mony between the two nations," as suggested by the little flags, Union Jack and Stars and Stripes, surmounting some colored structures of the steward's culinary art.

"That sentiment," said Mr. Lowell, "I cordially endorse; but" waving his hand towards the quivering red and yellow dainties, "I fear we see in these an emblem not so much of amity as of jelly-sy!"

The audacious pun dispersed us, and amid a chorus of laughter and applause the tables were abandoned. "Solvun

tur risu tabulæ." A poor joke, you may say. So it may seem when set down in black and white and considered in cold blood; but it is the occasion, "the man and the hour," which gives these little sallies of wit their flavor. We knew from his subsequent career how characteristic of the author of the inimitable Biglow Papers was this graceful art of after-dinner oratory. Few men have attained such fame and popularity as Mr. Lowell, when, as ambassador to the Court of St. James from Washington, he so brilliantly represented that nation of good talkers.

Quite a "happy family" was ours on the good old Canada for that fortnight. To the privilege of companionship with such men of "light and leading," and other travelled and well-informed people, was added the charm of ladies' society. A young lady there was, best type of the American girl of that period, very pretty and graceful, lively, amiable as she was pretty, simply a divinity for male homage. All worshipped at that shrine-the old fellows above all; indeed, we young men had no chance in competition with such devotions as that of the great master himself, and of a no less willing captive -the author of the immortal Tober na Vuolich. The appearance of Miss R. on deck was a signal for that dear, dreamy old poet to start up, let the day be

never so squally, for the honor of a deck-promenade. I can see him now, in all the wonders of his rough-weather attire (crowned by that "slouch hat," with which E. Crowe's letter associates him), hurrying, with unsteady steps, at the side of that trim little figure tripping along the hurricane deck with quick, firm tread.

Evening was the time for the master's "innings." For many hours in the saloon he paid his homage, drawing for her amusement those grotesque faces and figures, after his fashion, out of the hearts, spades, &c., of a pack of cards. A rich collection, indeed, she must have borne away—a “ктîμa eis ȧeí” for Bostonian posterity from the hand itself of the great English caricaturist.

One more reminiscence of our hero, in a scene which is as vividly before me as if it happened yesterday-one of the most amusing I ever witnessed.

On the day of our landing, complimentary calls, hospitalities, &c., were not wanting on the part of the literary world of the "American Athens" to welcome the distinguished visitor. At one of the chief theatres a box had been placed at his disposal, and the editor of a leading journal did the honors of the evening. Mr. Thackeray most kindly invited my brother and myself to share the festivities, which concluded with a supper at one of the fashionable oyster saloons-a small party, only the four above mentioned, and, I think, Crowe. Our journalist host was anxious to do his utmost in the way of entertainment, and combine, with the delicacies of the table, the feast of reason and flow of soul. He had also, evidently, an eye to securing "copy" for the next issue of his journal, and to draw from the great "Pendennis" some characteristic flashes of wit and wisdom which should be served up réchauffé as a dainty dish to set before the Boston

public. As we gathered round the great man's chair for after-supper chat, the little man "kept up the ball," laid himself out to be facetious, fired off his best stories, cracked his raciest jokes, making quite a pathetic appeal for response in kind. Alas for his hopes! "Pendennis" was not to be drawn! He sat, towering above us, his head, as usual, slightly thrown back, and chin raised, looking down with benevolent smile at what was going on, and received the volley of facetious discharge in absolute silence. As a last effort our vivacious host, taking up the list of those marvellous "drink names" dear to American salooners-the "cocktails," "eye-openers," &c.-with jocose interpretation of them, invited his guest to "sample" them.

Quite unmoved by the offer of the seductive stimulants, the patient listener, like Brer Rabbit, "kep' on sayin' nuffin." At last rearing himself up in his chair, he broke his long silence' with a sort of humorously majestic utterance: "I have a thirst for beer, which nothing but beer can satisfy; so, waiter, get me a glass of beer!"

The climax was reached; no more hope of "copy" remained. Mournfully accepting the result of his campaign, the poor little man desisted from further attack on that impregnable citadel, to the evident relief of the weary veteran who had so patiently stood the siege, and our symposium broke up. "And so to bed" in our respective quarters, after farewells with what Mr. Lowell had that morning called "a very hand-shaky feeling," sincere regret, at least on our side, at the close of a privileged acquaintance with so great and good a man.

It may be asked, Have we any reference made by Thackeray himself as to his impressions of the incidents of

$ He had remained for at least half an hour without making a remark.

that little voyage? Yes; there is, in the "biographical notice" introductory to the edition of Esmond edited by Lady Ritchie, a letter from her father dated from Boston just after landing. He refers mainly to discomforts endured, without any redeeming circumstances or pleasurable incident. His memory seems to dwell on the rough seas and head winds, with their usual effects on unfortunate landsmen.

"Nobody really likes. the sea," he writes (p. xxxvii). "They go through with it with a brave heart, but the captain and all like the fireside and home a thousand times better."

He refers to those vast Atlantic rollers. "The waves are immense-about four of them go to the horizon; but I am disappointed in the grandeur of the prospect."

But waves, though, indeed, Mr. Thackeray uses the term, is hardly one to convey an idea of these enormous "rollers."

Montes volvuntur aquarum

is the fine thought which has come to us from a Latin poet descriptive of a storm even in the Adriatic

Mountains of rolling seas.

But in what respect is the comparison? Do the vast waves that surround the ship take shape of mountain forms, and peaks, and crags? Well, so they may appear on either side the vessel's track, but it is the onward view towards the horizon in front which shows them as long mountain ridges. Mr. Thackeray's one masterly touch of description gives the sense of their vastness and power-"about four of them go to the horizon." Like long, level mountain ridges, with a great water-valley between each, they roll onward successively to meet our

course.

