The Sun.
London, England, 1850-11-07 00:00:00

NOVEMI3EII 7, 1850.

IiTAGAZINES, &e --{CON TIN UED.)

DAVID COPPERFIELD. Nos. XIX. and XX.
By Charles Dickens.
Gratitude is our predominant feeling in regard to
the author of this exquisite home story. Gratitude
for those seeds of a pure and beautiful morality which
he has sown broadcast in our hearts from the lavish
hand of his other self—David Copperfield. On clos-
ing the last pages we find this sentiment welling up
within us to the subordination of every other. Even
our admiration at the genius displayed more or less
throughout the whole of the autobiography becomes
!merged into this one absorbing sense of gratitude.
To speak less earnestly than this would be to violate
some of the truest and noblest emotions we have ever
experienced. So far from assuming any appearance
of enthusiasm in writing as we do, were we to write
otherwise we should be guilty of an affectation. Our
whole nature has been so stirred during the perusal of
the narrative, that it is impossible for us to dismiss the
work with any more modulated tones of farewell. The
creatures which the novelist has here summoned into
existence are to us no mere imaginative abstractions,but
beings upon whom we have come to look asupon our most
intimate and familiar favourites. Old companions,
sometimes dear and cherished friends, associated in
our minds with all the incidents of that romantic
history which is to us as actually realised at heart as
our own lives, or as the lives of those around us—we
cannot treat them as the ordinary creations of the
novelist, and let them so depart from us with only
words of formal approbation. Generally speaking
this has ever been with ourselves in some measure the
effect produced by all the higher masterpieces in this
lovely department of literature. Like old Ebenezer
Scrooge,we have believed so intensely in the world of
Story, that we should scarcely have felt surprise at
times if we had seen passing by outside our windows
eteli Baba leading his mule, laden with faggots, by the
bridle, or Sinbad the Sailor with his girdle filled with
precious stones from the Valley of Diamonds, or poor
Robinson Crusoe with his parrot on his shoulder, and
Friday coming after him with his gun through the
houghs of the plantation. With the characters drawn by
Charles Dickens this intimacy is to us in many respects
even more the case than with those of even the most
illustrious of his predecessors. Whether it is that
he has some new and astonishing faculty fur de-
picting imaginary beinga with an air of uncommon
verisimilitude, or whether he infuses into them, as it
were, some of the warm blood beating in his own
good heart—however this be—we know, from a thou-
sand strange and brilliant recollections, that they are
invested for us with a certain marvellous vitality.
Whereas with most other writers of fiction, a fanciful
personage, however brightly or vividly pourtrayed,
is, after its fashion, like a figure in a painting, to be
seen only from one point of view, with Dickens the
creatures with which be has peopled the works of his
are; in a manner, like the forms wrought
by the hand, ;of a sculptor—to be walkerround and
eeeu from all.. directions. Added to the body and
substances 3 these's farms, however, there are also
many of the subtler attributes of humanity, together
with the charms cf colouring and intelligence
—colouring, too, be it observed, the most
life-like, and intelligence the most individualized. So
extraordinary, moreover, is the power thus exercised,
that even the most eccentric emanations of our author's
fancy are animated to the full as much with this tern-
Vance of existence as the most homely and probable
of hia characters. Insomuch, that after reading, for
example, his exquisite story of the "Old Curiosity
Shop" we seem to know as well as if we had been ac-
quainted with him for years that unnatural and fero-
cious little abortion, Quilp—quite as well, indeed, in
every respect as the facetious Richard Swiveller, as
good Mrs. Nubbles the washerwoman, as poor Kit
himself, as the villanous attorney of Bevis Marks, as the
self-willed pony Whisker, even as " sly little Barbara,"
or as the angel of that dream of trials and vicissitudes,
poor angelic Nell. Another remarkable capacity
displayed already very frequently by Charles
Dickens is that of rendering the bad as real
and veritable as the pure and excellent
each one conveying his own moral as unostentatiously
as some actual event of life, and yet as inevitably as
a parable. It is thus that, in " Nicholas Nickleby,"
the same master-hand has drawn, with equal vigour
and veracity, the despicable rascality of Squeers, the
avarice of Gride, and the loquacity of Mrs. Nickleby,
while its more genial efforts, in the same production,
have proved not a jot less worthy of admiration.
Among the latter none can easily forget the good-na-
.ture of Newman Noggs, in spite;of his red nose and his
affection for the bottle, any more than they can lose
a recollection of warm-hearted old Tint Linkinwater,
or of his glorious employers—those avadevats of
humanity—the brothers Cherryble. " Martin Chuz•
zlewit," if possible, yet more strikingly revealed the
scope of this admirable versatility in the genius of
Dickens, seeing that such a lovely and love-
able character as that of dear old Tom
Pinch came before us, in that fiction, cheek-by-
jowl with that unconscionable rogue Seth Pecksniff.
