Realism in style has not all the ease which seems to belong to it. It is the object of the author who affects it so to communicate with his reader that all his words shall seem to be natural to the occasion. We do not think the language of Dogberry natural, when he tells neighbour Seacole that "to write and read comes by nature." That is ludicrous. Nor is the language of Hamlet natural when he shows to his mother the portrait of his father;
See what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command.
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That is sublime. Constance is natural when she turns away from the Cardinal6, declaring that
He talks to me that never had a son.
In one respect both the sublime and ludicrous are easier than the realistic. They are not required to be true. A man with an imagination and culture may feign7 either of them without knowing the ways of men. To be realistic you must know accurately8 that which you describe. How often do we find in novels that the author makes an attempt at realism and falls into a bathos of absurdity9, because he cannot use appropriate language? "No human being ever spoke10 like that," we say to ourselves,—while we should not question the naturalness of the production, either in the grand or the ridiculous.
And yet in very truth the realistic must not be true,—but just so far removed from truth as to suit the erroneous idea of truth which the reader may be supposed to entertain. For were a novelist to narrate11 a conversation between two persons of fair but not high education, and to use the ill-arranged words and fragments of speech which are really common in such conversations, he would seem to have sunk to the ludicrous, and to be attributing to the interlocutors a mode of language much beneath them. Though in fact true, it would seem to be far from natural. But on the other hand, were he to put words grammatically correct into the mouths of his personages, and to round off and to complete the spoken sentences, the ordinary reader would instantly feel such a style to be stilted13 and unreal. This reader would not analyse it, but would in some dim but sufficiently14 critical manner be aware that his author was not providing him with a naturally spoken [Pg 186]dialogue. To produce the desired effect the narrator must go between the two. He must mount somewhat above the ordinary conversational15 powers of such persons as are to be represented,—lest he disgust. But he must by no means soar into correct phraseology,—lest he offend. The realistic,—by which we mean that which shall seem to be real,—lies between the two, and in reaching it the writer has not only to keep his proper distance on both sides, but has to maintain varying distances in accordance with the position, mode of life, and education of the speakers. Lady Castlewood in Esmond would not have been properly made to speak with absolute precision; but she goes nearer to the mark than her more ignorant lord, the viscount; less near, however, than her better-educated kinsman16, Henry Esmond. He, however, is not made to speak altogether by the card, or he would be unnatural17. Nor would each of them speak always in the same strain, but they would alter their language according to their companion,—according even to the hour of the day. All this the reader unconsciously perceives, and will not think the language to be natural unless the proper variations be there.
In simple narrative18 the rule is the same as in dialogue, though it does not admit of the same palpable deviation19 from correct construction. The story of any incident, to be realistic, will admit neither of sesquipedalian grandeur20 nor of grotesque21 images. The one gives an idea of romance and the other of burlesque22, to neither of which is truth supposed to appertain. We desire to soar frequently, and then we try romance. We desire to recreate ourselves with the easy and droll23. Dulce est desipere in loco. Then we have recourse to burlesque. But in neither do we expect human nature.
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I cannot but think that in the hands of the novelist the middle course is the most powerful. Much as we may delight in burlesque, we cannot claim for it the power of achieving great results. So much I think will be granted. For the sublime we look rather to poetry than to prose, and though I will give one or two instances just now in which it has been used with great effect in prose fiction, it does not come home to the heart, teaching a lesson, as does the realistic. The girl who reads is touched by Lucy Ashton, but she feels herself to be convinced of the facts as to Jeanie Deans, and asks herself whether she might not emulate24 them.
Now as to the realism of Thackeray, I must rather appeal to my readers than attempt to prove it by quotation25. Whoever it is that speaks in his pages, does it not seem that such a person would certainly have used such words on such an occasion? If there be need of examination to learn whether it be so or not, let the reader study all that falls from the mouth of Lady Castlewood through the novel called Esmond, or all that falls from the mouth of Beatrix. They are persons peculiarly situated,—noble women, but who have still lived much out of the world. The former is always conscious of a sorrow; the latter is always striving after an effect;—and both on this account are difficult of management. A period for the story has been chosen which is strange and unknown to us, and which has required a peculiar4 language. One would have said beforehand that whatever might be the charms of the book, it would not be natural. And yet the ear is never wounded by a tone that is false. It is not always the case that in novel reading the ear should be wounded because the words spoken are unnatural. Bulwer does not wound, though he never puts [Pg 188]into the mouth of any of his persons words such as would have been spoken. They are not expected from him. It is something else that he provides. From Thackeray they are expected,—and from many others. But Thackeray never disappoints. Whether it be a great duke, such as he who was to have married Beatrix, or a mean chaplain, such as Tusher, or Captain Steele the humorist, they talk,—not as they would have talked probably, of which I am no judge,—but as we feel that they might have talked. We find ourselves willing to take it as proved because it is there, which is the strongest possible evidence of the realistic capacity of the writer.
