Commencement of the 'Cornhill Magazine' -- 'Roundabout Papers' --
'Lovel the Widower' -- The 'Adventures of Philip on his Way
through the World' -- Lectures on the 'Four Georges' -- Editorial
Penalties -- The 'Thorn in the Cushion' -- Harass from
disappointed Contributors -- Vexatious Correspondents --
Withdrawal from the arduous post of Editor -- Building of
Thackeray's House in Kensington Palace Gardens -- Christmas 1863
-- Death of the great Novelist -- The unfinished Work --
Circumstances of the Author's last Illness -- His death.
[Illustration]
The great event of the last few years of Thackeray's life was the
starting of the 'Cornhill Magazine,' the first number of which, with
the date of January 1860, appeared shortly before Christmas in the
previous year. The great success which Charles Dickens had met with in
conducting his weekly periodical perhaps first suggested the project
of this new monthly magazine, with Thackeray for editor. But few
expected a design so bold and original as they found developed by the
appearance of Number 1. The contents were by contributors of
first-rate excellence; the quantity of matter in each was equal to
that given by the old-established magazines published at half-a-crown,
while the price of the 'Cornhill,' as everyone knows, was only a
shilling. The editor's ideas on the subject of the new periodical were
explained by him some weeks before the commencement in a
characteristic letter to his friend, G. H. Lewes, which was afterwards
adopted as the vehicle of announcing the design to the public.
The first number contained the commencement of that series of
'Roundabout Papers' in which we get so many interesting glimpses of
Thackeray's personal history and feelings, and also the opening
chapters of his story of 'Lovel the Widower.' The latter was
originally written in the form of a comedy, entitled 'the Wolf and the
Lamb,' which was intended to be performed during the management of
Wigan at the Olympic Theatre, but was finally declined by the latter.
Thackeray, we believe, acquiesced in the unfavourable judgment of the
practical manager upon the acting qualities of his comedy, and
resolved to throw it into narrative form, in the story with which his
readers are now familiar. This was not the first instance of his
writing for the stage. If we are not mistaken, the libretto of John
Barnett's popular opera of the 'Mountain Sylph,' produced nearly forty
years since, was from his pen. In the 'Cornhill' also appeared his
story of 'Philip on his Way through the World.' The scenes in this are
said to have been founded in great part upon his own experiences; and
there can be no doubt that the adventures of Philip Firmin represent,
in many respects, those of the Charterhouse boy who afterwards became
known to the world as the author of 'Vanity Fair.' But in all such
matters it is to be remembered that the writer of fiction feels
himself at liberty to deviate from the facts of his life in any way
which he finds necessary for the development of his story. Certainly
the odious stepfather of Philip must not be taken for Thackeray's
portrait of his own stepfather, towards whom he always entertained
feelings of respect and affection.
[Illustration]
We may also remind our readers that the 'Lectures on the Four Georges'
first appeared in print in the 'Cornhill.' The sales reached by the
earlier numbers were enormous, and far beyond anything ever attained
by a monthly magazine; even after the usual subsidence which follows
the flush of a great success, the circulation had, we believe, settled
at a point far exceeding the most sanguine hopes of the projectors.
These fortunate results of the undertaking were, however, not without
serious drawbacks. The editor soon discovered that his new position
was in many respects an unenviable one. Friends and acquaintances, not
to speak of constant readers and 'regular subscribers to your
interesting magazine,' sent him bushels of manuscripts, amongst which
it was rare indeed to find one that could be accepted. Sensitive poets
and poetesses took umbrage at refusals, however kindly and delicately
expressed. 'How can I go into society with comfort?' asked the editor
of a friend at this time. 'I dined the other day at ----'s, and at the
table were four gentlemen whose masterpieces of literary art I had
been compelled to decline with thanks.' Not six months had elapsed
before he began to complain of 'thorns' in the editorial cushion. One
lady wrote to entreat that her article might be inserted, on the
ground that she had known better days, and had a sick and widowed
mother to maintain; others began with fine phrases about the merits
and eminent genius of the person they were addressing. Some found
fault with articles, and abused contributor and editor. An Irishman
threatened proceedings for an implied libel in 'Lovel the Widower'
upon ballet-dancers, whom he declared to be superior to the snarlings
of dyspeptic libellers, or the spiteful attacks and _brutum fulmen_ of
ephemeral authors. This gentleman also informed the editor that
theatrical managers were in the habit of speaking good English,
possibly better than ephemeral authors.
It was chiefly owing to these causes that Thackeray finally determined
to withdraw from the editorship of the magazine, though continuing to
contribute to it and take an interest in its progress. In an amusing
address to contributors and correspondents, dated March 18, 1862, he
made known this determination; and in the same address he announced
that, while the tale of 'Philip' had been passing through the press,
he had been preparing another, on which he had worked at intervals for
many years past, and which he hoped to introduce in the following
year.
[Illustration: Falling foul of the Skirts]
In a pecuniary sense the 'Cornhill Magazine' had undoubtedly proved a
fortunate venture for its editor. It was during his editorship that he
removed from his house, No. 36 Onslow Square, in which he had resided
for some years, to the more congenial neighbourhood of the Palace at
Kensington, that 'Old Court Suburb' which Leigh Hunt has gossiped
about so pleasantly. Thackeray took upon a long lease a somewhat
dilapidated mansion, on the west side of Kensington Palace Gardens.
