keeping, their harmonious consistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure exemption from exaggeration.  No second-rate imitator can write in that way; no coarse scene-painter can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect.  But what bitter satire, what relentless dissection of diseased subjects!  Well, and this, too, is right, or would be right, if the savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work.  Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasure in putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh.  Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no great satirist would like society to be perfect.

As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust.  There is hardly any punishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood peep through a keyhole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid.  Many other things I noticed that, for my part, grieved and exasperated me as I read; but then, again, came passages so true, so deeply thought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving and admiring....

But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the political or religious intrigues of the times.  Thackeray, in his heart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age or date.  He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself daily sees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action.  In him this faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and if ever any passage in his writings lacks interest, it is when this master-faculty is for a time thrust into a subordinate position.  I think such is the case in the former half of the present volume.  Towards the middle, he throws off restraint, becomes himself, and is strong to the close.  Everything now depends on the second and third volumes.  If, in pith and interest, they fall short of the first, a true success cannot ensue.  If the continuation be an improvement upon the commencement, if the stream gather force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph.  Some people have been in the habit of terming him the second writer of the day; it just depends on himself whether or not these critics shall be justified in their award.  He need not be the second.  God made him second to no man.  If I were he, I would show myself as I am, not as critics report me; at any rate, I would do my best.  Mr. Thackeray is easy and indolent, and seldom cares to do his best.  Thank you once more; and believe me—­&c.

TO THE SAME

‘Esmond’ again

10 Nov. 1852.