Sedley's death was only just concluded, and Jos scarcely had had time to cast off his black, and appear in the splendid waistcoats which he loved, when it became evident to those about Mr. Sedley that another event was at hand, and that the old man was about to go seek for his wife in the dark land whither she had preceded him.

"The state of my father's health,' Jos Sedley solemnly remarked at the club, prevents my giving my large parties this season; but if you will come in quietly at half-past six, Chutney, my boy, and take a homely dinner with one or two of the old set, I shall be always glad to see you.' So Jos and his acquaintance dined and drank claret among

themselves in silence, whilst the sands of life were running out in the old man's glass up stairs. The velvet-footed butler brought them their wine, and they composed themselves to a rubber after dinner, at which Major Dobbin would sometimes come and take a hand; and Mrs. Osborne would occasionally descend, when her patient above was settled for the night, and had commenced one of those lightly-troubled slumbers which visit the pillow of old age.

46

The old man clung to his daughter during this sickness-he would take his broths and medicine from scarcely any other hand. To tend him became almost the sole business of her life. Her bed was placed close by the door which opened into his chamber, and she was alive at the slightest noise or disturbance from the couch of the querulous invalid. Though, to do him justice, he lay awake many an hour, silent and without stirring, unwilling to awaken his kind and vigilant nurse."

Among the host of minor characters which flit before us, General Tufto and Lord Steyne, the admirers of Rebecca, are exquisitely delineated. The latter is a portrait drawn from life -alas! already too familiar to our readers; but with regard to it, we can only add, that we have never seen one done with more telling truth. The sketch of the former is also most graphic. The description of the interruption of his flirtation with Rebecca, and his rage thereat, is perfect. What passage was ever penned more replete with power than that which describes the general's curses: "they came from his heart; and it is a wonderful thing to think that the human heart is capa ble of generating such produce, and can throw out, as occasion demands, such a supply of lust and fury, rage

and hatred."

+ The sketch of Mr. Wenham is also inimitable. The cool effrontery by which he succeeded in baffling the fury of the enraged dragoon, is drawn with marvellous skill.

We have dwelt at such length upon what we consider the excellence of this work, that there is no chance of our incurring the censure of ill nature, if we now point to what, it must be admitted, are its defects. Among all the characters which rise before us when we have closed the book, there is not, with the exception of William Dobbin, one thoroughly good or of their nature, that of evil is too honest man. In the mingled elements largely blended. We sincerely hope we may never discover that the real "Vanity Fair," of which this work professes to reflect the image, is so entirely peopled with knaves and fools. In short, we have a better opinion of human nature than Mr. Thackeray. Our experience is possibly shorter, and far more limited; and frail and imperfect as is the heart of man, we cannot help thinking that it is not so thoroughly imbued with selfishness, so steeped with vanity, and so degraded by vice, as it has been represented to us. We should be sorry to coincide in the view of that high authority, whose worldly experience would lead us to believe every one a rogue until we find him out to be honest. Such a philosophy is naturally repugnant and distasteful to us. With all its faults and all its foibles, we have a kindly feeling for poor human nature; and we would be sorry to strip ourselves of the delusion, if one it be, that we have been gifted with more high and generous impulses, with loftier feelings, and honester hearts, than is represented by this great satirist. But, then, it may be said, his work is meant to deal only with our foibles, and to exhibit our vices. True, and therefore the contemplation of the dark side of the picture is the more distasteful. The tone of Mr. Thackeray's mind is essentially sarcastic; he is too prone to indulge his inclination of representing men or things in a satirical point of view, and, like Lord Byron, whenever a genial or sunshiny trait of our better nature is exhibited, it is spoiled with a dash of sarcasm, which mars its beauty, and prevents us from enjoying the full pleasure of its effect. Even in the

less equivocal characters which figure upon its pages, some fatuity, selfishness, or vanity arises, to break the spell. We should like to ask Mr. Thackeray if he believes that in the real "Vanity Fair" no good man, or no virtuous woman exists, who is not, at the same time, silly and selfish, for such, we fear, is the inevitable impression this book is calculated to convey?

We are by no means disposed to cavil or to find fault with the author that he has not visited, with more severity, upon the head of Rebecca, the consequences of her moral transgres. sions, that he has omitted to visit upon her that amount of retributive justice which, had the subject been handled by one of the common-place writers of the day, would assuredly have been the result. In the ultimate disposition of her destiny, he has exhibited a knowledge of the world far too intimate and far too fine, to err in following so ordinary a track.

Alas!

too little do we know what lies be

neath the mask of many of those whom we see fulfilling, with a zeal apparently so fervent, the ordinary duties of life, and affecting the semblance of a rigid adherence to the rules of virtue and religion. We fear Mr. Thackeray is not astray on this point, and that hypocrisy is one of the commonest vices in "Vanity Fair."

Notwithstanding, however, the defects to which we have adverted, and which we think, regarding the work in an artistic point of view, are its only blemish, "Vanity Fair" bears upon its pages the indelible impress of a genius so original and so striking, that it must at once lift the author into a high position among the writers of his age and country. But we think the genius and the power displayed in this work are capable of still higher flights; and if he have only the inclination, we see no reason why an exalted place among the standard writers of England should not yet be occupied by the author of "Vanity Fair."