They are worth an exact description. Το gauge the height of these

monstra natantia, I can give facts from observation. On a day when it was, as sailors say, "blowing half a gale," I have seen, from the stern-deck near the wheel, the top of our foremast showing below the summit of the oncoming ridge. We were rushing down the slope of the last roller to meet the next. There seemed nothing for it but to cleave a path through the great blue liquid mass crowned with its angry, tossing crest; then, with buoyant spring, as of a tried old hunter rising to his leap, the ship lifted her bows against and up the opposing mass; a moment more and we were on the top; another minute of roar, and rush, and hissing spray, and plash of water all about the deck, and we were overwet, but safe, and plunging on to meet the next comer. My diary notes: "Old Beeswing could not have taken her fences better."

Turning again to Mr. Thackeray's letter, we read how he cannot forget "that horrid little cabin where we are " tumbling, and rolling, and bumping about in the roaring black midnight. You may be sure I am often thinking of you." And then, with a touch of his quaint humor: "I was trying, as I lay awake last night, to see if I could understand the difference between latitude and longitude."

Plainly, he does not seem to have enjoyed himself, and the contrast between his letter and the record of the voyage which I have tried to give seems curious, but is quite intelligible. One account is from the diary of a young man seeing everything under the rose-tint of novelty, the other the brief remarks of a travel-sated man

We can form a better idea of their enormous height from eyesight than from all such estimated measurement as that their height is reckoned as about 40 feet from trough of sea to summit of roller.

Beeswinga well-known steeplechaser which I had bought from George Simonds' Oxford stables.

This passage shows that the letter, though finished in Boston, had been in part written on board ship.

whose mind is set on weightier matters than the incidents of a short voyage. To him, naturally, the companionship of commonplace, ordinary mortals would afford nothing of interest, while to us the privilege of contact with such an eminent personage was a veritable epoch. (Still, I must confess some surprise at his making no mention of Mr. J. R. Lowell, A. H. Clough, or the charming Miss R.) But if he was depressed by rough weather and bored by his surroundings, he certainly gave no sign of such feelings. I never heard a word of grumble or abuse of the sea from his lips, and, as I shall presently show, he gave constant expression of satisfaction at all around him! and it is remarkable evidence of his attractive personality that all the time he should make us think that he was pleased to be one of us. For one at least of his fellow-passengers, who had ever bowed in reverence before the genius of the author, to have known the man, so wise, so kind, gentle, considerate, has left a memory of admiration, respect, and, indeed, affection which can never be effaced.

His

The opportunity of forming this estimate has enabled me to combat the views of such critics as, while admiring his genius, yet completely misunderstand his true character. "Oh, Thackeray!" they say: "certainly a consummate master of literary skill, but what a cynical, misanthropic person. What a harsh, ill-natured view he takes of his fellow-creatures! heroes and heroines, though fascinating, are almost always bad, and those who are good-his 'Amelias,' and 'Dobbins,' and SO on-are merely 'goody.' What a morose and soured temper that must be which can see nothing good, or true, or pure in social life, but only its shams, and counterfeits, and contemptible weakness! At the best, what a cold heart that stands

thus aloof from human sympathies in stern, pitiless censorship!"

I

I answer, dear friend, you are making a great mistake. Good nature was one of his strong characteristics. never heard from him an ill-natured remark, or word, or sign expressing contempt for anyone. On the contrary, he was really effusive to an extent which, in a smaller man, might be called amiable weakness in his optimistic eulogies. His frequent comment was: "What an excellent captain we have got! What a fine set of officers and sailors! What good fellows, what nice gentlemanly fellowpassengers! What a pleasant time we have spent together!" &c.

The Mr. Thackeray whom I had the honor to meet in that fortnight was, if anything, an amiable, warm-hearted man, and a courteous, genial companion.

As an author, a master of satire, he ever was "not sparing the rod," a moralist stern and severe, hater of humbug, snubber of snobbishness, but in no morose temper, with no cruel intent. He was ever, I firmly believe, as sensitive to feel the meanness and misery of human frailties as he was keen-eyed to detect them. Perfect master of style, he showed what power language can have in exposing hypocrisy and vice, with the skill of polished sarcasm and life-like delineation of character; but-there was no hate in it

all.

He did not turn and rend his felThe Nineteenth Century and After.

low-men like Swift, nor scorn them with the sneering levity of Voltaire, nor stab them in cold-blooded malice like Pope.

The follies and faults of others sadidened, never enraged him. Yet Thackeray was not a melancholy, not a "weeping," if a mourning philosopher. A burden of inward grief, indeed, he bore. There was, as has been described of Abraham Lincoln, in his face, a sweet, pathetic smile of "ineffable sadness," telling of deep inward sorrow, which great-hearted men bear in silence. This was due, as is well known, to severe domestic affliction, but, in part, too, I shall always believe, to that extreme sensitiveness, which felt as a hurt, as pain to himself, those human inconsistencies which wounded him even while he castigated them.

It may seem presumptuous (in a mere outsider) to deliver an opinion on so great a man, based on such slight acquaintance; but, be it remembered, a short companionship en voyage gives better opportunity of judging character than ten times that space in ordinary life. Anyway, "speak of a man as you find him," and I maintain that no estimate of Thackeray is correct which does not associate, with a gigantic power of intellect, the tender heart and kindly spirit of a good and lovable man. No better title was ever given (both as regards physical and moral stature) than that of the wellknown sobriquet-"The Gentle Giant."

H. J. Cheales.