The habit of those who appraise the relative worth of Dickens and Thackeray to fall into hostile camps, swearing by one, and at the other, has its amusing side but is to be deprecated as irrational.  Why should it be necessary to miss appreciation of the creator of “Vanity Fair” because one happens to like “David Copperfield”?  Surely, our literary tastes or standards should be broad enough to admit into pleasurable companionship both those great early Victorian novelists.

Yet, on second thought, there would appear to be some reason for the fact that ardent lovers of Thackeray are rarely devotees of the mighty Charles ­or vice versa.  There is something mutually exclusive in the attitude of the two, their different interpretation of life.  Unlike in birth, environment, education and all that is summed up in the magic word personality, their reaction to life, as a scientist would say, was so opposite that a reader naturally drawn to one, is quite apt to be repelled by (or at least, cold to) the other.  If you make a wide canvass among booklovers, it will be found that this is just what happens.  Rarely does a stanch supporter of Dickens show a more than Laodicean temper towards Thackeray; and for rabid Thackerians, Dickens too often spells disgust.  It is a rare and enjoyable experience to meet with a mind so catholic as to welcome both.  The backbone of the trouble is personal, in the natures of the two authors.  But I think it is worth while to say that part of the explanation may be found in the fact that Thackeray began fiction ten years later than his rival and was in a deeper sense than was Dickens a voice of the later century.  This means much, because with each decade between 1830 and 1860, English thought was moving fast toward that scientific faith, that disillusionment and that spirit of grim truth which culminated in the work of the final quarter of the century.  Thackeray was impelled more than was Dickens by the spirit of the times to speak the truth in his delineations of contemporary mankind:  and this operated to make him a satirist, at times a savage one.  The modern thing in Dickens ­and he had it ­was the humanitarian sympathy for the submerged tenth; the modern thing in Thackeray, however, was his fearlessness in uncovering the conventional shams of polite society.  The idols that Dickens smashed (and never was a bolder iconoclast) were to be seen of all men:  but Thackeray’s were less tangible, more subtle, part and parcel of his own class.  In this sense, and I believe because he began his major novel-writing about 1850, whereas the other began fifteen years before, Thackeray is more modern, more of our own time, than his great co-mate in fiction.  When we consider the question of their respective interpretations of Life it is but fair to bear in mind this historical consideration, although it would be an error to make too much of it.  Of course, in judging Thackeray and trying to give him a place in English fiction, he must stand or fall, like any other writer, by two things:  his art, and his message.  Was the first fine, the other sane and valuable ­those are the twin tests.

A somewhat significant fact of their literary history may be mentioned, before an attempt is made to appreciate Thackeray’s novels.  For some years after Dickens’ death, which, it will be remembered, occurred six years after Thackeray’s, the latter gained in critical recognition while Dickens slowly lost.  There can be little question of this.  Lionized and lauded as was the man of Gadshill, promptly admitted to Westminster Abbey, it came to pass in time that, in a course on modern English literature offered at an old and famous New England college, his name was not deemed worthy of even a reference.  Some critics of repute have scarce been able to take Dickens seriously:  for those who have steadily had the temerity to care for him, their patronage has been vocal.  This marks an astonishing shift of opinion from that current in 1870.  Thackeray, gaining in proportion, has been hailed as an exquisite artist, one of the few truly great and permanent English figures not only of fiction but of letters.  But in the most recent years, again a change has come:  the pendulum has swung back, as it always does when an excessive movement carries it too far beyond the plumb line.  Dickens has found valiant, critical defenders; he has risen fast in thoughtful so well as popular estimation (although with the public he has scarcely fluctuated in favor) until he now enjoys a sort of resurrection of popularity.  What is the cause of this to-and-fro of judgment?  The main explanation is to be found in the changing literary ideals from 1850 to 1900.  When Dickens was active, literature, broadly speaking, was estimated not exclusively as art, but as human product, an influence in the world.  With the coming of the new canon, which it is convenient to dub by the catch-phrase, Art for Art’s Sake, a man’s production began to be tested more definitely by the technique he possessed, the skilled way in which he performed his task.  Did he play the game well?  That was the first question.  Often it was the first and last.  If he did, his subject-matter, and his particular vision of Life, were pretty much his own affair.  And this modern touchstone, applied to the writings of our two authors, favored Thackeray.  Simple, old-fashioned readers inclined to give Dickens the preference over him because the former’s interpretation of humanity was, they averred, kindlier and more wholesome.  Thackeray was cynical, said they; Dickens humanitarian; but the later critical mood rebounded from Dickens, since he preached, was frankly didactic, insisted on his mission of doing good ­and so failed in his art.  Now, however, that the l’art pour art shibboleth has been sadly overworked and is felt to be passing or obsolete, the world critical is reverting to that broader view which demands that the maker of literature shall be both man and artist:  as a result, Dickens gains in proportion.  This explanation makes it likely that, looking to the future, while Thackeray may not lose, Dickens is sure to be more and more appreciated.  A return to a saner and truer criterion will be general and the confines of a too narrow estheticism be understood:  or, better yet, the esthetic will be so defined as to admit of wider application.  The Gissings and Chestertons of the time to come will insist even more strenuously than those of ours that while we may have improved upon Dickens’ technique ­and every schoolboy can tinker his faults ­we shall do exceedingly well if we duplicate his genius once in a generation.  And they will add that Thackeray, another man of genius, had also his malaises of art, was likewise a man with the mortal failings implied in the word.  For it cannot now be denied that just as Dickens’ faults have been exaggerated, Thackeray’s have been overlooked.

