to others,--so that his proportions shall be correct,
and he be saved from the absurdity of devoting two-thirds of his book to
the beginning, or two-thirds to the completion of his task. It is from
want of this special labour, more frequently than from intellectual
deficiency, that the tellers of stories fail so often to hit their nails
on the head. To think of a story is much harder work than to write it.
The author can sit down with the pen in his hand for a given time, and
produce a certain number of words. That is comparatively easy, and if he
have a conscience in regard to his task, work will be done regularly.
But to think it over as you lie in bed, or walk about, or sit cosily
over your fire, to turn it all in your thoughts, and make the things
fit,--that requires elbow-grease of the mind. The arrangement of the
words is as though you were walking simply along a road. The arrangement
of your story is as though you were carrying a sack of flour while you
walked. Fielding had carried his sack of flour before he wrote _Tom
Jones_, and Scott his before he produced _Ivanhoe_. So had Thackeray
done,--a very heavy sack of flour,--in creating _Esmond_. In _Vanity
Fair_, in _Pendennis_, and in _The Newcomes_, there was more of that
mere wandering in which no heavy burden was borne. The richness of the
author's mind, the beauty of his language, his imagination and
perception of character are all there. For that which was lovely he has
shown his love, and for the hateful his hatred; but, nevertheless, they
are comparatively idle books. His only work, as far as I can judge them,
in which there is no touch of idleness, is _Esmond_. _Barry Lyndon_ is
consecutive, and has the well-sustained purpose of exhibiting a finished
rascal; but _Barry Lyndon_ is not quite the same from beginning to end.
All his full-fledged novels, except _Esmond_, contain rather strings of
incidents and memoirs of individuals, than a completed story. But
_Esmond_ is a whole from beginning to end, with its tale well told, its
purpose developed, its moral brought home,--and its nail hit well on the
head and driven in.

I told Thackeray once that it was not only his best work, but so much
the best, that there was none second to it. "That was what I intended,"
he said, "but I have failed. Nobody reads it. After all, what does it
matter?" he went on after awhile. "If they like anything, one ought to
be satisfied. After all, Esmond was a prig." Then he laughe