Chapter XVII

Thackeray--His Acerbity--The Baronet--The Parson--Medical
Ladies--Glorvina--"A Serious Paradise."

Thackeray resembled Lamb in the all-pervading character of his humour. He adorned with it almost everything he touched, but did not enter into it heart and soul, like a man of really joyous mirth-loving disposition. His pages teem with sly hits and insinuations, but he never developes a comic scene, and we can scarcely find a single really laughable episode in the whole course of his works. So little did he grasp or finish such pictures that we rarely select a passage from Thackeray for recitation. He thought more of plot and stratagem than of humour, and used the latter, not for its own sake, but mostly to give brilliance to his narrative, to make his figures prominent, and his remarks salient. He thus silvers unpalatable truths, and although he disowns being a moralist, we generally see some substratum of earnestness peeping through the eddies of his fancy. With him, humour is subservient. And he speaks from his inner self, when he exclaims, "Oh, brother wearers of motley! Are there not moments when one grows sick of grinning and tumbling, and the jingling of the cap and bells."

We may say that much of Thackeray's humour is more inclined to produce a grin than a smile--merely to cause a grimace, owing to the bitterness from which it springs. It must be remembered, however, that the greater part of modern wit consists of sarcastic criticism, though it is not generally severe.

In Thackeray we do not find any of that consciousness of the imbecility of man, which made some French writers call the humour of Democritus "melancholy." The "Vanity" of which he speaks is not that universal emptiness alluded to by the surfeited author of Ecclesiastes, nor has it even the ordinary signification of personal conceit. No; he implies something more culpable, such immorality as covetousness, deception, vindictiveness, and hypocrisy. He approaches the Roman Satirists in the relentless hand with which he exposes vice. Some of his characters are monstrous, and almost grotesque in selfishness, as that of Becky Sharp, to whom he does not allow one good quality. Cunning and unworthy motives add considerably to the zest of his humour. He says--

"This history has Vanity Fair for a title, and Vanity Fair is a
very vain foolish place, full of all sorts of humbugs and falseness
and pretentions. One is bound to speak the truth, as one knows it,
whether one mounts a cap and bells, or a shovel hat; and a deal of
disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an
undertaking."

Here is his description of a baronet, Sir Pitt Crawley;--

"The door was opened by a man in dark breeches and gaiters with a
dirty coat, a foul old neck cloth lashed round his bristly neck, a
shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling grey
eyes, and a mouth perpetually on the grin.

"'This Sir John Pitt Crawley's?' says John, from the box.

"'Ees,' says the man at the door, with a nod.

"'Hand down these ere trunks then,' said John.

"'Hand 'n down yourself,' said the porter.

"'Don't you see I can't leave my horses? Come bear a hand, my fine
feller, and Miss will give you some beer,' said John, with a hoarse
laugh.

"The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches pockets,
advanced on this summons, and throwing Miss Sharp's trunk over his
shoulder, carried it into the house.

"On entering the dining room by the orders of the individual in
gaiters, Rebecca found that apartment not more cheerful than such
rooms usually are when genteel families are out of town.... Two
kitchen chairs and a round table and an attenuated old poker and
tongs were however gathered round the fire place, as was a saucepan
over a feeble sputtering fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread,
and a tin candlestick on the table, and a little black porter in a
pint pot.

"'Had your dinner, I suppose? It is too warm for you? Like a drop
of beer?'

"'Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?' said Miss Sharp majestically.

"'He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Reclect you owe me a pint for
bringing down your luggage. He, he! Ask Tinker if I ayn't. Mrs.
Tinker, Miss Sharp, Miss Governess, Mrs. Charwoman, ho ho!'

"The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker, at this moment made her
appearance with a pipe and paper of tobacco, for which she had been
dispatched a minute before Miss Sharp's arrival; and she handed the
articles over to Sir Pitt, who had taken his seat by the fire.

"'Where's the farden?' says he, 'I gave you three halfpence.
Where's the change, old Tinker?'