Thackeray might lose sadly in the years to come could it be demonstrated that, as some would have it, he deserved the title of cynic.  Here is the most mooted point in Thackeray appreciation:  it interests thousands where the nice questions concerning the novelist’s art claim the attention of students alone.  What can be said with regard to it?  It will help just here to think of the man behind the work.  No sensible human being, it would appear, can become aware of the life and personality of Thackeray without concluding that he was an essentially kind-hearted, even soft-hearted man.  He was keenly sensitive to praise and blame, most affectionate and constant with his friends, generous and impulsive in his instincts, loving in his family, simple and humble in his spiritual nature, however questioning in his intellect.  That is a fair summary of Thackeray as revealed in his daily walk ­in his letters, acts and thoughts.  Nothing could be sweeter and more kindly than the mass of his writings in this regard, pace “The Book of Snobs” ­even in such a mood the satire is for the most part unbitter.  The reminiscential essays continually strike a tender note that vibrates with human feeling and such memorials as the paper he wrote on the deaths of Irving and Macaulay represent a frequent vein.  Thackeray’s friends are almost a unit in this testimony:  Edward Fitzgerald, indeed ­“dear old Fitz,” as Tennyson loved to call him ­declares in a letter to somebody that he hears Thackeray is spoiled:  meaning that his social success was too much for him.  It is true that after the fame of “Vanity Fair,” its author was a habitue of the best drawing-rooms, much sought after, and enjoying it hugely.  But to read his letter to Mrs. Brookfield after the return home from such frivolities is to feel that the real man is untouched.  Why Thackeray, with such a nature, developed a satirical bent and became a critic of the foibles of fashion and later of the social faults of humanity, is not so easy perhaps to say ­unless we beg the question by declaring it to be his nature.  When he began his major fiction at the age of thirty-seven he had seen much more of the seamy side of existence than had Dickens when he set up for author.  Thackeray had lost a fortune, traveled, played Bohemian, tried various employments, failed in a business venture ­in short, was an experienced man of the world with eyes wide open to what is light, mean, shifty and vague in the sublunary show.  “The Book of Snobs” is the typical early document expressing the subacidulous tendency of his power:  “Vanity Fair” is the full-length statement of it in maturity.  Yet judging his life by and large (in contrast with his work) up to the day of his sudden death, putting in evidence all the testimony from many sources, it may be asserted with considerable confidence that William Makepeace Thackeray, whatever we find him to be in his works, gave the general impression personally of being a genial, kind and thoroughly sound-hearted man.  We may, therefore, look at the work itself, to extract from it such evidence as it offers, remembering that, when all is said, the deepest part of a man, his true quality, is always to be discovered in his writings.

First a word on the books secondary to the four great novels.  It is necessary at the start in studying him to realize that Thackeray for years before he wrote novels was an essayist, who, when he came to make fiction introduced into it the essay touch and point of view.  The essay manner makes his larger fiction delightful, is one of its chief charms and characteristics.  And contrariwise, the looseness of construction, the lack of careful architecture in Thackeray’s stories, look to the same fact.

