'He came to the bed-side, and looked at the hand, the little soft hand, lying asleep and he bent over the pillow noiselessly towards the gentle pale face.

6

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to what? At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken up through the town; and amidst the drums of the infantry, and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.' (P. 256.)

The next is between Major O'Dowd, who commands the regiment, and his wife.

"I'd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assembly beats," the Major said to his lady. "Call me at half-past one, Peggy, dear, and see me things is ready. May be I'll not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D." With which words, the Major ceased talking, and fell asleep.

'Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl papers and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act, and not to sleep, at this juncture. "Time enough for that," she said, "when Mick's gone;" and so she packed his travelling-valise ready for the march, brushed his cloak, his cap, and other warlike habiliments, set them out in order for him; and stowed away in the cloak pockets a light package of portable refreshments, and a wicker covered flask or pocket-pistol, containing near a pint of a remarkably sound Cognac brandy, of which she and the Major approved very much, and as soon as the hands of the "repayther" pointed to half-past one, and its interior arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a cathay-dral its fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs. O'Dowd woke up her Major, and had as comfortable a cup of coffee prepared for him as any made that morning in Brussels.' (Pp. 257, 258.)

Last comes that of the Crawleys.

'Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not to give way to unavailing sentimentality on her husband's departure. She waved him an adieu from the window, and stood there for a moment looking out after he was gone. The cathedral towers and the full gables of the quaint old houses were just beginning to blush in the sunrise. There had been no rest for her that night. She was still in her pretty ball dress, her fair hair hanging somewhat out of curl on her neck, and the circles round her eyes dark with watching. "What a fright I seem," she said, examining herself in the glass, "and how pale this pink makes one look!" So she divested herself of this pink raiment; in doing which a note fell out from her corsage, which she picked up with a smile, and locked into her dressing-box. And then she put her bouquet of the ball into a glass of water, and went to bed, and slept very comfortably.

The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten o'clock, and

partook of coffee, very requisite and comfortable after the exhaustion and grief of the morning's occurrences.

This meal over, she surveyed her position. Should the worst befal, all things considered, she was pretty well to do. There were her own trinkets and trousseau, in addition to those which her husband had left behind. Besides these, and the little mare, the General, her slave and worshipper, had made her many very handsome presents, in the shape of cashmere shawls bought at the auction of a bankrupt French general's lady, and numerous tributes from the jewellers' shops, all of which betokened her admirer's taste and wealth.

'Every calculation made of these valuables, Mrs. Rebecca found, not without a pungent feeling of triumph and self-satisfaction, that should circumstances occur, she might reckon on six or seven hundred pounds, at the very least, to begin the world with: and she passed the morning disposing, ordering, looking out, and locking up her properties in the most agreeable manner. If this is a novel without a hero, at least let us lay claim to a heroine. No man in the British army which has marched away, not the great duke himself, could be more cool or collected in the presence of doubts and difficulties, than the indomitable little aide-de-camp's wife.' (Pp. 260, 261, 262.)

In a year or two we find Becky in London, having achieved the perilous enterprise of scaling the heights of fashion; but she finds them neither secure nor amusing.

'Becky's former acquaintances hated and envied her the poor woman herself was yawning in spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I would rather be a parson's wife, and teach a Sunday School, than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or O! how much gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers, and dance before a booth at a fair."

"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used to tell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way they amused him.

In her commerce with the great, our dear friend showed the same frankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at the pair.

"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear. 66 I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility, and was mollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted persons of all classes into the society of

their superiors; but her ladyship owned, that this one at least was well behaved, and never forgot her place in life.

'How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments with which they treated the polite world, was a mystery which gave rise to some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these little festivities. Who knows what stories were or were not told of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is, that if she had had all the money which she was said to have begged, or borrowed, or stolen, she might have capitalised and been honest for life, whereas, but this is advancing matters. The truth is, that by economy and good management-by a sparing use of ready money, and by paying scarcely anybody-people can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it is our belief, that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after all that was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook supplied her with game and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellar was at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.' (Pp. 453, 454, 455.)

If Becky could have changed sexes with her husband, all would have gone well. She might have canvassed a borough as a Radical, and a county as a Tory-might have gained the ear of the House by malignity, and kept it by effrontery-might have risen into notoriety by attacking the first men of the age, and have become the leader of a party by joining one which all persons of sense had deserted. But she is a woman; she can establish herself only through her husband; and her husband has neither talents, nor knowledge, nor character. Her only resource is to treat him as damaged goods generally are treated -to export him to the colonies. It is an awful job; but her friend Lord Steyne is all-powerful. Such things, however, are not to be got for nothing, and poor Becky has only one means of paying for them.

