'Dr. Goldsmith (Mitre Court). To J. Filby, Dr.'
Oliver Goldsmith and Dr. Johnson are both passing the shop-front of the unfortunate tailor. The actors in this comedietta are so absorbed in their several occupations—the lexicographer in a book, Goldy in self-admiration—that they don't notice the tailor, who, too, is completely paralysed at the double spectacle of his coat and his debtor; his assistant is grinning with both his sides—the consequence of the passing of the customer and the discomfiture of his master, who looks somewhat of a 'grinder;' while a pair of arch-faced, merry little urchins are copying to the life the shuffle and swagger respectively of the two Doctors. We will let the paper speak for itself:—
'This drawing is a good specimen of his work; it tells its own story, as every drawing should. Here is the great lexicographer, with his ponderous shuffling tread, his thick lips, his head bent down, his book close to his purblind eyes, himself totus in illo, reading, as he fed, greedily and fast. Beside him simpers the clumsy and inspired Oliver, in his new plum-coloured coat; his eyes bent down in an ecstasy of delight, for is he not far prouder of his visage—and such a visage!—and of his coat than of his artless genius? We all know about that coat, and how Mr. Filby never got paid for it. There he is behind his window, in sartorial posture; his uplifted goose arrested, his eye following wistfully, and not without a sense of glory and dread, that coat and man. His journeyman is grinning at him; he is paid weekly, and has no risk. And then what a genuine bit of Thackeray, the street-boy and his dear little admiring sister!—there they are stepping out in mimicry of the great two.'
The article from which this passage is quoted contains a letter, full of grave feeling and sensibility, which Thackeray wrote, in 1848, in acknowledging one of those spontaneous expressions of gratitude that are occasionally found to cheer an author on his way, and to awaken in his mind the encouraging sense of sympathy from unexpected quarters.
'There happened to be placed in the window of an Edinburgh jeweller a silver statuette of "Mr. Punch," with his dress en rigueur his comfortable and tidy paunch, with all its buttons; his hunch; his knee-breeches, with their ties; his compact little legs, one foot a little forward; and the intrepid and honest, kindly little fellow firmly set on his pins, with his customary look of up to and good for anything. In his hand was his weapon, a pen; his skull was an inkhorn, and his cap its lid. A passer-by—who had long been grateful to our author, as to a dear unknown and enriching friend, for his writings in "Fraser" and in "Punch," and had longed for some way of reaching him and telling him how his work was relished and valued—bethought himself of sending this inkstand to Mr. Thackeray. He went in, and asked its price. "Ten guineas, sir." He said to himself, "There are many who feel as I do; why shouldn't we send it up to him? I'll get eighty several half-crowns, and that will do it" (he had ascertained there would be discount for ready money). With the help of a friend, the half-crowns were soon forthcoming, and it is pleasant to remember that in the "octogint" are the names of Lord Jeffrey and Sir William Hamilton, who gave their half-crowns with the heartiest good-will. A short note was written, telling the story. The little man in silver was duly packed and sent, with the following inscription round the base:—
'GULIELMO MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
ARMA VIRUMQUE
GRATI NECNON GRATÆ EDINENSES
LXXX.
D. D. D.'
How far Thackeray would have succeeded as an illustrator of other men's thoughts there is but little that has been published to prove. His separate cuts in 'Punch' are remarkably happy and droll, but they have none of those graver and more aspiring qualities which authors perhaps might have looked for in the sketches of a young gentleman who proposed seriously to draw pictures for their stories. It is conceded that for the embellishment of his own writings Thackeray's eye, hand, and pencil possessed every desirable qualification; and it is not improbable that the same facilities would have enabled him to offer to others, as his powers became matured, a share of the advantages which his ready wit brought to his own pictorial embellishments.
The few instances of his productions as an illustrator, pure and simple, are too early to come under fair criticism. Before he had acquired practice with his etching-needle, and certainly before he had found out his own particular style, he tried his hand at a set of copper plates, with the example of Seymour, it is believed, to guide his then imperfect knowledge of the art by means of which he desired to publish his designs.
The admirable series of 'Men of Character,' which Douglas Jerrold originally contributed as magazine papers, were collected in three volumes and published by Colburn in 1838. These volumes were illustrated with several plates, the humour of which is undeniable, although it may be thought that the subjects have suffered in execution. The name of the artist does not appear, but there is no doubt that Thackeray supplied these designs to adorn the book of his friend and fellow littérateur; the incidents selected are all sufficiently farcical for humorous delineation, and that they have certainly had at the hands of the draughtsman.
'The Practical Philosophy of Adam Buff' (the Man without a Shirt) is completely set out in the frontispiece, where, soused with water, the moral professor is invited by a 'rough' to strip 'to his shirt' and show his skill with his fists. Buff's coat is buttoned to the chin, to conceal the absence of his linen, and with his huge shoulder of mutton hands he is striking the attitude of immovable moral dignity which won the heart of his patron. A likeness to this identical pugilistic coal-whipper will be found in one of Thackeray's wood-cuts to the 'Town and Gown Row' in 'Codlingsby' ('Punch's Prize Novelists'). The 'Fall of Pippins' represents that too susceptible youth on his knees before his lady mistress, whom he has awakened with a kiss. The indignation of the outraged fair, the abject terror and contrition of Pippins, the fury of the jealous husband, Sir Scipio Mannikin, who is breaking in upon the transgressor with uplifted cane, and the startled faces of the domestic chaplain and his followers, are all successfully indicated. From bad to worse, we next find 'Job Pippins—Murderer.' The unfortunate youth, labouring under a very unpleasant suspicion, has been dragged into still more objectionable company; he is nervously seated on the edge of a stool, in a hut tenanted by burglars and cut-purses. A young girl, the mistress of a highwayman, captain of the gang, has one of those pretty, innocent faces Thackeray always expressed so successfully.