In this preliminary chapter I will give such incidents and anecdotes of his life as will tell the reader perhaps all about him that a reader is entitled to ask.

I will tell how he became an author, and will say how first he worked and struggled, and then how he worked and prospered, and became a household word in English literature;--how, in this way, he passed through that course of mingled failure and success which, though the literary aspirant may suffer, is probably better both for the writer and for the writings than unclouded early glory.

The suffering no doubt is acute, and a touch of melancholy, perhaps of indignation, may be given to words which have been written while the heart has been too full of its own wrongs; but this is better than the continued note of triumph which is still heard in the final voices of the spoilt child of literature, even when they are losing their music.
Then I will tell how Thackeray died, early indeed, but still having done a good life's work.

Something of his manner, something of his appearance I can say, something perhaps of his condition of mind; because for some few years he was known to me.

But of the continual intercourse of himself with the world, and of himself with his own works, I can tell little, because no record of his life has been made public.
William Makepeace Thackeray was born at Calcutta, on July 18, 1811.