OLD Norway, crowned in snow, and embraced in ocean's waters, begirt with rock and mountain, with her forests of pine and her living lakes the primitive habits of her people, their industry, and their national en. thusiasm, is, indeed, a remarkable land. As remarkable to-day in her character, as she was a thousand years ago; when her sea-kings were upon the coasts of many European lands, giving laws and customs to the civilised nations, who now look down upon modern Norway, and forget, or are ignorant of, the past. But if scenery and national habits stamp noble peculiarities upon the land and its people, still more should that people's warm-heartedness make them objects of European interest. A warm-heartedness which, whether it displays itself in deep national love of "Fader-land,” in generous hospitality to the stranger, or in the relations of man to man and to society, of husband, wife, and child, is, in its intensity and truthfulness, markedly illustrative of an uncorrupted people. Somewhat of this is conveyed in the true story of Olaf and Margaret.

It was summer on the Fiord, whose waters slept without a ripple, as their clear surface reflected back the shadows of the abrupt rocks, upon whose summits grew lofty pines, and within whose clefts the wall-flower, and the red and yellow cloud-berries, contrasted their gaudy colours with, here and there, a lily of the valley, rearing its modest head through scanty grass and green moss. So narrow was the inlet for its waters, that the Fiord might have seemed a closed lake; and so surrounded was it by its lofty and rocky boundaries, that no light fell upon its surface, save that which shot down vertically from a cloudless sky. Far beyond those rocks arose mountain piled on mountain, until they blended with the heavens; and their tops, capped with the unmolten snow of centuries, contrasted their silvery whiteness with the black rocks and

dark trees which surrounded that glassy Fiord. Above it, and opposite to those mountains, wound one of those precipitous roads, over which it is impossible for horse or machine to travel, save when the Norwegian snow fills up all chasms, and strong ice, from cleft to cleft, makes winter bridges, over which the sledge is then drawn, with a security marvellous to such as could have seen its irregular summer surface and gaping chasms, down whose sides nought save the fox, the squirrel, or the hare, could be expected to find footing. Yet, at the upper end, through an open between two rocks, the waters passed out into a wider space and onward, until miles above that Fiord arose a little village, of some dozen farmhouses, and a plain white church. Here, on that Fiord, the village found its fishing, and its inhabitants were sustained principally from its waters, together with such game as the Fjelde, beyond its rocky boundaries, afforded.

It was yet morn, and no boat was out; nothing disturbed the perfect stillness of the hour, except the screech of some alarmed sea-bird, as the fox or the wolf neared its dwelling. One human being only was visible in its neighbourhood; and she, with a light and agile foot, yet with cautious steps, wound her way along that boundary road-now up amid the topmost pines, now down the side of some declivitous rock, now along the moss-bank at its foot, and then up again; now in sight, and now obscured from view by some projecting prominence. figure was light and graceful, and her dress picturesque in the extreme. Upon her head she wore a cap of blue and scarlet cloth, fastened in upon her temples with a golden band. A dress of reindeer skin, closed in at the waist by a worsted sash, fell to her knees, and beneath it her limbs were clad in a lighter skin, which fitted her close as stockings, and surrounded the feet as shoes; while her neck was

Her

covered with a red wrapper, fastened in a neat tie beneath her chin. Her dress alone bespoke her not of Norwegian blood; and the remarkable characters of her exquisitely-delicate shape, her dark-brown eyes, sloping somewhat to the temples; her black hair and sallow skin, stamped her one of the Lapland race. She was of that outcast blood. Her tribe was sure to be near at hand-their tents cast in some neighbouring Fjelde, where were grazing their troops of reindeer. Every foot of that way seemed known to her; she must have trod it often before. Does she seek flower or fruit? No; she looks to neither. Journeys she to the village? No; for now she stops, and seating herself upon the bank, close to the water's edge, she seems to await in silence the object of ber mission. From her bosom she has pulled forth a pair of fur mittens, looked at them with a pleased earnestness; then glanced hastily along the waters in the direction of the cleft leading to the village, and with a listening but a disappointed expression of face, she has replaced them in her dress again. There, until the noonday sun lay reflected on those waters, she sat, statue-like and motionless, except that at intervals her head inclined in a listening attitude, as though she watched for some oar upon the water. At length a look of pleasure beamed over her dark features, and her head and ears became fixedly attentive to some coming sound. It was a boat, approaching from the village; its oars splashed steadily but gently in the water, worked by a female's hands, who sat alone within it. Again the Laplander's countenance relaxed into its passive sadness, and expressed disappointment. She made a first motion, as though she would retire, and then hesitatingly resumed her seat. Presently the boat neared her, and she had a closer view of its inmate. A sweet-looking girl, upon whose regular features twenty summers had told their time, and ripened into glorious womanhood a thing of angel beauty, her soft blue eyes, from the midst of light flaxen hair, that curled naturally over her temples,

looked laughingly upon everything; and her well-developed frame, full, yet graceful, with every move of the oars was moulded into fresh outlines of loveliness. A glance at her could tell that her heart was a happy home, and the music of peace it breathed was on her countenance. It was Margaret, the betrothed of Olaf, and she was out in her light skiff upon the waters to meet him, to whom her heart was pledged. She looked not for the Laplander-the Laplander looked not for her-but their eyes met, and Margaret's boat was speedily at the bank, where that young Laplander sat musing. And Margaret addressed her—

"Ho! are your tribe near the Fiord? Have you any furs to sell ?" 'None to sell," was the calm reply, distinctly spoken in passable Norse.

