THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FROM THE LIBRARY OF JIM TULLY GIFT OF MRS. JIM TULLY Mm. Brook'fichl Fnitit II ilrairiny by Tltdrkerity LETTERS OF THACKERAY TO MRS. BROOKFIELD MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS SKETCHES AND REVIEWS DRAWINGS AND CARICATURES NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1911 Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons NOTE The collection here reprinted of Letters of Thackeray to Mrs. Jane Octavia Brookfield, her husband the Reverend William H. Brookfield, and one or two other friends, was first published by Mrs. Brookfield in Scribner's Magazine, April to October, 1887. Its his- tory is sufficiently indicated in Mrs. Brookfield's few words of introduction, and the original publication was accompanied by the following note to her from Lady Ritchie : 36a Rosary Gardens, Herfford Square, S. W. April 28. My dear Mrs. Brookfield: I am very glad to hear that you have made a satisfactory ar- rangement for publishing your selections from my Father's let- ters. I am of course unable myself by his expressed wish to do anything of the sort. While I am glad to be spared the doubts and difficulties of such a work, I have often felt sorry to think that no one should ever know more of him. You know better than anyone what we should like said or unsaid, and what he would have wished; so that I am very glad to think you have undertaken the work, and am always your affectionate Anne Ritchie. A note by the editor of the magazine explained that the chronological order had been retained regardless ■^ 833216 of the letters' relative importance; that the dates when certain were printed in Roman type — when conjectural, in italics within brackets ; and that assistance in deciding upon these latter dates, with some annotation additional to Mrs. Brookfield's, had been kindly given by Mr. James Russell Lowell. The arrangement was in every respect retained on the issue of the Letters in book form by the publishers of the magazine in the autumn of 1887, and is here preserved, no reason having since arisen to change the conjectural dates or the order. Mrs. Brookfield died in London November 27, 1896. The frontispiece of this volume is from one of sev- eral of Thackeray's drawings of her published with the letters, and dating presumably from about 1847. The Miscellaneous Essays, Sketches and Reviews here collected, with a few others already printed in Vol- ume XXIV and elsewhere, formed a volume added in 1886 to the 1869 edition of Thackeray's works. Some of them had not been at first included in that edition because he was known not to have attached to them the value of permanence — a severer judgment, which his publishers and representatives rightly said, in their announcement of the volume, it was perhaps better to revise ; some had apparently been overlooked, especially among his earlier work. In every case, the original place and date of publication of a paper are given at its end. VI CONTENTS FAGE Letters 1 Index to Letters 193 CRITICAL REVIEWS Fashnable Fax and Polite Annygoats 199 Jerome Paturot; with Considerations on Novels in General 213 Grant in Paris 234 A Box OF Novels 256 A New Spirit of the Age 287 Barmecide Banquets, with Joseph Bregion and Anne Miller 300 A Brother of the Press on the History of a Lit- erary Man, Laman Blanchard, and the Chances OF THE Literary Profession 322 Strictures on Pictures 343 A Second Lecture on the Fine Arts 360 A Pictorial Rhapsody 380 A Pictorial Rhapsody: concluded 413 On Men and Pictures 444 May Gambols 478 Picture Gossip 519 vii viii CONTENTS VARIOUS ESSAYS, LETTERS, SKETCHES, ETC. PAOB Memorials of Gormandising 551 Men and Coats 589 Greenwich-Whitebait 614 A Leaf out of a Sketch-Book 625 The Dignity of Literature 633 Mr. Thackeray in the United States 640 Goethe in his Old Age 648 TiMBUCTOO 653 DRAWINGS AND CARICATURES LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Mrs. Brookfield Frontispiece From a drawing by Thackeray FACING PAGE Drawing by Thackeray in Water-Colour and Pencil (Mrs. Brookfield) 22 From a Drawing by Thackeray in the Possession of Mrs. Brookfield 44 In the Nursery at Clevedon Court 68 Clevedon Church 74 Note Sent by Thackeray to Mrs. Elliot .... 78 A Note and Sketch Sent by Thackeray to Mrs. Elliot, in the Possession of Miss Kate Perry . . 100 Drawing by Thackeray in Mrs. Brookfield's Posses- sion (Perhaps Lady Castlereagh ?) 122 Memorial Tablets to Arthur and Henry Hallam in Clevedon Church 138 Sketch by Thackeray, Belonging to Mrs. Brook- field 146 From a Letter to Mrs. Elliot, in the Possession of Her Sister, Miss Kate Perry 150 In the School-room, Clevedon Court 156 Sketch by Thackeray. (His Daughters and Major and Mrs. Carmichael Smyth.) In Mrs. Brook- field's Possession 162 LETTERS \ INTRODUCTION "ly^TO writer of recent times is so much quoted as "^ ^ Thackeray ; scarcety a week passes without his name recurring in one or other of the leading articles of the day; and yet whilst his published works retain their influence so firmly, the personal impression of his life and conversation becomes more and more shadowy and indistinct as the friends who knew and loved him the most are gradually becoming fewer and passing away. Thackeray's nature was essentially modest and re- tiring. More than once it appears that he had desired his daughter to publish no memoir of him. Mrs. Ritchie, who alone could do justice to her Father's memory, and who has inherited the true woman's share of his genius, and of the tender and perceptive sympathy of his character, has ever held this injunction sacred, even to the extent of withholding all his letters to his family from publication. Yet it happens from time to time that some chance letters of doubtful authenticity, and 4 INTRODUCTION others utterly spurious, have appeared in print, and have even perhaps found acceptance amongst those who, knowing him only by his published works, were without the true key for distinguishing what was genuine from what was simply counterfeit. The letters which form this collection were most of them written by Mr. Thackeray to my husband, the late Rev'd W. H. Brookfield, and myself, from about 1847, and continuing during many years of intimate friendship, beginning from the time when he first lived in London, and when he especially needed our sympathy. His happy married life had been broken up by the malady which fell upon his young wife after the birth of her youngest child ; his two remaining little girls were under his mother's care, at Paris. Mr. Thackeray was living alone in London. " Vanity Fair " was not yet written when these letters begin. His fame was not yet established in the world at large; but amongst his close personal friends, an undoubting belief in his genius had already become strongly rooted. No one earlier than my dear gifted husband adopted and proclaimed this new faith. The letters now so informally collected to- gether are not a consecutive series ; but they have always been carefully preserved with sincere affection by those to whom they were written. Some of them are here INTRODUCTION 5 given without the omission of a word; others are ex- tracts from communications of a more private character ; but if every one of these letters from Thackeray could be rightly made public, without the slightest restriction, they would all the more redound to his honour. Jane Octavia Brookfield. 29 Carlyle Square, Chelsea [1886]. [Jan. 1847.] [To Mr. Brookfield.] My Dear W. : There will be no dinner at Greenwich on Monday. Dickens has chosen that day for a reconciliation banquet between Forster and me. Is madame gone and is she better? My heart follows her respectfully to Devonshire and the dismal scenes of my youth. I am being brought to bed of my seventh darling with inexpressible throes: and dine out every day until Jiiice knows when. I will come to you on Sunday night if you like— though stop, why shouldn't you, after church, come and sleep out here in the country? Yours, Jos. OSBORN. 7 8 LETTERS OF THACKERAY [August, 1847.] ITo Mr. Brookfield.] LE DiMANCHE. jNIonsieur l'Abbe: De retour de Gravesend j 'ai trouve chez moi un billet de M. Crowe, qui m'invite a diner demain a 6 heures precises a Ampstead. En meme temps M. Crowe m'a envoye une lettre pour vous,— ne vous trouvant pas a votre ancien logement (ou I'adresse de I'horrible bouge ou vous demeurez ac- tuellement est heureusement ignoree) — force fut a M. Crowe de s'adresser a moi— a moi qui connais I'ignoble caveau que vous occupez indignement, sous les dalles humides d'une eglise deserte, dans le voisinage fetide de fourmillants Irlandais. Cette lettre, Monsieur, dont je parle — cette lettre — je I'ai laissee a la maison. Demain il sera trop tard de vous faire part de I'aimable invitation de notre ami commun. Je remplis enfin mon devoir en vers M. Crowe en vous faisant savoir ses intentions hospitalieres a votre egard. Et je vous quitte. Monsieur, en vous donnant les assur- ances reiterees de ma haute consideration. Chevalier de Titmarsh. J'ofFre a Madame I'Abbesse mes hommages respec- tueux. 1847. [To Mr. Brook field.] My Dear old B.: Can you come and dine on Thursday at six? I shall be at home— no party— nothing— only me. And about LETTERS OF THACKERAY 9 your night-cap, why not come out for a day or two, though the rooms are very comfortable in the Church vaults.^ Farewell. Ever your Louisa. (And Madam, is she well?) [1847.] [Enclosing the following note.'] Temple, 8 Nov. My Dear Thackeray: A thousand thanks. It will do admirably, and I will not tax you again in the same manner. Don't get ner- vous or think about criticism, or trouble yourself about the opinions of friends; you have completely beaten Dickens out of the inner circle already. I dine at Gore House to-day ; look in if you can. Ever yours, A. H. ^Iadam : Although I am certainly committing a breach of con- fidence, I venture to offer my friend up to you, because you have considerable humour, and I think will possibly ^ In this Letter, and elsewhere, reference is made to my husband's living in the " church vaults." Our income at this time •ws.?. very small, and a long illness had involved us in some difficulty. Mr. Brookfield's aversion to debt and his firm rectitude of principle decided him to give up our lodgings, and to remove by himself into the vestry of his District Church, which was situated in a very squalid neighborhood. Here he could live rent free, and in the midst of his parish work, whilst he sent me to stay with my dear father, the late Sir Charles Elton, at Clevedon Court, for the recovery of my health. At this juncture our circumstances gradually brightened. Mr. Thackeray, my uncle, Mr. Hallam, and other friends interested themselves towards obtaining better preferment for Mr. Brookfield, whose great ability and high character were brought to the notice of Lord Lansdowne, then President of the Council, and head of the Education Department. He appointed Mr. Brookfield to be one of H. M. Inspectors of Schools, an employment which was very congenial to him. Our difficulties were then removed, and we were able to' establish ourselves in a comfortable house in Portman Street, to which so many of these letters are addressed. 10 LETTERS OF THACKERAY laugh at him. You know you yourself often hand over some folks to some other folks, and deserve to be treated as you treat others. The circumstances arose of a letter which H sent me, containing prodigious compliments. I answered that these praises from all quarters frightened me rather than elated me, and sent him a drawing for a lady's al- bum, with a caution not to ask for any more, hence the reply. Ah! Madame, how much richer truth is than fiction, and how great that phrase about the " inner cir- cle " is. I write from the place from which I heard your little voice last night, I mean this morning, at who knows how much o'clock. I wonder whether you will laugh as much as I do ; my papa in the next room must think me insane, but I am not, and am of Madame, the Serviteur and Frere affectionne. W. M. T. [1847.] [To Mr. Brookfield,] My dear W. H. B.: I daresay you are disgusted at my not coming to the houge, on Sunday night, but there was a good reason, which may be explained if required hereafter. And I had made up my account for some days at Southampton, hoping to start this day, but there is another good reason for staying at home. Poor old grandmother's will, bur- ial &c., detained me in town. Did you see her death in the paper? Why I write now, is to beg, and implore, and intreat that you and Mrs. Brookfield will come and take these LETTERS OF THACKERAY 11 three nice little rooms here, and stop with me until you have found other lodgment. It will be the very great- est comfort and kindness to me, and I shall take it quite hungry if you don't come. Will you come on Saturday now ? the good things you shall have for dinner are quite incredible. I have got a box of preserved apricots from Fortnum and Mason's which alone ought to make any lady happy, and two shall be put under my lady's pil- low every night. Now do come— and farewell. My barb is at the postern. I have had him clipped and his effect in the Park is quite tremenjus. JIkU U m Uuiu, Ium [a^ pJLnJ tlKKi, UiM-. Brussels, Friday [28 July], 1848. I have just had a dreadful omen. Somebody gave me a paper-knife with a mother of pearl blade and a beauti- 12 LETTERS OF THACKERAY ful Silver handle. Annie recognised it in a minute, lying upon my dressing table, with a " Here's Mrs. So and So's butter knife." I suppose she cannot have seen it above twice, but that child remembers everything. Well, this morning, being fairly on my travels, and having the butter knife in my desk, I thought I would begin to cut open a book I had bought, never having as yet had occasion to use it. The moment I tried, the blade broke away from the beautiful handle. What does this portend? It is now— [here drawing] There is a blade and there is a hilt, but they refuse to act together. Some- thing is going to happen I am sure. I took leave of my family on Sunday, after a day in the rain at Hampton Court. . . . For- ster ^ was dining with Mr. Chapman the pub- lisher, where we passed the day. His article in the Ea^- aminer did not please me so much as his genuine good nature in insisting upon walking with Annie at night, and holding an umbrella over her through the pouring rain. Did you read the Spectator's sarcastic notice of V. F.? I don't think it is just, but think Khitoul is a very honest man and rather inclined to deal severely with his private friends, lest he should fall into the other ex- treme;— to be sure he keeps out of it, I mean the other extreme, very well. I passed ]\Ionday night and part of Tuesday in the artless society of some officers of the 21st, or Royal Mohn Forster, the intimate friend of Charles Dickens, and well-known writer. