On the following morning, at an early hour, I received a message from him requesting that I would go and see him at his hotel, as he was laid up with one of his violent attacks. I lost no time in obeying his wish, and on entering his chamber I was much shocked to see him lying closely covered up in bed. He was suffering great pain, and begged that I would not look at him, as he knew he was a hideous object. I entreated that he would place my services entirely at his command, and he replied, with a waving of his hand, that all he wanted was some money out of the exchequer in my possession, as he should unfortunately be detained there by his illThe desire was of course immediately satisfied, and he would not listen to me when I asked him to allow me to remain with him. It was beyond question under such a seizure as he was then afflicted with that he retired to his bed on that mournful night in December, 1863, when he endured his sufferings for the last time. ness. Some short period after I had left Mr. Thackeray at Norwich in the condition described, I saw him at his house in London, and on his making allusion to those dreadful illnesses which he said were the very bane of his life, I asked if he had ever received the best medical advice. Certainly he had, was his reply: “but what is the use of advice, if you don't follow it?" he continued. "They tell me not to drink, and I do drink. They tell me not to smoke, and I do smoke. They tell me not to eat, and I do eat. In short, I do everything that I am desired not to do, and, therefore, what am I to expect?" As I was brought little in contact with Mr. Thackeray from this time forth, except in the lobby of the Reform Club (where, on occasions when I was waiting for a friend who was a member, I enjoyed the sight of forbidden luxuries), or on the steps of the Garrick, or sauntering along Pall Mall in that insouciant manner which was becoming as familiar at the West of London as Johnson's "rolling walk ” was in Fleet Street, I shall not weary the reader with any details as to what might, could, would, or should have happened in connec tion with his every-day life. My sole object has been to place him before the reader precisely as I saw him, and to jot down such things as appeared to have some 'ittle historical interest. The most memorable event I can now call to mind, in relation to Mr. Thackeray, is at the same time the most melancholy one, for it brings me to the morning of Christmasday, 1863, when I chanced to pay a visit to Horace Mayhew, in Old Bond Street. I entered the room cheerfully, "As fits the merry Christmas-time," 66 our and proffered the usual good wishes to Mayhew and another friend who was present; but I was surprised to find that my animal spirits met with no response, and that my companions were as depressed as I was inclined to be the reverse. "Have n't you heard?" said Mayhew, looking ominously blank and chop-fallen. "Heard!" I exclaimed; "heard what?" Why, about poor Thackeray?" "No; what about him?” "He's dead! "" "What!" I cried, almost petrified; Thackeray, the great Thackeray?" "Yes," he said, "too true. William Makepeace Thackeray: he died yesterday morning, or on the previous night." This was indeed a piece of news as saddening as it was unexpected, and when it was revealed to me I was dumb with an emotion which it would have been affectation in me to endeavor to disguise. As to Horace Mayhew, he had formed an affection for Thackeray which on that occasion expressed itself in accents of the most bitter grief. It was soon explained that the lamented writer was found dead in his bed on Christmas-eve, and that the immediate cause of his disease was an effusion of blood on the brain, brought on by one of those violent stomach afflictions to which I have already referred. I could not but remark what a deep gloom the event would cast over many an otherwise happy fireside at that festive period; and I was afterward led to the reflection that the line above quoted would now too painfully bear the second reading given to it by the author "As fits the solemn Christmas-tidę.” The line occurs in the last stanza of a little poem called "The End of the Play," with which Mr. Thackeray's Christmas book, “Dr. Birch and his Young Friends," closes ; and as its plaintive tone of farewell would seem to be especially in harmony with the author's removal from the scene, I will quote the entire verse: My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish for health and love and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth Be this, good friends, our carol still Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, He laid the weary pen aside! If these simple but impressive words may be taken as a foreshadowing of what his feelings might be when called upon to lay it aside for the last time, we may well believe that at that sad moment his thoughts were full of prayer for the earthly peace of all. The duty of describing in detail the funeral of Mr. Thackeray must be left to his biographer —a character which will, doubtless, ere long be assumed by one who can speak of "greatness greatly;" but as I was present on that mournful occasion I am constrained to allude to it, as affording the last link in the chain of my reminiscences of this conspicuous example of representative men. It was on the morning of the 30th December that Thackeray was carried to his resting-place in Kensal Green Cemetery. The atmosphere was warm, crisp, and clear; the ground was unusually elastic, and there was a genial glow over the face of nature which almost forbade the idea that the hundreds who were hastening to the burial-place were absorbed by other than cheering thoughts. "The sun shone bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead." The number of persons present was estimated at about 2,000, and among them were many of the chosen lights of literature and art. Mr. Charles Dickens, Mr. Robert Browning, Mr. Anthony Trollope, Mr. Mark Lemon, Mr. G. H. Lewes, the historian and critic; Mr. Theodore Martin, poet and satirist; Dr. Russell, of the "Times;" Mr. Frederick Lawrence, the author of "The Life of Fielding: " Mr. Higgins (Jacob Omnium), Mr. Robert Bell, Mr. Millais, R. A., Mr. George Cruikshank, Mr. John Leech, Mr. Shirley Brooks, Mr. Horace Mayhew, Mr. Charles Mathews, Mr. Tom Taylor, Mr. Creswick, R. A., M. Louis Blanc, Mr. John Tenniel, Mr. Edmund Yates these are a few taken almost at random from the numerous gathering of friends assembled at the cemetery; but the most noteworthy circumstance struck me as being the deep sympathy shown in the event by a very large majority who could have known nothing of Thackeray except from his works. It was, in truth, a ceremony so full of universal interest that it will be remembered as a tribute of respect to one of the few whose genius could alone command it; and, if I might be allowed for one moment to associate the living Thackeray with the scene, I should remark how forcibly it brought to the recollection of many, who saw the hearse enter the grounds, the funeral of Douglas Jerrold, when the noble gray head now laid low was observed towering among the pall-bearers. Indeed the mournful proceeding brought these two great names closely together in my mind; and I am free to confess that, remembering what I had seen of the inherent kindness of each, and recognizing so many faces at Kensal Green, which, six years before, I had marked at the ceremony at Norwood, I could not but regard the coincidence as fraught with both pleasure and pain. So striking, I thought, was the similarity between the circumstances attending the two burials, that it was difficult to dispel the illusion that, although the two men were not bound together in life by the strongest ties of friendship, the same spirit of literary brotherhood which had guided their fortunes on earth seemed to hover at last over their graves. THE SNOB. The earliest of Thackeray's literary efforts are associated with Cambridge. It was in the year 1829 that he commenced, in conjunction with a friend and fellow student, to edit a series of humorous papers, published in that city, which bore the title of "The Snob: a Literary and Scientific Journal." The first number appeared on the 9th of April in that year, and the publication was continued weekly. Though affecting to be a periodical, it was not originally intended to publish more than one number; but the project was carried on for eleven weeks, in which period Mr. Lettsom had resigned the entire management to his friend. The contents of each number-which consisted only of four pages of about the size of those of the present volume were scanty and slight, and consisted entirely of squibs and humorous sketches in verse and prose, many of which, however, show some germs of that spirit of wild fun which afterwards distinguished the "Yellowplush papers in "Fraser." When completed, the papers bore the following title: THE SNOB: A LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC JOURNAL. NOT A few specimens of the contents of this curious publication cannot but be interesting to the reader. The first specimen |