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medical practitioners there, looked upon and treated simply as cases of physical disease, madness, or epilepsy, or nervous affections, or the result of obstructed functions; and many of the Hindoos themselves who attend our medical schools, or whom an English education has taught to think for themselves, are beginning to take the same purely medical view of them. It is difficult, perhaps, for one who has not himself come into contact with it, to realise the extent of the difficulty which the evangelical demoniac narratives, as commonly and literally understood, present to the Hindoo mind. Thus literally understood, they are to the orthodox Hindoo, who believes in his own dual system of possession, only a confirmation of his own creed; they strengthen his belief in the daimons and the divinities, and the exorcists of his own land; and to him, therefore, our Lord is only one of many divine men. The educated Hindoo, on the contrary, who sees these cases treated in our hospitals as disease, not by thaumaturgists or clergymen, but by surgeons and apothecaries, draws from thence an argument against our Lord's divinity, and against the inspiration of the New Testament. We believe that in the two principles we have laid down is to be found the best, if not the only, answer to such objections. The very paper now concluded owes its origin to the remarks made to us upon the case of the Gadarene daimoniac, by a well-educated Hindoo gentleman, who was familiar with the demoniac system prevalent among his own people, on returning to us a copy of Warner's Diatessaron. He and many of his friends are, we know, readers of this magazine; and we trust, that in the very views which have elicited the hasty censure of our fellow countryman and co-religionist, our Hindoo readers will discover some of their greatest difficulties removed, and find our Lord's divinity and wisdom vindicated in perfect harmony with the facts and the ideas, in the midst of which they are themselves living. We must here, however, repeat emphatically, what we have before said, that we have presented the physical theory of possession as one side of the question only; as one meriting great consideration, and fully reconcileable with Christian faith; but not as excluding the spiritual view. Between these two views we leave every one to select that which best consorts with his own convictions and mode of thinking. But this we consider as undeniable, that whatever view be taken of the Jewish, must be taken also of the Hindoo daimoniac cases, and of the analogous phenomena, lunacy, epilepsy, chorea, hysteria, &c., among ourselves. These may be all, as Schlegel seems to hint, the result of demoniac action. Such a view would be more consistent and harmonious, and one we could far more readily embrace, than that which characterises the same class of facts, as spiritual in one country and epoch, and physical in another. In conclusion, as the investigation of truth, and not the triumph of particular opinions is our object, we cheerfully commit our ideas to a candid examination, and the test of time; well assured, that, if founded on truth, they will ultimately prevail; contented, that, if erroneous, they should encounter that failure, which is the due meed of error.]

CONTEMPORARY WRITERS MR. THACKERAY."

We have long marked the literary career of Mr. Thackeray with great interest, for a variety of reasons, of which, perhaps the foremost, was that we descried in him, through the haze of some imperfections, the shining sparkle of qualities of a very high order-qualities which, we think, have at length been fairly recognised by the public. That most attractive in our eyes was the honesty of purpose-the vigorous, healthy tone of thought with reference to the various abuses of society, which, quite apart from the wonderful power he possesses of discriminating character, his keen and exquisite perception of the foibles of human nature, and the charming quaintness of his style, were quite sufficient to give him a high place in the first rank of the writers of the day.

Long before we were aware of the connexion now, we believe openly avowed-which Mr. Thackeray has with that weekly publication, whose admirable drollery, well-sustained wit, and inimitable caricatures, have long afforded delight to all classes of the public within these isles, we observed in its pages the traces of a higher cast of intellect, and a loftier tone of thought, than any which belonged to the mere throng of ephemeral writers which this age of adventurers had ever produced. Who is there among us that has not recognised, for example, in the "Snob Papers," which have since been collected and published, with their author's name, many instances of that peculiar species of power to which we allude? We do not think the master spirit of the age has ever displayed a more profound and intimate knowledge of human nature than is to be found in those incomparable productions. The portraits there presented to our notice are possibly somewhat overdrawn, and are seasoned with that amount of exaggeration which, it may be, was essential, in order to attract the attention of superficial readers; but a mirror is held up to nature, of