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 13 Scots Fusiliers, in garrison at Canterbury. We went to a barrack room, where we drank a bout, out of a Silver cup and a glass. I heard such stale old garrison stories. I recognised among the stories many old friends of my youth, very pleasant to meet when one was eighteen, but of whom one is rather shv now. Not so these officers, however; they tell each other the stalest and wickedest old Joe Millers; the jolly grey-headed old majors have no reverence for the beardless ensigns, nor vice-versa. I heard of the father and son in the other regiment in garrison at Canterbury, the Slashers if you please, being carried up drunk to bed the night before. Fancy what a life. Some of ours, — I don't mean yours Madam, but I mean mine and others— are not much better, though more civilised. We went to see the wizard Jacobs at the theatre, he came up in the midst of the entertainment, and spoke across the box to the young officers;— he knows them in private life, they think him a good fellow. He came up and asked them confidentially, if they didn't like a trick he had just performed. " Neat little thing isn't it? " the great Jacobs said, " I brought it over from Paris." They go to his entertainment every night, fancy what a career of pleasure ! A wholesome young Squire with a large brown face and a short waistcoat, came up to us and said, " Sorry you're goin', I have sent up to barracks a great lot o' rdbhuts" They were of no use, those rabhuts; the 21st was to march the next da^^ I saw the men walking about on the last day, taking leave of their sweethearts, (who will probably be consoled by the Slashers) . I was carried off by my brother-in-law through the rain, to see a great sight, the regimental soup-tureens 14 LETTERS OF THACKERAY and dishcovers, before they were put away. " Feel that " says he, "WilHam, just feel the weight of that!" I was called upon twice to try the weight of that soup dish, and expressed the very highest gratification at being admitted to that privilege. Poor simple young fellows and old youngsters ! I felt ashamed of myself for spy- ing out their follies and fled from them and came off to Dover. It was pouring with rain all day, and I had no opportunity of putting anything into the beautiful new sketch books. I passed an hour in the Cathedral, which seemed all beautiful to me; the fifteenth Century part, the thir- teenth century part, and the crypt above all, which they say is older than the Conquest. The most charming, li->/ r' W*** ^^' *t^ * I lw»,6i(tfa> •jlMituru 44U«4«« A^MiJT^ C tiJ I'ZunXui.,. I>W Jutojwtt. •^mu^ j^U^ttrf LETTERS OF THACKERAY 15 harmonious, powerful combination of shafts and arches, beautiful whichever way you saw them developed, like a fine music or the figures in a Kaleidoscope, rolling out mysteriously, a beautiful foundation for a beautiful building. I thought how some people's towering intel- lects and splendid cultivated geniuses rise upon simple, beautiful foundations hidden out of sight, and how this might be a good simile, if I knew of anj^ very good and wise man just now. But I don't know of many, do you? Part of the Ci>ypt was given up to French Calvinists ; and texts from the French Bible of some later sect are still painted on the pillars, surrounded by French orna- ments, looking very queer and out of place. So, for the matter of that, do we look queer and out of place in that grand soaring artificial building: we may put a shovel hat on the pinnacle of the steeple, as Omar did a crescent on the peak of the church at Jerusalem ; but it does not belong to us, I mean according to the fitness of things. We ought to go to church in a very strong, elegant, beautifully neat room; croziers, and banners, incense, and jimcracks, grand processions of priests and monks (with an inquisition in the distance), and lies, avarice, tyranny, torture, all sorts of horrible and unnatural op- pressions and falsehoods kept out of sight ; such a place as this ought to belong to the old religion. How some- body of my acquaintance would like to walk into a beau- tiful calm confessional and go and kiss the rood or the pavement of a'Becket's shrine. Fancy the church quite full ; the altar lined w^ith pontifical gentlemen bobbing up and down; the dear little boys in white and red flinging about the incense pots; the music roaring out from the organs ; all the monks and clergy in their stalls, and the archbishop on his throne — O ! how fine ! And then think r 16 LETTERS OF THACKERAY of the -f- of our Lord speaking quite simply to simple Syrian people, a child or two maybe at his knees, as he taught them that love was the truth. Ah ! as one thinks of it, how grand that figure looks, and how small all the rest ; but I dare say I am getting out of my depth. I came on hither [to Brussels] yesterday, having passed the day previous at Dover, where it rained inces- santly, and where I only had the courage to write the fii'st sentence of this letter, being utterly cast down and more under the influence of blue devils than I ever re- member before; but a fine bright sky at five o'clock in the morning, and a jolly brisk breeze, and the ship cut- ting through the water at fifteen miles an hour, restored cheerfulness to this wearied spirit, and enabled it to par- take freely of beefsteak and pommes-de-terre at Ostend; after an hour of which amusement, it was time to take the train and come on to Brussels. The country is de- lightfully well cultivated ; all along the line you pass by the most cheerful landscapes with old cities, gardens, cornfields and rustic labour. At the table d'hote I sat next a French Gentleman and his lady. She first sent away the bread; she then said ''mais, mon ami, ce potage est abominable; " then she took a piece of pudding on her fork, not to eat, but to smell, after which she sent it away. Experience told me it was a little grisette giving herself airs, so I compli- mented the waiter on the bread, recommended the soup to a man, and took two portions of the pudding, under her nose. Then we went (I found a companion, an ardent ad- mirer, in the person of a Manchester merchant) to the play, to sec Dejazet, in the "Gentil Bernard," of which piece I shall say nothing, but I think it was the wicked- LETTERS OF THACKERAY 17 est I ever saw, and one of the pleasantest, adorably funny and naughty. As the part {Gentil Bernard is a prodigious rake,) is acted by a woman, the reaUty is taken from it, and one can bear to hsten, but such a Httle rake, such charming impudence, such Httle songs, such little dresses ! She looked as mignonne as a china image, and danced, fought, sang and capered, in a way that would have sent Walpole mad could he have seen her. And now writing has made me hungry, and if j^ou please I will go and breakfast at a Cafe with lots of newspapers, and garcjons bawling out " Voild M'sieu " —how pleasant to think of! The JVIanchester admirer goes to London to-day and will take this. If j^ou want any more please send me word Poste Restante at Spa. I am going to-day to the Hotel de la Terrasse, where Becky used to live, and shall pass by Captain Osborn's lodgings, where I recollect meeting him and his little wife— who has married again somebody told me;— but it is always the way with these grandes passions— 'Mrs. Dobbins, or some such name, she is now ; always an over- rated woman, I thought. How curious it is! I believe perfectly in all those people, and feel quite an interest in the Inn in which they lived. Good bye, my dear gentleman and lady, and let me hear the latter is getting well. W. M. T. Hotel des Pays Bas, Spa. August 1st to 5th. 1848. ]M Y DEAR FRIENDS I Whoever you may be who receive these lines, — for unless I receive a letter from the person whom I pri- vately mean, I shall send them post-paid to somebody 18 LETTERS OF THACKERAY else,— I have the pleasure to inform you, that on yes- terday, the 30th, at 7 a.m., I left Brussels, with which I was much pleased, and not a little tired, and arrived quite safe per raikoad and diligence at the watering place of Spa. I slept a great deal in the coach, having bought a book at Brussels to amuse me, and having for compan- ions, three clergymen (of the deplorable Romish faith) with large idolatrous three-cornered hats, who read their breviaries all the time I was awake, and I have no doubt gave utterance to their damnable Popish opinions when the stranger's ears were closed ; and lucky for the priests that I was so situated, for speaking their language a great deal better than they do themselves (being not only image-worshippers but Belgians, whose jargon is as abominable as their superstition) I would have en- gaged them in a controversy, in which I daresay they would have been utterly confounded by one who had the Thirty-nine Articles of truth on his side. Their hats could hardly get out of the coach door when they quitted the carriage, and one of them, when he took off his, to make a parting salute to the company, quite extin- guished a little passenger. We arrived at Spa at two o'clock, and being driven on the top of the diligence to two of the principal hotels, they would not take me in as I had only a little portman- teau, or at least only would offer me a servant's bed- room. These miserable miscreants did not see by my appearance that I was not a flunkey, but on the contrary, a great and popular author; and I intend to have two fine pictures painted when I return to England, of the landlord of the Hotel d'Orange refusing a bed-chamber to the celebrated Titmarsh, and of the proprietor of the Hotel d'York, offering Jeames a second-floor back LETTERS OF THACKERAY 19 closet. Poor misguided people! It was on the 30th July 1848. The first thing I did after at length secur- ing a handsome apartment at the Hotel des Pays Bas, was to survey the town and partake of a glass of water at the Pouhon well, where the late Peter the Great, the imperator of the Bo-Russians appears also to have drunk; so that two great men at least have refreshed themselves at that fountain. I was next conducted to the baths, where a splendid concert of wind and stringed instruments was performed under my window, and many hundreds of gentle-folks of all nations were congregated in the pubhc walk, no doubt to celebrate my arrival. They are so polite however at this place of elegant ease, that they didn't take the least notice of the Illustrious Stranger, but allowed him to walk about quite unmo- lested and, (to all appearance) unremarked. I went to the table d'hote with perfect afFabilit}'^, just like an ordinary person ; an ordinary person at the table d'hote , mark the pleasantry. If that joke doesn't make j^our sides ache, what, my dear friend, can move you ? We had a number of good things, fifteen or sixteen too many I should say. I was myself obliged to give in at about the twenty-fifth dish ; but there was a Flemish lady near me, a fair blue- eyed being, who carried on long after the English au- thor's meal was concluded, and who said at dinner to- day, (when she beat me by at least treble the amount of victuals) that she was languid and tired all day, and an invalid, so weak and delicate that she could not walk. "No wonder," thought an observer of human nature, who saw her eating a second supply of lobster salad, which she introduced with her knife, "no wonder, my blue-eyed female, that you are ill, when you take such a preposterous quantity of nourishment;" but as the wa- 20 LETTERS OF THACKERAY ters of this place are eminently ferruginous, I presume that she used the knife in question for the purpose of taking steel with her dinner. The subject I feel is growing painful, and we will, if you please, turn to more delicate themes. I retired to my apartment at seven, with the same book which I had purchased, and which sent me into a second sleep until ten when it was time to go to rest. At eight I was up and stirring, at 8.30 I was climbing the brow of a little mountain which overlooks this pretty town, and whence, from among firs and oaks, I could look down upon the spires of the church, and the roofs of the Redoute, and the principal and inferior buildings and the vast plains, and hills beyond, topped in many places with pine woods, and covered with green crops and yellow corn. Had I a friend to walk hand in hand with, him or her, on these quiet hills, the promenade me- thinks might be pleasant. I thought of many such as I paced among the rocks and shrubberies. Breakfast suc- ceeded that solitary, but healthy reverie, when coffee and eggs were served to the Victim of Sentiment. Sketch- book in hand, the individual last alluded to set forth in quest of objects suitable for his pencil. But it is more respectful to Nature to look at her and gaze with plea- sure, rather than to sit down with pert assurance, and begin to take her portrait. A man who persists in sketching, is like one who insists on singing during the performance of an opera. What business has he to be trying his stupid voice? He is not there to imitate, but to admire to the best of his power. Thrice the rain came down and drove me away from my foolish endeavours, as I was making the most abominable caricatures of pretty, quaint cottages, shaded by huge ancient trees. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 21 In the evening was a fine music at the Redoute, which being concluded, those who had a mind were free to re- pair to a magnificent neighbouring saloon, superbly lighted, where a great number of persons were assembled amusing themselves, round two tables covered with green cloth and ornamented with a great deal of money. They were engaged at a game which seems very simple ; one side of the table is marked red and the other black, and you have but to decide which of the red or the black you prefer, and if the colour you choose is turned up on the cards, which a gentleman deals, another gentleman opposite to him gives you five franks, or a napoleon or whatever sum of money you have thought fit to bet upon your favourite colour. But if your colour loses, then he takes your napoleon. This he did, I am sorry to say, to me twice, and as I thought this was enough, I came home and wrote a let- ter, full of nonsense to— \_August 11th] My Dear Mrs. Brookfield : You see how nearly you were missing this delightful letter, for upon my word I had packed it up small and was going to send it off in a rage to somebody else, this very day, to a young lady whom some people think over- rated very likely, or to some deserving person, when, O gioja e felicitd (I don't know whether that is the way to spell gioja, but rather pique myself on the g) when O! honheur supreme, the waiter enters my door at 10 o'clock this morning, just as I had finished writing page seven of PENDENNIS, and brings me the Times newspaper and a beautiful thick 2/4 letter, in a fine large hand. I 22 LETTERS OF THACKERAY eagerly seized — the newspaper, (ha ha! I had somebody there) and was quickly absorbed in its contents. The news from Ireland is of great interest and importance, aixi we may indeed return thanks that the deplorable revolution and rebellion, which everybody anticipated in that country, has been averted in so singular, I may say unprecedented a manner. How pitiful is the figure cut by Mr. Smith O'Brien, and indeed by Popery alto- gether! &c. &c. One day is passed away here very like its defunct predecessor. I have not lost any more money at the odious gambling table, but go and watch the players there with a great deal of interest. There are ladies playing— young and