New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1891-07-05
THACKERAY.
A.ID HIS BIOGRAPHIES.


Anne Thackcray Richie in The illustrated LondoS
News
have been asked to write q few words to a>
company the portraits which given in the
present number OF The Illustrated London News
and am very glad to do so; although little can
be wanted to explain TIE reason Of my fathers
picture 10 generation which reads mis- books
perhaps even more than did those people who were
Immediately his contemporaries. Only yesterday
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 remember.
ing my fothcrs own latter impressions that people
were tired Of him, that his work WINS nearly
ended and that his day over. At the same
time he used TO own that he was constantly sur
prised by the number Of greetings, both written
and spoken, which he received from unknown
persons. ] remember one day when he came home
and told us Of some people who had recognized
him on Westminster Bridge-a workman, and
then two young clcrks.-who had each in turn
taken Of their hats, saying, Mr. Thackeray," and
to whom i have always relt grateful, for they
cheered him at time when be III and out
Of spirits People sometimes regret that my
father left no autobiography, and that no i'm.
portant printed book has been published about
his life but | cannot bel p thinking that what
ever may or may not he published in the future,
his life has been told by himself, in his own
pages better than any other person can tell H. for
those who have eyes to and ears 10 hear: and
that il has been best read by those who best APP
preciated him and his work. IL is only now,
after many years, that have re-read the essay
brOther-in-law, who only saw him once, but who
knew him from his books long before we ever
met, and | an struck by its reality and truth
Of spirit and Of letter Memoirs and biographies
are, as it has been said, like wine, and improve
by keeping But they are apt to come out too
crudely, far too soon, as rule, after the man or
to honor. Very often the good taste and good
feeling with which they are edited destroy the
likeness, and prunc and restrain all spontaneous
grace OF truth and simplicity.
There ppODlp IN be considered natural feel
ings 10 be allowed for there is not enough spaces
left between US and the picture TO put things Ia
their proper proportions. Or, again and this
happens not infreQuently) other peoples feelings
are not considered. passing chance rritati0ns aab
folbles are photographed; moods are pointed ont,
dilated on, and lectured about This is but one
unit among the thousand-and-one difficulties 0c
real biography. For it is not hours talk which
reveals life, nor any number Of dates which tell
It's story, nor even the lists Of dinner parties and
places visited, nor the names Of friends and
qualntance; all these are but memoranda. And
yet In some ineyplicable way-as often as mob
without the help OF printers nk-how surely the
real essence OF real existence reaches az
last In the case of any good man land | am not
speaking only Of my father the date Of his birth
means so much good service come into the world.
so much goodwill TO Others. and cOnstancy
in toll and adversely, experience accepted With
courage, disillus0n realized with charity These
are the facts of his life. and it's details sink into
such mans death marks the hour when we loee
him and the JOY of his presence but it does moo
mean that ms work Is Dead or that 10 Is non
here still among
Ny fathers life lasted from July IS, 1911, To-
the early morning of Christmas Eve, 1868. 1t
was but two-thirds of a life II one should couno
by dates alone. He remembered India; he lived
in Germany and Franc as a young man he saw
IIierusalem too" he loved London best Of all
places, | think. His history was merely that OF
his own home and family. that Of his love OF art.
his fight with lonely circumstances, and them when
material success was insured, his manful struggle
with illness and with pain. He had on his side
a natural Joyous and delightful temperament with
which TO encounter moments Of depression and
exhaustion. In all the notices have ever read
es aS seemed eo TO me- t he mas 5s 700 often
rather than in the mixed light and shade which
existed IN his work as well as in his actual history
But there few Of the biOgrap hies which do not
convey something of him reflected from each dit
ferent mind. The nearest approach to an auto
biography is found in the BrOOkfeld letters. Mr.
Trollope. that kind old friend who knew him SD
much. saw him from very different point OF
view from mine, but he writes with an affection
which never varied, and which was ever constant
to my fathers children, though not untred, /
fear, by the present writer. Most of my fathers
biOgraphers were his friends-.James Hannay, Mr..
James Payn, DIR. John Brown, from whose essay MrI
full passage from the Roundabout Paper :" De
Finibus.' Yet a few chapters more, and then
the last; after which, Behold FINS itself come TO
an end, and the Infinite begun" So wrote my
father; and DR.. John Brown quotes from the ola
proof with the various corrections still upon the
margin " How like music this is" he saws . Ike
one trying the air in different ways-as il were
searching out and sounding all its depths. y Mr.
Lang himself tries TO find a meaning 10 the tent.
We must al answer the riddle of life for our
selves he says Pascal has one answer-Be-
lieve.' Moliere has another-'Observe.' Thacker-
avs answer is, Be good and enjoy.'' And this,
indeed, seems to me the story of all my fathers
life.
The last book published by Messrs Merivale
and NfarZals is full of very real and true things
OF course misses the fulness Of The impression
of the earlier days. when a contemporary such as
Herman Mervales own father might, had he st.
chosen with his wise and delightful pen have
best described his youth. Another very truo
passed away within the last few hours adds a
very interesting chapter of impressions 20 this
same book.
My fathers most fastidious commentator was
Edward FITZGERALD, who loved him, perhaps, most
dearly of them all. Three words of Mr. Fiji,
Genld's paint him better than many pages Of
descriptions, and bring him before me as first
and best remembered him; il is a passage where
Mr.. FITZGERALD breaks of in the midst of letter
saying. There entered Thackeray-grand, gay. and
whiteheaded. There is very striking passage
m another letter in which this old companion,
remembering some imaginary esrangement, stands
caused to be copied and sent down TO him IN
Suffolk after the news had come Of my fathers
DEATH The original Of this same picture, by the
goodness of the Pollock family, is now in our
possession.
1t is curious to note how feelings change with
time. Once the most reverent tribute which peo-
pie knew how TO pay 10 those who were gone
was that which Antgone rendered 20 her brothers,
In these modern DAYS different feeling exists,
Letters are broken open; diaries scanneda
passing emotions and impressions, words hastily
spoken, and almost forgotten, are recalled and
reprinted in one, two, three editions, for the
edihcation of those who run, while others are
still there to shrink and TO suffer unexpected
stings, and 10 feel lifelong regret for what
speak, and might have been spared had the liyina
been more silent.