As well as we can recollect, it is the poet Gray who gives utterance to the wish, that he could pass his existence in eternally reading new romances, by Marivaux and Crebillon. If, at the conclusion of that important part of a critic's duty, which necessarily precedes the enunciation of his opinion, we did not express a similar sentiment, it was from no want of appreciation of the excellencies of those works we are now about to discuss, but because other business, although perchance of a nature far less agreeable, must unfortunately be performed.

Without, therefore, going so far as the French savant, who thought more could be learned from a good novel than from the greatest treatise on history or philosophy, we must confess, there are few works which we more frequently turn to for instruction and profit, than productions in this species of composition, by men who have proved themselves fitted for the task. Seated in our easy chair, we can avail ourselves, at small expense of mental exertion, of the results of a knowledge of men and books, which it may have taken the writer half a lifetime of close observation, patient industry, and continuous toil, to accumulate; as a record of past manners and opinions, such writings afford more minute and abundant information than any other. Where, for example, could we discover in any records of the same period so graphic and circumstantial an account of the general state of society during the reign of the second George, as can be gathered from the adventures of Joseph Andrews and his friend Parson Adams. But not so much, perhaps, to its connexion with the ge neral happiness of society, as to its relation to the happiness of mankind as individuals, is the popularity of this species of literature to be ascribed, What amusement can occupy so delightfully the vacant moments of life,

sure.

even with those whose business is pleaThe taste for literature is one of those which increases by indulgence. Its objects become more numerous the greater the cultivation of the habit. It is more independent of the will of our fellows than any other species of enjoyment. The man whose mind is to him a kingdom, can people it with the very creatures of thought, ad infinitum. The indulgence of a literary taste is naturally attended with a perception of increasing power. It is followed by the delightful conviction of gaining a higher claim upon the love and admiration of mankind, and of acquiring a greater command over those feelings and passions which render men odious to their fellows. It amalgamates with the best feelings in every condition of life; it engages and employs the thoughts of the wretched, tempers the character in prosperity; and has so long been felt, so often described, with all the powers of language and genius, that it may be regarded as one of the laws to which universal assent is attached. 66 If the riches of both the Indies," said Fenelon, "if the crowns of all the kingdoms of Europe were laid at my feet, in exchange for my love of literature, I would renounce them all." Considerations such as these must force themselves upon the mind which comes to the consideration of such a subject as is now before us.

Public expectation, which had for so long a period been kept alive by the promise of a continuous tale from the pen of the author of "Vanity Fair," is now satisfied, by the appearance of a work in every way as unlike what was looked for as can well be imagined, professing to be the autobiography of a gentleman living under the reign of Queen Anne, written in the quaint phraseology of those times, and printed in type after the fashion of the Willoughby Papers." The book* has taken

the public completely by surprise, and, notwithstanding the obvious danger and difficulty of the undertaking, has achieved what we may, without using the language of exaggeration, denominate a complete success. Nor, when we came to look critically into it, were we at all surprised. Carefully written, elaborately finished, and containing a story, carried on with a continuous interest, which excites the reader's curiosity nearly to the end, "Esmond" is, beyond all question, if we regard it merely as a work of art, of a higher order of composition than any of Mr. Thackeray's previous performances. The period, as well as the characters -it is a matter of notoriety-have been suggested by his lectures on the humorists of the last century. Having thoroughly mastered the history and literature of those days, if any man could come well prepared to his work, it was the present writer. The great danger of overlaying the course of the narrative with too many events, or of crowding together on the canvas too great a variety of characters, has been dexterously avoided; and of the historical events which came in his way, Mr. Thackeray has availed himself more to bring out in a strong relief the character of the individuals who take part in the incidents of his story, than with any design of critically scanning that portion of our domestic history in which the scene is laid. His novel, therefore, althought it must necessarily be placed in the category of historical fiction, is something still better. The mere suggestions of authentic history can scarcely be expected to convey adequate notions of the state and condition of those who live in its troubled periods; but the history of an individual life, as it is operated upon by historical events, with which accident has brought it more or less in contact, must always be a study full of the deepest interest. The main incidents of which history takes cognisance can never have a direct influence on the great body of the people. Men marry and are given in marriage; frequent their places of business, or of pleasure; go to the forum or the theatre, the stock exchange or the ball; are ab sorbed in schemes of personal distinction or worldly advancement, in periods of revolution or public discord, just as much as in the piping times of peace. The great current of life flows on

