hat and rushing forth to find an acquaintance to whom he might instantly
read his successful composition. Gilbert Wakefield, universally
acknowledged to have been the best Greek scholar of his time, said he
would have turned out a much better one, if he had begun earlier to
study that language; but unfortunately he did not begin till he was
fifteen years of age. Thackeray, in quoting to me this saying of
Wakefield, remarked: "My English would have been very much better if I
had read Fielding before I was ten." This observation was a valuable
hint, on the part of Thackeray, as to whom he considered his master in
art.

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