But what of Thackeray’s view, his vision of things?  Does he bear down unduly upon poor imperfect humanity? and what was his purpose in satire?  If he is unfair in the representation his place among the great should suffer; since the truly great observer of life does general justice to humankind in his harmonious portrayal.

We have already spoken of Thackeray’s sensitive nature as revealed through all available means:  he conveys the impression of a suppressed sentimentalist, even in his satire.  And this establishes a presumption that the same man is to be discovered in the novels, the work being an unconscious revelation of the worker.  The characteristic books are of satirical bent, that must be granted:  Thackeray’s purpose, avowed and implicit in the stories, is that of a Juvenal castigating with a smiling mouth the evils of society.  With keen eye he sees the weaknesses incident to place and power, to the affectations of fashion or the corruptions of the world, the flesh and the devil.  Nobody of commonsense will deny that here is a welcome service if performed with skill and fair-mindedness in the interests of truth.  The only query would be:  Is the picture undistorted?  If Thackeray’s studies leave a bad taste in the mouth, if their effect is depressing, if one feels as a result that there is neither virtue nor magnanimity in woman, and that man is incapable of honor, bravery, justice and tenderness—­then the novelist may be called cynic.  He is not a wholesome writer, however acceptable for art or admirable for genius.  Nor will the mass of mankind believe in and love him.

Naturally we are here on ground where the personal equation influences judgment.  There can never be complete agreement.  Some readers, and excellent people they are, will always be offended by what they never tire of calling the worldly tone of Thackeray; to others, he will be as lovable in his view of life as he is amusing.  Speaking, then, merely for myself, it seems to me that for mature folk who have had some experience with humanity, Thackeray is a charming companion whose heart is as sound as his pen is incisive.  The very young as a rule are not ready for him and (so far as my observation goes) do not much care for him.  That his intention was to help the cause of kindness, truth and justice in the world is apparent.  It is late in the day to defend his way of crying up the good by a frank exhibition of the evil.  Good and bad are never confused by him, and Taine was right in calling him above all a moralist.  But being by instinct a realist too, he gave vent to his passion for truth-telling so far as he dared, in a day when it was far less fashionable to do this than it now is.  A remark in the preface to “Pendennis” is full of suggestion:  “Since the author of ’Tom Jones’ was buried, no writer of fiction among us has been permitted to depict to his utmost power a Man.  We must drape him and give him a certain conventional simper.  Society will not tolerate the Natural in our Art.”