As to the sublime in novels, it is not to be supposed that any very high rank of sublimity27 is required to put such works within the pale of that definition. I allude28 to those in which an attempt is made to soar above the ordinary actions and ordinary language of life. We may take as an instance The Mysteries of Udolpho. That is intended to be sublime throughout. Even the writer never for a moment thought of descending30 to real life. She must have been untrue to her own idea of her own business had she done so. It is all stilted,—all of a certain altitude among the clouds. It has been in its time a popular book, and has had its world of readers. Those readers no doubt preferred the diluted31 romance of Mrs. Radcliff to the condensed realism of Fielding. At any rate they did not look for realism. Pelham may be taken as another instance of the sublime, though there is so much in it that is of the world worldly, though an intentional32 fall to the ludicrous is often made in it. The personages talk in glittering dialogues, throwing about philosophy, science, and the classics, in a manner which is always suggestive and often amusing. The book is [Pg 189]brilliant with intellect. But no word is ever spoken as it would have been spoken;—no detail is ever narrated33 as it would have occurred. Bulwer no doubt regarded novels as romantic, and would have looked with contempt on any junction34 of realism and romance, though, in varying his work, he did not think it beneath him to vary his sublimity with the ludicrous. The sublime in novels is no doubt most effective when it breaks out, as though by some burst of nature, in the midst of a story true to life. "If," said Evan Maccombich, "the Saxon gentlemen are laughing because a poor man such as me thinks my life, or the life of six of my degree, is worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, it's like enough they may be very right; but if they laugh because they think I would not keep my word and come back to redeem35 him, I can tell them they ken12 neither the heart of a Hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman." That is sublime. And, again, when Balfour of Burley slaughters36 Bothwell, the death scene is sublime. "Die, bloodthirsty dog!" said Burley. "Die as thou hast lived! Die like the beasts that perish—hoping nothing, believing nothing!"——"And fearing nothing," said Bothwell. Horrible as is the picture, it is sublime. As is also that speech of Meg Merrilies, as she addresses Mr. Bertram, standing37 on the bank. "Ride your ways," said the gipsy; "ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan; ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram. This day have ye quenched38 seven smoking hearths39; see if the fire in your ain parlour burn the blyther for that. Ye have riven the thack off seven cottar houses; look if your ain rooftree stand the faster. Ye may stable your stirks in the shealings at Derncleugh; see that the hare does not couch on the hearthstane at Ellangowan." That is romance, and reaches the very [Pg 190]height of the sublime. That does not offend, impossible though it be that any old woman should have spoken such words, because it does in truth lift the reader up among the bright stars. It is thus that the sublime may be mingled40 with the realistic, if the writer has the power. Thackeray also rises in that way to a high pitch, though not in many instances. Romance does not often justify41 to him an absence of truth. The scene between Lady Castlewood and the Duke of Hamilton is one, when she explains to her child's suitor who Henry Esmond is. "My daughter may receive presents from the head of our house," says the lady, speaking up for her kinsman. "My daughter may thankfully take kindness from her father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend." The whole scene is of the same nature, and is evidence of Thackeray's capacity for the sublime. And again, when the same lady welcomes the same kinsman on his return from the wars, she rises as high. But as I have already quoted a part of the passage in the chapter on this novel, I will not repeat it here.
It may perhaps be said of the sublime in novels,—which I have endeavoured to describe as not being generally of a high order,—that it is apt to become cold, stilted, and unsatisfactory. What may be done by impossible castles among impossible mountains, peopled by impossible heroes and heroines, and fraught43 with impossible horrors, The Mysteries of Udolpho have shown us. But they require a patient reader, and one who can content himself with a long protracted44 and most unemotional excitement. The sublimity which is effected by sparkling speeches is better, if the speeches really have something in them beneath the sparkles. Those of Bulwer generally have. Those of his imitators are often without anything, the [Pg 191]sparkles even hardly sparkling. At the best they fatigue45; and a novel, if it fatigues46, is unpardonable. Its only excuse is to be found in the amusement it affords. It should instruct also, no doubt, but it never will do so unless it hides its instruction and amuses. Scott understood all this, when he allowed himself only such sudden bursts as I have described. Even in The Bride of Lammermoor, which I do not regard as among the best of his performances, as he soars high into the sublime, so does he descend29 low into the ludicrous.