It can not justly be said of these earlier and minor writings that, taken as a whole, they reveal a cynic.  They contain many thrusts at the foolishness and knavery of society, especially that genteel portion of it with which the writer, by birth, education and experience, was familiar.  When Thackeray, in the thirties, turned to newspaper writing, he did so for practical reasons:  he needed money, and he used such talents as were his as a writer, knowing that the chances were better than in art, which he had before pursued.  It was natural that he should have turned to account his social experiences, which gave him a power not possessed by the run of literary hacks, and which had been to some extent disillusioning, but had by no means soured him.  Broadly viewed, the tone of these first writings was genial, the light and shade of human nature ­in its average, as it is seen in the world ­was properly represented.  In fact, often, as in “The Great Hoggarty Diamond,” the style is almost that of burlesque, at moments, of horse-play:  and there are too touches of beautiful young-man pathos.  Such a work is anything rather than tart or worldly.  There are scenes in that enjoyable story that read more like Dickens than the Thackeray of “Vanity Fair.”  The same remark applies, though in a different way, to the “Yellowplush Papers.”  An early work like “Barry Lyndon,” unique among the productions of the young writer, expresses the deeper aspect of his tendency to depict the unpleasant with satiric force, to make clear-cut pictures of rascals, male and female.  Yet in this historical study, the eighteenth century setting relieves the effect and one does not feel that the author is speaking with that direct earnestness one encounters in “Pendennis” and “The Newcomes.”  The many essays, of which the “Roundabout Papers” are a type, exhibit almost exclusively the sunnier and more attractive side of Thackeray’s genius.  Here and there, in the minor fiction of this experimental period, there are premonitions of he more drastic treatment of later years:  but the dominant mood is quite other.  One who read the essays alone, with no knowledge of the fiction, would be astonished at a charge of cynicism brought against the author.

And so we come to the major fiction:  “Vanity Fair,” “Pendennis,” “The Newcomes,” and “Esmond.”  Of “The Adventures of Philip” a later word may be said.  “The Virginians” is a comparatively unimportant pendant to that great historical picture, “Henry Esmond.”  The quartet practically composes the fundamental contribution of Thackeray to the world of fiction, containing as it does all his characteristic traits.  Some of them have been pointed out, time out of mind:  others, often claimed, are either wanting or their virtue has been much exaggerated.

Of the merits incontestable, first and foremost may be mentioned the color and motion of Life which spread like an atmosphere over this fiction.  By his inimitable idiom, his knowledge of the polite world, and his equal knowledge of the average human being irrespective of class or condition, Thackeray was able to make his chronicle appear the very truth.  Moreover, for a second great merit, he was able, quite without meretricious appeals, to make that truth interesting.  You follow the fortunes of the folk in a typical Thackeray novel as you would follow a similar group in actual life.  They interest because they are real ­or seem to be, which, for the purposes of art, is the same thing.  To read is not so much to look from an outside place at a fictive representation of existence as to be participant in such a piece of life ­to feel as if you were living the story.  Only masters accomplish this, and it is, it may be added, the specialty of modern masters.

For another shining merit:  much of wisdom assimilated by the author in the course of his days is given forth with pungent power and in piquant garb in the pages of these books:  the reader relishes the happy statements of an experience profounder than his own, yet tallying in essentials:  Thackeray’s remarks seem to gather up into final shape the scattered oracles of the years.  Gratitude goes out to an author who can thus condense and refine one’s own inarticulate conclusions.  The mental palate is tickled by this, while the taste is titillated by the grace and fitness of the style.

Yet in connection with this quality is a habit which already makes Thackeray seem of an older time ­a trifle archaic in technique.  I refer to the intrusion of the author into the story in first-personal comment and criticism.  This is tabooed by the present-day realist canons.  It weakens the illusion, say the artists of our own day, this entrance of an actual personality upon the stage of the imagined scene.  Thackeray is guilty of this lovable sin to a greater degree than is Dickens, and it may be added here that, while the latter has so often been called preacher in contrast with Thackeray the artist, as a matter of fact, Thackeray moralizes in the fashion described fully as much:  the difference being that he does it with lighter touch and with less strenuosity and obvious seriousness:  is more consistently amusing in the act of instruction.

