David Copperfield PDF

David Copperfield
By Charles Dickens
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PREFACE TO 1850 EDITION faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that
have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made
me happy.
London, October, 1850.
I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this

Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer
to it with the composure which this formal heading would
seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong;
and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret -
pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the
separation from many companions - that I am in danger of
wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidenc-
es, and private emotions.
Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any
purpose, I have 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 dis-
missing 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 have 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 have believed it in the writing.
Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I
cannot close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than
with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again
put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a
David Copperfield Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com

PREFACE TO THE CHARLES my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I
am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one
DICKENS EDITION can ever love that family as dearly as I love them. But, like
many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favourite
child. And his name is DAVID COPPERFIELD.
1869
I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I

did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in
the first sensations of having finished it, 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 was 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 purpose, 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 dis-
missing 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
now only take the reader into one confidence more. Of all

THE PERSONAL HISTORY CHAPTER 1
AND EXPERIENCE OF
DAVID COPPERFIELD I AM BORN
THE YOUNGER
W hether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life,

or whether that station will be held by anybody else,
these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning
of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed
and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was
remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry,
simultaneously.
In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it
was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in
the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me
several months before there was any possibility of our be-
coming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to
be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see
ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as
they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born
towards the small hours on a Friday night.
I need say nothing here, on the first head, because
nothing can show better than my history whether that pre-
diction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second
branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran

through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her
I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which
having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her in-
should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily wel- dignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had
come to keep it. the presumption to go ‘meandering’ about the world. It was
I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea per-
the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether haps included, resulted from this objectionable practice.
sea-going people were short of money about that time, or She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an in-
were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; stinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, ‘Let us
all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and have no meandering.’
that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my
business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance birth.
in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or ‘there by’, as
any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father’s
withdrawn at a dead loss - for as to sherry, my poor dear eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months,
mother’s own sherry was in the market then - and ten years when mine opened on it. There is something strange to me,
afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part even now, in the reflection that he never saw me; and some-
of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the thing stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have
winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I of my first childish associations with his white grave-stone
remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, in the churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used
at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when
was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and candle,
very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shil- and the doors of our house were - almost cruelly, it seemed
lings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short - as to me sometimes - bolted and locked against it.
it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, An aunt of my father’s, and consequently a great-aunt of
to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was the
which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss
that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she suf-
at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her ficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage

to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married I may be excused for calling, that eventful and important
to a husband younger than herself, who was very hand- Friday. I can make no claim therefore to have known, at
some, except in the sense of the homely adage, ‘handsome that time, how matters stood; or to have any remembrance,
is, that handsome does’ - for he was strongly suspected of founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.
having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health,
disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but deter- and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and
mined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs’ desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little
window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of
induced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect a separation prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all
by mutual consent. He went to India with his capital, and excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was
there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very
seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out
I think it must have been a Baboo - or a Begum. Anyhow, of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she
from India tidings of his death reached home, within ten dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady
years. How they affected my aunt, nobody knew; for im- coming up the garden.
mediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name MY mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance,
again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the
way off, established herself there as a single woman with strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking
one servant, and was understood to live secluded, ever af- up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of
terwards, in an inflexible retirement. countenance that could have belonged to nobody else.
My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but When she reached the house, she gave another proof of
she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom
that my mother was ‘a wax doll’. She had never seen my conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now,
mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that
and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my moth- identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the
er’s age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. glass to that extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it
He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months became perfectly flat and white in a moment.
before I came into the world. She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been
This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of, what convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been
10 David Copperfield Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 11

born on a Friday. see you.’
My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone MY mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compli-
behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the ance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do
room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such
carried her eyes on, like a Saracen’s Head in a Dutch clock, nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beau-
until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and tiful) fell all about her face.
a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be ‘Why, bless my heart!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey. ‘You are a
obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went. very Baby!’
‘Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,’ said Miss Betsey; the My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appear-
emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning ance even for her years; she hung her head, as if it were her
weeds, and her condition. fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was
‘Yes,’ said my mother, faintly. afraid she was but a childish widow, and would be but a
‘Miss Trotwood,’ said the visitor. ‘You have heard of her, childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued,
I dare say?’ she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and
My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she that with no ungentle hand; but, looking at her, in her timid
had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress
that it had been an overpowering pleasure. tucked up, her hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon
‘Now you see her,’ said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her the fender, frowning at the fire.
head, and begged her to walk in. ‘In the name of Heaven,’ said Miss Betsey, suddenly, ‘why
They went into the parlour my mother had come from, Rookery?’
the fire in the best room on the other side of the passage ‘Do you mean the house, ma’am?’ asked my mother.
not being lighted - not having been lighted, indeed, since ‘Why Rookery?’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Cookery would have
my father’s funeral; and when they were both seated, and been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical ideas
Miss Betsey said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying of life, either of you.’
to restrain herself, began to cry. ‘Oh tut, tut, tut!’ said Miss ‘The name was Mr. Copperfield’s choice,’ returned my
Betsey, in a hurry. ‘Don’t do that! Come, come!’ mother. ‘When he bought the house, he liked to think that
My mother couldn’t help it notwithstanding, so she cried there were rooks about it.’
until she had had her cry out. The evening wind made such a disturbance just now,
‘Take off your cap, child,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and let me among some tall old elm-trees at the bottom of the gar-

den, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear meekly, and fainted.
glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another, like gi- When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had re-
ants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds stored her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing
of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild at the window. The twilight was by this time shading down
arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wick- into darkness; and dimly as they saw each other, they could
ed for their peace of mind, some weatherbeaten ragged old not have done that without the aid of the fire.
rooks’-nests, burdening their higher branches, swung like ‘Well?’ said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if
wrecks upon a stormy sea. she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect; ‘and
‘Where are the birds?’ asked Miss Betsey. when do you expect -’
‘The -? ‘ My mother had been thinking of something ‘I am all in a tremble,’ faltered my mother. ‘I don’t know
else. what’s the matter. I shall die, I am sure!’
‘The rooks - what has become of them?’ asked Miss Bet- ‘No, no, no,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Have some tea.’
sey. ‘Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any
‘There have not been any since we have lived here,’ said good?’ cried my mother in a helpless manner.
my mother. ‘We thought - Mr. Copperfield thought - it was ‘Of course it will,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘It’s nothing but fan-
quite a large rookery; but the nests were very old ones, and cy. What do you call your girl?’
the birds have deserted them a long while.’ ‘I don’t know that it will be a girl, yet, ma’am,’ said my
‘David Copperfield all over!’ cried Miss Betsey. ‘David mother innocently.
Copperfield from head to foot! Calls a house a rookery ‘Bless the Baby!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconscious-
when there’s not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust, ly quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the
because he sees the nests!’ drawer upstairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me,
‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned my mother, ‘is dead, and if ‘I don’t mean that. I mean your servant-girl.’
you dare to speak unkindly of him to me -’ ‘Peggotty,’ said my mother.
My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary ‘Peggotty!’ repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation.
intention of committing an assault and battery upon my ‘Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone
aunt, who could easily have settled her with one hand, even into a Christian church, and got herself named Peggotty?’
if my mother had been in far better training for such an en- ‘It’s her surname,’ said my mother, faintly. ‘Mr. Copperfield
counter than she was that evening. But it passed with the called her by it, because her Christian name was the same
action of rising from her chair; and she sat down again very as mine.’

‘Here! Peggotty!’ cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlour scared by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too sub-
door. ‘Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don’t dawdle.’ dued and bewildered altogether, to observe anything very
Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality clearly, or to know what to say.
as if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever ‘And was David good to you, child?’ asked Miss Bet-
since it had been a house, and having looked out to con- sey, when she had been silent for a little while, and these
front the amazed Peggotty coming along the passage with motions of her head had gradually ceased. ‘Were you com-
a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut fortable together?’
the door again, and sat down as before: with her feet on the ‘We were very happy,’ said my mother. ‘Mr. Copperfield
fender, the skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands fold- was only too good to me.’
ed on one knee. ‘What, he spoilt you, I suppose?’ returned Miss Betsey.
‘You were speaking about its being a girl,’ said Miss Bet- ‘For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this
sey. ‘I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed,’ sobbed my
that it must be a girl. Now child, from the moment of the mother.
birth of this girl -’ ‘Well! Don’t cry!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘You were not equally
‘Perhaps boy,’ my mother took the liberty of putting in. matched, child - if any two people can be equally matched
‘I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,’ re- - and so I asked the question. You were an orphan, weren’t
turned Miss Betsey. ‘Don’t contradict. From the moment of you?’ ‘Yes.’
this girl’s birth, child, I intend to be her friend. I intend to ‘And a governess?’
be her godmother, and I beg you’ll call her Betsey Trotwood ‘I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copper-
Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life with THIS field came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me,
Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with HER af- and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good
fections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well deal of attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted
guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where they him. And so we were married,’ said my mother simply.
are not deserved. I must make that MY care.’ ‘Ha! Poor Baby!’ mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still
There was a twitch of Miss Betsey’s head, after each of bent upon the fire. ‘Do you know anything?’
these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ faltered my mother.
within her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them ‘About keeping house, for instance,’ said Miss Betsey.
by strong constraint. So my mother suspected, at least, as ‘Not much, I fear,’ returned my mother. ‘Not so much as I
she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire: too much could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me -’

(’Much he knew about it himself!’) said Miss Betsey in a ‘How much?’ asked Miss Betsey.
parenthesis. ‘A hundred and five pounds a year,’ said my mother.
- ‘And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious ‘He might have done worse,’ said my aunt.
to learn, and he very patient to teach me, if the great misfor- The word was appropriate to the moment. My moth-
tune of his death’ - my mother broke down again here, and er was so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the
could get no farther. teaboard and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was,
‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey. - as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there had been
-’I kept my housekeeping-book regularly, and balanced it light enough, - conveyed her upstairs to her own room with
with Mr. Copperfield every night,’ cried my mother in an- all speed; and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her
other burst of distress, and breaking down again. nephew, who had been for some days past secreted in the
‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Don’t cry any more.’ house, unknown to my mother, as a special messenger in
- ‘And I am sure we never had a word of difference re- case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor.
specting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when
threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an
putting curly tails to my sevens and nines,’ resumed my unknown lady of portentous appearance, sitting before the
mother in another burst, and breaking down again. fire, with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears
‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and you know with jewellers’ cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her,
that will not be good either for you or for my god-daughter. and my mother saying nothing about her, she was quite a
Come! You mustn’t do it!’ mystery in the parlour; and the fact of her having a mag-
This argument had some share in quieting my mother, azine of jewellers’ cotton in her pocket, and sticking the
though her increasing indisposition had a larger one. There article in her ears in that way, did not detract from the so-
was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Betsey’s oc- lemnity of her presence.
casionally ejaculating ‘Ha!’ as she sat with her feet upon the The doctor having been upstairs and come down again,
fender. and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a
‘David had bought an annuity for himself with his mon- probability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit
ey, I know,’ said she, by and by. ‘What did he do for you?’ there, face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be
‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said my mother, answering with some polite and social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest
difficulty, ‘was so considerate and good as to secure the re- of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the
version of a part of it to me.’ less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and

more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in mod- contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before.
est depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of Really - really - as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was
everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn’t a word to almost shocked; speaking in a professional point of view
throw at a dog. He couldn’t have thrown a word at a mad alone, he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her,
dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one, or notwithstanding, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at
a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as he walked; but the fire, until he was again called out. After another absence,
he wouldn’t have been rude to him, and he couldn’t have he again returned.
been quick with him, for any earthly consideration. ‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side
Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on again.
one side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the ‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are - we are pro-
jewellers’ cotton, as he softly touched his left ear: gressing
‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’ slowly, ma’am.’
‘What!’ replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear ‘Ya—a—ah!’ said my aunt. With such a snarl at him, that
like a cork. Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calcu-
Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness - as he told lated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to
my mother afterwards - that it was a mercy he didn’t lose go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and a strong draught,
his presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly: until he was again sent for.
‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’ Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was
‘Nonsense!’ replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at a very dragon at his catechism, and who may therefore be
one blow. regarded as a credible witness, reported next day, that hap-
Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look pening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour after this,
at her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to
called upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour’s ab- and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before
sence, he returned. he could make his escape. That there were now occasional
‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the
nearest to him. cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evi-
‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are- we are pro- dently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to
gressing slowly, ma’am.’ expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were
‘Ba—a—ah!’ said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the

collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to
at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.
his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with ‘How is she?’ said my aunt, folding her arms with her
her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This bonnet still tied on one of them.
was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past ‘Well, ma’am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,’
twelve o’clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he returned Mr. Chillip. ‘Quite as comfortable as we can expect
was then as red as I was. a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic
The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your see-
such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as ing her presently, ma’am. It may do her good.’
soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meek- ‘And SHE. How is SHE?’ said my aunt, sharply.
est manner: Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and
‘Well, ma’am, I am happy to congratulate you.’ looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.
‘What upon?’ said my aunt, sharply. ‘The baby,’ said my aunt. ‘How is she?’
Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity ‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘I apprehended you had
of my aunt’s manner; so he made her a little bow and gave known. It’s a boy.’
her a little smile, to mollify her. My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the
‘Mercy on the man, what’s he doing!’ cried my aunt, im- strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chill-
patiently. ‘Can’t he speak?’ ip’s head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came
‘Be calm, my dear ma’am,’ said Mr. Chillip, in his soft- back. She vanished like a discontented fairy; or like one of
est accents. those supernatural beings, whom it was popularly supposed
‘There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma’am. I was entitled to see; and never came back any more.
Be calm.’ No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed;
It has since been considered almost a miracle that my but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of
aunt didn’t shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had
him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our
made him quail. room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travel-
‘Well, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had lers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once
courage, ‘I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, was he, without whom I had never been.
ma’am, and well over.’

CHAPTER 2 propriety be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have
acquired it; the rather, as I generally observe such men to
retain a certain freshness, and gentleness, and capacity of
being pleased, which are also an inheritance they have pre-
I OBSERVE served from their childhood.
I might have a misgiving that I am ‘meandering’ in stop-
ping to say this, but that it brings me to remark that I build
these conclusions, in part upon my own experience of my-
self; and if it should appear from anything I may set down
T he first objects that assume a distinct presence before

me, as I look far back, into the blank of my infancy, are
my mother with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and
in this narrative that I was a child of close observation, or
that as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I
undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.
Peggotty with no shape at all, and eyes so dark that they Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my in-
seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, fancy, the first objects I can remember as standing out by
and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the themselves from a confusion of things, are my mother and
birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples. Peggotty. What else do I remember? Let me see.
I believe I can remember these two at a little distance There comes out of the cloud, our house - not new to
apart, dwarfed to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on me, but quite familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the
the floor, and I going unsteadily from the one to the other. ground-floor is Peggotty’s kitchen, opening into a back
I have an impression on my mind which I cannot distin- yard; with a pigeon-house on a pole, in the centre, without
guish from actual remembrance, of the touch of Peggotty’s any pigeons in it; a great dog- kennel in a corner, without
forefinger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being any dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to
roughened by needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater. me, walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner.
This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most There is one cock who gets upon a post to crow, and seems
of us can go farther back into such times than many of us to take particular notice of me as I look at him through the
suppose; just as I believe the power of observation in num- kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so fierce. Of
bers of very young children to be quite wonderful for its the geese outside the side-gate who come waddling after me
closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most grown with their long necks stretched out when I go that way, I
men who are remarkable in this respect, may with greater dream at night: as a man environed by wild beasts might

dream of lions. within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, that it can tell
Here is a long passage - what an enormous perspective the time again?’
I make of it! - leading from Peggotty’s kitchen to the front Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew!
door. A dark store-room opens out of it, and that is a place With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen,
to be run past at night; for I don’t know what may be among and IS seen many times during the morning’s service, by
those tubs and jars and old tea-chests, when there is no- Peggotty, who likes to make herself as sure as she can that
body in there with a dimly-burning light, letting a mouldy it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But though Peg-
air come out of the door, in which there is the smell of soap, gotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and
pickles, pepper, candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at
there are the two parlours: the parlour in which we sit of the clergyman. But I can’t always look at him - I know him
an evening, my mother and I and Peggotty - for Peggot- without that white thing on, and I am afraid of his won-
ty is quite our companion, when her work is done and we dering why I stare so, and perhaps stopping the service to
are alone - and the best parlour where we sit on a Sunday; inquire - and what am I to do? It’s a dreadful thing to gape,
grandly, but not so comfortably. There is something of a but I must do something. I look at my mother, but she pre-
doleful air about that room to me, for Peggotty has told me tends not to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes
- I don’t know when, but apparently ages ago - about my fa- faces at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the open
ther’s funeral, and the company having their black cloaks door through the porch, and there I see a stray sheep - I
put on. One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty and don’t mean a sinner, but mutton - half making up his mind
me in there, how Lazarus was raised up from the dead. And to come into the church. I feel that if I looked at him any
I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged to take longer, I might be tempted to say something out loud; and
me out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard out of the what would become of me then! I look up at the monumen-
bedroom window, with the dead all lying in their graves at tal tablets on the wall, and try to think of Mr. Bodgers late
rest, below the solemn moon. of this parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must
There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere, as have been, when affliction sore, long time Mr. Bodgers bore,
the grass of that churchyard; nothing half so shady as its and physicians were in vain. I wonder whether they called
trees; nothing half so quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are in Mr. Chillip, and he was in vain; and if so, how he likes to
feeding there, when I kneel up, early in the morning, in my be reminded of it once a week. I look from Mr. Chillip, in
little bed in a closet within my mother’s room, to look out at his Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit; and think what a good
it; and I see the red light shining on the sun-dial, and think place it would be to play in, and what a castle it would make,

with another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and hav- Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlour fire,
ing the velvet cushion with the tassels thrown down on his alone. I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I
head. In time my eyes gradually shut up; and, from seeming must have read very perspicuously, or the poor soul must
to hear the clergyman singing a drowsy song in the heat, I have been deeply interested, for I remember she had a cloudy
hear nothing, until I fall off the seat with a crash, and am impression, after I had done, that they were a sort of vegeta-
taken out, more dead than alive, by Peggotty. ble. I was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; but having leave,
And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed as a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from
bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smell- spending the evening at a neighbour’s, I would rather have
ing air, and the ragged old rooks’-nests still dangling in the died upon my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had
elm-trees at the bottom of the front garden. Now I am in reached that stage of sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to
the garden at the back, beyond the yard where the empty swell and grow immensely large. I propped my eyelids open
pigeon-house and dog-kennel are - a very preserve of but- with my two forefingers, and looked perseveringly at her as
terflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and she sat at work; at the little bit of wax-candle she kept for
padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and rich- her thread - how old it looked, being so wrinkled in all di-
er than fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and rections! - at the little house with a thatched roof, where the
where my mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, yard-measure lived; at her work-box with a sliding lid, with
bolting furtive gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A a view of St. Paul’s Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on
great wind rises, and the summer is gone in a moment. We the top; at the brass thimble on her finger; at herself, whom
are playing in the winter twilight, dancing about the par- I thought lovely. I felt so sleepy, that I knew if I lost sight of
lour. When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in anything for a moment, I was gone.
an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round ‘Peggotty,’ says I, suddenly, ‘were you ever married?’
her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows ‘Lord, Master Davy,’ replied Peggotty. ‘What’s put mar-
better than I do that she likes to look so well, and is proud riage in your head?’
of being so pretty. She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me.
That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and And then she stopped in her work, and looked at me, with
a sense that we were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and her needle drawn out to its thread’s length.
submitted ourselves in most things to her direction, were ‘But WERE you ever married, Peggotty?’ says I. ‘You are
among the first opinions - if they may be so called - that I a very handsome woman, an’t you?’
ever derived from what I saw. I thought her in a different style from my mother, cer-

tainly; but of another school of beauty, I considered her a took my curly head within them, and gave it a good squeeze.
perfect example. There was a red velvet footstool in the best I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump,
parlour, on which my mother had painted a nosegay. The whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed,
ground-work of that stool, and Peggotty’s complexion ap- some of the buttons on the back of her gown flew off. And
peared to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was I recollect two bursting to the opposite side of the parlour,
smooth, and Peggotty was rough, but that made no differ- while she was hugging me.
ence. ‘Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills,’ said
‘Me handsome, Davy!’ said Peggotty. ‘Lawk, no, my dear! Peggotty, who was not quite right in the name yet, ‘for I an’t
But what put marriage in your head?’ heard half enough.’
‘I don’t know! - You mustn’t marry more than one person I couldn’t quite understand why Peggotty looked so
at a time, may you, Peggotty?’ queer, or why she was so ready to go back to the crocodiles.
‘Certainly not,’ says Peggotty, with the promptest deci- However, we returned to those monsters, with fresh wake-
sion. fulness on my part, and we left their eggs in the sand for the
‘But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then sun to hatch; and we ran away from them, and baffled them
you may marry another person, mayn’t you, Peggotty?’ by constantly turning, which they were unable to do quick-
‘YOU MAY,’ says Peggotty, ‘if you choose, my dear. That’s ly, on account of their unwieldy make; and we went into the
a matter of opinion.’ water after them, as natives, and put sharp pieces of timber
‘But what is your opinion, Peggotty?’ said I. down their throats; and in short we ran the whole croco-
I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she dile gauntlet. I did, at least; but I had my doubts of Peggotty,
looked so curiously at me. who was thoughtfully sticking her needle into various parts
‘My opinion is,’ said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me, of her face and arms, all the time.
after a little indecision and going on with her work, ‘that I We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the
never was married myself, Master Davy, and that I don’t ex- alligators, when the garden-bell rang. We went out to the
pect to be. That’s all I know about the subject.’ door; and there was my mother, looking unusually pretty, I
‘You an’t cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you?’ said I, after thought, and with her a gentleman with beautiful black hair
sitting quiet for a minute. and whiskers, who had walked home with us from church
I really thought she was, she had been so short with me; last Sunday.
but I was quite mistaken: for she laid aside her work (which As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me
was a stocking of her own), and opening her arms wide, in her arms and kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more

highly privileged little fellow than a monarch - or some- not. I gave him the other, and he shook it heartily, and said
thing like that; for my later understanding comes, I am I was a brave fellow, and went away.
sensible, to my aid here. At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and
‘What does that mean?’ I asked him, over her shoulder. give us a last look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the
He patted me on the head; but somehow, I didn’t like him door was shut.
or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger,
touch my mother’s in touching me - which it did. I put it secured the fastenings instantly, and we all went into the
away, as well as I could. parlour. My mother, contrary to her usual habit, instead of
‘Oh, Davy!’ remonstrated my mother. coming to the elbow-chair by the fire, remained at the other
‘Dear boy!’ said the gentleman. ‘I cannot wonder at his end of the room, and sat singing to herself.
devotion!’ - ‘Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma’am,’ said
I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother’s face Peggotty, standing as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the
before. She gently chid me for being rude; and, keeping me room, with a candlestick in her hand.
close to her shawl, turned to thank the gentleman for tak- ‘Much obliged to you, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, in
ing so much trouble as to bring her home. She put out her a cheerful voice, ‘I have had a VERY pleasant evening.’
hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with his own, ‘A stranger or so makes an agreeable change,’ suggested
she glanced, I thought, at me. Peggotty.
‘Let us say ‘good night’, my fine boy,’ said the gentleman, ‘A very agreeable change, indeed,’ returned my mother.
when he had bent his head - I saw him! - over my mother’s Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle
little glove. of the room, and my mother resuming her singing, I fell
‘Good night!’ said I. asleep, though I was not so sound asleep but that I could
‘Come! Let us be the best friends in the world!’ said the hear voices, without hearing what they said. When I half
gentleman, laughing. ‘Shake hands!’ awoke from this uncomfortable doze, I found Peggotty and
My right hand was in my mother’s left, so I gave him the my mother both in tears, and both talking.
other. ‘Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn’t have
‘Why, that’s the Wrong hand, Davy!’ laughed the gentle- liked,’ said Peggotty. ‘That I say, and that I swear!’
man. ‘Good Heavens!’ cried my mother, ‘you’ll drive me mad!
MY mother drew my right hand forward, but I was re- Was ever any poor girl so ill-used by her servants as I am!
solved, for my former reason, not to give it him, and I did Why do I do myself the injustice of calling myself a girl?

