narrative was the essence of their genius at its best; the current
of romance rolls fleetly on, bearing with it persons and events,
mirroring scenes, but never ceasing to be the main thing--the
central interest. Perhaps narrative like this is the chief success
of the novelist. He is triumphant when he carries us on, as Wolf,
the famous critic, was carried on by the tide of the Iliad, "in that
pure and rapid current of action." Nobody would claim this especial
merit for Thackeray. He is one of the greatest of novelists; he
displays human nature and human conduct so that we forget ourselves
in his persons, but he does not make us forget ourselves in their
fortunes. Whether Clive does or does not marry Ethel, or Esmond,
Beatrix, does not very greatly excite our curiosity. We cannot ring
the bells for Clive's second wedding as the villagers celebrated the
bridal of Pamela. It is the development of character, it is the
author's comments, it is his own personality and his unmatched and
inimitable style, that win our admiration and affection. We can
take up "Vanity Fair," or "Pendennis," or "The Newcomes," just where
the book opens by chance, and read them with delight, as we may read
Montaigne. When one says one can take up a book anywhere, it
generally means that one can also lay it down anywhere. But it is
not so with Thackeray. Whenever we meet him he holds us with his
charm, his humour, his eloquence, his tenderness. If he has not, in
the highest degree, the narrative power, he does possess, in a
degree perhaps beyond any other writer of English, that kind of
poetic quality which is not incompatible with prose writing.

A great deal has been said about prose poetry. As a rule, it is
very poor stuff. As prose it has a tendency to run into blank
verse; as poetry it is highly rhetorical and self-conscious. It
would be invidious and might be irritating to select examples from