compete successfully with such long-established rivals. He then became a
regular man of letters,--that is, he wrote for respectable magazines and
newspapers, until the attention attracted to his contributions in
_Fraser's Magazine_ and _Punch_ emboldened him to start on his own
account, and risk an independent publication." Then follows a eulogistic
and, as I think, a correct criticism on the book as far as it had gone.
There are a few remarks perhaps a little less eulogistic as to some of
his minor writings, _The Snob Papers_ in particular; and at the end
there is a statement with which I think we shall all now agree; "A
writer with such a pen and pencil as Mr. Thackeray's is an acquisition
of real and high value in our literature."

The reviewer has done his work in a tone friendly to the author, whom he
knew,[2]--as indeed it may be said that this little book will be written
with the same feeling,--but the public has already recognised the truth
of the review generally. There can be no doubt that Thackeray, though he
had hitherto been but a contributor of anonymous pieces to
periodicals,--to what is generally considered as merely the ephemeral
literature of the month,--had already become effective on the tastes and
morals of readers. Affectation of finery; the vulgarity which apes good
breeding but never approaches it; dishonest gambling, whether with dice
or with railway shares; and that low taste for literary excitement which
is gratified by mysterious murders and Old Bailey executions had already
received condign punishment from Yellowplush, Titmarsh, Fitzboodle, and
Ikey Solomon. Under all those names Thackeray had plied his trade as a
satirist. Though the truths, as the reviewer said, had been merely sent
undulating through the air, they had already become effective.

Thackeray had now become a personage,--one of the recognised stars of
the literary heaven of the day. It was an honour to know him; and we may