Have I never been married, Peggotty?’ Peggotty.
‘God knows you have, ma’am,’ returned Peggotty. ‘Then, ‘You did, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘You know you
how can you dare,’ said my mother - ‘you know I don’t mean did. What else was it possible to infer from what you said,
how can you dare, Peggotty, but how can you have the heart you unkind creature, when you know as well as I do, that on
- to make me so uncomfortable and say such bitter things to his account only last quarter I wouldn’t buy myself a new
me, when you are well aware that I haven’t, out of this place, parasol, though that old green one is frayed the whole way
a single friend to turn to?’ up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy? You know it is, Peg-
‘The more’s the reason,’ returned Peggotty, ‘for saying gotty. You can’t deny it.’ Then, turning affectionately to me,
that it won’t do. No! That it won’t do. No! No price could with her cheek against mine, ‘Am I a naughty mama to you,
make it do. No!’ - I thought Peggotty would have thrown Davy? Am I a nasty, cruel, selfish, bad mama? Say I am, my
the candlestick away, she was so emphatic with it. child; say ‘yes’, dear boy, and Peggotty will love you; and
‘How can you be so aggravating,’ said my mother, shed- Peggotty’s love is a great deal better than mine, Davy. I don’t
ding more tears than before, ‘as to talk in such an unjust love you at all, do I?’
manner! How can you go on as if it was all settled and ar- At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the
ranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over and over again, you loudest of the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about
cruel thing, that beyond the commonest civilities nothing it. I was quite heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in
has passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If the first transports of wounded tenderness I called Peg-
people are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault? gotty a ‘Beast’. That honest creature was in deep affliction,
What am I to do, I ask you? Would you wish me to shave my I remember, and must have become quite buttonless on
head and black my face, or disfigure myself with a burn, or a the occasion; for a little volley of those explosives went off,
scald, or something of that sort? I dare say you would, Peg- when, after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled
gotty. I dare say you’d quite enjoy it.’ down by the elbow-chair, and made it up with me.
Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking
heart, I thought. me, for a long time; and when one very strong sob quite
‘And my dear boy,’ cried my mother, coming to the elbow- hoisted me up in bed, I found my mother sitting on the cov-
chair in which I was, and caressing me, ‘my own little Davy! erlet, and leaning over me. I fell asleep in her arms, after
Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affection for my that, and slept soundly.
precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that ever was!’ Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the
‘Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing,’ said gentleman again, or whether there was any greater lapse of

time before he reappeared, I cannot recall. I don’t profess to making a net of a number of these pieces, and catching
to be clear about dates. But there he was, in church, and he anybody in it, that was, as yet, beyond me.
walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too, to look One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front
at a famous geranium we had, in the parlour-window. It did garden, when Mr. Murdstone - I knew him by that name
not appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before now - came by, on horseback. He reined up his horse to sa-
he went he asked my mother to give him a bit of the blos- lute my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to see
som. She begged him to choose it for himself, but he refused some friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily pro-
to do that - I could not understand why - so she plucked it posed to take me on the saddle before him if I would like
for him, and gave it into his hand. He said he would never, the ride.
never part with it any more; and I thought he must be quite The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed
a fool not to know that it would fall to pieces in a day or to like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood
two. snorting and pawing at the garden-gate, that I had a great
Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than desire to go. So I was sent upstairs to Peggotty to be made
she had always been. My mother deferred to her very much spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone dismounted,
- more than usual, it occurred to me - and we were all three and, with his horse’s bridle drawn over his arm, walked
excellent friends; still we were different from what we slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar fence,
used to be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves. while my mother walked slowly up and down on the inner
Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my to keep him company. I recollect Peggotty and I peeping
mother’s wearing all the pretty dresses she had in her draw- out at them from my little window; I recollect how closely
ers, or to her going so often to visit at that neighbour’s; but I they seemed to be examining the sweetbriar between them,
couldn’t, to my satisfaction, make out how it was. as they strolled along; and how, from being in a perfect-
Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with ly angelic temper, Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and
the black whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and brushed my hair the wrong way, excessively hard.
had the same uneasy jealousy of him; but if I had any reason Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along
for it beyond a child’s instinctive dislike, and a general idea on the green turf by the side of the road. He held me quite
that Peggotty and I could make much of my mother without easily with one arm, and I don’t think I was restless usu-
any help, it certainly was not THE reason that I might have ally; but I could not make up my mind to sit in front of him
found if I had been older. No such thing came into my mind, without turning my head sometimes, and looking up in his
or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were; but as face. He had that kind of shallow black eye - I want a better

word to express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked ‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.
into - which, when it is abstracted, seems from some pe- ‘What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield’s encumbrance?’
culiarity of light to be disfigured, for a moment at a time, cried the gentleman. ‘The pretty little widow?’
by a cast. Several times when I glanced at him, I observed ‘Quinion,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘take care, if you please.
that appearance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he Somebody’s sharp.’
was thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were ‘Who is?’ asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up,
blacker and thicker, looked at so near, than even I had given quickly; being curious to know.
them credit for being. A squareness about the lower part of ‘Only Brooks of Sheffield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.
his face, and the dotted indication of the strong black beard I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of
he shaved close every day, reminded me of the wax-work Sheffield; for, at first, I really thought it was I.
that had travelled into our neighbourhood some half-a-year There seemed to be something very comical in the rep-
before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and utation of Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen
black, and brown, of his complexion - confound his com- laughed heartily when he was mentioned, and Mr. Murd-
plexion, and his memory! - made me think him, in spite of stone was a good deal amused also. After some laughing,
my misgivings, a very handsome man. I have no doubt that the gentleman whom he had called Quinion, said:
my poor dear mother thought him so too. ‘And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in refer-
We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen ence to the projected business?’
were smoking cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them ‘Why, I don’t know that Brooks understands much about
was lying on at least four chairs, and had a large rough jack- it at present,’ replied Mr. Murdstone; ‘but he is not generally
et on. In a corner was a heap of coats and boat-cloaks, and a favourable, I believe.’
flag, all bundled up together. There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said
They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of he would ring the bell for some sherry in which to drink to
manner, when we came in, and said, ‘Halloa, Murdstone! Brooks. This he did; and when the wine came, he made me
We thought you were dead!’ have a little, with a biscuit, and, before I drank it, stand up
‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Murdstone. and say, ‘Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield!’ The toast was
‘And who’s this shaver?’ said one of the gentlemen, tak- received with great applause, and such hearty laughter that
ing hold of me. it made me laugh too; at which they laughed the more. In
‘That’s Davy,’ returned Mr. Murdstone. short, we quite enjoyed ourselves.
‘Davy who?’ said the gentleman. ‘Jones?’ We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the

grass, and looked at things through a telescope - I could sitting stern and silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murd-
make out nothing myself when it was put to my eye, but stone laughed at all that day, except at the Sheffield joke
I pretended I could - and then we came back to the hotel - and that, by the by, was his own.
to an early dinner. All the time we were out, the two gen- We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine
tlemen smoked incessantly - which, I thought, if I might evening, and my mother and he had another stroll by the
judge from the smell of their rough coats, they must have sweetbriar, while I was sent in to get my tea. When he was
been doing, ever since the coats had first come home from gone, my mother asked me all about the day I had had, and
the tailor’s. I must not forget that we went on board the what they had said and done. I mentioned what they had
yacht, where they all three descended into the cabin, and said about her, and she laughed, and told me they were im-
were busy with some papers. I saw them quite hard at work, pudent fellows who talked nonsense - but I knew it pleased
when I looked down through the open skylight. They left her. I knew it quite as well as I know it now. I took the op-
me, during this time, with a very nice man with a very large portunity of asking if she was at all acquainted with Mr.
head of red hair and a very small shiny hat upon it, who had Brooks of Sheffield, but she answered No, only she supposed
got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat on, with ‘Skylark’ in he must be a manufacturer in the knife and fork way.
capital letters across the chest. I thought it was his name; Can I say of her face - altered as I have reason to remem-
and that as he lived on board ship and hadn’t a street door ber it, perished as I know it is - that it is gone, when here it
to put his name on, he put it there instead; but when I called comes before me at this instant, as distinct as any face that
him Mr. Skylark, he said it meant the vessel. I may choose to look on in a crowded street? Can I say of
I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and her innocent and girlish beauty, that it faded, and was no
steadier than the two gentlemen. They were very gay and more, when its breath falls on my cheek now, as it fell that
careless. They joked freely with one another, but seldom night? Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance
with him. It appeared to me that he was more clever and brings her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving
cold than they were, and that they regarded him with some- youth than I have been, or man ever is, still holds fast what
thing of my own feeling. I remarked that, once or twice it cherished then?
when Mr. Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after
sideways, as if to make sure of his not being displeased; and this talk, and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled
that once when Mr. Passnidge (the other gentleman) was down playfully by the side of the bed, and laying her chin
in high spirits, he trod upon his foot, and gave him a secret upon her hands, and laughing, said:
caution with his eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was ‘What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can’t be-

lieve it.’ was merely gaping, or I should have been rather alarmed -
‘’Bewitching -‘‘ I began. said coaxingly:
My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me. ‘Master Davy, how should you like to go along with
‘It was never bewitching,’ she said, laughing. ‘It never me and spend a fortnight at my brother’s at Yarmouth?
could have been bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn’t!’ Wouldn’t that be a treat?’
‘Yes, it was. ‘Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield’,’ I repeated ‘Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?’ I inquired,
stoutly. ‘And, ‘pretty.‘‘ provisionally.
‘No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,’ interposed my ‘Oh, what an agreeable man he is!’ cried Peggotty, hold-
mother, laying her fingers on my lips again. ing up her hands. ‘Then there’s the sea; and the boats and
‘Yes it was. ‘Pretty little widow.‘‘ ships; and the fishermen; and the beach; and Am to play
‘What foolish, impudent creatures!’ cried my mother, with -’
laughing and covering her face. ‘What ridiculous men! An’t Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first
they? Davy dear -’ chapter; but she spoke of him as a morsel of English Gram-
‘Well, Ma.’ mar.
‘Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied
dreadfully angry with them myself; but I would rather Peg- that it would indeed be a treat, but what would my mother
gotty didn’t know.’ say?
I promised, of course; and we kissed one another over ‘Why then I’ll as good as bet a guinea,’ said Peggotty, in-
and over again, and I soon fell fast asleep. tent upon my face, ‘that she’ll let us go. I’ll ask her, if you
It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the like, as soon as ever she comes home. There now!’
next day when Peggotty broached the striking and ad- ‘But what’s she to do while we’re away?’ said I, putting my
venturous proposition I am about to mention; but it was small elbows on the table to argue the point. ‘She can’t live
probably about two months afterwards. by herself.’
We were sitting as before, one evening (when my moth- If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the
er was out as before), in company with the stocking and heel of that stocking, it must have been a very little one in-
the yard-measure, and the bit of wax, and the box with St. deed, and not worth darning.
Paul’s on the lid, and the crocodile book, when Peggotty, af- ‘I say! Peggotty! She can’t live by herself, you know.’
ter looking at me several times, and opening her mouth as if ‘Oh, bless you!’ said Peggotty, looking at me again at last.
she were going to speak, without doing it - which I thought ‘Don’t you know? She’s going to stay for a fortnight with Mrs.

Grayper. Mrs. Grayper’s going to have a lot of company.’ upon the earnestness and love with which she lifted up her
Oh! If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in the face to mine, and did so.
utmost impatience, until my mother came home from Mrs. As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came
Grayper’s (for it was that identical neighbour), to ascertain up to where she was, and seemed to expostulate with her
if we could get leave to carry out this great idea. Without be- for being so moved. I was looking back round the awning
ing nearly so much surprised as I had expected, my mother of the cart, and wondered what business it was of his. Peg-
entered into it readily; and it was all arranged that night, gotty, who was also looking back on the other side, seemed
and my board and lodging during the visit were to be paid anything but satisfied; as the face she brought back in the
for. cart denoted.
The day soon came for our going. It was such an early I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie on
day that it came soon, even to me, who was in a fever of this supposititious case: whether, if she were employed to
expectation, and half afraid that an earthquake or a fiery lose me like the boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to
mountain, or some other great convulsion of nature, might track my way home again by the buttons she would shed.
interpose to stop the expedition. We were to go in a carri-
er’s cart, which departed in the morning after breakfast. I
would have given any money to have been allowed to wrap
myself up over-night, and sleep in my hat and boots.
It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to rec-
ollect how eager I was to leave my happy home; to think
how little I suspected what I did leave for ever.
I am glad to recollect that when the carrier’s cart was at
the gate, and my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful
fondness for her and for the old place I had never turned
my back upon before, made me cry. I am glad to know that
my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat against
mine.
I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to
move, my mother ran out at the gate, and called to him to
stop, that she might kiss me once more. I am glad to dwell

CHAPTER 3 We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and
were such a long time delivering a bedstead at a public-
house, and calling at other places, that I was quite tired, and
very glad, when we saw Yarmouth. It looked rather spongy
I HAVE A CHANGE and soppy, I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull
waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wonder-
ing, if the world were really as round as my geography book
said, how any part of it came to be so flat. But I reflected
that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the poles; which
T he carrier’s horse was the laziest horse in the world, I

should hope, and shuffled along, with his head down,
as if he liked to keep people waiting to whom the packages
would account for it.
As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent
prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to
were directed. I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuck- Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it; and
led audibly over this reflection, but the carrier said he was also that if the land had been a little more separated from
only troubled with a cough. The carrier had a way of keep- the sea, and the town and the tide had not been quite so
ing his head down, like his horse, and of drooping sleepily much mixed up, like toast and water, it would have been
forward as he drove, with one of his arms on each of his nicer. But Peggotty said, with greater emphasis than usual,
knees. I say ‘drove’, but it struck me that the cart would that we must take things as we found them, and that, for her
have gone to Yarmouth quite as well without him, for the part, she was proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater.
horse did all that; and as to conversation, he had no idea of When we got into the street (which was strange enough
it but whistling. to me) and smelt the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar,
Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which and saw the sailors walking about, and the carts jingling up
would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going and down over the stones, I felt that I had done so busy a
to London by the same conveyance. We ate a good deal, and place an injustice; and said as much to Peggotty, who heard
slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her my expressions of delight with great complacency, and told
chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never me it was well known (I suppose to those who had the good
relaxed; and I could not have believed unless I had heard fortune to be born Bloaters) that Yarmouth was, upon the
her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored whole, the finest place in the universe.
so much. ‘Here’s my Am!’ screamed Peggotty, ‘growed out of

knowledge!’ on the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a
He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house; and chimney and smoking very cosily; but nothing else in the
asked me how I found myself, like an old acquaintance. I way of a habitation that was visible to me.
did not feel, at first, that I knew him as well as he knew me, ‘That’s not it?’ said I. ‘That ship-looking thing?’
because he had never come to our house since the night I ‘That’s it, Mas’r Davy,’ returned Ham.
was born, and naturally he had the advantage of me. But our If it had been Aladdin’s palace, roc’s egg and all, I sup-
intimacy was much advanced by his taking me on his back pose I could not have been more charmed with the romantic
to carry me home. He was, now, a huge, strong fellow of six idea of living in it. There was a delightful door cut in the
feet high, broad in proportion, and round-shouldered; but side, and it was roofed in, and there were little windows in
with a simpering boy’s face and curly light hair that gave it; but the wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat
him quite a sheepish look. He was dressed in a canvas jack- which had no doubt been upon the water hundreds of times,
et, and a pair of such very stiff trousers that they would have and which had never been intended to be lived in, on dry
stood quite as well alone, without any legs in them. And land. That was the captivation of it to me. If it had ever been
you couldn’t so properly have said he wore a hat, as that he meant to be lived in, I might have thought it small, or incon-
was covered in a-top, like an old building, with something venient, or lonely; but never having been designed for any
pitchy. such use, it became a perfect abode.
Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible.
under his arm, and Peggotty carrying another small box of There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of draw-
ours, we turned down lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and ers, and on the chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a
little hillocks of sand, and went past gas-works, rope-walks, painting on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a
boat-builders’ yards, shipwrights’ yards, ship-breakers’ military-looking child who was trundling a hoop. The tray
yards, caulkers’ yards, riggers’ lofts, smiths’ forges, and a was kept from tumbling down, by a bible; and the tray, if
great litter of such places, until we came out upon the dull it had tumbled down, would have smashed a quantity of
waste I had already seen at a distance; when Ham said, cups and saucers and a teapot that were grouped around
‘Yon’s our house, Mas’r Davy!’ the book. On the walls there were some common coloured
I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the pictures, framed and glazed, of scripture subjects; such as I
wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no have never seen since in the hands of pedlars, without see-
house could I make out. There was a black barge, or some ing the whole interior of Peggotty’s brother’s house again,
other kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry at one view. Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue,

and Daniel in yellow cast into a den of green lions, were the another, and never leaving off pinching whatever they laid
most prominent of these. Over the little mantelshelf, was a hold of, were usually to be found in a little wooden out-
picture of the ‘Sarah Jane’ lugger, built at Sunderland, with house where the pots and kettles were kept.
a real little wooden stern stuck on to it; a work of art, com- We were welcomed by a very civil woman in a white
bining composition with carpentry, which I considered to apron, whom I had seen curtseying at the door when I was
be one of the most enviable possessions that the world could on Ham’s back, about a quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a
afford. There were some hooks in the beams of the ceiling, most beautiful little girl (or I thought her so) with a neck-
the use of which I did not divine then; and some lockers and lace of blue beads on, who wouldn’t let me kiss her when I
boxes and conveniences of that sort, which served for seats offered to, but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we
and eked out the chairs. had dined in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted
All this I saw in the first glance after I crossed the thresh- butter, and potatoes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with
old - child-like, according to my theory - and then Peggotty a very good-natured face came home. As he called Peggotty
opened a little door and showed me my bedroom. It was ‘Lass’, and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I had no
the completest and most desirable bedroom ever seen - in doubt, from the general propriety of her conduct, that he
the stern of the vessel; with a little window, where the rud- was her brother; and so he turned out - being presently in-
der used to go through; a little looking-glass, just the right troduced to me as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house.
height for me, nailed against the wall, and framed with oys- ‘Glad to see you, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘You’ll find us
ter-shells; a little bed, which there was just room enough rough, sir, but you’ll find us ready.’
to get into; and a nosegay of seaweed in a blue mug on the I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be
table. The walls were whitewashed as white as milk, and the happy in such a delightful place.
patchwork counterpane made my eyes quite ache with its ‘How’s your Ma, sir?’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Did you leave
brightness. One thing I particularly noticed in this delight- her pretty jolly?’
ful house, was the smell of fish; which was so searching, that I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as
when I took out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose, I could wish, and that she desired her compliments - which
I found it smelt exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster. was a polite fiction on my part.
On my imparting this discovery in confidence to Peggotty, ‘I’m much obleeged to her, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
she informed me that her brother dealt in lobsters, crabs, ‘Well, sir, if you can make out here, fur a fortnut, ‘long wi’
and crawfish; and I afterwards found that a heap of these her,’ nodding at his sister, ‘and Ham, and little Em’ly, we
creatures, in a state of wonderful conglomeration with one shall be proud of your company.’

Having done the honours of his house in this hospitable ‘Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you
manner, Mr. Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettle- lived in a sort of ark?’
ful of hot water, remarking that ‘cold would never get his Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but an-
muck off’. He soon returned, greatly improved in appear- swered:
ance; but so rubicund, that I couldn’t help thinking his face ‘No, sir. I never giv him no name.’
had this in common with the lobsters, crabs, and crawfish, ‘Who gave him that name, then?’ said I, putting question
- that it went into the hot water very black, and came out number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.
very red. ‘Why, sir, his father giv it him,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug ‘I thought you were his father!’
(the nights being cold and misty now), it seemed to me the ‘My brother Joe was his father,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
most delicious retreat that the imagination of man could ‘Dead, Mr. Peggotty?’ I hinted, after a respectful pause.
conceive. To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know ‘Drowndead,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
that the fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not
to look at the fire, and think that there was no house near Ham’s father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken
but this one, and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Lit- about his relationship to anybody else there. I was so curi-
tle Em’ly had overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my ous to know, that I made up my mind to have it out with
side upon the lowest and least of the lockers, which was just Mr. Peggotty.
large enough for us two, and just fitted into the chimney ‘Little Em’ly,’ I said, glancing at her. ‘She is your daughter,
corner. Mrs. Peggotty with the white apron, was knitting on isn’t she, Mr. Peggotty?’
the opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needlework was ‘No, sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her father.’
as much at home with St. Paul’s and the bit of wax-candle, I couldn’t help it. ‘- Dead, Mr. Peggotty?’ I hinted, after
as if they had never known any other roof. Ham, who had another respectful silence.
been giving me my first lesson in all-fours, was trying to ‘Drowndead,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
recollect a scheme of telling fortunes with the dirty cards, I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not
and was printing off fishy impressions of his thumb on all got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom some-
the cards he turned. Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I how. So I said:
felt it was a time for conversation and confidence. ‘Haven’t you ANY children, Mr. Peggotty?’
‘Mr. Peggotty!’ says I. ‘No, master,’ he answered with a short laugh. ‘I’m a bach-
‘Sir,’ says he. eldore.’

‘A bachelor!’ I said, astonished. ‘Why, who’s that, Mr. hanging up two hammocks for themselves on the hooks I
Peggotty?’ pointing to the person in the apron who was had noticed in the roof, in a very luxurious state of mind,
knitting. enhanced by my being sleepy. As slumber gradually stole
‘That’s Missis Gummidge,’ said Mr. Peggotty. upon me, I heard the wind howling out at sea and coming
‘Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?’ on across the flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension
But at this point Peggotty - I mean my own peculiar Peg- of the great deep rising in the night. But I bethought myself
gotty - made such impressive motions to me not to ask any that I was in a boat, after all; and that a man like Mr. Peg-
more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent gotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything did
company, until it was time to go to bed. Then, in the privacy happen.
of my own little cabin, she informed me that Ham and Em’ly Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Al-
were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had at most as soon as it shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my
different times adopted in their childhood, when they were mirror I was out of bed, and out with little Em’ly, picking
left destitute: and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of up stones upon the beach.
his partner in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a ‘You’re quite a sailor, I suppose?’ I said to Em’ly. I don’t
poor man himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as know that I supposed anything of the kind, but I felt it an
true as steel - those were her similes. The only subject, she act of gallantry to say something; and a shining sail close to
informed me, on which he ever showed a violent temper or us made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment,
swore an oath, was this generosity of his; and if it were ever in her bright eye, that it came into my head to say this.
referred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a heavy ‘No,’ replied Em’ly, shaking her head, ‘I’m afraid of the
blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), sea.’
and swore a dreadful oath that he would be ‘Gormed’ if he ‘Afraid!’ I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and
didn’t cut and run for good, if it was ever mentioned again. looking very big at the mighty ocean. ‘I an’t!’
It appeared, in answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the ‘Ah! but it’s cruel,’ said Em’ly. ‘I have seen it very cruel
least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be to some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our
gormed; but that they all regarded it as constituting a most house, all to pieces.’
solemn imprecation. ‘I hope it wasn’t the boat that -’
I was very sensible of my entertainer’s goodness, and lis- ‘That father was drownded in?’ said Em’ly. ‘No. Not that
tened to the women’s going to bed in another little crib like one, I never see that boat.’
mine at the opposite end of the boat, and to him and Ham ‘Nor him?’ I asked her.