In this latter division of pure fiction,—the burlesque, as it is commonly called, or the ludicrous,—Thackeray is quite as much at home as in the realistic, though, the vehicle being less powerful, he has achieved smaller results by it. Manifest as are the objects in his view when he wrote The Hoggarty Diamond or The Legend of the Rhine, they were less important and less evidently effected than those attempted by Vanity Fair and Pendennis. Captain Shindy, the Snob48, does not tell us so plainly what is not a gentleman as does Colonel Newcome what is. Nevertheless the ludicrous has, with Thackeray, been very powerful, and very delightful49.
In trying to describe what is done by literature of this class, it is especially necessary to remember that different readers are affected50 in a different way. That which is one man's meat is another man's poison. In the sublime, when the really grand has been reached, it is the reader's own fault if he be not touched. We know that many are indifferent to the soliloquies of Hamlet, but we do not hesitate to declare to ourselves that they are so because they lack the power of appreciating grand language. We do not scruple51 to attribute to those who are indifferent some inferiority of intelligence. And in regard [Pg 192]to the realistic, when the truth of a well-told story or life-like character does not come home, we think that then, too, there is deficiency in the critical ability. But there is nothing necessarily lacking to a man because he does not enjoy The Heathen Chinee or The Biglow Papers; and the man to whom these delights of American humour are leather and prunello may be of all the most enraptured52 by the wit of Sam Weller or the mock piety53 of Pecksniff. It is a matter of taste and not of intellect, as one man likes caviare after his dinner, while another prefers apple-pie; and the man himself cannot, or, as far as we can see, does not direct his own taste in the one matter more than in the other.
Therefore I cannot ask others to share with me the delight which I have in the various and peculiar expressions of the ludicrous which are common to Thackeray. Some considerable portion of it consists in bad spelling. We may say that Charles James Harrington Fitzroy Yellowplush, or C. FitzJeames De La Pluche, as he is afterwards called, would be nothing but for his "orthogwaphy so carefully inaccuwate." As I have before said, Mrs. Malaprop had seemed to have reached the height of this humour, and in having done so to have made any repetition unpalatable. But Thackeray's studied blundering is altogether different from that of Sheridan. Mrs. Malaprop uses her words in a delightfully54 wrong sense. Yellowplush would be a very intelligible55, if not quite an accurate writer, had he not made for himself special forms of English words altogether new to the eye.
"My ma wrapped up my buth in a mistry. I may be illygitmit; I may have been changed at nus; but I've always had gen'l'm'nly tastes through life, and have no doubt that I come of a gen'l'm'nly origum." We cannot [Pg 193]admit that there is wit, or even humour, in bad spelling alone. Were it not that Yellowplush, with his bad spelling, had so much to say for himself, there would be nothing in it; but there is always a sting of satire56 directed against some real vice57, or some growing vulgarity, which is made sharper by the absurdity of the language. In The Diary of George IV. there are the following reflections on a certain correspondence; "Wooden you phansy, now, that the author of such a letter, instead of writun about pipple of tip-top quality, was describin' Vinegar Yard? Would you beleave that the lady he was a-ritin' to was a chased modist lady of honour and mother of a family? O trumpery58! o morris! as Homer says. This is a higeous pictur of manners, such as I weap to think of, as every morl man must weap." We do not wonder that when he makes his "ajew" he should have been called up to be congratulated on the score of his literary performances by his master, before the Duke, and Lord Bagwig, and Dr. Larner, and "Sawedwadgeorgeearllittnbulwig." All that Yellowplush says or writes are among the pearls which Thackeray was continually scattering60 abroad.
But this of the distinguished61 footman was only one of the forms of the ludicrous which he was accustomed to use in the furtherance of some purpose which he had at heart. It was his practice to clothe things most revolting with an assumed grace and dignity, and to add to the weight of his condemnation62 by the astounding63 mendacity of the parody64 thus drawn65. There was a grim humour in this which has been displeasing66 to some, as seeming to hold out to vice a hand which has appeared for too long a time to be friendly. As we are disposed to be not altogether sympathetic with a detective policeman who shall have spent a jolly night with a delinquent67, for the [Pg 194]sake of tracing home the suspected guilt68 to his late comrade, so are some disposed to be almost angry with our author, who seems to be too much at home with his rascals70, and to live with them on familiar terms till we doubt whether he does not forget their rascality71. Barry Lyndon is the strongest example we have of this style of the ludicrous, and the critics of whom I speak have thought that our friendly relations with Barry have been too genial72, too apparently73 genuine, so that it might almost be doubtful whether during the narrative we might not, at this or the other crisis, be rather with him than against him. "After all," the reader might say, on coming to that passage in which Barry defends his trade as a gambler,—a passage which I have quoted in speaking of the novel,—"after all, this man is more hero than scoundrel;" so well is the burlesque humour maintained, so well does the scoundrel hide his own villany. I can easily understand that to some it should seem too long drawn out. To me it seems to be the perfection of humour,—and of philosophy. If such a one as Barry Lyndon, a man full of intellect, can be made thus to love and cherish his vice, and to believe in its beauty, how much more necessary is it to avoid the footsteps which lead to it? But, as I have said above, there is no standard by which to judge of the excellence74 of the ludicrous as there is of the sublime, and even the realistic.
