The places with which Thackeray was personally associated are more
interesting, perhaps, than the scenes of his novels. In 1834, he lived
in Albion street, near Hyde Park Gardens, and it was there that he, a
young man of twenty-three, began to contribute to _Fraser’s Magazine_.
In 1837, then newly married, he lived in Great Coram street, close by the
Foundling Hospital. As I have stated, he had chambers at No. 10, Crown
Office Row, in the Temple, and at No. 88, St. James’s street, both of
which buildings are now demolished. When he had become a successful
author, he lived in Brompton and Kensington, and at the latter place, to
which he was greatly attached, he died. He was at No. 36, Onslow Square,
Brompton, when he unsuccessfully offered himself as member of Parliament
for Oxford, and two years later, when he began to discover the thorns in
the editorial cushion of the _Cornhill Magazine_. Mr. James Hodder, his
private secretary, has given us an interesting glimpse of him as he was
while in Onslow Square:—
“Duty called me to his bed-chamber every morning, and as a general
rule I found him up and ready to begin work, though he was sometimes
in doubt and difficulty as to whether he should commence sitting, or
standing, or walking, or lying down. Often he would light a cigar,
and, after pacing the room for a few minutes, would put the unsmoked
remnant on the mantel-piece and resume his work with increased
cheerfulness, as if he gathered fresh inspiration from the gentle
odours of the sublime tobacco.”
Little wonder that he liked Kensington. It is the pleasantest of the
many pleasant London suburbs. Though it is not four miles from Charing
Cross, to which it is knitted by continuous streets and houses, it is
like a thriving country town, old-fashioned, but prosperous, with shops
as brilliant and as well stocked as those of Regent street, and with many
evidences of antiquity, but none of decay. There are lofty new buildings
and old ones, behind the modernized fronts of which you can see leaded
dormer windows, angular chimney-pots, and bowed-down roofs of red tiles.
There are many weather-worn but splendid mansions shut within their own
high walls, and some in less sequestered gardens. The place is famous
for its fine old trees and open spaces of verdure. Holland House is
here, and the palace in which Queen Victoria was born, with the beautiful
and deeply wooded gardens adjoining Hyde Park. The inhabitants of the
old suburb have had many illustrious persons among them; and Thackeray is
one of those best and most affectionately remembered.
His tall, commanding figure was often seen in the old High street, moving
along erect, with a firm, stately tread, though his dress was somewhat
careless and loose-fitting; his large, candid face was serious and almost
severe as he walked on engaged in meditation, but, being awakened from
his reverie by the voice of a friend, a glad smile quickly overspread it
and illuminated it. He had many friends among his neighbors, and often
sat down to dinner with them. He attended regularly the nine o’clock
services in the old parish church on Sunday mornings.
From 1847 to 1853, Thackeray lived in the bay-windowed house known as the
“Cottage,” at No. 13 (now No. 16) Young street, and in it _Vanity Fair_,
_Esmond_, and _Pendennis_ were written. There are few houses in the
great city which possess a more brilliant record than this. Most of his
work was done in a second-story room, overlooking an open space of
gardens and orchards; and the gentleman who at present occupies the house
has placed an entablature under the window commemorating the genius that
has consecrated it. Between the dates, 1847 and 1853, the initials W. M.
T. are grouped in a monogram in the centre of the entablature, and in the
border the names of _Vanity Fair_, _Esmond_, and _Pendennis_, are
inscribed. Just across the street Miss Thackeray (Mrs. Ritchie) now
lives, in full view of her old home, and in her charming novel _Old
__Kensington_, she affectionately calls Young street “dear old street!”
There is no doubt that the happiest years of Thackeray’s life were spent
in the old, bow-windowed cottage. {99}
I have talked with many persons who knew him intimately, and under
various circumstances. All speak of him in one way,—of his gentleness,
his kindliness, his sincerity, and his generosity. “That man had the
heart of a woman!” fervidly said one who was his next-door neighbour for
several years. This gentleman, Dr. J. J. Merriman, whose family have
lived in Kensington Square since 1794, possesses a number of valuable
souvenirs of the great author, including some unpublished letters, in one
of which Thackeray regrets that he has not seen the doctor for some time,
and characteristically adds: “I wish _Vanity Fair_ were not so big or we
performers in it so busy; then we might see each other and shake hands
once in a year or so.” On one occasion the doctor begged him to write
his name in a copy of _Vanity Fair_ which Thackeray had given him, and
the latter not only did this, but made an exquisite little drawing on the
title-page, than which the book could not have a more suggestive or
appropriate frontispiece. A little boy and girl are seated on the
ground, one blowing bubbles and the other hugging a doll, while behind
them looms up the portentous mile-stone of life.
The “dear old street,” as Miss Thackeray calls it, ends in Kensington
Square, which is full of old houses, to each of which some historic
interest belongs. The square was built in the latter part of the
seventeenth century, and in one of the old houses Lady Castlewood,
Beatrice, and Colonel Esmond lived, and there sheltered the reckless and
unscrupulous Pretender. {101}
In 1853, Thackeray left Kensington and went to live in Onslow Square,
Brompton; but he came back to the old court suburb in 1861, and occupied
the fine new house which he had built for himself in the Palace Gardens.
It is the second house on the west side of the street, a substantial
mansion of red brick, adjoining a much more picturesque and older house
covered with ivy; and it was here that he died suddenly on December 24,
1863, in the room at the south-east corner of the second story. The last
time that I saw it, an auctioneer’s flag was hung out, and the broker’s
men were playing billiards in the lofty northern extension which
Thackeray built for a library, and in which he wrote _Denis Duval_.
Thackeray was buried in Kensal Green cemetery in the north-west of
London, and was followed to the grave by Dickens, Browning, Millais,
Trollope, and many who knew the goodness of the soul that had been called
away. Kensal Green is as unattractive as a burial ground could be. It
is like a prison-yard, with few trees, and inclosed by high brick walls.
But its numerous tenantry include many who have worked faithfully and
well in literature and art; and surrounded by the memorials of these is
one of the simplest tombstones in the place, inscribed with two dates and
the name of William Makepeace Thackeray.