just limits are-how far its poisonous purlieus reach--how much of the
world's air is tainted by it, is a question which every thoughtful man
will ask himself, with a shudder, and look sadly around, to answer. If
the sentimental objectors rally again to the charge, and declare that,
if we wish to improve the world, its virtuous ambition must be piqued
and stimulated by making the shining heights of "the ideal" more
radiant; we reply, that none shall surpass us in honoring the men
whose creations of beauty inspire and instruct mankind. But if they
benefit the world, it is no less true that a vivid apprehension of the
depths into which we are sunken or may sink, nerves the soul's courage
quite as much as the alluring mirage of the happy heights we may
attain. "To hold the mirror up to Nature," is still the most potent
method of shaming sin and strengthening virtue.

If "Vanity Fair" is a satire, what novel of society is not? Are
"Vivian Grey," and "Pelham," and the long catalogue of books
illustrating English, or the host of Balzacs, Sands, Sues, and Dumas,
that paint French society, any less satires? Nay, if you should catch
any dandy in Broadway, or in Pall-Mall, or upon the Boulevards, this
very morning, and write a coldly true history of his life and actions,
his doings and undoings, would it not be the most scathing and
tremendous satire?--if by satire you mean the consuming melancholy of
the conviction, that the life of that pendant to a moustache, is an
insult to the possible life of a man?

We have read of a hypocrisy so thorough, that it was surprised you
should think it hypocritical; and we have bitterly thought of the
saying, when hearing one mother say of another mother's child, that
she had "made a good match," because the girl was betrothed to a
stupid boy whose father was rich. The remark was the key of our