pretty ones too. One is very like a lady I used to know, a curate's wife in a street off Golden Square, whatdyoucallit street, where the pianoforte maker lives; and I daresay this person is puzzled why I always go and stare at her so. She has her whole soul in the pastime, puts out her five-franc pieces in the most timid way, and watches them disappear under the crou- pier's rake with eyes so uncommonly sad and tender, that I feel inclined to go up to her and say " Madam, you are exceedingly like a lady, a curate's wife whom I once knew, in England, and as I take an interest in you, I wish you would get out of this place as quick as you can, and take your beautiful eyes oiF the black and red." But I suppose it would be thought rude if I were to make any such statement and— Ah! what do I remem- ber? There's no use in sending off this letter to-day, this is Friday, and it cannot be delivered on Sunday in a Protestant metropolis. There was no use in hurrying home from Lady , (Never mind, it is only an Irish baronet's wife, who tries to disguise her Limerick ferawing by Thackeray in water-colour and pencil (Mrs. Brookfleld) LETTERS OF THACKERAY 23 brogue, but the fact is she has an exceedingly pretty daughter), I say there was no use in hurrying home so as to get this off by the post. Yesterday I didn't know a soul in this place, but got in the course of the day a neat note from a ladv who had the delight of an introduction to me at D-v-nsh-re House, and who proposed tea in the most flattering manner. Now, I know a French duke and duchess, and at least six of the most genteel persons in Spa, and some of us are going out riding in a few minutes, the rain having cleared oif , the sky being bright, and the sur- rounding hills and woods looking uncommonly green and tem]3ting. *^ 4^ ^ ^ '^ ^* I* I* A imuse of two hours is supposed to have taken place since the above was written. A gentleman enters, as if from horseback, into the room No. 32 of the Hotel des Pays Bas, looking on to the fountain in the Grande Place. He divests himself of a part of his dress, which has been spattered with mud during an arduous but de- lightful ride over commons, roads, woods, nay, moun- tains. He curls his hair in the most killing manner, and prepares to go out to dinner. The purple shadows are falling on the Grande Place, and the roofs of the houses looking westward are in a flame. The clock of the old church strikes sicV. It is the appointed hour; he gives one last glance at the looking-glass, and his last thought is for — {see page 4> — last three words.) The dinner was exceedingly stupid, I very nearly fell asleep by the side of the lady of the house. It was all over by nine o'clock, half an hour before Payne comes to fetch you to bed, and I went to the gambling house and lost two napoleons more. May this be a warning to 24* LETTERS OF THACKERAY all dissipated middle-aged persons. I have just got two new novels from the library by JSIr. Fielding; the one is Amelia^ the most delightful portrait of a woman that surely ever was painted; the other is Joseph Andrews , which gives me no particular pleasure, for it is both coarse and careless, and the author makes an absurd brag of his twopenny learning, upon which he values himself evidently more than upon the best of his own qualities. Good night, you see I am writing to you as if I was talk- ing. It is but ten o'clock, and yet it seems quite time here to go to bed. . . . I have got a letter from Annie, so clever, humorous and wise, that it is fit to be printed in a book. As for Miss Jingleby, I admire her pretty face and manners more than her singing, which is very nice, and just what a lady's should be, but I believe my heart is not engaged in that quarter. Why there is six times as much writing in my letter as in yours! you ought to send me ever so many pages if bargains were equal between the male and female, but they never are. There is a prince here who is seventy-two years of age and wears frills to his trowsers. What if I were to pay my bill and go off this minute to the Rhine? It would be better to see that than these genteel dandies here. I don't care about the beauties of the Rhine any more, but it is always pleasant and friendly. There is no reason why I should not sleep at Bonn to-night, looking out on the Rhine opposite Drachenf els— that is the best way of travelhng surely, never to know where you are going until the moment and fate say "go." Who knows? By setting off at twelve o'clock, something may happen to alter the whole course of my life? perhaps I may meet with some beau- LETTERS OF THACKERAY 25 tiful creature who . . . But then it is such a bore, pack- ing up those shirts. I wonder whether anybody will write to me poste restante at Homburg, near Frankf ort- on-the-Maine? And if you would kindly send a line to Annie at Captain Alexander's, Montpellier Road, Twickenham, telling her to write to me there and not at Brussels, you would add, Madame, to the many obli- gations you have already conferred on Your most faithful servant, W. M. Thackeray. I have made a dreadful dumpy little letter, but an en- velope would cost 1/2 more. I don't like to say any- thing disrespectful of Dover, as you are going there, but it seemed awfully stupid. May I come and see you as I pass through? A line at the Ship for me would not fail to bring me. 21 August. [1848] Home. [To Mr. Brookfield.1 MYDEiSHOLD B.: I am just come back and execute my first vow, which was to tell 3'^ou on landing that there is a certain bath near Minden, and six hours from Cologne by the rail- way (so that people may go all the way at their ease) where all sorts of complaints — including of course yours, all and several, are to be cured. The bath is Rehda, sta- tion Rehda. Dr. Sutro of the London German Hos- pital, knows all about it. I met an acquaintance just come thence, (a Mrs. Bracebridge and her mari) who told me of it. People are ground young there— a young physician has been cured of far gone tubercles in the 26 LETTERS OF THACKERAY lungs; maladies of languor, rheumatism, liver com- plaints, all sorts of wonders are performed there, espe- cially female wonders. Y not take Madame there, go, drink, bathe, and be cured? Y not go there as well as anywhere else this summer season? Y not come up and see this German doctor, or ask Bullar to write to him? Do, my dear old fellow ; and I will vow a candle to honest Home's chapel if you are cured. Did the Vienna beer in which I drank your health, not do you any good? God bless you, my dear Brookfield, and believe that I am always affec- tionately yours, W. M. T. [1848.] My dear Mrs. Brookfield: Now that it is over and irremediable I am thinking with a sort of horror of a bad joke in the last number of Vanity Fair, which may perhaps annoy some body whom I wouldn't wish to displease. Amelia is represented as having a lady's maid, and the lady's maid's name is Payne. I laughed when I wrote it, and thought that it was good fun, but now, who knows whether you and Payne and everybody won't be angry, and in fine, I am in a great tremor. The only way will be, for j^ou I fear to change Payne's name to her Christian one. Pray don't be angry if you are, and forgive me if I have offended. You know you are only a piece of Amelia, my mother is another half, my poor little wife — y est -pour beaucoup. and I am Yours most sincerely W. M. Thackeray. I hope you will write to say that you forgive me. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 27 October 1848. 13 Young Street, Kensington. My Dear Lady Brookfield: I wrote you a letter three nights ago in the French language, describing my disappointment at not having received any news of you. Those which I had from Mrs. Turpin were not good, and it would have been a pleasure to your humble servant to have had a line. Mr. William dined with the children good-naturedly on Sun- day, when I was yet away at Brighton. My parents are not come yet, the old gentleman hav- ing had an attack of illness to which he is subject; but they promised to be with me on Tuesday, some day next week I hope. I virtuously refused three invitations by this day's post, and keep myself in readiness to pass the first two or three evenings on my Papa's lap. That night I wrote to you the French letter, I wrote one to Miss Brandauer, the governess, warning her off. I didn't send either. I have a great mind to send yours though, it is rather funny, though I daresay with plenty of mistakes, and written by quite a different man, to the Englishman who is yours respectfully. A language I am sure would change a man ; so does a handwriting. I am sure if I wrote to you in this hand, and adopted it for a continuance, my disposition and sentiments would alter and all my views of life. I tried to copy, not now but the other day, a letter Miss Procter showed me from her uncle, in a commercial hand, and found myself after three pages quite an honest, regular, stupid, commercial man ; such is sensibility and the mimetic faculty in some singularly organised beings. How many people are you? You are Dr. Packman's Mrs. B, and Mrs. Jack- 28 LETTERS OF THACKERAY son's Mrs. B, and Ah! you are my Mrs. B. you know you are now, and quite different to us all, and you are your sister's Mrs. B. and Miss Wynne's, and you make gentle fun of us all round to your private B. and offer us up to make him sport. You see I am making you out to be an Ogre's wife, and poor William the Ogre, to whom you serve us up cooked for dinner. Well, stick a knife into me, here is my busam; I won't cry out, you poor Ogre's wife, I know you are good natured and soft-hearted au fond. I have been re-reading the Hoggarty Diamond this morning; upon my word and honour, if it doesn't make you cry, I shall have a mean opinion of you. It was written at a time of great affliction, when my heart was very soft and humble. Amen. Ich liahe audi viel geliebt. Why shouldn't I start off this instant for the G. W. Station and come and shake hands, and ask your family for some dinner; I should like it very much. Well, I am looking out of the window to see if the rain will stop, or give me an excuse for not going to Hatton to the Chief Baron's. I won't go — that's a comfort. I am writing to William to ask him to come and dine to-morrow, we will drink your health if he comes. I should like to take another sheet and go on tittle-tattling, it drops off almost as fast as talking. I fancy you lying on the sofa, and the boy outside, walking up and down the oss. But I won't. To-morrow is Sunday. Good bye, dear lady, and believe me yours in the most friendly manner. W. M. T. [Reply to an invitation to dinner^ a few days later.'\ Had I but ten minutes sooner Got your hospitable line, LETTERS OF THACKERAY 29 'Twould have been delight and honour With a gent Hke you to dine; — But my word is passed to others, Fitz, he is engaged too: Agony my bosom smothers, i As I write adieu, adieu! \_Lines sent in a note of about this dateJ] I was making this doggerel instead of writing my Punch this morning, shall I send it or no? 'Tis one o'clock, the boy from Punch is sitting in the passage here. It used to be the hour of lunch at Portman Street, near Portman S queer. O ! stupid little printers' boy, I cannot write, my head is queer. And all my foolish brains employ in thinking of a lady dear. It was but yesterday, and on my honest word it seems a year — As yet that person was not gone, as yet I saw that lady dear — She's left us now, my boy, and all this town, this life, is blank and drear. Thou printers' devil in the hall, didst ever see my lady dear, You'd understand, you little knave, I think, if you could only see her. Why now I look so glum and grave for losing of this lady dear. A lonely man I am in life, my business is to joke and jeer, 30 LETTERS OF THACKERAY A lonely man without a wife, God took from me a lady dear. A friend I had, and at his side,— the story dates from seven long year — One day I found a blushing bride, a tender lady kind and dear! They took me in, they pitied me, they gave me kindly words and cheer, A kinder welcome who shall see, than yours, O, friend and lady dear? The rest is wanting. 1848. [To Mr. Broohfield.] My dear Vieux : When I came home last night I found a beautiful opera ticket for this evening, — Jenny Lind, charming bally J box 72. — I am going to dine at home with the children and shall go to the opera, and will leave your name down below. Do come and we will sit, we 2, and see the piece like 2 lords, and we can do the other part afterwards. I present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Brookfield and am yours, W. M. T. If you can come to dinner, there's a curry. Oct. 4th 1848 Dear Mrs. Brookfield: If you would write me a line to say that you made a good journey and were pretty well, to Sir Thomas Cul- LETTERS OF THACKERAY 31 lam's, Hardwick, Bury St. Edmunds, you would con- fer indeed a favour on yours respectfully. William dined here last night and was pretty cheerful. As I passed by Portman Street, after you were gone, just to take a look up at the windows, the usual boy started forward to take the horse. I laughed a sad laugh. I didn't want nobody to take the horse. It's a long time since you were away. The cab is at the door to take me to the railroad. Mrs. Procter was very kind and Adelaide sympathised with me. I have just opened my desk, there are all the papers I had at Spa — Pendennis, unread since, and your letter. Good bye dear Mrs. Brookfield, always yours, W. M. T. L'hovune propose. Since this was wrote the author went to the railroad, found that he arrived a minute too late, and that there were no trains for 4^ hours. So I came back into town and saw the publishers, who begged and implored me so, not to go out pleasuring, &c., that I am going to Brighton instead of Bury. I looked in the map, I was thinking of coming to Weston- Super-Mare,— only it seemed such a hint. [Club] [To Mr. Brookfield] October 1848. My dear Re\'t:rence: I take up the pen to congratulate you on the lovely weather, which must, with the company of those to whom you are attached, render your stay at Clevedon^ * Clevedon Court, Somersetshire, often referred to in these letters, and already mentioned in the note p. 9, the home of Sir Charles Elton, Mrs. Brookfield's father. 32 LETTERS OF THACKERAY so delightful. It snowed here this morning, since which there has been a fog succeeded by a drizzly rain. I have passed the day writing and trying to alter Pen- dennis, which is without any manner of doubt, awfully stupid; the very best passages, which pleased the author only last week, looking hideously dull by the dull fog of this day. I pray, I pray, that it may be the weather. Will you say something for it at church next Sunday? My old parents arrived last night, it was quite a sight to see the poor old mother with the children : and Brad- bury, the printer, coming to dun me for Pendennis this morning. I slunk away from home, where writing is an utter impossibility, and have been operating on it here. The real truth is now, that there is half an hour before dinner, and I don't know what to do, unless I write you a screed, to pass away the time. There are secret and selfish motives in the most seemingly gen- erous actions of men. T'other day I went to Harley Street and saw the most beautiful pair of embroidered slippers, worked for a lady at whose feet . . . ; and I begin more and more to think Adelaide Procter, an uncommonly nice, dear, good girl. Old Dilke of the Athenceum, vows that Procter and his wife, between them, wrote Jane Eyre, and when I protest ignorance, says, "Pooh! you know who wrote it, you are the deepest rogue in England, &c." I wonder whether it can be true? It is just pos- sible, and then what a singular circumstance is the Clevedon Court dates from the reign of Edward II. (1307 to 1327), and though added to and altered in Elizabeth's time, the original plan can be clearly traced and much of the 14th Century work is untouched. The manor of Clevedon passed into the hands of the Eltons in 1709, the present pos- sessor being Sir Edmund Elton, 8th Baronet. The manor-house is the original of Castlewood in Esmond. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 33 + fire of the two dedications/ O! Mon Dieul but I wish Pendennis were better. As if I had not enough to do, I have begun to blaze away in the Chronicle again: it's an awful bribe— that five guineas an article. After I saw you on Sunday I did actually come back straight, on the omnibus. I have been to the Cider Cellars since again to hear the man sing about going to be hanged, I have had a head- Iu^Umv4 Am4. Oic^l^ -- *3 I ilafiJU hJu. vL L£a j|u^" ache afterw^ards, I have drawn, I have written, I have distracted my mind with healthy labor. Now wasn't this much better than plodding about with you in heavy boots amidst fields and woods? But unless you come back, and as soon as my work is done, I thought a day or two would be pleasantly spent in your society, if the house of Clevedon admits of holding any more. Does Harry Hallam go out with dog and gun? I should like to come and see him shoot, and in fact, get up field sports through him and others. Do you remark * Jane Eyre to Thackeray, Vanity Fair to Barry Cornwall. 34 LETTERS OF THACKERAY all that elaborate shading, the shot &c.,? All that has been done to while away the time until the dinner's ready, and upon my conscience I believe it is very near come. Yes, it is 6^. If Mrs. Parr is at Clevedon, pre- sent the respects of Mephistopheles, as also to any other persons with whom I am acquainted in your numerous and agreeable family circle. 1848 [To Mr. Brookfield.] Va diner chez ton classique ami, tant renomme pour le Grec. Je ne pourrais mieux faire que de passer la soiree avec une famille que j'ai negligee quelque peu — la mienne. Oui, Monsieur, dans les caresses innocentes de mes enfans cheris, dans la conversation edifiante de Monsieur mon beaupere, je tacherai de me consoler de ta seconde infidelite. Samedi je ne puis venir: J'ai d'autres engagemens auxquels je ne veux pas manquer. Va. Sois heureux. Je te pardonne. Ton melancholique ami Chevalier de Titmarsh. [1st November, 1848.] Dear Mrs. Brookfield : I was at Oxford by the time your dinner was over, and found eight or nine jovial gentlemen in black, feasting in the common room and drinking port wine solemnly. . , . We had a great sitting of Port wine, and I daresay the evening was pleasant enough. They gave me a bed in College, — such a bed, I could not sleep. Yesterday, ( for this is half past seven o'clock in the morning, would you believe it?) a party of us drove in an Oxford Cart LETTERS OF THACKERAY 35 to Blenheim, where we saw some noble pictures, a por- trait b\' Raphael, one of the great Raphaels of the world, — (Look, this is college paper, with beautiful lines al- ready made) — A series of magnificent Rubens, one of iw J«H*u U^ ^^ itffuU Hu '^*\\yjc CUfuA u ttu ^UMoVibuufTuirttt ^^Ujot^ CtuwU. kj*^ After Blenheim I went to Magdalen Chapel to a High Mass there. O cherubim and seraphim, how you would like it ! The chapel is the most sumptuous edifice, carved and frittered all over with the richest stone-work like the lace of a lady's boudoir. The windows are fitted with pictures of the saints painted in a grey colour,— real Catholic saints, male and female I mean, so that I won- dered how they got there ; and this makes a sort of rich twilight in the church, which is lighted up by a multitude of wax candles in gold sconces, and you say your prayers in carved stalls wadded with velvet cushions. They have a full chorus of boys, some two dozen I should think, who sing quite ravishingly. It is a sort of perfection of sensuous gratification; children's voices charm me so, that they set all my sensibilities into a quiver ; do they you? I am sure they do. These pretty brats with sweet innocent voices and white robes, sing quite celestially; — no, not celestially, for I don't believe it is devotion at all, but a high delight out of which one comes, not im- LETTERS OF THACKERAY 37 purified I hope, but with a thankful pleased gentle frame of mind. I suppose I have a great faculty of en- joyment. At Clevedon I had gratification in looking at trees, landscapes, effects of shine and shadow &c., which made that dear old Inspector who walked with me, won- der. Well there can be no harm in this I am sure. What a shame it is to go on bragging about what is after all sheer roaring good health for the most part; and now I am going to breakfast. Good b3^e. I have been lion- ising the town ever since, and am come home quite tired. I have breakfasted here, lunched at Christ Church, seen Merton, and All Souls with Norman IMacdonald, where there is a beautiful library and a boar's head in the kitchen, over which it was good to see Norman's eyes gloating; and it being All Saints' day, I am going to chapel here, where they have also a very good music I am told. Are you better ma'am? I hope you are. On Friday I hope to have the pleasure to see you, and am till then, and even till Saturday, Yours, W. M. T. l29thNov: 1848.] My dear Lady : I am very much pained and shocked at the news brought at dinner to-day that poor dear Charles Buller is gone. Good God! think about the poor mother sur- viving, and what an anguish that must be ! If I were to die I cannot bear to think of my mother living beyond me, as I daresay she will. But isn't it an awful, awful, sudden summons? There go wit, fame, friendship, am- 38 LETTERS OF THACKERAY bition, high repute ! Ah\ aimons nous hien. It seems to me that is the only thing we can carry away. When we go, let us have some who love us wherever we are. I send you this httle line as I tell you and William most things. Good night. Tuesday. [Nov. 1848.] Good night my dear Madam. Since I came home from dining with Mr. Morier, I have been writing a letter to Mr. T. Carljde and think- ing about other things as well as the letter all the time; and I have read over a letter I received to-day which apologises for everything and whereof the tremulous author ceaselessly doubts and misgives. Who knows whether she is not converted by Joseph Bullar by this time. She is a sister of mine, and her name is God bless her. Wednesday. I was at work until seven o'clock; not to very much purpose, but executing with great labour and hardship the day's work. Then I went to dine with Dr. Hall, the crack doctor here, a literate man, a trav- eller, and otherwise a kind bigwig. After dinner we went to hear Mr. Sortain lecture, of whom you may per- haps have heard me speak, as a great, remarkable orator and preacher of the Lady Huntingdon Connexion. (The paper is so greasy that I am forced to try several pens and manners of handwriting, but none will do.) We had a fine lecture with brilliant Irish metaphors and outbursts of rhetoric addressed to an assembly of me- chanics, shopboys and young women, who could not, and perhaps had best not, understand that flashy speaker. It was about the origin of nations he spoke, one of those LETTERS OF THACKERAY 39 big themes on which a man may talk eternally and with a never ending outpouring of words; and he talked magnificently, about the Arabs for the most part, and tried to prove that because the Arabs acknowledged their descent from Ishmael or Esau, therefore the Old Testament History was true. But the Arabs may have had Esau for a father and yet the bears may not have eaten up the little children for quizzing Elisha's bald head. As I was writing to Carlyle last night, ( I haven't sent the letter as usual, and shall not most likely,) Saint Stephen was pelted to death by Old Testaments, and Our Lord was killed like a felon by the law, which He came to repeal. I was thinking about Joseph Bullar's doctrine after I went to bed, founded on what I cannot but think a blasphemous asceticism, which has obtained in the world ever so long, and which is disposed to curse, hate and undervalue the world altogether. Why should we ? What we see here of this world is but an expression of God's will, so to speak — a beautiful earth and sky and sea — beautiful affections and sorrows, wonderful changes and developments of creation, suns rising, stars shining, birds singing, clouds and shadows changing and fading, people loving each other, smiling and cry- ing, the multiplied phenomena of Nature, multiplied in fact and fancy, in Art and Science, in every way that a man's intellect or education or imagination can be brought to bear. — And who is to say that we are to ig- nore all this, or not value them and love them, because there is another unknown world yet to come? Why that unknown future world is but a manifestation of God Almighty's will, and a development of Nature, neither more nor less than this in which we are, and an angel glorified or a sparrow on a gutter are equally parts of 40 LETTERS OF THACKERAY His creation. The light upon all the saints in Heaven is just as much and no more God's work, as the sun which shall shine to-morrow upon this infinitesimal speck of creation, and under which I shall read, please God, a letter from my kindest Lady and friend. About my future state I don't know; I leave it in the disposal of the awful Father,— but for to-day I thank God that I can love you, and that you yonder and others besides are thinking of me with a tender regard. Hallelujah may be greater in degree than this, but not in kind, and count- less ages of stars may be blazing infinitely, but you and I have a right to rejoice and believe in our little part and to trust in to-day as in tomorrow. God bless my dear lady and her husband. I hope you are asleep now, and I must go too, for the candles are just winking out. Thursday. I am glad to see among the new inspec- tors, in the Gazette in this morning's papers, my old ac- quaintance Longueville Jones, an excellent, worthy, lively, accomplished fellow, whom I like the better be- cause he flung up his fellow and tutorship at Cambridge in order to marry on nothing a year. We worked in Galignani's newspaper for ten francs a day, very cheer- fully ten years ago, since when he has been a school- master, taken pupils or bid for them, and battled man- fully with fortune. William will be sure to like him, I think, he is so honest, and cheerful. I have sent off my letter to Lady Ashburton this morning, ending with some pretty phrases about poor old C. B. whose fate affects me very much, so much that I feel as if I were making my will and getting ready to march too. Well ma'am, I have as good a right to presentiments as you have, and to sickly fancies and despondencies; but I should like to see before I die, and think of it daily more LETTERS OF THACKERAY 41 and more, the commencement of Jesus Christ's chris- tianism in the world, where I am sure people may be made a hundred times happier than by its present forms, Judaism, asceticism, Bullarism. I w^onder will He come again and tell it us. We are taught to be ashamed of our best feelings all our life. I don't want to blubber upon everybody's shoulders ; but to have a good will for all, and a strong, very strong regard for a few, which I shall not be ashamed to own to them. ... It is near upon three o'clock, and I am getting rather anxious about the post from Southampton via London. Why, if it doesn't come in, you won't get any letter to-morrow, no, nothing— and I made so sure. Well, I will try and go to work, it is only one more little drop. God bless you, dear lady. . . . . . . Friday. I have had a good morning's work and at two o'clock comes your letter ; dear friend, thank you. What a coward I was, I will go and walk and be happy for an hour, it is a grand frosty sunshine. To- morrow morning early back to London. 31 January, 1849 Ship, Dover. Just before going away. How long is it since I have written to you in my natu- ral handwriting? ... I am so far on my way to Paris, Meurice's Hotel, Rue de Rivoh. ... I had made up my mind to this great, I may say decisive step, when I came to see you on Saturday, before you went to Hither Green. I didn't go to the Sterling, as it was my last day, and due naturally to the family. We went to bed at half past nine o'clock. To-day I went round on a cir- 42 LETTERS OF THACKERAY cuit of visits, including Turpin at your house. It seems as if I was going on an ever so long journey. Have you any presentiments? I know some people who have. Thank you for your note of this morning, and my dear old William for his regard for me ; try you and conserve the same. . . . There is a beautiful night, and I am going by Calais. Here, with a step on the steaming vessel, I am, affectionately yours, W. M. T. Meurice's Hotel, Rivoli Street, Paris. [Feb: 1849.] If you please, I am come home very tired and sleepy from the Opera, where my friend Rothschild gave me a place in his box. There was a grand ballet of which I could not understand one word, that is one pas, for not a word was spoken; and I saw some celebrities in the place. The President, M. Lamartine, in a box near a handsome lady; M. Marrast, in a box near a handsome lady ; there was one with a bouquet of lilies, or some sort of white flowers, so enormous that it looked like a bou- quet in a pantomime, which was to turn into something, or out of which a beautiful dancer was to spring. The house was crammed with well-dressed folks, and is sump- tuous and splendid beyond measure. But O! think of old Lamartine in a box by a handsome lady. Not any harm in the least, that I know of, only that the most ven- erable and grizzled bearded statesmen and philosophers find time from their business and political quandaries, to come and sigh and ogle a little at the side of ladies in boxes. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 43 I am undergoing the quarantine of family dinners with the most angelic patience. Yesterday being the first day, it was an old friend and leg of lamb. I graciously said to the old friend, " Why the deuce wouldn't j^ou let me go and dine at a restaurant, don't you suppose I have leg of lamb at home?" To-day with an aunt of mine, where we had mock turtle soup, by Heavens ! and I ar- ranged with my other aunt for another dinner. I knew how it would be; it must be; and there's my cousin to come off 3^et, who says, " you must come and dine. I haven't a soul, but will give you a good Indian dinner." I will make a paper in Punch about it, and exhale my griefs in print. I will tell you about my cousin when I get home,— when I get to Portman Street that is. . . . What brought me to this place ? Well I am glad I came, it will give me a subject for at least six weeks in Punch, of which I was getting so weary that I thought I must have done with it. Are you better for a little country air? Did you walk in that cheerful paddock where the cows are? And did you have clothes enough to your bed ? I shall go to mine now, after writing this witty page, for I have been writ- ing and spinning about all day, and am very tired and sleepy if you please. Bon Soir, Madame. . . . Saturday. Though there is no use in writing, because there is no post, but que voulez vous, Madame? On aime a dire un petit bonjour a scs amis. I feel almost used to the place already and begin to be interested about the politics. Some say there's a revolution ready for today. The town is crammed with soldiers, and one has a curi- ous feeling of interest and excitement, as in walking about on ice that is rather dangerous, and may tumble in at any moment. I had three newspapers for my break- 44 LETTERS OF THACKERAY fast, which my man, (it is rather grand having a laquais de place^ but I can't do without him, and invent all sorts of pretexts to employ him) bought for five pence of your money. The mild papers say we have escaped an immense danger, a formidable plot has been crushed, and Paris would have been on fire and fury but for the timely discovery. The Red Republicans say, " Plot! no such thing, the infernal tyrants at the head of affairs wish to find a pretext for persecuting patriots, and the good and the brave are shut up in dungeons." Plot or no plot, which is it ? I think I prefer to believe that there has been a direful conspiracy, and that we have escaped a tremendous danger. It makes one feel brave somehow, and as if one had some merit in overthrowing this ras- cally conspiracy. I am going to the Chamber directly. The secretary at the Embassy got me a ticket. The Embassy is wonderfully civil; Lord Normanby is my dearest friend, he is going to take me to the President, — very likely to ask me to dinner. You would have thought I was an earl, I was received with so much of empressement by the ambassador. I hadn't been in Paris ten minutes, before I met ten people of my acquaintance. . . . As for Oh ! it was wonderful. We have not met for five years on account of a coolness, — that is a great heat, — resulting out of a dispute in which I was called to be umpire and gave judgment against her and her husband; but we have met, it is forgotten. . . . Poor soul, she performed beautifully. " What, William, not the least changed, just the same as ever, in spite of all your fame? "—Fame be hanged, thought I, ijardonnez-moi le mot, — " just the same simple creature." O! what a hypocrite I felt. I like her too; but she poor, poor soul— well, she did her From a drawing by Thackeray in the possession of Mrs. BrooKfleld LETTERS OF THACKERAY 45 comedy exceedingly well. I could only say, " JNIy dear, you have grown older," that was the only bit of truth that passed, and she didn't like it. Quand vous serez bien vieille, and I say to you, " my dear you are grown old " (only I shall not say "my dear," but something much more distant and respectful) , I wonder whether you will like it. Now it is time to go to the Chamber, but it was far pleasanter to sit and chatter with INIadame. I have been to see a piece of a piece called the Mys- teres de Londres, since the above, and most tremendous mysteries they were indeed. It appears that there lived in London, three or four years ago, a young grandee of Spain and count of the Empire, the JNlarquis of Rio Santo, an Irishman by birth, who in order to free his na- tive country from the intolerable tyranny of England, imagined to organize an extraordinary conspiracy of the rogues and thieves of the metropolis, with whom some of the principal merchants, jewellers and physicians were concerned, who were to undermine and destroy somehow the infamous British power. The merchants were to forge and utter bank-notes, the jewellers to sell sham diamonds to the aristocracy, and so ruin them ; the physi- cians to murder suitable persons by their artful prescrip- tions, and the whole realm being plunged into anarchy by their manoeuvres, Ireland was to get its own in the midst of the squabble. This astonishing marquis being elected supreme chief of a secret society called the " Gen- tlemen of the Night," had his spies and retainers among the very highest classes of society. The police and the magistrature were corrupted, the very beef -eaters of the Queen contaminated, and you saw the evidence of such a conspiracy as would make your eyes open with terror. Who knows, madame, but perhaps some of the school 46 LETTERS OF THACKERAY inspectors themselves were bought over, and a Jesuitic C k, an ambitious T , an unscrupulous B himself, may have been seduced to mislead our youth, and teach our very babes and sucklings a precocious per- verseness? This is getting to be so very like print that I shall copy it very likely,' all but the inspector part, for a periodical with which I am connected. Well, numbers of beautiful women were in love with the Marquis, or otherwise subjugated by him, and the most lovely and innocent of all, was employed to go to St. James' on a drawing-room day, and steal the diamonds of Lady Brompton, the mistress of his grace Prince Demetri Tolstoi, the Russian ambassador, who had lent Lady Brompton the diamonds to sport at St. James', before he sent them off to his imperial master the Emperor of Russia, for whom the trifles in question were purchased. Lady Brompton came to court having her train held up by her jockey; Susanna came to court, her train like- wise carried by her page, one or both of them were affides of the association of the " Gentlemen of the Night." The jockeys were changed, and Lady Brompton's jew- els absolutely taken ofl" her neck. So great was the rage of his grace Prince Demetri Tolstoi, that he threatened war should be declared by his emperor unless the bril- liants were restored. I don't know what supervened, for exhausted nature would bear no more. But you should have seen the Court of St. James', the beef -eaters, the Life Guards, the heralds at arms in their tabards of the sixteenth century, and the ushers announcing the great folks, as they went into the presence of the great sovereign. Lady Campbell, the Countess of Derby, and the Archbishop of Canterbury were announced. 01 * He did reproduce part of it in Punch. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 47 such an archbishop ! he had on a velvet trencher cap, and a dress something hke our real and venerated prelates', and a rich curling wig, and he stopped and blessed the people, making crucificial signs on the stairs. The va- rious lords went into the chamber in red robes and long flowing wigs. The wonder of the parody was, that it was so like and yet so absurdly unlike. O'Connell ap- peared, saluted as Daniel by the Count of Rio Santo, and announcing that he himself, though brise par la lutte with the oppressors of his country, yet strongly repro- bated anything like violent measures on the part of M. de Rio Santo and his fellow-patriots. The band played "God safe the Quin " in the most delightful absurd manner. The best of it is that these things, admirably as they tickled me, are only one degree more absurd than what they pretend to copy. The Archbishop had a wig only the other day, though not quite such a wig as this ; the chiefs of the police came in with oilskin hats, police- men's coats quite correct, and white tights and silk stock- ings, which made me laugh so, that the people in the stalls next me didn't know what I was at ! But the par- ody was in fine prodigious, and will afford matter to no end of a penny-a-line speculation. . . . I sit in my little snug room and say God bless you and Mr. Williams. Here is near four pages of Pendennis. . . . April, 10th. 1849. My Dear Persons.— After lying in bed until you had reached Clifton, exceeding melancholy from want of sleep, (induced by no romantic inward feeling but by other causes much more material and vulgar, viz., late smoking, etc., previous nights) shall I tell you what 48 LETTERS OF THACKERAY it was dissipated my blue devils ? As I was going toward London the postman stopped me in the street and asked me if I would take my letters, which he handed to me: —one was an opera-box which I sent off to Mrs. M. for to morrow; and one was a letter from an attorney demanding instantly £112 for that abominable Irish Railway; and in presence of this real calamity all the sentimental ones vanished straight. I began to think how I must raise the money,— how I must go to work, nor be shilly-shallying any longer; and with this real care staring me in the face I began to forget imaginary grievances and to think about going to work immedi- ately; and how for the next 3 months I must screw and save in order to pay off the money. And this is the way, M'am, that the grim duties of the world push the soft feelings aside; we've no time to be listening to their little meek petitions and tender home prattle in presence of the imperative Duty who says " Come, come, no more of this here,— get to work. Mister"— and so we go and join the working gang, behind which Necessity marches cracking his whip. This metaphor has not been worked so completely as it might be, but it means that I am re- solved to go to work directly. So being determined on this I went off at once to the Star and Garter at Rich- mond and dined with those 2 nice women and their hus- bands, viz, the Strutts and Romillys. We had every sort of luxury for dinner, and afterwards talked about Vanity Fair and Pendennis almost incessantly (though I declare I led away the conversation at least 10 times, but they would come back) so that the evening was un- commonly pleasant. Once, twice, thrice, it came into my head— I wonder what those people at Clifton are doing; I would give 2/6 to be with them; but in the LETTERS OF THACKERAY 49 mean while it must be confessed, the Star and Garter is not bad. These ladies are handsome and good, and clever, and kind; that solicitor general talks with great pleasantness; and so I came home in a fly with an old gentleman who knew Sir S. Romilly, and we talked of the dark end of that history of a very good and wise man, and how he adored his wife (it was her death which caused his suicide) , and how his son was equally attached to his own, of whose affection for her husband my in- former gave many pretty instances. This conversation brought me to Kensington, where after thinking about the £112 a little, and a little more about some friends of mine whom I pray God to make happy, I fell into a great big sleep — from which I wake at this present 8 o'clock in the morning to say Bon jour, Madame. Where do vou think this is wrote from? From an at- torney's office, Old Jewry. The Lord Mayor, the Sher- iffs, their coaches and footmen, in gold and silk stock- ings, have just passed in a splendid procession through the mud and pouring rain. I have been to the bankers to see how much money I have got. I have got £120; I owe £112; from £120 take £112, leaves 8 for the rest of the month. Isn't that pleasant? Well, but I know how to raise some;— the bankers say I may over-draw. Things isn't so bad. But now, (this is from the Garrick Club) now I say for the wonderful wonder of wonders. There is a chance for Mr. Williams such as he little looked for. EMMA is free. The great Catastrophe has happened — last night she and her mother fled from the infamous R. and took refuge at Mrs. Procter's where they had Adelaide's and Agnes' beds — who went and slept with Mr. and Mrs. Goldsmid next door. Mr. and Mrs. P. called at Ken- 50 LETTERS OF THACKERAY sington at 11 o'clock and brought the news.* R. had treated his wife infamously; R. had assailed her with the most brutal language and outrages; — that innocent woman Madame G , poor thing, who meddled with nothing and remained all day in her own garret so as to give no trouble, was flung out of the house by him — in- deed only staj^ed in order to protect her daughter's life. The brute refused to allow the famous picture to be exhibited— in fact is a mad-man and a ruffian. Procter and I went off to make peace, and having heard R.'s story, I believe that he has been more wronged than they. The mother in-law is at the bottom of the mischief. It was she who made the girl marry R., and, the mar- riage made, she declined leaving her daughter; in fact, the poor devil, who has a bad temper, a foolish head— an immense vanity — has been victimised by the women and I pity him a great deal more than them. O! what a comedy it would make! but the separation I suppose is final, and it will be best for both parties. It will end no doubt in his having to pay a 4th of his income for the pleasure of being a month married to her, and she will be an angelic martyr, &c. I wonder whether you will give me a luncheon on Thursday. I might stop for 2 hours on my way to Taunton and make you my hand- shake. This would be very nice. I thought of writing to Mrs. Elton and ofl'ering myself, but I should like first to have the approval of Mr. Williams, for after all, ^ Mrs. Procter, the wife of the well-known poet, Barry Cornwall,— herself a most accomplished woman. — Even now at 84 years of age she retains the brilliant powers of conversation for which she was always celebrated. She was always a faithful friend to Mr. Thackeray, who had a sincere regard for her. Mrs. Procter was the mother of Adelaide, who so largely inherited her father's poetic powers. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 51 I am not an indifferent person but claim to rank as the Afft. brother of both of you. W. M. T. Fragment. [April, 1849.] Yesterday's wasn't a letter, you know, ma'am; and T am so tired now of penmanship, that I don't think I shall be able to get through one. I wish you were on the sofa in Portman Street, and that I could go and lie down on the opposite one and fall asleep. Isn't that a polite wish? Well, I am so beat that I ought to go to bed, and not inflict my yawns upon anyone; but I can't begin snoring yet. I am waiting at the Club, till the printer's boy brings the proofs of No. 7,^ which is all done ; there are two new women in it, not like anybody that you know or I know; your favourite INIajor appears rather in an amiable light, I don't know whether it is good or bad. The latter probably. Well, it is done, that's a com- fort. . . . I am going to dine with Lady Davy again, but Fri- day shall be a happy Friday for me, and on Saturday, when you go to Oxbridge, I shall console myself by a grand dinner at the Royal Academy, if you please, to which they have invited me, on a great card like a tea- tray. That's a great honour, none but bishops, purchas- ers, and other big-wigs are asked. I daresay I shall have to make an impromptu speech. Shall I come to rehearse it to you on Friday? I was going to send you a letter t'other day from a sculptor who wants to make my bust; think of that ! . . . * Pendennis. 