He died alone in his room on Christmas eve in the fine new home in
London which he had recently made for himself and his three daughters.
Thackeray was a giant physically, with a mind that worked easily, but
he was indolent and always wrote under pressure, with the printer's
devil waiting for his "copy." He was a thorough man of the world, yet
full of the freshness of fancy and the tenderness of heart of a little
child. All children were a delight to him, and he never could refrain
from giving them extravagant tips. The ever-present grief that could
not be forgotten by fame or success made him very tender to all
suffering, especially the suffering of the weak and the helpless. Yet,
like many a sensitive man, he concealed this kindness of heart under
an affectation of cynicism, which led many unsympathetic critics to
style him hard and ferocious in his satire.
Like Dickens, Thackeray was one of the great reporters of his day,
with an eye that took in unconsciously every detail of face, costume
or scene and reproduced it with perfect accuracy. The reader of his
novels is entertained by a series of pen pictures of men and women and
scenes in high life and life below stairs that are photographic in
their clearness and fidelity. Dickens always failed when he came to
depict British aristocratic life; but Thackeray moved in drawing-rooms
and brilliant assemblages with the ease of a man familiar from youth
with good society, and hence free from all embarrassment, even in the
presence of royalty.
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