he says, in the most touching medley of doggerel and poetry, made
"instead of writing my Punch this morning." Losing "a lady dear,"
he takes refuge as he may, he finds comfort as he can, in all the
affections within his reach, in the society of an old college friend
and of his wife, in the love of all children, beginning with his
own; in a generous liking for all good work and for all good
fellows.

Did any man of letters except Scott ever write of his rivals as
Thackeray wrote of Dickens? Artists are a jealous race. "Potter
hates potter, and poet hates poet," as Hesiod said so long ago.
This jealousy is not mere envy, it is really a strong sense of how
things ought to be done, in any art, touched with a natural
preference for a man's own way of doing them. Now, what could be
more unlike than the "ways" of Dickens and Thackeray? The subjects
chosen by these great authors are not more diverse than their
styles. Thackeray writes like a scholar, not in the narrow sense,
but rather as a student and a master of all the refinements and
resources of language. Dickens copies the chaff of the street, or
he roams into melodramatics, "drops into poetry"--blank verse at
least--and touches all with peculiarities, we might say mannerisms,
of his own. I have often thought, and even tried to act on the
thought, that some amusing imaginary letters might be written, from
characters of Dickens about characters of Thackeray, from characters
of Thackeray about characters of Dickens. They might be supposed to
meet each other in society, and describe each other. Can you not
fancy Captain Costigan on Dick Swiveller, Blanche Amory on Agnes,
Pen on David Copperfield, and that "tiger" Steerforth? What would
the family solicitor of "The Newcomes" have to say of Mr.