"'There,' replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin, 'it's only
baronets as cares about farthings.'

"'A farthing a day is seven shillings a year,' answered the M.P.,
'seven shillings a year is the interest of seven guineas. Take care
of your farthings, old Tinker, and your guineas will come quite
nat'ral.' ...

"And so with injunctions to Miss Sharp to be ready at five in the
morning, he bade her good night, 'You'll sleep with Tinker
to-night,' he said, 'it's a big bed, and there's room for two. Lady
Crawley died in it. Good night.'"

He sums up Sir Pitt's character by saying. "He never had a taste, emotion or enjoyment, but what was sordid and foul."

Sir Pitt's brother, the Rector of the parish, is represented as being almost as abominable as himself, though in a different way--

"The Reverend Bute Crawley was a tall, stately, shovel-hatted man,
far more popular in the county than the Baronet. At College he
pulled stroke oar in the Christchurch boat, and had thrashed all
the best bruisers of the 'town.' He carried his taste for boxing
and athletic exercises into private life, there was not a fight
within twenty miles at which he was not present, nor a race, nor a
coursing match, nor a regatta, nor a ball, nor an election, nor a
visitation dinner, nor indeed a good dinner in the whole county,
but he found means to attend it. He had a fine voice, sung 'A
Southerly Wind and a Cloudy Sky,' and gave the 'whoop' in chorus
with general applause. He rode to hounds in a pepper and salt
frock, and was one of the best fishermen in the county."

The following is a sample of the conversation he holds with his wife, who, we are told "wrote this worthy Divine's sermons"--

"'Pitt can't be such an infernal villain as to sell the reversion
of the living, and that Methodist milksop of an eldest son looks to
Parliament,' continued Mr. Crawley, after a pause.

"'Sir Pitt will do anything,' said the Rector's wife, 'we must get
Miss Crawley to make him promise it, James.'

"'Pitt will promise anything,' replied the brother, 'he promised
he'd pay my college bills, when my father died; he promised he'd
build the new wing to the Rectory. And it is to this man's
son--this scoundrel, gambler, swindler, murderer, of a Rawdon
Crawley, that Matilda leaves the bulk of her money. I say it's
unchristian. By Jove it is. The infamous dog has got every vice
except hypocrisy, and that belongs to his brother."

"'Hush, my dearest love! we're in Sir Pitt's grounds,' interposed
his wife.

"'I say he has got every vice, Mrs. Crawley. Don't bully me. Didn't
he shoot Captain Marker? Didn't he rob young Lord Dovedale at the
Cocoa Tree? Didn't he cross the fight between Bill Soames and the
Cheshire Trump by which I lost forty pound? You know he did; and as
for women, why you heard that before me, in my own magistrates
room--'

"'For heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley,' said the lady, 'spare me the
details.'"

It was in a great measure to this severe sarcasm that Thackeray owed his popularity. He justly observes:--

"My rascals are no milk-and-water rascals, I promise you ... such
people there are living in the world, faithless, hopeless,
charityless; let us have at them, dear friends, with might and
main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks and
fools; and it was to combat and expose such as those no doubt, that
laughter was made."

But he does not always seem to attribute merriment to this humble and unpleasant origin; he produces some passages really meant for enjoyment, and doing justice to his gift, attacks frivolities and failings, which are not of an important kind. Thus, he speaks in a jocund strain of the vanity of "fashionable fiddle-daddle and feeble court slip-slop," and exclaims, "Ah, ladies! Ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding brass, and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal!"

He tells us that "The affection of young ladies is of as rapid a growth as Jack's beanstalk, and reaches up to the sky in a night," and in the following passage he exhibits the conduct of an amiable and estimable girl, when under this fascinating spell--

"Were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborn to be published, we
should have to extend this novel to such a multiplicity of volumes,
as not the most sentimental reader could support; she not only
filled large sheets of paper, but crossed them with the most
astonishing perverseness, she wrote whole pages out of poetry books
without the least pity, the underlined words and passages with
quite a frantic emphasis; and in fine gave the usual tokens of her
condition. Her letters were full of repetition, she wrote rather
doubtful grammar sometimes, and in her verses took all sorts of
liberties with the metre."