52 LETTERS OF THACKERAY Here is wonderful Spring weather come, and the leaves are sprouting and all the birds chirping melo joy- ously. I daresay you are driving by Severn's Shore, now; then you will listen after dinner to Captain Budd on the German flute ; then I daresay you will sing, after a great deal of blushing and hesitation. Is Mrs. Tidy jealous of you? I daresay she thinks }^ou are overrated, and wonders what people see in you. So do I. . . . Tomorrow me and Annie and Minnie are going to buy a new gownd for Granny, who wants it very much. Those old folks project a tour to Switzerland in the Summer, did I tell you? And my mother cannot part with the children, who must go too. Where shall I go? . . . Here comes the proof; — shall I send this letter now or wait till tomorrow, and have something to say? perhaps I shall see William tonight. I am going to Lady Love- lace's drum in Cumberland Place, hard-by Portman Street. No, I didn't go, but came home and fell asleep after dinner, from nine o'clock till now, which it is eight o'clock in the morning, which I am writing in bed. You are very likely looking at the elms out of window by this time ; are they green yet ? Our medlar tree is. I was to have gone to the old Miss Berrys' too last night; they were delighted at the allusion in Punch to them, in the same number in which you appear mending waistcoats. But Lord what a much better thing going to bed was! and No. 7 completed with great throes and disquiet, only yesterday— seems to me ever so long ago— such a big sleep have I had I . . . LETTERS OF THACKERAY 53 Adelaide Procter would hardly shake hands with me because of my cowardly conduct in the R affair, and she told me that I hadn't been to call there since the 28th ^larch last. They keep a journal of visitors ; fancy that ! I heard the R story from the G herself and the mother, and can only make out now that the hus- band is mad and odious. What they are to do is the difficulty; he refuses to allow her a shilling; her picture has been rejected at the Academy, and why I can't see, for there's no English academician's who could equal it, and she must paint to live. I shall give her my mother to do, I think. She looked exceedingly hand- some and interesting the other day; pale and grief - stricken, with her enormous hair twirled round her head — and yet, and yet! Will you kiss those little maids for me, I should like to hear their prattle through the door. I am going to kill ]Mrs. Pendennis presently, and have her ill in this number. INlinnie says, " O ! papa, do make her well again ; she can have a regular doctor and be al- most dead, and then will come a homeopathic physician who will make her well you know." It is very pretty to see her with her grandmother. Let us jump up now and go to breakfast with the children. June 12, 1849. My dear Lady: I send a hasty line to say that the good old aunt is still here, and was very glad to see me and another nephew of hers who came by the same train. It's a great comfort to my mother and to her, that my mother should be with her at this last day ; and she is preparing to go out of the world, in which she has been living very virtuously for 54 LETTERS OF THACKERAY more than eighty years, as calmly and happily as may be. I don't know how long she may remain, but my duty will be to stay on I suppose, until the end, which the doctor says is very near; though to see her in her bed, cheerful and talking, one would fancy that her sum- mons is not so near as those who are about her imagine. So I shall not see London or my dear friends in it for a few days very likely. Meanwhile will you write me a line here to tell me that you are easier of your pains, and just to give a comfort to your old brother Makepeace. I suppose I shall do a great deal of my month's work here. I have got a comfortable room at a little snug country inn, such as William would like. I am always thinking about going to see Mrs. Fanshawe at South- ampton, about No. 9 of Pendennis, and about all sorts of things. I went to see Mrs. Procter, to the City, and to do my business and pay my horrid railroad money. The banker's clerk stopped me and said, " I beg your pardon. Sir, but will you, if you please, tell me the mean- ing of ' eesthetics,' " which I was very much puzzled to tell— and here comes the boy to say that the note must go this instant to save the post, and so God bless Jane my sister and William my brother. Written from the Royal oak, Fareham. From the old shop, 21. [1849] Is it pouring with rain at Park Lodge, and the most dismal, wretched, cat and dog day ever seen? O! it's gloomy at 13 Young Street! I have been labouring all day — drawing that is, and doing my plates, till my &s are ready to drop off for weariness. But they must not LETTERS OF THACKERAY 55 stop for yet a little while, and until I have said how do you do to my dear lady and the young folks at South- ampton. I hardly had time to know I was gone, and that happy fortnight was over, till this morning. At the train, whom do you think I found? Miss G who says she is Blanche Amory, and I think she is Blanche Amory; amiable at times, amusing, clever and depraved. We talked and persiflated all the way to London, and the idea of her will help me to a good chapter, in which I will make Pendennis and Blanche play at being in love, such a wicked false humbugging London love, as two blase London people might act, and half deceive themselves that they M'ere in earnest. That will complete the cycle of ^Ir. Pen's worldly ex- periences, and then we will make, or try and make, a good man of him. O! me, we are wicked worldlings most of us, may God better us and cleanse us ! I wonder whether ever again, I shall have such a happy peaceful fortnight as that last! How sunshiny the landscape remains in my mind, I hope for always; and the smiles of dear children. ... I can hardly see as I write for the eye-water, but it isn't with grief, but for the natural pathos of the thing. How happy your dear regard makes me, how it takes off the solitude and eases it; may it continue, pray God, till your head is white as mine, and our children have children of their own. Instead of being unhappy because that delightful holiday is over or all but over, I intend that the thoughts of it should serve to make me only the more cheerful and help me, please God, to do my duty better. All such pleasures ought to brace and strengthen one against work days, and lo, here they are. I hope you will be im- mensely punctual at breakfast and dinner, and do all 56 LETTERS OF THACKERAY j^our business of life with cheerfulness and briskness, after the example of holy Philip Neri, whom you wot of; that is your duty Madame, and mine is to "pursue my high calling;" and so I go back to it with a full grateful heart, and say God bless all. If it hadn't been pouring-o'-rain so, I think I should have gone off to His Reverence at Brighton ; so I send him my very best regards, and a whole box full of kisses to the children. Farewell. Note from Thackeray (actual size). [To Mr. Brookfield.] 25 April 1849. My Dear Vieux: Will ye dine with me on Friday at the G? My work will be just over on that day, and bedad, we'll make a night of it, and go to the play. On Thursday I shall dine here and Sunday most yrohhly, and shall we go to Richmond on Sunday? Make your game and send me word. Ever yours, W. M. T. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 57 P. S. Having occasion to write to a man in Blooms- bury Place, and to Lady Davy, I mixed up the ad- dresses and am too mean to throw away the envelope, so give you the benefit of the same. [1849.] Monday. My letter to-day, dear lady, must needs be a very short one, for the post goes in half an hour, and I've been occupied all day with my own business and other people's. At three o'clock, just as I was in full work comes a letter from a protegee of my mother's, a cer- tain Madame de B. informing me that she, Madame de B., had it in view to commit suicide immediately, unless she could be in some measure relieved (or re- leived, which is it?) from her present difficulties. So I have had to post off to this Madame de B., whom I expected to find starving, and instead met a woman a great deal fatter than the most full-fed person need be, and having just had a good dinner; but that didn't pre- vent her, the confounded old fiend, from abusing the woman who fed her and was good to her, from spoiling the half of a day's work for me, and taking me of a fool's errand. I was quite angry, instead of a corpse perhaps, to find a fat and voluble person who had no more idea of hanging herself to the bed-post than you or I have. However, I got a character in making Madame de B's acquaintance, and some day she will turn up in that inevitable repertory of all one's thoughts and experiences que vous savez. Thence, as it was near, I went to see a sick poetess, who is pining away for love of S M , that you have heard of, and who literally has been brought near 58 LETTERS OF THACKERAY to the grave by that amorous malady. She is very interesting somehow, ghastly pale and thin, recumbent on a sofa, and speaking scarcely above her breath. I wonder though after all, was it the love, or was it the bronchitis, or was it the chest or the spine that was affected? All I know is that Don Saville may have made love to her once, but has tried his hand in other quarters since, and you know one doesn't think the worse of a man of honour for cheating in affairs of the heart. The numbers that I myself have— fiddledee, this is nonsense. The Reform banquet was very splendid and dull enough. A bad dinner and bad wine, and pretty fair speaking; my friend fat James being among not the least best of the speakers. They all speak in a kind of sing-song or chant, without which I suppose it is impossible for the orator nowadays to pitch his sen- tences, and Madam, you are aware that the Romans had a pipe when they spoke; not a pipe such as your husband uses, but a pitch-pipe. I wanted to have gone to smoke a last calumet at poor dear old Portman Street, but our speechifiers did not stop till 12.30 and not then; but the best of them had fired off by that time and I came off. Yesterday, after devoting the morning to composition, I went and called on the Rev. W. H. Brookfield, whom I found very busy packing up and wishing me at Jericho, so I went to the Miss Leslies' and Captn. Morgan, the American Captain; and then to dine at Hampstead, where the good natured folks took in me and the two young ones. Finally, in the evening to Lady Tennent's, where I have been most remiss in visit-paying, for I like her, and she was a kind old friend to me. To-day I am going to dine with LETTERS OF THACKERAY 59 the Dowager Duchess of Bedford, afterwards to Mrs. Procter's, afterwards to Lady Granville's. Here you have your humble servant's journal, and you see his time is pretty well occupied. I have had a good deal of the children too, and am getting on apace with my number, though I don't like it. Shall I send you some of it? No, I won't, though if I do a very good piece indeed, perhaps I may. I think I shall go to Brighton; I think you will be away six weeks at least ; and I hope to hear that my dear lady is well and that she remembers her affectionate old friend Makepeace. 1849. [To Mr. Brookfield] My dear Vieux: A long walk and stroll in Richmond Park yesterday, a blue followed by a black this morning, have left me calmer, exhausted, but melancholy. I shall dine at the Garrick at seven o'clock or so, and go to the Lyceum afterwards. Come into town if you get this in time and let us go. . . . Get David Copperfield, by Jingo it's beautiful; it beats the yellow chap of this month hollow. W. M. T. Will 5^ou send me two cigars per bearer? I am work- ing with three pipe-smoking Frenchmen, and I can't smoke their abominations, and I hope Madame is pretty well after her triumphant debut last night. 60 LETTERS OF THACKERAY [1849] Reform Club, Tuesday— My dear Lady: I write only a word and in the greatest hurry to say I am very well in health. I've been at work, and have written somewhat and done my two plates, which only took two hours; and now that they're done, I feel that I want so to come back to Ryde, I must get a rope or a chain to bind myself down to my desk here.^ All the world is out of town — INIrs. Procter not at home, perhaps to my visit, — dear kind Kate Perry whom indeed I like with all my heart just packing up to go to Brighton. My Chesterfield loves flown away to Tunbridge Wells, and so I am alone and miss you. I sent your package off to Harry this morning. The lucky rogue! I sup- pose he will see Madam and all those kind Ryde folks. Tell them if you please how very grateful I am to them for their good nature. I can't help fancying them rela- tions rather than friends. I got some dinner; at lOl o'clock I drank to the health of Madame Ma bonne soeur;— I hadn't the courage to go home till past midnight, when all the servants got out of bed to let me in. There was such a heap of letters ! I send you a couple which may amuse you. Send me Colonel Ferguson's back, as I must answer him; but I don't think I shall be able to get away in August to Scotland. Who can the excoriated female be who imparts her anguish to me? what raw wound has the whip of the satirist been touching? As 1 was sitting with my Frenchmen at 3 o'clock, I thought • Mr. Thackeray had been spending a few days at Ryde with my brother and his wife, where I was staying. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 61 to myself O Lor ! IMr. Makepeace, how much better you were off yesterday ! Good bye dear lady, God bless every kind person of all those who love you.