No writer ever had a stronger proclivity75 towards parody than Thackeray; and we may, I think, confess that there is no form of literary drollery76 more dangerous. The parody will often mar5 the gem26 of which it coarsely reproduces the outward semblance77. The word "damaged," used instead of "damask," has destroyed to my ear for [Pg 195]ever the music of one of the sweetest passages in Shakespeare. But it must be acknowledged of Thackeray that, fond as he is of this branch of humour, he has done little or no injury by his parodies78. They run over with fun, but are so contrived79 that they do not lessen80 the flavour of the original. I have given in one of the preceding chapters a little set of verses of his own, called The Willow81 Tree, and his own parody on his own work. There the reader may see how effective a parody may be in destroying the sentiment of the piece parodied82. But in dealing83 with other authors he has been grotesque without being severely84 critical, and has been very like, without making ugly or distasteful that which he has imitated. No one who has admired Coningsby will admire it the less because of Codlingsby. Nor will the undoubted romance of Eugene Aram be lessened85 in the estimation of any reader of novels by the well-told career of George de Barnwell. One may say that to laugh Ivanhoe out of face, or to lessen the glory of that immortal86 story, would be beyond the power of any farcical effect. Thackeray in his Rowena and Rebecca certainly had no such purpose. Nothing of Ivanhoe is injured, nothing made less valuable than it was before, yet, of all prose parodies in the language, it is perhaps the most perfect. Every character is maintained, every incident has a taste of Scott. It has the twang of Ivanhoe from beginning to end, and yet there is not a word in it by which the author of Ivanhoe could have been offended. But then there is the purpose beyond that of the mere87 parody. Prudish88 women have to be laughed at, and despotic kings, and parasite89 lords and bishops91. The ludicrous alone is but poor fun; but [Pg 196]when the ludicrous has a meaning, it can be very effective in the hands of such a master as this.
"He to die!" resumed the bishop90. "He a mortal like to us! Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus. Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil92 thus!"
So much I have said of the manner in which Thackeray did his work, endeavouring to represent human nature as he saw it, so that his readers should learn to love what is good, and to hate what is evil. As to the merits of his style, it will be necessary to insist on them the less, because it has been generally admitted to be easy, lucid, and grammatical. I call that style easy by which the writer has succeeded in conveying to the reader that which the reader is intended to receive with the least possible amount of trouble to him. I call that style lucid which conveys to the reader most accurately all that the writer wishes to convey on any subject. The two virtues94 will, I think, be seen to be very different. An author may wish to give an idea that a certain flavour is bitter. He shall leave a conviction that it is simply disagreeable. Then he is not lucid. But he shall convey so much as that, in such a manner as to give the reader no trouble in arriving at the conclusion. Therefore he is easy. The subject here suggested is as little complicated as possible; but in the intercourse95 which is going on continually between writers and readers, affairs of all degrees of complication are continually being discussed, of a nature so complicated that the inexperienced writer is puzzled at every turn to express himself, and the altogether inartistic writer fails to do so. Who among writers has not to acknowledge that he is often unable to tell all that he has to tell? Words refuse to do it for him. He struggles and stumbles and alters and [Pg 197]adds, but finds at last that he has gone either too far or not quite far enough. Then there comes upon him the necessity of choosing between two evils. He must either give up the fulness of his thought, and content himself with presenting some fragment of it in that lucid arrangement of words which he affects; or he must bring out his thought with ambages; he must mass his sentences inconsequentially; he must struggle up hill almost hopelessly with his phrases,—so that at the end the reader will have to labour as he himself has laboured, or else to leave behind much of the fruit which it has been intended that he should garner96. It is the ill-fortune of some to be neither easy or lucid; and there is nothing more wonderful in the history of letters than the patience of readers when called upon to suffer under the double calamity97. It is as though a man were reading a dialogue of Plato, understanding neither the subject nor the language. But it is often the case that one has to be sacrificed to the other. The pregnant writer will sometimes solace98 himself by declaring that it is not his business to supply intelligence to the reader; and then, in throwing out the entirety of his thought, will not stop to remember that he cannot hope to scatter59 his ideas far and wide unless he can make them easily intelligible. Then the writer who is determined100 that his book shall not be put down because it is troublesome, is too apt to avoid the knotty101 bits and shirk the rocky turns, because he cannot with ease to himself make them easy to others. If this be acknowledged, I shall be held to be right in saying not only that ease and lucidity102 in style are different virtues, but that they are often opposed to each other. They may, however, be combined, and then the writer will have really learned the art of writing. Omne tulit punctum qui [Pg 198]miscuit utile dulci. It is to be done, I believe, in all languages. A man by art and practice shall at least obtain such a masterhood over words as to express all that he thinks, in phrases that shall be easily understood.