steadily in its accustomed channel, but slightly affected by the storms that sweep above it; and while long tracts of time will always seem to the student of the past to be darkened by the clouds of oppression, the greater part of the men who have lived in those ages will be found to have enjoyed an average share of human happiness. Few men are historical characters; no man is always performing a public part. The actual happiness of every life depends far more on things that regard it exclusively, than on those political occurrences which are the common concern of society. But, notwithstanding this, there is nothing which lends such an air, both of reality and importance to fictitious narrative, as what serves to connect its heroes with events in real history. Although it is the imaginary individual himself who excites our chief interest throughout, yet that interest owes in a great degree its depth, reality, and importance, to the great political incidents with which his fortunes are associated. Public events are only important as they concern individuals; if one be selected who comes in direct contact with them, and their operation on him be accurately described, we are enabled, in following out his adventures, to form a just estimate of their true character and value. But we must not suffer ourselves to enlarge further upon the merits of this species of composition. Of "Esmond it is not too much to say, that the author has made the most of his materials, without suffering himself to fall into any of the dangers which beset so adventurous a path.

It will be beside our purpose to enter into the plot of the story farther than is sufficient to illustrate and explain such observations as have suggested themselves. The opening is a little dull, in consequence of the intricacy of the pedigree and connexions of the Castlewood family. Colonel Henry Esmond, the hero of the tale, is supposed to be the illegitimate son of Thomas Esmond, afterwards third Viscount Castlewood, a profligate soldier, who has repaired his fortunes by marriage with a Roman Catholic lady, whose reputation had suffered not a little from the attentions paid to her by James II., in her younger days. Soon after his marriage, becoming wearied of a court-life, he retires to his paternal domain of Castlewood, and sends for

Henry, then an innate of the house of an old French refugee. He is kindly treated and educated under the care of a Jesuit priest, one Father Holt, until he attains the age of twelve years, when his father having joined the army of King James, Lady Castlewood is arrested on a charge of high treason. The Lord of Castlewood is afterwards killed at the Battle of the Boyne, and his cousin Francis inherits the title and estates.

This stage of the history introduces us to a new set of characters, in the persons of the second Lady Castlewood, her son Francis, and her daughter Beatrice. The boy remains in his old home, until the period has arrived for his entrance at college. This lady proves the guiding star of his existence; and, in the delineation of the boy's affection for her occur some of the most beautiful and touching passages of the story at this period.

Lord Mohun makes his appearance on the stage. His attentions to the mistress of Castlewood excite the jealousy of her careless lord. A duel is the indirect result, which ends in the death of the Viscount. He makes a death-bed confession, however, to one Mr. Atterbury, that Henry was the lawful issue of the late lord, and heir to the title and estates-a fact which the pecuniary difficulties into which the Viscount had fallen, had rendered it necessary for him to conceal. The confession is burned by Esmond, as soon as he reads it; he makes the magnanimous resolution never to assert his rights, so as to cause any injury to the family who had so kindly befriended him. Being thrown into prison for the share he had taken in the fatal duel, he loses a church-living, for which he had originally been destined, and enters the army under the famous Duke of Marlborough, whose picture is thus presented to us with a terrible distinct

ness:

"Our chief, whom England and all Europe, saving only the Frenchman, worshipped almost, had this of the god-like in him, that he was impassable before victory, before danger, before defeat. Before the greatest obstacle, or the most trivial ceremony, before a hundred thousand men, drawn in battalia, a peasant slaughtered at the door of his burning hovel; before a carouse of drunken German lords, or a monarch's court, or a cottage table, where his plans were laid, or an enemy's battery, vomiting flame and death, he was always cold, calm, resolute - Jike