Surprising, nevertheless, as are the qualities already
particularized as conspicuous in the intellect of our
great novelist, they are as nothing when compared
with one not yet specified—we mean his intimate
blending of the pathetic and the humorous. Were
we called upon to decide as to which of these facul-
ties—the faculty of commanding our tears or our
laughter—preponderated the one above the other, we
should be fairly puzzled as to the preference. A
genius which can create with equal facility the fat,
old, gin-drinking, wheezy, nurse of the hospitals, who
" sicks and monthlies" in turn, likes " the bottle on
the chimbley-piece" to soothe her nerves when so
" dispoged," and bewails, in her own peculiar dialect,
the sorrows encountered by herself and Betsy Prig
in "this Pilgiau's Projis of a mortal Wale"—a genius
which can create with equal facility Mrs. Gamp and
little Paul Dombey, mast surely be acknowledged to
possess a strange and admirable mastery over all
the variable chords of our nature, provoking at plea-
sure our appreciation of the comic, and melting us
at will into sympathy with fictitious suffering. These
are some among the many rare gifts united in the
heart and intellect of Charles Dickens. These he has
now employed with the most brilliant success in the
happiest of all his inimitable fictions, the personal his-
tory of David Copperfield. Treasured favourites
as his previous writings are and ever will be with
ourselves, associated es some of them are with our
dearest and sweetest recollections, the beat amongst
them all must yield the palm to his last work, for his
last work is his master-piece. In David
Copperfield its author has vindicated yet more
indubitably than ever his right to his immense and
enviable popularity. Through his latest fiction he
has peopled our home with " household words" more
eerirablv than through the medium of his weekly
miscellany. The characters crowded together in the
tale he has just told are to us henceforth as " old
familiar faces :" and formost among them the auto-
biographer himself, the most charming of all the
heroes in the books of Dickens. In delineating the
individual character of David Copperfield the author
has adventured upon a labour (to him a labour of
love) more daring in its way than that, to our
recollection, ever before attempted by novelist—
he has described the growth of a mind and
the formation of a temperament literally from the first
moment of consciousness up to the meridian of ripened
manhood, a psychological achievement wortby of the
profoundest admiration. Every secret phase in this
character we become familiar with through the .con-
fessional of autobiography, so that our sympathy for
the hero follows him vigilantly along all the varia-
tions of his fortune. Long before the close of the
narrative he has grown from a kind of petted curiosity
into the reader's intimate companion : so that we could
call him by turns (but all times lovingly) by each of
his many nicknames—" Brooks, of Sheffield" with
Murdstone, " Daisy" with Steerforth, " Trot"
with Aunt Betsey, " Mas'r Davy" with Ham,
" Doady" with Dora, and " Trotwood" with Agnes.
Linked with him in our affectionate interest come
the better angels of his history. Associated with
him, also, we can even look with half-forgiveness on
the evil beings met with in his many vicissitudes.
The solemnity of a great retribution, nobly and even
wonderfully described, shields from unmeasured con-
demnation even the head of the chief offender,
Steerforth. For his despicable servant Littimer, and
for the yet more repulsive Uriah Beep, we entertain
feelings of somewhat diminished loathing, now that
we find them incarcerated in one of the model prisons,
preparatory to their final transportation. The chapter in
which we are introduced to them as Numbers Twenty-
Seven and Twenty-Eight is a masterly
.and crushing
satire on that preposterous system oflsolitary confine-
ment, against which the author has a readfy elsewhere
his irony.
battled with the trenchant weapon o
Several of the minor personages of the story, although..