Little Em’ly shook her head. ‘Not to remember!’ doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these
Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an ex- sentiments to myself.
planation how I had never seen my own father; and how my Little Em’ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her
mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vi-
state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to sion. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles.
live so; and how my father’s grave was in the churchyard ‘You would like to be a lady?’ I said.
near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded ‘yes’.
of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a ‘I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks
pleasant morning. But there were some differences between together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gum-
Em’ly’s orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her midge. We wouldn’t mind then, when there comes stormy
mother before her father; and where her father’s grave was weather. - Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the
no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths poor fishermen’s, to be sure, and we’d help ‘em with money
of the sea. when they come to any hurt.’ This seemed to me to be a very
‘Besides,’ said Em’ly, as she looked about for shells and satisfactory and therefore not at all improbable picture. I
pebbles, ‘your father was a gentleman and your mother is a expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of it, and little
lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a Em’ly was emboldened to say, shyly,
fisherman’s daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman.’ ‘Don’t you think you are afraid of the sea, now?’
‘Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?’ said I. It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt
‘Uncle Dan - yonder,’ answered Em’ly, nodding at the if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I
boat-house. should have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection
‘Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?’ of her drowned relations. However, I said ‘No,’ and I added,
‘Good?’ said Em’ly. ‘If I was ever to be a lady, I’d give him ‘You don’t seem to be either, though you say you are,’ - for
a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a she was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old
red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a sil- jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and I was
ver pipe, and a box of money.’ afraid of her falling over.
I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved ‘I’m not afraid in this way,’ said little Em’ly. ‘But I wake
these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to when it blows, and tremble to think of Uncle Dan and Ham
picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for and believe I hear ‘em crying out for help. That’s why I
him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly should like so much to be a lady. But I’m not afraid in this

way. Not a bit. Look here!’ answered Yes, it would have been.
She started from my side, and ran along a jagged tim- This may be premature. I have set it down too soon, per-
ber which protruded from the place we stood upon, and haps. But let it stand.
overhung the deep water at some height, without the least We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things
defence. The incident is so impressed on my remembrance, that we thought curious, and put some stranded starfish
that if I were a draughtsman I could draw its form here, I carefully back into the water - I hardly know enough of the
dare say, accurately as it was that day, and little Em’ly race at this moment to be quite certain whether they had
springing forward to her destruction (as it appeared to me), reason to feel obliged to us for doing so, or the reverse - and
with a look that I have never forgotten, directed far out to then made our way home to Mr. Peggotty’s dwelling. We
sea. stopped under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange
The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came an innocent kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with
back safe to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the health and pleasure.
cry I had uttered; fruitlessly in any case, for there was no ‘Like two young mavishes,’ Mr. Peggotty said. I knew
one near. But there have been times since, in my manhood, this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes,
many times there have been, when I have thought, Is it pos- and received it as a compliment.
sible, among the possibilities of hidden things, that in the Of course I was in love with little Em’ly. I am sure I loved
sudden rashness of the child and her wild look so far off, that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater pu-
there was any merciful attraction of her into danger, any rity and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the best
tempting her towards him permitted on the part of her dead love of a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is. I am
father, that her life might have a chance of ending that day? sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed
There has been a time since when I have wondered whether, mite of a child, which etherealized, and made a very angel
if the life before her could have been revealed to me at a of her. If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of
glance, and so revealed as that a child could fully compre- wings and flown away before my eyes, I don’t think I should
hend it, and if her preservation could have depended on a have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to
motion of my hand, I ought to have held it up to save her. expect.
There has been a time since - I do not say it lasted long, but We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a
it has been - when I have asked myself the question, would it loving manner, hours and hours. The days sported by us, as
have been better for little Em’ly to have had the waters close if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too,
above her head that morning in my sight; and when I have and always at play. I told Em’ly I adored her, and that unless

she confessed she adored me I should be reduced to the ne- had known in the morning he would go there.
cessity of killing myself with a sword. She said she did, and Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had
I have no doubt she did. burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. ‘I am
As to any sense of inequality, or youthfulness, or other a lone lorn creetur’,’ were Mrs. Gummidge’s words, when
difficulty in our way, little Em’ly and I had no such trouble, that unpleasant occurrence took place, ‘and everythink
because we had no future. We made no more provision for goes contrary with me.’
growing older, than we did for growing younger. We were ‘Oh, it’ll soon leave off,’ said Peggotty - I again mean our
the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge and Peggotty, who used Peggotty - ‘and besides, you know, it’s not more disagree-
to whisper of an evening when we sat, lovingly, on our little able to you than to us.’
locker side by side, ‘Lor! wasn’t it beautiful!’ Mr. Peggotty ‘I feel it more,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.
smiled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. Mrs.
evening and did nothing else. They had something of the Gummidge’s peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to
sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had in be the warmest and snuggest in the place, as her chair was
a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum. certainly the easiest, but it didn’t suit her that day at all. She
I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always was constantly complaining of the cold, and of its occasion-
make herself so agreeable as she might have been expected ing a visitation in her back which she called ‘the creeps’. At
to do, under the circumstances of her residence with Mr. last she shed tears on that subject, and said again that she
Peggotty. Mrs. Gummidge’s was rather a fretful disposition, was ‘a lone lorn creetur’ and everythink went contrary with
and she whimpered more sometimes than was comfortable her’.
for other parties in so small an establishment. I was very ‘It is certainly very cold,’ said Peggotty. ‘Everybody must
sorry for her; but there were moments when it would have feel it so.’
been more agreeable, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had ‘I feel it more than other people,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.
a convenient apartment of her own to retire to, and had So at dinner; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped
stopped there until her spirits revived. immediately after me, to whom the preference was given as
Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called a visitor of distinction. The fish were small and bony, and
The Willing Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the potatoes were a little burnt. We all acknowledged that
the second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gum- we felt this something of a disappointment; but Mrs. Gum-
midge’s looking up at the Dutch clock, between eight and midge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again,
nine, and saying he was there, and that, what was more, she and made that former declaration with great bitterness.

Accordingly, when Mr. Peggotty came home about nine wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it should be
o’clock, this unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in along of me that you’re so ready.’
her corner, in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peg- ‘Along o’ you! It an’t along o’ you!’ said Mr. Peggotty.
gotty had been working cheerfully. Ham had been patching ‘Don’t ye believe a bit on it.’
up a great pair of waterboots; and I, with little Em’ly by my ‘Yes, yes, it is,’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I know what I am.
side, had been reading to them. Mrs. Gummidge had never I know that I am a lone lorn creetur’, and not only that ev-
made any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never erythink goes contrary with me, but that I go contrary with
raised her eyes since tea. everybody. Yes, yes. I feel more than other people do, and I
‘Well, Mates,’ said Mr. Peggotty, taking his seat, ‘and how show it more. It’s my misfortun’.’
are you?’ I really couldn’t help thinking, as I sat taking in all this,
We all said something, or looked something, to welcome that the misfortune extended to some other members of that
him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who only shook her head over family besides Mrs. Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no
her knitting. such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs.
‘What’s amiss?’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a clap of his hands. Gummidge to cheer up.
‘Cheer up, old Mawther!’ (Mr. Peggotty meant old girl.) ‘I an’t what I could wish myself to be,’ said Mrs. Gum-
Mrs. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. midge. ‘I am far from it. I know what I am. My troubles has
She took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her made me contrary. I feel my troubles, and they make me
eyes; but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and contrary. I wish I didn’t feel ‘em, but I do. I wish I could be
wiped them again, and still kept it out, ready for use. hardened to ‘em, but I an’t. I make the house uncomfort-
‘What’s amiss, dame?’ said Mr. Peggotty. able. I don’t wonder at it. I’ve made your sister so all day,
‘Nothing,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge. ‘You’ve come from and Master Davy.’
The Willing Mind, Dan’l?’ Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out, ‘No, you
‘Why yes, I’ve took a short spell at The Willing Mind to- haven’t, Mrs. Gummidge,’ in great mental distress.
night,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘It’s far from right that I should do it,’ said Mrs. Gum-
‘I’m sorry I should drive you there,’ said Mrs. Gum- midge. ‘It an’t a fit return. I had better go into the house
midge. and die. I am a lone lorn creetur’, and had much better not
‘Drive! I don’t want no driving,’ returned Mr. Peggotty make myself contrary here. If thinks must go contrary with
with an honest laugh. ‘I only go too ready.’ me, and I must go contrary myself, let me go contrary in my
‘Very ready,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and parish. Dan’l, I’d better go into the house, and die and be

a riddance!’ childhood. I never hear the name, or read the name, of Yar-
Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook mouth, but I am reminded of a certain Sunday morning on
herself to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had the beach, the bells ringing for church, little Em’ly leaning
not exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sym- on my shoulder, Ham lazily dropping stones into the water,
pathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head with a and the sun, away at sea, just breaking through the heavy
lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face, mist, and showing us the ships, like their own shadows.
said in a whisper: At last the day came for going home. I bore up against
‘She’s been thinking of the old ‘un!’ the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but
I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge my agony of mind at leaving little Em’ly was piercing. We
was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, went arm-in-arm to the public-house where the carrier put
on seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr. Gum- up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her. (I redeemed
midge; and that her brother always took that for a received that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in
truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as
effect upon him. Some time after he was in his hammock being to let.) We were greatly overcome at parting; and if
that night, I heard him myself repeat to Ham, ‘Poor thing! ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had
She’s been thinking of the old ‘un!’ And whenever Mrs. one made that day.
Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been un-
remainder of our stay (which happened some few times), he grateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing
always said the same thing in extenuation of the circum- about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my re-
stance, and always with the tenderest commiseration. proachful young conscience seemed to point that way with
So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the a ready finger; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my
variation of the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty’s times of spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my
going out and coming in, and altered Ham’s engagements comforter and friend.
also. When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes This gained upon me as we went along; so that the near-
walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once or er we drew, the more familiar the objects became that we
twice he took us for a row. I don’t know why one slight set of passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into
impressions should be more particularly associated with a her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in those trans-
place than another, though I believe this obtains with most ports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and looked
people, in reference especially to the associations of their confused and out of sorts.

Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spite of I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her an-
her, when the carrier’s horse pleased - and did. How well I other turn in the right direction, and then stood before her,
recollect it, on a cold grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threat- looking at her in anxious inquiry.
ening rain! ‘You see, dear, I should have told you before now,’ said
The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half Peggotty, ‘but I hadn’t an opportunity. I ought to have made
crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not it, perhaps, but I couldn’t azackly’ - that was always the sub-
she, but a strange servant. stitute for exactly, in Peggotty’s militia of words - ‘bring my
‘Why, Peggotty!’ I said, ruefully, ‘isn’t she come home?’ mind to it.’
‘Yes, yes, Master Davy,’ said Peggotty. ‘She’s come home. ‘Go on, Peggotty,’ said I, more frightened than before.
Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I’ll - I’ll tell you something.’ ‘Master Davy,’ said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with
Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in a shaking hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way.
getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraor- ‘What do you think? You have got a Pa!’
dinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to I trembled, and turned white. Something - I don’t know
tell her so. When she had got down, she took me by the hand; what, or how - connected with the grave in the churchyard,
led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the door. and the raising of the dead, seemed to strike me like an un-
‘Peggotty!’ said I, quite frightened. ‘What’s the matter?’ wholesome wind.
‘Nothing’s the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear!’ she ‘A new one,’ said Peggotty.
answered, assuming an air of sprightliness. ‘A new one?’ I repeated.
‘Something’s the matter, I’m sure. Where’s mama?’ Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing some-
‘Where’s mama, Master Davy?’ repeated Peggotty. thing that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said:
‘Yes. Why hasn’t she come out to the gate, and what have ‘Come and see him.’
we come in here for? Oh, Peggotty!’ My eyes were full, and I ‘I don’t want to see him.’
felt as if I were going to tumble down. - ‘And your mama,’ said Peggotty.
‘Bless the precious boy!’ cried Peggotty, taking hold of I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best
me. ‘What is it? Speak, my pet!’ parlour, where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my
‘Not dead, too! Oh, she’s not dead, Peggotty?’ mother; on the other, Mr. Murdstone. My mother dropped
Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly I thought.
voice; and then sat down, and began to pant, and said I had ‘Now, Clara my dear,’ said Mr. Murdstone. ‘Recollect!
given her a turn. control yourself, always control yourself! Davy boy, how do

you do?’
I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went CHAPTER 4
and kissed my mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on
the shoulder, and sat down again to her work. I could not
look at her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that
he was looking at us both; and I turned to the window and I FALL INTO DISGRACE
looked out there, at some shrubs that were drooping their
heads in the cold.
As soon as I could creep away, I crept upstairs. My old
dear bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I
rambled downstairs to find anything that was like itself, so
altered it all seemed; and roamed into the yard. I very soon
I f the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient
thing that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this
day - who sleeps there now, I wonder! - to bear witness for
started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled me what a heavy heart I carried to it. I went up there, hear-
up with a great dog - deep mouthed and black-haired like ing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way while I
Him - and he was very angry at the sight of me, and sprang climbed the stairs; and, looking as blank and strange upon
out to get at me. the room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my
small hands crossed, and thought.
I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room,
of the cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the walls, of
the flaws in the window-glass making ripples and dimples
on the prospect, of the washing-stand being rickety on its
three legs, and having a discontented something about it,
which reminded me of Mrs. Gummidge under the influ-
ence of the old one. I was crying all the time, but, except
that I was conscious of being cold and dejected, I am sure I
never thought why I cried. At last in my desolation I began
to consider that I was dreadfully in love with little Em’ly,
and had been torn away from her to come here where no
one seemed to want me, or to care about me, half as much as

she did. This made such a very miserable piece of business age creature! Oh, dear me!’ cried my mother, turning from
of it, that I rolled myself up in a corner of the counterpane, one of us to the other, in her pettish wilful manner, ‘what a
and cried myself to sleep. troublesome world this is, when one has the most right to
I was awoke by somebody saying ‘Here he is!’ and uncov- expect it to be as agreeable as possible!’
ering my hot head. My mother and Peggotty had come to I felt the touch of a hand that I knew was neither hers nor
look for me, and it was one of them who had done it. Peggotty’s, and slipped to my feet at the bed-side. It was Mr.
‘Davy,’ said my mother. ‘What’s the matter?’ Murdstone’s hand, and he kept it on my arm as he said:
I thought it was very strange that she should ask me, and ‘What’s this? Clara, my love, have you forgotten? - Firm-
answered, ‘Nothing.’ I turned over on my face, I recollect, ness, my dear!’
to hide my trembling lip, which answered her with greater ‘I am very sorry, Edward,’ said my mother. ‘I meant to be
truth. ‘Davy,’ said my mother. ‘Davy, my child!’ very good, but I am so uncomfortable.’
I dare say no words she could have uttered would have ‘Indeed!’ he answered. ‘That’s a bad hearing, so soon,
affected me so much, then, as her calling me her child. I hid Clara.’
my tears in the bedclothes, and pressed her from me with ‘I say it’s very hard I should be made so now,’ returned my
my hand, when she would have raised me up. mother, pouting; ‘and it is - very hard - isn’t it?’
‘This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel thing!’ said my He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed
mother. ‘I have no doubt at all about it. How can you recon- her. I knew as well, when I saw my mother’s head lean down
cile it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own boy upon his shoulder, and her arm touch his neck - I knew as
against me, or against anybody who is dear to me? What do well that he could mould her pliant nature into any form he
you mean by it, Peggotty?’ chose, as I know, now, that he did it.
Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyes, and only ‘Go you below, my love,’ said Mr. Murdstone. ‘David and
answered, in a sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually re- I will come down, together. My friend,’ turning a darkening
peated after dinner, ‘Lord forgive you, Mrs. Copperfield, face on Peggotty, when he had watched my mother out, and
and for what you have said this minute, may you never be dismissed her with a nod and a smile; ‘do you know your
truly sorry!’ mistress’s name?’
‘It’s enough to distract me,’ cried my mother. ‘In my hon- ‘She has been my mistress a long time, sir,’ answered Peg-
eymoon, too, when my most inveterate enemy might relent, gotty, ‘I ought to know it.’ ‘That’s true,’ he answered. ‘But
one would think, and not envy me a little peace of mind I thought I heard you, as I came upstairs, address her by a
and happiness. Davy, you naughty boy! Peggotty, you sav- name that is not hers. She has taken mine, you know. Will

you remember that?’ to be like Mrs. Gummidge, and motioned me with his head
Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed to obey him directly. I had little doubt then, and I have less
herself out of the room without replying; seeing, I sup- doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without
pose, that she was expected to go, and had no excuse for the least compunction, if I had hesitated.
remaining. When we two were left alone, he shut the door, ‘Clara, my dear,’ he said, when I had done his bidding,
and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, and he walked me into the parlour, with his hand still on
looked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own attracted, no less my arm; ‘you will not be made uncomfortable any more, I
steadily, to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to hope. We shall soon improve our youthful humours.’
face, I seem again to hear my heart beat fast and high. God help me, I might have been improved for my whole
‘David,’ he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for
together, ‘if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, life, by a kind word at that season. A word of encourage-
what do you think I do?’ ment and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance,
‘I don’t know.’ of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home,
‘I beat him.’ might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth,
I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made
in my silence, that my breath was shorter now. me respect instead of hate him. I thought my mother was
‘I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, ‘I’ll con- sorry to see me standing in the room so scared and strange,
quer that fellow”; and if it were to cost him all the blood he and that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she followed
had, I should do it. What is that upon your face?’ me with her eyes more sorrowfully still - missing, perhaps,
‘Dirt,’ I said. some freedom in my childish tread - but the word was not
He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he spoken, and the time for it was gone.
had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very
blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I fond of my mother - I am afraid I liked him none the bet-
would have told him so. ter for that - and she was very fond of him. I gathered from
‘You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,’ he what they said, that an elder sister of his was coming to stay
said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, ‘and you un- with them, and that she was expected that evening. I am
derstood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come not certain whether I found out then, or afterwards, that,
down with me.’ without being actively concerned in any business, he had
He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out some share in, or some annual charge upon the profits of,

a wine-merchant’s house in London, with which his family stone was.
had been connected from his great-grandfather’s time, and She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of
in which his sister had a similar interest; but I may mention welcome, and there formally recognized my mother as a
it in this place, whether or no. new and near relation. Then she looked at me, and said:
After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was ‘Is that your boy, sister-in-law?’
meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the har- My mother acknowledged me.
dihood to slip away, lest it should offend the master of the ‘Generally speaking,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘I don’t like
house, a coach drove up to the garden-gate and he went out boys. How d’ye do, boy?’
to receive the visitor. My mother followed him. I was tim- Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I
idly following her, when she turned round at the parlour was very well, and that I hoped she was the same; with such
door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace as she had an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me
been used to do, whispered me to love my new father and in two words:
be obedient to him. She did this hurriedly and secretly, as ‘Wants manner!’
if it were wrong, but tenderly; and, putting out her hand Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she
behind her, held mine in it, until we came near to where he begged the favour of being shown to her room, which be-
was standing in the garden, where she let mine go, and drew came to me from that time forth a place of awe and dread,
hers through his arm. wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or known
It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy- to be left unlocked, and where (for I peeped in once or twice
looking lady she was; dark, like her brother, whom she when she was out) numerous little steel fetters and rivets,
greatly resembled in face and voice; and with very heavy with which Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she
eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, being was dressed, generally hung upon the looking-glass in for-
disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, midable array.
she had carried them to that account. She brought with her As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and
two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on had no intention of ever going again. She began to ‘help’ my
the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the coachman mother next morning, and was in and out of the store-closet
she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept all day, putting things to rights, and making havoc in the old
the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm arrangements. Almost the first remarkable thing I observed
by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite. I had never, at that in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by a
time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murd- suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere

on the premises. Under the influence of this delusion, she stone had been developing certain household plans to her
dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and brother, of which he signified his approbation, my mother
scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without suddenly began to cry, and said she thought she might have
clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him. been consulted.
Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murd- ‘Clara!’ said Mr. Murdstone sternly. ‘Clara! I wonder at
stone, she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She you.’
was up (and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man) ‘Oh, it’s very well to say you wonder, Edward!’ cried my
before anybody in the house was stirring. Peggotty gave it mother, ‘and it’s very well for you to talk about firmness, but
as her opinion that she even slept with one eye open; but you wouldn’t like it yourself.’
I could not concur in this idea; for I tried it myself after Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which
hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn’t both Mr. and Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I
be done. might have expressed my comprehension of it at that time,
On the very first morning after her arrival she was up if I had been called upon, I nevertheless did clearly compre-
and ringing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came hend in my own way, that it was another name for tyranny;
down to breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss and for a certain gloomy, arrogant, devil’s humour, that
Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was was in them both. The creed, as I should state it now, was
her nearest approach to a kiss, and said: this. Mr. Murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to
‘Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to re- be so firm as Mr. Murdstone; nobody else in his world was
lieve you of all the trouble I can. You’re much too pretty and to be firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to his firm-
thoughtless’ - my mother blushed but laughed, and seemed ness. Miss Murdstone was an exception. She might be firm,
not to dislike this character - ‘to have any duties imposed but only by relationship, and in an inferior and tributary
upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you’ll be so good degree. My mother was another exception. She might be
as give me your keys, my dear, I’ll attend to all this sort of firm, and must be; but only in bearing their firmness, and
thing in future.’ firmly believing there was no other firmness upon earth.
From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her ‘It’s very hard,’ said my mother, ‘that in my own house -’
own little jail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my ‘My own house?’ repeated Mr. Murdstone. ‘Clara!’
mother had no more to do with them than I had. ‘OUR own house, I mean,’ faltered my mother, evidently
My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her frightened - ‘I hope you must know what I mean, Edward
without a shadow of protest. One night when Miss Murd- - it’s very hard that in YOUR own house I may not have a

word to say about domestic matters. I am sure I managed amount of that firmness and decision of which it stood in
very well before we were married. There’s evidence,’ said my need. But when Jane Murdstone is kind enough to come to
mother, sobbing; ‘ask Peggotty if I didn’t do very well when my assistance in this endeavour, and to assume, for my sake,
I wasn’t interfered with!’ a condition something like a housekeeper’s, and when she
‘Edward,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘let there be an end of meets with a base return -’
this. I go tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, pray, pray, Edward,’ cried my mother, ‘don’t accuse
‘Jane Murdstone,’ said her brother, ‘be silent! How dare me of being ungrateful. I am sure I am not ungrateful. No
you to insinuate that you don’t know my character better one ever said I was before. I have many faults, but not that.
than your words imply?’ Oh, don’t, my dear!’
‘I am sure,’ my poor mother went on, at a grievous disad- ‘When Jane Murdstone meets, I say,’ he went on, after
vantage, and with many tears, ‘I don’t want anybody to go. I waiting until my mother was silent, ‘with a base return, that
should be very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go. feeling of mine is chilled and altered.’
I don’t ask much. I am not unreasonable. I only want to be ‘Don’t, my love, say that!’ implored my mother very pite-
consulted sometimes. I am very much obliged to anybody ously. ‘Oh, don’t, Edward! I can’t bear to hear it. Whatever I
who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a mere am, I am affectionate. I know I am affectionate. I wouldn’t
form, sometimes. I thought you were pleased, once, with say it, if I wasn’t sure that I am. Ask Peggotty. I am sure
my being a little inexperienced and girlish, Edward - I am she’ll tell you I’m affectionate.’
sure you said so - but you seem to hate me for it now, you ‘There is no extent of mere weakness, Clara,’ said Mr.
are so severe.’ Murdstone in reply, ‘that can have the least weight with me.
‘Edward,’ said Miss Murdstone, again, ‘let there be an You lose breath.’
end of this. I go tomorrow.’ ‘Pray let us be friends,’ said my mother, ‘I couldn’t live
‘Jane Murdstone,’ thundered Mr. Murdstone. ‘Will you under coldness or unkindness. I am so sorry. I have a great
be silent? How dare you?’ many defects, I know, and it’s very good of you, Edward,
Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-hand- with your strength of mind, to endeavour to correct them
kerchief, and held it before her eyes. for me. Jane, I don’t object to anything. I should be quite
‘Clara,’ he continued, looking at my mother, ‘you sur- broken-hearted if you thought of leaving -’ My mother was
prise me! You astound me! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the too much overcome to go on.
thought of marrying an inexperienced and artless per- ‘Jane Murdstone,’ said Mr. Murdstone to his sister, ‘any
son, and forming her character, and infusing into it some harsh words between us are, I hope, uncommon. It is not my

fault that so unusual an occurrence has taken place tonight. acter was a necessary consequence of Mr. Murdstone’s
I was betrayed into it by another. Nor is it your fault. You firmness, which wouldn’t allow him to let anybody off from
were betrayed into it by another. Let us both try to forget it. the utmost weight of the severest penalties he could find
And as this,’ he added, after these magnanimous words, ‘is any excuse for. Be this as it may, I well remember the tre-
not a fit scene for the boy - David, go to bed!’ mendous visages with which we used to go to church, and
I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood the changed air of the place. Again, the dreaded Sunday
in my eyes. I was so sorry for my mother’s distress; but I comes round, and I file into the old pew first, like a guard-
groped my way out, and groped my way up to my room in ed captive brought to a condemned service. Again, Miss
the dark, without even having the heart to say good night to Murdstone, in a black velvet gown, that looks as if it had
Peggotty, or to get a candle from her. When her coming up been made out of a pall, follows close upon me; then my
to look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said mother; then her husband. There is no Peggotty now, as in
that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr. and the old time. Again, I listen to Miss Murdstone mumbling
Miss Murdstone were sitting alone. the responses, and emphasizing all the dread words with a
Going down next morning rather earlier than usual, I cruel relish. Again, I see her dark eyes roll round the church
paused outside the parlour door, on hearing my mother’s when she says ‘miserable sinners’, as if she were calling all
voice. She was very earnestly and humbly entreating Miss the congregation names. Again, I catch rare glimpses of my
Murdstone’s pardon, which that lady granted, and a per- mother, moving her lips timidly between the two, with one
fect reconciliation took place. I never knew my mother of them muttering at each ear like low thunder. Again, I
afterwards to give an opinion on any matter, without first wonder with a sudden fear whether it is likely that our good
appealing to Miss Murdstone, or without having first ascer- old clergyman can be wrong, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone
tained by some sure means, what Miss Murdstone’s opinion right, and that all the angels in Heaven can be destroying
was; and I never saw Miss Murdstone, when out of temper angels. Again, if I move a finger or relax a muscle of my
(she was infirm that way), move her hand towards her bag face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with her prayer-book, and
as if she were going to take out the keys and offer to resign makes my side ache.
them to my mother, without seeing that my mother was in Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbours
a terrible fright. looking at my mother and at me, and whispering. Again,
The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blood, as the three go on arm-in-arm, and I linger behind alone, I
darkened the Murdstone religion, which was austere and follow some of those looks, and wonder if my mother’s step
wrathful. I have thought, since, that its assuming that char- be really not so light as I have seen it, and if the gaiety of

her beauty be really almost worried away. Again, I wonder dered by them as I believe my poor mother was herself.
whether any of the neighbours call to mind, as I do, how we Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morn-
used to walk home together, she and I; and I wonder stu- ing back again.
pidly about that, all the dreary dismal day. I come into the second-best parlour after breakfast, with
There had been some talk on occasions of my going to my books, and an exercise-book, and a slate. My mother is
boarding- school. Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated ready for me at her writing-desk, but not half so ready as
it, and my mother had of course agreed with them. Nothing, Mr. Murdstone in his easy-chair by the window (though he
however, was concluded on the subject yet. In the meantime, pretends to be reading a book), or as Miss Murdstone, sit-
I learnt lessons at home. Shall I ever forget those lessons! ting near my mother stringing steel beads. The very sight of
They were presided over nominally by my mother, but really these two has such an influence over me, that I begin to feel
by Mr. Murdstone and his sister, who were always present, the words I have been at infinite pains to get into my head,
and found them a favourable occasion for giving my moth- all sliding away, and going I don’t know where. I wonder
er lessons in that miscalled firmness, which was the bane where they do go, by the by?
of both our lives. I believe I was kept at home for that pur- I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a gram-
pose. I had been apt enough to learn, and willing enough, mar, perhaps a history, or geography. I take a last drowning
when my mother and I had lived alone together. I can faint- look at the page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud
ly remember learning the alphabet at her knee. To this day, at a racing pace while I have got it fresh. I trip over a word.
when I look upon the fat black letters in the primer, the puz- Mr. Murdstone looks up. I trip over another word. Miss
zling novelty of their shapes, and the easy good-nature of O Murdstone looks up. I redden, tumble over half-a-dozen
and Q and S, seem to present themselves again before me words, and stop. I think my mother would show me the
as they used to do. But they recall no feeling of disgust or book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says soft-
reluctance. On the contrary, I seem to have walked along ly:
a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-book, and to have ‘Oh, Davy, Davy!’
been cheered by the gentleness of my mother’s voice and ‘Now, Clara,’ says Mr. Murdstone, ‘be firm with the boy.
manner all the way. But these solemn lessons which suc- Don’t say, ‘Oh, Davy, Davy!’ That’s childish. He knows his
ceeded those, I remember as the death-blow of my peace, lesson, or he does not know it.’
and a grievous daily drudgery and misery. They were very ‘He does NOT know it,’ Miss Murdstone interposes aw-
long, very numerous, very hard - perfectly unintelligible, fully.
some of them, to me - and I was generally as much bewil- ‘I am really afraid he does not,’ says my mother.

