in English soil, according to our critic, the literary taste of his country directs his efforts and appreciates his fruits. Public opinion is his private opinion. He does not submit to external constraint, but is himself fully persuaded that he and the public are right-the wishes of the public accord with his natural inclination. He writes romances which may be read by anybody; there is throughout a moral tone and a recognition of religion. Love, the most powerful passion of the heart, is carefully kept in proper bounds; it is love that travels the high road to the parish church; there is nothing deeply passionate in it-nothing to set the brain and heart on firetwo worthy young men fall in love with two amiable young women, and there are a couple of well-conducted weddings; that is one story. Two excellent young men are deeply attached to two virtuous maidens, and marry them; that is another story. One thoroughly deserving young man wooes, and wins, and weds a thoroughly deserving young woman; that is a third story. There is no difference between them; they all follow suit-they court and marry, totally irrespective of money and family connections, as disinterestedly as they do at the Comic Opera! And then all the poor people are virtuous, and the episodes of scanty dinners cheerfully eaten, and parents and children rivalling each other in self-denial, are repeatedly introduced. If there be such a thing as a seduction, we hear less of the progress of the passion than of the misery, despair, and remorse which it brings with it; if an exasperated and sorely-tempted wife is likely to fall, she is sure to be rescued before the commission of any rash act; if a woman-as in Dombey and Son-actually seems to commit herself into the hands of a villain, she does so only to avenge herself, and preserves her honour at the point of the knife! There is nothing of undisciplined passion-'tis as good children playing at married life. The observation and genius of the author are exercised in the description of domestic bliss -the chimney corner, with merry innocent children clinging round their mother's knees; the good husband watching | beside his sleeping wife; and speaking of wives-nearly all of them everything that could be desired-the author gives us portraits grave and gay-the child-wife, Dora, all about her little rebellions, her infantine charms, her musical laughter like the song of birds; and then Agnes, so calm, so patient, so sensible, so pure, so much to be respected as a model spouse.

M. Taine, in unequivocal terms, insists that Mr. Dickens, with all his great powers, never thoroughly elaborates a single character, never develops the progressive workings of the human heart. He seizes upon some individual characteristic, and goes on repeating it from first to last. The face always bears the same expression, and the expression is nearly always a grimace. Miss Mercy-"merry”—laughs at every word; Mark Tapley introduces his "jolly" into every scene; Mrs. Gamp is for ever referring to Mrs. Harris; Dr. Chillip is always timid; Micawber, through three volumes, utters the same phrases, and passes, with unaccountable celerity, from joy to sorrow five or six hundred times. Each of his characters has one special vice, or one particular virtue, one overwhelming absurdity, or one absorbing passion-black is always black, and white white. Tartuffe is unlike Pecksniff, inasmuch as his hypocrisy never destroys the rest of his character; he still belongs to the human family; in being a hypocrite he does not cease to be a man. Thus, and much more after the same fashion, criticises M. Taine, but not without some words of praise, and the very frank acknowledgment that Boz is a fair representative of his country and his age-in fact, that being an Englishman, and writing for Englishmen, he must be pardoned for not writing like Balzac.

