Thackeray | Page 7

on Monday morning an excuse why he should not on Monday do
Monday's work was, at the time, an inexpressible relief to him, but had
become deep regret,--almost a remorse,--before the Monday was over.
To such a one it was not given to believe in himself with that sturdy
rock-bound foundation which we see to have belonged to some men
from the earliest struggles of their career. To him, then, must have
come an inexpressible pang when he was told that his story must be
curtailed.
Who else would have told such a story of himself to the first
acquaintance he chanced to meet? Of Thackeray it might be predicted
that he certainly would do so. No little wound of the kind ever came to
him but what he disclosed it at once. "They have only bought so many
of my new book." "Have you seen the abuse of my last number?"
"What am I to turn my hand to? They are getting tired of my novels."
"They don't read it," he said to me of Esmond. "So you don't mean to
publish my work?" he said once to a publisher in an open company.
Other men keep their little troubles to themselves. I have heard even of

authors who have declared how all the publishers were running after
their books; I have heard some discourse freely of their fourth and fifth
editions; I have known an author to boast of his thousands sold in this
country, and his tens of thousands in America; but I never heard anyone
else declare that no one would read his chef-d'oeuvre, and that the
world was becoming tired of him. It was he who said, when he was
fifty, that a man past fifty should never write a novel.
And yet, as I have said, he was from an early age fully conscious of his
own ability. That he was so is to be seen in the handling of many of his
early works,--in Barry Lyndon, for instance, and the Memoirs of Mr. C.
James Yellowplush. The sound is too certain for doubt of that kind. But
he had not then, nor did he ever achieve that assurance of public favour
which makes a man confident that his work will be successful. During
the years of which we are now speaking Thackeray was a literary
Bohemian in this sense,--that he never regarded his own status as
certain. While performing much of the best of his life's work he was not
sure of his market, not certain of his readers, his publishers, or his price;
nor was he certain of himself.
It is impossible not to form some contrast between him and Dickens as
to this period of his life,--a comparison not as to their literary merits,
but literary position. Dickens was one year his junior in age, and at this
time, viz. 1837-38, had reached almost the zenith of his reputation.
Pickwick had been published, and Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby
were being published. All the world was talking about the young author
who was assuming his position with a confidence in his own powers
which was fully justified both by his present and future success. It was
manifest that he could make, not only his own fortune, but that of his
publishers, and that he was a literary hero bound to be worshipped by
all literary grades of men, down to the "devils" of the printing-office.
At that time, Thackeray, the older man, was still doubting, still
hesitating, still struggling. Everyone then had accepted the name of
Charles Dickens. That of William Thackeray was hardly known beyond
the circle of those who are careful to make themselves acquainted with
such matters. It was then the custom, more generally than it is at
present, to maintain anonymous writing in magazines. Now, if anything

of special merit be brought out, the name of the author, if not published,
is known. It was much less so at the period in question; and as the
world of readers began to be acquainted with Jeames Yellowplush,
Catherine Hayes, and other heroes and heroines, the names of the
author had to be inquired for. I remember myself, when I was already
well acquainted with the immortal Jeames, asking who was the writer.
The works of Charles Dickens were at that time as well known to be his,
and as widely read in England, as those almost of Shakespeare.
It will be said of course that this came from the earlier popularity of
Dickens. That is of course; but why should it have been so? They had
begun to make their effort much at the same time; and if there was any
advantage in point of position as they commenced, it was with
Thackeray. It might be said that the genius