at the outset objects either of contempt. or suspicion,
are reclaimed to our regard, and, in one or two in-
stances, drawn even within the. limits of a loving ad-
miration. The manner in which these changes are
accomplished affords new evidence of the consummate
skill of the novelist. Every one familiar with the
pages of David Copperfield will remember how these
alternations of opinion are developed; how Miss Mow-
cher, in defiance of her apparently dangerous " vole-
tility," comes forth like thrice refined gold
out of the furnace of temptation ; how
Mrs. Gutnmidge, forsaking her long habit of
" worriting Dan'!" with his reminiscences of " the
old 'on," proves the very stay and comfort of the
Wanderer; how Martha becomes purified by her
woman's nature even in the midst of her unwomanly
abandonment; and, above all, how Emily herself passes
from the mother country with a redeeming sorrow at
her heart, and shrinks for ever with a penitential sense
of resignation into the solitudes of Australia. With-
out possessing any very peculiar appetite for ven-
geance, we must acknowledge, nevertheles., thrt we
should marvellously have se joiced to hear that some
vial of poetic justice had been poured out ou the head
of Rota Dartle instead of leaving her in turns to
a chide and console Mrs. Steerforth in her cottage

at Highgate ; we should not have experienced much
regret at learning that Mr. Jack Maldon had lost his
Patent Place; neither should we have been over-
whelmed with sorrow if we bad learnt that some ter-
rible punishment had fallen upon the two cruel-
hearted Murdstoeer. It would seem, however, from
the pervading gentleness of the closing instalment of
David Copperfield, that the author looked back alto-
gether too lovingly upon the beings be had within its
compass summoned from the ideal world into exis-
tence, to treat the worst amongst them otherwise than
with an all -forgiving tenderness. Mr. Wilkins
Alicawber, no longer looking .out for "something to
turn up" in order to relieve himself from his " pecu-
niary liabilities," has flourished so well in his colonial
residence that he can mix punch to his heart's content,
and write letters by the quire or ream, while the
partner of his bosom may entertain the natives with
her memories of her papa and her mamma, or asto-
nish them with her thin singing of "Little
Tsfflin." Annie, still exulting in the restoration of
confidence between herself and her husband, sees
dear old Doctor Strong advancing slowly as a tor-
toise in his Dictionary, but still, although as yet no
farther than the letter D, believing confidently in its
ultimate completion. Among the dead who are
passed away, the heart reverts to each with a subdued
but still surviving sympathy. Mr. Spenlow himself
is not forgotten, with his well•starched neckcloth,
compelling him to bow like Punch. Mr. Barkis
seems even in the grave to remind us he was
" vvillin' " when "it being low water be went
out with the tide!" Clara still lives for
us as the pretty widow of I3lunderstone
Rookery, and, whatever Mr. Dickens may say to the
contrary, we are persuaded that her dear old servant
Peggotty has to this moment " cheeks and arms so
hard and red," that, like David, we may yet "wander
why the bii ds don't peck her in preference to apples."
As to whether Julia Mills is unhappy in her wealthy
alliance with the Indian Nabob, or as to whether
Dr. Moll is potent at Port Middlebay, and Mr. Creakle
as a magistrate in Pentonville, we confess ourselves to
he, comparatively speaking, indifferent. But in other
and dearer characters described in David Copperfield
our interest remains bound up for ever as cordially
as well can be imagined. Our hearts glow within us
at the prosperity of dear old Traddles, who has pros-
pered at the bar beyond the expectation of the Gray's
Inn Waiter, and who (better than all this) has married
Sophie, " the dearest girl i❑ the world," the daughter
of the poor Dorsetshire clergyman. Earnest too
are our rejoicings at all the joys of Mr. Dick in his
kite and his Memorial, and fully do we coincide with
him in thinking Aunt Betsey Trotwood to be " the
most extraordinary woman in the word." To us
there is no more thoroughly delightful character
among the many charming creations of the
genius of Dickens than that of good Aunt
Betsey Trotwood. But our disposition to ex-
patiate on these and other equally bewitching
-feature*. of the work must cease ; the brief memo-
rial of ourgatitude totverds the writer of this
exquisite and touching tale -mw.t, draw to its
conclusion; We have spoken (each in turn) of
the various creatures of the story who have
influenced for good or ill the character of its hero,
David Copperfield ; but hitherto, it may be seen, we
have refrained from alludiag to the guardian angels
of his destiny—to Dera and to Agnes. The omission
was intentional. We would not by a single syllable
mar for our readers the beauty and the sweetness of
all that is here written of them both in this exquisite
history of their husbarel, David Copperfield. The
memory of the " chi'd wife" has been sanctified, as
it were, by the recollection of our tears ; and the
thought of Agnes, too, possesses for us somewhat of
a sacred character. Closing the volume, therefore,
with the sound of that last elequent and solemn
sentence ringing in our cars—" 0 Agnes,
0 my soul, so may thy face be by me when
I close my life indeed ; so may I, when
realities are melting from me like the shadows which
.1 now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing up-
wards !"—we would blend a heart's Godspeed with the
utterance of our Farewell. From the brief but ear-
nest preface to this last and sweetest of the home
stories of Charles Dickens, we perceive that he him-
self, not less than his readers, looks eagerly forward
to the time when, as of 013, he shall put forth each
month his "two green leaves." How cordially we
sympathise with this anticipation he himself may
know from the sincere though inadequate tribute we
have here offered to his masterpiece, David Copper-
field.

HO US EHO LDWORDS. Vol. I. Conducted
by Charles Dickens.