Speaking of a very religious and medical lady--

"Pitt had been made to accept Saunders McNitre, Luke Waters, Giles
Jowles, Podger's Pills, Rodger's Pills, Pokey's Elixir--every one
of her ladyship's remedies, spiritual and temporal. He never left
her house without carrying respectfully away with him piles of her
quack theology and medicine. O, my dear brethren and
fellow-sojourners in Vanity Fair, which among you does not know and
suffer under such benevolent despots? It is in vain you say to
them, 'Dear madam, I took Podger's specific at your orders last
year, and believe in it. Why am I to recant, and accept the
Rodger's articles now?' There is no help for it; the faithful
proselytizer, if she cannot convince by argument, bursts into
tears, and the recusant finds himself taking down the bolus, and
saying 'Well, well, Rodger's be it.'"

A still more alarming attack is thus represented:--

"Glorvina had flirted with all the marriageable officers, whom the
depôts of her country afforded, and all the bachelor squires who
seemed eligible. She had been engaged to be married a half-score of
times in Ireland, besides the clergyman at Bath, who had used her
so ill. She had flirted all the way to Madras with the captain and
chief-mate of the Ramchunder East Indiaman, and had a season at the
Presidency. Everybody admired her; everybody danced with her; but
no one proposed that was worth marrying.... Undismayed by forty or
fifty previous defeats, Glorvina laid siege to Major Dobbin. She
sang Irish melodies at him unceasingly. She asked him so frequently
and so pathetically 'Will you come to the bower,' that it is a
wonder how any man of feeling could have resisted the invitation.
She was never tired of inquiring if 'Sorrow had his young days
faded,' and was ready to listen and weep like Desdemona at the
stories of his dangers and campaigns. She was constantly writing
notes over to him at his house, borrowing his books, and scoring
with her great pencil marks such passages of sentiment or humour,
as awakened her sympathy. No wonder that public rumour assigned her
to him."

In the following, Thackeray is more severe--

"His wife never cared about being called Lady Newcome. To manage
the great house of Hobson brothers and Newcome, to attend to the
interests of the enslaved negro: to awaken the benighted Hottentot
to a sense of the truth; to convert Jews, Turks, Infidels, and
Papists; to arouse the indifferent and often blasphemous mariner;
to guide the washerwoman in the right way; to head all the public
charities of her sect, and do a thousand secret kindnesses that
none knew of; to answer myriads of letters, pension, endless
ministers, and supply their teeming wives with continuous
baby-linen, to hear preachers daily bawling for hours, and listen
untired on her knees, after a long day's labour, while florid
rhapsodists belaboured cushions above her with wearisome
benedictions; all these things had this woman to do, and for nearly
fourscore years she fought her fight womanfully."

This pious lady's residence was a "serious Paradise;"

"As you entered at the gate gravity fell on you; and decorum
wrapped you in a garment of starch. The butcher boy who galloped
his horse and cart madly about the adjoining lanes and commons,
whistled wild melodies (caught up in abominable play-house
galleries) and joked with a hundred cook-maids,--on passing that
lodge fell into an undertaker's pace, and delivered his joints and
sweetbreads silently at the servant's entrance. The rooks in the
elms cawed sermons at morning and evening: the peacocks walked
demurely on the terraces; and the guinea-fowls looked more
quaker-like than those savoury birds usually do. The lodge-keeper
was serious, and a clerk at a neighbouring chapel. The pastors who
entered at that gate, and greeted his comely wife and children, fed
the little lambkins with tracts. The head-gardener was a Scotch
Calvinist, after the strictest order, only occupying himself with
the melons and pines provisionally, and until the end of the world,
which event, he could prove by infallible calculations was to come
off in two or three years at farthest."