fate. He performed a treason or a court bow; he told a falsehood as black as Styx as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He took a mistress, and left her; he betrayed his benefactor, and supported him, or would have murdered him always; and having no more remorse than Clotho, when she weaves the thread, or Lachesis, when she cuts it. In the hour of battle, I have heard the Prince of Savoy's officers say, the prince became possessed with a sort of warlike fury-his eyes lighted up, he rushed hither, and thither, raging, he shrieked curses and encouragement, yelling and lashing his bloody war-dogs on, and himself always at the front of the hunt. Our duke was as calm at the mouth of the cannon as at the door of a drawing-room. Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had he had a hcart either for love, or hatred, or pity, or fear, or regret, or remorse. He achieved the highest deed of daring, or deepest calculation of thought, as he performed the very meanest action of which a man is capable; told a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar of a halfpenny with the like awful serenity, and equal capacity of the highest or lowest acts of our nature. His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where there were parties of all politics, and plenty of shrewdness and wit; but these invested such a perfect confidence in him as the first captain of the world, and such a faith in his prodigious genius and fortune, that the very men whom he notoriously cheated of their pay-the chiefs whom he used and injured, for he used all men, great and small, that came near him, as his instruments alike, and took something of theirs, either some quality or some property-the blood of a soldier, it might be, or a jewelled hat, or a hundred thousand crowns from a king, or a portion out of a starving sentinel's three farthings; or (when he was young) a kiss from a woman, and the gold chain off her neck, taking all he could from woman or man, and having, as I have said, this of the god-like in him, that he could see a hero perish or a sparrow fall, with the same amount of sympathy for either. Not that he had no tears-he could always order up. this reserve at the proper moment to battle; he could draw upon tears and smiles alike; and whenever need was for using this cheap coin, he would cringe to a shoe-black as he would flatter a minister or a monarch; be haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, grasp your hand or stab you, whenever he saw occasion. But yet those of the army who knew him best, and had suffered most from him, admired him most of all; and as he rode along the lines to battle, or galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion, reeling from before the enemy's charge or shot, the fainting men and officers go new courage as they saw the splendid calm of his face, and felt that his will made them irresistible."

Colonel Esmond-the wars being over-retires from the army, and mingles at home with the great wits and statesmen of the day. He becomes, too, desperately enamoured of his cousin Beatrice, who amuses herself by coquetishly exacting the passion of her lover, much in the same way as Becky Sharp used to plague her adorers.

Here is her picture :

"The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond returned to this country; a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune, to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners. Beatrice Esmond was now six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrice Esmond still. Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband: and those who had asked her had been jilted by her, and more still, had left her. A succession of near ten years' crop of beauties had come up since her time, and been reaped by proper husbandmen, if we may make an agricultural simile, and been housed long ago.

Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by this time; girls with not a tithe of her charms or her wit, having made good matches, and now claiming precedence over the spinster, who lately had derided and outshone them. The young beauties were beginning to look down on Beatrice as an old maid, and sneer and call her one of Charles II.'s ladies, and ask whether her portrait was not in the Hampton Court Gallery? Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the court, where the beautiful maid of honour was the light about which a thousand beaux came and fluttered; where she was sure to have a ring of admirers round her, crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire her beauty; and where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlewood's daughter would have uttered or heard. When in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, the court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding parties together; Miss Beatrice, in a humorous coat and hat, the foremost after the stag-hounds and over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows at her heels. If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure and modest of any ladies in the world, the English town and court ladies permitted themselves words and behaviour that were neither modest nor pure, and claimed, some of them, a freedom which those who love that sex most would never wish to grant them. But still she reigned, at least in one man's opinion, superior over all the little misses that were the toasts of the young lads, and, in Esmond's eyes, was ever perfectly lovely and young.

"Who knows how many were made happy by favouring her?-or rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this syren? 'Tis

a marvel to think that her mother was the purest and simplest woman in the whole world, and that this girl should have been born from her. I am inclined to fancy my mistress, who never said a harsh word to her children (and but twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too forced and pressing with the maternal authority, for her son and her daughter both revolted early, nor after their first flight from the nest could they ever be brought back again to their mother's bosom. Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was as well, knew little of her daughter's real life and thoughts; how was she to apprehend what passed at the queen's antichambers and court tables? She was alike powerless to resist or to lead her daughter, or to command or persuade her."

