he exposes his inmost soul with cool deliberation; and the author’s art is so consummate that we never for a moment sympathise with the fiend who talks so mellifluously—­the narrative of ill-doing unfolds itself with all the inevitable precision of an operation of nature, and we see the human soul at its worst.  But Thackeray did not make Byron’s mistake; and throughout the book the Chevalier harps with deadly persistence on his own virtues.  He does not exactly whine, but he lets you know that he regards himself as being very much wronged by the envious caprices of his fellow-men.  His tongue is the tongue of a saint, and, even when he owns to any doubtful transaction, he takes care to let you know that he was actuated by the sweetest and purest motives.  Many people cannot read “Barry Lyndon” a second time; but those who are nervous should screw their courage to the sticking-place, and give grave attention to that awful moral lesson, for all of us have a little of Barry in our composition.  Thackeray’s sudden inspiration enabled him to plumb the deeps of the scoundrel nature, and he saw with the eye of genius that the very quality which makes a bad man dangerous is his belief in his own goodness.  If you look at the appalling narrative of Lyndon’s life in this country, you see, with a shudder, that the man regards his cruelty to his wife, his villainy towards his step-son, as the inevitable outcome of stern virtue; he tells you things that make you long to stamp on the inanimate pages; for he rouses such a passion of wild scorn and wrath as we feel against no other artistic creation.  Yet all the while, like a low under-song, goes on his monotonous assertion of his own goodness and his own injuries.  No sermon could teach more than that hateful book; if it is read aright, it will supply men or women with an armoury of warnings, and enable them to start away from the semblance of self-deception as they would from a rearing cobra when the hood is up, and the murderous head flattened ready to strike.  Thackeray worked on the same theme in his story of little Stubbs.  Lyndon is the Lucifer of rascals; Stubbs—­well, Stubbs beggars the English vocabulary; he is too low, too mean for adjectives to describe him, and I could almost find it in my heart to wish that his portraiture had never been placed before the horrified eyes of men.  Yet this Stubbs—­a being who was drawn from life—­has a profound belief in the rectitude of everything that he does.  Even when he tells us how he invited his gang of unspeakables home, to drink away his mother’s substance, he takes credit to himself for his fine display of British hospitality.  How Thackeray contrived to live through the ordeal of composing those two books I cannot tell; he must have had a nerve of steel, with all his softness of heart and benevolence.  At all events, he did live to complete his gruesome feat; and he has given us, in a vivid pictorial way, such a picture of scoundreldom as should serve as a beacon to all men.  It may