n himself and other prominent
authors simply amused him. In 1856, he told me that he had written a
play which the managers had ignominiously rejected. "I thought I could
write for the stage," said he; "but it seems I can't. I have a mind to
have the piece privately performed, here at home. I'll take the big
footman's part." This plan, however, was given up, and the material of
the play was afterwards used, I believe, in "Lovel, the Widower."

I have just read a notice of Thackeray, which asserts, as an evidence of
his weakness in certain respects, that he imagined himself to be an
artist, and persisted in supplying bad illustrations to his own works.
This statement does injustice to his self-knowledge. He delighted in the
use of the pencil, and often spoke to me of his illustrations being a
pleasant relief to hand and brain, after the fatigue of writing. He had
a very imperfect sense of color, and confessed that his forte lay in
caricature. Some of his sketches were charmingly drawn upon the block,
but he was often unfortunate in his engraver. The original MS. of "The
Rose and the Ring," with the illustrations, is admirable. He was fond of
making groups of costumes and figures of the last century, and I have
heard English artists speak of his talent in this _genre_: but he never
professed to be more than an amateur, or to exercise the art for any
other reason than the pleasure it gave him.

He enjoyed the popularity of his lectures, because they were out of his
natural line of work. Although he made several very clever after-dinner
speeches, he always assured me that it was accidental,--that he had no
talent whatever for thinking on his feet.

"Even when I am reading my lectures," he said, "I often think to myself,
'What a humbug you are, and I wonder the people don't find it out!'"

When in New-York, he confessed to me that he should like immensely to
find some town where the people imagined that all Englishmen transposed
their _h_s, and give one of his lectures in that style. He was very fond
of relating an incident which occurred during his visit to St. Louis. He
was dining one day in the hotel, when he overheard one Irish waiter say
to another,--

"Do you know who that is?"

"No," was the answer.

"That," said the first, "is the celebrated Thacker!"

"What's _he_ done?"

"D----d if I know!"

Of Thackeray's private relations I would speak with a cautious
reverence. An author's heart is a sanctuary into wh