‘Then, you see, Clara,’ returns Miss Murdstone, ‘you for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice:
should just give him the book back, and make him know ‘Clara!’
it.’ My mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murd-
‘Yes, certainly,’ says my mother; ‘that is what I intend to stone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me
do, my dear Jane. Now, Davy, try once more, and don’t be or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by
stupid.’ the shoulders.
I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once Even when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to hap-
more, but am not so successful with the second, for I am pen, in the shape of an appalling sum. This is invented for
very stupid. I tumble down before I get to the old place, at a me, and delivered to me orally by Mr. Murdstone, and
point where I was all right before, and stop to think. But I begins, ‘If I go into a cheesemonger’s shop, and buy five
can’t think about the lesson. I think of the number of yards thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at fourpence-halfpen-
of net in Miss Murdstone’s cap, or of the price of Mr. Murd- ny each, present payment’ - at which I see Miss Murdstone
stone’s dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous problem that secretly overjoyed. I pore over these cheeses without any
I have no business with, and don’t want to have anything result or enlightenment until dinner-time, when, having
at all to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of im- made a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate
patience which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss into the pores of my skin, I have a slice of bread to help me
Murdstone does the same. My mother glances submissively out with the cheeses, and am considered in disgrace for the
at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be rest of the evening.
worked out when my other tasks are done. It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfor-
There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells tunate studies generally took this course. I could have done
like a rolling snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid I very well if I had been without the Murdstones; but the in-
get. The case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing fluence of the Murdstones upon me was like the fascination
in such a bog of nonsense, that I give up all idea of getting of two snakes on a wretched young bird. Even when I did
out, and abandon myself to my fate. The despairing way in get through the morning with tolerable credit, there was
which my mother and I look at each other, as I blunder on, is not much gained but dinner; for Miss Murdstone never
truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in these miserable could endure to see me untasked, and if I rashly made any
lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody is observing show of being unemployed, called her brother’s attention
her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of her lips. At to me by saying, ‘Clara, my dear, there’s nothing like work
that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying in wait - give your boy an exercise’; which caused me to be clapped

down to some new labour, there and then. As to any recre- Murdstone into all the bad ones - which I did too. I have
ation with other children of my age, I had very little of that; been Tom Jones (a child’s Tom Jones, a harmless creature)
for the gloomy theology of the Murdstones made all chil- for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roder-
dren out to be a swarm of little vipers (though there WAS a ick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had
child once set in the midst of the Disciples), and held that a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels - I
they contaminated one another. forget what, now - that were on those shelves; and for days
The natural result of this treatment, continued, I sup- and days I can remember to have gone about my region of
pose, for some six months or more, was to make me sullen, our house, armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of
dull, and dogged. I was not made the less so by my sense of boot-trees - the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of
being daily more and more shut out and alienated from my the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages,
mother. I believe I should have been almost stupefied but and resolved to sell his life at a great price. The Captain nev-
for one circumstance. er lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the Latin
It was this. My father had left a small collection of books Grammar. I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero,
in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it ad- in despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the
joined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever world, dead or alive.
troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think
Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer eve-
of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Cru- ning, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my
soe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They bed, reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbourhood,
kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond every stone in the church, and every foot of the churchyard,
that place and time, - they, and the Arabian Nights, and the had some association of its own, in my mind, connected
Tales of the Genii, - and did me no harm; for whatever harm with these books, and stood for some locality made famous
was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing in them. I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the church-
of it. It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the steeple; I have watched Strap, with the knapsack on his back,
midst of my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, stopping to rest himself upon the wicket-gate; and I know
to read those books as I did. It is curious to me how I could that Commodore Trunnion held that club with Mr. Pickle,
ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which in the parlour of our little village alehouse.
were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favourite The reader now understands, as well as I do, what I was
characters in them - as I did - and by putting Mr. and Miss when I came to that point of my youthful history to which I

am now coming again. it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a
One morning when I went into the parlour with my smoothness there was no checking.
books, I found my mother looking anxious, Miss Murd- We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with
stone looking firm, and Mr. Murdstone binding something an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I
round the bottom of a cane - a lithe and limber cane, which was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mis-
he left off binding when I came in, and poised and switched take. Book after book was added to the heap of failures, Miss
in the air. Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time. And
‘I tell you, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘I have been often when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he
flogged myself.’ made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying.
‘To be sure; of course,’ said Miss Murdstone. ‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.
‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ faltered my mother, meekly. ‘I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think,’ said my moth-
‘But - but do you think it did Edward good?’ er.
‘Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara?’ asked Mr. I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and
Murdstone, gravely. said, taking up the cane:
‘That’s the point,’ said his sister. ‘Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with
To this my mother returned, ‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has oc-
and said no more. casioned her today. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly
I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so
dialogue, and sought Mr. Murdstone’s eye as it lighted on much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.’
mine. As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards
‘Now, David,’ he said - and I saw that cast again as he said us. Miss Murdstone said, ‘Clara! are you a perfect fool?’ and
it - ‘you must be far more careful today than usual.’ He gave interfered. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I heard
the cane another poise, and another switch; and having fin- her crying.
ished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him, with an He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely - I am
impressive look, and took up his book. certain he had a delight in that formal parade of executing
This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a justice - and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head
beginning. I felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not under his arm.
one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page; I tried ‘Mr. Murdstone! Sir!’ I cried to him. ‘Don’t! Pray don’t
to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express beat me! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can’t learn while you

and Miss Murdstone are by. I can’t indeed!’ when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone came in
‘Can’t you, indeed, David?’ he said. ‘We’ll try that.’ with some bread and meat, and milk. These she put down
He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him upon the table without a word, glaring at me the while with
somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him exemplary firmness, and then retired, locking the door af-
not to beat me. It was only a moment that I stopped him, for ter her.
he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same in- Long after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether any-
stant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth, body else would come. When this appeared improbable for
between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on that night, I undressed, and went to bed; and, there, I began
edge to think of it. to wonder fearfully what would be done to me. Whether it
He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. was a criminal act that I had committed? Whether I should
Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the be taken into custody, and sent to prison? Whether I was at
stairs, and crying out - I heard my mother crying out - and all in danger of being hanged?
Peggotty. Then he was gone; and the door was locked out- I never shall forget the waking, next morning; the be-
side; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore, ing cheerful and fresh for the first moment, and then the
and raging in my puny way, upon the floor. being weighed down by the stale and dismal oppression of
How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an un- remembrance. Miss Murdstone reappeared before I was out
natural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house! of bed; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk
How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to in the garden for half an hour and no longer; and retired,
cool, how wicked I began to feel! leaving the door open, that I might avail myself of that per-
I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. mission.
I crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment,
so swollen, red, and ugly that it almost frightened me. My which lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother alone,
stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh, when I I should have gone down on my knees to her and besought
moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay heavi- her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss Murdstone excepted,
er on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal, during the whole time - except at evening prayers in the
I dare say. parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone after
It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window everybody else was placed; where I was stationed, a young
(I had been lying, for the most part, with my head upon outlaw, all alone by myself near the door; and whence I was
the sill, by turns crying, dozing, and looking listlessly out), solemnly conducted by my jailer, before any one arose from

the devotional posture. I only observed that my mother was was awakened by hearing my own name spoken in a whis-
as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face another per. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the
way so that I never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone’s hand dark, said:
was bound up in a large linen wrapper. ‘Is that you, Peggotty?’
The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard
any one. They occupy the place of years in my remembrance. my name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, that
The way in which I listened to all the incidents of the house I think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to
that made themselves audible to me; the ringing of bells, me that it must have come through the keyhole.
the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring of voic- I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to
es, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or the keyhole, whispered: ‘Is that you, Peggotty dear?’
singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything ‘Yes, my own precious Davy,’ she replied. ‘Be as soft as a
else to me in my solitude and disgrace - the uncertain pace mouse, or the Cat’ll hear us.’
of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake think- I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sen-
ing it was morning, and find that the family were not yet sible of the urgency of the case; her room being close by.
gone to bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come ‘How’s mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with
- the depressed dreams and nightmares I had - the return me?’
of day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the key-
the churchyard, and I watched them from a distance with- hole, as I was doing on mine, before she answered. ‘No. Not
in the room, being ashamed to show myself at the window very.’
lest they should know I was a prisoner - the strange sensa- ‘What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear? Do
tion of never hearing myself speak - the fleeting intervals you know?’
of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating ‘School. Near London,’ was Peggotty’s answer. I was
and drinking, and went away with it - the setting in of rain obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time
one evening, with a fresh smell, and its coming down faster quite down my throat, in consequence of my having forgot-
and faster between me and the church, until it and gath- ten to take my mouth away from the keyhole and put my
ering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and ear there; and though her words tickled me a good deal, I
remorse - all this appears to have gone round and round for didn’t hear them.
years instead of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped ‘When, Peggotty?’
on my remembrance. On the last night of my restraint, I ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes and that I sent ‘em all my love - especially to little Em’ly?
out of my drawers?’ which she had done, though I have for- Will you, if you please, Peggotty?’
gotten to mention it. The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the
‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Box.’ keyhole with the greatest affection - I patted it with my
‘Shan’t I see mama?’ hand, I recollect, as if it had been her honest face - and part-
‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Morning.’ ed. From that night there grew up in my breast a feeling for
Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and Peggotty which I cannot very well define. She did not re-
delivered these words through it with as much feeling and place my mother; no one could do that; but she came into
earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the medium of com- a vacancy in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt
municating, I will venture to assert: shooting in each broken towards her something I have never felt for any other hu-
little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own. man being. It was a sort of comical affection, too; and yet
‘Davy, dear. If I ain’t been azackly as intimate with you. if she had died, I cannot think what I should have done, or
Lately, as I used to be. It ain’t because I don’t love you. just how I should have acted out the tragedy it would have been
as well and more, my pretty poppet. It’s because I thought it to me.
better for you. And for someone else besides. Davy, my dar- In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and
ling, are you listening? Can you hear?’ told me I was going to school; which was not altogether
‘Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!’ I sobbed. such news to me as she supposed. She also informed me
‘My own!’ said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. ‘What that when I was dressed, I was to come downstairs into the
I want to say, is. That you must never forget me. For I’ll nev- parlour, and have my breakfast. There, I found my moth-
er forget you. And I’ll take as much care of your mama, er, very pale and with red eyes: into whose arms I ran, and
Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won’t leave her. The day begged her pardon from my suffering soul.
may come when she’ll be glad to lay her poor head. On her ‘Oh, Davy!’ she said. ‘That you could hurt anyone I love!
stupid, cross old Peggotty’s arm again. And I’ll write to you, Try to be better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so
my dear. Though I ain’t no scholar. And I’ll - I’ll -’ Peggotty grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad passions in
fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn’t kiss me. your heart.’
‘Thank you, dear Peggotty!’ said I. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and
you! Will you promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you she was more sorry for that than for my going away. I felt
write and tell Mr. Peggotty and little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gum- it sorely. I tried to eat my parting breakfast, but my tears
midge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they might suppose, dropped upon my bread- and-butter, and trickled into my

tea. I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then glance
at the watchful Miss Murdstone, and than look down, or CHAPTER 5
look away.
‘Master Copperfield’s box there!’ said Miss Murdstone,
when wheels were heard at the gate.
I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she; neither she nor I AM SENT AWAY
Mr. Murdstone appeared. My former acquaintance, the car-
rier, was at the door. the box was taken out to his cart, and FROM HOME
lifted in.
‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note.
‘Ready, my dear Jane,’ returned my mother. ‘Good-bye,
Davy. You are going for your own good. Good-bye, my child.
You will come home in the holidays, and be a better boy.’
‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated.
W e might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-
handkerchief was quite wet through, when the carrier
stopped short. Looking out to ascertain for what, I saw, to
‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ replied my mother, who was MY amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge and climb
holding me. ‘I forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you!’ into the cart. She took me in both her arms, and squeezed
‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated. me to her stays until the pressure on my nose was extremely
Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the painful, though I never thought of that till afterwards when
cart, and to say on the way that she hoped I would repent, I found it very tender. Not a single word did Peggotty speak.
before I came to a bad end; and then I got into the cart, and Releasing one of her arms, she put it down in her pocket to
the lazy horse walked off with it. the elbow, and brought out some paper bags of cakes which
she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put
into my hand, but not one word did she say. After another
and a final squeeze with both arms, she got down from the
cart and ran away; and, my belief is, and has always been,
without a solitary button on her gown. I picked up one, of
several that were rolling about, and treasured it as a keep-
sake for a long time.
The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were com-

ing back. I shook my head, and said I thought not. ‘Then ‘Where’s there?’ inquired the carrier.
come up,’ said the carrier to the lazy horse; who came up ‘Near London,’ I said.
accordingly. ‘Why that horse,’ said the carrier, jerking the rein to point
Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I him out, ‘would be deader than pork afore he got over half
began to think it was of no use crying any more, especially the ground.’
as neither Roderick Random, nor that Captain in the Roy- ‘Are you only going to Yarmouth then?’ I asked.
al British Navy, had ever cried, that I could remember, in ‘That’s about it,’ said the carrier. ‘And there I shall take
trying situations. The carrier, seeing me in this resolution, you to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that’ll take you
proposed that my pocket- handkerchief should be spread to - wherever it is.’
upon the horse’s back to dry. I thanked him, and assented; As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name
and particularly small it looked, under those circumstanc- was Mr. Barkis) to say - he being, as I observed in a for-
es. mer chapter, of a phlegmatic temperament, and not at all
I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff conversational - I offered him a cake as a mark of attention,
leather purse, with a snap, and had three bright shillings in which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant, and which
it, which Peggotty had evidently polished up with whiten- made no more impression on his big face than it would have
ing, for my greater delight. But its most precious contents done on an elephant’s.
were two half-crowns folded together in a bit of paper, on ‘Did SHE make ‘em, now?’ said Mr. Barkis, always lean-
which was written, in my mother’s hand, ‘For Davy. With ing forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the
my love.’ I was so overcome by this, that I asked the car- cart with an arm on each knee.
rier to be so good as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief ‘Peggotty, do you mean, sir?’
again; but he said he thought I had better do without it, and ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Her.’
I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and ‘Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.’
stopped myself. ‘Do she though?’ said Mr. Barkis. He made up his mouth
For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous as if to whistle, but he didn’t whistle. He sat looking at the
emotions, I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. horse’s ears, as if he saw something new there; and sat so, for
After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the car- a considerable time. By and by, he said:
rier if he was going all the way. ‘No sweethearts, I b’lieve?’
‘All the way where?’ inquired the carrier. ‘Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?’ For I thought he
‘There,’ I said. wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to

that description of refreshment. message,’ I readily undertook its transmission. While I was
‘Hearts,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Sweet hearts; no person walks waiting for the coach in the hotel at Yarmouth that very af-
with her!’ ternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and an inkstand, and
‘With Peggotty?’ wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: ‘My dear Peggotty.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Her.’ I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mama.
‘Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.’ Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he particularly wants you
‘Didn’t she, though!’ said Mr. Barkis. to know - BARKIS IS WILLING.’
Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he When I had taken this commission on myself prospec-
didn’t whistle, but sat looking at the horse’s ears. tively, Mr. Barkis relapsed into perfect silence; and I, feeling
‘So she makes,’ said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of quite worn out by all that had happened lately, lay down on
reflection, ‘all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, a sack in the cart and fell asleep. I slept soundly until we got
do she?’ to Yarmouth; which was so entirely new and strange to me
I replied that such was the fact. in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once abandoned
‘Well. I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘P’raps you a latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggot-
might be writin’ to her?’ ty’s family there, perhaps even with little Em’ly herself.
‘I shall certainly write to her,’ I rejoined. The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but
‘Ah!’ he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. ‘Well! without any horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as
If you was writin’ to her, p’raps you’d recollect to say that if nothing was more unlikely than its ever going to London.
Barkis was willin’; would you?’ I was thinking this, and wondering what would ultimately
‘That Barkis is willing,’ I repeated, innocently. ‘Is that all become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had put down on the
the message?’ yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard to
‘Ye-es,’ he said, considering. ‘Ye-es. Barkis is willin’.’ turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of
‘But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrow, Mr. me, when a lady looked out of a bow-window where some
Barkis,’ I said, faltering a little at the idea of my being far fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and said:
away from it then, and could give your own message so ‘Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?’
much better.’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.
As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of ‘What name?’ inquired the lady.
his head, and once more confirmed his previous request by ‘Copperfield, ma’am,’ I said.
saying, with profound gravity, ‘Barkis is willin’. That’s the ‘That won’t do,’ returned the lady. ‘Nobody’s dinner is

paid for here, in that name.’ ‘There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?’
‘Is it Murdstone, ma’am?’ I said. I thanked him and said, ‘Yes.’ Upon which he poured it
‘If you’re Master Murdstone,’ said the lady, ‘why do you out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the
go and give another name, first?’ light, and made it look beautiful.
I explained to the lady how it was, who than rang a bell, ‘My eye!’ he said. ‘It seems a good deal, don’t it?’
and called out, ‘William! show the coffee-room!’ upon ‘It does seem a good deal,’ I answered with a smile. For it
which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the op- was quite delightful to me, to find him so pleasant. He was
posite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing
surprised when he was only to show it to me. upright all over his head; and as he stood with one arm a-
It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with the other hand,
doubt if I could have felt much stranger if the maps had he looked quite friendly.
been real foreign countries, and I cast away in the middle of ‘There was a gentleman here, yesterday,’ he said - ‘a stout
them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit down, with my cap gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer - perhaps you know
in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the door; and him?’
when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think -’
set of castors on it, I think I must have turned red all over ‘In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat,
with modesty. speckled choker,’ said the waiter.
He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the ‘No,’ I said bashfully, ‘I haven’t the pleasure -’
covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I ‘He came in here,’ said the waiter, looking at the light
must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved through the tumbler, ‘ordered a glass of this ale - WOULD
my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying, order it - I told him not - drank it, and fell dead. It was too
very affably, ‘Now, six-foot! come on!’ old for him. It oughtn’t to be drawn; that’s the fact.’
I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy acci-
it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with any- dent, and said I thought I had better have some water.
thing like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the ‘Why you see,’ said the waiter, still looking at the light
gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and through the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, ‘our peo-
making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time ple don’t like things being ordered and left. It offends ‘em.
I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, But I’ll drink it, if you like. I’m used to it, and use is every-
he said: thing. I don’t think it’ll hurt me, if I throw my head back,

and take it off quick. Shall I?’ ‘un, and let’s see who’ll get most.’
I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than
he thought he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. once to come in and win, but what with his table-spoon to
When he did throw his head back, and take it off quick, I my tea-spoon, his dispatch to my dispatch, and his appetite
had a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of to my appetite, I was left far behind at the first mouthful,
the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy a
But it didn’t hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all
the fresher for it. gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.
‘What have we got here?’ he said, putting a fork into my Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was
dish. ‘Not chops?’ then that I asked for the pen and ink and paper, to write to
‘Chops,’ I said. Peggotty. He not only brought it immediately, but was good
‘Lord bless my soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know they enough to look over me while I wrote the letter. When I had
were chops. Why, a chop’s the very thing to take off the bad finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.
effects of that beer! Ain’t it lucky?’ I said, ‘Near London,’ which was all I knew.
So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato ‘Oh! my eye!’ he said, looking very low-spirited, ‘I am
in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my sorry for that.’
extreme satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop, and ‘Why?’ I asked him.
another potato; and after that, another chop and another ‘Oh, Lord!’ he said, shaking his head, ‘that’s the school
potato. When we had done, he brought me a pudding, and where they broke the boy’s ribs - two ribs - a little boy he was.
having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become I should say he was - let me see - how old are you, about?’
absent in his mind for some moments. I told him between eight and nine.
‘How’s the pie?’ he said, rousing himself. ‘That’s just his age,’ he said. ‘He was eight years and six
‘It’s a pudding,’ I made answer. months old when they broke his first rib; eight years and
‘Pudding!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, bless me, so it is! What!’ eight months old when they broke his second, and did for
looking at it nearer. ‘You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pud- him.’
ding!’ I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that
‘Yes, it is indeed.’ this was an uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how
‘Why, a batter-pudding,’ he said, taking up a table-spoon, it was done. His answer was not cheering to my spirits, for it
‘is my favourite pudding! Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little consisted of two dismal words, ‘With whopping.’