M. Taine divides Dickens's characters into two classes— sensible people and the opposite, those who are natural and

those who are artificial. In Hard Times may be found a résumé of his principles. He prefers instinct to reason, the intuition of the heart to positive science; he attacks education founded on statistics, figures, and facts; he ridicules the mercantile spirit; sneers at the pride, the egotism, the selfconfidence of the merchant and the noble; he abominates manufacturing towns because the dirt and the smoke imprison both mind and body in an artificial atmosphere; among the cotton operatives, and the travelling circus-riders, and acrobats he finds his examples of innocence and virtue— upon their good sense, generosity, delicacy, courage, devotion, contempt of wealth, &c., &c., he fully expatiates. His satires on society become a little oppressive; his elegies on nature somewhat heavy; but both very acceptable, it seems, and altogether in accordance with the taste of English society. The first-fruit of English society is, M. Taine informs us, hypocrisy. We move about doubly clothed in religion and morality-in fact, in our country it is considered scandalous to laugh on Sunday, Puritanism still maintains its old hatred of good-humour, and learned divines devote their lives to the consideration of the virtues of Nebuchadnezzar-in such a country the semblance of religion is, of course, useful—in fact, as Mr. Harthouse would remark, it is for what we go in." Hypocrisy, then, being our leading vice, Pecksniff is a specimen of what we are. Pecksniff is not a man to be met with in France. French society would be disgusted with his phrases-there is about them an affectation which smacks more of vice than virtue-fanfaronade of immorality. Frenchmen, according to M. Taine, have had their hypocrites, but it was when religion was popular in France. "Since the days of Voltaire, Tartuffe is impossible." Pecksniff models his hypocrisy on the religion of his country — -a religion a little dogmatic and very moral; he does not, like Tartuffe, deal in theological phrases, but favours us with tirades on philosophy. He is a philosopher, a humanitarian; he gives to his daughters the names of Charity and Mercy-he is all tenderness, all goodness, abandons himself to domestic innocence and household joys-an affectionate father, a sincere friend, a kind master; he is a family man, always at home, and professing that he finds no place like it. Whereas Tartuffe talks of the hair shirt and penitential discipline, Pecxsniff enjoys himself in his comfortable parlour, surrounded by the beauties of Nature. He wears the aspect of a member of the Peace Society. He touchingly develops his theory of universal harmony. He is for ever professing his anxiety to benefit his fellow-creatures, and to make the whole world happy. He delivers his sentiments in a style only to be acquired in a country of Parliaments and public meetings— the style is that of a prospectus. He has the air of an apostle-trained in the Times newspaper office. He finds not only tongues in trees and books in running brooks, but a morality in a beefsteak—the beefsteak passes away, so passes away all earthly enjoyment-everything sublunary is evanescent! "L'économie de la digestion, dira-t-il, à ce que m'ont appris certains anatomistes, de mes amis, est un des plus merveilleux ouvrages de la Nature. Je ne sais pas ce qu'à prouvent les autres, mais c'est une grand satisfaction pour moi de penser, quand je jouis de mon humble dîner, que je mets en mouvement la plus belle machine dont nous ayons connaissance. Il me semble véritablement en de tels instants que j'accomplis une fonction publique." Pecksniff's hypocris y to a Frenchman is quite a novelty.

Among the characters drawn by Mr. Dickens, M. Taine calls attention to those examples of positive, self-willed, determined men which are found in most of his books. Ralph Nickleby, Scrooge, Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Jonas, Alderman Cute, Mr. Murdstone and his sister, old Bounderby, and Tom Gradgrind are enumerated. These characters differ

poetical power. but he is expected to appreciate it as a moral quality; he pronounces sentence on his pictures of life; he is a counsellor more than an observator, a judge more than an artist.

M. Taine takes up the three great works of Thackeray- | Pendennis, Vanity Fair, and The Newcomes. Every scene impresses some moral truth; the author stamps on every page his judgment upon vice and virtue; whatever is advanced is approved or blamed, and the dialogue and characters are not the means by which he arouses our convictionswe have to approve what he approves, and to blame what he blames. These are the lessons in which it is his business to instruct, and in the sentiments which he expresses and the events which he describes we are furnished with a goodly supply of virtuous precepts.

In the opening pages of Pendennis we have the portrait of an old major, a man of the world, vain and egotistical, comfortably seated in his club between the window and the fire, envied by Surgeon Glowry, whom nobody invites or cares for, and who searches in vain for his own name in fashionable intelligence. A bundle of letters is received-a family letter is left to be read the last of all; but its perusal ends in a cry of horror his nephew has espoused an actress. He acts promptly is ready to do anything for the .credit of the family, and to rescue his relative from a mésalliance. What is the evident conclusion? Nobody so egotistical or vain, nobody so much of a gourmand, as the major.

