The Sun.
London, England, 1850-02-05 00:00:00

MAGAZINES, &c. (CONTINUED.):

DAVID COPPERFIE LD. Nos. IX. and X.
By Charles Dickens.
Within the two latest numbers of this beautiful
fiction the narrative has wonderfully developed itself,
the incidents having followed each other in rapid suc-
cession. David Copperfield, the hero, who speaks to
us in his character as an autobiographer, encounters,
at a large dinner party given by the Proctor, an old
schoolfellow, none other than Tommy Traddles, now a
student of the Inner Temple, betrothed to a poor clergy-
man's daughter, and lodger in the house of our old friend
the immortal Wilkins Mica% ber. On the same fes-
tive occasion Daisy makes us acquainted with a cer-
tain illustrious lady, commemorated in his memoirs
by the soubriquet of Hamlet's Aunt. When he sub-
sequently pays a visit to Traddles' lodging in Camden-
town we are greeted with the sight of one of those little
incidents of domestic embarrassment which appear to
be inseparable from the existence of Mr. Micawber—
the occurrence being nothing less than the re-
monstrance of the milkman in regard to his long-
running account. Daisy makes his entrance into the
house as that purveyor of the lacteal description
of nourishment gives forth the cry of his trade
at the next area in a sort of" vindictive shriek." The
incident is told as " Boz" only can recount such mi-
nute features of life in London. Passing on to the
current number, the one just published for February,
we find four chapters abounding with such
deep and various evidences of genius, that
the humorous passages irresistibly provoke
our laughter, while the pathetic descriptions
as irresistibly command our tears. These are the
truest panegyrics on a power like that possessed by
Charles Dickens, praises unforced, genial, spontane-
ous. It is the homage accorded only to the highest
order of intellects, those who write not by the rules
of art, but from the inspirations of nature. Nothing
less than genius can exercise such a potent and beau-
tiful sway over our emotions—that genius, too, of a
refined and elevated character. Having read to the
close of the last chapter yet published, we have not
the heart to comment in detail upon the droll delinea•
ions given in the previous portion of the story-
.

relating to the dinner given by Daisy to his three
friends Traddles and the Micawbers, rich as that
portion of the narrative is with the humorous. We
hasten on as we did in the perusal to the subsequent
pages, where everything augurs the approach of a
catastrophe at Yarmouth. The hurried visit paid by
David to Steerforth in his house at Highgate, illus-
trated ea that visit is by the manifestations of suspicion
towards the latter by Rosa Dartle, only assures us
the more confidently that some disastrous event is
approaching—a conviction confirmed by the pathetic
exclamation of poor Daisy when he leaves his beloved
friend Steerforth in the grey morning sleeping—
" Never more, oh God forgive you, Steerforth ! to
touch that passive hand in love and friendship.
Never, never, more !" Having received intelligence
that poor Barkis, the carrier, is seriously ill, David
hurries down to Yarmouth, and we there witness
with him the scene of the poor fellow's dissolution.
This scene is painted in beautiful and bewitching
colours by a hand well skilled i© throwing a solemn
and touching atmosphere over the hour of departure.
The closing passage of it we are irresistibly impelled
to give from its exceeding richness in the highest
order of poetry and emotional tenderness :

A LOSS.
"He was lying with his head and shoulders cut cf
bed, in an uncomfortable attitude, half resting on the
box which had cost hies so much pain and trouble. I
learned, that, when he %I ai pa. t creeping out of bed to
open it, and past assuring himself of its safety by means
of the divining rod I had seen him use, he had required
to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, where he
had ever since embraced it, night and day. His arm
lay on it now. Time and the world were slipping from
beneath him, but the box was there; and the last words
he had uttered were (in an explanatory tone) 'Old
clothes !' _ _

" Barkis, my dear!' said Peggotty, almost cheerfully,
bending over him, while her brother and I stood at the
bed's foot. Bore's my dear boy—my dear boy, Master
Davy, who brought us together, Barkisl That you sent
messages by, you know! Won't you speak to Master
Davy?'
"He was as mute and "senseless as the box, from
whick his form derived the only expression it had.
" He's a going out with the tide,' said Mr. Pig-
gotty to me, behind his hand.
" My eyes were dim, and so were Mr. Peggotty's;
but I refeated in a whisper, With the tide?'

"• PeOple can't die, along the coast,' said Mr. Peg-
golly, except when the tide's pretty nigh out; They
can's be born, unless it's pretty nigh in—not prororly
born, till flood. Ile's a going out with the tide. It's
etb at half aster three, slack water half-an•hour. If ho
lives 'till it turns. he'll hold his own till past the flood,
and go out with the next tide.'

