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In a letter to an American friend, who Thackeray's to make semi-veiled but unwas seeking the prototypes of some of her mistakable allusions in his books to persons father's characters, and especially of at the time obnoxious to him.” And he George Warrington and Blanche Amory, instances the fact that during the unpleasMrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie used these ant episode at the Garrick Club, which words:

. lost him Thackeray's friendship, and es“My father scarcely ever put real charac- tranged Dickens and Thackeray, “out ters into his books, though he of course found came the (I think) seventh number of The suggestions among the people with whom he Virginians, casting a wholly irrelevant and something of himself in Warrington. Per.

$ ridiculous lugged-in-by-the-shoulders alluhaps the serious part of his nature was vague. sion to me as Young Grub Street in its ly drawn in that character. There was also a pages.” Mr. Yates feelingly adds that little likeness to his friend Edward Fitzgerald, this was “ generally considered to be hitwho always lived a very solitary life. When ting below the belt while pretending to I was a girl the Blanche Amory type was a

fight on the square, and to be unworthy great deal more common than it is now, and I remember several young ladies who used to of a man in Thackeray's position.” In a sing and laugh and flirt very amusingly, but succeeding number of the same story there I am quite sure you will not find anything was another fling at Yates as “ my dear definite anywhere."

young literary friend, George Garbage.” Thackeray himself makes a similar dis. George Augustus Sala, whose “ Twice claimer in that admirable little Round- Around the Clock” papers were then runabout paper De Finibus. But, on the ning through the Welcome Guest, referred other hand, Edmund Yates asserts that humorously to“ Mr. Polyphemus the “it was a pleasant peculiarity of Mr. novelist” and his “ Tom Thumb foes''

NEW SERIES. – Vol. L., No. 1.

“George Garbage” and “Young Grub Street’’—and asked what was the effect of all the thunder that had been launched against them :

“Is Grub Street,” he inquired, “in some murky den, with a vulture's quill dipped in vitriol, inditing libels upon the great, good, and wise of the day? Wonder upon wonders, Grub Street sits in a handsome study, listening to his wife laughing over her crochet-work at Mr. Polyphemus's last attack on him, and dandling a little child upon his knee Oh, the strange world in which we live, and the post that people will knock their heads against.”

That “Pendennis” was in a measure autobiographical, and that many of the novelist’s friends were introduced into it under more or less thin disguises, is evident from many passages in the recently published “Letters” to Mrs. Brookfield, and is, indeed, confessed in this note to George Moreland Crawford, Paris correspondent of the London Daily News, which accompanied a presentation copy of the book :

“You will find much to remind you of old talks and faces—of William John O'Connell, Jack Sheehan, and Andrew Archdecne. There is something of you in Warrington, but he is not fit to hold a candle to you, for, taking you all around, you are the most genuine fellow that ever strayed from a better world into this. You don't smoke, and he is a consumed smoker of tobacco; Bordeaux and port were your favorites at the ‘Deanery' and the “Garriek, and Warrington is always guzzling beer ; but he has your honesty, and, like you, could not posture if he tried. You have a strong affinity for the Irish. May you some day find an Irish girl to lead you to matrimony; there's no such good wife as a daughter of Erin.”

Warrington, therefore, seems to have been drawn largely from Crawford, although there is probably some truth in Mrs. Ritchie's suggestion that it vaguely represents the serious side—the Dr. Jekyll side—of Thackeray’s own character. The vain, frivolous, snobbish side—the Dr. Hyde side—is undoubtedly presented in Arthur Pendennis. Indeed, some of the sketches of Arthur are recognizable portraits of the author-artist. Andrew Archdecne stood for Foker, Jack Sheehan for Captain Shandy, and William John O’Connell for Costigan.

Archdecne, like Foker, was small in stature and owned a large estate, which enabled him to gratify his tastes for eccentric clothing and for sports of all kinds. #e especially delighted in driving coaches

as an amateur. With O'Connell, Sheehan, and Crawford, he was in "the habit of frequenting a tavern near St. Paul's known as the “Deanery,” because it had been presided over by “Ingoldsby” Barham— a canon of the neighboring cathedral. Archie was good-natured enough, but he never quite forgave Thackeray his caricature. The night that Thackeray delivered his first lecture on the “English Humorists,” Archdecne was present, and, meeting him later at the Cider Cellars Club surrounded by a coterie of congratulators, he called out : “How are you, Thack? I was at your show to-day at Willis's. What a lot of swells you had there—yes! But I thought it was dull—devilish dull ! I will tell you what it is, Thack, you want a piano !” William John O’Connell was a cousin of the Liberator’s, and Edmund Yates describes him as an Irish gentleman “of the old fighting, drinking, creditor-defying school,” who lived in London nobody exactly knew how. “He was a very handsome old man, with a red face and white hair, walked lame from the effects of a bullet in his hip received in a duel; and had the deepest, [most rolling, most delightful brogue. With a compatriot named O'Gorman Mahone, he also shared the