— I feel here, you must know, just as I used five and twenty j^ears ago at school, the day after coming back from the holidays. If you have nothing to say to me, pray write ; if you have something, of course you will. Good bye, shake hands, I am always my dear lady's sincere W. M. T. [1849] Last night was a dinner at Spencer Cowper's, the man who used to be called the fortunate youth some few years back, when £10,000, or perhaps £20,000 a year, was suddenly left him by a distant relative, and when he was without a guinea in the world. It was a Sybaritic repast, in a magnificent apartment, and we were all of us young voluptuaries of fashion. There were portraits of Louis Quatorze ladies round the room (I was going to say salle a inanger, but room after all is as good a word) . We sat in the comfortablest arm chairs, and valets went round every instant filling our glasses with the most exquisite liquors. The glasses were as big as at Kinglake's dinner — do you remember Kinglake's feast. Ma'am? Then we adjourned into wadded drawing rooms, all over sofas and lighted with a hundred candles, where smoking was practised, and we enjoyed a pleasant and lively conversation, carried on in the 2 languages of which we young dogs are per- fect masters. As I came away at midnight I saw C.'s carriage lamps blazing in the courtyard, keeping watch until the fortunate youth should come out to pay a visit 62 LETTERS OF THACKERAY to some Becky no doubt. The young men were clever, very frank and gentlemenlike ; one, rather well-read; quite as pleasant companions as one deserves to meet, and as for your humble servant, he saw a chapter or two of Pendennis in some of them. I am going with M. to-day, to see Alexis the som- nambulist. She came yesterday evening and talked to me for two hours before dinner. I astonished her by finding out her secrets by some of those hits que vous savez — Look, here is a bit of paper with a note to her actually commenced in reply to my dearest William, — but I couldn't get out my dearest M. in return, and stopped at "My"—. But I like her better than I did, — and begin to make allowances for a woman of great talents married to a stupid, generous, obstinate, devoted heavy dragoon, thirty years her senior. My dear old mother with her imperial manner tried to take the com- mand of both of them, and was always anxious to make them understand that I was the divinest creature in the world, whose shoestrings neither of them was fit to tie. Hence bickerings, hatreds, secret jealousies and open revolt, and I can fancy them both worked up to a pitch of hatred of me, that my success in life must have ren- dered only more bitter. But about Alexis— this wonder of wonders reads let- ters and tells you their contents and the names of their authors without even thinking of opening the seal; and I want you very much, if you please, and instantly on receipt of this to send me a bit of your hair that I may have a consultation on it. Mind you, I don't want it for myself; I pledge you my word I'll burn it, or give you back every single hair. . . . but do if you please, mum, gratify my curiosity in this matter and consult LETTERS OF THACKERAY 63 the soothsayer regarding you. M. showed him letters, and vows he is right in every particular. And as I sha'n't be very long here I propose by return of post, for this favour. Are j^ou going to dine at Lansdowne House on Saturday? The post is come in and brought me an invitation, and a letter from my Ma, and my daughters, but none from my sister. Are you ill again, dear lady? Don't be ill, God bless you— good bye. I shall write again if you please, but I sha'n't be long before I come. Don't be ill, I am afraid you are. You hav'n't been to Kensington. My love to Mr. Wilhams, farewell, and write tomorrow. 1849. [To Mr. Brookfield] My dear Vieux : If you come home in any decent time I wish you would go off to poor Mrs. Crowe at Hampstead.^ A letter has just come, from Eugenie, who describes the poor lady as low, wretched, and hysterical — she may drop. Now a word or two of kindness from a black coat might make all the difference to her, and who so able to administer as your reverence? I am going out myself to laugh, talk and to the best of my ability, soothe and cheer her; but the professional man is the best, depend upon it, and I wish you would stretch a point in order to see her. Yours till this evening. * Mrs. Crowe, mother of Eyre Crowe, the well-known artist, who went with Mr. Thackeray to America on his first tour there, and who was always one of his most faithful friends. 64 LETTERS OF THACKERAY [1849], [To Mr. Brook field] My dear Vieux: I wish you would go and call upon Lady Ashburton. Twice Ashburton has told me that she wants to make your acquaintance, and twice remarked that it would be but an act of politeness in you to call on a lady in dis- tress, who wants your services. Both times I have said that you are uncommonly proud and shy, and last night told him he had best call on you, which he said he should hasten to do. But surely you might stretch a leg over the barrier when there's a lady actually beckoning to you to come over, and such an uncommonly good din- ner laid on the other side. There was a vacant place yesterday, as you might have had, and such a company of jolly dogs, St. Davids, Hallam sen'r and ever so many more of our set. Do come if you can, and believe me to be yours, A. Pendennis, Major H.P. To the Rev. W. H. Broohfield. Monday. My dear Vieux: A. Sterling ^ dines with me at the Garrick at seven on Friday; I hope you will come too. And on Friday the 21st. June, Mr. Thackeray requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Brookfield's and Mr. Henry Hallam's company at dinner at 7.30 to meet Sir Alexander and * A. Sterling, brother to John Sterling of whom Carlyle wrote the life. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 65 Lady DufF Gordon, Sir Henry and Lady De Bathe &c. &c. I hope you will both come to this, please; you ought to acknowledge the kindness of the key,^. and those kind Gordons will like to see you. About 1849. My dear Lady: A note comes asking me to dine tomorrow with Mr. Benedict/ close by you at No. 2 Manchester Square, to meet IMdme Jenny Lind. I reply that a lady is com- ing to dine wath my mother, whom I must of course meet, but that I hope jNIrs. B. will allow me to come to her in the evening with my mamma and this lady under each arm, and I promise they will look and behave well. Now suppose Mrs. S. and I were to come and dine with you, or my mother alone, if you liked to have her better ; yes, that would be best, and I could come at nine o'clock and accompany you to the Swedish nightingale. I am as usual Your obedient servant Claeence Bulbul. [1849] My dear Lady: It was begun, " dear Sir," to somebody of the other sex. I think it is just possible, that Mr. William on returning to-day, may like to have his wife to himself, and that the appearance of my eternal countenance might be a bore, hence I stay slwsly. . . . * The key of the Portman Square Garden which was kindly lent to me. * Mr. Benedict, the lace lamented and kindly musician, Sir Julius Benedict. 66 LETTERS OF THACKERAY And about tomorrow, the birthday of my now motherless daughter, Miss Annie. Will you come out, — being as I must consider you, if you please, the chil- dren's aunt, — at two, or three o'clk, or so, and take innocent pleasures with them, such as the Coliseum and the Zoological Gardens? and are you free so as to give them some dinner or tea in the evening? I dine out myself at 8 o'clock, and should like them to share inno- cent pleasures with their relation. My mother writes from Fareham that the old great aunt is better, and will not depart probably yet awhile. And now concerning Monday. You two must please remember that you are engaged to this house at seven. I have written to remind the Scotts, to ask the Pollocks, and the Carlyles are coming. And now with regard to this evening, I dine in Westbourne Terrace, then I must go to Marshall's in Eaton Square and then to Mrs. Sartoris, where I don't expect to see you ; but if a gentleman of the name of W. H. B. should have a mind to come, we might &c. &c. Madam, I hope you have had a pleasant walk on Clapham's breezy common, and that you are pretty well. I myself was very quiet, went with the children to Hampstead, and then to the Opera, and only one party. I am writing at the Reform Club, until four o'clock, when I have an engagement with O! such a charming person, and tete-a-tete too. Well, it's with the dentist's arm chair, but I should like to have the above queries satisfactorily answered, and am always Madam's W. M. T. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 67 13 July 1849 From Brighton. Now for to go to begin that long letter which I have a right to send you, after keeping silence, or the next thing to silence, for a whole week. As I have nothing to tell about, it is the more likely to be longer and fun- nier — no, not funnier, for I believe I am generally most funnj'^ when I am most melancholy, — and who can be melancholy with such air, ocean and sunshine? not if I were going to be hanged tomorrow could I afford to be anything but exceedingly lazy, hungry and comfort- able. Why is a day's Brighton the best of doctors? I don't mean this for a riddle, but I got up hungry, and have been yawning in the sun like a fat lazzarone, with great happiness all day. I have got a window with a magnificent prospect, a fresh sea breeze blowing in, such a blue sea yonder as can scarcely be beat by the Naples or the IMediterranean blue ; and have passed the main part of the morning reading O! such a stupid book, Fanny Hervey, the new intime novel of the sea- son, as good as ^liss Austen's people say. In two hours I am engaged to dinner in London. Well, I have broken with that place thank Heaven, for a little, and shall only go back to do my plates and to come away. Whither to go? I have a fancy that Ryde in the Isle of Wight would be as nice a place as any for idling, for sketching, for dawdling, and getting health ; but the Rev. Mr. Brookfield must determine this for me, and I look to see him here in a day or two. . . . I wish they had called me sooner to dinner; there's only one man staying at this house, and he asked me at breakfast in a piteous tone, to let him dine 68 LETTERS OF THACKERAY with me. If we were two, he said, the rules of the club would allow us a joint, — as if this luxury would tempt the voluptuary who pens these lines. He has come down here suffering from indigestion, and with a fatal dying look, which I have seen in one or two people before; he rushed wildly upon the joint and devoured it with famished eagerness. He said he had been curate of St. James, Westminster, — whereupon I asked if he knew my friend Brookfield. " jNIy successor," says he, " a very able man, very good fellow, married a very nice woman." Upon my word he said all this, and of course it was not my business to contradict him. He said, no, he didn't say, but the waiter said, without my asking, that his name was ]Mr. Palmer; and then he asked if Brookfield had any children, so I said I believed not, and began to ask about his own children. How queer it seemed to be talking in this way, and what 27d inci- dents to tell; but there are no others; nobody is here. The paper this morning announced the death of dear old Horace Smith, ^ that good serene old man, who went out of the world in charity with all in it, and having shown through his life, as far as I knew it, quite a delightful love of God's works and creatures, — a true, loj^al, Christian man. So was JNIorier, of a different order, but possessing that precious natural quality of love, which is awarded to some lucky minds such as these, Charles Lambs, and one or two more in our trade ; to many amongst the parsons I think ; to a friend of yours by the name of INIakepeace, perhaps, but not unalloyed ta this one. O ! God purify it, and make my ^ Horace Smith and his brother were the authors of " Rejected Addresses." The two Miss Horace Smiths are still living at Brighton, where Mr. Thack- eray speaks of meeting them after his illness. Their society is still much sought after. In the Nursery at Clevedon Court From the Clevedon Drawings LETTERS OF THACKERAY 69 heart clean. After dinner and a drive on the sea shore, I came home to an evening's reading which took place as follows — Mum, 4v fU Jul JLo* | c* I—* o '^^^ LETTERS OF THACKERAY 75 gave him a pound, Ah! it was a strange, sad picture of Vanity Fair. My mind is all boiling up with it ; indeed, it is in a queer state. ... I give my best remembrances to all at Clevedon Court. [30th June 1849.] My dear lady: I have 2 opera boxes for tonight— a pit box — for the Huguenots at Covent Garden — where there is no ballet, and where you might sit and see this grand opera in great ease and quiet. Will you please to say if you will have it and I will send or bring it. Or if Miss Hallam dines with you, may I come after- wards to tea? Say yes or no; I sha'n't be offended, only best pleased of course with yes. I am engaged on Mon- day Tuesday and Wednesday nights, so if you go away on Thursday I shall have no chance of seeing you again for ever so long. I was to breakfast with Mr. Rogers this morning but he played me false. Good bye W. M. T. Fragment. 21 July 1849. ITo Mr. Broohfield.] Adelaide Procter has sent me the most elegant velvet purse, embroidered with my initials, and forget-me-nots on the other side. I received this peace-oiFering with a gentle heart; one must not lose old friends at our time of life, and if one has offended them one must try and try until they are brought back. . . . 76 LETTERS OF THACKERAY Mrs. Powell, the lady I asked you to stir about, has got the place of matron of the Governesses, a house and perquisites, and 100 a year, an immense thing for a woman with nothing. On the 30th June, the day you went, Rogers threw me over for breakfast, and to-day comes the most la- mentable letter of excuse. Yesterday, the day madame went away, the Strutts asked me to Greenwich, and when I got there, no dinner. Another most pathetic letter of excuse. These must be answered in a witty manner, so must Miss Procter, for the purse ; so must Mrs. Alfred Montgomery, who offers a dinner on Monday; so must two more, and I must write that demnition Mr. Browne before evensong. From the Punch office, where I'm come for to go to dress, to dine with the Lord mayor; but I have nothing to say but that I am yours, my dear old friend, affection- ately, W. M. T. Fragment. [1849] I was to go to Mrs. Montgomery's at this hour of 10.30, but it must be the contrary, that is, Mrs. Procter's. I wrote Adelaide her letter for the purse, and instead of thanking her much, only discoursed about old age, disappointment, death, and melancholy. The old people are charming at home, with their kind- ness. They are going away at the end of the week, somewhere, they don't say where, with the children. The dear old step-father moves me rather the most, he is so gentle and good humoured. Last night Harry came to dinner, and being Sunday there was none, and LETTERS OF THACKERAY 77 none to be had, and we went to the tavern hard-bye, where he didn't eat a bit. I did. . . . At Procter's was not furiously amusing — the eternal G. bores one. Her parents were of course there, the papa with a suspicious looking little order in his button hole, and a chevalier d'industrie air, which I can't get over. E. didn't sing, but on the other hand Mrs. did. She was passionate, she was enthusiastic, she was sublime, she was tender. There was one note that she kept so long, that I protest I had time to think about my aiFairs, to have a little nap, and to awake much re- freshed, while it was going on still. At another time, overcome by almost unutterable tenderness, she piped so low, that it's a wonder one could hear at all. In a word, she was miroholante, the most artless, affected, good- natured, absurd, clever creature possible. When she had crushed G. who stood by the piano hating her, and paying her the most profound compliments — she tripped off on my arm to the cab in waiting. I like that absurd kind creature. Drums are beating in various quarters for parties yet to come off, but I am refusing any more, being quite done up. I am thinking of sending the old and young folks to Clevedon, I am sure Mrs. Robbins and Mrs. Parr will be kind to them, won't they? [During an illness, August 184*9] No. I. 63 East Street, Brighton. Yesterday I had the courage to fly to Brighton, I have got a most beautiful lodging, and had a delightful 78 LETTERS OF THACKERAY sleep. I write a line at seven o'clock of the morning to tell you these good news. G b y.— No. 2. 