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a sea- have eaten all the dinner without any assistance. I discov-
sonable diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly ered this, from overhearing the lady in the bow-window say
inquire, in the mingled pride and diffidence of having a to the guard, ‘Take care of that child, George, or he’ll burst!’
purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there were any- and from observing that the women-servants who were
thing to pay. about the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young
‘There’s a sheet of letter-paper,’ he returned. ‘Did you ever phenomenon. My unfortunate friend the waiter, who had
buy a sheet of letter-paper?’ quite recovered his spirits, did not appear to be disturbed
I could not remember that I ever had. by this, but joined in the general admiration without being
‘It’s dear,’ he said, ‘on account of the duty. Threepence. at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose this half
That’s the way we’re taxed in this country. There’s nothing awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that with the sim-
else, except the waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.’ ple confidence of a child, and the natural reliance of a child
‘What should you - what should I - how much ought I to upon superior years (qualities I am very sorry any children
- what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please?’ I should prematurely change for worldly wisdom), I had no
stammered, blushing. serious mistrust of him on the whole, even then.
‘If I hadn’t a family, and that family hadn’t the cowpock,’ I felt it rather hard, I must own, to be made, without de-
said the waiter, ‘I wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t sup- serving it, the subject of jokes between the coachman and
port a aged pairint, and a lovely sister,’ - here the waiter was guard as to the coach drawing heavy behind, on account
greatly agitated - ‘I wouldn’t take a farthing. If I had a good of my sitting there, and as to the greater expediency of my
place, and was treated well here, I should beg acceptance of travelling by waggon. The story of my supposed appetite
a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live on broken wittles - getting wind among the outside passengers, they were mer-
and I sleep on the coals’ - here the waiter burst into tears. ry upon it likewise; and asked me whether I was going to
I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt be paid for, at school, as two brothers or three, and whether
that any recognition short of ninepence would be mere bru- I was contracted for, or went upon the regular terms; with
tality and hardness of heart. Therefore I gave him one of my other pleasant questions. But the worst of it was, that I knew
three bright shillings, which he received with much humil- I should be ashamed to eat anything, when an opportunity
ity and veneration, and spun up with his thumb, directly offered, and that, after a rather light dinner, I should remain
afterwards, to try the goodness of. hungry all night - for I had left my cakes behind, at the ho-
It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was tel, in my hurry. My apprehensions were realized. When
being helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to we stopped for supper I couldn’t muster courage to take

any, though I should have liked it very much, but sat by the completely blocking me up. They squeezed me so hard
fire and said I didn’t want anything. This did not save me sometimes, that I could not help crying out, ‘Oh! If you
from more jokes, either; for a husky-voiced gentleman with please!’ - which they didn’t like at all, because it woke them.
a rough face, who had been eating out of a sandwich-box Opposite me was an elderly lady in a great fur cloak, who
nearly all the way, except when he had been drinking out of looked in the dark more like a haystack than a lady, she
a bottle, said I was like a boa-constrictor who took enough was wrapped up to such a degree. This lady had a basket
at one meal to last him a long time; after which, he actually with her, and she hadn’t known what to do with it, for a
brought a rash out upon himself with boiled beef. long time, until she found that on account of my legs being
We had started from Yarmouth at three o’clock in the short, it could go underneath me. It cramped and hurt me
afternoon, and we were due in London about eight next so, that it made me perfectly miserable; but if I moved in the
morning. It was Mid-summer weather, and the evening least, and made a glass that was in the basket rattle against
was very pleasant. When we passed through a village, I something else (as it was sure to do), she gave me the cruel-
pictured to myself what the insides of the houses were like, lest poke with her foot, and said, ‘Come, don’t YOU fidget.
and what the inhabitants were about; and when boys came YOUR bones are young enough, I’m sure!’
running after us, and got up behind and swung there for a At last the sun rose, and then my companions seemed to
little way, I wondered whether their fathers were alive, and sleep easier. The difficulties under which they had laboured
whether they Were happy at home. I had plenty to think all night, and which had found utterance in the most ter-
of, therefore, besides my mind running continually on the rific gasps and snorts, are not to be conceived. As the sun
kind of place I was going to - which was an awful specula- got higher, their sleep became lighter, and so they gradually
tion. Sometimes, I remember, I resigned myself to thoughts one by one awoke. I recollect being very much surprised by
of home and Peggotty; and to endeavouring, in a confused the feint everybody made, then, of not having been to sleep
blind way, to recall how I had felt, and what sort of boy I at all, and by the uncommon indignation with which ev-
used to be, before I bit Mr. Murdstone: which I couldn’t sat- eryone repelled the charge. I labour under the same kind of
isfy myself about by any means, I seemed to have bitten him astonishment to this day, having invariably observed that of
in such a remote antiquity. all human weaknesses, the one to which our common na-
The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got ture is the least disposed to confess (I cannot imagine why)
chilly; and being put between two gentlemen (the rough- is the weakness of having gone to sleep in a coach.
faced one and another) to prevent my tumbling off the What an amazing place London was to me when I saw it
coach, I was nearly smothered by their falling asleep, and in the distance, and how I believed all the adventures of all

my favourite heroes to be constantly enacting and re-enact- the luggage was very soon cleared out, the horses had been
ing there, and how I vaguely made it out in my own mind taken out before the luggage, and now the coach itself was
to be fuller of wonders and wickedness than all the cities of wheeled and backed off by some hostlers, out of the way.
the earth, I need not stop here to relate. We approached it by Still, nobody appeared, to claim the dusty youngster from
degrees, and got, in due time, to the inn in the Whitechapel Blunderstone, Suffolk.
district, for which we were bound. I forget whether it was More solitary than Robinson Crusoe, who had no-
the Blue Bull, or the Blue Boar; but I know it was the Blue body to look at him and see that he was solitary, I went
Something, and that its likeness was painted up on the back into the booking-office, and, by invitation of the clerk on
of the coach. duty, passed behind the counter, and sat down on the scale
The guard’s eye lighted on me as he was getting down, at which they weighed the luggage. Here, as I sat look-
and he said at the booking-office door: ing at the parcels, packages, and books, and inhaling the
‘Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the smell of stables (ever since associated with that morning),
name of Murdstone, from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, to be a procession of most tremendous considerations began to
left till called for?’ march through my mind. Supposing nobody should ever
Nobody answered. fetch me, how long would they consent to keep me there?
‘Try Copperfield, if you please, sir,’ said I, looking help- Would they keep me long enough to spend seven shillings?
lessly down. Should I sleep at night in one of those wooden bins, with
‘Is there anybody here for a yoongster, booked in the the other luggage, and wash myself at the pump in the yard
name of Murdstone, from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, but in the morning; or should I be turned out every night, and
owning to the name of Copperfield, to be left till called for?’ expected to come again to be left till called for, when the
said the guard. ‘Come! IS there anybody?’ office opened next day? Supposing there was no mistake
No. There was nobody. I looked anxiously around; but in the case, and Mr. Murdstone had devised this plan to
the inquiry made no impression on any of the bystanders, if get rid of me, what should I do? If they allowed me to re-
I except a man in gaiters, with one eye, who suggested that main there until my seven shillings were spent, I couldn’t
they had better put a brass collar round my neck, and tie me hope to remain there when I began to starve. That would
up in the stable. obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the customers,
A ladder was brought, and I got down after the lady, who besides entailing on the Blue Whatever-it-was, the risk of
was like a haystack: not daring to stir, until her basket was funeral expenses. If I started off at once, and tried to walk
removed. The coach was clear of passengers by that time, back home, how could I ever find my way, how could I ever

hope to walk so far, how could I make sure of anyone but it might be useful to me hereafter; and he told the clerk that
Peggotty, even if I got back? If I found out the nearest prop- the carrier had instructions to call for it at noon.
er authorities, and offered myself to go for a soldier, or a ‘If you please, sir,’ I said, when we had accomplished
sailor, I was such a little fellow that it was most likely they about the same distance as before, ‘is it far?’
wouldn’t take me in. These thoughts, and a hundred other ‘It’s down by Blackheath,’ he said.
such thoughts, turned me burning hot, and made me giddy ‘Is that far, sir?’ I diffidently asked.
with apprehension and dismay. I was in the height of my ‘It’s a good step,’ he said. ‘We shall go by the stage-coach.
fever when a man entered and whispered to the clerk, who It’s about six miles.’
presently slanted me off the scale, and pushed me over to I was so faint and tired, that the idea of holding out for
him, as if I were weighed, bought, delivered, and paid for. six miles more, was too much for me. I took heart to tell him
As I went out of the office, hand in hand with this new that I had had nothing all night, and that if he would allow
acquaintance, I stole a look at him. He was a gaunt, sal- me to buy something to eat, I should be very much obliged
low young man, with hollow cheeks, and a chin almost as to him. He appeared surprised at this - I see him stop and
black as Mr. Murdstone’s; but there the likeness ended, for look at me now - and after considering for a few moments,
his whiskers were shaved off, and his hair, instead of be- said he wanted to call on an old person who lived not far off,
ing glossy, was rusty and dry. He was dressed in a suit of and that the best way would be for me to buy some bread,
black clothes which were rather rusty and dry too, and or whatever I liked best that was wholesome, and make my
rather short in the sleeves and legs; and he had a white neck- breakfast at her house, where we could get some milk.
kerchief on, that was not over-clean. I did not, and do not, Accordingly we looked in at a baker’s window, and af-
suppose that this neck-kerchief was all the linen he wore, ter I had made a series of proposals to buy everything that
but it was all he showed or gave any hint of. was bilious in the shop, and he had rejected them one by
‘You’re the new boy?’ he said. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. one, we decided in favour of a nice little loaf of brown bread,
I supposed I was. I didn’t know. which cost me threepence. Then, at a grocer’s shop, we
‘I’m one of the masters at Salem House,’ he said. bought an egg and a slice of streaky bacon; which still left
I made him a bow and felt very much overawed. I was so what I thought a good deal of change, out of the second of
ashamed to allude to a commonplace thing like my box, to a the bright shillings, and made me consider London a very
scholar and a master at Salem House, that we had gone some cheap place. These provisions laid in, we went on through
little distance from the yard before I had the hardihood to a great noise and uproar that confused my weary head be-
mention it. We turned back, on my humbly insinuating that yond description, and over a bridge which, no doubt, was

London Bridge (indeed I think he told me so, but I was half I fancied she was jealous even of the saucepan on it; and I
asleep), until we came to the poor person’s house, which have reason to know that she took its impressment into the
was a part of some alms-houses, as I knew by their look, service of boiling my egg and broiling my bacon, in dud-
and by an inscription on a stone over the gate which said geon; for I saw her, with my own discomfited eyes, shake
they were established for twenty-five poor women. her fist at me once, when those culinary operations were
The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a going on, and no one else was looking. The sun streamed
number of little black doors that were all alike, and had in at the little window, but she sat with her own back and
each a little diamond-paned window on one side, and an- the back of the large chair towards it, screening the fire as
other little diamond- paned window above; and we went if she were sedulously keeping IT warm, instead of it keep-
into the little house of one of these poor old women, who ing her warm, and watching it in a most distrustful manner.
was blowing a fire to make a little saucepan boil. On seeing The completion of the preparations for my breakfast, by re-
the master enter, the old woman stopped with the bellows lieving the fire, gave her such extreme joy that she laughed
on her knee, and said something that I thought sounded aloud - and a very unmelodious laugh she had, I must say.
like ‘My Charley!’ but on seeing me come in too, she got up, I sat down to my brown loaf, my egg, and my rasher of
and rubbing her hands made a confused sort of half curt- bacon, with a basin of milk besides, and made a most deli-
sey. cious meal. While I was yet in the full enjoyment of it, the
‘Can you cook this young gentleman’s breakfast for him, old woman of the house said to the Master:
if you please?’ said the Master at Salem House. ‘Have you got your flute with you?’
‘Can I?’ said the old woman. ‘Yes can I, sure!’ ‘Yes,’ he returned.
‘How’s Mrs. Fibbitson today?’ said the Master, looking ‘Have a blow at it,’ said the old woman, coaxingly. ‘Do!’
at another old woman in a large chair by the fire, who was The Master, upon this, put his hand underneath the
such a bundle of clothes that I feel grateful to this hour for skirts of his coat, and brought out his flute in three piec-
not having sat upon her by mistake. es, which he screwed together, and began immediately to
‘Ah, she’s poorly,’ said the first old woman. ‘It’s one of play. My impression is, after many years of consideration,
her bad days. If the fire was to go out, through any acci- that there never can have been anybody in the world who
dent, I verily believe she’d go out too, and never come to played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I have ever
life again.’ heard produced by any means, natural or artificial. I don’t
As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it know what the tunes were - if there were such things in
was a warm day, she seemed to think of nothing but the fire. the performance at all, which I doubt - but the influence

of the strain upon me was, first, to make me think of all wasn’t delicious (meaning the flute), to which Mrs. Fibbitson
my sorrows until I could hardly keep my tears back; then replied, ‘Ay, ay! yes!’ and nodded at the fire: to which, I am
to take away my appetite; and lastly, to make me so sleepy persuaded, she gave the credit of the whole performance.
that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. They begin to close again, When I seemed to have been dozing a long while, the
and I begin to nod, as the recollection rises fresh upon me. Master at Salem House unscrewed his flute into the three
Once more the little room, with its open corner cupboard, pieces, put them up as before, and took me away. We found
and its square-backed chairs, and its angular little staircase the coach very near at hand, and got upon the roof; but I
leading to the room above, and its three peacock’s feath- was so dead sleepy, that when we stopped on the road to
ers displayed over the mantelpiece - I remember wondering take up somebody else, they put me inside where there were
when I first went in, what that peacock would have thought no passengers, and where I slept profoundly, until I found
if he had known what his finery was doomed to come to the coach going at a footpace up a steep hill among green
- fades from before me, and I nod, and sleep. The flute be- leaves. Presently, it stopped, and had come to its destina-
comes inaudible, the wheels of the coach are heard instead, tion.
and I am on my journey. The coach jolts, I wake with a start, A short walk brought us - I mean the Master and me - to
and the flute has come back again, and the Master at Salem Salem House, which was enclosed with a high brick wall,
House is sitting with his legs crossed, playing it dolefully, and looked very dull. Over a door in this wall was a board
while the old woman of the house looks on delighted. She with SALEM HousE upon it; and through a grating in this
fades in her turn, and he fades, and all fades, and there is no door we were surveyed when we rang the bell by a surly
flute, no Master, no Salem House, no David Copperfield, no face, which I found, on the door being opened, belonged to
anything but heavy sleep. a stout man with a bull-neck, a wooden leg, overhanging
I dreamed, I thought, that once while he was blowing temples, and his hair cut close all round his head.
into this dismal flute, the old woman of the house, who had ‘The new boy,’ said the Master.
gone nearer and nearer to him in her ecstatic admiration, The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over - it didn’t
leaned over the back of his chair and gave him an affection- take long, for there was not much of me - and locked the
ate squeeze round the neck, which stopped his playing for gate behind us, and took out the key. We were going up to
a moment. I was in the middle state between sleeping and the house, among some dark heavy trees, when he called af-
waking, either then or immediately afterwards; for, as he ter my conductor. ‘Hallo!’
resumed - it was a real fact that he had stopped playing - I We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a lit-
saw and heard the same old woman ask Mrs. Fibbitson if it tle lodge, where he lived, with a pair of boots in his hand.

‘Here! The cobbler’s been,’ he said, ‘since you’ve been out, cage very little bigger than himself, makes a mournful rat-
Mr. Mell, and he says he can’t mend ‘em any more. He says tle now and then in hopping on his perch, two inches high,
there ain’t a bit of the original boot left, and he wonders you or dropping from it; but neither sings nor chirps. There is a
expect it.’ strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like mildewed
With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell, corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books.
who went back a few paces to pick them up, and looked at There could not well be more ink splashed about it, if it had
them (very disconsolately, I was afraid), as we went on to- been roofless from its first construction, and the skies had
gether. I observed then, for the first time, that the boots he rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the varying
had on were a good deal the worse for wear, and that his seasons of the year.
stocking was just breaking out in one place, like a bud. Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable
Salem House was a square brick building with wings; of boots upstairs, I went softly to the upper end of the room,
a bare and unfurnished appearance. All about it was so very observing all this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon
quiet, that I said to Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out; a pasteboard placard, beautifully written, which was lying
but he seemed surprised at my not knowing that it was holi- on the desk, and bore these words: ‘TAKE CARE OF HIM.
day-time. That all the boys were at their several homes. That HE BITES.’
Mr. Creakle, the proprietor, was down by the sea-side with I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least
Mrs. and Miss Creakle; and that I was sent in holiday-time a great dog underneath. But, though I looked all round with
as a punishment for my misdoing, all of which he explained anxious eyes, I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged
to me as we went along. in peering about, when Mr. Mell came back, and asked me
I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took me, as what I did up there?
the most forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ says I, ‘if you please, I’m looking
now. A long room with three long rows of desks, and six of for the dog.’
forms, and bristling all round with pegs for hats and slates. ‘Dog?’ he says. ‘What dog?’
Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the dirty floor. ‘Isn’t it a dog, sir?’
Some silkworms’ houses, made of the same materials, are ‘Isn’t what a dog?’
scattered over the desks. Two miserable little white mice, ‘That’s to be taken care of, sir; that bites.’
left behind by their owner, are running up and down in a ‘No, Copperfield,’ says he, gravely, ‘that’s not a dog. That’s
fusty castle made of pasteboard and wire, looking in all the a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard
corners with their red eyes for anything to eat. A bird, in a on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning with

you, but I must do it.’ With that he took me down, and tied deep and very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a
the placard, which was neatly constructed for the purpose, rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There was
on my shoulders like a knapsack; and wherever I went, af- another boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would
terwards, I had the consolation of carrying it. make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of
What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would
Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I al- sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door,
ways fancied that somebody was reading it. It was no relief until the owners of all the names - there were five-and-forty
to turn round and find nobody; for wherever my back was, of them in the school then, Mr. Mell said - seemed to send
there I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man me to Coventry by general acclamation, and to cry out, each
with the wooden leg aggravated my sufferings. He was in in his own way, ‘Take care of him. He bites!’
authority; and if he ever saw me leaning against a tree, or It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. It
a wall, or the house, he roared out from his lodge door in was the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped
a stupendous voice, ‘Hallo, you sir! You Copperfield! Show at, on my way to, and when I was in, my own bed. I remem-
that badge conspicuous, or I’ll report you!’ The playground ber dreaming night after night, of being with my mother as
was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr. Peggotty’s, or of
and the offices; and I knew that the servants read it, and the travelling outside the stage-coach, or of dining again with
butcher read it, and the baker read it; that everybody, in a my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all these circum-
word, who came backwards and forwards to the house, of stances making people scream and stare, by the unhappy
a morning when I was ordered to walk there, read that I disclosure that I had nothing on but my little night-shirt,
was to be taken care of, for I bit, I recollect that I positively and that placard.
began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy who In the monotony of my life, and in my constant appre-
did bite. hension of the re-opening of the school, it was such an
There was an old door in this playground, on which the insupportable affliction! I had long tasks every day to do
boys had a custom of carving their names. It was complete- with Mr. Mell; but I did them, there being no Mr. and Miss
ly covered with such inscriptions. In my dread of the end of Murdstone here, and got through them without disgrace.
the vacation and their coming back, I could not read a boy’s Before, and after them, I walked about - supervised, as I have
name, without inquiring in what tone and with what em- mentioned, by the man with the wooden leg. How vividly I
phasis HE would read, ‘Take care of him. He bites.’ There call to mind the damp about the house, the green cracked
was one boy - a certain J. Steerforth - who cut his name very flagstones in the court, an old leaky water-butt, and the dis-

coloured trunks of some of the grim trees, which seemed when the man with the wooden leg shall unlock the rusty
to have dripped more in the rain than other trees, and to gate to give admission to the awful Mr. Creakle. I cannot
have blown less in the sun! At one we dined, Mr. Mell and think I was a very dangerous character in any of these as-
I, at the upper end of a long bare dining-room, full of deal pects, but in all of them I carried the same warning on my
tables, and smelling of fat. Then, we had more tasks until back.
tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a blue teacup, and I out of Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh
a tin pot. All day long, and until seven or eight in the eve- to me. I suppose we were company to each other, without
ning, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the schoolroom, talking. I forgot to mention that he would talk to himself
worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing- paper, sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and grind his teeth,
making out the bills (as I found) for last half-year. When he and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he had
had put up his things for the night he took out his flute, and these peculiarities: and at first they frightened me, though I
blew at it, until I almost thought he would gradually blow soon got used to them.
his whole being into the large hole at the top, and ooze away
at the keys.
I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sit-
ting with my head upon my hand, listening to the doleful
performance of Mr. Mell, and conning tomorrow’s lessons.
I picture myself with my books shut up, still listening to the
doleful performance of Mr. Mell, and listening through it
to what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind
on Yarmouth flats, and feeling very sad and solitary. I pic-
ture myself going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and
sitting on my bed-side crying for a comfortable word from
Peggotty. I picture myself coming downstairs in the morn-
ing, and looking through a long ghastly gash of a staircase
window at the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-
house with a weathercock above it; and dreading the time
when it shall ring J. Steerforth and the rest to work: which
is only second, in my foreboding apprehensions, to the time

CHAPTER 6 a desert in miniature, that I thought no one but a camel, or
a dromedary, could have felt at home in it. It seemed to me a
bold thing even to take notice that the passage looked com-
fortable, as I went on my way, trembling, to Mr. Creakle’s
I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE presence: which so abashed me, when I was ushered into it,
that I hardly saw Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle (who were
OF ACQUAINTANCE both there, in the parlour), or anything but Mr. Creakle, a
stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chain and seals, in
an arm-chair, with a tumbler and bottle beside him.
‘So!’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘This is the young gentleman
whose teeth are to be filed! Turn him round.’
I HAD led this life about a month, when the man with the
wooden leg began to stump about with a mop and a buck-
et of water, from which I inferred that preparations were
The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to ex-
hibit the placard; and having afforded time for a full survey
of it, turned me about again, with my face to Mr. Creakle,
making to receive Mr. Creakle and the boys. I was not mis- and posted himself at Mr. Creakle’s side. Mr. Creakle’s face
taken; for the mop came into the schoolroom before long, was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his head; he
and turned out Mr. Mell and me, who lived where we could, had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large
and got on how we could, for some days, during which we chin. He was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin
were always in the way of two or three young women, who wet-looking hair that was just turning grey, brushed across
had rarely shown themselves before, and were so continu- each temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead.
ally in the midst of dust that I sneezed almost as much as if But the circumstance about him which impressed me most,
Salem House had been a great snuff-box. was, that he had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The exer-
One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle tion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in that
would be home that evening. In the evening, after tea, I feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry, and
heard that he was come. Before bedtime, I was fetched by his thick veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am
the man with the wooden leg to appear before him. not surprised, on looking back, at this peculiarity striking
Mr. Creakle’s part of the house was a good deal more me as his chief one. ‘Now,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘What’s the re-
comfortable than ours, and he had a snug bit of garden that port of this boy?’
looked pleasant after the dusty playground, which was such ‘There’s nothing against him yet,’ returned the man with

the wooden leg. ‘There has been no opportunity.’ ‘I am a determined character,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘That’s
I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs. what I am. I do my duty. That’s what I do. My flesh and
and Miss Creakle (at whom I now glanced for the first time, blood’ - he looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this - ‘when it
and who were, both, thin and quiet) were not disappointed. rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has
‘Come here, sir!’ said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me. that fellow’ - to the man with the wooden leg -’been here
‘Come here!’ said the man with the wooden leg, repeat- again?’
ing the gesture. ‘No,’ was the answer.
‘I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,’ ‘No,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘He knows better. He knows me.
whispered Mr. Creakle, taking me by the ear; ‘and a worthy Let him keep away. I say let him keep away,’ said Mr. Creak-
man he is, and a man of a strong character. He knows me, le, striking his hand upon the table, and looking at Mrs.
and I know him. Do YOU know me? Hey?’ said Mr. Creakle, Creakle, ‘for he knows me. Now you have begun to know
pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness. me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.’
‘Not yet, sir,’ I said, flinching with the pain. I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss
‘Not yet? Hey?’ repeated Mr. Creakle. ‘But you will soon. Creakle were both wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncom-
Hey?’ fortable for them as I did for myself. But I had a petition on
‘You will soon. Hey?’ repeated the man with the wood- my mind which concerned me so nearly, that I couldn’t help
en leg. I afterwards found that he generally acted, with his saying, though I wondered at my own courage:
strong voice, as Mr. Creakle’s interpreter to the boys. ‘If you please, sir -’
I was very much frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he Mr. Creakle whispered, ‘Hah! What’s this?’ and bent his
pleased. I felt, all this while, as if my ear were blazing; he eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them.
pinched it so hard. ‘If you please, sir,’ I faltered, ‘if I might be allowed (I am
‘I’ll tell you what I am,’ whispered Mr. Creakle, letting very sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off,
it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water before the boys come back -’
into my eyes. ‘I’m a Tartar.’ Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only
‘A Tartar,’ said the man with the wooden leg. did it to frighten me, I don’t know, but he made a burst out
‘When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it,’ said Mr. Creakle; ‘and of his chair, before which I precipitately retreated, without
when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done.’ waiting for the escort Of the man with the wooden leg, and
‘- Will have a thing done, I will have it done,’ repeated the never once stopped until I reached my own bedroom, where,
man with the wooden leg. finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was time, and

lay quaking, for a couple of hours. should bite, and saying, ‘Lie down, sir!’ and calling me Tow-
Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the zer. This was naturally confusing, among so many strangers,
first master, and superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his and cost me some tears, but on the whole it was much better
meals with the boys, but Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr. than I had anticipated.
Creakle’s table. He was a limp, delicate-looking gentleman, I was not considered as being formally received into the
I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a way of carrying school, however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy,
his head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy for him. who was reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-
His hair was very smooth and wavy; but I was informed by looking, and at least half-a-dozen years my senior, I was
the very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a sec- carried as before a magistrate. He inquired, under a shed in
ond-hand one HE said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every the playground, into the particulars of my punishment, and
Saturday afternoon to get it curled. was pleased to express his opinion that it was ‘a jolly shame’;
It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this for which I became bound to him ever afterwards.
piece of intelligence. He was the first boy who returned. He ‘What money have you got, Copperfield?’ he said, walk-
introduced himself by informing me that I should find his ing aside with me when he had disposed of my affair in
name on the right- hand corner of the gate, over the top- these terms. I told him seven shillings.
bolt; upon that I said, ‘Traddles?’ to which he replied, ‘The ‘You had better give it to me to take care of,’ he said. ‘At
same,’ and then he asked me for a full account of myself least, you can if you like. You needn’t if you don’t like.’
and family. I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and
It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came opening Peggotty’s purse, turned it upside down into his
back first. He enjoyed my placard so much, that he saved hand.
me from the embarrassment of either disclosure or conceal- ‘Do you want to spend anything now?’ he asked me.
ment, by presenting me to every other boy who came back, ‘No thank you,’ I replied.
great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form of ‘You can, if you like, you know,’ said Steerforth. ‘Say the
introduction, ‘Look here! Here’s a game!’ Happily, too, the word.’
greater part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were ‘No, thank you, sir,’ I repeated.
not so boisterous at my expense as I had expected. Some of ‘Perhaps you’d like to spend a couple of shillings or so, in
them certainly did dance about me like wild Indians, and a bottle of currant wine by and by, up in the bedroom?’ said
the greater part could not resist the temptation of pretend- Steerforth. ‘You belong to my bedroom, I find.’
ing that I was a dog, and patting and soothing me, lest I It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said, Yes,

