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M A Y 1 8 6 5
Vanity Fair, by William Makepeace Thackeray
A review by Edwin Percy Whipple
In the novels of Thackeray, essay is so much mixed up with
narrative, and comment with characterization, that they can hardly be thoroughly appreciated
in poor editions. The temptation to skip is almost irresistible, when wisdom
can be purchased only at the expense of eyesight. We are therefore glad to
welcome the commencement of a new edition of his writings, over whose pages the
reader can linger at his pleasure, and quietly enjoy the subtleties of humor
and observation which in previous perusals he overlooked. The present volumes,
published by the Harpers, are among the most tasteful and comely products of
the Cambridge University Press. Printed in large type of tinted paper,
elegantly bound in green cloth and with a fac-simile of the author's autograph
on the cover, every copy has the appearance of being a presentation copy. No
English edition of Vanity Fair is equal to this American one in respect
either to convenience of form or beauty of mechanical execution. The
illustrations are numerous, well engraved, and embody the writer's own
conceptions of his scenes and characters, and are often deliciously humorous.
Vanity Fair, though it does not include the whole extent of Thackeray's
genius, is the most vigorous exhibition of its leading characteristics. In
freshness of feeling, elasticity of movement, and unity of aim, it is favorably
distinguished from its successors, which too often give the impression of being
composed of successive accumulations of incidents and persons, that drift into
the story on no principle of artistic selection and combination. The style,
while it has the raciness of individual peculiarity and the careless case of
familiar gossip, is as clear, pure, and flexible as if its sentences had been
subjected to repeated revision, and every pebble which obstructed its lucid and
limpid flow had been laboriously removed. The characterization is almost
perfect of its kind. Becky Sharp, the Marquis of Steyne, Sir Pitt Crawley and
the whole Crawley family, Amelia, the Osbornes, Major Dobbin, not to mention
others, are as well known to most cultivated people as their most intimate
acquaintances in the Vanity Fair of the actual world. It has always
seemed to us that Mr. Osborne, the father of George, a representation of the
most hateful phase of English character, is one of the most vividly true and
life-like of all the delineations in the book, and more of a typical personage
than even Becky or the Marquis of Steyne. Thackeray's theory of
characterization proceeds generally on the assumption that the acts of men and
women are directed not by principle, but by instincts, selfish or amiable--that
toleration of human weakness is possible only by lowering the standard of human
capacity and obligation--and that the preliminary condition of an accurate
knowledge of human character is distrust of ideals and repudiation of patterns.
This view is narrow, and by no means covers all the facts of history and human
life, but what relative truth it has is splendidly illustrated in Vanity
Fair. There is not a person in the book who excites the reader's respect,
and not one who fails to excite his interest. The morbid quickness of the
author's perceptions of the selfish element, even in his few amiable
characters, is a constant source of surprise. The novel not only has no hero,
but implies the non-existence of heroism. Yet the fascination of the book is
indisputable, and it is due to a variety of causes besides its mere exhibition
of the worldly side of life. Among these, the perfect intellectual honesty of
the writer, the sad or satirical sincerity with which he gives in his evidence
against human nature, is the most prominent. With all his lightness of manner,
he is essentially a witness under oath, and testifies only to what he is
confident he knows. Perhaps this quality, rare not only in novel writing, but
in all writing, would not compensate for the limitation of his perceptions and
the repulsiveness of much that he perceives, were it not for the peculiar charm
of his representation. It is here that the individuality of the man appears,
and it presents a combination of sentiments and powers more original perhaps
than the matter of his works. Take from Vanity Fair that special element
of interest which comes from Thackeray's own nature, and it would lose the
greater portion of its fascination. It is not so much what is done, as the way
in which is is done, that surprises and delights; and the manner is always
inimitable, even when the matter is common.
Edwin Percy Whipple, The Atlantic Monthly, May 1865.
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