ABSTRACT
That the men of our day should think slightingly of their contemporaries in comparison with the writers of former times, is no more than natural, and we are prepared for uplifted eyebrows when we gravely assert that England has at no time produced a writer of fiction with whom Thackeray may not stand in honourable comparison. Others have surpassed him in particular qualities, but taking the sum total of his powers, as the only fair means of comparison, we are prepared to maintain our position. But will he live as they have lived? That is another question, and one which no amount of present popularity can affect; for popularity, as Victor Hugo admirably says, is the vulgarization of fame-
He has the two great qualities which embalm a reputation-truth and style. But he is to be separated from the great writers of other days
by one peculiarity of our own, and one that endangers the durability of his renown-we mean a want of respect for his art, a want of respect for his public. In the care with which former writers, however, pressed by poverty, planned and executed their works, we see something wholly different from that nonchalance and easy confidence in his own powers, which makes Thackeray (nor is he alone in this) sacrifice the artist to the improvisators. How greatly his writings suffer from this it is impossible to calculate; our marvel is that they are so remarkable in spite of it. To gossip with the reader, to wander from the path into pleasant digressions and sketches of society, is a facile method of discharging his monthly task; and with knowledge so abundant and a style so graceful and winning, the success is great enough to foster the temptation. But that which is written for the hour is apt to perish with the hour; and he is capable of enduring works.