His intention was to repair and improve it, but he finally resolved to
pull it down and build another in its stead. The new house, a
handsome, solid mansion of choice red brick with stone facings, was
built from a design drawn by himself; and in this house he continued
to reside till the time of his death. 'It was,' says Hannay, 'a
dwelling worthy of one who really represented literature in the great
world, and who, planting himself on his books, yet sustained the
character of his profession with all the dignity of a gentleman. A
friend who called on him there from Edinburgh, in the summer of 1862,
knowing of old his love of the Venusian, playfully reminded him of
what Horace says of those who, regardless of their sepulchre, employ
themselves in building houses:
Sepulchri
Immemor struis domos.
"Nay," said he, "I am _memor sepulchri_, for this house will always
let for so many hundreds (mentioning the sum) a year."' We may add
that Thackeray was always of opinion that, notwithstanding the
somewhat costly proceeding of pulling down and re-erecting, he had
achieved the rare result, for a private gentleman, of building for
himself a house which, regarded as an investment of a portion of his
fortune, left no cause for regret.
Our narrative draws to a close. The announcement of the death of
Thackeray, coming so suddenly upon us in the very midst of our great
Christian festival of 1863, caused a shock which will be long
remembered. His hand had been missed in the last two numbers of the
'Cornhill Magazine,' but only because he had been engaged in laying
the foundation of another of those continuous works of fiction which
his readers so eagerly expected. In the then current number of the
'Cornhill Magazine' the customary orange-coloured fly-leaf had
announced that 'a new serial story' by him would be commenced early in
the new year; but the promise had scarcely gone abroad when we learnt
that the hand which had penned its opening chapters, in the full
prospect of a happy ending, could never again add line or word to that
long range of writings which must always remain one of the best
evidences of the strength and beauty of our English speech.
On the Tuesday preceding he had followed to the grave his relative,
Lady Rodd, widow of Vice-Admiral Sir John Tremayne Rodd, K.C.B., who
was the daughter of Major James Rennell, F.R.S., Surveyor-General of
Bengal, by the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Thackeray, Head Master of
Harrow School. Only the day before this, according to a newspaper
account, he had been congratulating himself on having finished four
numbers of a new novel; he had the manuscript in his pocket, and with
a boyish frankness showed the last pages to a friend, asking him to
read them and see what he could make of them. When he had completed
four numbers more he said he would subject himself to the skill of a
very clever surgeon, and be no more an invalid. Only two days before
he had been seen at his club in high spirits; but with all his high
spirits, he did not seem well; he complained of illness; but he was
often ill, and he laughed off his present attack. He said that he was
about to undergo some treatment which would work a perfect cure in his
system, and so he made light of his malady. He was suffering from two
distinct complaints, one of which had now wrought his death. More than
a dozen years before, while he was writing 'Pendennis,' the
publication of that work was stopped by his serious illness. He was
brought to death's door, and he was saved from death by Dr. Elliotson,
to whom, in gratitude, he dedicated the novel when he lived to finish
it. But ever since that ailment he had been subject every month or six
weeks to attacks of sickness, attended with violent retching. He was
congratulating himself, just before his death, on the failure of his
old enemy to return, and then he checked himself, as if he ought not
to be too sure of a release from his plague. On the morning of
Wednesday, December 23, the complaint returned, and he was in great
suffering all day. He was no, better in the evening, and his valet,
Charles Sargent, left him at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night,
Thackeray wishing him 'Good night' as he went out of the room. At nine
o'clock on the following morning the valet, entering his master's
chamber as usual, found him lying on his back quite still, with his
arms spread over the coverlet; but he took no notice, as he was
accustomed to see his master thus after one of his severe attacks. He
brought some coffee and set it down beside the bed; and it was only
when he returned after an interval, and found that the cup had not
been tasted, that a sudden alarm seized him, and he discovered that
his master was dead. About midnight Thackeray's mother, who slept
overhead, had heard him get up and walk about the room; but she was
not alarmed, as this was a habit of her son when unwell. It is
supposed that he had, in fact, been seized at this time, and that the
violence of the attack had brought on the effusion on the brain which,
as the _post-mortem_ examination showed, was the immediate cause of
death. His medical attendants attributed his death to effusion on the
brain, and added that he had a very large brain, weighing no less than
58½ oz.
Thus, in the full maturity of his powers, died William Makepeace
Thackeray, one of the closest observers of human nature, the most
kindly of English humourists; and his death has left a blank in our
literature, which we, in the present generation at least, are offered
no prospect of seeing filled up. To quote once more his friend
Hannay's words: 'It is long since England has lost such a son; it will
be long before she has such another to lose. He was indeed
emphatically English--English as distinct from Scotch, no less than
English as distinct from Continental. The highest, purest English
novelist since Fielding, he combined Addison's love of virtue, with
Johnson's hatred of cant; Horace Walpole's lynx eye for the mean and
ridiculous, with the gentleness and wide charity for mankind, as a
whole, of Goldsmith. _Non omnis mortuus est._ He will be remembered in
his succession with these men for ages to come, as long as the hymn of
praise rises in the old Abbey of Westminster, and wherever the English
tongue is native to men, from the banks of the Ganges to those of the
Mississippi.'
[Illustration]
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
End of Project Gutenberg's Thackerayana, by William Makepeace Thackeray