"I own, for my part, that in reading papers which this hand
formerly penned, I often lose sight of the text under my eyes. It
is not the words I see, but that past day, that by-gone page of
life's history, that tragedy--comedy it may be--which our little
home company were enacting, that merry-making which we shared, that
funeral which we followed, that bitter, bitter grief which we
buried."
That he should live much in that vanished past, was but natural; yet it
was hard for a man like Thackeray, who had naturally such great capacity
for the enjoyment of life.
That his home was a pleasant and goodly place, all who have ever visited
it bear witness. He made it his refuge from all outer troubles, and
practised a genial and kindly hospitality there. It was a long time
before he was able to buy a house, though he made a good deal of money
from his books, his free-handed generous ways always keeping him back
financially; but when he was enabled to buy one, he took great pride and
pleasure in it, and decorated it according to his artistic tastes. To
make a little more money for his daughters, that they might be
independent when he was gone, he began lecturing, and was twice induced
to come to America for that purpose, much as he dreaded leaving home,
and especially crossing the ocean.
His speech at the farewell dinner given him before leaving for America
the last time, expressed this dread in a very comical manner, and was
received with great cheering and uproar. "I have before me," he said,
"at this minute the horrid figure of a steward with a basin perhaps, or
a glass of brandy and water, which he will press me to drink, and which
I shall try to swallow, and which won't make me any better. I know it
won't." This with a grimace which put the whole table in a roar. Then he
went on to tell of the last dinners given to criminals and convicts, and
how they were allowed always to choose what they would have, in a manner
so droll that all thought him in the happiest mood, while he was
scarcely able to keep up, so sad was his heart at the prospect of
leaving home. Next morning, we are told by a spectator, "he had been
round crying in corners; and when the cab finally came, and the luggage
had all been bestowed, and the servants stood in the hall, 'This is the
moment I have dreaded,' said Thackeray, as he entered the dining-room to
embrace his daughters, and when he hastily descended the steps to the
door, he knew that they would be at the window to cast one loving,
lingering look. 'Good-by,' he murmured in a suppressed tone, 'keep close
behind me, and try to let me jump in unseen.' The instant the door of
the vehicle closed behind him, he threw himself back in the corner, and
buried his face in his hands."
His allusion to his little girls, in the poem of "The White Squall," is
well known, and shows how constantly he had them in his thoughts:--
"And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea,
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me."
His love for these little girls, to whom he felt he must be both father
and mother, gave him unusual tenderness for all children, and he once
said he never could see a boy without wanting to give him a sovereign.
This he did very often too in England, where children, like servants,
are allowed to receive "tips" from their parents' friends; and when in
this country he felt it quite a hardship that the children of his
friends were not allowed to take his money.
His American visits afforded him much pleasure--and profit too; and he
always spoke kindly of us after his return. His light way of expressing
his feeling towards us was extremely characteristic, as when he said he
hoped he should never be guilty of speaking ill either of the North or
the South, as he had been offered equally good claret by both. His
frequent allusions to eating and drinking give the idea of a much more
convivial person than he really was; he was temperate in both, but he
loved to write of these things. In the "Memorials of Gormandizing," he
writes in the most appetizing manner of all the good dinners he has
eaten in many lands. Each dinner is an epic of the table. They make one
hungry with an inappeasable hunger, and make him long to have Thackeray
at his own board as a most appreciative guest. He was quite a diner-out
in London, and a great favorite wherever he went. He was not one of the
professional talkers, but always had one or two good things to say,
which he did not repeat until they were stereotyped, as so many do.
Though he said witty things now and then, he was not a wit in the sense
that Jerrold was. He shone most in little subtle remarks on life, little
off-hand sketches of character, and descriptive touches of men and
things. He could be uproariously funny on occasion, and even sing his
"Jolly Doctor Luther" at table to a congenial company; but he was often
very dignified, and always gentlemanly. The bits of doggerel with which
he was wont to diversify his conversation are spoken of by all his
friends as irresistibly ludicrous, and he seems to have indulged in
this pastime from a boy, as he did in those of caricaturing and
parodying. Mr. Fields tells us that--
"In the midst of the most serious topic under discussion he was
fond of asking permission to sing a comic song, or he would beg to
be allowed to enliven the occasion by the instant introduction of a
double shuffle. . . . During his first visit to America his jollity
knew no bounds, and it became necessary often to repress him when
walking in the street. I well remember his uproarious shouting and
dancing when he was told that the tickets to his first course of
readings were all sold; and when we rode together from his hotel to
the lecture-hall, he insisted on thrusting both his long legs out
of the carriage window, in deference, as he said, to his
magnanimous ticket-holders."
Some of his fun was a little embarrassing to his friends, as when Mr.
Fields had taken him to the meeting of a scientific club at the house of
a distinguished Boston gentlemen, and Thackeray, being bored by the
proceedings, stole into a little anteroom, where he thought no one could
see him but his friend, and proceeded to give vent to his feelings in
pantomime.