Thackeray again has less story to tell than his greatest contemporary and never gained a sure hand in construction, with the possible exception of his one success in plot, “Henry Esmond.”  Nothing is more apparent than the loose texture of “Vanity Fair,” where two stories centering in the antithetic women, Becky and Amelia, are held together chronicle fashion, not in the nexus of an organism of close weave.  But this very looseness, where there is such superlative power of characterization with plenty of invention in incident, adds to the verisimilitude and attraction of the book.  The impression of life is all the more vivid, because of the lack of proportioned progress to a climax.  The story conducts itself and ends much as does life:  people come in and out and when Finis is written, we feel we may see them again ­as indeed often happens, for Thackeray used the pleasant device of re-introducing favorite characters such as Pendennis, Warrington and the descendants thereof, and it adds distinctly to the reality of the ensemble.

“Vanity Fair” has most often been given precedence over the other novels of contemporary life:  but for individual scenes and strength of character drawing both “Pendennis” and “The Newcomes” set up vigorous claims.  If there be no single triumph in female portraiture like Becky Sharp, Ethel New-come (on the side of virtue) is a far finer woman than the somewhat insipid Amelia:  and no personage in the Mayfair book is more successful and beloved than Major Pendennis or Colonel Newcome.  Also, the atmosphere of these two pictures seems mellower, less sharp, while as organic structures they are both superior to “Vanity Fair.”  Perhaps the supremacy of the last-named is due most of all to the fact that a wonderfully drawn evil character has more fascination than a noble one of workmanship as fine.  Or is it that such a type calls forth the novelist’s powers to the full?  If so, it were, in a manner, a reproach.  But it is more important to say that all three books are delightfully authentic studies of upper-class society in England as Thackeray knew it:  the social range is comparatively restricted, for even the rascals are shabby-genteel.  But the exposure of human nature (which depends upon keen observation within a prescribed boundary) is wide and deep:  a story-teller can penetrate just as far into the arcana of the human spirit if he confine himself to a class as if he surveyed all mankind.  But mental limitations result:  the point of view is that of the gentleman-class:  the ideas of the personal relation to one’s self, one’s fellow men and one’s Maker are those natural to a person of that station.  The charming poem which the author set as Finis to “Dr. Birch and His Young Friends,” with its concluding lines, is an unconscious expression of the form in which he conceived human duty.  The “And so, please God, a gentleman,” was the cardinal clause in his creed and all his work proves it.  It is wiser to be thankful that a man of genius was at hand to voice the view, than to cavil at its narrow outook.  In literature, in-look is quite as important.  Thackeray drew what he felt and saw, and like Jane Austen, is to be understood within his limitations.  Nor did he ever forget that, because pleasure-giving was the object of his art, it was his duty so to present life as to make it somehow attractive, worth while.  The point is worth urging, for not a little nonsense has been written concerning the absolute veracity of Thackeray’s pictures:  as if he sacrificed all pleasurableness to the modern Moloch, truth.  Neither he nor any other great novelist reproduces Life verbatim et literatim.  Trollope, in his somewhat unsatisfactory biography of his fellow fictionist, very rightly puts his finger on a certain scene in “Vanity Fair” in which Sir Pitt Crawley figures, which departs widely from reality.  The traditional comparison between the two novelists, which represents Dickens as ever caricaturing, Thackeray as the photographer, is coming to be recognized as foolish.

It is all merely a question of degree, as has been said.  It being the artist’s business to show a few of the symbols of life out of the vast amount of raw material offered, he differs in the main from his brother artist in the symbols he selects.  No one of them presents everything ­if he did, he were no artist.  Thackeray approaches nearer than Dickens, it is true, to the average appearances of life; but is no more a literal copyist than the creator of Mrs. Gamp.  He was rather one of art’s most capable exemplars in the arduous employment of seeming-true.

It must be added that his technique was more careless than an artist of anything like his caliber would have permitted himself to-day.  The audience was less critical:  not only has the art of fiction been evolved into a finer finish, but gradually the court of judgment made up of a select reading public, has come to decide with much more of professional knowledge.  Thus, technique in fiction is expected and given.  So much of gain there has been, in spite of all the vulgarization of taste which has followed in the wake of cheap magazines and newspapers.  In “Vanity Fair,” for example, there are blemishes which a careful revision would never have suffered to remain:  the same is true of most of Thackeray’s books.  Like Dickens, Thackeray was exposed to all the danger of the Twenty Parts method of publication.  He began his stories without seeing the end; in one of them he is humorously plaintive over the trouble of making this manner of fiction.  While “Vanity Fair” is, of course, written in the impersonal third person, at least one passage is put into the mouth of a character in the book:  an extraordinary slip for such a novelist.

