constitution of society, is to divorce the intellect from the affections. Where there is no weakness there will be no submission; where there is no folly, there will be no blindness; where there is no blindness there will be precious little love. Amelia is a fool, you say, to make an idol of Osborne, and bring her daily offering to his selfish shrine; a fool to let that boy who succeeds to his father's place in her heart, grasp its tender fibres with the same rude and heedless hand, and thus prodigally to sow where she could reap no harvest but bitter tears. We grant the folly. But ask your own heart what is its sweetest yet most painful memory. Do you never dream that you are back again in those old years, when thoughtless love was thus squandered upon you? Do you never wake with a remorseful pang, sharper than any that the ambiguous deeds of the hardened present can inflict, and think what a blessed thing it would be if you could stanch the wounds which your barbed arrow made, and expiate that ignorance and self-engrossment by watchful, tender care? And if this be so, can you now criticize the extravagant love which you abused, and sneer at it as folly, and blame the indulgence which spoilt you, and made you selfish, and tell how you would have been a wiser and a better man, if you had been more wisely trained? But you have had no such experience you never suffered from such indiscreet affection, or you were thoughtful and grateful, and have no need to look penitently at the past? You are fortunate. But others are less so; and among these is Thackeray. For it is not the voice of a mere observer that we recognize in this reiterated tale of the fond desperation of a loving nature torn by the jagged rock to which it clings, but the trembling tones of one who speaks from the emotions of his own heart. Here, if anywhere, we get an insight into the man himself, and catch the echo of his own experience, his sufferings, and his errors,—

"Was er irrte, was er strebte,

Was er litt, und was er lebte."

However different the persons and the scene, this tale interweaves itself more or less with the action. Osborne, Pendennis, Esmond, Barry Lyndon, contrasted as they are in character and fate, this experience is common to them all; or rather

it is the author himself whose hand, at the slightest suggestion, strikes involuntarily the mournful chords of vain regret and self-reproach.

In truth, with all his great powers of observation, Thackeray is in a remarkable degree subjective. And this is the source of the great artistic defects from which none of his works are free. He sees deep into the characters he conceives, but he never loses his own individuality in theirs, never allows them to move freely along, and pass the thread of the story from hand to hand. He is a spectator, as we have said, but a noisy one, who continually interrupts the performance by his commentaries. The persons of his drama never soliloquize, never make such reflections as the scene would naturally provoke from them. Soliloquy and reflection abound, but it all falls to the share of the author, or of his fictitious representative. Hence the failure, to a certain extent, when he adopts the autobiographical form of relation. Esmond, Barry Lyndon, even Yellowplush, talk always in the Thackerayan vein, utter statements peculiar to him, and seldom very appropriate in them. The story does not flow with a steady current, like Fielding's; there is no succession of scenes, connected only by sufficient explanatory remarks, as in Miss Austen. Scene, narration, and remark are presented to us in bits, and so intermixed with one another as to form a quartum quid. The Aristotelian rule, that there should in every work be a beginning, a middle, and an end, was never so sinned against as by Thackeray. Except by the number of pages, you have seldom any clue by which to conjecture how far you have advanced, or when you are to expect the dénouement. Two thirds of Pendennis seems more like the prelude than the actual story; all the important action is crowded into the rapid and masterly scenes at the close. Esmond is still more tantalizing. The story is never fairly set agoing throughout the three volumes. We make several successive starts, under the guidance of a train of incidents, and in company with certain personages; but before we have got far the steam is let off, the passengers all leave, and we are obliged to take a new conveyance, with precisely the same results. If the style be the purest, the plot is the

weakest, of any novel in the English language. It may be said that, as the work assumes the form of an autobiography, the features to which we object maintain the verisimilitude. But want of connection and broken threads in a narrative are endurable only when they are unavoidable; and a novelist gains no more by adopting the restrictions of biography, than a dramatist by preserving the arbitrary unities of time and place. Yet some of the scenes in Esmond are the most perfect which Thackeray has given us. The author, in the person of his hero-himself prematurely wise and observantcomes forward on the stage; and his remarks, made thus viva voce, as it were, are appropriate to the occasion. But these scenes are few; the principal persons in them are not always those in whom we are most interested; and the action assigned to each character is too meagre to give vitality and strong interest to the book.