I should like that. - and dispensing the currant wine in a little glass without a
‘Very good,’ said Steerforth. ‘You’ll be glad to spend an- foot, which was his own property. As to me, I sat on his left
other shilling or so, in almond cakes, I dare say?’ hand, and the rest were grouped about us, on the nearest
I said, Yes, I should like that, too. beds and on the floor.
‘And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whis-
fruit, eh?’ said Steerforth. ‘I say, young Copperfield, you’re pers; or their talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought
going it!’ rather to say; the moonlight falling a little way into the
I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in room, through the window, painting a pale window on the
my mind, too. floor, and the greater part of us in shadow, except when
‘Well!’ said Steerforth. ‘We must make it stretch as far as Steerforth dipped a match into a phosphorus-box, when he
we can; that’s all. I’ll do the best in my power for you. I can wanted to look for anything on the board, and shed a blue
go out when I like, and I’ll smuggle the prog in.’ With these glare over us that was gone directly! A certain mysterious
words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly told me feeling, consequent on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel,
not to make myself uneasy; he would take care it should and the whisper in which everything was said, steals over
be all right. He was as good as his word, if that were all me again, and I listen to all they tell me with a vague feeling
right which I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong of solemnity and awe, which makes me glad that they are
- for I feared it was a waste of my mother’s two half-crowns - all so near, and frightens me (though I feign to laugh) when
though I had preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped Traddles pretends to see a ghost in the corner.
in: which was a precious saving. When we went upstairs to I heard all kinds of things about the school and all be-
bed, he produced the whole seven shillings’worth, and laid longing to it. I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred
it out on my bed in the moonlight, saying: his claim to being a Tartar without reason; that he was the
‘There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread sternest and most severe of masters; that he laid about him,
you’ve got.’ right and left, every day of his life, charging in among the
I couldn’t think of doing the honours of the feast, at my boys like a trooper, and slashing away, unmercifully. That
time of life, while he was by; my hand shook at the very he knew nothing himself, but the art of slashing, being
thought of it. I begged him to do me the favour of presid- more ignorant (J. Steerforth said) than the lowest boy in
ing; and my request being seconded by the other boys who the school; that he had been, a good many years ago, a small
were in that room, he acceded to it, and sat upon my pillow, hop-dealer in the Borough, and had taken to the schooling
handing round the viands - with perfect fairness, I must say business after being bankrupt in hops, and making away

with Mrs. Creakle’s money. With a good deal more of that a blow on the forehead from the seven-and-sixpenny ink-
sort, which I wondered how they knew. bottle that was always on the mantelpiece. We sat in the
I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name dark for some time, breathless.
was Tungay, was an obstinate barbarian who had formerly I heard that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed
assisted in the hop business, but had come into the scholas- to be wretchedly paid; and that when there was hot and cold
tic line with Mr. Creakle, in consequence, as was supposed meat for dinner at Mr. Creakle’s table, Mr. Sharp was always
among the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr. Creak- expected to say he preferred cold; which was again corrobo-
le’s service, and having done a deal of dishonest work for rated by J. Steerforth, the only parlour-boarder. I heard that
him, and knowing his secrets. I heard that with the single Mr. Sharp’s wig didn’t fit him; and that he needn’t be so
exception of Mr. Creakle, Tungay considered the whole es- ‘bounceable’ - somebody else said ‘bumptious’ - about it, be-
tablishment, masters and boys, as his natural enemies, and cause his own red hair was very plainly to be seen behind.
that the only delight of his life was to be sour and malicious. I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchant’s son,
I heard that Mr. Creakle had a son, who had not been Tun- came as a set-off against the coal-bill, and was called, on
gay’s friend, and who, assisting in the school, had once held that account, ‘Exchange or Barter’ - a name selected from
some remonstrance with his father on an occasion when the arithmetic book as expressing this arrangement. I heard
its discipline was very cruelly exercised, and was supposed, that the table beer was a robbery of parents, and the pud-
besides, to have protested against his father’s usage of his ding an imposition. I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded
mother. I heard that Mr. Creakle had turned him out of by the school in general as being in love with Steerforth;
doors, in consequence; and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle had and I am sure, as I sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice,
been in a sad way, ever since. and his fine face, and his easy manner, and his curling hair,
But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle I thought it very likely. I heard that Mr. Mell was not a bad
was, there being one boy in the school on whom he nev- sort of fellow, but hadn’t a sixpence to bless himself with;
er ventured to lay a hand, and that boy being J. Steerforth. and that there was no doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his mother,
Steerforth himself confirmed this when it was stated, and was as poor as job. I thought of my breakfast then, and what
said that he should like to begin to see him do it. On be- had sounded like ‘My Charley!’ but I was, I am glad to re-
ing asked by a mild boy (not me) how he would proceed if member, as mute as a mouse about it.
he did begin to see him do it, he dipped a match into his The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted
phosphorus-box on purpose to shed a glare over his reply, the banquet some time. The greater part of the guests had
and said he would commence by knocking him down with gone to bed as soon as the eating and drinking were over;

and we, who had remained whispering and listening half-
undressed, at last betook ourselves to bed, too. CHAPTER 7
‘Good night, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth. ‘I’ll
take care of you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ I gratefully returned. ‘I
am very much obliged to you.’
‘You haven’t got a sister, have you?’ said Steerforth, yawn- MY ‘FIRST HALF’ AT
ing.
‘No,’ I answered. SALEM HOUSE
‘That’s a pity,’ said Steerforth. ‘If you had had one, I should
think she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright-eyed
sort of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good night,
young Copperfield.’
‘Good night, sir,’ I replied.
I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and
S chool began in earnest next day. A profound impression
was made upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices
in the schoolroom suddenly becoming hushed as death
raised myself, I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the when Mr. Creakle entered after breakfast, and stood in the
moonlight, with his handsome face turned up, and his head doorway looking round upon us like a giant in a story-book
reclining easily on his arm. He was a person of great power surveying his captives.
in my eyes; that was, of course, the reason of my mind run- Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle’s elbow. He had no occasion,
ning on him. No veiled future dimly glanced upon him in I thought, to cry out ‘Silence!’ so ferociously, for the boys
the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his foot- were all struck speechless and motionless.
steps, in the garden that I dreamed of walking in all night. Mr. Creakle was seen to speak, and Tungay was heard,
to this effect.
‘Now, boys, this is a new half. Take care what you’re about,
in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise you,
for I come fresh up to the punishment. I won’t flinch. It
will be of no use your rubbing yourselves; you won’t rub
the marks out that I shall give you. Now get to work, every
boy!’
When this dreadful exordium was over, and Tungay had

stumped out again, Mr. Creakle came to where I sat, and because I know him to have been an incapable brute, who
told me that if I were famous for biting, he was famous for had no more right to be possessed of the great trust he held,
biting, too. He then showed me the cane, and asked me than to be Lord High Admiral, or Commander-in-Chief -
what I thought of THAT, for a tooth? Was it a sharp tooth, in either of which capacities it is probable that he would
hey? Was it a double tooth, hey? Had it a deep prong, hey? have done infinitely less mischief.
Did it bite, hey? Did it bite? At every question he gave me a Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idol, how
fleshy cut with it that made me writhe; so I was very soon abject we were to him! What a launch in life I think it now,
made free of Salem House (as Steerforth said), and was very on looking back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such
soon in tears also. parts and pretensions!
Not that I mean to say these were special marks of dis- Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye - humbly
tinction, which only I received. On the contrary, a large watching his eye, as he rules a ciphering-book for another
majority of the boys (especially the smaller ones) were vis- victim whose hands have just been flattened by that iden-
ited with similar instances of notice, as Mr. Creakle made tical ruler, and who is trying to wipe the sting out with a
the round of the schoolroom. Half the establishment was pocket-handkerchief. I have plenty to do. I don’t watch his
writhing and crying, before the day’s work began; and how eye in idleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it, in
much of it had writhed and cried before the day’s work was a dread desire to know what he will do next, and whether it
over, I am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to will be my turn to suffer, or somebody else’s. A lane of small
exaggerate. boys beyond me, with the same interest in his eye, watch it
I should think there never can have been a man who en- too. I think he knows it, though he pretends he don’t. He
joyed his profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a makes dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering-book; and
delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfac- now he throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all
tion of a craving appetite. I am confident that he couldn’t droop over our books and tremble. A moment afterwards
resist a chubby boy, especially; that there was a fascination we are again eyeing him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty
in such a subject, which made him restless in his mind, un- of imperfect exercise, approaches at his command. The cul-
til he had scored and marked him for the day. I was chubby prit falters excuses, and professes a determination to do
myself, and ought to know. I am sure when I think of the better tomorrow. Mr. Creakle cuts a joke before he beats
fellow now, my blood rises against him with the disinterest- him, and we laugh at it, - miserable little dogs, we laugh,
ed indignation I should feel if I could have known all about with our visages as white as ashes, and our hearts sinking
him without having ever been in his power; but it rises hotly, into our boots.

Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer after- uncle about it, and never did. After laying his head on the
noon. A buzz and hum go up around me, as if the boys were desk for a little while, he would cheer up, somehow, begin
so many bluebottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm to laugh again, and draw skeletons all over his slate, before
fat of meat is upon me (we dined an hour or two ago), and his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort
my head is as heavy as so much lead. I would give the world Traddles found in drawing skeletons; and for some time
to go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking looked upon him as a sort of hermit, who reminded himself
at him like a young owl; when sleep overpowers me for a by those symbols of mortality that caning couldn’t last for
minute, he still looms through my slumber, ruling those ci- ever. But I believe he only did it because they were easy, and
phering-books, until he softly comes behind me and wakes didn’t want any features.
me to plainer perception of him, with a red ridge across my He was very honourable, Traddles was, and held it as a
back. solemn duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suf-
Here I am in the playground, with my eye still fascinated fered for this on several occasions; and particularly once,
by him, though I can’t see him. The window at a little dis- when Steerforth laughed in church, and the Beadle thought
tance from which I know he is having his dinner, stands for it was Traddles, and took him out. I see him now, going
him, and I eye that instead. If he shows his face near it, mine away in custody, despised by the congregation. He never
assumes an imploring and submissive expression. If he said who was the real offender, though he smarted for it
looks out through the glass, the boldest boy (Steerforth ex- next day, and was imprisoned so many hours that he came
cepted) stops in the middle of a shout or yell, and becomes forth with a whole churchyard-full of skeletons swarming
contemplative. One day, Traddles (the most unfortunate all over his Latin Dictionary. But he had his reward. Steer-
boy in the world) breaks that window accidentally, with a forth said there was nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and
ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous sensa- we all felt that to be the highest praise. For my part, I could
tion of seeing it done, and feeling that the ball has bounded have gone through a good deal (though I was much less
on to Mr. Creakle’s sacred head. brave than Traddles, and nothing like so old) to have won
Poor Traddles! In a tight sky-blue suit that made his such a recompense.
arms and legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, To see Steerforth walk to church before us, arm-in-arm
he was the merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He with Miss Creakle, was one of the great sights of my life. I
was always being caned - I think he was caned every day didn’t think Miss Creakle equal to little Em’ly in point of
that half-year, except one holiday Monday when he was only beauty, and I didn’t love her (I didn’t dare); but I thought
ruler’d on both hands - and was always going to write to his her a young lady of extraordinary attractions, and in point

of gentility not to be surpassed. When Steerforth, in white and all those other books of which I have made mention.
trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud to know ‘And do you recollect them?’ Steerforth said.
him; and believed that she could not choose but adore him ‘Oh yes,’ I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I
with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both nota- recollected them very well.
ble personages in my eyes; but Steerforth was to them what ‘Then I tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said Steer-
the sun was to two stars. forth, ‘you shall tell ‘em to me. I can’t get to sleep very early
Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morning.
very useful friend; since nobody dared to annoy one whom We’ll go over ‘em one after another. We’ll make some regu-
he honoured with his countenance. He couldn’t - or at all lar Arabian Nights of it.’
events he didn’t - defend me from Mr. Creakle, who was I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we
very severe with me; but whenever I had been treated worse commenced carrying it into execution that very evening.
than usual, he always told me that I wanted a little of his What ravages I committed on my favourite authors in the
pluck, and that he wouldn’t have stood it himself; which I course of my interpretation of them, I am not in a condition
felt he intended for encouragement, and considered to be to say, and should be very unwilling to know; but I had a
very kind of him. There was one advantage, and only one profound faith in them, and I had, to the best of my belief, a
that I know of, in Mr. Creakle’s severity. He found my plac- simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did narrate; and
ard in his way when he came up or down behind the form these qualities went a long way.
on which I sat, and wanted to make a cut at me in passing; The drawback was, that I was often sleepy at night, or
for this reason it was soon taken off, and I saw it no more. out of spirits and indisposed to resume the story; and then
An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy be- it was rather hard work, and it must be done; for to dis-
tween Steerforth and me, in a manner that inspired me with appoint or to displease Steerforth was of course out of the
great pride and satisfaction, though it sometimes led to in- question. In the morning, too, when I felt weary, and should
convenience. It happened on one occasion, when he was have enjoyed another hour’s repose very much, it was a tire-
doing me the honour of talking to me in the playground, some thing to be roused, like the Sultana Scheherazade, and
that I hazarded the observation that something or some- forced into a long story before the getting-up bell rang; but
body - I forget what now - was like something or somebody Steerforth was resolute; and as he explained to me, in re-
in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time; but when I turn, my sums and exercises, and anything in my tasks that
was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book? was too hard for me, I was no loser by the transaction. Let
I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, me do myself justice, however. I was moved by no interested

or selfish motive, nor was I moved by fear of him. I admired gratefully and was very sensible of his attention.
and loved him, and his approval was return enough. It was We seem, to me, to have been months over Peregrine,
so precious to me that I look back on these trifles, now, with and months more over the other stories. The institution
an aching heart. never flagged for want of a story, I am certain; and the wine
Steerforth was considerate, too; and showed his consider- lasted out almost as well as the matter. Poor Traddles - I
ation, in one particular instance, in an unflinching manner never think of that boy but with a strange disposition to
that was a little tantalizing, I suspect, to poor Traddles and laugh, and with tears in my eyes - was a sort of chorus, in
the rest. Peggotty’s promised letter - what a comfortable let- general; and affected to be convulsed with mirth at the
ter it was! - arrived before ‘the half’ was many weeks old; comic parts, and to be overcome with fear when there was
and with it a cake in a perfect nest of oranges, and two bot- any passage of an alarming character in the narrative. This
tles of cowslip wine. This treasure, as in duty bound, I laid rather put me out, very often. It was a great jest of his, I
at the feet of Steerforth, and begged him to dispense. recollect, to pretend that he couldn’t keep his teeth from
‘Now, I’ll tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said he: ‘the chattering, whenever mention was made of an Alguazill in
wine shall be kept to wet your whistle when you are story- connexion with the adventures of Gil Blas; and I remember
telling.’ that when Gil Blas met the captain of the robbers in Ma-
I blushed at the idea, and begged him, in my modesty, drid, this unlucky joker counterfeited such an ague of terror,
not to think of it. But he said he had observed I was some- that he was overheard by Mr. Creakle, who was prowling
times hoarse - a little roopy was his exact expression - and it about the passage, and handsomely flogged for disorderly
should be, every drop, devoted to the purpose he had men- conduct in the bedroom. Whatever I had within me that
tioned. Accordingly, it was locked up in his box, and drawn was romantic and dreamy, was encouraged by so much sto-
off by himself in a phial, and administered to me through ry-telling in the dark; and in that respect the pursuit may
a piece of quill in the cork, when I was supposed to be in not have been very profitable to me. But the being cherished
want of a restorative. Sometimes, to make it a more sov- as a kind of plaything in my room, and the consciousness
ereign specific, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice that this accomplishment of mine was bruited about among
into it, or to stir it up with ginger, or dissolve a peppermint the boys, and attracted a good deal of notice to me though
drop in it; and although I cannot assert that the flavour was I was the youngest there, stimulated me to exertion. In a
improved by these experiments, or that it was exactly the school carried on by sheer cruelty, whether it is presided
compound one would have chosen for a stomachic, the last over by a dunce or not, there is not likely to be much learnt.
thing at night and the first thing in the morning, I drank it I believe our boys were, generally, as ignorant a set as any

schoolboys in existence; they were too much troubled and morning’s work. The great relief and satisfaction expe-
knocked about to learn; they could no more do that to ad- rienced by the boys made them difficult to manage; and
vantage, than any one can do anything to advantage in a life though the dreaded Tungay brought his wooden leg in twice
of constant misfortune, torment, and worry. But my little or thrice, and took notes of the principal offenders’ names,
vanity, and Steerforth’s help, urged me on somehow; and no great impression was made by it, as they were pretty sure
without saving me from much, if anything, in the way of of getting into trouble tomorrow, do what they would, and
punishment, made me, for the time I was there, an excep- thought it wise, no doubt, to enjoy themselves today.
tion to the general body, insomuch that I did steadily pick It was, properly, a half-holiday; being Saturday. But as the
up some crumbs of knowledge. noise in the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakle,
In this I was much assisted by Mr. Mell, who had a liking and the weather was not favourable for going out walking,
for me that I am grateful to remember. It always gave me we were ordered into school in the afternoon, and set some
pain to observe that Steerforth treated him with systematic lighter tasks than usual, which were made for the occa-
disparagement, and seldom lost an occasion of wounding sion. It was the day of the week on which Mr. Sharp went
his feelings, or inducing others to do so. This troubled me out to get his wig curled; so Mr. Mell, who always did the
the more for a long time, because I had soon told Steerforth, drudgery, whatever it was, kept school by himself. If I could
from whom I could no more keep such a secret, than I could associate the idea of a bull or a bear with anyone so mild as
keep a cake or any other tangible possession, about the two Mr. Mell, I should think of him, in connexion with that af-
old women Mr. Mell had taken me to see; and I was always ternoon when the uproar was at its height, as of one of those
afraid that Steerforth would let it out, and twit him with it. animals, baited by a thousand dogs. I recall him bending
We little thought, any one of us, I dare say, when I ate my his aching head, supported on his bony hand, over the book
breakfast that first morning, and went to sleep under the on his desk, and wretchedly endeavouring to get on with
shadow of the peacock’s feathers to the sound of the flute, his tiresome work, amidst an uproar that might have made
what consequences would come of the introduction into the Speaker of the House of Commons giddy. Boys started
those alms-houses of my insignificant person. But the visit in and out of their places, playing at puss in the corner with
had its unforeseen consequences; and of a serious sort, too, other boys; there were laughing boys, singing boys, talking
in their way. boys, dancing boys, howling boys; boys shuffled with their
One day when Mr. Creakle kept the house from indis- feet, boys whirled about him, grinning, making faces, mim-
position, which naturally diffused a lively joy through the icking him behind his back and before his eyes; mimicking
school, there was a good deal of noise in the course of the his poverty, his boots, his coat, his mother, everything be-

longing to him that they should have had consideration for. sort of outrage against me, you are mistaken.’
‘Silence!’ cried Mr. Mell, suddenly rising up, and striking ‘I don’t give myself the trouble of thinking at all about
his desk with the book. ‘What does this mean! It’s impos- you,’ said Steerforth, coolly; ‘so I’m not mistaken, as it hap-
sible to bear it. It’s maddening. How can you do it to me, pens.’
boys?’ ‘And when you make use of your position of favourit-
It was my book that he struck his desk with; and as I ism here, sir,’ pursued Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling very
stood beside him, following his eye as it glanced round much, ‘to insult a gentleman -’
the room, I saw the boys all stop, some suddenly surprised, ‘A what? - where is he?’ said Steerforth.
some half afraid, and some sorry perhaps. Here somebody cried out, ‘Shame, J. Steerforth! Too
Steerforth’s place was at the bottom of the school, at the bad!’ It was Traddles; whom Mr. Mell instantly discomfited
opposite end of the long room. He was lounging with his by bidding him hold his tongue.
back against the wall, and his hands in his pockets, and - ‘To insult one who is not fortunate in life, sir, and who
looked at Mr. Mell with his mouth shut up as if he were never gave you the least offence, and the many reasons for
whistling, when Mr. Mell looked at him. not insulting whom you are old enough and wise enough
‘Silence, Mr. Steerforth!’ said Mr. Mell. to understand,’ said Mr. Mell, with his lips trembling more
‘Silence yourself,’ said Steerforth, turning red. ‘Whom and more, ‘you commit a mean and base action. You can sit
are you talking to?’ down or stand up as you please, sir. Copperfield, go on.’
‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Mell. ‘Young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, coming forward up
‘Sit down yourself,’ said Steerforth, ‘and mind your busi- the room, ‘stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mell, once for all.
ness.’ When you take the liberty of calling me mean or base, or
There was a titter, and some applause; but Mr. Mell was anything of that sort, you are an impudent beggar. You are
so white, that silence immediately succeeded; and one boy, always a beggar, you know; but when you do that, you are
who had darted out behind him to imitate his mother again, an impudent beggar.’
changed his mind, and pretended to want a pen mended. I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mell, or
‘If you think, Steerforth,’ said Mr. Mell, ‘that I am not ac- Mr. Mell was going to strike him, or there was any such in-
quainted with the power you can establish over any mind tention on either side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole
here’ - he laid his hand, without considering what he did school as if they had been turned into stone, and found
(as I supposed), upon my head - ‘or that I have not observed Mr. Creakle in the midst of us, with Tungay at his side, and
you, within a few minutes, urging your juniors on to every Mrs. and Miss Creakle looking in at the door as if they were

frightened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows on his desk and his ‘He did,’ said Steerforth.
face in his hands, sat, for some moments, quite still. ‘And pray, what did you mean by that, sir?’ demanded Mr.
‘Mr. Mell,’ said Mr. Creakle, shaking him by the arm; and Creakle, turning angrily on his assistant.
his whisper was so audible now, that Tungay felt it unneces- ‘I meant, Mr. Creakle,’ he returned in a low voice, ‘as I
sary to repeat his words; ‘you have not forgotten yourself, I said; that no pupil had a right to avail himself of his posi-
hope?’ tion of favouritism to degrade me.’
‘No, sir, no,’ returned the Master, showing his face, and ‘To degrade YOU?’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘My stars! But give
shaking his head, and rubbing his hands in great agitation. me leave to ask you, Mr. What’s-your-name’; and here Mr.
‘No, sir. No. I have remembered myself, I - no, Mr. Creakle, Creakle folded his arms, cane and all, upon his chest, and
I have not forgotten myself, I - I have remembered myself, made such a knot of his brows that his little eyes were hardly
sir. I - I - could wish you had remembered me a little sooner, visible below them; ‘whether, when you talk about favou-
Mr. Creakle. It - it - would have been more kind, sir, more rites, you showed proper respect to me? To me, sir,’ said Mr.
just, sir. It would have saved me something, sir.’ Creakle, darting his head at him suddenly, and drawing it
Mr. Creakle, looking hard at Mr. Mell, put his hand on back again, ‘the principal of this establishment, and your
Tungay’s shoulder, and got his feet upon the form close by, employer.’
and sat upon the desk. After still looking hard at Mr. Mell ‘It was not judicious, sir, I am willing to admit,’ said Mr.
from his throne, as he shook his head, and rubbed his hands, Mell. ‘I should not have done so, if I had been cool.’
and remained in the same state of agitation, Mr. Creakle Here Steerforth struck in.
turned to Steerforth, and said: ‘Then he said I was mean, and then he said I was base,
‘Now, sir, as he don’t condescend to tell me, what is this?’ and then I called him a beggar. If I had been cool, perhaps
Steerforth evaded the question for a little while; looking I shouldn’t have called him a beggar. But I did, and I am
in scorn and anger on his opponent, and remaining silent. ready to take the consequences of it.’
I could not help thinking even in that interval, I remember, Without considering, perhaps, whether there were any
what a noble fellow he was in appearance, and how homely consequences to be taken, I felt quite in a glow at this gal-
and plain Mr. Mell looked opposed to him. lant speech. It made an impression on the boys too, for there
‘What did he mean by talking about favourites, then?’ was a low stir among them, though no one spoke a word.
said Steerforth at length. ‘I am surprised, Steerforth - although your candour does
‘Favourites?’ repeated Mr. Creakle, with the veins in his you honour,’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘does you honour, certainly
forehead swelling quickly. ‘Who talked about favourites?’ - I am surprised, Steerforth, I must say, that you should at-

tach such an epithet to any person employed and paid in in the midst of a dead silence; ‘what he has said is true.’
Salem House, sir.’ ‘Be so good then as declare publicly, will you,’ said Mr.
Steerforth gave a short laugh. Creakle, putting his head on one side, and rolling his eyes
‘That’s not an answer, sir,’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘to my re- round the school, ‘whether it ever came to my knowledge
mark. I expect more than that from you, Steerforth.’ until this moment?’
If Mr. Mell looked homely, in my eyes, before the hand- ‘I believe not directly,’ he returned.
some boy, it would be quite impossible to say how homely ‘Why, you know not,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘Don’t you,
Mr. Creakle looked. ‘Let him deny it,’ said Steerforth. man?’
‘Deny that he is a beggar, Steerforth?’ cried Mr. Creakle. ‘I apprehend you never supposed my worldly circum-
‘Why, where does he go a-begging?’ stances to be very good,’ replied the assistant. ‘You know
‘If he is not a beggar himself, his near relation’s one,’ said what my position is, and always has been, here.’
Steerforth. ‘It’s all the same.’ ‘I apprehend, if you come to that,’ said Mr. Creakle, with
He glanced at me, and Mr. Mell’s hand gently patted me his veins swelling again bigger than ever, ‘that you’ve been
upon the shoulder. I looked up with a flush upon my face in a wrong position altogether, and mistook this for a char-
and remorse in my heart, but Mr. Mell’s eyes were fixed on ity school. Mr. Mell, we’ll part, if you please. The sooner the
Steerforth. He continued to pat me kindly on the shoulder, better.’
but he looked at him. ‘There is no time,’ answered Mr. Mell, rising, ‘like the
‘Since you expect me, Mr. Creakle, to justify myself,’ said present.’
Steerforth, ‘and to say what I mean, - what I have to say is, ‘Sir, to you!’ said Mr. Creakle.
that his mother lives on charity in an alms-house.’ ‘I take my leave of you, Mr. Creakle, and all of you,’ said
Mr. Mell still looked at him, and still patted me kindly Mr. Mell, glancing round the room, and again patting me
on the shoulder, and said to himself, in a whisper, if I heard gently on the shoulders. ‘James Steerforth, the best wish I
right: ‘Yes, I thought so.’ can leave you is that you may come to be ashamed of what
Mr. Creakle turned to his assistant, with a severe frown you have done today. At present I would prefer to see you
and laboured politeness: anything rather than a friend, to me, or to anyone in whom
‘Now, you hear what this gentleman says, Mr. Mell. Have I feel an interest.’
the goodness, if you please, to set him right before the as- Once more he laid his hand upon my shoulder; and then
sembled school.’ taking his flute and a few books from his desk, and leav-
‘He is right, sir, without correction,’ returned Mr. Mell, ing the key in it for his successor, he went out of the school,