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“I was smoking in a tavern parlor one night, and this Costigan came into the room alive—the very man ; the most remarkable resemblance of the printed sketches of the man, of the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. "Sir, said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in unknown regions—‘Sir, I said, ‘may I offer you a glass of brandy-and-water?” “Bedad, ye may," says he, ‘and I'll sing ye a song tu.’ Of course he spoke with an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in the army; in ten minutes he pulled out an army agent's account whereon his name was written ; a few months after we read of him in a police court. How had I come to know him, to divine him ? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits; in the world of spirits and water I know I did, but that is a mere quibble of words. I was not surprised when he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had cognizance of him before, somehow.”

Elsewhere Thackeray tells a similar story about another of his characters:

“A gentleman came in to see me the other day who was so like the picture of Philip Firmin in Mr. Walker's charming drawings in the Cornhill Magazine, that he was quite a curiosity to me. The same eyes, beard, shoulders, just as you have seen them from month to month. Well, he is not like the Philip Firmin in my mind. Asleep, asleep in the grave, lies the bold, the generous, the reckless, the tenderhearted creature whom I have made to pass through those adventures which have just been brought to an end. It is years since I heard the laughter ringing, or saw the bright blue eyes. When I knew him both were young; I become young as I think of him.”

Thackeray's recently published “Letters” give much interesting information as to the lay figures from whom he modelled his characters, although the good taste of the editor has in all cases suppressed the real names. We are left, therefore, to conjecture the identity of the person described in the following paragraph, who evidently sat for the Fotheringay :

“She is kind, frank, open-handed, not very refined, with a warm outpouring of language, and thinks herself the most feeling creature in the world ; the way in which she fascinates some people is quite extraordinary. She affected me by telling me of an old friend of ours in the country–Dr. Portman's daughter, indeed, who was a parson in our parts—who died of consumption the other day after leading the purest and saintliest life, and who after she had received the sacrament read over her friend's letter, and actually died with it on the bed. Her husband adores her ; he is an old cavalry colonel of sixty, and the poor fellow, away now in India, and yearning after her, writes her yards and yards of the most tender, submissive, frantic letters; five or six other men are crazy about her. She trotted them all out, one after another, before me last night; not humorously, I mean, not making fun of them, but complacently describing their adoration for her, and acquiescing in their opinion of herself. Friends, lover, husband, she coaxes them all, and no more cares for them than worthy Miss Fotheringay did. Oh, Becky is a trifle to her, and I am sure I might draw her picture and she would never know in the least that it was herself. I suppose I did not fall in love with her myself because we were brought up together ; she was a very simple, generous creature then.”

Blanche Amory combined the characteristics of at least two young girls who flit across the pages of these “Letters,”

one of whom is called Miss G. and the other Miss B.

“Poor little B.,’” says Thackeray in one place, “does any one suppose I should be such an idiot as to write verses to her? I never wrote her a line. I once drew a picture in her music book, a caricature of a spooney song in which I laughed at her, as has been my practice, alas!”

The first reference to Miss G. occurs in the following passage (page 49) :

“At the train whom do you think I found? Miss G., who says she is Blanche Amory, and I think she is Blanche Amory; amiable at times, amusing, clever, and depraved. We talked and persiflated all the way to London, and the idea of her will help me to a good chapter, in which I will make Pendennis and Blanche play at being in love, such a wicked, false, humbugging London love as two blasé London people might act and half deceive themselves that they were in earnest. That will complete the cycle of Mr. Pen's worldly experiences, and then we will make, or try to make, a good man of him. Oh, me! we are wicked worldlings, most of us; may God better us and cleanse us !”

