Increasing reputation -- Later writings in 'Fraser' -- 'Mrs.
Perkins's Ball,' with Thackeray's illustrations -- Early
Vicissitudes of 'Pencil Sketches of English Society' --
Thackeray's connection with the Temple -- Appearance of 'Vanity
Fair' with the Author's original illustrations -- Appreciative
notice in the 'Edinburgh Review' -- The impression produced --
'Our Street,' with Titmarsh's Pencillings of some of its
Inhabitants -- The 'History of Pendennis,' illustrated by the
Author -- 'Dr. Birch and his Young Friends,' with illustrations
by M. A. Titmarsh -- 'Rebecca and Rowena' -- The Dignity of
Literature and the 'Examiner' and 'Morning Chronicle' newspapers
-- Sensitiveness to Hostile Criticism -- The 'Kickleburys on the
Rhine,' with illustrations by M. A. Titmarsh -- Adverse bias of
the 'Times' newspaper -- Thackeray's reply -- An 'Essay on
Thunder and Small Beer.'
The great work, however, which was to stamp the name of Thackeray for
ever in the minds of English readers was yet to come. Hitherto all his
writings had been brief and desultory, but in contributing to
magazines his style had gradually matured itself. That ease of
expression, and that repose which seems so full of power, were never
more exemplified than in some of his latest essays in 'Fraser,' before
book writing had absorbed all his time. His articles on Sir E. B.
Lytton's 'Memoir of Laman Blanchard,' his paper on 'Illustrated
Children's Books,' his satirical proposal to Mons. Alexandre Dumas for
a continuation of 'Ivanhoe,' all contributed to 'Fraser' in 1846, and
his article--we believe the last which he wrote for that
periodical--entitled 'A Grumble about Christmas Books,' published in
January 1847, are equal to anything in his later works. The
first-mentioned of these papers, indeed--the remonstrance with Laman
Blanchard's biographer--is unsurpassed for the eloquence of its
defence of the calling of men of letters, and for the tenderness and
manly simplicity with which it touches on the history of the
unfortunate subject of the memoir.
'Mrs. Perkins's Ball,' a Christmas book, was published in December
1846. But its author had long been preparing for a more serious
undertaking. Some time before, he had sketched some chapters entitled
'Pencil Sketches of English Society,' which he had offered to Colburn
for insertion in the 'New Monthly Magazine.' It formed a portion of a
continuous story, of a length not yet determined, and was rejected by
Colburn after consideration. The papers which Thackeray had previously
contributed to the 'New Monthly' were chiefly slight comic
stories--perhaps the least favourable specimens of his powers. They
were, indeed, not superior to the common run of magazine papers, and
were certainly not equal to his contributions to 'Fraser.' In fact, as
a contributor to the 'New Monthly' he had achieved no remarkable
success, and his papers appear to have been little in demand there.
Whether the manuscript had been offered to 'Fraser'--the magazine in
which 'Titmarsh' had secured popularity, and where he was certainly
more at home--we cannot say. Happily, the author of 'Pencil Sketches
of English Society,' though suspending his projected work, did not
abandon it. He saw in its opening chapters--certainly not the best
portions of the story when completed--the foundations of a work which
was to secure him at last a fame among contemporary writers in his own
proper name. The success of Dickens's shilling monthly parts suggested
to him to make it the commencement of a substantive work of fiction,
to be published month by month, with illustrations by the author. The
work grew up by degrees, and finally took shape under the better title
of 'Vanity Fair.' It was during this time, the latter part of 1846,
that he removed to his house at No. 13 Young Street, Kensington, a
favourite locality with him, in which house he resided for some years.
He also at this time occupied chambers at No. 10 Crown-office Row,
Temple, the comfortable retirement which, 'up four pair of stairs,'
with its grand view, when the sun was shining, of the chimney-pots
over the way, he has himself described. His friend Tom Taylor, the
well-known dramatist and biographer, had chambers in the same house;
and we believe, on the demolition of No. 10 Crown-office Row, wrote a
poem, published in the pages of 'Punch,' in which, if we remember
rightly, mention is made of the fact of Thackeray's having resided
there. Thackeray was called to the bar by the Honourable Society of
the Middle Temple in 1848, though he never practised, and probably
never intended to do so. The Benchers, however, were not insensible to
the addition to the numerous literary associations with their
venerable and quiet retreat which they thus gained. After his death
there was some proposition to bury him in the Temple, of which he was
a member, amid (as Spenser says)--
Those bricky towers
The which on Thames' broad back do ride,
Where now the student lawyers have their bowers,
Where whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide,
Till they decayed through pride.
