VANITY FAIR.

TEN completion of Mr. Thackeray's novel of Vanity Fair enables us to take a more entire view of the production, and to form a more complete judgment of it as a work of art, than was possible in the course of piece- meal publication in monthly numbers. Our impression from that review is, that the novel is distinguished by the more remarkable qualities which have created the reputation of the author,—his keen perception of the weaknesses, vanities, and humbug of society, the felicitous point with which he displays or the pungent though goodnatared satire with which he exposes them, and the easy, close, and pregnant diction in which he clothes his perceptions; though, possibly, happier specimens of his pecu- liar excellencies may be found in some of his other works. jpit ii• displays a depth and at times a pathos which we do not remem er have met with in Mr. Thackeray's previous writings; but, considered as a whole, it is rather a succession of connected scenes and characters than a well-constructed story. Both incidents and persons belong more to the sketch than the finished picture. Either from natural bias or long habits of composition, Mr. Thackeray seems to have looked at life by bits rather than as a whole. A half-length here, a whole-length there, a group in another place, a character or a clique with single actions or in- cidents belonging to them, have been studied, and transferred to paper with a humour, truth, and spirit, that have rarely been equalled. But some- thing more than this is needed for a finished picture of human life. Such things, indeed, are scarcely its entire elements, for they are little more than parts; and so remain till very many such have been compared by the artist—their general laws evolved by this comparison, and the whole animated and fused by the imagination, so as to present the type of a class without loss of individuality. Mr. Thackeray has rarely accom- plished this in Vanity Fair. There is, indeed, plenty of individuality ; the work is full of it. However exceptional, outre, distasteful, or even farcical the characters may be, they have strong particular traits, well supported in the main, and their delineation is always capital : but this peculiarity attaches to the principal characters—that no useful deduction, no available rule of life, can be drawn from their conduct; except in that of the elder Osborne, who points the moral of sordid vanity and a grovelling love of distinction, and points it with effect, as his vices are made the means of his punishment.

It may be said that this largeness is of no consequence, if there be particular or even exceptional nature : which is true as regards sketches, that exhibit a character on one or two occasions and then drop it. Such sketches of passing phases of society do not, however, suffice to form the materials of a fiction : it requires a whole career—the be- fore and after as well as the present. When the characters have no types in nature, or have that obvious weakness or low vice about them that their example conduces to nothing, they tire in a lengthened exhibi- tion, because we have little sympathy with them. Vanity Fair is said by its author to be a novel without a hero : which is undoubtedly a truth; but the heroines do not make up for this omission, since one is without a heart, and the other without a head. The author evidently has his misgivings about Amelia Osborne, (nee Sedley,) for although she is clearly a favourite, he deems it necessary occasionally to appeal to the reader in favour of her weakness. But there is rarely weakness without vice; and though the extreme attachment of Amelia to a selfish, worthless, neglectful young man, may be forgiven as so natural, yet the manner in which she yields to it, and nurses her sentiment to the neglect of her duties, as well as her subsequent shilly-shally conduct to her ob- sequious admirer Major Dobbin, is rather mawkish than interesting.

Rebecca Crawley (formerly Sharpe) is the principal person of the book, with whom nearly all the others are more or less connected : and a very wonderfully-drawn picture she is, as a woman scheming for self-advance- ment, without either heart or principle, yet with a constitutional vivacity and a readiness to please, that save her from the contempt or disgust she deserves. As a creation or character, we know not where Rebecca can be matched in prose fiction : but she is too deficient in morale to excite interest. The want of entirety we have spoken of is visible in Rebecca's finale. The discredit of a separation from her husband, when not followed by public proceedings, might be surmounted ; but a demirep who gambles, consorts with blacklegs and all kinds of disreputables, and raises the wind by advertising concerts that she never gives after getting the money for the tickets, could hardly have regained a place in reputable society, although backed by religious hypocrisy. This conclusion, which was quite needless, is not only wrong as wanting in poetical justice, but untrue as a picture of society even in "Vanity Fair.'

