iz., green eyes. Beyond this, however,
there is no similarity either in the minds, manners, or fortunes of the
two heroines. They think and act upon diametrically opposite principles--
at least so the author of "Jane Eyre" intends us to believe--and each,
were they to meet, which we should of all things enjoy to see them do,
would cordially despise and abominate the other. Which of the two,
however, would most successfully _dupe_ the other is a different
question, and one not so easy to decide; though we have our own ideas
upon the subject.

We must discuss "Vanity Fair" first, which, much as we were entitled to
expect from its author's pen, has fairly taken us by surprise. We were
perfectly aware that Mr. Thackeray had of old assumed the jester's
habit, in order the more unrestrainedly to indulge the privilege of
speaking the truth;--we had traced his clever progress through "Fraser's
Magazine" and the ever-improving pages of "Punch"--which wonder of the
time has been infinitely obliged to him--but still we were little
prepared for the keen observation, the deep wisdom, and the consummate
art which he has interwoven in the slight texture and whimsical pattern
of "Vanity Fair." Everybody, it is to be supposed, has read the volume
by this time; and even for those who have not, it is not necessary to
describe the order of the story. It is not a novel, in the common
acceptation of the word, with a plot purposely contrived to bring about
certain scenes, and develop certain characters, but simply a history of
those average sufferings, pleasures, penalties, and rewards to which
various classes of mankind gravitate as naturally and certainly in this
world as the sparks fly upward. It is only the same game of life which
every player sooner or later makes for himself--were he to have a
hundred chances, and shuffle the cards of circumstance every time. It is
only the same busy, involved drama which may be seen at any time by any
one, who is not engrossed with the magnified minutiae of his own petty
part, but with composed curiosity looks on to the stage where his
fellow-men and women are the actors; and that not even heightened by the
conventional colouring which Madame de Stael philosophically declares
that fiction always wants in order to make up for its not being truth.
Indeed, so far from taking any advantage of this novelist's licence, Mr.
Thackeray has hardly availed himself of the natural average of
remarkable events that