"Then what do you at the Fiord, and alone, unless you came to sell or buy? If on your way to the village, I will row you there in my boat."

The Laplander looked up, and the tears were in her eyes. In Norway there is a superstition against sitting with a Laplander, whose outcast tribe are at once despised as inferior, and dreaded as supernatural. The Laplander knew and felt all this, and the unexpected and kindly offer touched upon her heart. She expressed her thankfulness, and shook her head, as she looked up into the sunny face of her who, standing in her boat, looked down upon that poor Fin" with an expression of touching, but warm sadness, as though she grieved for the outcast fate of her race.

"I have nothing to sell," said the Fin,'" and I want to buy nothing." Then, after a pause" I have not been here for two years; my tribe has been up far north, and now, when on their way to Drontheim, I ventured to this Fiord with these gloves," said she, drawing them from her bosom, "which I have made for one to whom I owe the rescue of my life, even from this water, two years ago."

Pleasure again lit up the young Norwegian's countenance, as she exclaimed

"Oh, I know it, I know it all; you are the young Laplander, who fell

from yonder rock, and whom noble Olaf plunged into the waters for, and saved."

Warmly and passionately the young Fin exclaimed," I am, I am;" and her dark eyes lit up, and the flush of gratitude came in warm red blood upon her sombre features.

Two years before, in clambering over these rocks, her skin shoes had slipped upon a shelving bank, from whose edge she was precipitated into the waters beneath. Olaf, a bold young waterman, living near the Fiord, and who happened to have been then, from his boat, casting his fishing-net upon the waters, saw her fall, and with the instinctive courage of true manhood, aided by his skill in swiming, as a child of the water, he rescued her. In his boat she came to consciousness, as his manly form knelt over her, and from his corn-spirit flask he poured upon her temples, and applied to her lips, the rude stimulant and restorative of his country. She recovered with that intense sense of gratitude which such an event was sure to beget. She looked up into his open and gallant features, as though some genius of the spot above the measure of humanity had been her deliverer. And she, the poor Lapland girl, an outcast from Norwegian homes -one with whom the sons of old Norway would neither sit nor eat-was there tended by a Norseman, to whom she was debtor for her life. It has been somewhere beautifully said, “We plant a rose, and then we water it be cause we planted it." Olaf felt the influence of some such feeling: he would fain have carried home the gentle and subdued being he had rescued; but the superstitions of his country were strong upon him, and as soon as he felt that she was sufficiently restored to leave his boat, he raised her in his arms, and laid her upon that very bank where she now sat. Thence he helped her along the rude footings of the rocky path, and as she indicated the direction of her tribe, he led her to the Fjelde where her people, with their flocks and tents, had gathered, There, left in security, he parted her, scarcely returning the warm and pas. sionate hand-grasp she bestowed upon

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him, as kneeling at his feet, she prayed her earnestly honest thankfulness to him and " Nipen" for her deliver

ance.

"Pray to Nipen," said he, "to guard me on the Fiord-'tis all I ask." And the poor Fin prayed, and warmly prayed.

They met to know each other no more; but his image, and the thought of him, and the warm prayer to Nipen for him, for her brief life, filled the heart and soul of that young Fin. She and her tribe passed far north; but wherever they struck their tentswherever she led her aged and sightless mother, victim of the Lapland blindness, there her mental vision carried Olaf. Her filial duties of guiding and caring that feeble parent, her duties to her tribe, her needlework, which she plied dexterously, were still pursued as constantly as before; but the Lappish song no longer kept time with her employment: her gaiety was gone.

She no longer sat before her tent, surrounded by the youth of her tribe, listening to the music of her gentle voice, or delighting in her tales of tent-scenes and olden Lapland times, and reindeer adventures, and stories of the Fiord demon and the

Nipen vengeance. The poor Laps shook their heads, and marvelled what

had fallen upon "Una." Her whole character was changed. One all-absorbing thought filled her mind. "Olaf, her saviour!-should she ever meet

him again? What could she do to show him the depth of her gratitude for that kindness from the hands of one of his race?" Still it never suggested itself to Una's simple nature, that this feeling of gratitude was gradually extending itself into a deeper passion. For two whole years, while with her tribe, she had gone north, and now south again, back to the old and well-remembered encampment. Her thoughts had been upon that man and that hour. At her blind mother's knee she had wrought those gloves of the loveliest skin she could procure, and fastened with such needlework as never Fin-girl had given to skin before, and made to fit him-" Oh! she knew they would fit him!" Poor innocent!and yet she knew not it was