a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place,--but not alone.
A fair young face was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me!
There's no one now to share my cup.

* * * * *

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse.

I am not disposed to say that Thackeray will hold a high place among
English poets. He would have been the first to ridicule such an
assumption made on his behalf. But I think that his verses will be more
popular than those of many highly reputed poets, and that as years roll
on they will gain rather than lose in public estimation.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Chair--_i.e._ Chairman.

[8] _I.e._ The P. and O. Company.

CHAPTER IX.

THACKERAY'S STYLE AND MANNER OF WORK.

A novel in style should be easy, lucid, and of course grammatical. The
same may be said of any book; but that which is intended to recreate
should be easily understood,--for which purpose lucid narration is an
essential. In matter it should be moral and amusing. In manner it may be
realistic, or sublime, or ludicrous;--or it may be all these if the
author can combine them. As to Thackeray's performance in style and
matter I will say something further on. His manner was mainly realistic,
and I will therefore speak first of that mode of expression which was
peculiarly his own.

Realism in style has not all the ease which seems to belong to it. It is
the object of the author who affects it so to communicate with his
reader that all his words shall seem to be natural to the occasion. We
do not think the language of Dogberry natural, when he tells neighbour
Seacole that "to write and read comes by nature." That is ludicrous. Nor
is the language of Hamlet natural when he shows to his mother the
portrait of his father;

See what a grace was seated on this brow;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command.

That is sublime. Constance is natural when she turns away from the
Cardinal, declaring that

He talks to me