y Thackeray, especially
in the "Ballads," mentions many places not alluded to by the new
topographer. Besides, Mr. Rideing says that Thackeray's readers forget
the localities in which his characters appear. Surely this is a calumny
on human memory. Who but thinks of Becky Sharp as he trudges down Curzon
Street? Has Bryanston Square properly any reason for existence, except
that the Hobson Newcomes dwelt there? Are the chambers of Captain
Costigan forgotten by the memory of any man, or those of Pen and George
Warrington? But Pen took better rooms, not so lofty, when he scored that
success with "Walter Lorraine." Where did Mr. Bowes, the hopeless
admirer of the Fotheringay, dwell? Every one should know, but that
question might puzzle some. Or where was the lair of the Mulligan? Like
the grave of Arthur, or of Moliere, it is unknown; the whole of the
postal district known as W. is haunted by that tremendous shade. "I live
there," says he, pointing down towards Uxbridge with the big stick he
carries; so his abode is in that direction, at any rate. No more has
been given to man to know.

Many minor reminiscences occur to the mind. In Pump Court we encounter
the brisk little spectre of Mr. Frederick Minchin, and who can forget
that his club was The Oxford and Cambridge, than which what better could
he desire? Mr. Thackeray himself was a member of The Garrick, The
Athenaeum, and The Reform, but the clubs of many of his characters, like
the "buth" of Jeames Yellowplush, are "wrapped up in a mistry." They are
alluded to by fancy names, but the scholiast on Thackeray will probably
be able to identify them. Is it not time, by the way, for that scholiast
to give his labours to the public? Thackeray's world is passing; the
children he knew, the boys he tipped and took to the play, are middle-
aged men--fogies, in fact. _Tempus edax rerum_, Time has an appetite as
good as that of a boy at his first club dinner. The meaning of the great
writer's contemporary allusions may be lost, like those of Villon and
Aristophanes. Such is the fate of comedy. Who knows, if we turn to
Dickens, what the "common profeel machine" was, or what were the steps of
the dance known as the Fanteag (the spelling is dubious); or what the
author meant by a "red-faced Nixon." Was it a nixie? Does the new
Professor of the English Language and Literature at Oxford hope to cast
the light of Teutonic research on these and similar inquiries? Sa