gave me a half-wink from under his spectacles, as if to say: "Now for
it; the others have done very well, but I will show 'em a grace beyond
the reach of their art." He began in a clear and charming manner, and
was absolutely perfect for three minutes. In the middle of a most
earnest and elaborate sentence he suddenly stopped, gave a look of comic
despair at the ceiling, crammed both hands into his trousers' pockets,
and deliberately sat down. Everybody seemed to understand that it was
one of Thackeray's unfinished speeches and there were no signs of
surprise or discontent among his audience. He continued to sit on the
platform in a perfectly composed manner; and when the meeting was over
he said to me, without a sign of discomfiture, "My boy, you have my
profoundest sympathy; this day you have accidentally missed hearing one
of the finest speeches ever composed for delivery by a great British
orator." And I never heard him mention the subject again.

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