This charming young person is at length on the eve of marriage with the Duke of Hamilton. But when the trouseau is prepared and everything ready, his grace is killed in a duel with Lord Mohun, and the effect of this blow upon the pride of Beatrice is told in some passages of singular grace and power. The whole of the dramatis persone now become involved in a plot, with the leaders of the Jacobite party, to bring back the Pretender. The prince has arrived in England, and takes up his abode at Lady Castlewood's house, in Chelsea. He becomes enamoured of the fair Beatrice, who gives him so much "encouragement" that she is taken away by her relatives, and shut up in Castlewood. The prince having followed in pursuit, is out of the way at a critical period of his fortunes. When he is wanted he is not to be found, and the Jacobite conference is broken up. The Pretender returns to France, and the novel closes with the marriage of Lady Castlewood to the hero of the story.

In dealing with the first appearance in this species of fiction, of so distinguished a writer, we are not disposed to be hypercritical. We have some doubts if the author be always correct in his statements. We rather incline to think that he has substituted one Pretender for another, and we doubt if the game of whist was known in England in the reign of Queen Anne; and we are quite certain that so very shrewd an observer of mankind as the great Dean of St. Patrick's would never have been thick-witted enough to mistake a distinguished soldier, like Colonel Esmond, for a hack writer in a newspaper office. In these days, when a peer may be seen walking

to the House in a paletot and tweed continuations, it is quite possible that the gentleman of the Times, who is going down to report his speech, may be the better-dressed man of the two. But in the time of the Spectator, nothing could be more marked than the difference between the costume of the various classes of the community. A distinguished officer in her Majesty's service could be no more mistaken for a Grub-street writer, than the author of "Vanity Fair" for Mrs. Harris or Mrs. Grundy. Nor are we able to accept the dramatis persona, who figure in the story as new creations. To us they wear the look of wellknown faces. There is about the gallant Colonel, with his brave true heart and affectionate nature, a certain family resemblance to blundering old Dobbin; and if the fair Beatrice does occasionally remind us of Rebecca, we can trace a likeness as well between the Lady of Castlewood and Helen Pendennis. In a word, while "Esmond" gives us abundant proof of its author's complete mastery over the rhetorical part of fiction, his fine appreciation of character, and his power in its delineation, we think he is more completely in his element when he describes characters of his own times than of those from whom he is separated by so long an interval. It is manifestly impossible for a writer of such marked originality to merge his characters so as to soften their individuality; and yet so well is this book written, so completely has it caught the spirit of those times, we have no doubt that had it been palmed upon the public as an authentic record, it would have passed muster, provided the public had known nothing of Mr. Thackeray or his previous writings. But so familiar and so well known are they, so distinguished by striking peculiarities altogether their own, that neither the old type, the quaint phraseology, nor the persons with whom we are associated, can make us, for a single instant, the victims of the delusion. We feel the whole of the dramatis personæ, the creatures of the nineteenth century, dressed up in the quaint attire of by-gone times. Their costume is perfect. Their sayings and doings are in

"Reuben Medlicot; or, the Coming Man."

good keeping, but they are stamped in the Thackeray mint, and the impression is too indelible to be mistaken for an instant. What advantage, then, can be gained by this distinguished writer projecting himself into the past, getting up with infinite pains and labour a vast quantity of antiquated material, and then weaving it into the form of an old romance, when he has only to look forth into the world before him, quaintly and curiously as is his fashion, and write? In saying this we mean not to depreciate, in the least, the value of the book he has just given us. But we would rather keep the writer among ourselves. No better illustrations can be afforded now by the most patient industry and toil, the most minute research, and the most splendid imagination, than the writers of those days have left behind them in their own works. So long as the works of Swift and the Spectator, with other of their great contemporaries, remain, we want nothing further. We say this in no spirit of disparagement. Whatever genius, labour, humour, and perseverance could accomplish, has been successfully done in the volumes before us. But that genius, and those other qualities with which Mr. Thackeray is gifted in no ordinary degree, we would prefer should be applied to the age in which he lives. His great powers, instead of being squandered in research and imitation of the writings of others, should be applied in leaving monuments which men of after-times will study with instruction and delight.

From the reign of Queen Anne to that of George IV. is a good long stride; but the critic, to whom time and space are matters of indifference, thinks nothing of it. We have but to reach out our hand and open another volume and, presto! we find ourselves in another age. The gallant loyal-hearted soldier; the capricious beauty, who held him sighing in her chains; the atrabilious Churchman ; the reckless Dick Steele, and the accomplished Addison, fade into the distance, and we are surrounded by beings of our own time once more.

The charming novel* we now open