The rejected one
It was in the year 1836 that Thackeray, according to an anecdote related by himself, offered Dickens to undertake the task of illustrating one of his works. The story was told by the former at an anniversary dinner of the Royal Academy a few years since, Dickens being present on the occasion. 'I can remember,' said Thackeray, 'when Dickens was a very young man, and had commenced delighting the world with some charming humorous works in covers, which were coloured light green, and came out once a month, that this young man wanted an artist to illustrate his writings; and I recollect walking up to his chambers in Furnival's Inn, with two or three drawings in my hand, which, strange to say, he did not find suitable. But for the unfortunate blight which came over my artistical existence, it would have been my pride and my pleasure to have endeavoured one day to find a place on these walls for one of my performances.' The work referred to was the 'Pickwick Papers,' which was commenced in April of that year, as the result of an agreement with Dickens and Mr. Seymour, the comic artist—the one to write, and the other to illustrate a book which should exhibit the adventures of cockney sportsmen. As our readers know, the descriptive letterpress, by the author of the 'Sketches by Boz,' soon attracted the attention of the world; while the clever illustrations by Seymour, which had the merit of creating the well-known pictorial characteristics of Mr. Pickwick and his friends, became regarded only as illustrations of the new humorist's immortal work. Unhappily, only two or three monthly numbers had been completed, when Seymour destroyed himself in a fit of derangement. A new artist was wanted, and the result was the singular interview between the two men whose names, though representing schools of fiction so widely different, were destined to become constantly associated in the public mind. Dickens was then acquiring the vast popularity as a writer of fiction which never flagged from that time: the young artist had scarcely attempted literature, and had still before him many years of obscurity. The slow growth of his fame presents a curious contrast to the career of his fellow-novelist. Hard as Thackeray subsequently worked in contributing to 'Fraser,' in co-operating with others on daily newspapers, in writing for 'Cruikshank's Comic Almanack,' for the 'Times' and the 'Examiner,' for 'Punch,' and for the 'Westminster' and other Reviews, it could not be said that he was really known to the public till the publication of 'Vanity Fair,' when he had been an active literary man for at least ten years, and had attained the age of thirty-seven. The 'Yellowplush Papers' in 'Fraser' enjoyed a sort of popularity, and were at least widely quoted in the newspapers; but of their author few inquired. Neither did the two volumes of the 'Paris Sketch Book,' though presenting many good specimens of his peculiar humour, nor the account of the second funeral of Napoleon, nor even the 'Irish Sketch Book,' do much to make their writer known. It was his 'Vanity Fair' which, issued in shilling monthly parts, took the world of readers as it were by storm; and an appreciative article from the hand of a friend in the 'Edinburgh Review,' in 1848, for the first time helped to spread the tidings of a new master of fiction among us, destined to make a name second to none, in its own field.
Thackeray was in Paris in March 1836, at the time of the execution of Fieschi and Lacénaire, upon which subject he wrote some remarks in one of his anonymous papers which it is interesting to compare with the more advanced views in favour of the abolition of the punishment of death, which are familiar to the readers of his subsequent article, 'On Going to see a Man Hanged.' He did not witness the execution either of Fieschi or Lacénaire, though he made unsuccessful attempts to be present at both events.
The day for Fieschi's death was purposely kept secret; and he was executed at a remote quarter of the town. But the scene on the morning when his execution did not take place was never forgotten by the young English artist.
It was carnival time, and the rumour had pretty generally been carried abroad that the culprit was to die on that day. A friend who accompanied Thackeray came many miles through the mud and dark, in order to be 'in at the death.' They set out before light, floundering through the muddy Champs Elysées, where were many others bent upon the same errand. They passed by the Concert of Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honoré; and round this, in the wet, a number of coaches were collected: the ball was just up; and a crowd of people, in hideous masquerade, drunk, tired, dirty, dressed in horrible old frippery and daubed with filthy rouge, were trooping out of the place; tipsy women and men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as Frenchmen will do; parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling to and fro across the street, and yelling songs in chorus. Hundreds of these were bound for the show, and the two friends thought themselves lucky in finding a vehicle to the execution place, at the Barrière d'Enfer. As they crossed the river, and entered the Rue d'Enfer, crowds of students, black workmen, and more drunken devils from carnival balls, were filling it; and on the grand place there were thousands of these assembled, looking out for Fieschi and his cortége. They waited, but no throat-cutting that morning; no august spectacle of satisfied justice; and the eager spectators were obliged to return, disappointed of the expected breakfast of blood.
Somewhat sanguinary
The other attempt was equally unfortunate. The same friend accompanied him, but they arrived too late on the ground to be present at the execution of Lacénaire and his co-mate in murder, Avril. But as they came to the spot (a gloomy round space, within the barrier—three roads led to it—and, outside, they saw the wine-shops and restaurateurs of the barrier looking gay and inviting), they only found, in the midst of it, a little pool of ice, just partially tinged with red. Two or three idle street boys were dancing and stamping about this pool; and when the Englishmen asked one of them whether the execution had taken place, he began dancing more madly than ever, and shrieked out with a loud fantastical theatrical voice, 'Venez tous, Messieurs et Dames; voyez ici le sang du monstre Lacénaire et de son compagnon le traître Avril;' and straightway all the other gamins screamed out the words in chorus, and took hands and danced round the little puddle.