extraordinary clearness, and the most minute traits of the human heart are exposed to view with a microscopic power which is truly wonderful. A lady of our acquaintance, so amiable, so accomplished, and so entirely thoroughbred, as to place her above the reach of even the suspicion of this prevailing vice, after reading the book in question, confessed to us, in confidence, that she feared she was not entirely free from some of the foibles which its pages delineate. We differed from her in opinion, and do so still; but we cannot help thinking that these masterly sketches have demonstrated the fact, that there are, indeed, few of us who are exempt from that infirmity which it is their purpose to correct. May the effect of these gentle castigations be as permanent as it is salutary; and may we learn to look in upon our own hearts, and pluck up by the roots those small weeds, of whose existence we were, perhaps, previously unconscious! But to return. We became aware, from these and other similar papers, appearing at intervals in the pages of our esteemed cotemporary, Mr. Punch, that there was one, at least, behind the scenes, of whom we should some day or other hear more; and the work whose title stands at the head of this paper, beyond all question, establishes the reputation of Mr. Thackeray as a writer of fiction, upon a basis far too secure to be ever hereafter disturbed by the fickle breath of popular applause. In "Vanity Fair" he has given to the world a work which will endure as long as the joys and sorrows, the passions and the emotions, of the human heart, have power to charm the minds of men. We feel cordial pleasure in making this avowal, uninfluenced by fear, favour, or affectiona pleasure the more cordial, from the circumstance of our having, upon a former occasion, in noticing another work, administered to Mr. Thackeray, "a punch on the head," which we are of opinion he then most richly de

'Vanity Fair." By W. M. Thackeray. London: Bradbury and Evans. 1848.

served. But as we have never since observed any disposition upon his part to renew the offence, we do hereby forgive him, for the sake of the many bright and pleasant images which he has called into life-for the sake of old Dobbin of Ours, the major, so loving, so true, so constant, and so good-for the sake of that wonderful Mr. Joseph, the fat collector of Boogley Wallah-of Osborne, the vulgar old city snob- of dear Peggy O'Dowd, glancing with wistful eye at the major's nightcap lying on the connubial pillow, the wearer thereof being in the thick of the fight at Waterloo-for the sake of jolly old Rawdon Crawley, polishing up his pistols, same with which he shot Captain Marker, for the purpose of putting a bullet into the bald-headed and profligate Lord Steyne, and giving to his friend his gold sleevebuttons, all the poor fellow had, to be presented, in case of accidents, to that regular trump, the youthful Rawdon, upon whose conduct, in regard of sitting the kicker in the riding-school, the father, in that hour of difficulty and danger, dwelt with such fond recollection-for the sake of the artful, green-eyed Rebecca, and the amiable, kind-hearted Amelia. And here, as we stand upon the stage occupied by the fine creations of his genius, deriving instruction from some, and amusement from all, we extend to him the inky hand of fellowship, and thank him heartily for the many pleasant hours the pages of "Vanity Fair" have, in common with all his readers, afforded to us. This work professes to be a novel without a hero, although so many of them rise before us that we are in some difficulty which, in the first instance, to subject to our critical ken. It is not a love story, properly so called; in which opinion, we may remark, en passant, we widely differ from a distinguished literary contemporary. We cannot discover any sufficient reason why it should be called so; for, save in the tender passages between George and Amelia, and in the carefully-concealed self-devotion of Captain William Dobbin to this lady, we have almost nothing of "la grande passion;" and, we must confess, we are rather glad of it. We are tired of love-not in the abstract, but in novels. At this advanced age of the world, few people are silly