Unhappily, on the very night that the gazette is being printed which announces that His Majesty has been pleased to appoint Colonel Crawley, C. B., to be the Governor of Coventry Island, Crawley discovers what was the nature of the contract by which his preferment was obtained. He knocks down his patron, publishes his wife's shame, separates himself from her for ever, and goes out to administer Swamp Town.

Mr. Thackeray has not made Becky's downward course as entertaining as her rise. Indeed, it was impossible. No series of events can amuse, or, what is a much easier thing, can interest,

unless we can sympathise in some respects with the principal agent. Even in tragedy, the most atrocious villain is generally invested by the poet with some qualities which we admire and even love. Richard the Third, Iago, and Lovelace, perhaps the most hateful of poetical heroes, possess in the highest degree wit, sagacity, courage, and decision. Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth from Satan. Now, in Becky's earlier career, though there was more to hate, there was much to admire, and something to like. The reader thoroughly sympathised with her scorn of fools, however highly placed; with the intrepidity with which she encountered insolence, and the dexterity with which she repelled it; with her spirit in danger, her resources in difficulty, and the gay vivacity which was spread like sunshine over her whole demeanour. He was amused even by the impudence of her vanity, and the breadth and boldness of her mendacity. It is difficult to avoid sympathising with the success of schemes so magnificently planned and so audaciously carried out. It is not Fortune alone that favours the bold. All the world follows Fortune's example.

But with her success all the charm of Becky disappears. Even Mr. Thackeray turns his back upon her. He no longer supplies her with the sagacity and presence of mind which carried her triumphantly through the storms and among the quicksands of her London life. He allows her to sink from degradation to degradation, without an effort on his part, or even on hers, to extricate her, until she loses her identity, and the brilliant Rebecca turns into a vulgar swindler. At length, he seems to relent, and to take pity on the distresses of an old acquaintance who has afforded so much amusement. He throws Amelia and her brother across her path, and gives up to her the rich Joseph as a prey. And here we think her changes ought to have ended. As the ruler, and, as soon as the climate of Coventry Island rendered her a widow, the wife, of Joseph Sedley, she might have passed the tranquil, decorous middle age to which he at length dismisses her, 'busied in works of piety; going to church, and never without a footman; the subscriber to every charity; the fast friend of the destitute orange girl, the neglected washerwoman, and the distressed muffinman; a patroness and stall-keeper in every benevolent bazaar in Chel⚫ tenham and Bath.' Instead of this, he blackens her with the vulgar commonplace crimes of making Sedley's will in her favour, insuring his life, and poisoning him.

This we venture to think a mistake. Comic characters are intended to amuse, not to frighten. They may be as vicious as the author pleases; they may be utterly heartless, they may

VOL. XCIX. NO. CCI.

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swindle, they may rob; but they must not kill. The extent to which tragi-comedy is allowable may be undefined; but this we think is clear, namely, that the comedy must be an accessory to the tragedy, not the tragedy to the comedy. The intermixture of a few cheerful spots among gloomy or frightful scenes is felt as a relief. The intrusion of the terrible among gay images is an interruption. It is like a gibbet as the background of a Watteau. We are pleased to enjoy a respite from the continued contemplation of suffering or danger. We are shocked at being disturbed in our laughter by wailings and screams. All Shakspeare's tragedies have a mixture of comedy; none of his comedies contain any thing that is tragic. Hotspur, Henry the Fifth, and Richard are tragic. Their powers for good and for evil are gigantic; the fate of kingdoms depends on them. They can afford to trifle; their wit and humour, though sometimes pushed to buffoonery, does not lower them. Richard may smile, because he can murder while he smiles. But what should we think of Shakspeare if he had made Falstaff an assassin, or had engaged Shallow, Slender, and Poins in a murderous conspiracy? Hatred is to most men a painful emotion. There are undoubtedly torpid dispositions which require strong excitement, which enjoy pictures of murderers, tyrants, and oppressors just as they enjoy the taste of garlic, and the smell of tobacco; but these coarse intellectual palates are rare. In most minds the indignation produced by the description of great crimes requires to be soothed by the exemplary punishment of the offender, or to be diverted by withdrawing from him the reader's attention, and fixing it on the heroism of the sufferer, on the courage with which he resists violence, or on the patience with which he bears it. But these are the materials of tragedy; and when they are introduced into a work of which the basis is comic, they recall us painfully from the sunny scenes among which we have been wandering to the gloomy regions of danger and endurance.

Though we have left more than half the characters in Vanity Fair unnoticed, our review of it has extended to almost an unwarrantable length. Our defence is, that we have been reviewing one of the most remarkable books of this age--a work which is as sure of immortality as ninety-nine hundredths of modern novels are sure of annihilation.

Pendennis has generally been thought inferior to Vanity Fair, and we are not inclined to dispute the verdict of the public. It wants the grand historical background of Vanity Fair. Mr. Thackeray never was more happily inspired than when he removed his theatre to Belgium. Every reader will admit that