A weekly journal, published under the direction of
the most popular writer of the age, was certain from
the first moment of its announcement to secure for
itself a wide and permanent circulation. That cordial
support it has received from its very numerous sub-
scribers during the lest seven months uninterruptedly,
or rather we believe we should say increasingly, from
the first morning of its appearance. Nur can we be
surprised at the immense patronage accorded to
Household Words, when we remember that its
originator has the happiness to be regarded by thou-
sands and thousands of his fellow-creatures with an
earnest and affectionate admiration. His rare
and splendid genius has long secured to him-
self personally the regard of innumerable readers,
who have found their appreciation of his
great powers warmed into a sentiment of friendship.
This, in all likelihood, is attributeable to the genial
tone of his incomparable effusions, and to that gen-
tleness of feeling arising out of the depth and sweet-
ness of his sensibilities. Whatever the immediate
reason may, or may not be, it is most certain that
between Charles Dickens and his readers there exists
a more intimate relation than exists in reference to
any one of his contemporaries. Out of this well-
recognized communion of sympathies has come forth
the instant popularity of the present cheap and
excellent periodical—a popularity accorded to it at
the outset purely in homage to the celebrity of its
originator. More than this, however, must now
be acknowledged in allusion to Household
Words, a weekly journal of vigorously esta-
blished reputation. A first volume of no mean
dimensions having been completed, we may consider
ourselves justified in forming some estimate of the
general merits and pervading character of the publi-
cation. A judgment upon the organ in its present
stage of advancement can no longer be viewed as one
pronounced ex pede Herculem. By this time, at any
rate, we can recognise the proportions of our new
contemporary, and comprehend, in some measure at
least, its proposed tendency and disposition. Upon
both we can speak in terms of altogether unqualified
approbation—upon the tendency as calculated to
be eminently instructive and beneficial, upon the dis-
position as one singularly cheerful and exhilarating.
Throughout the whole of the papers there can be
readily detected a wholesome leaven—the leaven of
the genius of Dickens, a genius always prone to
inculcate the loftiest truths under the most attrac-
tive garb imaginable. A new style of composition
in one respect has been contrived in the pages of
Household Words, a style so vivid, so graphic, so in-
tensely, and yet so truthfully coloured, so judici-
ously, and yet picturesquely descriptive, that within
the compass of a brief essay the intricacies of a huge
and complicated establishment are most lucidly re-
duced to comprehension, and the details of a chemical
or mechanical process of manufacture given with the
happiest attention to their sequence and relationship.
Instances of this kind might be adduced from this
single volume capable of suggesting materials for a
dozen different periodicals. Take for example the
masterly account given of the postal system in the
paper entitled " Valentine's Day at the Post-office,"
a paper which formed the hint upon which Sir Francis
B. Head penned his more elaborate article for the
Quarterly. Take again, the chapter headed " Pet
Prisoners," which Mr. Dickens has very re-
cently worked out yet more brilliantly in the
closing number of David Coppeifield. Then,
in like manner, " The Fire Brigade of London" fur-
nishes at once the most practical exposition of the
working of that remarkable corp of public servants
and the most astonishingly accurate description of a
fire in the metropolis that we can anywhere call to our
recollection. Similar in manner, but yet more ad-
mirable in its completeness, is the narrative given of
the greatest of our astronomical observatories, in an
inimitable contribution entitled " The Planet
Watchers of Greenwich." Now we are introduced
with the same sense of all-embracing reality into the
" Pauper Palace," now again we enter the precincts
of a" Paper Mill," everywhere charmed with the style
of the writer, and everywhere deriving from his
slightest syllable some grain of good and useful
knowledge. Mingled with these delightful
papers are humorous effusions, such as the hand
of " Boz" alone in all the world could
produce—such matchless passages of satire and wit as
those presumed to come directly from the "Raven of
the Happy Family." Besides which we obtain from
Mr. Dickens himself some of bin own personal expe-
riences, as in the instance of the " Begging Letter
impostor." Simple and entertaining stories, such as
" Lizzie Leigh," or " Little Mary ;" eurprising ec-
centricities like the " Visit to Skitsland" ; scientific
articles rendered comprehensible to the most unscien•
title, articles to wit such as the one on the " Chemistry
of a Candle," make up, with miscellaneous contribu-
tions of the most varied kind, the bulk of the whole
publication. Sprinkled among these prose portions
of Household Words are poetical fragments, in some
instances worthy of being classified under that phrase
of Shakspere ; an assertion which may in some degree
be credited when we observe that gossip has affixed
one sonnet on Mr. Justice Talfourd, and when we
remark that in one or two other cases we have fancied
we could detect the exquisite tones of the voice of
Tennyson. With such materials for the contents, we
cannot be surprised that Household Words has main-
tained the popularity originally accorded to it purely
for the sake of Charles Dickens, and .looking back
upon what has already been accomplished,, we
feel
eery confidence in its sustaining its reputation.

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