We have called these peculiarities of Thackeray defects. But the tendency from which they arise is among the inherent qualities of his mind, and the source, in no small degree, of his originality and power. It is not in his nature to content himself with the contemplation of men's actions, or with the exhibition of their characters; to be absorbed in art, and to think only of the most effective mode in which to embody his conceptions. He cannot hold up a corrupt heart or a brainless head, and call it-in anatomical phrase "a beautiful specimen." He cannot, like Fielding, hunt Human Nature for the mere sport of the thing; nor hide his own feelings in impenetrable reserve, or leave them to be inferred by the reader, as Miss Austen does. He copies faithfully the image painted by any object upon the retina of his imagination; but he transcribes not less minutely the emotions of his own heart. Every incident which he relates leads to some utterance of his feelings. His tone changes with the theme. His irony often reminds us of Fielding's, but it is never, like Fielding's, sustained throughout the work. From playful banter, he falls into a strain of melancholy reflection, or rises to stormy invective, and withering scorn. His works make us as well acquainted with his opinions and character as if each were a chapter of his autobiography. Hence it is that the critics have

had so much to say about Thackeray's "views of life;" hence their wise admonitions that he should alter those views, that he should see the world's affairs in a more cheerful light, in other words, that he should dance when he is inclined to weep, and, in short, be a different man from what Nature and the Fates have made him.

In

In range of observation, Thackeray is certainly unrivalled by any other novelist. Miss Austen's sphere, as we have already said, is an extremely limited one. Fielding is a literary vagrant, who meets indeed in his rambles with a great variety of characters, but seldom stays long enough amongst any respectable or stationary portion of society to become thoroughly acquainted with its usages. But Thackeray is familiar with the customs of every class. "Vanity Fair" is not a "fashionable novel," and yet in what other work shall we find so truthful a picture of what is called "high life"? As for "Pendennis," the book should have been entitled "London." It should be read with a map of the great metropolis spread out upon the table. The out-door and in-door life of the West-End, of the Inns of Court, and of Paternoster Row, are all represented with wonderful spirit and accuracy. the "Book of Snobs," Thackeray traces the vein of vulgarity and meanness through all the strata of English society. Never was satire so keen and unflinching. It is the boldest book ever written by a man who had no personal pique to gratify. We are not surprised that the author of it should have been blackballed at the clubs; the wonder rather is, that the doors of private mansions do not "grate harsh thunder" when he stands before them, and that "Jeames" does not positively refuse to take up his name. That private hospitality should have been so freely extended to him during his visit to this country, is a matter of less surprise; for it is a peculiarity of the American people, arising doubtless from the strength of its patriotic feelings, that, while we cannot bear even the softest touch upon any sore spot in our national character, we are so far from any desire to conceal our individual foibles, that we thrust them, as it were, with artless unconcern, into the face of every observer. As long as Thackeray was pledged, therefore, not to write a book upon the country, he

was at liberty to enrich his experience by an ample survey of our domestic manners. Yet there is much in his appearance and in his character to disarm the fears of even a sensitive mind. We forget the keenness of his mental eye, when we perceive that his bodily vision is imperfect without the aid of spectacles. His wisdom seems no longer premature or alarming, when we observe the venerable complexion of his hair. His language may be stern and severe, but his voice, soft and pleasant, is incapable of giving due expression to any but kindly sentiments. And in revenge of an intellect so powerful and scrutinizing, Nature has given him a warm and generous heart, that will not suffer him, like other satirists, to poison the arrows which he sends with such unerring aim.

ART. X.- Writings of PROF. B. B. EDWARDS; with a Memoir, by EDWARDS A. PARK. Boston: John P. Jewett & Co. 1853. 2 vols. 12mo.

WE give a hearty but sad welcome to these literary remains of a thorough and modest scholar, and one of the purest and best of men, whose decease, somewhat more than a year since, deeply afflicted not only a large circle of private friends, but the lovers of sacred and liberal learning throughout the country. The sermons, essays, and reviews contained in these two volumes are but a small part of the numerous productions of a pen which, for twenty-five years, was hardly a moment idle. They have been collected in obedience to the wishes of numerous friends, and contain a fair, though of course not a complete, nor in some respects an adequate, exhibition of that mind whose activity produced them.

The life of a student, a teacher, a man of letters, an author, offers few salient points of interest. He performs no brilliant exploits, achieves no startling victories, makes no display, attracts from the crowd no notice. Yet for the little that is said of his outward life, there may be ample compen