THACKERAY'S LAST STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 653, 4 June 1864, Page 1

THACKERAY'S LAST STORY.

The notice of Thackeray's death from the pen of Dickena caused a great rua upon the last number of the Cornhill Magazine : the beginning of the unfinished tale which he was writing for its. pages it pretty certain to, force up the circulation of this. Three chapters of it are given. It is titled "Denis Duval,"and takes an, autobiographic form. In treatment it affords a fine example of the author's 'best and most characteristic style — not eloquent, for he almost invariably refuses openings that invite to the display of rhetorical effects and the pomp of words, yet containing passages of great power and beauty —not enthusiastic, though we catch gleams of an ardent and poetical imagination— not remarkable for pictorial power, though there are incidental bits of picturesque description touched with* an exquisite delicacy and truth— but fall o$ novel views of astonishing insight, such as strike a discerning eye-like a flashof light* notwithstanding the calm and unpretead-. ing air with which they are presented; full also of a subdued pathos % and rich ia delicious causerug and in, those graceful caprices of language wherein he waa accustomed to combine that bold negligence which * makes simplicity a graoe," with, * Wide, deep, ''anii"weli-prdgortidned artei» comparison with which the efforts of some great masters of. the pen sink into the

worest trick. Denis Duval is the grandson rf a French Protestant couple who escape tothis country at the time of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. His mother has aYfoßter-sister, the wife of a Hugenot noblekbd, much older than herself, very sour aßdunamiable in temper, though sincerely attached to her. She is induced by one M. de la Motte to fly from, her home and lecome a Roman Catholic— fha excitement rf her position bringing oh insanity. Her inasband pursues her, ha 3 a "meeting" with De la Motte, and is shot in the heart. We give one extract : — 12TTLE DBNIB DUVAL AKD HI3 CHARGE.

I made a drole de metier at this time. I wt»tet by grandfather to learn his busi9C89. Our apprentice taught me the comBießcementoi the noble art of wig weaving. Mb soon as I was tall enough to stand to • gentleman's nose I was promised to be promoted to be a shaver. I trotted on Mother's . errands with her bandboxes, and w&at not ; and I was made dry nurse t» poor Madame'fl baby, who as I said, loved mt most, of all in the house, and who wooldput her little dimpled hands out end crow with delight to see me. The trot day I went out with this little baby m a little wheel chair mother got for her, 4be town boys made rare fun ot me, and I led to fight one, as poor little Agnes sat socking her little thumb in the chair, I •oppose; and whilst the battle was going aßj.who should come up but Doctor Barssra, the English rector of St Philip's, who lent us French Protestants the nave •f bis church for our service, whilst our finnbledowa old church was being mended. JJoetor Barnard (for a reason which I did sot know at that time, but which I am compelled to own now was a good one) iid not like grandfather, nor mother, nor •or family. You may be sure our people llrased him is return. He was called s haughty priest — " a " vilain beegveeg/'motner used to say, in her FrenchEnglish. And perhaps one of the causes •f her dislike to him was, that his bisvig —a fine cauliflower it was — was powdered si another barber's. Well, whilst the battle royal was" going on between me and TomCaffin (dear heart! how well IreBwmber the fellow, though, let me see, it fe fifty-four years since we punched each ethers little noses), Doctor Barnard walks mp to us boys and stops the fighting. **Tou little rogues! Til have you all put m th,e stocks and whipped by ray beadle," says the doctor, who was a magistrate too; *as for this little French barber, he is always in mischief." "They laughed at arc, and called me dry nurse, and wanted t» upset the little cart, Sir, and I wouldn't tear it. And it's my duty to protect a poor «bild that can't help itself," said I, very stoutly c "Her mother is ill. Her Bturse has run away, and she has aobody— nobody to protect her but me — and * Notre Pere gui est aux cieux:' " and I held my little hand as grandfather wed to do ; " and if those boys hurt the t&fld I will fight for her." The doctor jabbed his hand across his eyes ; and he felt in his pocket and gave me a dollar. "And come to see us all at the Rectory, child," Mrs Barnard says, who was with the doctor; and she looked at the little fcaby that was in its cot, and said, " Poor 'Bung, poor thing 1" And the doctor, tuning round to the English boys, still holdig me by the hand, said, " Mind, all you Boys ! If I hear of you being such cowards again as to whip this little lad for doing Ire duty,, I will have, you whipped by my beadle, as sure as my name is Thomas Barnard. Shake hands you Thomas .Caffin, with the French boy ;" and I said, u l would jshake, hands or fight it out whenever" Tom Caffin liked ;" and so took my place as pony again, and pulled my little cart down Sandgate.