A similar want of attractive sympathy runs through the male cha- racters either from grossness, weakness, sordidness, or vice. It may be urged that these defects of Vanity Fair are owing to its periodi- cal publication. That has probably induced an occasional but strong sacrifice of consistency in the characters' to produce an immediate effect; and the same necessity of making parts tell may have given rise to some exaggerations that would otherwise have been avoided. There are also obvious drawbacks to continuous perusal, such as direct addresses to the reader, and a little of writing for the million, which would have been omitted in another mode of publication. But we think all the pecu- liarities arising from the mode of publication could be got rid of by re- vision : the defects we speak of lie deeper, and are owing, we think, to a want of imagination and large comprehension of life. But if, putting Vanity Fair aside as a fiction of high art, we look' at it as a series of bits from life, it is entitled to the first rank as a set of sketches lifelike and natural. Sir Pitt Crawley—the selfish, low- minded baronet, the coarsest of the coarse old school, who cannot spell, and who living meanly, acting harshly and cruelly, and exercising great shrewdness in money matters, is notwithstanding always a loser—is s capital portrait; and, though exceptional even in his day, (which was the early part of the century,) still might be found in life. His brother, the jovial, fox-hunting, port-drinking rector, is equal to him as a real piece of flesh and blood. The Marquis of Steyne—the roué whom everybody censures, (except the serious,) but all visit when they get an invitation—revives some reminiscences of a similar personage in Coningsby : though Thackeray penetrates the pomps and strips off the conventions that rather imposed upon Disraeli. There are numerous other characters, which, if not quite so powerfully painted as these, are quite as truthful individually ; but, always excepting Rebecca, the most large and vigorous delineation in the book is old Mr. Osborne. He is a type of a class ; he points a moral ; and, though sordid, selfish, sullen, half- savage, and meanly subservient to greatness, he obtains a hold on the reader by the force of his will, at least till he turns to a sort of goodness. towards the conclusion.

These characters are frequently engaged in scenes that create amuse- ment or exhibit society ; and the sketches are intermingled with live- ly descriptions or shrewd remarks on life. Read as a series of sketches connected with persona whose fortunes serve to introduce them, Vanity Fair will furnish a lively and agreeable entertainment. Read as a con- tinuous story, it will perhaps be felt to lack the interest which a story re- quires, except in the scenes connected with Rawdon Crawley's arrest, release, and subsequent discovery of his wife's liaison with the Marquis of Steyne.

THE RECTOR'S EVENING DISCOURSE.

"Why did you ask that scoundrel Petty Crawley [his nephew] to dine?" said the Rector to his lady, as they were walking home through the park. "I don't want the fellow. He looks down upon us country people as so many Blackamoors. He's never content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine which costa me ten shillings a bottle, hang him! Besides, he's such an infernal character—he's a. gambler—he's a drunkard—he's a profligate in every way. He's killed a man in a duel—he's over head and ears in debt., and he's robbed me and mine of the best part of [his sister] Miss Crawley's fortune. Waxy says she has him "—here the Rector shook his list at the moon, with something very like an oath, and added, in a melancholions tone, "—, down in her will for fifty thousand; and there won't be above thirty to divide." "I think she's going," said the Rector's wife. "She was very red in the Ws when we left dinner. I was obliged to unlace her." "She drank seven glasses of champagne," said the reverend gentleman, in a. low voice; "and filthy champagne it is too, that my brother poisons us with— but you women never know what's what."

"We know nothing," said Mrs. Bute Crawley.

"She drank cherry-brandy after dinner," continued his Reverence, "and took macaw with her coffee. I wouldn't take a glass for a five-pound note: it kills me with heartburn. She can't stand it, Mrs. Crawley—she must go—flesh and blood won't bear it! and I lay five to two, Matilda drops in a year."

Indulging in these solemn speculations, and thinking about his debts, and his son Jim at College, and Frank at Woolwich, and the four girls, who were no

beauties, poor things, and would not have a penny what they got from Ova

aunt's expected legacy, the Rector and his lady on for a while.

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

"Pitt will promise anything," replied the brother. "Re promised he'd pay my college bills, when my father died: he promised he'd build the new wing to the Rectory: he promised he'd let me have Jibb's field and the Six-acre Meadow —and much he executed his promises! And it's to this man's son—this scoundrel, gambler, swindler, murderer of a Bowdon Crawley, that Matilda leaves the bulk of her money. I my 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, Ma'am, bully me. Didn't he shoot Captain Firebrace? Didn't he rob young Lord Dovedale at the' Cocoa- 'Rise'? Didn't he cross the fight between Bill Soamea and the Cheshire Tramp, by -which I lost forty pound? You know he did! And as for the women, why, you heard that before me, in my own magistrate's room—"

"For Heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley," said the lady,." spare me the details." “ And you ask this villain into your house!" continued the exasperated Rector. "You, the mother of a young family—the wife of a clergyman of the Church of England. By Jove!"