In such a small space as can here be allowed, I cannot give instances to prove that this has been achieved by Thackeray. Nor would instances prove the existence of the virtue93, though instances might the absence. The proof lies in the work of the man's life, and can only become plain to those who have read his writings. I must refer readers to their own experiences, and ask them whether they have found themselves compelled to study passages in Thackeray in order that they might find a recondite103 meaning, or whether they have not been sure that they and the author have together understood all that there was to understand in the matter. Have they run backward over the passages, and then gone on, not quite sure what the author has meant? If not, then he has been easy and lucid. We have not had it so easy with all modern writers, nor with all that are old. I may best perhaps explain my meaning by taking something written long ago; something very valuable, in order that I may not damage my argument by comparing the easiness of Thackeray with the harshness of some author who has in other respects failed of obtaining approbation104. If you take the play of Cymbeline you will, I think, find it to be anything but easy reading. Nor is Shakespeare always lucid. For purposes of his own he will sometimes force his readers to doubt his meaning, even after prolonged study. It has ever been so with Hamlet. My readers will not, I think, be so crossgrained with me as to suppose that I am putting Thackeray as a master of style above Shakespeare. I am only endeavouring to explain by [Pg 199]reference to the great master the condition of literary production which he attained105. Whatever Thackeray says, the reader cannot fail to understand; and whatever Thackeray attempts to communicate, he succeeds in conveying.
That he is grammatical I must leave to my readers' judgment106, with a simple assertion in his favour. There are some who say that grammar,—by which I mean accuracy of composition, in accordance with certain acknowledged rules,—is only a means to an end; and that, if a writer can absolutely achieve the end by some other mode of his own, he need not regard the prescribed means. If a man can so write as to be easily understood, and to convey lucidly107 that which he has to convey without accuracy of grammar, why should he subject himself to unnecessary trammels? Why not make a path for himself, if the path so made will certainly lead him whither he wishes to go? The answer is, that no other path will lead others whither he wishes to carry them but that which is common to him and to those others. It is necessary that there should be a ground equally familiar to the writer and to his readers. If there be no such common ground, they will certainly not come into full accord. There have been recusants who, by a certain acuteness of their own, have partly done so,—wilful recusants; but they have been recusants, not to the extent of discarding grammar,—which no writer could do and not be altogether in the dark,—but so far as to have created for themselves a phraseology which has been picturesque108 by reason of its illicit109 vagaries110; as a woman will sometimes please ill-instructed eyes and ears by little departures from feminine propriety111. They have probably laboured in their vocation112 as sedulously113 as though they had striven to be correct, and have achieved at the best but a [Pg 200]short-lived success;—as is the case also with the unconventional female. The charm of the disorderly soon loses itself in the ugliness of disorder114. And there are others rebellious115 from grammar, who are, however, hardly to be called rebels, because the laws which they break have never been altogether known to them. Among those very dear to me in English literature, one or two might be named of either sort, whose works, though they have that in them which will insure to them a long life, will become from year to year less valuable and less venerable, because their authors have either scorned or have not known that common ground of language on which the author and his readers should stand together. My purport116 here is only with Thackeray, and I say that he stands always on that common ground. He quarrels with none of the laws. As the lady who is most attentive117 to conventional propriety may still have her own fashion of dress and her own mode of speech, so had Thackeray very manifestly his own style; but it is one the correctness of which has never been impugned118.