:

Further on it appears that Pendennis, father of the young man, was for some time an apothecary, but came of a good stock. He won wealth, gave up medicine, married the distant relative of a nobleman, and attempted to insinuate himself into distinguished society. All his life he talked of an invitation from Lord Ribstone. He bought an estate, sank the apothecary, stood forth in his new glory as a landed proprietor. Every detail is a sarcasm.

Old Pendennis dies; his son inherits his estate-Grand Duke of Pendennis, Sultan of Fairoaks; he reigns over his mother, his cousin, and the servants; he forwards lamentable rhymes to the country papers, commences an epic, a tragedy, comprising sixteeen murders, a history of the Jesuits, and becomes a stout defender of Church and King; he sighs after an ideal, yearns for an unknown, and falls in love with a vulgar actress, aged thirty-two! Young men-my dear friendsaffected and pretentious, you are the dupes of yourselves and of others--you will know the world better if you observe the lesson about to be inculcated, &c. &c.

This sort of instruction is continued throughout the life of Arthur. Like Lesage in Gil Blas and Balzac in Père Goriot, the author of Pendennis paints a young man having some share of ability, some good sentiments, and withal generous, but not accommodating himself to the maxims of the world. Lesage, however, diverts us, and Balzac is passionate, whereas Thackeray is throughout the calm teacher of moral philosophy. This purpose becomes more apparent the more closely we examine into the detail of any one of his pictures or dialogues. We observe no special care in the copying of nature, but an attentive and reflective mind transforming into satire every object, every word, and every action. Every phrase is made to tell, often to render the speaker odious or ridiculous. He accuses himself, he acknowledges his petty vices and small sins, he cries mea culpa under his breath, owns to the punishment he merits. He shows us how selfish we are, how mean, how greedy of gain, how thoroughly rotten is our social life, what shams we consent to recognise and to practise. How quietly, for example, he satirises the love of money when he talks of the advantages of a balance at the banker's:

"Quelle dignite donne à une vieille dame un compte ouvert chez son banquier! Avec quelle tendresse nous regardons ses

imperfections si elle est notre parente! et puisse chaque lecteur avoir une vingtaine de telles parentes! Qui de nous ne la juge une bonne et excellente vieille? Comme le nouvel associé de Hobs et Dobs sourit en la reconduisant à sa voiture blasonnée, garnie du gros cocher asthmatique! Comme nous savons, lorsqu'elle vient nous rendre visite, découvrir l'occasion d'apprendre à nos amis sa position dans le monde! Nous leur disons (et avec une parfaite sincérité), Je voudrais avec la signature de Miss Mac-Whirter pour un bon de cinq mille guinées. Elle ne serait pas à court, dit votre femme. Elle est ma tante, dites-vous d'un air aisé, insouciant, quand votre ami vous demande si par hazard elle ne serait pas votre parente. Votre femme lui envoie à chaque instant de petits temoignages d'affection; vos petites filles font pour elle un nombre infini de paniers en tapisserie, de coussins, de tabourets. Quel bon feu dans sa chambre lorsqu'elle vient vous rendre visite! Votre femme s'en passe quand elle lace son corset. La maison, pendant tout le temps de cette visite, prendre un air propre, agréable, comfortable, joyeux, un air de fête qu'elle n'a point eu d'autres saisons. Vous-même, mon cher monsieur-vous oubliez d'aller dormir après dîner, et vous vous trouvez tout d'un coup (quoique vous perdiez invariablement) très-amoureux du whist. Quels bons dîners vous offrez! Du gibier tous les jours, du madère, malvoisie, et régulièrement du poisson de Londres. Les gens de cuisine eux-mêmes prennant part à la postérité générale. Je ne sais pas comment la chose arrive; mais pendant le séjour du gros cocher de Miss Mac-Whirter, la bière est devenue beaucoup plus forte, et dans la chambre des enfants (où sa bonne prend ses repas), la consommation du thé et du sucre n'est plus surveillée du tout. Cela est-il vrai ou non? J'en appelle aux classes moyennes. Ah, pouvoirs célestes! que ne m'envoyez-vous une vieille tante-une tante fille-une tante avec une voiture blasonnée et unc hapeau couleur café clair! Comme mes enfants broderaient pour elle des sacs à ouvrage! Comme ma Julia et moi nous serions aux petits soins pour elle! Douce vision! O vain, trop vain rêve!"