There Goldsmith is buried, and Thackeray's ashes would have been fitly
laid near those of the author of the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' whose
brilliant genius he so heartily eulogised, and whose many shortcomings
he so tenderly touched upon, in the 'Lectures on the Humourists.' But,
after consultation with his relations, it was deemed better that he
should rest with his own family in Kensal Green. Pending this
decision, the sanction of the Benchers to interment within the
precincts of the Temple Church had been asked and cheerfully accorded;
and when the Kensal Green Cemetery was finally decided upon, the
Benchers were requested to permit the erection of a memorial slab in
their church. Their reply to this was, that not only should they be
honoured by such a memento, but that, if allowed, they would have it
erected at their own cost.[10]
[Illustration: The Order of the Bath]
The first monthly portion of 'Vanity Fair' was published on February
1, 1847, in the yellow wrapper which served to distinguish it from
Charles Dickens's stories, and which afterwards became the standard
colour for the covers of Thackeray's serial stories. The work was
continued monthly, and finished with the number for July of the
following year. Thackeray's friends, and all those who had watched his
career with special interest, saw in it at once a work of greater
promise than any that had appeared since the dawn of his great
contemporary's fame; but the critical journals received it somewhat
coldly. There were indeed few tokens of its future success in the tone
of its reception at this early period.
[Illustration: The British Army]
It is generally acknowledged that to the thoughtful and appreciative
article in the 'Edinburgh Review' of January 1848, which dealt with
the first eleven numbers of the work only, is due the merit of
authoritatively calling attention to the great power it displayed. The
writer was evidently one who knew Thackeray well; for he gives a
sketch of his life, and mentions having met him some years before,
painting in the Louvre in Paris. 'In forming,' says this judicious
critic, 'our general estimate of this writer, we wish to be understood
as referring principally, if not exclusively, to "Vanity Fair" (a
novel in monthly parts), which, though still unfinished, is
immeasurably superior, in our opinion, to every other known production
of his pen. The great charm of this work is its entire freedom from
mannerism and affectation both in style and sentiment--confiding
frankness with which the reader is addressed--the thoroughbred
carelessness with which the author permits the thoughts and feelings
suggested by the situations to flow in their natural channel, as if
conscious that nothing mean or unworthy, nothing requiring to be
shaded, gilded, or dressed up in company attire, could fall from him.
In a word, the book is the work of a gentleman, which is one great
merit, and not the work of a fine (or would-be fine) gentleman, which
is another. Then, again, he never exhausts, elaborates, or insists too
much upon anything; he drops his finest remarks and happiest
illustrations as Buckingham dropped his pearls, and leaves them to be
picked up and appreciated as chance may bring a discriminating
observer to the spot. His effects are uniformly the effects of sound,
wholesome, legitimate art; and we need hardly add, that we are never
harrowed up with physical horrors of the Eugène Sue school in his
writings, or that there are no melodramatic villains to be found in
them. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, and here are
touches of nature by the dozen. His pathos (though not so deep as
Dickens's) is exquisite; the more so, perhaps, because he seems to
struggle against it, and to be half ashamed of being caught in the
melting mood; but the attempt to be caustic, satirical, ironical, or
philosophical, on such occasions, is uniformly vain; and again and
again have we found reason to admire how an originally fine and kind
nature remains essentially free from worldliness, and, in the highest
pride of intellect, pays homage to the heart.'
[Illustration: Sir Hector]
It was at this time, his friend Hannay tells us, that he first had the
pleasure of seeing him. '"Vanity Fair,"' he adds, 'was then
unfinished, but its success was made; and he spoke frankly and
genially of his work and his career. "Vanity Fair" always, we think,
ranked in his own mind as best in story of his greater books; and he
once pointed out to us the very house in Russell Square where his
imaginary Sedleys lived--a curious proof of the reality his creations
had for his mind.' The same writer tells us that when he congratulated
Thackeray, many years ago, on the touch in 'Vanity Fair' in which
Becky admires her husband when he is giving Lord Steyne the
chastisement which ruins _her_ for life, the author answered with that
fervour as well as heartiness of frankness which distinguished him:
'Well, when I wrote the sentence, I slapped my fist on the table, and
said, "That is a touch of genius!"' 'Vanity Fair' soon rose rapidly in
public favour, and a new work from the pen of its author was eagerly
looked for.
