be made to think that to gain the love of such a one it can be worth his
while to expend his energy or his heart.

_Esmond_ was published in 1852. It was not till 1858, some time after he
had returned from his lecturing tours, that he published the sequel
called _The Virginians_. It was first brought out in twenty-four monthly
numbers, and ran through the years 1858 and 1859, Messrs. Bradbury and
Evans having been the publishers. It takes up by no means the story of
_Esmond_, and hardly the characters. The twin lads, who are called the
Virginians, and whose name is Warrington, are grandsons of Esmond and
his wife Lady Castlewood. Their one daughter, born at the estate in
Virginia, had married a Warrington, and the Virginians are the issue of
that marriage. In the story, one is sent to England, there to make his
way; and the other is for awhile supposed to have been killed by the
Indians. How he was not killed, but after awhile comes again forward in
the world of fiction, will be found in the story, which it is not our
purpose to set forth here. The most interesting part of the narrative is
that which tells us of the later fortunes of Madame Beatrix,--the
Baroness Bernstein,--the lady who had in her youth been Beatrix Esmond,
who had then condescended to become Mrs. Tasker, the tutor's wife,
whence she rose to be the "lady" of a bishop, and, after the bishop had
been put to rest under a load of marble, had become the baroness,--a
rich old woman, courted by all her relatives because of her wealth.

In _The Virginians_, as a work of art, is discovered, more strongly than
had shown itself yet in any of his works, that propensity to wandering
which came to Thackeray because of his idleness. It is, I think, to be
found in every book he ever wrote,--except _Esmond_; but is here more
conspicuous than it had been in his earlier years. Though he can settle
himself down to his pen and ink,--not always even to that without a
struggle, but to that with sufficient burst of energy to produce a
large average amount of work,--he cannot settle himself down to the task
of contriving a story. There have been those,--and they have not been
bad judges of literature,--who have told me that they have best liked
these vague narratives. The mind of the man has been clearly exhibited
in them. In them he has spoken out his thoughts, and given the world to
know his convictions, as well as could have been done in the carrying
out any well-conducte