63 East Street Brighton. This morning's, you know, wasn't a letter, only to tell you that I was pretty well after my travels; and after the letter was gone, thinks I, the handwriting is so bad and shaky, she will think I am worse, and only write fibs to try and soothe her. But the cause of the bad writ- ing was a bad pen, and impossible ink. See how differ- ent this is, though I have not much to say now, only that I have been sitting on the chain pier in a bath chair for two hours, and feel greatly invigorated and pleasantly tired by the wholesome sea breezes. Shall I be asleep in two minutes I wonder? I think I will try, I think snoring is better than writing. Come, let us try a little doze; a comfortable little doze of a quarter of an hour. Since then, a somewhat fatiguing visit from the Miss Smiths, who are all kindness, and look very pretty in their mourning.^ I found acquaintances on the pier too, and my chair anchored alongside of that of a very inter- esting nice little woman, Mrs. Whitmore, so that there was more talkee-talkee. Well, I won't go on writing any more about my ailments, and dozes and fatigues ; but sick folks are abominably selfish ; sick men that is, and so God bless my dear lady. W. M. T. Thursday. I cannot write you long, dear lady ; I have two notes to my mother daily, and a long one to Elliotson, &c. ; but ' Horace Smith died 12th July, 1849. V^ *^s>. ^^•^-^' '^^"'*'i;;/r-*»'t^''^ ^^^,.^^^^/^ ^<^ v-"'-"-^^ "^^ >" "^^ /^ cS ■a en 01 S •a 55 O H O 2 S5 Id S s o >> g o H >> a o 2 'U c c ^ ^ o S 8 £H rt s ^- — ►^" '^3^^ a t>. *- it ^ ^ i) 1- CJ g lyW C S tit _ aj yj O^ > O — ^-1 .«^ o 5 0)^ i_ m ™ ^ ■" IT >- c3 ^^ C tn J t «— O"^ V— . , m p u u f^ ii +j 01 >> "> !r> a c«* rt-w 03 _ i- ■-T, « -a g c o I. 4) LETTERS OF THACKERAY 79 I am getting on doucemcnt, like the change of air ex- ceedingly, the salt water baths, and the bath-chair jour- neys to the pier where it is almost as fresh as being at sea. But do you go on writing, please, and as often as you can; for it does me good to get kind letters. God bless you and good-night, is all I can say now, with my love to his Reverence from W. M. T. [Paris, Feb. 1849] My dear Lady: I have been to see a great character to-day and an- other still greater yesterday. To-day was Jules Janin, whose books you never read, nor do I suppose you could very well. He is the critic of the Journal des Debats %■' and has made his weekly feuilleton famous throughout Europe — He does not know a word of English, but he translated Sterne and I think Clarissa Harlowe. One week, having no theatres to describe in his feuilleton, or no other subject handy, he described his own marriage, which took place in fact that week, and absolutely made a present of his sensations to all the European public. He has the most wonderful verve, humour, oddity, hon- esty, bonhomie. He was ill with the gout, or recovering perhaps; but bounced about the room, gesticulating, joking, gasconading, quoting Latin, pulling out his books which are very handsome, and tossing about his curling brown hair;— a magnificent jolly intelligent face such as would suit Pan I should think, a flood of hu- morous, rich, jovial talk. And now I have described this, how are you to have the least idea of him.— I dare- say it is not a bit Hke him. He recommended me to read 80 LETTERS OF THACKERAY Diderot; which I have been reading in at his recom- mendation; and that is a remarkable sentimental cynic, too; in his way of thinking and sudden humours not unhke— not unlike Mr. Bowes of the Chatteris Theatre. I can fancy Harry Pendennis and him seated on the bridge and talking of their mutual mishaps;— no Arthur Pendennis the boy's name is ! I shall be forgetting my own next. But mind you, my similes don't go any fur- ther: and I hope you don't go for to fancy that you know anj^body like IMiss Fotheringay — you don't sup- pose that I think that you have no heart, do you? But there's many a woman who has none, and about whom men go crazy; — such was the other character I saw yes- terday. We had a long talk in which she showed me her interior, and I inspected it and left it in a state of wonderment which I can't describe. . . . She is kind, frank, open-handed, not very refined, with a warm outpouring of language ; and thinks herself the most feeling creature in the world. The way in which she fascinates some people is quite extraordinary. She affected me by telling me of an old friend of ours in the country— Dr. Portman's daughter indeed, who was a parson in our parts — who died of consumption the other day after leading the purest and saintliest life, and who after she had received the sacrament read over her friend's letter and actually died with it on the bed. Her husband adores her ; he is an old cavalrv Colonel of sixty, and the poor fellow away now in India, and yearning after her writes her yards and yards of the most tender, submissive, frantic letters; five or six other men are crazy about her. She trotted them all out, one after another before me last night ; not humourously, I mean, nor making fun of them; but complacently, describing LETTERS OF THACKERAY 81 their adoration for her and acquiescing in their opinion of herself. Friends, lover, husband, she coaxes them all ; and no more cares for them than worthy INIiss Fother- ingay did. — Oh! Becky is a trifle to her; and I am sure I might draw her picture and she would never know in the least that it was herself. I suppose I did not fall in love with her myself because we were brought up to- gether ; she was a very simple generous creature then. Tuesday. Friend came in as I was writing last night, perhaps in time to stop my chattering; but I am encore tout emerveille de ma cousine. By all the Gods! I never had the opportunity of inspecting such a naturalness and coquetry; not that I suppose that there are not many such women ; but I have only myself known one or two women intimately, and I daresay the novelty would wear off if I knew more. I had the Revue des 2 mondes and the Journal des Debats to dinner ; and what do you think by way of a delicate attention the chef served us up? Mock-turtle soup again, and uncommonly good it was too. After dinner I went to a ball at the prefecture of Police; the most splendid apartments I ever saw in my life. Such lights, pillars, marble, hangings, carvings, and gildings. I am sure King Belshazzar could not have been more magnificently lodged.— There must have been 15 hundred people, of whom I did not know one single soul. I am surprised that the people did not faint in the Saloons, which were like burning fiery furnaces; but there they were dancing and tripping away, ogling and flirting, and I suppose not finding the place a bit incon- veniently warm. The women were very queer looking bodies for the most, I thought, but the men dandies every one, fierce and trim with curling little mustachios. I felt dimly that I was 3 inches taller than any body else 82 LETTERS OF THACKERAY in the room but I hoped that nobody took notice of me. There was a rush for ices at a footman who brought those refreshments which was perfectly terrific— They were scattered melting over the heads of the crowd, as I ran out of it in a panic. There was an old British dow- ager with two daughters seated up against a wall very dowdy and sad, poor old lady ; I wonder what she wanted there and whether that was what she called pleasure. I went to see William's old friend and mine, Bowes ; he has forty thousand a year and palaces in the country, and here is a manager of a Theatre of Varietes, and his talk was about actors and coulisses all the time of our interview. I wish it could be the last, but he has made me promise to dine with him, and go I must, to be killed by his melancholy gentlemanlikeness. I think that is all I did yesterday. Dear lady, I am pained at your hav- ing been unwell; I thought you must have been, when Saturday came without any letter. There wont be one today I bet twopence. I am going to a lecture at the Institute; a lecture on Burns by M. Chasles, who is professor of English literature. What a course of lion- izing, isn't it ? But it must stop ; for is not the month the shortest of months? I went to see my old haunts when I came to Paris 13 years ago, and made believe to be a painter,— just after I was ruined and before I fell in love and took to marriage and writing. It was a very jolly time, I was as poor as Job and sketched away most abominably, but pretty contented; and we used to meet in each others little rooms and talk about art and some pipes and drink bad brandy and water. — That awful habit still remains, but where is art, that dear mistress whom I loved, though in a very indolent capricious man- ner, but with a real sincerity?— I see her far, very far LETTERS OF THACKERAY 83 off. I jilted her, I know it very well; but you see it was Fate ordained that marriage should never take place; and forced me to take on with another lady, two other ladies, three other ladies ; I mean the muse and my wife &c. &c. Well 3^ou are very good to listen to all this egotistic prattle, chere soeur, si douce et si bonne. I have no reason to be ashamed of my loves, seeing that all three are quite lawful. Did you go to see my people yester- day? Some day when his reverence is away, will you have the children? and not, if you please, be so vain as to fancy that you can't amuse them or that they will be bored in your house. They must and shall be fond of you, if you please. Alfred's open mouth as he looked at the broken bottle and spilt wine must have been a grand picture of agony. I couldn't find the lecture room at the Institute, so I went to the Louvre instead, and took a feast with the statues and pictures. The Venus of Milo is the grand- est figure of figures. The wave of the lines of the figure, whenever seen, fills my senses with pleasure. What is it which so charms, satisfies one, in certain lines? O! the man who achieved that statue was a beautiful genius. I have been sitting thinking of it these 10 min- utes in a delightful sensuous rumination. The Colours of the Titian pictures comfort one's eyes similarly ; and after these feasts, which wouldn't please my lady very much I daresay, being I should think too earthly for you, I went and looked at a picture I usedn't to care much for in old days, an angel saluting a Virgin and child by Pietro Cortona,— a sweet smiling angel with a lily in her hands, looking so tender and gentle I wished that instant to make a copy of it, and do it beautifully, 84 LETTERS OF THACKERAY which I can't, and present it to somebody on Lady-day. — There now, just fancy it is done, and presented in a neat comphment, and hung up in your room — a pretty piece — daint}'- and devotional? — I drove about with , and wondered at her more and more. — She is come to "my dearest Wilham" now: though she doesn't care a fig for me. — She told me astonishing things, showed me a letter in which every word was true and which was a fib from beginning to end; — A miracle of deception; — flattered, fondled, coaxed — O! she was worth coming to Paris for! . . . Pray God to keep us simple.' I have never looked at anything in my life which has so amazed me. Why, this is as good, almost, as if I had you to talk to. Let us go out and have another walk. Fragment [Paris, 1849] Of course in all families the mother is the one to whom the children cling. We don't talk to them, feel with them, love them, occupy ourselves about them as the female does. — We think about our business and pleasure, not theirs. Why do I trouble you with these perplexi- ties? If I mayn't tell you what I feel, what is the use of a friend ? That's why I would rather have a sad letter from you, or a short one if you are tired and unwell, than a sham-gay one— and I don't subscribe at all to the doc- trine of " striving to be cheerful ". A quoi hon, con- vulsive grins and humbugging good-humour? Let us have a reasonable cheerfulness, and melancholy too, if there is occasion for it— and no more hypocrisy in life than need be. LETTERS OF THACKERAY 85 We had a pleasant enough visit to Versailles, and then I went to see old Hallida}", and then to see old Bess, and to sit with the sick Tom Eraser. I spend my days so, and upon my word ought to get some reward for being so virtuous. On Sunday I took a carriage and went to S. in the country. The jolly old nurse who has been in the Rick- etts family 120 years or more or less, talked about IMiss Rosa, late ]M— Fanshawe, and remembers her the flower of that branch of the f amih% and exceedingly pretty and with a most lovely complexion. — And then I told them what a lovely jewel the present JNIiss Rosa was; and how yerj fond I was of her mamma; — and so we had a toler- ably pleasant afternoon; — and I came back and sat again with ]Mr. Thomas Eraser. Yesterday there w^as a pretty little English dance next door at jNIrs. Erring- ton's, and an English country dance being proposed, one of the young bucks good-naturedly took a fiddle and ]Dlayed very well too, and I had for a partner IMadame Gudin, the painter's wife, I think I mentioned her to you, didn't I? She is a daughter of Lord James Hay — a very fair complexion and jolly face, and so with the greatest fear and trepidation (for I never could understand a figure) I asked her— and she refused because she tells me that she is too ill, and I am sure I was very glad to be out of the business. I went to see a play last night, and the new comedian Mademoiselle Brohan of Avhom all the world is talking, a beautiful j^oung woman of 17 looking 25 and— I thought— vulgar, intensely affected, and with a kind of stupid intelligence that passes for real wit with the pit- tites, who applauded with immense enthusiasm all her 86 LETTERS OF THACKERAY smiles and shrugs and gestures and ogles. But they wouldn't have admired her if she hadn't been so beauti- ful, if her eyes weren't bright and her charms undeni- able. — I was asked to beg some of the young English Seigneurs here to go to an Actress ball, where there was to be a great deal of Parisian beauty, which a cosmophi- lite ought to see perhaps as well as any other phase of society.— But I refused Madame Osy's ball— my grey head has no call to show amongst these young ones, and, as in the next novel we are to have none but good char- acters — what is the use of examining folks who are quite otherwise. Meanwhile, and for 10 days more, I must do my duty and go out feeling deucedly lonely in the midst of the racketting and jigging. I am engaged to dinner for the next 3 days, and on Friday when I had hoped to be at home — my mother has a tea-party, and asked trembling (for she is awfully afraid of me) whether I would come— Of course I'll go.— W. M. T. [Paris, 1849] They all got a great shock they told me, by reading in the Galignani, that W. M. Thackeray was dead, and that it was I. Indeed two W. Thackeray's have died within the last month. Eh hien? There's a glum sort of humour in all this I think, and I grin like a skull. — As I sent you a letter to my Mamma, here is a sermon to Annie. You will please put it in the post for me? I think about my dear honest old Fatty, with the greatest regard and confidence. I hope, please God, she will be kept to be a companion and friend to me. You see I work in the Herschell. 4^ it , Urf ^aJ ita ^i^ ^Vu/Ow tu4>ci •«l^CcuiCw4^ . bwt 4JVU ^C'*^ S«