"He threw an imaginary person (myself, of course) upon the floor,
and proceeded to stab him several times with a paper-folder which
he caught up for that purpose. After disposing of his victim in
this way, he was not satisfied, for the dull lecture still went on
in the other room, and he fired an imaginary revolver several times
at an imaginary head; still the droning speaker proceeded; and now
began the greatest pantomimic scene of all, namely, murder by
poison, after the manner in which the player King is disposed of in
'Hamlet.' Thackeray had found a small phial on the mantel-shelf and
out of it he proceeded to pour the imaginary 'juice of cursed
hebenon' into the imaginary porches of somebody's ears. The whole
thing was inimitably done, and I hoped nobody saw it but myself;
but years afterwards a ponderous fat-witted young man put the
question squarely to me: 'What _was_ the matter with Mr. Thackeray
that night the club met at M----'s house?'"
Thackeray's playfulness was indeed a marked peculiarity, and innumerable
stories are told of his dancing pirouettes, singing impromptu songs, and
rhyming a whole company to their infinite amusement. Each one of his
personal friends, in talking of him, says, "But if you could only have
heard him" at such a time; but of course no one can repeat such
unpremeditated jests, and the flavor is gone from them when any one
tries to do so. He was the life of the clubs he frequented, and spent
much time in them and at theatres, of which he was passionately fond.
His duties as a man of fashion took much of his time, and his friends
were always wondering when he wrote his books. Much of the jollity and
boyish hilarity of his life in society was a rebound from the strain of
these books. He was wont to live much, as did Dickens, in the creations
of his fancy, and sometimes his emotional nature became overwrought in
his work. Mr. Underwood tells us:--
"One day while the great novel of 'The Newcomes' was in course of
publication, Lowell, who was then in London, met Thackeray on the
street. The novelist was serious in manner, and his looks and voice
told of weariness and affliction. He saw the kindly inquiry in the
poet's eyes, and said, 'Come into Evans's and I'll tell you all
about it. _I have killed the Colonel!_' So they walked in and took
a table in a remote corner; and then Thackeray, drawing the fresh
manuscript from his breast-pocket, read through that exquisitely
touching chapter which records the death of Colonel Newcome. When
he came to the final _Adsum_, the tears which had been swelling his
lids for some time trickled down his face, and the last word was
almost an inarticulate sob."
Thackeray's sensibility was really extreme, and he could not read
anything pathetic without actual discomfort,--never could get through
"The Bride of Lammermoor," for instance,--and would not listen to any
sad tales of suffering in real life if he could escape them. If he did
hear of any one in want or distress, he relieved his feelings by
instantly appropriating to their use all the money he found himself in
possession of at the time. When he was editor of the "Cornhill
Magazine," this soft-heartedness was a great drawback to him. He was
always paying for contributions he could not use, if they were sent, as
so many are, with some pitiful tale accompanying; and was always wasting
his valuable time by writing to poor creatures about their dreary
verses, which there was no hope of his being able to improve. When quite
young, he loaned--or rather gave, though he called it a loan--three
hundred pounds to poor old Maginn, when he was beaten in the battle of
life and lay in the Fleet Prison. But he denied this act with the utmost
vehemence when accused of it, and berated the old fellow in a laborious
manner for having been beaten when he should have fought on. Indeed, he
was very much ashamed of his soft-heartedness always, and would
oftentimes bluster and appear very fierce when appealed to for
assistance.
Anthony Trollope tells a story about going to him one day and telling
him of the straits to which a mutual friend was reduced.
"'Do you mean to say that I am to find two thousand pounds?' he
said angrily, with some expletives. I explained that I had not even
suggested the doing of anything,--only that we might discuss the
matter. Then there came over his face a peculiar smile, and a wink
in his eye, and he whispered his suggestion, as if ashamed of his
meanness. 'I'll go half,' he said, 'if anybody will do the rest.'
And he did go half at a day or two's notice. I could tell various
stories of the same kind."
These things were not easy for him to do; for he was never a rich man,
and he had constant calls upon his charity. He kept a small floating
fund always in circulation among his poorer acquaintances; and when one
returned it to him he passed it to another, never considering it as his
own but for the use of the unfortunate. He liked to disguise his
charities as jokes,--as filling a pill-box with gold pieces and sending
it to a needy friend, with the inscription, "To be taken one at a time,
as needed;" and various devices of this kind. He was as generous of his
praise as of his money, and always had a good word for his literary
friends. His fine tribute to Macaulay will be remembered, and his praise
of Washington Irving, of Charlotte Bronte, and many others. While he had
an exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, he had an
almost equally exaggerated sympathy for the joys and sorrows of
individuals; and much of the scorn which he gives to humanity
collectively may be taken as a sort of vent to his feelings when he is
ashamed of having been too foolishly weak in dealing with some of these
fellow-mortals in real life.
He never encouraged his companions in being cynical, but always
encouraged them in admiration. "I am glad he worships anybody," he said,
when some friends were satirizing an absent companion for his devotion
to a great man. Neither would he encourage any unkind talk about the
absent, or laugh at any good hit which was aimed at a friend. "You
fiend!" he said to a friend who was laughing over a sharp attack on an
acquaintance, and he refused to read or hear a word of it. Indeed, for
steadfast loyalty to his friends, his equal has seldom been seen. He
made common cause with them in everything, and nothing so enraged him as
treachery or deceit among friends.
