One day, many years ago, I saw him chaffing on the sidewalk in London,
in front of the Athenaeum Club, with a monstrous-sized, "copiously
ebriose" cabman, and I judged from the driver's ludicrously careful way
of landing the coin deep down in his breeches-pocket, that Thackeray had
given him a very unusual fare. "Who is your fat friend?" I asked,
crossing over to shake hands with him. "O, that indomitable youth is an
old crony of mine," he replied; and then, quoting Falstaff, "a goodly,
portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent, of a cheerful look, a pleasing
eye, and a most noble _carriage_." It was the _manner_ of saying this,
then, and there in the London street, the cabman moving slowly off on
his sorry vehicle, with one eye (an eye dewy with gin and water, and a
tear of gratitude, perhaps) on Thackeray, and the great man himself so
jovial and so full of kindness!

It was a treat to hear him, as I once did, discourse of Shakespeare's
probable life in Stratford among his neighbors. He painted, as he alone
could paint, the great poet sauntering about the lanes without the
slightest show of greatness, having a crack with the farmers, and in
very earnest talk about the crops. "I don't believe," said Thackeray,
"that these village cronies of his ever looked upon him as the mighty
poet,

'Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air,'

but simply as a wholesome, good-natured citizen, with whom it was always
pleasant to have a chat. I can see him now," continued Thackeray,
"leaning over a cottage gate, and tasting good Master Such-a-one's
home-brewed, and inquiring with a real interest after the mistress and