Thus the great moralist shows us what is the worth of our attentions to a maiden aunt from whom we have expectations. He questions the conscience, and pauses for a reply. The scholars in his school are subjected to sharp discipline. He wields the rod with no weak or sparing hand. Thus he meets the taste of the English public-a taste very different from that of the public of France. On this point M. Taine is very emphatic. He takes us to the saloons of men of genius, or the ateliers of the artists, and shows us twenty jesters brimful of fun. We may talk to them of the wickedness and villainy of society-they smile; we may grow angry-they are offended; we become didactic, and they gape. Everything amongst them is governed by the rules of good-humour and of ready wit. This condition of mind is their motive power. They glide smoothly and easily over the ice, keeping clear of thin places. They maintain their gaiety throughout; always courteous, always gay, and not to be controlled by solid argument or the eloquence of virtuous indignation. Much more to the same effect, all to be contrasted with the state of society separated by twenty miles of blue water from La Belle France. In England, M. Taine enters a great hall in rigorous style of architecture, furnished with a formidable array of benches, lighted with several gas-branches-a hall swept and garnished for the preaching of sermons, the delivery of lectures, or the controversy of politics. He glances at the people assembled, and at once sees they are not being amused, the expression of intense gloom and subdued agony is too plainly written on every face. They are all men of grosser temperament than the Gaul-overfed on grosser aliment, until all gaiety and vivacity is thoroughly subdued. They are attentive, concentrated, capable of

durable and profound sensation, but incapable of the lighter and more changeable emotions. Their immovable and contracted faces are in harmony with their contracted and immovable figures; they entertain a repugnance for all unnecessary display of feeling-even when they laugh, it is only a convulsion as stiff as their gravity. We are evidently -according to M. Taine-a heavy people, and people have a natural taste for being lectured and sermonised even in our books of fiction. We expect to be instructed; we are taught to sit patiently at the feet of the instructor, to learn the lesson imposed with a steady sobriety of mien and concentration of mind altogether strange to a Parisian public.

To such a people Thackeray has addressed himself. He has stripped off gay trappings, and shown the rude upholstery beneath; he has touched the sparkling wine, and shown it to be vinegar. Of all satirists, Thackeray, next to Swift, is the most melancholy and dejected. He is for ever uttering his vanitas vanitatum; he paints the world worse than it is; reproaches it with doing what it does not; condemns it when there is no evidence to warrant conviction. Indignation, sorrow, contempt, aversion are his ordinary sentiments. Whenever he pictures a gentle spirit, he exaggerates its sensibility so as to render its oppression more odious-the egotistical and the self-denying, victims and persecutors, are alike overstrained. His wrath, exasperated by reflection, is armed still further by reflection. He is not carried away by what he describes; he is master of it before he speaks, and he is many times the topic he himself describes. He selects his specimens like a naturalist, knowing their genera and species, and labelling them with scientific accuracy in his collection of morbid moral anatomy-a museum of monsters. But he never forgets-or never lets his readers forget-that the monstrosities are self-produced-voluntary, and therefore responsible. He pours his vials of wrath upon them, some of the vials labelled "approval" containing the worst irony of all. When he has passed in review all the snobbery of England, he descends on the literary snob, and applies the lash with a hand as strong as that of the author of Gulliver's Travels.

"My dear and excellent querist, whom does the schoolmaster flog so resolutely as his own son? Didn't BRUTUS chop his offspring's head off? You have a very bad opinion indeed of the present state of literature and of literary men if you fancy that any one of us would hesitate to stick a knife into his neighbour penman, if the latter's death could do the state any service.

"But the fact is, that in the literary profession THERE ARE NO SNOBS. Look round at the whole body of British men of letters, and I defy you to point out among them a single instance of vulgarity, or envy, or assumption.

