As we are disposed to be not altogether sympathetic with a detective policeman who shall have spent a jolly night with a delinquent, for the sake of tracing home the suspected guilt to his late comrade, so are some disposed to be almost angry with our author, who seems to be too much at home with his rascals, and to live with them on familiar terms till we doubt whether he does not forget their rascality.

_Barry Lyndon_ is the strongest example we have of this style of the ludicrous, and the critics of whom I speak have thought that our friendly relations with Barry have been too genial, too apparently genuine, so that it might almost be doubtful whether during the narrative we might not, at this or the other crisis, be rather with him than against him.

"After all," the reader might say, on coming to that passage in which Barry defends his trade as a gambler,--a passage which I have quoted in speaking of the novel,--"after all, this man is more hero than scoundrel;" so well is the burlesque humour maintained, so well does the scoundrel hide his own villany.

I can easily understand that to some it should seem too long drawn out.

To me it seems to be the perfection of humour,--and of philosophy.