The works of Thackeray are too cynical for the convalescent; he is for the present in too good a humour with destiny and human nature to enjoy them.  He prefers the more cheerful aspects of life, and resents the least failure of poetic justice.

Taking the tenants of the sick ward all round, indeed, I have little doubt that the large majority would give their vote for Dickens.  His pathos, it is true, is too much for them.  Their hearts are as waxen as though Mrs. Jarley herself had made them.  They are just in the condition to be melted by ‘Little Nell,’ and overcome by the death of Paul Dombey.  They read ‘David Copperfield’ with avidity, but are careful to avoid the catastrophe of Dora and even the demise of her four-footed favourite.  The book that suits them best is ’Martin Chuzzlewit.’  Its genial comedy, quite different from the violent delights of ‘Pickwick,’ is well adapted to their grasp; while its tragedy, the murder of Montague Tigg—­the finest description of the breaking of the sixth commandment in the language—­leaves nothing to be desired in the way of excitement.  But here we stray beyond our bounds, for ‘Martin Chuzzlewit’ is not a ‘sick book;’ or rather, it is one of the very few productions of human genius on the merits of which the opinions of both Sick and Sound are at one.

WET HOLIDAYS.

Even poets when they are on their travels feel the depressing influence of bad weather.  Those lines of the Laureate—­

    ’But when we crossed the Lombard plain,
    Remember what a plague of rain—­
    Of rain at Reggio, at Parma,
    At Lodi rain, Piacenza rain,’

are not among his best, but they evidently come from his very heart.  When he used prose upon that journey his language was probably stronger.  It is no wonder, then, that ordinary folks who have only a limited time in which to enjoy themselves, free from the fetters of toil, resent wet days.  They are worst of all when we are touring on the Continent, where it is a popular fallacy to suppose the skies are always smiling, but at home they are bad enough.  In Scotland, nobody but a Scotchman believes in fine weather, and consequently there is no disappointment; in England the Lake District is, perhaps, the most unfortunate spot for folks to be caught in by rain, because if there is no landscape there is nothing. Spectare veniunt, and when there are only the ribs and lining of their umbrellas to look at, their lot is hard indeed.

Wastwater is a charming place in sunshine—­almost the only locality in England where things are still primitive and pastoral; but in rain!  I hate exhibitions, but rather than Wastdale in wet weather, give me a panorama.  Serious people may talk of ‘the Devil’s books,’ but even a pack of cards, with somebody to play with you, is better under such circumstances than no book.