But peccadilloes such as these, which it is well to realize in view of the absurd claims to artistic impeccability for Thackeray made by rash admirers, melt away into nothing when one recalls Rawdon Crawley’s horsewhipping of the Marquis; George Osborn’s departure for battle, Colonel Newcome’s death, or the incomparable scene where Lady Castlewood welcomes home the wandering Esmond; that “rapture of reconciliation”!  It is by such things that great novelists live, and it may be doubted if their errors are ever counted against them, if only they can create in this fashion.

In speaking of Thackeray’s unskilful construction the reference is to architectonics; in the power of particular scenes it is hard to name his superior.  He has both the pictorial and the dramatic sense.  The care with which “Esmond” was planned and executed suggests too that, had he taken his art more seriously and given needed time to each of the great books, he might have become one of the masters in that prime excellence of the craft, the excellence of proportion, progress and climax.  He never quite brought himself to adopt the regular modern method of scenario.  “Philip,” his last full length fiction, may be cited as proof.

Yet it may be that he would have given increased attention to construction had he lived a long life.  It is worth noting that when the unfinished “Denis Duval” dropt from a hand made inert by death, the general plan, wherefrom an idea of its architecture could be got, was among his effects.

To say a word now of Thackeray’s style.  There is practical unanimity of opinion as to this.  Thackeray had the effect of writing like a cultivated gentleman not self-consciously making literature.  He was tolerant of colloquial concessions that never lapsed into vulgarity; even his slips and slovenlinesses are those of the well-bred.  To pass from him back to Richardson is to realize how stiffly correct is the latter.  Thackeray has flexibility, music, vernacular felicity and a deceptive ease.  He had, too, the flashing strokes, the inspirational sallies which characterize the style of writers like Lamb, Stevenson and Meredith.  Fitness, balance, breeding and harmony are his chief qualities.  To say that he never sinned or nodded would be to deny that he was human.  He cut his cloth to fit the desired garment and is a modern English master of prose designed to reproduce the habit and accent of the polite society of his age.  In his hortatory asides and didactic moralizings with their thees and thous and yeas, he is still the fine essayist, like Fielding in his eighteenth century prefatory exordiums.  And here is undoubtedly one of his strongest appeals to the world of readers, whether or no it makes him less perfect a fictionist.  The diction of a Thackeray is one of the honorable national assets of his race.

Thackeray’s men and women talk as they might be expected to talk in life; each in his own idiom, class and idiosyncrasy.  And in the descriptions which furnish atmosphere, in which his creatures may live and breathe and have their being, the hand of the artist of words is equally revealed.  Both for dialogue and narration the gift is valid, at times superb.  It would be going too far to say that if Thackeray had exercised the care in revision bestowed by later reputable authors, his style might not have been improved:  beyond question it would have been, in the narrow sense.  But the correction of trifling mistakes is one thing, a change in pattern another.  The retouching, although satisfying grammar here and there, might have dimmed the vernacular value of his speech.

But what of Thackeray’s view, his vision of things?  Does he bear down unduly upon poor imperfect humanity? and what was his purpose in satire?  If he is unfair in the representation his place among the great should suffer; since the truly great observer of life does general justice to humankind in his harmonious portrayal.

We have already spoken of Thackeray’s sensitive nature as revealed through all available means:  he conveys the impression of a suppressed sentimentalist, even in his satire.  And this establishes a presumption that the same man is to be discovered in the novels, the work being an unconscious revelation of the worker.  The characteristic books are of satirical bent, that must be granted:  Thackeray’s purpose, avowed and implicit in the stories, is that of a Juvenal castigating with a smiling mouth the evils of society.  With keen eye he sees the weaknesses incident to place and power, to the affectations of fashion or the corruptions of the world, the flesh and the devil.  Nobody of commonsense will deny that here is a welcome service if performed with skill and fair-mindedness in the interests of truth.  The only query would be:  Is the picture undistorted?  If Thackeray’s studies leave a bad taste in the mouth, if their effect is depressing, if one feels as a result that there is neither virtue nor magnanimity in woman, and that man is incapable of honor, bravery, justice and tenderness ­then the novelist may be called cynic.  He is not a wholesome writer, however acceptable for art or admirable for genius.  Nor will the mass of mankind believe in and love him.