enough to fall in love; if they do, they get laughed at for their pains, and there's an end of it; and what does not exist in the world should not exist in books; and, therefore, Mr. Thackeray, we presume in order to suit the spirit of the age, has very wisely infused as little as possible of this sentiment into his book. Works of fiction now begin where formerly they used to end. The doubts, the fears, the struggles, and the triumphs of love, were formerly the subjects chosen for a display of the artist's skill-a happy marriage, and then the curtain fell. Now it is the fashion-one, probably, derived from the German and Swedish school of writers to begin where the curtain used to fall; and to present to us, in animated colours, the disagreements, the petty incidents, and other details of the connubial state, with such excruciating accuracy, that we are inclined to think he must be either a very courageous, or a very reckless individual, who allows himself to be entangled in the fatal noose. "Caveat emptor," he is, at all events, a purchaser with notice, and must take the consequences of his rashness. We think this class of writers err in the opposite extreme, and fall rather too much into the vice of petty detail. Mr. Thackeray, in following the plan has, however, avoided the vice. And the shifts, contrivances, and perplexities of his artful heroine the immense difficulties which must be encountered by those who will keep a horse and carriage in May Fair, upon nothing a-year, has rather a stronger attraction for us, than the dull details of German domestic economy, or the internal arrangement of some Swedish judge's thrifty establishment. But ere we proceed to the incidents of the story, let us cast a rapid glance at the position occupied by its author, whom many circumstances have combined to lift into notice.

The reading public, before the time of Mr. Dickens, were a lord-loving class; nothing would go down with them but the tale of fashionable life. The "interior of the perfumed chambers of the great" possessed an attraction for vulgar eyes, of the highest interest: hence the shelves of our circulating-libraries were crowded with a collection of the most miserable and flimsy trash, containing histories of the intrigues of the used-up votaries of fashion. No no

vel would go down unless the hero or heroine had a handle to their name; and to so great an extent did this curious mania once prevail, that some traces of it may be observed even at the present day. Let us instance the novels of that clever writer, Mr. D'Israeli, no one of which he he seems to consider complete without the presence of a duke, and one or two viscounts. We adduce this as a remarkable illustration of the vast extent to which this morbid craving after the details of fashionable life per. vaded the world of novel-readers; for when the wielder of so clever and accomplished a pen as Mr. D'Israeli's was not exempt from the foible of the day, how was it to be expected that minor stars should not share in the common weakness? Such was the state of things when, in the literary horizon, arose the star of Dickens, and great was the amaze of our brethren of the ungentle art; a distinguished contemporary critic, if we recollect aright, foretelling, with much solemnity, that he would go up like a rocket, and come down like the stick, thus affording another remarkable il. lustration of how extremely fallacious are some of these literary predictions. The career of this writer has been bright, brilliant, and beautiful, and seems likely to continue to its close with undiminished lustre-(but of this, more anon). He opened up ancient wells of fresh and living beauty in the homely walks of every-day life; and Mr. Thackeray has, in availing himself of the bent thus imparted to the public mind, so far followed his example.

Mr. Thackeray, we think, obtains his hold over men's minds by presenting, with a few graphic touches, features with which we were long familiar, but which we had never thought before of observing, and feelings which seemed hidden almost from ourselves. He holds, as it were, "a mirror up to nature," and exhibits the imperfect man, with all the weaknesses and foibles of his heart, with an artistic power and skill, the rare excellence of which those only who by experience know the dif ficulty can properly appreciate. He is also a very wonderful scene-painter. He can seize upon the principal features of a place, and lay them before his readers with such extraordinary

power, that they can scarcely fail to think they must often have witnessed it before. We recollect a description

in one of those papers in Punch, to which we have just alluded, of the dilapidated and melancholy mansion of an absentee nobleman, drawn with such perfect skill and cunning, that it would be difficult, in the whole compass of English literature, to produce anything better. There are some fine lines upon a somewhat similar subject in the poems of Barry Cornwall, which we must trust to our memory to quote. They are, we think, as follows:

"The weed mourns on the castle wall,

The grass lies on the chamber floor,
And on the hearth, and in the hall,
Where the merry music danced of yore;
And the blood-red wine no longer

Runs (how it used to run!);
And the shadows within frown stronger-
Look black on the midnight sun.
The gardens feed no fruit nor flowers,
But childless seem, and in decay;
The traitor clock forsakes the hours,
And points to times-oh! far away.

The lord of all that lone domain,

An undeserving master, flies,
And leaves a home where he might reign,
For alien hearts and stranger eyes.
And the peasant disdains the story

He loved to recount of yore-
And the name that was once a glory,
Is heard in the land no more."

We cannot accord to Mr. Thackeray higher praise than in saying, that his prose description of the house of the absentee, in our opinion, fully equals these beautiful lines.

