called away, and the dear and young perish untimely. We perceive in every man's life the maimed happiness, the frequent falling, the bootless endeavour, the struggle of right and wrong, in which the strong often succumb, and the swift fail: we see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as on the most lofty and splendid fortunes, flaws of vice and meanness, and stains of evil; and, knowing how mean the best of us is, let us give a hand of charity to Arthur Pendennis, with all his faults and short-comings, who does not claim to be a hero, but only a man and a brother."

It will be seen that, in dealing with these volumes, we have followed the thread of the narrative only so far as it was subservient to our purpose of developing the ethics of the author. We could, had time and space been permitted to us, have dwelt with pleasure on the close and truthful delineation of character displayed in various actors in the drama whom we have been compelled to pass by with a cursory notice. Especially characteristic is his sketch of the Irish major; and those who have had opportunities of studying the varieties of the witty and versatile nation to which he belongs will recognise the fidelity, both as regards the manners and the brogue, of the representation. We know that Mr. Thackeray, by a previous illustration of Irish peculiarities, has drawn on himself a storm of vituperation from the other side of the channel: his assailants, not reflecting that there are vulgar and vaunting persons in all countries and communities, and forgetting or ignoring the fact that he has placed side by side with his Hibernian heroes Englishmen equally vulgar and boastful, and to the full as absurd. It is impossible for a reader of candid mind not to recognise in "The History of Pendennis" the work of a scholar and a gentleman. Indeed, to the faithful portraiture (such as we find in this story)-of the latter, it is essential that the writer have all the elements of one in his heart in his heart we say, because the manners are the mere outward habiliments of a gentleman which may be and constantly are put on by many a clever and accomplished scoundrel. Mr. Thackeray has been pre-eminently successful in his graphic illustrations of "Pendennis," which are a decided improvement upon those of "Vanity Fair." The picture of the "Curate come to grief," that is transferred from his saddle to a bank by the road side, is an especial instance of his success. We shall take the first opportunity of introducing to the notice of our readers the long since announced novel which we hear is already in the press, and which we are told will be followed, if it be not preceded, by an illustrated collection of his "Lectures," delivered some time since at the Hanover Square

Rooms. And here we close our notice of Mr. Thackeray's last important work, not hoping to add anything to his repute, but rejoicing to record our admiration of that intense power and purity of thought, truthfulness, and force of feeling, which, in our humble judgment, lift him immeasurably above the level of his competitors in the fight for fame.

Notices of Books.

The Court and the Desert; or, Priests, Pastors, and Philosophers, in the Days of Louis XV. Three Vols. London: 1852.

THE Contents of these volumes faithfully answer to their title, and the work altogether is a history of the strongest contrasts and of the most opposite characters. The Jesuit confessors of the king figure in it, together with the chief infidel writers of the "French Encyclopædia," and the undaunted and bitterly persecuted French Protestant pastors. Of the wrongs done to these last far less is said than the real facts of the case would have justified; but amply sufficient, nevertheless, to harrow the feelings of the reader, and to prove the fiend-like conduct of their Papal oppressors.

In such a court as that of Louis XV., where venality and baseness and immorality were supreme, every allusion to it necessarily brings some base character under notice, or points to some court intrigue baffled; but, as they are allusions rather than details, the most fastidious reader will find nothing within the volumes that he can in the least object to; nor any circumstances brought prominently forward that he might have desired should be concealed. The volumes are, in a great measure, a series of pictures of descriptive paintings, many which those who have been much in France will readily recognise; and the visitor to Versailles will find himself quite at home in the subjoined description of a scene that was enacted in the chapel there :

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"On the following day, Sunday, there was a great crowd in the chapel. The events of the week, the debut of a preacher, the general expectation of a pointed sermon, all contributed to people Versailles. Paris and the chateau had sent their contingent of courtiers to fill up the complement. The King had had at his levee all who could appear in his chamber. They had found him looking even more ennuye than usual; it was evident that this shoal of visitors displeased him : the

levee was short. All whose offices did not detain them near the King's person hastened at once to the chapel.

"The ladies mustered in great numbers-news and comments circulated, as usual, with a marvellous rapidity. The Queen, her two daughters, and the dauphiness, had just left for Paris: they were gone to perform their devotions in the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Although it was not the first time, no one failed to attribute this departure to the passing circumstances, and probably they were right.

"The Dauphin had been for several days at Sens, but it was in vain that the Dauphin went to Sens and the Queen to Paris. Louis XV. was afraid of the virtues of his family: what were their whole lives if not a perpetual reproach to the disorders of his life? In vain they avoided communicating in public: it was known perfectly well that they did communicate, and that the communion was interdicted to the King: still as appearance is always something, especially in a court, Louis XV. was more at his ease when he knew them to be at a distance and never complained of their absence of two affronts, he willingly resigned himself to choose the least.

"A very ancient usage, established as a regular thing under Louis XIV., had fixed on the hour of the King's departure for mass as the time when he might be approached without previous formalities. They seem to have desired that the moment in which he was about to humiliate himself before God should be the one also in which men might be permitted to be his brothers—to see him without ceremony -to address him as a simple mortal. Besides, one great reason for it was that people were compelled to be brief; and that the King, pressed for time, might always have a pretext for being brief also.

"It was not then, in reality, an audience. The King, accompanied by the Captain of the Guard and a few gentlemen, slowly traversed one of the galleries of the château. It was necessary to stand, in his way. He never sat down to listen-often, even, he continued to walk on. The petitioner had always permission to walk by his side making his request known, only however until some other person presented himself. In this case the King stopped, and the first hastened to finish. If there were too many at a time, the King expressed by a word or gesture his regret at being unable to hear all, and the disappointed had nothing for it but to come another day.