Naturally we are here on ground where the personal equation influences judgment.  There can never be complete agreement.  Some readers, and excellent people they are, will always be offended by what they never tire of calling the worldly tone of Thackeray; to others, he will be as lovable in his view of life as he is amusing.  Speaking, then, merely for myself, it seems to me that for mature folk who have had some experience with humanity, Thackeray is a charming companion whose heart is as sound as his pen is incisive.  The very young as a rule are not ready for him and (so far as my observation goes) do not much care for him.  That his intention was to help the cause of kindness, truth and justice in the world is apparent.  It is late in the day to defend his way of crying up the good by a frank exhibition of the evil.  Good and bad are never confused by him, and Taine was right in calling him above all a moralist.  But being by instinct a realist too, he gave vent to his passion for truth-telling so far as he dared, in a day when it was far less fashionable to do this than it now is.  A remark in the preface to “Pendennis” is full of suggestion:  “Since the author of ’Tom Jones’ was buried, no writer of fiction among us has been permitted to depict to his utmost power a Man.  We must drape him and give him a certain conventional simper.  Society will not tolerate the Natural in our Art.”

It will not do to say (as is often said) that Thackeray could not draw an admirable or perfect woman.  If he did not leave us a perfect one, it was perhaps for the reason alleged to have been given by Mr. Howells when he was charged with the same misdemeanor:  he was waiting for the Lord to do it first!  But Thackeray does no injustice to the sex:  if Amelia be stupid (which is matter of debate), Helen Warrington is not, but rather a very noble creature built on a large plan:  whatever the small blemishes of Lady Castlewood she is indelible in memory for character and charm.  And so with others not a few.  Becky and Béatrix are merely the reverse of the picture.  And there is a similar balance in the delineation of men:  Colonel Newcome over against Captain Costigan, and many a couple more.  Thackeray does not fall into the mistake of making his spotted characters all-black.  Who does not find something likable in the Fotheringay and in the Campaigner?  Even a Barry Lyndon has the redeeming quality of courage.  And surely we adore Béatrix, with all her faults.  Major Pendennis is a thoroughgoing old worldling, but it is impossible not to feel a species of fondness for him.  Jos.  Sedley is very much an ass, but one’s smile at him is full of tolerance.  Yes, the worst of them all, the immortal Becky (who was so plainly liked by her maker) awakens sympathy in the reader when routed in her fortunes, black-leg though she be.  She cared for her husband, after her fashion, and she plays the game of Bad Luck in a way far from despicable.  Nor is that easy-going, commonplace scoundrel, Rawdon, with his dog-like devotion to the same Becky, denied his touch of higher humanity.  Behind all these is a large tolerance, an intellectual breadth, a spiritual comprehension that is merciful to the sinner, while never condoning the sin.  Thackeray is therefore more than story-teller or fine writer:  a sane observer of the Human Comedy; a satirist in the broad sense, devoting himself to revealing society to itself and for its instruction.  It is easy to use negations:  to say he did not know nor sympathize with the middle class nor the lower and outcast classes as did Dickens; that his interest was in peccadilloes and sins, not in courageous virtues:  and that he judged the world from a club window.  But this gets us nowhere and is aside from the critic’s chief business:  which is that of an appreciative explanation of his abiding power and charm.  This has now been essayed.  Thackeray was too great as man and artist not to know that it was his function to present life in such wise that while a pleasure of recognition should follow the delineation, another and higher pleasure should also result:  the surprising pleasure of beauty.  “Fiction,” he declared, “has no business to exist, unless it be more beautiful than reality,” And again:  “The first quality of an artist is to have a large heart.”  With which revelatory utterances may be placed part of the noble sentence closing “The Book of Snobs”:  “If fun is good, truth is better still, and love best of all.”  To read him with open mind is to feel assured that his works, taken in their entirety, reflect these humane sentiments.  It is a pity, therefore, for any reader of the best fiction, through intense appreciation of Dickens or for any other reason, to cut himself off from such an enlightening student of humanity and master of imaginative literature.