"Vanity Fair" proposes to be penand-pencil sketches of English society; and we think the taste of the public mind is altogether in favour of sketches, properly so called. The work before us consists of a series of very brilliant ones -with a description of the effect which the combinations of fate or fortune produces upon each of the dramatis persona, rather than any deep analysis of the passions or feelings of the human heart. Many extraneous circumstances have possiblycombined to lead Mr. Thackeray into this peculiar style of writing, in which he has certainly attained a rare excellence. The foibles and the weaknesses of mankind, rather than their deeper vices or virtues, are the subjects of the story, the scene of which is laid during the regency of George the Fourth. And here we may as well notice a blunder into which the Edinburgh Review has fallen, in alluding to the costume then the fashion,

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and that in which it has pleased Mr. Thackeray, in the illustrations, to represent his heroes and heroines." It was at the time," saith the reviewer, "when top-coats and hessians were the common wear, black neckcloths were confined to the military, and tight integuments for the nether man were held to be indispensable, so much so, indeed, that when some rash innovators attempted to introduce trowsers at Almacks', the indignant patronesses instantly posted up a notification, that infuture no gentleman would on any account be admitted without breeches." The reviewer then proceeds to add that, curiously enough, this fact has been forgotten-in the woodcuts, the dramatis persone being represented in trowsers. Let us turn to what Mr. Thackeray says upon the subject. "It was," he states, "my intention, faithful to history, to depict all the characters of this tale in their proper costumes, as they were then at the commencement of the century; but when I remember the appearance of people in those days, I have not the heart to disfigure my he roes and heroines by costumes so hideous, and have, on the contrary, engaged a model of rank drawn according to the present fashion." Were it the custom to review a reviewer, it might not be out of place to hint quietly that it would have been as well if our brother of the craft had, before he reviewed the book, adopted the preliminary caution of reading it.

But let us, without further preface, proceed to the consideration of the story. It seems to us beyond all question, that "Vanity Fair" has been written month by month, as occasion required, or as the printers called for it, for the pages abound with minute deviations from the original conceptions of the author. Thus the author occasionally sketches a character, and losing sight, as the story progresses, of the outline which he had originally drawn, throws in other ingredients which have the effect of materially altering the character he intended to paint. Several instances of this occur; but let the portrait of Rawdon Crawley serve as a specimen of what we mean. He sets out with describing this gambling, racing, tandem-driving guardsman-this heavy dragoon" with small brains and strong desires"-to be about as thorough and worthless a profligate as it is possible

to conceive. He tells us of his fleecing greenhorns at play, swindling tradesmen, and committing all the vices common to such distinguished members of society. He says that the only honest act in his very wicked and depraved life, was his marriage with the little governess-he makes him not only connive at her flirtation with the superannuated General Tufto, but actually shows him on the general's staff, and living in his quarters; and then, utterly oblivious of the character he had intended to draw, towards the conclusion he develops in him some of the finest and most beautiful qualities in our nature-such as his affection for the child, and his lofty and soldierlike bearing in regard of the amorous advances to the green-eyed Rebecca of the profligate peer. These faults, incidental to the serial mode of writing, are, however, after all, but trivial; and, upon the whole, we have seldom read a story which has given us greater pleasure than "Vanity Fair." Our interest has never for a moment been allowed to flag; and although there occasionally occur some pages of “filling-up," which are in nowise necessary to the progress of the tale, they but serve as settings for the brighter and more sparkling gems with which it abounds. In point of style + Mr. Thackeray is behind none of his contemporaries. There is neither affectation nor mannerism to be found in his pages; and as a writer of the pure, good, honest Saxon school, he is, beyond all question, unrivalled ; he is vigorous, and at the same time agreeable-commonly terse, and always humorous; but there is no straining after effect, no attempt at fine writing. The details of his story are woven together with careless ease, and the incidents narrated in the most off-hand and pleasant manner possible.

The great characteristic of Mr. Thackeray's style is the species of quaint and quiet humour with which, by one little touch, he opens the secret doors of the heart. His personages are so real, and described with so much graphic power, that our interest is strongly excited, and never allowed to drop. We used actually to long for the appearance of each successive number, with an ardour only to be equalled by that excited by

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