" cc'e remained there, watching him, a long time—
hours. What mysterious influence my presence had
upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pretend
to say; but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is
certain he was muttering about driving m• to school.
" He's coming to himself,' said Peggotty.
"Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with
much awe and reverence, 'They are both a going cut
fast.'

" Sarkis, my dear!' Laid Peggotty.
"‘ C. P. Barkis," he cried, faintly. No better woman
anywhere!'
" Look! Here's Master Daryl' said Peggotty. For
he now opened his eyes.
" I was on the point of asking him if he knew me,
when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me,
distinctly, with a pleasant smile:
" Sarkis is willin'!'

" And, it being low water, he went out with the tide."
Later on, however, there is recounted an incident
yet more touching and enthralling—an incident as
nobly penned i❑ its pathos as any yet depicted by the
master hand of Charles Dickens. It occurs on the
sands at Yarmouth. Barkis, the poor carrier, being
buried, Daisy is engaged one evening to meet all his
humble friends the Peggottys in the boat celebrated
as their residence, on the eve prior to his
return to the metropolis. Everything is happiness
inside the boat, when David gets there, saving only
a subdued sense of sorrow consequent on the recent
death, and the usually " contruiriness" of poor old
Mrs. Gummidge—who, strange as it may seem, is
liked, and almost loved, before the number is well
read out. Mr. Peggotty is enlarging with pride and
joy on the beauties of his niece little Em'ly, now on
the verge of being married to poor Ham, and is
telling Daisy of his affection for her, and hers for him,
when a footstep is heard outside, and the conversation
drops in the expectation of Em'ly's entrance.

A GREATER LOSS.
"It 'au only Ilan. Tho night should have turned
more wit since I came in, for ho had a largo sou'wester
hat on, slouched over his face.

" Where's Em'ly?' said Mfr. Peggotty.
" Ham made a motion with his head, as if she were
outside. Mr. Peggotty took the light from the window,
trimmed it, put it on the table, and vt ai busily stirring
the fire, when Ham, who had not movLd, raid:
" .Mas'r Davy, will you come out a minute, and see
what Em'ly and ito has got to show you?'
"We vt ent out. As I passed him at the door, I saw,
to my astonishment and fright, that he was deadly pale.
He pushed me hastily into the open air, and closed the
door upon us. Only upon us two.
"`Ham! what's the matter!'
"Mas'r Davy!—' Oh, for his broken heart, how
dreadfully lie wept 1"
Little Em'ly has been carried away by Steerforth,
aided by his detestable serving-man Littimer. The
conclusion of the scene is a masterpiece: in this kind
of composition, simple, natural, and impassioned. The
agony of Ham and Peggotty, the broken-hearted letter
of little Em'ly, announcing her disappearance, the hor-
ror of David Copperfield, and last of all, the exquisite
touch of nature on the part of poor old Mrs. Gam-
midge, are penned with a nervous force remarkable
even in the pages of Dickens. Altogether, the last
number (one of the best things ever written by our
illustrious author) closes in gloom and desolation—
David Copperfield having forgotten, in the sorrowful
fall of little Em'ly, even the manifold charms of Dora
Spenlow.

RAILWAY SHARE MARKETS.
BRISTOL, FEB. 4.

STOCK EXCHANGE..--The market was not quite so firm
as last week, and but little business has been transacted.
Great Western, Quarters, closed at 15%.
LivEßrooL, FEB. 4.

STOCK EXCHANGE.—The market was dull to-day, and
the amount of business done has not been large. The trans-
actions were as follow: East Lancashire, 11% Great
Western, Quarters, 16—Lancashire and Yorkshire, Consol.,
55 Ditto, Fifths, 71. lls. 3d. dis.—Ditto, 32/. Shares, NI
dis.—Ditto, Fifths. (West Riding Union), 6,A dis.—London
and North-Western, 115 c.—Ditto, New Quarters, I', p.—
Ditto, Quarters (C), 1 A p.—Midland, 4ni—Ditto, Halves,
23% dis —Ditto, Consol. (B. and D.), 21 —St. Helen's
(Railway and Canal), New Preference, 6 per cent., 31,4 dis.
—South-Eastern and Dover (No. 4), 61 Ils. 3d. c.—York,
Newcastle, Berwick (G. N. E. Purchase), 6 per cent. till
1850, 5 dis.