R. DICKENS had hitherto met with no competitor in the field of English fiction.

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He had early won the attention of readers, but no writer had arisen to divide the honour with him. Another novelist, however, was now beginning to be talked of. On the 1st of February, 1847, Mr. Thackeray had issued the first monthly portion of "Vanity Fair," in the yellow wrapper which served to distinguish it from Mr. Dickens's stories, and, after some twelve months had passed, critics began to speak of the work in terms of approbation. The Edinburgh Review, criticising it in January, 1848, says, "The great charm of this work is its entire. freedom from mannerism and affectation both in style and sentiment. His pathos (though not so deep as Mr. Dickens's) is exquisite; the more so, perhaps, because he seems to struggle against it, and to be half ashamed of being caught in the melting mood; but the attempt to be caustic, satirical, ironical, or philosophical, on such occasions, is uniformly vain; and again and again have we found

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reason to admire how an originally fine and kind nature remains essentially free from worldliness, and, in the highest pride of intellect, pays homage to the heart."

From this time forward a friendly rivalry ensued between the two representatives of the two schools of English fiction. We say “rivalry,” but it never could have existed from Dickens's side, for, when "Vanity Fair" was at its best, finding six thousand purchasers a month, Dickens was taking the shillings from thirty to forty thousand readers; but the gossips of society have always asserted that there was a rivalry, and made comparisons so very frequently between the two great men, that we incidentally allude to it here. More than once has Thackeray said to the present writer (or words very similar) :—“Ah! they talk to me of popularity, with a sale of little more than one half of 10,000! Why, look at that lucky fellow, Dickens, with heaven knows how many readers, and certainly not less than 30,000 buyers!" But the fact is easily explainedonly cultivated readers enjoy Thackeray, whereas both cultivated and uncultivated read Dickens with delight.

To return to Mr. Dickens's new book-" David Copperfield," one of the finest and certainly one of the most popular of its author's works. The first number appeared May 1st, 1849, with illustrations by "Phiz." It extended to the usual twenty numbers, on its completion was issued by Messrs. Brad

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bury and Evans, with a dedication to the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Richard Watson of Rockingham.

The work, as we have previously remarked, is a great favourite, and such it deserves to be, for to our mind it is the happiest of all his fictions. It was the first that we read, and well do we remember the exquisite delight with which we eagerly devoured its pages—a rough seaman's copy of the American edition, which had been lent as an immense favourand, boy-like, appreciated and sympathized with David in his youthful struggles. At that time we had just quitted the house of a distant relative with whom we had been residing, and who in very many respects—so far as trying to break David's spirit in before going to Salem House-greatly resembled the treatment shown towards ourselves.

The book is written in a delightfully easy, earnest, yet most graceful manner; the plot is well contrived and never forced. It has often been hinted that in many ways it is partly autobiographical-the hero beginning at the law, turning parliamentary reporter, and finally winding up as a successful novelist, all of which the world knows have been Mr. Dickens's experiences. In fact, it is generally believed to оссиру the same position to Dickens as "Pendennis" does to Thackeray.

The peculiar commencement and description of Blunderstone Rookery; the birth of the posthumous child; the second marriage of David's mother to Murdstone; his early days, and the wonderful croco

dile book; Peggotty, and the courtship of Barkis the carrier, leaving his offerings behind the door; Mrs. Gummidge, Steerforth, the famous Micawbers, Betsy Trotwood, the kind-hearted aunt, and her aversion to donkeys; Mr. Dick and his memorial, and his inability to keep Charles I. out of it; David's love of darling Dora Spenlow, their marriage, and the dreadful troubles encountered in house-keeping, her death, and his consequent journey to Switzerland, and coming home, and marrying Agnes Wickfield; the villanies of Uriah Heep; the eccentricities of Miss Mowcher, the corn extractor; Emily, the poor seduced girl; the magnificent description of the storm at Yarmouth, in which Steerforth the betrayer meets his death, while Ham, seeking to save him, meets the same fate; the love of Daniel Peggotty for his niece, and his patient search after her; Traddles and his ultimate success, and the starting off to the Antipodes of the Micawbers, Peggotty, Martha, Emily, and Mrs. Gummidge, their life in the bush, and how they prospered, are each and all described in such glowing language, destitute of exaggeration, and bearing so strongly the impress of truth and reality, that they cannot fail to charm and delight the reader. It would be impertinent further to point out to our mind-the best points in the book, and one can but thank God that such a writer has penned a work that can never be too much read or admired.

In the latest edition of " David Copperfield ”—in the "Charles Dickens Edition "--the author takes us

into his confidence, and tells us that it was his favourite child. He says: "I remarked, in the original preface to this book, that I did not find it easy to get sufficiently away from it, in the first sensations of having finished, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind so divided between pleasure and regret

pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions-that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions. Besides which, all that I could have said of the story, to any pur pose, I had endeavoured to say in it. It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two years' imaginative task; or how an author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. Yet I had nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this narrative in the reading, more than I believed it in the writing. So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can only now take the reader into one confidence more. Of all my books, I like this the best. It will easily be believed that I am a fond parent of every child of my fancy, and that no one can love them as dearly as I love them; but, like many fond parents, I have, in my