ABSTRACT

A writer with such a pen and pencil as Mr. Thackeray’s is an acquisition of real and high value to our literature, and we have not the slightest fear that he will either fall off, or write himself out; for, we repeat, he is not a mannerist, and his range of subjects is not limited to a class. High life, middle life, and low life, are (or very soon will be) pretty nearly the same to him: he has fancy as well as feeling; he can either laugh or cry without grimacing; he can skim the surface, and he can penetrate to the core. Let the public give him encouragement, and let him give himself time, and we fearlessly prophesy that he will soon become one of the acknowledged heads of his own peculiar walk of literature.