TWO EDITIONS OF THACKERAY.* IT is not difficult to decide
which is the better of the two editions of Thackeray which are now nearing completion. The first place must certainly be given to Lady Ritchie's edition, which is described by the publishers as definitive, and it is difficult to see what more could be added to it. The introductions to each volume throw light on the work and its author, and the books are well printed, not too heavy, and have all the original illustrations. Finally some hitherto unpublished matter has been added. It is not possible to speak so favour. ably of the Harry Furniss edition. The print is small and the volumes are uncomfortably heavy to hold in the hand. All the original illustrations are included besides those supplied by Mr. Furniss. These, as we should have supposed, have all that draughtsman's tricks and mannerisms as well as his great technical ability in dealing withdrawing for reproduction. But we must say of them that nothing more impossible as illustrations to Thackeray could be imagined. Thackeray when he created society characters always made them true to life : his lords and ladies, his families of less exalted rank with their dependents and servants, are all perfectly in keeping with their environ- ment He could realize to perfection a lady or a gentleman. Now let us turn to Mr. Furniss's illustrations to The Ncw- comes. It is inconceivable that these figures could ever have made their appearance in a London drawing-room. No human being, let alone Lord Farintosh, would have been tolerated for a moment if he had squirmed himself into the attitude in which Mr. Furniss has thought fit to draw him. Nor does this hour- glass shape, of which the artist is so fond, though here less contorted, have the least appropriateness to the cold, prim, insincere Sir Barnes. Perhaps the worst of all are the illustrations to Vanity Fair, for in drawing Becky Sharp Mr. Furniss has indulged in a positive orgy. If Becky had looked as she is here represented, even her marvellous powers would have been useless, for what adventuress could hope to flourish with an appearance which suggests a combination of a heroine of melodrama in a second-rate provincial company and a fairy princess in a pantomime? There is no trace whatever, in this vulgar absurdity, of the brilliant and witty woman who could fascinate cosmopolitan nobles, worldly Guardsmen, and shrewd, close-fisted country squires. Vanity Fair is a book which it is an insult to illustrate afresh. Whatever we may think of Thackeray's drawings from the technical point of view, however much we criticise his awkward figures with large heads and short legs, there can be no doubt that there is a unity between the text and the pictures which could only arise when one mind created each. Thackeray was often much more successful in some of the minor illustrations than in those which are carefully worked out. Take, for instance, the picture of Jos putting on the frogged coat for the last time: his figure gives the self-importance and bustle of the occasion, while Isidore's face admirably shows a baffled malignity as he suggests that the military apparel is at that time highly
• (1) The Centenary Biographical Edition of the Works of William Makepeace Thackeray. With Biographical Introductions by his daughter, Lady Ritchie. 26 Volumes. London Smith, Elder and Co. [6s. each net.]—(2) The Harry Furniss Centenary Edition of the Works of Thackeray. 20 Volumes. London: Macmillan and Co. [210 10s. net.]
dangerous. This drawing in the text is a great deal better than the full-page illustration showing Jos on horseback flying from Brussels. Thackeray was most successful as a draughtsman when portraying some whimsical incident or when making some absurd caricature, when sketching, for example, Mrs. Perkins's guests. In all these, even in the most extravagant, the author's good taste is always evident, and it is the want of this good taste which makes Mr. Furniss's illustrations so painfully discordant with the text. One looks with amazement at the picture which accompanies that delightful modern version of Horace beginning, "Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is." The whole point of the poem is the simple life, a leg of mutton served by a parlour- maid. Then think of this illustration, which shows the poet smoking his pipe in the garden waited on by a strange and wonderfully bedecked creature who could have no possible existence except in a Parisian cafe-ehantant. As this theatrical mixture of a bergere and a soubrette comes prancing out of the picture, the second line of the poem suggests itself to our thoughts at once. "I hate all your Frenchified fuss." Whether novels can ever be illustrated to the satisfaction of the reader is an open question ; but, at any rate, Mr. Harry Furniss has shown us how the process should not be accom- plished. If an addition must be made to the menu which Thackeray provided for his guests, in Heaven's name let it not be Tripe and Onions.
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