Thackeray rarely took any exercise, thus living in striking contrast to the other celebrated novelist of our time, who was remarkable for the number of hours he daily spent in the open air.  It seems to be almost certain now, from concurrent testimony, gathered from physicians and those who knew him best in England, that Thackeray’s premature death was hastened by an utter disregard of the natural laws.  His vigorous frame gave ample promise of longevity, but he drew too largely on his brain and not enough on his legs. High living and high thinking, he used to say, was the correct reading of the proverb.

He was a man of the tenderest feelings, very apt to be cajoled into doing what the world calls foolish things, and constantly performing feats of unwisdom, which performances he was immoderately laughing at all the while in his books.  No man has impaled snobbery with such a stinging rapier, but he always accused himself of being a snob, past all cure.  This I make no doubt was one of his exaggerations, but there was a grain of truth in the remark, which so sharp an observer as himself could not fail to notice, even though the victim was so near home.

Thackeray announced to me by letter in the early autumn of 1852 that he had determined to visit America, and would sail for Boston by the Canada on the 30th of October.  All the necessary arrangements for his lecturing tour had been made without troubling him with any of the details.  He arrived on a frosty November evening, and went directly to the Tremont House, where rooms had been engaged for him.  I remember his delight in getting off the sea, and the enthusiasm with which he hailed the announcement that dinner would be ready shortly.  A few friends were ready to sit down with him, and he seemed greatly to enjoy the novelty of an American repast.  In London he had been very curious in his inquiries about American oysters, as marvellous stories, which he did not believe, had been told him of their great size.  We apologized—­although we had taken care that the largest specimens to be procured should startle his unwonted vision when he came to the table—­for what we called the extreme smallness of the oysters, promising that we would do better next time.  Six bloated Falstaffian bivalves lay before him in their shells.  I noticed that he gazed at them anxiously with fork upraised; then he whispered to me, with a look of anguish, “How shall I do it?” I described to him the simple process by which the free-born citizens of America were accustomed to accomplish such a task.  He seemed satisfied that the thing was feasible, selected the smallest one in the half-dozen (rejecting a large one, “because,” he said, “it resembled the High Priest’s servant’s ear that Peter cut off”) and then bowed his head as if he were saying grace.  All eyes were upon him to watch the effect of a new sensation in the person of a great British author.  Opening his mouth very wide, he