James Hannay paid Thackeray a beautiful compliment when he said:  “If he had had his choice he would rather have been famous as an artist than as a writer; but it was destined that he should paint in colors which will never crack and never need restoration.”  Thackeray’s characters are, indeed, not so much inventions as existences, and we know them as we know our best friends or our most intimate enemies.

When I was asked, the other day, which of his books I like best, I gave the old answer to a similar question. “The last one I read.”  If I could possess only one of his works, I think I should choose “Henry Esmond.”  To my thinking, it is a marvel in literature, and I have read it oftener than any of the other works.  Perhaps the reason of my partiality lies somewhat in this little incident.  One day, in the snowy winter of 1852, I met Thackeray sturdily ploughing his way down Beacon Street with a copy of “Henry Esmond” (the English edition, then just issued) under his arm.  Seeing me some way off, he held aloft the volumes and began to shout in great glee.  When I came up to him he cried out, “Here is the very best I can do, and I am carrying it to Prescott as a reward of merit for having given me my first dinner in America.  I stand by this book, and am willing to leave it, when I go, as my card.”

As he wrote from month to month, and liked to put off the inevitable chapters till the last moment, he was often in great tribulation.  I happened to be one of a large company whom he had invited to a six-o’clock dinner at Greenwich one summer afternoon, several years ago.  We were all to go down from London, assemble in a particular room at the hotel, where he was to meet us at six o’clock, sharp.  Accordingly we took steamer and gathered ourselves together in the reception-room at the appointed time.  When the clock struck six, our host had not fulfilled his part of the contract.  His burly figure was yet wanting among the company assembled.  As the guests were nearly all strangers to each other, and as there was no one present to introduce us, a profound silence fell upon the room, and we anxiously looked out of the windows, hoping every moment that Thackeray would arrive.  This untoward state of things went on for one hour, still no Thackeray and no dinner.  English reticence would not allow any remark as to the absence of our host.  Everybody felt serious and a gloom fell upon the assembled party.  Still no Thackeray.  The landlord, the butler, and the waiters rushed in and out the room, shrieking for the master of the feast, who as yet had not arrived.  It was confidentially whispered by a fat gentleman, with a hungry look, that the dinner was utterly spoiled twenty minutes ago, when we heard a merry shout in the entry and Thackeray bounced into the room.  He had not changed his morning dress, and ink was still visible upon his fingers.  Clapping his hands and pirouetting briskly on one leg, he cried out, “Thank Heaven, the last sheet of The Virginians has just gone to the printer.”  He made no apology for his late appearance, introduced nobody, shook hands heartily with everybody, and begged us all to be seated as quickly as possible.  His exquisite delight at completing his book swept away every other feeling, and we all shared his pleasure, albeit the dinner was overdone throughout.