Is this the assembled flower of manhood and womanhood, called "best
society," and to see which is so envied a privilege? If such are the
elements, can we be long in arriving at the present state, and
necessary future condition of parties?

"Vanity Fair," is peculiarly a picture of modern society. It aims at
English follies, but its mark is universal, as the madness is. It is
called a satire, but after much diligent reading, we cannot discover
the satire. A state of society not at all superior to that of "Vanity
Fair" is not unknown to our experience; and, unless truth-telling be
satire; unless the most tragically real portraiture be satire; unless
scalding tears of sorrow, and the bitter regret of a manly mind over
the miserable spectacle of artificiality, wasted powers, misdirected
energies, and lost opportunities, be satirical; we do not find satire
in that sad story. The reader closes it with a grief beyond tears. It
leaves a vague apprehension in the mind, as if we should suspect the
air to be poisoned. It suggests the terrible thought of the
enfeebling of moral power, and the deterioration of noble character,
as a necessary consequence of contact with "society." Every man looks
suddenly and sharply around him, and accosts himself and his
neighbors, to ascertain if they are all parties to this
corruption. Sentimental youths and maidens, upon velvet sofas, or in
calf-bound libraries, resolve that it is an insult to human
nature--are sure that their velvet and calf-bound friends are not like
the dramatis personae of "Vanity Fair," and that the drama is
therefore hideous and unreal. They should remember, what they
uniformly and universally forget, that we are not invited, upon the
rising of the curtain to behold a cosmorama, or picture of the world,
but a representation of that part of it called Vanity Fair. What its