THE SPUNGING-HOUSE.

Friend Bowdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansion in Cursitor Street, and was duly inducted into that dismal place of hospitality. Morning was breaking over the cheerful house- tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling cab woke up the echoes there, and a little pink-eyed Jew boy, with a bead as ruddy as the rising mom, let the party into the house; and Rawdon was welcomed to the ground-floor 4plutments by Mr. Moss, his travelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he would like a glass of something warm after his drive.

The Colonel was not so depressed as some mortals would be, who, quitting a palace and a placens uxor, find themselves barred into a spunging-house; for if **truth must be told, be had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's establishment once or twice before. We have not thought it necessary in the previous course of this narrative to mention these trivial little domestic incidents; but the reader may he assured that they can't unfrequently occur in the life of a man who lives on nothing a year.

Upon his first visit to Mr. Mose, the Colonel, then a bachelor, had been liber- ated by the generosity of his aunt; on the second mishap, little Becky, with the greatest spirit and kindness had borrowed a sum of money from Lord Southdown, and had coaxed her husband's creditor (who was her shawl, velvet gown, lase pocket-handkerchief, trinket, and gimcrack purveyor, indeed) to take a portion of the sum claimed, and Rawdon's promissory note for the remainder: so on both these occasions the capture and release had been conducted with the utmost gal- lantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel were therefore on the very best of terms.

"You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything comfortable," that gentle- man said, "as I may. honestly say. You may be pretty sure its kep aired, and by the best of company too. It was slep in the night afore last by the Honour- able Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth Dragoons; whose mar took him out after a fortnight, jest to punish him, she said. But, Law bless you, I promise you, he punished my champagne, and beds party ere every night—reglar tip-top swells, down from the clubs and the West End--Capting Ragg, the Honourable Denceace, who lives in the Temple, and some fellers as knows a good glass of wine I war- rant you. I've got a Doctor of Diwinity up stains, five gents in the coffeeroom; and Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-boty at half-past five, and a little cards or music afterwards, when we shall be most happy to see you."

THE CATASTROPHE.

Bowdon walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at• night. He ran across the streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breath- less opposite his own house. He started back, and fell against the railings, trembling, as he looked up: The drawingroom-windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the light from the rooms on his pale face. "He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could hear laugh- term the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in whioh he had been captured the night before. He went silently up the stairs, leaning against the bannisters at the stair-head. Nobody was stirrmg in the house besides.' all the servants had been sent away. Bowdon heard laughter within—laughter and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before: a hoarse voice shouted "Brava brava! "—it was Lord Steyne's.

Bowdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was laid out, and wine, and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sate. The wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her lingers sparkling with bracelets and rings, and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, aa if to welcome her hus- band; and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks. -He too attempted a laugh—and came forward holding out his hand. "What, comeback! How d'ye do, Crawley ? " he said, the nerves of his mouth twitch- ing as he tried to grin at the intruder. There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before God, I am innocent!" She laid hold of his coat, of his hands—her own were all covered with serpents and rings and baubles. "Iam innocent ! Say lam innocent!" she esid to Lord Steyne. He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the wife as with the husband. You innocent! Damn you!" he screamed out. "You in- nocent Why, every trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds, which this fellow has spent, and for which he has sold yoe. Innocent, by -- I You're as innocent as your mother the ballet- girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think to frighten mess you have done others. Make way, Sir, and let me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would give way. But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his arm. "You lie, you dog !" said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward and villain!" And he struck the Peer twice over the face with his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She admired her husband ; strong, brave, and victorious.

`" Come here," he said. She came up at once. "Take off those things." She began, trembling, pulling the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them all in a heap, quiv- ering and looking up at him. "Throw them down," he said; and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day. "Coins up stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill me Rawdon ! " she said. He laughed savagely. "I want to see if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he given you any ? " "No," said Rebecca, "that is—" "Give me your keys," Rawdon answered; and they went oat together. Rebecca gave him all the keys but one: and she was in hopes that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk. The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old—all sorts of small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with

bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, too; and one was guitars fresh one—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her. "Did he give you this?" Rawdon said.

