Esmond, too, which may be said to be one prolonged parody of the great Queen-Anne essayists, contains that most perfect of all parodies in the English language—­“The paper out of the Spectator”—­in chapter third of the third book.  It is of course not a “parody” in the proper sense, for it has no element of satire or burlesque, and imitates not the foibles but the merits of the original, with an absolute illusion.  The 341st number of the Spectator, dated Tuesday, April 1, 1712, is so absolutely like Dick Steele at his best, that Addison himself would have been deceived by it.  Steele hardly ever wrote anything so bright and amusing.  It is not a “parody”:  it is a forgery; but a forgery which required for its execution the most consummate mastery over all the subtleties and mysteries of style.

In parody of every kind, from the most admiring imitation down to the most boisterous burlesque, Thackeray stands at the head of all other imitators.  The Rejected Addresses of James and Horace Smith (1812) is usually regarded as the masterpiece in this art; and Scott good-humouredly said that he could have mistaken the death of Higginbottom for his own verses.  But Thackeray’s Novels by Eminent Hands are superior even to the Rejected Addresses. Codlingsby, the parody of Disraeli’s Coningsby, may be taken as the most effective parody in our language:  intensely droll in itself, it reproduces the absurdities, the affectations, the oriental imagination of Disraeli with inimitable wit.  Those ten pages of irrepressible fooling are enough to destroy Disraeli’s reputation as a serious romancer.  No doubt they have unfairly reacted so as to dim our sense of Disraeli’s real genius as a writer.  When we know Codlingsby by heart, as every one with a sense of humour must do, it is impossible for us to keep our countenance when we take up the palaver about Sidonia and the Chosen Race.  The Novels by Eminent Hands are all good:  they are much more than parodies; they are real criticism, sound, wise, genial, and instructive.  Nor are they in the least unfair.  If the balderdash and cheap erudition of Bulwer and Disraeli are covered with inextinguishable mirth, no one is offended by the pleasant imitations of Lever, James, and Fenimore Cooper.

All the burlesques are good, and will bear continual re-reading; but the masterpiece of all is Rebecca and Rowena, the continuation in burlesque of Ivanhoe.  It is one of the mysteries of literature that we can enjoy both, that the warmest admirers of Scott’s glorious genius, and even those who delight in Ivanhoe, can find the keenest relish in Rebecca and Rowena, which is simply the great romance of chivalry turned inside out.  But Thackeray’s immortal burlesque has something of the quality of Cervantes’ Don Quixote—­that we love the knight whilst we laugh, and feel the deep pathos of human nature