the
brothers of _Punch_. We can only imagine what were his thoughts as to
himself and that other man, who was then known as the great novelist of
the day,--of a rivalry with whom he was certainly conscious. _Punch_ was
very much to him, but was not quite enough. That must have been very
clear to himself as he meditated the beginning of _Vanity Fair_.

Of the contributions to the periodical, the best known now are _The Snob
Papers_ and _The Ballads of Policeman X_. But they were very numerous.
Of Thackeray as a poet, or maker of verses, I will say a few words in a
chapter which will be devoted to his own so-called ballads. Here it
seems only necessary to remark that there was not apparently any time in
his career at which he began to think seriously of appearing before the
public as a poet. Such was the intention early in their career with many
of our best known prose writers, with Milton, and Goldsmith, and Samuel
Johnson, with Scott, Macaulay, and more lately with Matthew Arnold;
writers of verse and prose who ultimately prevailed some in one
direction, and others in the other. Milton and Goldsmith have been known
best as poets, Johnson and Macaulay as writers of prose. But with all of
them there has been a distinct effort in each art. Thackeray seems to
have tumbled into versification by accident; writing it as amateurs do,
a little now and again for his own delectation, and to catch the taste
of partial friends. The reader feels that Thackeray would not have begun
to print his verses unless the opportunity of doing so had been brought
in his way by his doings in prose. And yet he had begun to write verses
when he was very young;--at Cambridge, as we have seen, when he
contributed more to the fame of Timbuctoo than I think even Tennyson has
done,--and in his early years at Paris. Here again, though he must have
felt the strength of his own mingled humour and pathos, he always struck
with an uncertain note till he had gathered strength and confidence by
popularity. Good as they generally were, his verses were accidents,
written not as a writer writes who claims to be a poet, but as though
they might have been the relaxation of a doctor or a barrister.

And so they were. When Thackeray first settled himself in London, to
make his living among the magazines and newspapers, I do not imagine
that he counted much on his poetic powers. He describes it all in his
own dialogue between the pen and the album.

"Since he," says