"Yes," Rebecca answered.

"I'll send it to him today," Rawdon said (for day had dawned again, and many hours had passed in this search); "and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this; I have always shared with you."

"I run innocent!" said Becky. And he left her without another word.

A BRUSSELS BOARDING-HOUSE.

At Brussels Becky arrived, recommended by Madame de Saint Amour to her friend, Madame la Comtesse de Borodino, widow of Napoleon's General, the fa- mous Count de Borodino, who was left with no resource by the deceased hero but that of a table-cfh6te and an ecart6 table. Second-rate dandies and roués, widow- ladies who always have a lawsuit, and very simple English folks, who fancy they see "Continental society" at these houses, put down their money, or ate their meals, at Madame de Borodino's tables. At the table-cl'h6te the gallant young fellows treated the company round to champagne, rode out with the women, or hired horses on country excursions, clubbed money to take boxes at the play or the opera, betted over the fair shoulders of the ladies at the &arta tables, and wrote home to their parents, in Devonshire, about their felicitous introduction to foreign society.

Here, as at Paris, Becky was a boarding-house queen; and ruled in select pen- sions. She never refused the champagne, or thelionquets, or the drives into the country, or the private boxes; but what she preferred was the ecarte at night,— and she played audaciously. First she played only for a little, then for five-franc pieces, then for Napoleons, then for notes: then she would not be able to pay her month's pension: then she borrowed from the young gentlemen: then she got into cash again, and bullied Madame de Borodino, whom she had coaxed and wheedled before: then she was playing for ten sons at a time, and in a dire state of poverty: then her quarter's allowance would come in, and she would pay off Madame de Borodino's score; and would once more take the cards against Mon- sieur de Rossignol, or the Chevalier de Raff.

When Becky left Brussels, the sad truth is that she owed three months' pen- sion to Madame de Borodino; of which fact, and of the gambling, and of the drink- ing, and of the going down on her knees to the Reverend Mr. Muff, Ministre An- glican, and borrowing money of him, and of her coaxing and flirting with Milor Noodle, son of Sir Noodle, pupil of the Reverend Mr. Muff, whom she used to take into her private room, and of whom she won large sums at ecarte—of which fact, I say, and of a hundred of her other knaveries the Countess de Borodino informs every English person who stops at her establishment, and announces that Madame Rawdon was no better than a. vmere.

ENGLISH CONTINENTAL COLONIES.

There is no town of any mark in Europe but it has its little colony of English raffs—men whose names Mr. Hemp the officer reads out periodically at the he- riffs' Court—young gentlemen of very good family often, only that the latter dis- owns them; frequenters of billiard-rooms and estaminets, patrons of foreign races and gaming-tables. They people the debtors' prisons; they drink and swagger; they fight and brawl; they run away without paying; they have duels with French and German officers; they cheat Mr. Spooney at ecarte; they get the money, and drive off to Baden in magnificent britzkas; they try their infallible martingale, and lurk about the tables with empty pockets, shabby bullies, penni- less books, until they can swindle a Jew banker with a sham bill of exchange or find another Mr. Spooney to rob. The alternations of splendour and misery which these people undergo are very queer to view. Their life must be one of great ex- citement. Becky (must it be owned?) took to this life, and took to it not un- kindly. She went about from town to town among these Bohemians. The lucky Mrs. Rawdon was known at every play-table in Germany. She and Madame de Crachecassic kept house at Florence together. It is said she was ordered out of Munich; and my friend Mr. Frederic Pigeon avers that it was at her house at Lausanne that he was hocussed at supper, and lost eight hundred pounds to Major Loder and the Honourable Mr. Denceace. We are bound, you see, to give some account of Becky's biography; but of this part, the less, perhaps, that is said the better.

As is usual with works of fiction published periodically, Vanity Fair is profusely illustrated with wood-cuts and etchings representing the per- sons and incidents of the text, by Mr. Thackeray himself. If only of passable or average merit, they would -be creditable, as arguing the pos. session of a double art ; but they strike us as exhibiting powers akin to the literary abilities of the author, besides possessing this further quality : the spirit of the scene and the character—the idiosyncracy of the persons —is more thoroughly entered into and presented to the reader than is common with professional artists.