I hold that gentleman to be the best dressed whose dress no one observes. I am not sure but that the same may be said of an author's written language. Only, where shall we find an example of such perfection? Always easy, always lucid, always correct, we may find them; but who is the writer, easy, lucid, and correct, who has not impregnated his writing with something of that personal flavour which we call mannerism119? To speak of authors well known to all readers—Does not The Rambler taste of Johnson; The Decline and Fall, of Gibbon; The Middle Ages, of Hallam; The History of England, of Macaulay; and The Invasion of the Crimea, of Kinglake? Do we not know the elephantine tread of The Saturday, and the [Pg 201]precise toe of The Spectator? I have sometimes thought that Swift has been nearest to the mark of any,—writing English and not writing Swift. But I doubt whether an accurate observer would not trace even here the "mark of the beast." Thackeray, too, has a strong flavour of Thackeray. I am inclined to think that his most besetting120 sin in style,—the little earmark by which he is most conspicuous,—is a certain affected familiarity. He indulges too frequently in little confidences with individual readers, in which pretended allusions121 to himself are frequent. "What would you do? what would you say now, if you were in such a position?" he asks. He describes this practice of his in the preface to Pendennis. "It is a sort of confidential122 talk between writer and reader.... In the course of his volubility the perpetual speaker must of necessity lay bare his own weaknesses, vanities, peculiarities123." In the short contributions to periodicals on which he tried his 'prentice hand, such addresses and conversations were natural and efficacious; but in a larger work of fiction they cause an absence of that dignity to which even a novel may aspire124. You feel that each morsel125 as you read it is a detached bit, and that it has all been written in detachments. The book is robbed of its integrity by a certain good-humoured geniality126 of language, which causes the reader to be almost too much at home with his author. There is a saying that familiarity breeds contempt, and I have been sometimes inclined to think that our author has sometimes failed to stand up for himself with sufficiency of "personal deportment."
In other respects Thackeray's style is excellent. As I have said before, the reader always understands his words without an effort, and receives all that the author has to give.
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There now remains127 to be discussed the matter of our author's work. The manner and the style are but the natural wrappings in which the goods have been prepared for the market. Of these goods it is no doubt true that unless the wrappings be in some degree meritorious128 the article will not be accepted at all; but it is the kernel129 which we seek, which, if it be not of itself sweet and digestible, cannot be made serviceable by any shell however pretty or easy to be cracked. I have said previously130 that it is the business of a novel to instruct in morals and to amuse. I will go further, and will add, having been for many years a most prolific131 writer of novels myself, that I regard him who can put himself into close communication with young people year after year without making some attempt to do them good, as a very sorry fellow indeed. However poor your matter may be, however near you may come to that "foolishest of existing mortals," as Carlyle presumes some unfortunate novelist to be, still, if there be those who read your works, they will undoubtedly132 be more or less influenced by what they find there. And it is because the novelist amuses that he is thus influential133. The sermon too often has no such effect, because it is applied134 with the declared intention of having it. The palpable and overt135 dose the child rejects; but that which is cunningly insinuated136 by the aid of jam or honey is accepted unconsciously, and goes on upon its curative mission. So it is with the novel. It is taken because of its jam and honey. But, unlike the honest simple jam and honey of the household cupboard, it is never unmixed with physic. There will be the dose within it, either curative or poisonous. The girl will be taught modesty137 or immodesty, truth or falsehood; the lad will be taught honour or dishonour138, simplicity139 or [Pg 203]affectation. Without the lesson the amusement will not be there. There are novels which certainly can teach nothing; but then neither can they amuse any one.
I should be said to insist absurdly on the power of my own confraternity if I were to declare that the bulk of the young people in the upper and middle classes receive their moral teaching chiefly from the novels they read. Mothers would no doubt think of their own sweet teaching; fathers of the examples which they set; and schoolmasters of the excellence of their instructions. Happy is the country that has such mothers, fathers, and schoolmasters! But the novelist creeps in closer than the schoolmaster, closer than the father, closer almost than the mother. He is the chosen guide, the tutor whom the young pupil chooses for herself. She retires with him, suspecting no lesson, safe against rebuke140, throwing herself head and heart into the narration as she can hardly do into her task-work; and there she is taught,—how she shall learn to love; how she shall receive the lover when he comes; how far she should advance to meet the joy; why she should be reticent141, and not throw herself at once into this new delight. It is the same with the young man, though he would be more prone142 even than she to reject the suspicion of such tutorship. But he too will there learn either to speak the truth, or to lie; and will receive from his novel lessons either of real manliness143, or of that affected apishness and tailor-begotten demeanour which too many professors of the craft give out as their dearest precepts145.
At any rate the close intercourse is admitted. Where is the house now from which novels are tabooed? Is it not common to allow them almost indiscriminately, so that young and old each chooses his own novel? [Pg 204]Shall he, then, to whom this close fellowship is allowed,—this inner confidence,—shall he not be careful what words he uses, and what thoughts he expresses, when he sits in council with his young friend? This, which it will certainly be his duty to consider with so much care, will be the matter of his work. We know what was thought of such matter, when Lydia in the play was driven to the necessity of flinging "Peregrine Pickle146 under the toilet," and thrusting "Lord Aimwell under the sofa." We have got beyond that now, and are tolerably sure that our girls do not hide their novels. The more freely they are allowed, the more necessary is it that he who supplies shall take care that they are worthy147 of the trust that is given to them.
