone and what seems to have been the character of Fielding's life. This of itself, it must be allowed, seems not to have been one to create any great admiration for him. The best thing in it is his love of his first wife; yet a man must be far gone who is incapable of a passionate, enduring and increasing devotion to such a woman as the original of "Amelia."

Let us, with the help of Mr. Lawrence's amusing Life, look back for a little to these old times. Henry Fielding was born at Sharpman Park, near Glastonbury, on the 22d of April 1707. His father, General Fielding, son of Dr. Fielding, canon of Salisbury, served with distinction under the great Marlborough. Henry was one of six children. His only brother died young, and, of his four sisters, Sarah, the third, is known as the authoress of "David Simple." His early education was conducted at home by the family chaplain, who is thought to have furnished an original for the parson Trulliber of "Joseph Andrews," "one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to this, that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height when he lay on his back as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accent extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait when he walked not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower." From the tutorship of this man, Fielding was

transferred to Eton, where he was fellow-dered to, and further vitiated, by the imstudent with George Lyttleton, William moralities of Congreve, Farquhar, and Pitt, Henry Fox, and other celebrities of Vanbrugh. A play which had no gross the day, with most of whom his liveliness, wit, and good nature, made him a favorite. His friendship with Lyttleton lasted with their lives.