"Men and women, as far as I have known them, they are all modest in their demeanour, elegant in their manner, spotless in their lives, and honourable in their conduct to the world and to each other. You may occasionally, it is true, hear one literary man abusing his brother-but why? Not in the least out of malice, not at all from envy-merely from a sense of truth and public duty. Suppose, for instance, I good-naturedly point out a blemish in my friend Mr. Punch's person, and say Mr. P. has a hump-back, and his nose and chin are more crooked than those features in the Apollo of Antinous which we are accustomed to consider as our standard of beauty; does this argue malice on my part towards Mr. Punch? Not in the least. It is the critic's duty to point out defects as well as merits, and he invariably does his duty with the utmost gentleness and candour.

"That sense of equality and fraternity amongst authors has always struck me as one of the most amiable characteristics of the class. It is because we know and respect each other that the world respects us so much, and that we hold

such a good position in society and demean ourselves so irreproachably when there.

"Literary persons are held in such esteem by the nation that about two of them have been absolutely invited to court during the present reign; and it is probable that towards the end of the season one or two will be asked to dinner by SIR ROBERT PEEL.

66

They are such favourites with the public that they are continually obliged to have their pictures taken and published, and one or two could be pointed out of whom the nation insists upon having a fresh portrait every year. Nothing can be more gratifying than this proof of the affectionate regard which the people has for its instructors.

"Literature is held in such honour in England that there is a sum of nearly twelve hundred pounds per annum set apart to pension deserving persons following that profession. And a great compliment this is, too, to the professors, and a proof of their generally prosperous and flourishing condition. They are generally so rich and thrifty that scarcely any money is wanted to help them."

Of course the meaning of this passage is very plain. In a condition of society made up of aristocrats and plethoric merchants, under the worship of money and the adoration of rank, men of talent, on account of poverty or humble birth, are very ill-treated. And it must be borne in mind that Thackeray's irony is not spasmodic but sustained. It runs through the entire story of the Fatal Boots. A Frenchman could not so maintain his sarcasm; he would be carried away by his passions right and left. There are two female characters which Thackeray has very carefully elaboratedBlanche Amoury and Rebecca Sharp-of whom he never speaks without insult. Dear Rebecca! Tender Blanche ! Blanche is a sentimental and literary young lady, condemned to the society of those who are incapable of appreciating her high-souled yearnings. Quitting the company of dolls, this unfortunate heroine finds solace in the French romance; her susceptible spirit is agitated by the imaginary distresses of virtuous maidens in difficulties, and by the prowess of redoubtable heroes coming to the rescue. From the world of fiction to the world of fact is no great stride. At oleven the little lady-who has trembled and wept over sorrows and dangers that were never experienoed-entertains a warm passion for a young Savoyard-a street organist-whom she takes for a prince in disguise; at twelve her maiden heart is stirred by the wrinkled and unhandsome visage of her old drawing-master; at the institution of Madame de Caramel she carries on a correspondence with two young scholars of the College Charlemagne. Dear forsaken heart! her delicate feet bruised and bleeding in their first steps in life's journey, all her sweet illusions vanishing, and leaving only a remembrance in verse written in a showy album, and christened 'My tears."

The serious irony of Thackeray seems to excite the wonder of his French critic; the caricature is to him grotesque. Who, for example, would express the tender emotions which he entertained for a young lady by means of symbolic tarts! The O'Dowd-grenadier in a bonnet-Miss Briggs, born into the world to receive affronts and to shed tears-the Doctor and his passion for Latinity-Miss Crawley-Becky-Mrs. Hoggarty-Titmarsh himself, are all stamped by the sardonic art of the master. He calls on us with a mocking pleasantry to look at the baseness and stupidity of poor human nature. What a whirligig is this human life! How much that is contemptible-vanity in every virtue and meanness in every vice! Neither the wisdom of the serpent nor the harmlessness of the dove, but the vulpine sagacity of Reynard!

Thackeray is seriously comical; his fun partakes of the nature of a homily-he is grave and gay at the same time.