Now let the reader ask himself what are the lessons which Thackeray has taught. Let him send his memory running back over all those characters of whom we have just been speaking, and ask himself whether any girl has been taught to be immodest, or any man unmanly, by what Thackeray has written. A novelist has two modes of teaching,—by good example or bad. It is not to be supposed that because the person treated of be evil, therefore the precept144 will be evil. If so, some personages with whom we have been made well acquainted from our youth upwards148, would have been omitted in our early lessons. It may be a question whether the teaching is not more efficacious which comes from the evil example. What story was ever more powerful in showing the beauty of feminine reticence149, and the horrors of feminine evil-doing, than the fate of Effie Deans? The Templar would have betrayed a woman to his lust150, but has not encouraged others by the freedom of his life. Varney was utterly151 bad,—but though a gay courtier, he has enticed152 no others [Pg 205]to go the way that he went. So it has been with Thackeray. His examples have been generally of that kind,—but they have all been efficacious in their teaching on the side of modesty and manliness, truth and simplicity. When some girl shall have traced from first to last the character of Beatrix, what, let us ask, will be the result on her mind? Beatrix was born noble, clever, beautiful, with certain material advantages, which it was within her compass to improve by her nobility, wit, and beauty. She was quite alive to that fact, and thought of those material advantages, to the utter exclusion153, in our mind, of any idea of moral goodness. She realised it all, and told herself that that was the game she would play. "Twenty-five!" says she; "and in eight years no man has ever touched my heart!" That is her boast when she is about to be married,—her only boast of herself. "A most detestable young woman!" some will say. "An awful example!" others will add. Not a doubt of it. She proves the misery154 of her own career so fully42 that no one will follow it. The example is so awful that it will surely deter99. The girl will declare to herself that not in that way will she look for the happiness which she hopes to enjoy; and the young man will say as he reads it, that no Beatrix shall touch his heart.
You may go through all his characters with the same effect. Pendennis will be scorned because he is light; Warrington loved because he is strong and merciful; Dobbin will be honoured because he is unselfish; and the old colonel, though he be foolish, vain, and weak, almost worshipped because he is so true a gentleman. It is in the handling of questions such as these that we have to look for the matter of the novelist,—those moral lessons which he mixes up with his jam and his honey. I say [Pg 206]that with Thackeray the physic is always curative and never poisonous. He may he admitted safely into that close fellowship, and be allowed to accompany the dear ones to their retreats. The girl will never become bold under his preaching, or taught to throw herself at men's heads. Nor will the lad receive a false flashy idea of what becomes a youth, when he is first about to take his place among men.
As to that other question, whether Thackeray be amusing as well as salutary, I must leave it to public opinion. There is now being brought out of his works a more splendid edition than has ever been produced in any age or any country of the writings of such an author. A certain fixed155 number of copies only is being issued, and each copy will cost ￡33 12s. when completed. It is understood that a very large proportion of the edition has been already bought or ordered. Cost, it will be said, is a bad test of excellence. It will not prove the merit of a book any more than it will of a horse. But it is proof of the popularity of the book. Print and illustrate156 and bind157 up some novels how you will, no one will buy them. Previous to these costly158 volumes, there have been two entire editions of his works since the author's death, one comparatively cheap and the other dear. Before his death his stories had been scattered159 in all imaginable forms. I may therefore assert that their charm has been proved by their popularity.
There remains for us only this question,—whether the nature of Thackeray's works entitle him to be called a cynic. The word is one which is always used in a bad sense. "Of a dog; currish," is the definition which we get from Johnson,—quite correctly, and in accordance with its etymology160. And he gives us examples. "How vilely161 [Pg 207]does this cynic rhyme," he takes from Shakespeare; and Addison speaks of a man degenerating163 into a cynic. That Thackeray's nature was soft and kindly,—gentle almost to a fault,—has been shown elsewhere. But they who have called him a cynic have spoken of him merely as a writer,—and as writer he has certainly taken upon himself the special task of barking at the vices164 and follies165 of the world around him. Any satirist166 might in the same way be called a cynic in so far as his satire goes. Swift was a cynic certainly. Pope was cynical167 when he was a satirist. Juvenal was all cynical, because he was all satirist. If that be what is meant, Thackeray was certainly a cynic. But that is not all that the word implies. It intends to go back beyond the work of the man, and to describe his heart. It says of any satirist so described that he has given himself up to satire, not because things have been evil, but because he himself has been evil. Hamlet is a satirist, whereas Thersites is a cynic. If Thackeray be judged after this fashion, the word is as inappropriate to the writer as to the man.
