imply a
creature of the imagination. He would have said of such, as we would say
of female faces by Raffaelle, that women would like to be like them, but
are not like them. Men might like to be like Ravenswood, and women may
dream of men so formed and constituted, but such men do not exist.
Dobbins do, and therefore Thackeray chose to write of a Dobbin.

So also of the preference given to Becky Sharp and to Rawdon Crawley.
Thackeray thought that more can be done by exposing the vices than
extolling the virtues of mankind. No doubt he had a more thorough belief
in the one than in the other. The Dobbins he did encounter--seldom; the
Rawdon Crawleys very often. He saw around him so much that was mean! He
was hurt so often by the little vanities of people! It was thus that he
was driven to that overthoughtfulness about snobs of which I have spoken
in the last chapter. It thus became natural to him to insist on the
thing which he hated with unceasing assiduity, and only to break out now
and again into a rapture of love for the true nobility which was dear to
him,--as he did with the character of Captain Dobbin.

It must be added to all this that, before he has done with his snob or
his knave, he will generally weave in some little trait of humanity by
which the sinner shall be relieved from the absolute darkness of utter
iniquity. He deals with no Varneys or Deputy-Shepherds, all villany and
all lies, because the snobs and knaves he had seen had never been all
snob or all knave. Even Shindy probably had some feeling for the poor
woman he left at home. Rawdon Crawley loved his wicked wife dearly, and
there were moments even with her in which some redeeming trait half
reconciles her to the reader.

Such were the faults which were found in _Vanity Fair_; but though the
faults were found freely, the book was read by all. Those who are old
enough can well remember the effect which it had, and the welcome which
was given to the different numbers as they appeared. Though the story is
vague and wandering, clearly commenced without any idea of an ending,
yet there is something in the telling which makes every portion of it
perfect in itself. There are absurdities in it which would not be
admitted to anyone who had not a peculiar gift of making even his
absurdities delightful. No schoolgirl who ever lived would have thrown
back her gift-book, as Rebecca did the "dixonary," out of the carriage
window as she was taken away from school