h persistency as long as the
public would permit it. Thackeray's affection for assumed names was more
intermittent, though I doubt whether he used his own name altogether
till it appeared on the title-page of _Vanity Fair_. About this time
began his connection with _Punch_, in which much of his best work
appeared. Looking back at our old friend as he used to come out from
week to week at this time, we can hardly boast that we used to recognise
how good the literary pabulum was that was then given for our
consumption. We have to admit that the ordinary reader, as the ordinary
picture-seer, requires to be guided by a name. We are moved to absolute
admiration by a Raphael or a Hobbema, but hardly till we have learned
the name of the painter, or, at any rate, the manner of his painting. I
am not sure that all lovers of poetry would recognise a _Lycidas_ coming
from some hitherto unknown Milton. Gradually the good picture or the
fine poem makes its way into the minds of a slowly discerning public.
_Punch_, no doubt, became very popular, owing, perhaps, more to Leech,
its artist, than to any other single person. Gradually the world of
readers began to know that there was a speciality of humour to be found
in its pages,--fun and sense, satire and good humour, compressed
together in small literary morsels as the nature of its columns
required. Gradually the name of Thackeray as one of the band of brethren
was buzzed about, and gradually became known as that of the chief of the
literary brothers. But during the years in which he did much for
_Punch_, say from 1843 to 1853, he was still struggling to make good his
footing in literature. They knew him well in the _Punch_ office, and no
doubt the amount and regularity of the cheques from Messrs. Bradbury and
Evans, the then and still owners of that happy periodical, made him
aware that he had found for himself a satisfactory career. In "a good
day for himself, the journal, and the world, Thackeray found _Punch_."
This was said by his old friend Shirley Brooks, who himself lived to be
editor of the paper and died in harness, and was said most truly.
_Punch_ was more congenial to him, and no doubt more generous, than
_Fraser_. There was still something of the literary Bohemian about him,
but not as it had been before. He was still unfixed, looking out for
some higher career, not altogether satisfied to be no more than one of
an anonymous band of brothers, even though the brothers were