with his property under his arm. Mr. Creakle then made a ings, and lost him his situation.’
speech, through Tungay, in which he thanked Steerforth for ‘His feelings?’ repeated Steerforth disdainfully. ‘His feel-
asserting (though perhaps too warmly) the independence ings will soon get the better of it, I’ll be bound. His feelings
and respectability of Salem House; and which he wound are not like yours, Miss Traddles. As to his situation - which
up by shaking hands with Steerforth, while we gave three was a precious one, wasn’t it? - do you suppose I am not go-
cheers - I did not quite know what for, but I supposed for ing to write home, and take care that he gets some money?
Steerforth, and so joined in them ardently, though I felt Polly?’
miserable. Mr. Creakle then caned Tommy Traddles for be- We thought this intention very noble in Steerforth, whose
ing discovered in tears, instead of cheers, on account of Mr. mother was a widow, and rich, and would do almost any-
Mell’s departure; and went back to his sofa, or his bed, or thing, it was said, that he asked her. We were all extremely
wherever he had come from. glad to see Traddles so put down, and exalted Steerforth to
We were left to ourselves now, and looked very blank, I the skies: especially when he told us, as he condescended to
recollect, on one another. For myself, I felt so much self-re- do, that what he had done had been done expressly for us,
proach and contrition for my part in what had happened, and for our cause; and that he had conferred a great boon
that nothing would have enabled me to keep back my tears upon us by unselfishly doing it. But I must say that when I
but the fear that Steerforth, who often looked at me, I saw, was going on with a story in the dark that night, Mr. Mell’s
might think it unfriendly - or, I should rather say, consider- old flute seemed more than once to sound mournfully in
ing our relative ages, and the feeling with which I regarded my ears; and that when at last Steerforth was tired, and I lay
him, undutiful - if I showed the emotion which distressed down in my bed, I fancied it playing so sorrowfully some-
me. He was very angry with Traddles, and said he was glad where, that I was quite wretched.
he had caught it. I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforth, who,
Poor Traddles, who had passed the stage of lying with in an easy amateur way, and without any book (he seemed
his head upon the desk, and was relieving himself as usual to me to know everything by heart), took some of his classes
with a burst of skeletons, said he didn’t care. Mr. Mell was until a new master was found. The new master came from a
ill-used. grammar school; and before he entered on his duties, dined
‘Who has ill-used him, you girl?’ said Steerforth. in the parlour one day, to be introduced to Steerforth. Steer-
‘Why, you have,’ returned Traddles. forth approved of him highly, and told us he was a Brick.
‘What have I done?’ said Steerforth. Without exactly understanding what learned distinction
‘What have you done?’ retorted Traddles. ‘Hurt his feel- was meant by this, I respected him greatly for it, and had no

doubt whatever of his superior knowledge: though he never pulled out my pocket-handkerchief and wiped my eyes.
took the pains with me - not that I was anybody - that Mr. Mr. Peggotty (who never shut his mouth once, I remem-
Mell had taken. ber, during the visit) showed great concern when he saw me
There was only one other event in this half-year, out of do this, and nudged Ham to say something.
the daily school-life, that made an impression upon me ‘Cheer up, Mas’r Davy bor’!’ said Ham, in his simpering
which still survives. It survives for many reasons. way. ‘Why, how you have growed!’
One afternoon, when we were all harassed into a state ‘Am I grown?’ I said, drying my eyes. I was not crying at
of dire confusion, and Mr. Creakle was laying about him anything in particular that I know of; but somehow it made
dreadfully, Tungay came in, and called out in his usual me cry, to see old friends.
strong way: ‘Visitors for Copperfield!’ ‘Growed, Mas’r Davy bor’? Ain’t he growed!’ said Ham.
A few words were interchanged between him and Mr. ‘Ain’t he growed!’ said Mr. Peggotty.
Creakle, as, who the visitors were, and what room they were They made me laugh again by laughing at each other, and
to be shown into; and then I, who had, according to cus- then we all three laughed until I was in danger of crying
tom, stood up on the announcement being made, and felt again.
quite faint with astonishment, was told to go by the back ‘Do you know how mama is, Mr. Peggotty?’ I said. ‘And
stairs and get a clean frill on, before I repaired to the dining- how my dear, dear, old Peggotty is?’
room. These orders I obeyed, in such a flutter and hurry of ‘Oncommon,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
my young spirits as I had never known before; and when I ‘And little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gummidge?’
got to the parlour door, and the thought came into my head ‘On - common,’ said Mr. Peggotty.
that it might be my mother - I had only thought of Mr. or There was a silence. Mr. Peggotty, to relieve it, took two
Miss Murdstone until then - I drew back my hand from the prodigious lobsters, and an enormous crab, and a large can-
lock, and stopped to have a sob before I went in. vas bag of shrimps, out of his pockets, and piled them up in
At first I saw nobody; but feeling a pressure against the Ham’s arms.
door, I looked round it, and there, to my amazement, were ‘You see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘knowing as you was partial
Mr. Peggotty and Ham, ducking at me with their hats, and to a little relish with your wittles when you was along with
squeezing one another against the wall. I could not help us, we took the liberty. The old Mawther biled ‘em, she did.
laughing; but it was much more in the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Gummidge biled ‘em. Yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, slowly,
them, than at the appearance they made. We shook hands who I thought appeared to stick to the subject on account of
in a very cordial way; and I laughed and laughed, until I having no other subject ready, ‘Mrs. Gummidge, I do assure

you, she biled ‘em.’ asm Mr. Peggotty became inspired when he thought of his
I expressed my thanks; and Mr. Peggotty, after looking at little favourite. He stands before me again, his bluff hairy
Ham, who stood smiling sheepishly over the shellfish, with- face irradiating with a joyful love and pride, for which I can
out making any attempt to help him, said: find no description. His honest eyes fire up, and sparkle, as
‘We come, you see, the wind and tide making in our fa- if their depths were stirred by something bright. His broad
vour, in one of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen’. My sister chest heaves with pleasure. His strong loose hands clench
she wrote to me the name of this here place, and wrote to themselves, in his earnestness; and he emphasizes what he
me as if ever I chanced to come to Gravesen’, I was to come says with a right arm that shows, in my pigmy view, like a
over and inquire for Mas’r Davy and give her dooty, humbly sledge-hammer.
wishing him well and reporting of the fam’ly as they was Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say they would
oncommon toe-be-sure. Little Em’ly, you see, she’ll write have said much more about her, if they had not been
to my sister when I go back, as I see you and as you was abashed by the unexpected coming in of Steerforth, who,
similarly oncommon, and so we make it quite a merry- go- seeing me in a corner speaking with two strangers, stopped
rounder.’ in a song he was singing, and said: ‘I didn’t know you were
I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what here, young Copperfield!’ (for it was not the usual visiting
Mr. Peggotty meant by this figure, expressive of a complete room) and crossed by us on his way out.
circle of intelligence. I then thanked him heartily; and said, I am not sure whether it was in the pride of having such
with a consciousness of reddening, that I supposed little a friend as Steerforth, or in the desire to explain to him
Em’ly was altered too, since we used to pick up shells and how I came to have such a friend as Mr. Peggotty, that I
pebbles on the beach? called to him as he was going away. But I said, modestly -
‘She’s getting to be a woman, that’s wot she’s getting to be,’ Good Heaven, how it all comes back to me this long time
said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Ask HIM.’ He meant Ham, who beamed afterwards! -
with delight and assent over the bag of shrimps. ‘Don’t go, Steerforth, if you please. These are two Yar-
‘Her pretty face!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with his own shin- mouth boatmen - very kind, good people - who are relations
ing like a light. of my nurse, and have come from Gravesend to see me.’
‘Her learning!’ said Ham. ‘Aye, aye?’ said Steerforth, returning. ‘I am glad to see
‘Her writing!’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Why it’s as black as jet! them. How are you both?’
And so large it is, you might see it anywheres.’ There was an ease in his manner - a gay and light man-
It was perfectly delightful to behold with what enthusi- ner it was, but not swaggering - which I still believe to have

borne a kind of enchantment with it. I still believe him, in the ends of his neckerchief at his breast: ‘I thankee, sir, I
in virtue of this carriage, his animal spirits, his delight- thankee! I do my endeavours in my line of life, sir.’
ful voice, his handsome face and figure, and, for aught I ‘The best of men can do no more, Mr. Peggotty,’ said
know, of some inborn power of attraction besides (which Steerforth. He had got his name already.
I think a few people possess), to have carried a spell with ‘I’ll pound it, it’s wot you do yourself, sir,’ said Mr. Peg-
him to which it was a natural weakness to yield, and which gotty, shaking his head, ‘and wot you do well - right well! I
not many persons could withstand. I could not but see how thankee, sir. I’m obleeged to you, sir, for your welcoming
pleased they were with him, and how they seemed to open manner of me. I’m rough, sir, but I’m ready - least ways, I
their hearts to him in a moment. hope I’m ready, you unnerstand. My house ain’t much for
‘You must let them know at home, if you please, Mr. Peg- to see, sir, but it’s hearty at your service if ever you should
gotty,’ I said, ‘when that letter is sent, that Mr. Steerforth is come along with Mas’r Davy to see it. I’m a reg’lar Dodman,
very kind to me, and that I don’t know what I should ever I am,’ said Mr. Peggotty, by which he meant snail, and this
do here without him.’ was in allusion to his being slow to go, for he had attempt-
‘Nonsense!’ said Steerforth, laughing. ‘You mustn’t tell ed to go after every sentence, and had somehow or other
them anything of the sort.’ come back again; ‘but I wish you both well, and I wish you
‘And if Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or Suffolk, happy!’
Mr. Peggotty,’ I said, ‘while I am there, you may depend Ham echoed this sentiment, and we parted with them in
upon it I shall bring him to Yarmouth, if he will let me, to the heartiest manner. I was almost tempted that evening to
see your house. You never saw such a good house, Steer- tell Steerforth about pretty little Em’ly, but I was too timid
forth. It’s made out of a boat!’ of mentioning her name, and too much afraid of his laugh-
‘Made out of a boat, is it?’ said Steerforth. ‘It’s the right ing at me. I remember that I thought a good deal, and in
sort of a house for such a thorough-built boatman.’ an uneasy sort of way, about Mr. Peggotty having said that
‘So ‘tis, sir, so ‘tis, sir,’ said Ham, grinning. ‘You’re right, she was getting on to be a woman; but I decided that was
young gen’l’m’n! Mas’r Davy bor’, gen’l’m’n’s right. A thor- nonsense.
ough- built boatman! Hor, hor! That’s what he is, too!’ We transported the shellfish, or the ‘relish’ as Mr. Peg-
Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, gotty had modestly called it, up into our room unobserved,
though his modesty forbade him to claim a personal com- and made a great supper that evening. But Traddles couldn’t
pliment so vociferously. get happily out of it. He was too unfortunate even to come
‘Well, sir,’ he said, bowing and chuckling, and tucking through a supper like anybody else. He was taken ill in the

night - quite prostrate he was - in consequence of Crab; and today, tonight - when I was inside the Yarmouth mail, and
after being drugged with black draughts and blue pills, to going home.
an extent which Demple (whose father was a doctor) said I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mail, and
was enough to undermine a horse’s constitution, received many an incoherent dream of all these things. But when I
a caning and six chapters of Greek Testament for refusing awoke at intervals, the ground outside the window was not
to confess. the playground of Salem House, and the sound in my ears
The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection of was not the sound of Mr. Creakle giving it to Traddles, but
the daily strife and struggle of our lives; of the waning sum- the sound of the coachman touching up the horses.
mer and the changing season; of the frosty mornings when
we were rung out of bed, and the cold, cold smell of the dark
nights when we were rung into bed again; of the evening
schoolroom dimly lighted and indifferently warmed, and
the morning schoolroom which was nothing but a great
shivering-machine; of the alternation of boiled beef with
roast beef, and boiled mutton with roast mutton; of clods of
bread-and-butter, dog’s-eared lesson-books, cracked slates,
tear-blotted copy-books, canings, rulerings, hair-cuttings,
rainy Sundays, suet-puddings, and a dirty atmosphere of
ink, surrounding all.
I well remember though, how the distant idea of the holi-
days, after seeming for an immense time to be a stationary
speck, began to come towards us, and to grow and grow.
How from counting months, we came to weeks, and then to
days; and how I then began to be afraid that I should not be
sent for and when I learnt from Steerforth that I had been
sent for, and was certainly to go home, had dim forebod-
ings that I might break my leg first. How the breaking-up
day changed its place fast, at last, from the week after next
to next week, this week, the day after tomorrow, tomorrow,

CHAPTER 8 ‘You look very well, Mr. Barkis,’ I said, thinking he would
like to know it.
Mr. Barkis rubbed his cheek with his cuff, and then
looked at his cuff as if he expected to find some of the bloom
MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY upon it; but made no other acknowledgement of the com-
pliment.
ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON ‘I gave your message, Mr. Barkis,’ I said: ‘I wrote to Peg-
gotty.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis.
Mr. Barkis seemed gruff, and answered drily.
‘Wasn’t it right, Mr. Barkis?’ I asked, after a little hesita-
W hen we arrived before day at the inn where the mail

stopped, which was not the inn where my friend the
waiter lived, I was shown up to a nice little bedroom, with
tion.
‘Why, no,’ said Mr. Barkis.
‘Not the message?’
DOLPHIN painted on the door. Very cold I was, I know, ‘The message was right enough, perhaps,’ said Mr. Bar-
notwithstanding the hot tea they had given me before a kis; ‘but it come to an end there.’
large fire downstairs; and very glad I was to turn into the Not understanding what he meant, I repeated inquisi-
Dolphin’s bed, pull the Dolphin’s blankets round my head, tively: ‘Came to an end, Mr. Barkis?’
and go to sleep. ‘Nothing come of it,’ he explained, looking at me side-
Mr. Barkis the carrier was to call for me in the morn- ways. ‘No answer.’
ing at nine o’clock. I got up at eight, a little giddy from the ‘There was an answer expected, was there, Mr. Barkis?’
shortness of my night’s rest, and was ready for him before said I, opening my eyes. For this was a new light to me.
the appointed time. He received me exactly as if not five ‘When a man says he’s willin’,’ said Mr. Barkis, turning
minutes had elapsed since we were last together, and I had his glance slowly on me again, ‘it’s as much as to say, that
only been into the hotel to get change for sixpence, or some- man’s a-waitin’ for a answer.’
thing of that sort. ‘Well, Mr. Barkis?’
As soon as I and my box were in the cart, and the carrier ‘Well,’ said Mr. Barkis, carrying his eyes back to his
seated, the lazy horse walked away with us all at his accus- horse’s ears; ‘that man’s been a-waitin’ for a answer ever
tomed pace. since.’

‘Have you told her so, Mr. Barkis?’ Ah, what a strange feeling it was to be going home when
‘No - no,’ growled Mr. Barkis, reflecting about it. ‘I ain’t it was not home, and to find that every object I looked at, re-
got no call to go and tell her so. I never said six words to her minded me of the happy old home, which was like a dream
myself, I ain’t a-goin’ to tell her so.’ I could never dream again! The days when my mother and
‘Would you like me to do it, Mr. Barkis?’ said I, doubtful- I and Peggotty were all in all to one another, and there was
ly. ‘You might tell her, if you would,’ said Mr. Barkis, with no one to come between us, rose up before me so sorrow-
another slow look at me, ‘that Barkis was a-waitin’ for a an- fully on the road, that I am not sure I was glad to be there
swer. Says you - what name is it?’ - not sure but that I would rather have remained away, and
‘Her name?’ forgotten it in Steerforth’s company. But there I was; and
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his head. soon I was at our house, where the bare old elm-trees wrung
‘Peggotty.’ their many hands in the bleak wintry air, and shreds of the
‘Chrisen name? Or nat’ral name?’ said Mr. Barkis. old rooks’-nests drifted away upon the wind.
‘Oh, it’s not her Christian name. Her Christian name is The carrier put my box down at the garden-gate, and left
Clara.’ me. I walked along the path towards the house, glancing
‘Is it though?’ said Mr. Barkis. at the windows, and fearing at every step to see Mr. Murd-
He seemed to find an immense fund of reflection in this stone or Miss Murdstone lowering out of one of them. No
circumstance, and sat pondering and inwardly whistling face appeared, however; and being come to the house, and
for some time. knowing how to open the door, before dark, without knock-
‘Well!’ he resumed at length. ‘Says you, ‘Peggotty! Barkis ing, I went in with a quiet, timid step.
is waitin’ for a answer.’ Says she, perhaps, ‘Answer to what?’ God knows how infantine the memory may have been,
Says you, ‘To what I told you.’ ‘What is that?’ says she. ‘Bar- that was awakened within me by the sound of my moth-
kis is willin’,’ says you.’ er’s voice in the old parlour, when I set foot in the hall. She
This extremely artful suggestion Mr. Barkis accompa- was singing in a low tone. I think I must have lain in her
nied with a nudge of his elbow that gave me quite a stitch in arms, and heard her singing so to me when I was but a baby.
my side. After that, he slouched over his horse in his usual The strain was new to me, and yet it was so old that it filled
manner; and made no other reference to the subject except, my heart brim-full; like a friend come back from a long ab-
half an hour afterwards, taking a piece of chalk from his sence.
pocket, and writing up, inside the tilt of the cart, ‘Clara Peg- I believed, from the solitary and thoughtful way in
gotty’ - apparently as a private memorandum. which my mother murmured her song, that she was alone.

And I went softly into the room. She was sitting by the fire, it, and made her dine with us. I had my own old plate, with
suckling an infant, whose tiny hand she held against her a brown view of a man-of-war in full sail upon it, which
neck. Her eyes were looking down upon its face, and she sat Peggotty had hoarded somewhere all the time I had been
singing to it. I was so far right, that she had no other com- away, and would not have had broken, she said, for a hun-
panion. dred pounds. I had my own old mug with David on it, and
I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out. But seeing my own old little knife and fork that wouldn’t cut.
me, she called me her dear Davy, her own boy! and coming While we were at table, I thought it a favourable occasion
half across the room to meet me, kneeled down upon the to tell Peggotty about Mr. Barkis, who, before I had finished
ground and kissed me, and laid my head down on her bo- what I had to tell her, began to laugh, and throw her apron
som near the little creature that was nestling there, and put over her face.
its hand to my lips. ‘Peggotty,’ said my mother. ‘What’s the matter?’
I wish I had died. I wish I had died then, with that feeling Peggotty only laughed the more, and held her apron tight
in my heart! I should have been more fit for Heaven than I over her face when my mother tried to pull it away, and sat
ever have been since. as if her head were in a bag.
‘He is your brother,’ said my mother, fondling me. ‘Davy, ‘What are you doing, you stupid creature?’ said my moth-
my pretty boy! My poor child!’ Then she kissed me more er, laughing.
and more, and clasped me round the neck. This she was ‘Oh, drat the man!’ cried Peggotty. ‘He wants to marry
doing when Peggotty came running in, and bounced down me.’
on the ground beside us, and went mad about us both for a ‘It would be a very good match for you; wouldn’t it?’ said
quarter of an hour. my mother.
It seemed that I had not been expected so soon, the car- ‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Peggotty. ‘Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t
rier being much before his usual time. It seemed, too, that have him if he was made of gold. Nor I wouldn’t have any-
Mr. and Miss Murdstone had gone out upon a visit in the body.’
neighbourhood, and would not return before night. I had ‘Then, why don’t you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?’
never hoped for this. I had never thought it possible that we said my mother.
three could be together undisturbed, once more; and I felt, ‘Tell him so,’ retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron.
for the time, as if the old days were come back. ‘He has never said a word to me about it. He knows better.
We dined together by the fireside. Peggotty was in atten- If he was to make so bold as say a word to me, I should slap
dance to wait upon us, but my mother wouldn’t let her do his face.’

Her own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I from you? I should like to catch her at it! No, no, no,’ said
think; but she only covered it again, for a few moments at a Peggotty, shaking her head, and folding her arms; ‘not she,
time, when she was taken with a violent fit of laughter; and my dear. It isn’t that there ain’t some Cats that would be
after two or three of those attacks, went on with her din- well enough pleased if she did, but they sha’n’t be pleased.
ner. They shall be aggravated. I’ll stay with you till I am a cross
I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when cranky old woman. And when I’m too deaf, and too lame,
Peggotty looked at her, became more serious and thought- and too blind, and too mumbly for want of teeth, to be of
ful. I had seen at first that she was changed. Her face was any use at all, even to be found fault with, than I shall go to
very pretty still, but it looked careworn, and too delicate; my Davy, and ask him to take me in.’
and her hand was so thin and white that it seemed to me to ‘And, Peggotty,’ says I, ‘I shall be glad to see you, and I’ll
be almost transparent. But the change to which I now refer make you as welcome as a queen.’
was superadded to this: it was in her manner, which became ‘Bless your dear heart!’ cried Peggotty. ‘I know you will!’
anxious and fluttered. At last she said, putting out her hand, And she kissed me beforehand, in grateful acknowledge-
and laying it affectionately on the hand of her old servant, ment of my hospitality. After that, she covered her head up
‘Peggotty, dear, you are not going to be married?’ with her apron again and had another laugh about Mr. Bar-
‘Me, ma’am?’ returned Peggotty, staring. ‘Lord bless you, kis. After that, she took the baby out of its little cradle, and
no!’ nursed it. After that, she cleared the dinner table; after that,
‘Not just yet?’ said my mother, tenderly. came in with another cap on, and her work-box, and the
‘Never!’ cried Peggotty. yard-measure, and the bit of wax-candle, all just the same
My mother took her hand, and said: as ever.
‘Don’t leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not be for We sat round the fire, and talked delightfully. I told them
long, perhaps. What should I ever do without you!’ what a hard master Mr. Creakle was, and they pitied me
‘Me leave you, my precious!’ cried Peggotty. ‘Not for all very much. I told them what a fine fellow Steerforth was,
the world and his wife. Why, what’s put that in your silly and what a patron of mine, and Peggotty said she would
little head?’ - For Peggotty had been used of old to talk to walk a score of miles to see him. I took the little baby in my
my mother sometimes like a child. arms when it was awake, and nursed it lovingly. When it
But my mother made no answer, except to thank her, and was asleep again, I crept close to my mother’s side according
Peggotty went running on in her own fashion. to my old custom, broken now a long time, and sat with my
‘Me leave you? I think I see myself. Peggotty go away arms embracing her waist, and my little red cheek on her

shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful hair drooping choose its people. They come and they go, and they don’t
over me - like an angel’s wing as I used to think, I recollect come and they don’t go, just as they like. I wonder what’s
- and was very happy indeed. become of her?’
While I sat thus, looking at the fire, and seeing pictures ‘How absurd you are, Peggotty!’ returned my mother.
in the red-hot coals, I almost believed that I had never been ‘One would suppose you wanted a second visit from her.’
away; that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were such pictures, ‘Lord forbid!’ cried Peggotty.
and would vanish when the fire got low; and that there was ‘Well then, don’t talk about such uncomfortable things,
nothing real in all that I remembered, save my mother, Peg- there’s a good soul,’ said my mother. ‘Miss Betsey is shut up
gotty, and I. in her cottage by the sea, no doubt, and will remain there.
Peggotty darned away at a stocking as long as she could At all events, she is not likely ever to trouble us again.’
see, and then sat with it drawn on her left hand like a glove, ‘No!’ mused Peggotty. ‘No, that ain’t likely at all. - I won-
and her needle in her right, ready to take another stitch der, if she was to die, whether she’d leave Davy anything?’
whenever there was a blaze. I cannot conceive whose stock- ‘Good gracious me, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, ‘what
ings they can have been that Peggotty was always darning, a nonsensical woman you are! when you know that she took
or where such an unfailing supply of stockings in want of offence at the poor dear boy’s ever being born at all.’
darning can have come from. From my earliest infancy she ‘I suppose she wouldn’t be inclined to forgive him now,’
seems to have been always employed in that class of needle- hinted Peggotty.
work, and never by any chance in any other. ‘Why should she be inclined to forgive him now?’ said
‘I wonder,’ said Peggotty, who was sometimes seized with my mother, rather sharply.
a fit of wondering on some most unexpected topic, ‘what’s ‘Now that he’s got a brother, I mean,’ said Peggotty.
become of Davy’s great-aunt?’ ‘Lor, Peggotty!’ observed my MY mother immediately began to cry, and wondered
mother, rousing herself from a reverie, ‘what nonsense you how Peggotty dared to say such a thing.
talk!’ ‘As if this poor little innocent in its cradle had ever done
‘Well, but I really do wonder, ma’am,’ said Peggotty. any harm to you or anybody else, you jealous thing!’ said
‘What can have put such a person in your head?’ inquired she. ‘You had much better go and marry Mr. Barkis, the
my mother. ‘Is there nobody else in the world to come carrier. Why don’t you?’
there?’ ‘I should make Miss Murdstone happy, if I was to,’ said
‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Peggotty, ‘unless it’s on ac- Peggotty.
count of being stupid, but my head never can pick and ‘What a bad disposition you have, Peggotty!’ returned