"On Sunday there were rarely any petitioners, but the curious in great numbers lined the passage of the King. He was accustomed on that day to receive the rather awkward salutations of the good citizens who came to show the court to their spouses. This passing review amused him; it continued during his dinner, which was also public on Sunday. As he excelled in knocking off the top of an egg with one back-handed blow of his fork, he never failed to eat one at his grand couvert; and he was really almost flattered by the admiration of the cockneys at this clever trick.

"Louis XV. had reached the middle of the gallery when two arms were extended to him. Two men presented him, the one a letter, the other a sealed paper. The two men were Rabaut a Protestant pastor, and Bridaine a priest. Rabaut, on entering the chapel, found

a man who appeared to be waiting for him. He followed him into a side passage, and Bridaine lost himself in the crowd.

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"The King was seated, and the mass was about to commence. The Duke de Richelieu, behind him, still held in his hand the two memorials presented in the gallery; for the King, according to the custom, had, after having held them for a moment, resigned them to him. The duke, as first gentleman, had the right of opening all that was addressed to the King. This right, however, Richelieu did not usually exercise with great eagerness. The memorials which were unsupported by powerful recommendations waited frequently for a long time before he took the trouble to read them, and longer still before he made any report of them to the King. The King on his side troubled himself very little as to what became of the papers, or as to what those might think who presented them: these two last might have met with the usual fate had not Richelieu, on accidentally glancing at them, seen these words on one of the envelopes, To be read immediately.' His first movement was simply to discover the writer of it to be very bold and ill-bred. He thrust the letter into his pocket, and had there been a fire at hand we will not answer for its having been thrown on it. He thought better of it, however. This letter might by chance be of importance: he took it out again and read it, and a considerable degree of embarrassment became visible on his countenance. He was seen to bend over to the Duke de Gesvres, whisper a few words, and hand him the paper. The duke after having rapidly perused it, returned it, pointing to the King. It was understood that he was of opinion it should be immediately shown to him; and Richelieu, in fact, stretching his arm over the back of the King's chair, spread it open before his eyes. All this had passed within two or three minutes, and the mass was not yet commenced. The King began to read and made a sign for them to wait. A lively movement of curiosity, hardly restrained by his presence, spread in an instant to the farthest corners of the chapel-all eyes were upon the King, or only quitted him to interrogate those of the first gentleman; but Richelieu was too near the King to be able to say aloud, even in a whisper, so profound was the silence. Opposite, on the bench of bishops, was an old prelate, whose agitation his neighbours remarked, and fancied also that they had seen Richelieu make him a sign that he was interested in the affair. Still the King read on: he had rapidly arrived at the end of the letter-then he had recommenced it, but slowly. He was seen to stop at certain passages with an air of surprise and embarrassment. At last, as if he had suddenly come to a resolution, he brusquely folded up the letter, put it in his pocket, and made a sign for them to commence.

"During mass he was seen to be sometimes collected-sometimes absent and agitated. Towards the close he seemed more calm; but Richelieu, during a voluntary, had spoken to the Duke de Gesvres, and a few words of their conversation circulated already from the bench: there was no longer any doubt-it had something to do with the sermon. In fact, the mass concluded, the King rose. In the twinkling of an eye every one was standing, and he left as he had entered

between his first gentlemen and the captain of his guards. At the movement which followed his departure, a man, until then quietly seated in the sacristy, might have been seen to rise hastily, run to the door, but without opening it listen-listen again, in the most violent agitation that man was the Abbè de Narniers."

We give an extract from another scene of treachery and remorseless bigotry and cruelty :

"It was near midnight, and Rabaut was to depart at daybreak. The two friends retired: the pastor mounted to his little chamber. This chamber on the first story had but one window, overlooking the garden. It was, besides, pretty well provided with all the means of evasion that the place would admit of: at the window a rope ladder was always kept coiled up behind the inner shutter. In a closet a secret door led down to the cellar and up to a loft, thus giving a choice in case of surprise from either above or below. Behind the bed, lastly, in the event of the house being at once broken into and surrounded, was a last refuge. It consisted in a low and narrow hiding-place, the entrance to which, on a level with the floor of the chamber, was skilfully concealed in one of the panels of the wainscoting. There, lying down in the wall, breathing through a little crevice, the refugee might still defy for one day or even two the strictest researches of the enemy.

"Rabaut occupied himself in noting down his morrow's work and plans before retiring to his bed. He had a number of people to seemuch business to regulate; and, as he was anxious to return as soon as possible to Toulouse, he was making his arrangements so as neither to lose a step nor a moment. It was cold: that solitary house-that uninhabited chamber-the mournful silence of the night, all conspired to add to the cold that seizes on the limbs-that other cold that freezes the heart. Rabaut had finished his task; but he did not rise from his chair. He experienced that vague sensation of uneasiness that keeps you down, and glues you to your place, as if you were afraid of the noise you might make in moving. He listened, motion-less, to the sighing wind, the rustling of the dry leaves that whirled about in the garden, and lastly, to the old clock in the room beneath him, the regular ticking of which contrasted mournfully with the wilder noises without. For several minutes that he heard something that was neither the noise of the wind nor that of the leaves. noise, that came from the garden, had continued once between two violent gusts of wind; but then it had ceased suddenly, as if it had perceived that it was likely to betray itself, and that it must wait for a fresh burst of the gale. The clock struck twelve, and immediately, as if at an expected signal, the noise seemed to give up all idea of concealment. There was no longer any doubt: there were footstepsvoices. Rabaut runs to the window-he peeps cautiously through a tiny hole drilled in the shutter-but he perceives nothing. The night is very dark-he can scarcely discern the tops of some trees whose bare branches stand out against the murky sky; but the voices and footsteps are approaching. At the same instant the door

This