and a clutch at the book, when every leaf of it (they were not
fastened together), came fluttering separately down about me. I
hardly know what I did, but I think I must have gone nearly on
all-fours, in my agony to gather up the scattered leaves, and
retreating with them, held them out in dismay to poor Thackeray,
crying, "Oh, look, look, what a dreadful thing I have done!" "My
dear soul," said he, "you couldn't have done better for me. I have
just a quarter of an hour to wait here, and it will take me about
that to page this again, and it's the best thing in the world that
could have happened." With which infinite kindness he comforted me,
for I was all but crying, at having, as I thought, increased his
distress and troubles. So I left him, to give the first of that
brilliant course of literary historical essays with which he
enchanted and instructed countless audiences in England and America.

The last time I saw Thackeray, was at a dinner at my dear friend,
Mr. Harness'. As we were about to seat ourselves at table, I being
between Mr. Harness and Thackeray, his daughter Annie (now Mrs.
Ritchie) was going to place herself on the other side of her father.
"No, no," said our dear host, "that will not do. I cannot have the
daughter next the father." And Miss Thackeray was invited to take
another place. She had just published her story, "The History of
Elizabeth," in which she showed herself to have inherited some of
the fine elements of her father's literary genius. As we sat down, I
said to him, "But it appears very evident, I think, that the
daughter _is_ to be _next_ to the father." He looked at me for a
moment with a beaming face, and then said, "Do you know, I have
never read a word of that thing?" "Oh," cried I, "Thackeray! Why
don't you? It is excellent! It would give you so much pleasure!" "My
dear lady, I couldn't, I couldn't!" said he with tears in his eyes.
"It would _tear my guts out_!"--which powerful English description
of extreme emotion would have startled me less in French or Italian;
"Cela m'arracherait les entrailles," or "mi sois-cerelbero."

In the evening, he talked back to our early times, and my coming out
at Covent Garden, and how, "We all of us," said he (and what a noble
company of young brains and hearts they were!), "were in love with
you, and had