He was a man of aristocratic feeling, and resented familiarity. He was
also in general a reserved man, and allowed few people really to know
him. He had a surface nature which was all his mere acquaintances knew.
Even his friends were long in finding him out. Douglas Jerrold was once
heard to say, "I have known Thackeray eighteen years, and I don't know
him yet;" and this was the case with the majority of his friends. His
great griefs he kept closely within his own heart, and the more serious
side of his nature was all hidden from the world as much as he could
hide it. Those who read between the lines discovered it in his books,
and those who looked deeply enough into human nature found it in the
man, but superficial observers saw only the mocking man of the world.
When suddenly observed, his face always had a sad, grave aspect, and it
was often hard for him to throw off this seriousness and to put on his
harlequin's mask. Upon religious matters he was always reticent, but
reverent. Only upon rare occasions would he discuss serious subjects at
all, and only with a chosen few. In one letter which has been published
he departs from his usual custom and writes:--
"I never feel pity for a man dying, only for survivors if there be
such passionately deploring him. You see the pleasures the
undersigned proposes to himself here in future years,--a sight of
the Alps, a holiday on the Rhine, a ride in the Park, a colloquy
with pleasant friends of an evening. If it is death to part with
these delights (and pleasures they are, and no mistake), sure the
mind can conceive others afterward; and I know one small
philosopher who is quite ready to give up these pleasures,--quite
content (after a pang or two of separation from dear friends here)
to put his hand into that of the summoning angel, and say, 'Lead
on, O messenger of God our Father, to the next place whither the
divine goodness calls us.' We must be blindfolded before we can
pass, I know; but I have no fear about what is to come, any more
than my children need fear that the love of _their_ father should
fail them. I thought myself a dead man once, and protest the notion
gave me no disquiet about myself,--at least the philosophy is more
comfortable than that which is tinctured with brimstone."
He hated those who make a stock in trade of their religion, and, like
Dr. Johnson, would have advised them to clear their minds of cant; but
no genuine evidence of religious feeling or experience was ever treated
lightly by him, and he was greatly shocked at any real desecration of
sacred things. He had a simple, childlike faith in God and in the
Saviour, and a firm hope in the everlasting life.
In person, Thackeray was a tall, ruddy, simple-looking Englishman, with
rather a full face, florid, almost rubicund, and keen, kindly eyes, and,
after forty, abundant gray hair. He had a conspicuous, almost a
commanding figure, with a certain awkwardness in his gait. He had a
misshaped nose, caused by an accident in boyhood, and a sarcastic
twinkle oftentimes in his eyes, which changed the expression of his
whole face.
He dressed well, but unpretendingly, and his voice and manner were
always courteous and cordial. He smiled easily, and had a humorous look
when not oppressed with sadness, which was often the case in later life.
He died suddenly in middle life, leaving, like Dickens, an unfinished
novel in the press. No other literary man, save perhaps Macaulay, has
been mourned as Thackeray was mourned. There was universal sorrow for
his premature loss, and great personal grief among his friends.
Twenty-three years have passed since that time, and no successor has
arisen to repay the world for that loss. When the curtain fell upon
Becky Sharpe and Beatrix, upon Ethel Newcome and the good Colonel, upon
Laura and Pendennis, upon Esmond and Warrington, and upon all the deeply
studied characters of his mimic stage, that curtain fell to rise no more
upon such creatures as his hands had made. He will have no successor. He
is the One, the Only. Such pathos, such wit, such wisdom, will not dawn
upon us again--in time.
When he wrote Finis for the last time at the close of one of those
matchless volumes, it was an epoch closed in the history of literature.
When the recording angel wrote Finis at the close of that sad and weary
but bravely spent and useful life, it was a sad day for the world of
men, who will not look upon his like again. Who that felt a love for the
writer and the man could fail to rejoice that the end was quick and
painless? One of our own poets has well described the scene:--
"The angel came by night
(Such angels still come down),
And like a winter cloud
Passed over London Town,
Along its lonesome streets,
Where want had ceased to weep,
Until it reached a house
Where a great man lay asleep;
The man of all his time
Who knew the most of men,--
The soundest head and heart,
The sharpest, kindest pen.
It paused beside his bed
And whispered in his ear;
He never turned his head,
But answered, 'I am here.'
Into the night they went;
At morning, side by side,
They gained the sacred place
Where the greatest dead abide;
Where grand old Homer sits,
In godlike state benign;
Where broods in endless thought
The awful Florentine;
Where sweet Cervantes walks,
A smile on his grave face;
Where gossips quaint Montaigne,
The wisest of his race;
Where Goethe looks through all
With that calm eye of his;
Where--little seen, but light--
The only Shakspeare is!
When the new spirit came,
They asked him, drawing near,
'Art thou become like us?'
He answered, 'I am here.'"
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