We may also remind our readers that the 'Lectures on the Four Georges' first appeared in print in the 'Cornhill.' The sales reached by the earlier numbers were enormous, and far beyond anything ever attained by a monthly magazine; even after the usual subsidence which follows the flush of a great success, the circulation had, we believe, settled at a point far exceeding the most sanguine hopes of the projectors.

These fortunate results of the undertaking were, however, not without serious drawbacks. The editor soon discovered that his new position was in many respects an unenviable one. Friends and acquaintances, not to speak of constant readers and 'regular subscribers to your interesting magazine,' sent him bushels of manuscripts, amongst which it was rare indeed to find one that could be accepted. Sensitive poets and poetesses took umbrage at refusals, however kindly and delicately expressed. 'How can I go into society with comfort?' asked the editor of a friend at this time. 'I dined the other day at ——'s, and at the table were four gentlemen whose masterpieces of literary art I had been compelled to decline with thanks.' Not six months had elapsed before he began to complain of 'thorns' in the editorial cushion. One lady wrote to entreat that her article might be inserted, on the ground that she had known better days, and had a sick and widowed mother to maintain; others began with fine phrases about the merits and eminent genius of the person they were addressing. Some found fault with articles, and abused contributor and editor. An Irishman threatened proceedings for an implied libel in 'Lovel the Widower' upon ballet-dancers, whom he declared to be superior to the snarlings of dyspeptic libellers, or the spiteful attacks and brutum fulmen of ephemeral authors. This gentleman also informed the editor that theatrical managers were in the habit of speaking good English, possibly better than ephemeral authors.

It was chiefly owing to these causes that Thackeray finally determined to withdraw from the editorship of the magazine, though continuing to contribute to it and take an interest in its progress. In an amusing address to contributors and correspondents, dated March 18, 1862, he made known this determination; and in the same address he announced that, while the tale of 'Philip' had been passing through the press, he had been preparing another, on which he had worked at intervals for many years past, and which he hoped to introduce in the following year.

In a pecuniary sense the 'Cornhill Magazine' had undoubtedly proved a fortunate venture for its editor. It was during his editorship that he removed from his house, No. 36 Onslow Square, in which he had resided for some years, to the more congenial neighbourhood of the Palace at Kensington, that 'Old Court Suburb' which Leigh Hunt has gossiped about so pleasantly. Thackeray took upon a long lease a somewhat dilapidated mansion, on the west side of Kensington Palace Gardens. His intention was to repair and improve it, but he finally resolved to pull it down and build another in its stead. The new house, a handsome, solid mansion of choice red brick with stone facings, was built from a design drawn by himself; and in this house he continued to reside till the time of his death. 'It was,' says Hannay, 'a dwelling worthy of one who really represented literature in the great world, and who, planting himself on his books, yet sustained the character of his profession with all the dignity of a gentleman. A friend who called on him there from Edinburgh, in the summer of 1862, knowing of old his love of the Venusian, playfully reminded him of what Horace says of those who, regardless of their sepulchre, employ themselves in building houses:

"Nay," said he, "I am memor sepulchri, for this house will always let for so many hundreds (mentioning the sum) a year."' We may add that Thackeray was always of opinion that, notwithstanding the somewhat costly proceeding of pulling down and re-erecting, he had achieved the rare result, for a private gentleman, of building for himself a house which, regarded as an investment of a portion of his fortune, left no cause for regret.

Our narrative draws to a close. The announcement of the death of Thackeray, coming so suddenly upon us in the very midst of our great Christian festival of 1863, caused a shock which will be long remembered. His hand had been missed in the last two numbers of the 'Cornhill Magazine,' but only because he had been engaged in laying the foundation of another of those continuous works of fiction which his readers so eagerly expected. In the then current number of the 'Cornhill Magazine' the customary orange-coloured fly-leaf had announced that 'a new serial story' by him would be commenced early in the new year; but the promise had scarcely gone abroad when we learnt that the hand which had penned its opening chapters, in the full prospect of a happy ending, could never again add line or word to that long range of writings which must always remain one of the best evidences of the strength and beauty of our English speech.

On the Tuesday preceding he had followed to the grave his relative, Lady Rodd, widow of Vice-Admiral Sir John Tremayne Rodd, K.C.B., who was the daughter of Major James Rennell, F.R.S., Surveyor-General of Bengal, by the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Thackeray, Head Master of Harrow School. Only the day before this, according to a newspaper account, he had been congratulating himself on having finished four numbers of a new novel; he had the manuscript in his pocket, and with a boyish frankness showed the last pages to a friend, asking him to read them and see what he could make of them. When he had completed four numbers more he said he would subject himself to the skill of a very clever surgeon, and be no more an invalid. Only two days before he had been seen at his club in high spirits; but with all his high spirits, he did not seem well; he complained of illness; but he was often ill, and he laughed off his present attack. He said that he was about to undergo some treatment which would work a perfect cure in his system, and so he made light of his malady. He was suffering from two distinct complaints, one of which had now wrought his death. More than a dozen years before, while he was writing 'Pendennis,' the publication of that work was stopped by his serious illness. He was brought to death's door, and he was saved from death by Dr. Elliotson, to whom, in gratitude, he dedicated the novel when he lived to finish it. But ever since that ailment he had been subject every month or six weeks to attacks of sickness, attended with violent retching. He was congratulating himself, just before his death, on the failure of his old enemy to return, and then he checked himself, as if he ought not to be too sure of a release from his plague. On the morning of Wednesday, December 23, the complaint returned, and he was in great suffering all day. He was no, better in the evening, and his valet, Charles Sargent, left him at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night, Thackeray wishing him 'Good night' as he went out of the room. At nine o'clock on the following morning the valet, entering his master's chamber as usual, found him lying on his back quite still, with his arms spread over the coverlet; but he took no notice, as he was accustomed to see his master thus after one of his severe attacks. He brought some coffee and set it down beside the bed; and it was only when he returned after an interval, and found that the cup had not been tasted, that a sudden alarm seized him, and he discovered that his master was dead. About midnight Thackeray's mother, who slept overhead, had heard him get up and walk about the room; but she was not alarmed, as this was a habit of her son when unwell. It is supposed that he had, in fact, been seized at this time, and that the violence of the attack had brought on the effusion on the brain which, as the post-mortem examination showed, was the immediate cause of death. His medical attendants attributed his death to effusion on the brain, and added that he had a very large brain, weighing no less than 58½ oz.

Thus, in the full maturity of his powers, died William Makepeace Thackeray, one of the closest observers of human nature, the most kindly of English humourists; and his death has left a blank in our literature, which we, in the present generation at least, are offered no prospect of seeing filled up. To quote once more his friend Hannay's words: 'It is long since England has lost such a son; it will be long before she has such another to lose. He was indeed emphatically English—English as distinct from Scotch, no less than English as distinct from Continental. The highest, purest English novelist since Fielding, he combined Addison's love of virtue, with Johnson's hatred of cant; Horace Walpole's lynx eye for the mean and ridiculous, with the gentleness and wide charity for mankind, as a whole, of Goldsmith. Non omnis mortuus est. He will be remembered in his succession with these men for ages to come, as long as the hymn of praise rises in the old Abbey of Westminster, and wherever the English tongue is native to men, from the banks of the Ganges to those of the Mississippi.'