In one place, a collision is represented between the old and young schools of criticism:

"The Colonel heard opinions that amazed and bewildered him; he
heard that Byron was no great poet, though a very clever man; he
heard that there had been a wicked persecution against Mr. Pope's
memory and fame, and that it was time to reinstate him; that his
favourite, Dr. Johnson, talked admirably, but did not write
English; that young Keats was a genius to be estimated in future
days with young Raphael; and that a young gentleman of Cambridge,
who had lately published two volumes of verses, might take rank
with the greatest poets of all. Dr. Johnson not write English! Lord
Byron not one of the greatest poets of the world! Sir Walter a poet
of the second order! Mr. Pope attacked for inferiority and want of
imagination; Mr. Keats, and this young Mr. Tennyson of Cambridge,
the chiefs of modern poetic literature? What were these new dicta
which Mr. Warrington delivered with a puff of tobacco smoke, to
which Mr. Honeyman blandly assented, and Clive listened with
pleasure?... With Newcome, the admiration for the literature of the
last century was an article of belief, and the incredulity of the
young men seemed rank blasphemy. 'You will be sneering at
Shakespeare next,' he said, and was silenced, though not better
pleased, when his youthful guests told him that Dr. Goldsmith
sneered at him too; that Dr. Johnson did not understand him, and
that Congreve in his own day, and afterwards, was considered to be,
in some points, Shakespeare's superior."

In the next he relapses into his stronger sarcasm--

"There are no better satires than letters. Take a bundle of your
dear friends' letters of ten years back--your dear friend, whom you
hate now. Look at a file of your sister's! how you clung to each
other until you quarrelled about the twenty pound legacy.... Vows,
love promises, confidence, gratitude! how queerly they read after a
while.... The best ink for Vanity Fair use would be one that faded
utterly in a couple of days, and left the paper clean and blank, so
that you might write on it to somebody else."

Again:--

"Many persons who let lodgings in Brighton have been servants
themselves, are retired housekeepers, tradesfolk, and the like.
With these surrounding individuals Hannah, treated on a footing of
equality, bringing to her mistress accounts of their various goings
on; 'how No. 6 was let; how No. 9 had not paid his rent again; how
the first floor at 27 had game almost every day, and made-dishes
from Mutton's; how the family who had taken Mrs. Bugsby's had left,
as usual, after the very first night, the poor little infant
blistered all over with bites on its dear little face; how the Miss
Leary's were going on shameful with the two young men, actually in
their sitting-room, mum, where one of them offered Miss Laura Leary
a cigar; how Mrs. Cribb _still_ went cuttin' pounds and pounds of
meat off the lodgers' jints, emptying their tea-caddies, actually
reading their letters. Sally had been told so by Polly, the Cribb's
maid, who was kep', how that poor child was kep,' hearing language
perfectly hawful!'"

Thus in all Thackeray's descriptions there is more or less satire. He was always making pincushions, into which he was plunging his little points of sarcasm, and owing to his confining himself to this kind of humour he avoids the common danger of missing his mark. He is occasionally liberal of oaths and imprecations, and when any one of his characters is offended, he generally relieves his feelings by uttering "horrid curses." Barnes Newcome sends up "a perfect _feu d'artifice_ of oaths." But he is entirely free from indelicacy, and merely elegantly shadows forth the Eton form of punishment, as that "which none but a cherub can escape." In this respect he seems to have set before him the example of Mr. Honeyman, of whom he says he had "a thousand anecdotes, laughable riddles and droll stories (of the utmost correctness, you understand.)"

Perhaps one of his least successful attempts at humour is a collection of fables at the commencement of the Newcomes in which we have conversations between a fox, an owl, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and a donkey in a lion's skin, and such incongruities as would have shocked Aristophanes. His Christmas books depend mostly on the broad caricatures with which they are embellished, and upon a large supply of rough joking.

Thackeray wrote a work named the "English Humorists," but he omits in it all mention of the humour by which his authors were immortalized. Certainly the ordinary habits and little foibles of great men are more entertaining to the general public than inquiries into the nature of their talent, which would only interest those fond of study and investigation.