[Illustration: Sensitive to a point]
During the time of publication of 'Vanity Fair' he had found time to
write and publish the little Christmas book entitled 'Our Street,'
which appeared in December 1847, and reached a second edition soon
after Christmas. 'Vanity Fair' was followed in 1849 by another long
work of fiction, entitled the 'History of Pendennis; his Fortunes and
Misfortunes, his Friends and his Greatest Enemy; with Illustrations by
the Author;' which was completed in two volumes. In this year, too, he
published 'Dr. Birch' and 'Rebecca and Rowena.' It was during the
publication of 'Pendennis' that a criticism in the 'Morning Chronicle'
and in the 'Examiner' newspapers drew from him a remarkable letter on
the 'Dignity of Literature,' addressed to the editor of the former
journal.
It was a peculiarity of Thackeray to feel annoyed at adverse
criticism, and to show his annoyance in a way which more cautious men
generally abstain from. He did not conceal his feeling when an unjust
attack was levelled at him in an influential journal. He was not one
of those remonstrators who never see anything in the papers, but have
their attention called to them by friends. If he had seen, he frankly
avowed that he had seen the attack, and did not scruple to reply if he
had an opportunity, and the influence of the journal or reviewer made
it worth while. With the 'Times' he had had very early a bout of this
kind. When the little account of the funeral of Napoleon in 1840 was
published, the 'Times,' as he said, rated him, and talked in 'its own
great roaring way about the flippancy and conceit of Titmarsh,' to
which he had replied by a sharp paragraph or two. In 1850 a very
elaborate attack in the chief journal roused his satirical humour more
completely. The article which contained the offence was on the subject
of his Christmas book, entitled the 'Kickleburys on the Rhine,'
published in December 1850, upon which a criticism appeared in that
journal, beginning with the following passage:--
[Illustration: A Rhinelander]
[Illustration: Over-weighted]
'It has been customary, of late years, for the purveyors of amusing
literature--the popular authors of the day--to put forth certain
opuscles, denominated "Christmas Books," with the ostensible intention
of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or other expansive emotions,
incident upon the exodus of the old and the inauguration of the new
year. We have said that their ostensible intention was such, because
there is another motive for these productions, locked up (as the
popular author deems) in his own breast, but which betrays itself, in
the quality of the work, as his principal incentive. Oh! that any muse
should be set upon a high stool to cast up accounts and balance a
ledger! Yet so it is; and the popular author finds it convenient to
fill up the declared deficit and place himself in a position the more
effectually to encounter those liabilities which sternly assert
themselves contemporaneously and in contrast with the careless and
free-handed tendencies of the season by the emission of Christmas
books--a kind of literary _assignats_, representing to the emitter
expunged debts, to the receiver an investment of enigmatical value.
For the most part bearing the stamp of their origin in the vacuity of
the writer's exchequer rather than in the fulness of his genius, they
suggest by their feeble flavour the rinsings of a void brain after
the more important concoctions of the expired year. Indeed, we should
as little think of taking these compositions as examples of the merits
of their authors as we should think of measuring the valuable services
of Mr. Walker the postman, or Mr. Bell the dust-collector, by the copy
of verses they leave at our doors as a provocative of the expected
annual gratuity--effusions with which they may fairly be classed for
their intrinsic worth no less than their ultimate purport.'
[Illustration: Too much for his horse]
Upon this, and upon some little peculiarities of style in the review,
such as a passage in which the learned critic compared the author's
satirical attempts to 'the sardonic divings after the pearl of truth
whose lustre is eclipsed in the display of the diseased oyster,'
Thackeray replied in the preface to a second edition of the little
book, published a few days later, and entitled an 'Essay on Thunder
and Small Beer.' The style of the 'Times' critique, which was
generally attributed to Samuel Phillips, afforded too tempting a
subject for the satirical pen of the author of 'Vanity Fair,' to be
passed over. The easy humour with which he exposes the pompous
affectation of superiority in his critic, the tawdry sentences and
droll logic of his censor, whom he likened not to the awful thunderer
of Printing House Square, but to the thunderer's man, 'Jupiter Jeames,
trying to dazzle and roar like his awful employer,' afforded the town,
through the newspapers which copied the essay, an amount of amusement
not often derived from an author's defence of himself from adverse
criticism.
The essay was remembered long after, when work after work of the
offending author was severely handled in the same paper; and the
recollection of it gave a shadow of support to the theory by which
some persons, on the occasion of Thackeray's death, endeavoured to
explain the fact that the obituary notice in the 'Times,' and the
account of his funeral, were more curt than those of any other
journal; while the 'Times' alone, of all the daily papers, omitted to
insert a leading article on the subject of the great loss which had
been sustained by the world of letters.
FOOTNOTE:
[10] Letter of Edmund Yates in the _Belfast Whig_.