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We well remember Ristori as a charming, natural, simple actress; but of the surpassing power which Paris has discovered probably very few of us retain any recollection. Mr. Thackeray's visit at least demonstrates that if we are unwilling to pay English authors for their books, we are ready to reward them handsomely for the opportunity of seeing and hearing them. If Mr.
Thank you, Monsieur Duchemin and good-night." She extended her hand. He saluted it punctiliously with fingertips and lips. "If you will put out the light, mademoiselle, it may aid me to get away unseen." She nodded and offered him Thackeray's pistol. "Take this. O, I have another with me."
Thackeray's remark, that "Macaulay reads twenty books to write a sentence and travels one hundred miles to make a line of description," is, in view of his industry, a well-warranted exaggeration. As in his literary essays, he is fond of making heroes, and he throws himself so heartily into the spirit of the scene he is describing that his word pictures almost startle us by their vivid reality.
The noble graces of Lucy Hutchinson, I say, may well make us marvel at the downfall following at Goldsmith's invention of the women of "The Vicar or Wakefield" in one age, and at Thackeray's invention of the women of "Esmond" in another. Mrs.
Then examine the sketch as it appears in Leigh Hunt's "Wishing Cap Papers," Thackeray's "Roundabout Papers," Curtis's "Potiphar Papers." You might include under this head such rare bits of prose as you cannot conveniently classify, as, for example, Dr. Brown's "Rab and His Friends," Curtis's "Prue and I." Now look a while at the uses of biography.
La Touche writes to Salemina that we need not try to understand all the religious and political complications which surround us. They are by no means as violent or as many as in Thackeray's day, when the great English author found nine shades of politico-religious differences in the Irish Liverpool.
The palace of industry has become the palace of the industrial abundantly useful still if it lure him from the palace of gin. The chrism of Thackeray's inaugural ode will not have been dishonored. The first of the great fairs, in so many respects a model to all that came after, was beset at the outset by the same difficulty in arrangement encountered by them.
But I do not think it is so much surcharged as 'Esmond; 'Barry Lyndon' is by no manner of means so conscious as that mirror of gentlemanhood, with its manifold self-reverberations; and for these reasons I am inclined to think he is the most perfect creation of Thackeray's mind.
Novels showing the analytic skill of Thackeray's Vanity Fair, or the development of character in George Eliot's Silas Marner would have been little read in competition with stirring tales of adventure, if such novels had appeared before a taste for them had been developed by habits of trained observation and thought.
Her story would become a mere personal affair of her own, the mischance of a certain woman's enterprise. Given in Thackeray's way, summarized in his masterly perspective, it is part of an impression of manners. Such, I take it, is Thackeray's difference, his peculiar mark, the distinction of his genius.
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