The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1891-07-07
TIIAcKERAY.

to accompany the portraits which are
given in the present number OF The IL
Illustrated London NcuS, and AM very
glad to do SO; although little can be
wanted to explain the reason of my
fathers picture to a generation which
reads his books, perhaps even more
than did those people who were immed-
lately his contemporaries. Only yester-
day l saw in some paper that the
librarian OF one OF the great public
libraries had said that, next to SCOTS,
Thackeray's were the books most con-
stantly in demand; and could not
help remembering my fathers own lat.
ter impressions that people were tired
Of him, that his work was nearly ended,
and that his day was over. At tho
same time, he used to own that he was
constantly surprised by the number OF
greetings, both written and spoken,
which he received from unknown per
sons. remember one day when he
came home and told us Of some people
who had recognized him on Westmin-
stcr Bridge-a workman, and then two
young clerks-who had each in turn
taken off their hats, saying, "Mr. Thack-
erav," and TO whom have always felt
grateful, for they cheercd him at time
when he was i'll and out OF spirits.
People sometimes regret that my fNther
left no autobiography, and that no i'm
portant printed book has been pub
Iished about his life; but cannot help
thinking that whatever may or may not
be published in the future, his life has
been told by himself, in his own pages,
better than any other person can tell 1t,
for those who have eyes to see and ears
to hear; and that it has been best read
By those who best appreciated him and
his work. 1t is only now, after many
years, that have re-read the essay upon
my fathers works by Leslie Stephen.
my br0ther-in- who only saw him
once, but who knew him from his books
long before we ever met, and l am
struck by its reality and truth OF spirit
and of letter. Memoirs and biographies
are, rs it has been said, like wine, and
improve by keeping. But they are apt
to come out TOO crudely, far too soon, MS
II rule, after the man or woman has
passed away whom they are intended
to honor. Very often the good taste and
good feeling with which they are edited
destroy the likeness, and prunc and re.
strain all spontaneous grace OF truth ana
simplicity.
There are people to be considered,
natural feelings to be allowed for; there
is not enough space left between lis and
the picture to put things in their proper
nronOrtiOns. Or, again land this hap
pens not inirequentlyl, other peoples
feelings are not considered, passing
chance irritations and foibles are pho
tographed; moods are pointed out, di.
lated on, and lectured about. This is
but one unit among the thousand-nnd-
one difficulties Of real biography. For
it is not an hours talk which reveals q
life, nor any plumber of dates which tell
its story, nor even the list OF dinner
parties and places visited, nor the
names of friends and acquaintancCsi
all these are but memoranda. And yet
in some inexplicable way-us often as
not without the help OF printer, : ink,
how surely the real essence OF real
existence reaches us at last. In the
case of any good man land l am not
speaking only OF my father, the. date
OF his birth means so much good SER
vice come into the world, so much
good will to others, and constantly III
toll and adversely, experience accepted
with courage, disillusion realized with
charity. These Are the facts OF his life,
and its details sink into insignifcance
beside them. The date OF any such
mans death marks the hour when we
lose him and the Joy OF his presence;
but it does not mean that his work is
dead, or that it is not here still among
us.
NY fathers life lasted from July IS,
1911, to the early morning OF Christmas
Eve, 1853. 1t was but two.thirds of a
life ii one should count by dates alone.
He remembered India; he lived IN Ger
many and France as a young man; he
saw Hierusalem, too;" he loved Lon
don best Of all places, | think. His his
tory was merely that of his own home
and family, that OF his love OF art, his
fight with lonely, circumstances, and
then, when maierial success was in
sured, his manfuI struggle with illness
and with pain. He had OIL his side a
natural Joyous and delightful tempera-
ment with which to encounter moments
Of depression and exhaustion. In all
the notices l have ever read it has
seemed to me that he has been too
often described from one or other Of
these aspects, rather than in the mixed
light and shade which existed in his
work us well as in his actual history.
But there are few OF the biographies
which do not convey something OF him
reflected from each different mind. The
nearest approach to an autobiography
is found in the Brookield letters. Mr..
Trollope, that kind old friend who knew
him so much saw him from
Il very different point Of
view from mine, but he writes with an
affection which never varied, and which
was over constant TO my fathers chill
dren, though not untried, fear, by the
present writer. Most OF my fathers BIZ
ographers were his frIends-lames Han
nay, Mr.. James Payn, DR.. John Brown,
from whose essay Mr.. Andrew Lang has
indiciously quoted the beautiful passage
from the "R0undabout Paper "De Fin
ibus., "Yet few chapters more, and
then the last; after which behold Finis
itself come to an end, and the Infinite
begun" So wrote my father; and DR..
John Brown quotes from the old proof
with the various corrections still on the
margin: Glow like music this is" he
says; "Iikc one trying the air in differ
ent wavs-ns it were, searching out and
sounding all its depths" Mr.. Lang
himself tries to find meaning to the
text. I'VE must all answer the riddle
OF life for ourselves" lie says. pascal
has one answer Believe Moliere has
another-'Obserye.' Thackeray's an