A good many years have passed over our heads since Thackeray launched his invectives at the Christmas tributes he held in heartiest hatred,—­the books which every season brought in its train, and which were never meant to be read.  Their mission was fulfilled when they were sent by aunt to niece, by uncle to nephew, by friend to hapless friend.  They were “gift-books” in the exclusive sense of the word.  Thackeray was wont to declare that these vapid, brightly bound volumes played havoc with the happy homes of England, just as the New Year bonbons played havoc with the homes of France.  Perhaps, of the two countries, France suffered less.  The candy soon disappeared, leaving only impaired digestions in its wake.  The books remained to encumber shelves, and bore humanity afresh.

   “Mol, je dis que les bonbons
    Valent mieux que la raison”;

and they are at least less permanently oppressive.  “When thou makest presents,” said old John Fuller, “let them be of such things as will last long; to the end that they may be in some sort immortal, and may frequently refresh the memory of the receiver.”  But this excellent advice—­excellent for the simple and spacious age in which it was written—­presupposes the “immortal” presents to wear well.  Theologians teach us that immortality is not necessarily a blessing.

A vast deal of ingenuity is wasted every year in evoking the undesirable, in the careful construction of objects which burden life.  Frankenstein was a large rather than an isolated example.  The civilized world so teems with elaborate and unlovely inutilities, with things which seem foreign to any reasonable conditions of existence, that we are sometimes disposed to envy the savage who wears all his simple wardrobe without being covered, and who sees all his simple possessions in a corner of his empty hut.  What pleasant spaces meet the savage eye!  What admirable vacancies soothe the savage soul!  No embroidered bag is needed to hold his sponge or his slippers.  No painted box is destined for his postal cards.  No decorated tablet waits for his laundry list.  No ornate wall-pocket yawns for his unpaid bills.  He smokes without cigarette-cases.  He dances without cotillion favours.  He enjoys all rational diversions, unfretted by the superfluities with which we have weighted them.  Life, notwithstanding its pleasures, remains endurable to him.

Above all, he does not undermine his own moral integrity by vicarious benevolence, by helping the needy at his friend’s expense.  The great principle of giving away what one does not want to keep is probably as familiar to the savage as to his civilized, or semi-civilized brother.  That vivacious traveller, Pere Huc, tells us he has seen a Tartar chief at dinner gravely hand over to an underling a piece of gristle he found himself unable to masticate, and that the gift was received with every semblance of gratitude and delight.  But there is a simple straightforwardness about an act like this which commends it to our understanding.  The Tartar did not assume the gristle to be palatable.  He did not veil his motives for parting with it.  He did not expand with the emotions of a philanthropist.  And he did not expect the Heavens to smile upon his deed.