Here is a curious little glimpse (page 71):

“At Procter's was not furiously amusing— the eternal G. bores one. Her parents were of course there, the papa with a suspiciouslooking little order in his buttonhole, and a chevalier d'industrie air which I can't get over. E. did not sing, but on the other hand Mrs. did. She was passionate, she was enthusiastic, she was sublime, she was tender. When she had crushed G., who stood by the piano hating her and paying her the most profound compliments, she tripped off on my arm to the cab in waiting."

Dr. Sandwith says that Thackeray mentioned to him the name of the original Blanche Amory, and the novelist related how he once travelled with her in a railway carriage and cut his finger. She tore what seemed to be a costly cambric handkerchief and exclaimed : “See what I have sacrificed for you !” but he detected her hiding the common rag which she had torn.

Was this B. or G. And was it B. or G. who is humorously sketched off in the following passage from the letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle {

“Have you been reading Thackeray's ‘Pendennis' 7" writes Mrs. Carlyle in 1851. “If so, you have made acquaintance with Blanche Amory; and when I tell you that my young lady of last week is the original of that portrait, you will give mejoy that she, lady's-maid, and infinite baggage are all gone ! Not that the poor little — is quite such a little devil as Thackeray, who has detested her from a child, has here represented ; but the looks, the manners, the wiles, the larmes, ‘and all that sort of thing” are a perfect likeness. The blame, however, is chiefly on those who placed her in a position so false that it required extraordinary virtue not to become false along with it. She was the only legitimate child of a beautiful young “improper female, who was for a number of years —'s mistress (she had had a husband, a swindler). His mother took the freak of patronizing this mistress, saw the child, and, behold ! it was very pretty and clever. Poor Mrs. — had tired of parties, of politics, of most things in heaven and earth ; “a sudden thought struck her, she would adopt this child, give herself the excitement of making a scandal and braving public opinion, and of educating a flesh-and-blood girl into the heroine of a three-volume novel, which she had for years been trying to write, but wanted perseverance to elaborate. The child was made the idol of the whole house ; her showy education was fitting her more for her own mother's profession than for any honest one ; and when she was seventeen and the novel was just rising into the interest of love affairs, a rich young man having been refused or rather jilted by her, Mrs. — died —her husband and son being already dead— and poor was left without any earthly stay, and with only £250 a year to support her in the extravagantly luxurious habits she had been brought up in. She has a splendid voice, and wished to get trained for the opera. Mrs. —'s fine lady friends screamed at the idea, but offered her nothing instead, not even their countenance. Her two male guardians, to wash their hands of her, resolved to send her to India, and to India she had to go, vowing that if their object was to marry her off she would disappoint them and return ‘to prosecute the artist life.” She produced the most extraordinary furore at Calcutta ; had offers every week; refused them point blank; terrified Sir -— by her extravagance ; tormented Lady — by her caprices; ‘fell into consumption' for the nonce ; was ordered by the doctors back to England, and, to the dismay of her two cowardly guardians, arrived here six months ago with her health perfectly restored.”

It will be interesting to decide who was the person referred to on pages 122 and 123 of Thackeray’s “Letters,” and there described as a friend of twenty years before, now a degenerate clergyman. The description ends thus:

“I used to worship him for about six months, and now he points a moral and adorns a tale, such as it is in “Pendennis.' He lives at the Duke of —'s Park at — and wanted me to come and go to the Abbey , poor old Harry – ' And this battered, vulgar man was my idol of youth ! My dear old Fitzgerald is always right about men, and said from the first that this was a bad one, and a sham.” .

Of the other characters of “Pendennis” Thackeray himself acknowledged that Helen was drawn after his mother, “though she was a thousand times better than the portrait.” Wagg the novelist, whose name is great in the land where Captain Shandy, with ten times his brains, is unknown and unhonored, is presumably Theodore Hook. The noble men on the

, Pall Mall Gazette are Lords William and

Henry Lennox, and a brother of the Duke of St. Albans, of whom Jack Sheehan used to say, “His name of Beauclerc is a misnomer, for he is always in a fog, and never clear about anything.” An attempt has been made to prove that the village of Clavering, in which the scenes of “Pendennis” are laid, is the village of that name in West Essex, six and a half miles southwest from Saffron Walden. But Clavering is certainly not the original of the town described under that name in “Pendennis,” although Thackeray may have borrowed the name. Certainly he seems to have been acquainted with the place. It is not unlikely that the Claverings of Clavering Park was so called by him after the family of Clavering, which actually held the village during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The Welbores of the Barrow also may owe the casual introduction of their very uncommon name to the Welbores who resided at an old house called “Pondes” in Clavering in the sixteenth century. But the Clavering of the novel is undoubtedly Ottery-St.-Mary in Devonshire. Here Thackeray used to spend part of his vacations in his Charterhouse days (1825–28), at Larkbear on the confines of the parish, then occupied by his stepfather, Major Carmichael Smyth. There is a pamphlet entitled “Short Notes on the Church and Parish of Ottery-St.-Mary,” compiled by the Vicar of the Parish, Rev. Sidney W. Cornish, D.D., who says:

“No person in these parts can read ‘Pendennis' without being struck with the impression which the scenery of this neighborhood must have made upon his mind to be reproduced, . . . after a lapse of more than twenty years. . . . The local descriptions clearly identify Clavering-St.-Mary, Chatteris, and Baymouth, with Ottery-St.-Mary, Exeter, and Sidmouth ; and in the first edition, which was ornamented with vignettes in the margin, a sketch of the cock-tower of the church is introduced.”

Dr. Cornish, it may be mentioned, was the probable original of Dr. Portman. He did not indeed become vicar until 1841, but Thackeray knew him when he was master of the king's school and a resident of the parish. We are told that in the woodcut which represents the meeting of Dr. Portman and his curate, Smirke, the side face of Dr. Portman strongly resembles that of Dr. Cornish, especially in the peculiar expression of the eye. Major Carmichael Smyth was the original of Colonel Newcome. He is buried at Ayr, Scotland. Mrs. Ritchie has erected to his memory a memorial brass with the word “Adsum” on it. In a recently published letter she says, “The “Adsum ' and the rest of the quotation from the Newcomes was put upon the brass because I knew that Major Carmichael Smyth had suggested the character of Colonel Newcome to my father. There is no foundation, however, for the story that the death-bed scene in the novel was taken from the circumstances of the Major's death.” Indeed, in this scene there appears to have been some unconscious reminiscence of the death of Leather-stocking in Fenimore Cooper’s “Prairie.” In one of his essays Thackeray has acknowledged a profound admiration for this wonderful old hero; and his simplicity, kindliness, and childlike trust made him nearly akin to the Colonel. Here is the concluding passage of Thackeray's description : “At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome's hands, outside the bed, feebly beat a tune. And just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said, ‘Adsum,’ and fell back. It was the word we used at school when the names were called ; and lo, he whose heart was as that of a little child, had

answered to his name, and stood in the presence of the Master.”

So wrote Thackeray. Now compare with this the death of Cooper's aged trapper, the hero of his five Indian tales, as he gives it in the last chapter of his ** Prairie'' :

“The old man had remained nearly motionless for an hour. His eyes alone had occasionally opened and shut. . . . Suddenly, while musing on the remarkable position in which he was placed, Middleton felt the hand which he held grasp his own with incredible power, and the old man, supported on either side by his friends, rose upright to his feet. For a moment he looked around him, as if to invite all in presence to listen (the lingering remnant of human frailty); and then, with a military elevation of the head, and with a voice that might be heard in every part of that numerous assembly, he pronounced the word, * Here.'''

Surely, the “Adsum” and the “Here” in these two death scenes have some relation to each other. The other characters in “The Newcomes” are less easy to identify. The elocutionist Bellew, father of the Kyrle Bellew of the modern stage, is said to have suggested Charles Honeyman, but beyond the fact that Bellew in his younger days was a fashionable clergyman, was adored by the women, and looked upon with a certain good-natured contempt by the men of his congregation, the likeness is a very remote one. William Boland, whom Edmund Yates describes as “A big, heavy, handsome man of much peculiar humor,” was the original of Fred Bayham in “The Newcomes.” (Yates, by the way, adds, “I have ventured to reproduce him as Boker in “Land at Last.’”) Boland was a man of much ability who might have achieved great things, but, owing to indolence and Bohemian tastes, his name never became known to the world. He had a robust confidence in his own abilities. He deplored the fact that he was wasting them, and he had a trick of speaking of himself as William in the same way that Fred Bayham always speaks of himself in the third person as “F. B.” As to the Becky Sharps, the Barnes, Newcomes, the Marquis of Steynes, and other delightfully wicked characters of that ilk, it is sufficient to quote Thackeray's own words to a friend : “I don't know where I got so many wicked people. I have never met them in real life.”—Temple Bar.

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