'It seems, as you say, as if change drew near England too. She is
divided by the sea from the lands where it is making thrones rock,
but earthquakes roll lower than the ocean, and we know neither the
day nor the hour when the tremor and heat, passing beneath our
island, may unsettle and dissolve its foundations. Meantime, one
thing is certain, all will in the end work together for good.
'You mention Thackeray and the last number of _Vanity Fair_. The
more I read Thackeray's works the more certain I am that he stands
alone--alone in his sagacity, alone in his truth, alone in his
feeling (his feeling, though he makes no noise about it, is about the
most genuine that ever lived on a printed page), alone in his power,
alone in his simplicity, alone in his self-control. Thackeray is a
Titan, so strong that he can afford to perform with calm the most
herculean feats; there is the charm and majesty of repose in his
greatest efforts; _he_ borrows nothing from fever, his is never the
energy of delirium--his energy is sane energy, deliberate energy,
thoughtful energy. The last number of _Vanity Fair_ proves this
peculiarly. Forcible, exciting in its force, still more impressive
than exciting, carrying on the interest of the narrative in a flow,
deep, full, resistless, it is still quiet--as quiet as reflection, as
quiet as memory; and to me there are parts of it that sound as solemn
as an oracle.
Pages:
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629