some of the noblest
passages that Thackeray ever wrote, scenes and chapters which in form
have no superior in English literature. That sixth chapter of the
second book, in the cathedral, when Henry Esmond returns to his
mistress on the 29th of December, on his birthday. "Here she was
weeping and happy. She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears.
It was a rapture of reconciliation"--"so for a few moments Esmond's
beloved mistress came to him and blessed him." To my mind, there is
nothing in English fiction which has been set forth in language of such
exquisite purity and pathos.

_Esmond_, too, which may be said to be one prolonged parody of the
great Queen-Anne essayists, contains that most perfect of all parodies
in the English language--"The paper out of the _Spectator_"--in chapter
third of the third book. It is of course not a "parody" in the proper
sense, for it has no element of satire or burlesque, and imitates not
the foibles but the merits of the original, with an absolute illusion.
The 341st number of the _Spectator_, dated Tuesday, April 1, 1712, is
so absolutely like Dick Steele at his best, that Addison himself would
have been deceived by it. Steele hardly ever wrote anything so bright
and amusing. It is not a "parody": it is a forgery; but a forgery
which required for its execution the most consummate mastery over all
the subtleties and mysteries of style.

In parody of every kind, from the most admiring imitation down to the
most boisterous burlesque, Thackeray stands at the head of all other
imitators. The _Rejected Addresses_ of James and Horace Smith (1812)
is usually regarded as the masterpiece in this art; and Scott
good-humouredly said that he could have mistaken the death of
Higginbottom for his own verses. But Thackeray's _Novels by Eminent
Hands_ are superior even to the _Rejected Addresses_. _Codlingsby_,
the parody of Disraeli's _Coningsby_, may be taken as the most
effective parody in our language: intensely droll in itself, it
reproduces the absurdities, the affectations, the oriental imagination
of Disraeli with inimitable wit. Those ten pages of irrepressible
fooling are enough to destroy Disraeli's reputation as a serious
romancer. No doubt they have unfairly reacted so as to dim our sense
of Disraeli's real genius as a writer. When we know _Codlingsby_ by
heart, as every one with a sense of humour must do, it is impossible
for us to keep our countenance when we take