But it has to be confessed that Thackeray did allow his intellect to be too thoroughly168 saturated169 with the aspect of the ill side of things. We can trace the operation of his mind from his earliest days, when he commenced his parodies at school; when he brought out The Snob at Cambridge, when he sent Yellowplush out upon the world as a satirist on the doings of gentlemen generally; when he wrote his Catherine, to show the vileness170 of the taste for what he would have called Newgate literature; and The Hoggarty Diamond, to attack bubble companies; and Barry Lyndon, to expose the pride which a rascal69 may take in his rascality. Becky Sharp, Major Pendennis, Beatrix, both as a [Pg 208]young and as an old woman, were written with the same purpose. There is a touch of satire in every drawing that he made. A jeer171 is needed for something that is ridiculous, scorn has to be thrown on something that is vile162. The same feeling is to be found in every line of every ballad172.
VANITAS VANITATUM.
Methinks the text is never stale, And life is every day renewing Fresh comments on the old old tale, Of Folly173, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
Hark to the preacher, preaching still! He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill, As yonder on the Mount of Hermon—
For you and me to heart to take (O dear beloved brother readers), To-day,—as when the good king spake Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars174.
It was just so with him always. He was "crying his sermon," hoping, if it might be so, to do something towards lessening175 the evils he saw around him. We all preach our sermon, but not always with the same earnestness. He had become so urgent in the cause, so loud in his denunciations, that he did not stop often to speak of the good things around him. Now and again he paused and blessed amid the torrent176 of his anathemas177. There are Dobbin, and Esmond, and Colonel Newcome. But his anathemas are the loudest. It has been so I think nearly always with the eloquent178 preachers.
I will insert here,—especially here at the end of this [Pg 209]chapter, in which I have spoken of Thackeray's matter and manner of writing, because of the justice of the criticism conveyed,—the lines which Lord Houghton wrote on his death, and which are to be found in the February number of The Cornhill of 1864. It was the first number printed after his death. I would add that, though no Dean applied for permission to bury Thackeray in Westminster Abbey, his bust179 was placed there without delay. What is needed by the nation in such a case is simply a lasting180 memorial there, where such memorials are most often seen and most highly honoured. But we can all of us sympathise with the feeling of the poet, writing immediately on the loss of such a friend:
When one, whose nervous English verse Public and party hates defied, Who bore and bandied many a curse Of angry times,—when Dryden died,
Our royal abbey's Bishop-Dean Waited for no suggestive prayer, But, ere one day closed o'er the scene, Craved181, as a boon182, to lay him there.
The wayward faith, the faulty life, Vanished before a nation's pain. Panther and Hind47 forgot their strife183, And rival statesmen thronged184 the fane.
O gentle censor185 of our age! Prime master of our ampler tongue! Whose word of wit and generous page Were never wrath186, except with wrong,—
Fielding—without the manner's dross187, Scott—with a spirit's larger room, What Prelate deems thy grave his loss? What Halifax erects188 thy tomb?
But, may be, he,—who so could draw The hidden great,—the humble189 wise, Yielding with them to God's good law, Makes the Pantheon where he lies.
THE END.
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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slaughters
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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49
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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59
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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60
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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61
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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64
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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65
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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73
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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proclivity
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| n.倾向，癖性 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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80
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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81
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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82
parodied
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| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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84
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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85
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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86
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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87
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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88
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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89
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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90
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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91
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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92
cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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93
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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94
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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95
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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96
garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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97
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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98
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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99
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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100
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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101
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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102
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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103
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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104
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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105
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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106
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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107
lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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108
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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109
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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110
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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111
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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112
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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113
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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114
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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115
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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116
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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117
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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118
impugned
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| v.非难，指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
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119
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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120
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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121
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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122
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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123
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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124
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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125
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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126
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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127
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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128
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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129
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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130
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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131
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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132
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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133
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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134
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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135
overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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136
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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137
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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138
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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139
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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140
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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141
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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142
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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143
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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144
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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145
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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146
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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147
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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148
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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149
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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150
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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151
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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152
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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154
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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155
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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156
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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157
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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158
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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159
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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160
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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161
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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162
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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163
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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164
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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165
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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166
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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167
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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168
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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169
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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170
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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171
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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172
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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173
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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174
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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175
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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176
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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177
anathemas
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| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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178
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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179
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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180
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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181
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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182
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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183
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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184
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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186
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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187
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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188
erects
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的第三人称单数 )；建立 | |
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189
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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