The Press.
London, England, 1855-09-01 00:00:00

he slow to discover diamonds in a dunghill
and to extol the beauty of those begrimed
jewels. Let us be content with photographs.
If we have a cast in the eye, let us not abuse
Mr. Beard for making us squint. Don't let us
keep all our humility fur Sundays and fast-
days. We are weak and erring and miserable,
we are selfish and conceited, but not altogether
bad or dishonest. We still love one or two
perhaps even better than ourselves ; neither
are we entirely unbeluved•
If this be true, Mr. Thackeray writes true
books. If it be false, and if we are all quite
good or thoroughly wicked, he knows nothing
about us, he writes silly stories, and the
sooner he throws awa) his pen the Letter.

To enter on a résumé of his present work
would require far more space than we can
afford. We will not attempt it. We will not
even allude to the chief characters the
luxurious incumbent of Lady \Vhittlesea's
chapel; the jovial Fred Bayham (we all know
who he is) ; the charming old dragon, Lady
Kew; the silly Rosa ; the genial 4.ng10 French-
man ; the noble old Colonel (the finest gentle-
man in print) ; Clive himself, or the puzzling
Ethel ; Barnes Newcome ; Miss Honeyman
(who comes out so disareeably true to nature
at the end) ;or the hateful old campaigner (that
model of a conscientious mother-in-law). Wo
will merely give a few brief extracts, and we
have done.

Dr. Johnson asks, " If Pope is not a poet,
" where is poetry to be found?" In a similar
spin; we venture to inquire, if these passages
are not full of the kindliest and truest pathos,
where shall we look for tenderness ? We
dwell on this characteristic of Mr. Thackeruy
because we have seen it written and heard it
said that that writer is as cynical as he is
clever, that he speaks sneeringly of human
nature, that his judgments are harsh and
stern, and his sympathies small. if cynicism
prompt such writing as this, blessed be the
memory of Antisthenes
MADAME DE ILORAC'S LETTER

- .
Rue St. Dominique St.
Long separated from the ,
my youth, I carried from her ,
her always a lively gratitude.
in a position very different from
I have been the mother o 1
has recovered a portion of
tion tore from us; and F
mate sovereign, received
accompanied his august
preceded his Majesty, more
panions. Believing farther
dazzled, perhaps, by the
restored order, submitted
M. de Florae, in the Ant
queror of Mai engo and Austerlitz,
his Imperial Court. This - •
infidelity, has subsequentl:
His sufferings during the
his adhesion to him who
is now an old man. He was

Moscow, as one of the chstni

drawn from the world he gil
—to his family—to Heaven.
I have not forgotten a time before those days, when,
according to promises given by my father, I became the
wife of M. de Florae. Sometimes I have heard of your
career. One of my parents, M. de F., who took service in
the English India, has entertained me of you; he informed
me how yet a young man you won laurels at Argom and
Ilhartpour ; how you escaped to death at Laswari. 1 have
followed them, sir, on the map. I have taken part in your
victories and your glory. Ab ! I am not so cold, but
my heart has trembled for your dangers—not so aged, but
I remember the young man who learned from the pupil 1
Frederic the first rudiments of war. Your great he}tt,
your love of truth, your courage were your own. None
to teach you those qualities, of which a good God had en•
dowed you. My good father is dead since many year*.
He, too, was permitted to see France before to die.
I have read in the English journals not only that you
are married, but that you have a son. Permit me to send
to your wife, to your child, these accompanying tokens of
an old friendship. I have seen that Mistress Newcome
was widow, and am not sorry of it. My friend, I bope there
was not that difference of age between your wife and you
that I have known in other unions. I pray the good God
to bless yours. I hold you always in my memory. As I
write the past comes back to me. I see a noble young man
who has a soft voice and brown eyes. I see the Threes,
and the smiling plains of Blackheath. I listen and pray
at my chamber-door as my father talks to you in our little
cabinet of studies. I look from my window, and see yon
depart.
My sons are men : one follows the profession of arms,
one has embraced the ecclesiastical state ; my daughter is
herself a mother. I remember this was your birthday; I
have made myself a little fete in celebrating it, after how
many years of absence, of silence !
Comm mg FLoasc.
(Me 1.. dts VIOL)

LETTER TO COLONEL NEWCONE.
St. Germain, Paris, Nov. 15, 1820.
he country which was the home of
her tender recollections, and bear
ude. The Heaven has placed me
ut from that in which I knew you.
of many children. My husband
of the property which the Itevolu-
France, in returning to its legiti-
I once more the nobility which
house into exile. We, however,
ore happy than many of our com-
rther resistance to be useless;
brilliancy of that genius which
K 1 Europe, and governed France;
it days, was reconciled to the con-
iusterlitz, and held a position in
a submission, at first attributed to
tly been pardoned to my husband.
ie Hundred Days made to pardon
ho was Emperor. My husband
was of the disastrous campaign of
hamberlains of Napoleon. With-
gives his time to his feeble health