home;
there it is a question of the picture-making he delights in, the large
impression of things in general, the evocation of daily life; Brussels
in its talkative suspense, waiting for the sound of the guns, feeding
on rumour, comes crowding into the chapter. And then the great
occasion that should have crowned it, into which the story naturally
and logically passes--for again the scene is not a decorative patch,
the story needs it--the Waterloo ball is nothing, leaves no image,
constitutes no effect whatever; the reader, looking back on the book,
might be quite uncertain whether he had been there or not. Nobody
could forget the sight of Lady Bareacres, sitting under the _porte
cochere_ in her horseless carriage--of good Mrs. O'Dowd, rising in the
dawn to equip her warrior for battle--of George Osborne, dead on the
field; but these are Thackeray's flashes of revelation, straight and
sure, and they are all the drama, strictly speaking, that he extorts
from his material. The rest is picture, stirringly, vivaciously
reflected in his unfailing memory--with the dramatic occasion to which
it tends, the historic affair of the "revelry by night," neglected and
lost.

There is scarcely need for more illustration of my point, but it is
tempting to look further. In all these well-remembered books
Thackeray, in an expansive mood, opens his mind and talks it out on
the subject of some big, loosely-knit company of men and women. He
remembers, as we all remember, with a strong sense of the tone and air
of an old experience, and a sharp recollection of moments that
happened for some reason to be salient, significant, peculiarly keen
or curious. Ethel Newcome, when she comes riding into the garden in
the early morning, full of the news of her wonderful discovery, the
letter shut in the old book; Blanche Amory, when she is caught out in
her faithlessness, warbling to the new swain at the piano and whipping
her handkerchief over his jewel-case as the old one enters; Madam
Esmond, on her balcony, defying the mob with "Britons, strike home";
old Sir Pitt, toasting his rasher in the company of the char-woman: I
name them at random, they are all instances of the way in which the
glance of memory falls on the particular moment, the aspect that
hardens and crystallizes an impression. Thackeray has these flashes in
profusion; they break out unforgettably as we think of his books. The
most exquisite of all, perhaps, is in Esmond, that sight of