my mother. ‘You are as jealous of Miss Murdstone as it is ‘I don’t insinuate at all,’ said Peggotty.
possible for a ridiculous creature to be. You want to keep ‘You do, Peggotty,’ returned my mother. ‘You never do
the keys yourself, and give out all the things, I suppose? I anything else, except your work. You are always insinuat-
shouldn’t be surprised if you did. When you know that she ing. You revel in it. And when you talk of Mr. Murdstone’s
only does it out of kindness and the best intentions! You good intentions -’
know she does, Peggotty - you know it well.’ ‘I never talked of ‘em,’ said Peggotty.
Peggotty muttered something to the effect of ‘Bother the ‘No, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, ‘but you insinuated.
best intentions!’ and something else to the effect that there That’s what I told you just now. That’s the worst of you. You
was a little too much of the best intentions going on. WILL insinuate. I said, at the moment, that I understood
‘I know what you mean, you cross thing,’ said my mother. you, and you see I did. When you talk of Mr. Murdstone’s
‘I understand you, Peggotty, perfectly. You know I do, and I good intentions, and pretend to slight them (for I don’t be-
wonder you don’t colour up like fire. But one point at a time. lieve you really do, in your heart, Peggotty), you must be
Miss Murdstone is the point now, Peggotty, and you sha’n’t as well convinced as I am how good they are, and how they
escape from it. Haven’t you heard her say, over and over actuate him in everything. If he seems to have been at all
again, that she thinks I am too thoughtless and too - a - a -’ stern with a certain person, Peggotty - you understand, and
‘Pretty,’ suggested Peggotty. so I am sure does Davy, that I am not alluding to anybody
‘Well,’ returned my mother, half laughing, ‘and if she is present - it is solely because he is satisfied that it is for a cer-
so silly as to say so, can I be blamed for it?’ tain person’s benefit. He naturally loves a certain person, on
‘No one says you can,’ said Peggotty. my account; and acts solely for a certain person’s good. He
‘No, I should hope not, indeed!’ returned my mother. is better able to judge of it than I am; for I very well know
‘Haven’t you heard her say, over and over again, that on that I am a weak, light, girlish creature, and that he is a firm,
this account she wished to spare me a great deal of trou- grave, serious man. And he takes,’ said my mother, with
ble, which she thinks I am not suited for, and which I really the tears which were engendered in her affectionate nature,
don’t know myself that I AM suited for; and isn’t she up ear- stealing down her face, ‘he takes great pains with me; and
ly and late, and going to and fro continually - and doesn’t I ought to be very thankful to him, and very submissive to
she do all sorts of things, and grope into all sorts of places, him even in my thoughts; and when I am not, Peggotty, I
coal-holes and pantries and I don’t know where, that can’t worry and condemn myself, and feel doubtful of my own
be very agreeable - and do you mean to insinuate that there heart, and don’t know what to do.’
is not a sort of devotion in that?’ Peggotty sat with her chin on the foot of the stocking,

looking silently at the fire. that, as it was so late, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone ap-
‘There, Peggotty,’ said my mother, changing her tone, proved of early hours for young people, perhaps I had better
‘don’t let us fall out with one another, for I couldn’t bear it. go to bed. I kissed her, and went upstairs with my candle di-
You are my true friend, I know, if I have any in the world. rectly, before they came in. It appeared to my childish fancy,
When I call you a ridiculous creature, or a vexatious thing, as I ascended to the bedroom where I had been imprisoned,
or anything of that sort, Peggotty, I only mean that you are that they brought a cold blast of air into the house which
my true friend, and always have been, ever since the night blew away the old familiar feeling like a feather.
when Mr. Copperfield first brought me home here, and you I felt uncomfortable about going down to breakfast in
came out to the gate to meet me.’ the morning, as I had never set eyes on Mr. Murdstone since
Peggotty was not slow to respond, and ratify the treaty the day when I committed my memorable offence. Howev-
of friendship by giving me one of her best hugs. I think I er, as it must be done, I went down, after two or three false
had some glimpses of the real character of this conversa- starts half-way, and as many runs back on tiptoe to my own
tion at the time; but I am sure, now, that the good creature room, and presented myself in the parlour.
originated it, and took her part in it, merely that my mother He was standing before the fire with his back to it, while
might comfort herself with the little contradictory summa- Miss Murdstone made the tea. He looked at me steadily as
ry in which she had indulged. The design was efficacious; I entered, but made no sign of recognition whatever. I went
for I remember that my mother seemed more at ease during up to him, after a moment of confusion, and said: ‘I beg
the rest of the evening, and that Peggotty observed her less. your pardon, sir. I am very sorry for what I did, and I hope
When we had had our tea, and the ashes were thrown up, you will forgive me.’
and the candles snuffed, I read Peggotty a chapter out of the ‘I am glad to hear you are sorry, David,’ he replied.
Crocodile Book, in remembrance of old times - she took it The hand he gave me was the hand I had bitten. I could
out of her pocket: I don’t know whether she had kept it there not restrain my eye from resting for an instant on a red spot
ever since - and then we talked about Salem House, which upon it; but it was not so red as I turned, when I met that
brought me round again to Steerforth, who was my great sinister expression in his face.
subject. We were very happy; and that evening, as the last of ‘How do you do, ma’am?’ I said to Miss Murdstone.
its race, and destined evermore to close that volume of my ‘Ah, dear me!’ sighed Miss Murdstone, giving me the
life, will never pass out of my memory. tea-caddy scoop instead of her fingers. ‘How long are the
It was almost ten o’clock before we heard the sound of holidays?’
wheels. We all got up then; and my mother said hurriedly ‘A month, ma’am.’

‘Counting from when?’ On another occasion, when we three were together, this
‘From today, ma’am.’ same dear baby - it was truly dear to me, for our mother’s
‘Oh!’ said Miss Murdstone. ‘Then here’s one day off.’ sake - was the innocent occasion of Miss Murdstone’s going
She kept a calendar of the holidays in this way, and every into a passion. My mother, who had been looking at its eyes
morning checked a day off in exactly the same manner. She as it lay upon her lap, said:
did it gloomily until she came to ten, but when she got into ‘Davy! come here!’ and looked at mine.
two figures she became more hopeful, and, as the time ad- I saw Miss Murdstone lay her beads down.
vanced, even jocular. ‘I declare,’ said my mother, gently, ‘they are exactly alike.
It was on this very first day that I had the misfortune to I suppose they are mine. I think they are the colour of mine.
throw her, though she was not subject to such weakness in But they are wonderfully alike.’
general, into a state of violent consternation. I came into the ‘What are you talking about, Clara?’ said Miss Murd-
room where she and my mother were sitting; and the baby stone.
(who was only a few weeks old) being on my mother’s lap, ‘My dear Jane,’ faltered my mother, a little abashed by the
I took it very carefully in my arms. Suddenly Miss Murd- harsh tone of this inquiry, ‘I find that the baby’s eyes and
stone gave such a scream that I all but dropped it. Davy’s are exactly alike.’
‘My dear Jane!’ cried my mother. ‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, rising angrily, ‘you are a
‘Good heavens, Clara, do you see?’ exclaimed Miss Murd- positive fool sometimes.’
stone. ‘My dear Jane,’ remonstrated my mother.
‘See what, my dear Jane?’ said my mother; ‘where?’ ‘A positive fool,’ said Miss Murdstone. ‘Who else could
‘He’s got it!’ cried Miss Murdstone. ‘The boy has got the compare my brother’s baby with your boy? They are not at
baby!’ all alike. They are exactly unlike. They are utterly dissimi-
She was limp with horror; but stiffened herself to make lar in all respects. I hope they will ever remain so. I will not
a dart at me, and take it out of my arms. Then, she turned sit here, and hear such comparisons made.’ With that she
faint; and was so very ill that they were obliged to give her stalked out, and made the door bang after her.
cherry brandy. I was solemnly interdicted by her, on her re- In short, I was not a favourite with Miss Murdstone. In
covery, from touching my brother any more on any pretence short, I was not a favourite there with anybody, not even
whatever; and my poor mother, who, I could see, wished with myself; for those who did like me could not show it,
otherwise, meekly confirmed the interdict, by saying: ‘No and those who did not, showed it so plainly that I had a
doubt you are right, my dear Jane.’ sensitive consciousness of always appearing constrained,

boorish, and dull. I stood still, and hung my head.
I felt that I made them as uncomfortable as they made ‘Now, David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘a sullen obdurate dis-
me. If I came into the room where they were, and they were position is, of all tempers, the worst.’
talking together and my mother seemed cheerful, an anx- ‘And the boy’s is, of all such dispositions that ever I have
ious cloud would steal over her face from the moment of seen,’ remarked his sister, ‘the most confirmed and stub-
my entrance. If Mr. Murdstone were in his best humour, I born. I think, my dear Clara, even you must observe it?’
checked him. If Miss Murdstone were in her worst, I inten- ‘I beg your pardon, my dear Jane,’ said my mother, ‘but
sified it. I had perception enough to know that my mother are you quite sure - I am certain you’ll excuse me, my dear
was the victim always; that she was afraid to speak to me or Jane - that you understand Davy?’
to be kind to me, lest she should give them some offence by ‘I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara,’ re-
her manner of doing so, and receive a lecture afterwards; turned Miss Murdstone, ‘if I could not understand the boy,
that she was not only ceaselessly afraid of her own offend- or any boy. I don’t profess to be profound; but I do lay claim
ing, but of my offending, and uneasily watched their looks to common sense.’
if I only moved. Therefore I resolved to keep myself as much ‘No doubt, my dear Jane,’ returned my mother, ‘your un-
out of their way as I could; and many a wintry hour did I derstanding is very vigorous -’
hear the church clock strike, when I was sitting in my cheer- ‘Oh dear, no! Pray don’t say that, Clara,’ interposed Miss
less bedroom, wrapped in my little great-coat, poring over Murdstone, angrily.
a book. ‘But I am sure it is,’ resumed my mother; ‘and everybody
In the evening, sometimes, I went and sat with Peggotty knows it is. I profit so much by it myself, in many ways - at
in the kitchen. There I was comfortable, and not afraid of least I ought to - that no one can be more convinced of it
being myself. But neither of these resources was approved than myself; and therefore I speak with great diffidence, my
of in the parlour. The tormenting humour which was dear Jane, I assure you.’
dominant there stopped them both. I was still held to be ‘We’ll say I don’t understand the boy, Clara,’ returned
necessary to my poor mother’s training, and, as one of her Miss Murdstone, arranging the little fetters on her wrists.
trials, could not be suffered to absent myself. ‘We’ll agree, if you please, that I don’t understand him at
‘David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, one day after dinner when I all. He is much too deep for me. But perhaps my brother’s
was going to leave the room as usual; ‘I am sorry to observe penetration may enable him to have some insight into his
that you are of a sullen disposition.’ character. And I believe my brother was speaking on the
‘As sulky as a bear!’ said Miss Murdstone. subject when we - not very decently - interrupted him.’

‘I think, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone, in a low grave voice, wards myself,’ he continued, ‘and towards Jane Murdstone,
‘that there may be better and more dispassionate judges of and towards your mother. I will not have this room shunned
such a question than you.’ as if it were infected, at the pleasure of a child. Sit down.’
‘Edward,’ replied my mother, timidly, ‘you are a far bet- He ordered me like a dog, and I obeyed like a dog.
ter judge of all questions than I pretend to be. Both you and ‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘I observe that you have an
Jane are. I only said -’ attachment to low and common company. You are not to as-
‘You only said something weak and inconsiderate,’ he re- sociate with servants. The kitchen will not improve you, in
plied. ‘Try not to do it again, my dear Clara, and keep a the many respects in which you need improvement. Of the
watch upon yourself.’ woman who abets you, I say nothing - since you, Clara,’ ad-
MY mother’s lips moved, as if she answered ‘Yes, my dear dressing my mother in a lower voice, ‘from old associations
Edward,’ but she said nothing aloud. and long-established fancies, have a weakness respecting
‘I was sorry, David, I remarked,’ said Mr. Murdstone, her which is not yet overcome.’
turning his head and his eyes stiffly towards me, ‘to observe ‘A most unaccountable delusion it is!’ cried Miss Murd-
that you are of a sullen disposition. This is not a character stone.
that I can suffer to develop itself beneath my eyes without an ‘I only say,’ he resumed, addressing me, ‘that I disapprove
effort at improvement. You must endeavour, sir, to change of your preferring such company as Mistress Peggotty, and
it. We must endeavour to change it for you.’ that it is to be abandoned. Now, David, you understand me,
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I faltered. ‘I have never meant to and you know what will be the consequence if you fail to
be sullen since I came back.’ obey me to the letter.’
‘Don’t take refuge in a lie, sir!’ he returned so fiercely, I knew well - better perhaps than he thought, as far as my
that I saw my mother involuntarily put out her trembling poor mother was concerned - and I obeyed him to the let-
hand as if to interpose between us. ‘You have withdrawn ter. I retreated to my own room no more; I took refuge with
yourself in your sullenness to your own room. You have Peggotty no more; but sat wearily in the parlour day after
kept your own room when you ought to have been here. You day, looking forward to night, and bedtime.
know now, once for all, that I require you to be here, and not What irksome constraint I underwent, sitting in the
there. Further, that I require you to bring obedience here. same attitude hours upon hours, afraid to move an arm or
You know me, David. I will have it done.’ a leg lest Miss Murdstone should complain (as she did on
Miss Murdstone gave a hoarse chuckle. the least pretence) of my restlessness, and afraid to move an
‘I will have a respectful, prompt, and ready bearing to- eye lest she should light on some look of dislike or scrutiny

that would find new cause for complaint in mine! What in- never got, to little observations that I rarely made; what a
tolerable dulness to sit listening to the ticking of the clock; blank space I seemed, which everybody overlooked, and yet
and watching Miss Murdstone’s little shiny steel beads as was in everybody’s way; what a heavy relief it was to hear
she strung them; and wondering whether she would ever be Miss Murdstone hail the first stroke of nine at night, and
married, and if so, to what sort of unhappy man; and count- order me to bed!
ing the divisions in the moulding of the chimney-piece; and Thus the holidays lagged away, until the morning came
wandering away, with my eyes, to the ceiling, among the when Miss Murdstone said: ‘Here’s the last day off!’ and
curls and corkscrews in the paper on the wall! gave me the closing cup of tea of the vacation.
What walks I took alone, down muddy lanes, in the bad I was not sorry to go. I had lapsed into a stupid state; but
winter weather, carrying that parlour, and Mr. and Miss I was recovering a little and looking forward to Steerforth,
Murdstone in it, everywhere: a monstrous load that I was albeit Mr. Creakle loomed behind him. Again Mr. Bar-
obliged to bear, a daymare that there was no possibility of kis appeared at the gate, and again Miss Murdstone in her
breaking in, a weight that brooded on my wits, and blunted warning voice, said: ‘Clara!’ when my mother bent over me,
them! to bid me farewell.
What meals I had in silence and embarrassment, always I kissed her, and my baby brother, and was very sorry
feeling that there were a knife and fork too many, and that then; but not sorry to go away, for the gulf between us was
mine; an appetite too many, and that mine; a plate and chair there, and the parting was there, every day. And it is not
too many, and those mine; a somebody too many, and that so much the embrace she gave me, that lives in my mind,
I! though it was as fervent as could be, as what followed the
What evenings, when the candles came, and I was expect- embrace.
ed to employ myself, but, not daring to read an entertaining I was in the carrier’s cart when I heard her calling to me.
book, pored over some hard-headed, harder-hearted trea- I looked out, and she stood at the garden-gate alone, hold-
tise on arithmetic; when the tables of weights and measures ing her baby up in her arms for me to see. It was cold still
set themselves to tunes, as ‘Rule Britannia’, or ‘Away with weather; and not a hair of her head, nor a fold of her dress,
Melancholy’; when they wouldn’t stand still to be learnt, but was stirred, as she looked intently at me, holding up her
would go threading my grandmother’s needle through my child.
unfortunate head, in at one ear and out at the other! What So I lost her. So I saw her afterwards, in my sleep at school
yawns and dozes I lapsed into, in spite of all my care; what - a silent presence near my bed - looking at me with the same
starts I came out of concealed sleeps with; what answers I intent face - holding up her baby in her arms.

CHAPTER 9 I look along the dim perspective of the schoolroom, with
a sputtering candle here and there to light up the foggy
morning, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smok-
ing in the raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap
I HAVE A MEMORABLE their feet upon the floor. It was after breakfast, and we had
been summoned in from the playground, when Mr. Sharp
BIRTHDAY entered and said:
‘David Copperfield is to go into the parlour.’
I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at
the order. Some of the boys about me put in their claim not
to be forgotten in the distribution of the good things, as I
I PASS over all that happened at school, until the anniver-

sary of my birthday came round in March. Except that
Steerforth was more to be admired than ever, I remember
got out of my seat with great alacrity.
‘Don’t hurry, David,’ said Mr. Sharp. ‘There’s time enough,
my boy, don’t hurry.’
nothing. He was going away at the end of the half-year, if not I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which
sooner, and was more spirited and independent than before he spoke, if I had given it a thought; but I gave it none until
in my eyes, and therefore more engaging than before; but afterwards. I hurried away to the parlour; and there I found
beyond this I remember nothing. The great remembrance Mr. Creakle, sitting at his breakfast with the cane and a
by which that time is marked in my mind, seems to have newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle with an opened
swallowed up all lesser recollections, and to exist alone. letter in her hand. But no hamper.
It is even difficult for me to believe that there was a gap ‘David Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a
of full two months between my return to Salem House and sofa, and sitting down beside me. ‘I want to speak to you
the arrival of that birthday. I can only understand that the very particularly. I have something to tell you, my child.’
fact was so, because I know it must have been so; otherwise Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head
I should feel convinced that there was no interval, and that without looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very
the one occasion trod upon the other’s heels. large piece of buttered toast.
How well I recollect the kind of day it was! I smell the ‘You are too young to know how the world changes every
fog that hung about the place; I see the hoar frost, ghostly, day,’ said Mrs. Creakle, ‘and how the people in it pass away.
through it; I feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; But we all have to learn it, David; some of us when we are

young, some of us when we are old, some of us at all times of my father’s grave in the churchyard, by our house, and
of our lives.’ of my mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well. I
I looked at her earnestly. stood upon a chair when I was left alone, and looked into
‘When you came away from home at the end of the vaca- the glass to see how red my eyes were, and how sorrowful
tion,’ said Mrs. Creakle, after a pause, ‘were they all well?’ my face. I considered, after some hours were gone, if my
After another pause, ‘Was your mama well?’ tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be,
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still what, in connexion with my loss, it would affect me most
looked at her earnestly, making no attempt to answer. to think of when I drew near home - for I was going home
‘Because,’ said she, ‘I grieve to tell you that I hear this to the funeral. I am sensible of having felt that a dignity
morning your mama is very ill.’ attached to me among the rest of the boys, and that I was
A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure important in my affliction.
seemed to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I
tears run down my face, and it was steady again. remember that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to
‘She is very dangerously ill,’ she added. me, when I walked in the playground that afternoon while
I knew all now. the boys were in school. When I saw them glancing at me
‘She is dead.’ out of the windows, as they went up to their classes, I felt
There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked
into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world. slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke
She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and to me, I felt it rather good in myself not to be proud to any
left me alone sometimes; and I cried, and wore myself to of them, and to take exactly the same notice of them all, as
sleep, and awoke and cried again. When I could cry no before.
more, I began to think; and then the oppression on my I was to go home next night; not by the mail, but by the
breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that there was heavy night-coach, which was called the Farmer, and was
no ease for. principally used by country-people travelling short inter-
And yet my thoughts were idle; not intent on the calam- mediate distances upon the road. We had no story-telling
ity that weighed upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I that evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me his pil-
thought of our house shut up and hushed. I thought of the low. I don’t know what good he thought it would do me, for I
little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had been pining away for had one of my own: but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow,
some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I thought except a sheet of letter-paper full of skeletons; and that he

gave me at parting, as a soother of my sorrows and a contri- The three young women, who appeared to be very in-
bution to my peace of mind. dustrious and comfortable, raised their heads to look at me,
I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little and then went on with their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At
thought then that I left it, never to return. We travelled very the same time there came from a workshop across a little
slowly all night, and did not get into Yarmouth before nine yard outside the window, a regular sound of hammering
or ten o’clock in the morning. I looked out for Mr. Barkis, that kept a kind of tune: RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT
but he was not there; and instead of him a fat, short-wind- - tat-tat, without any variation.
ed, merry-looking, little old man in black, with rusty little ‘Well,’ said my conductor to one of the three young wom-
bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stock- en. ‘How do you get on, Minnie?’
ings, and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the ‘We shall be ready by the trying-on time,’ she replied gai-
coach window, and said: ly, without looking up. ‘Don’t you be afraid, father.’
‘Master Copperfield?’ Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down
‘Yes, sir.’ and panted. He was so fat that he was obliged to pant some
‘Will you come with me, young sir, if you please,’ he said, time before he could say:
opening the door, ‘and I shall have the pleasure of taking ‘That’s right.’
you home.’ ‘Father!’ said Minnie, playfully. ‘What a porpoise you do
I put my hand in his, wondering who he was, and we grow!’
walked away to a shop in a narrow street, on which was ‘Well, I don’t know how it is, my dear,’ he replied, consid-
written OMER, DRAPER, TAILOR, HABERDASHER, ering about it. ‘I am rather so.’
FUNERAL FURNISHER, &c. It was a close and stifling ‘You are such a comfortable man, you see,’ said Minnie.
little shop; full of all sorts of clothing, made and unmade, ‘You take things so easy.’
including one window full of beaver-hats and bonnets. We ‘No use taking ‘em otherwise, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer.
went into a little back-parlour behind the shop, where we ‘No, indeed,’ returned his daughter. ‘We are all pretty gay
found three young women at work on a quantity of black here, thank Heaven! Ain’t we, father?’
materials, which were heaped upon the table, and little bits ‘I hope so, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘As I have got my
and cuttings of which were littered all over the floor. There breath now, I think I’ll measure this young scholar. Would
was a good fire in the room, and a breathless smell of warm you walk into the shop, Master Copperfield?’
black crape - I did not know what the smell was then, but I I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with his request;
know now. and after showing me a roll of cloth which he said was extra

super, and too good mourning for anything short of par- your father before you. He was five foot nine and a half, and
ents, he took my various dimensions, and put them down he lays in five-and-twen-ty foot of ground.’
in a book. While he was recording them he called my atten- ‘RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat,’ across the
tion to his stock in trade, and to certain fashions which he yard.
said had ‘just come up’, and to certain other fashions which ‘He lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground, if he lays in
he said had ‘just gone out’. a fraction,’ said Mr. Omer, pleasantly. ‘It was either his re-
‘And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint quest or her direction, I forget which.’
of money,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘But fashions are like human be- ‘Do you know how my little brother is, sir?’ I inquired.
ings. They come in, nobody knows when, why, or how; and Mr. Omer shook his head.
they go out, nobody knows when, why, or how. Everything ‘RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat.’
is like life, in my opinion, if you look at it in that point of ‘He is in his mother’s arms,’ said he.
view.’ ‘Oh, poor little fellow! Is he dead?’
I was too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would ‘Don’t mind it more than you can help,’ said Mr. Omer.
possibly have been beyond me under any circumstances; ‘Yes. The baby’s dead.’
and Mr. Omer took me back into the parlour, breathing My wounds broke out afresh at this intelligence. I left the
with some difficulty on the way. scarcely-tasted breakfast, and went and rested my head on
He then called down a little break-neck range of steps another table, in a corner of the little room, which Minnie
behind a door: ‘Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter!’ hastily cleared, lest I should spot the mourning that was ly-
which, after some time, during which I sat looking about ing there with my tears. She was a pretty, good-natured girl,
me and thinking, and listening to the stitching in the room and put my hair away from my eyes with a soft, kind touch;
and the tune that was being hammered across the yard, ap- but she was very cheerful at having nearly finished her work
peared on a tray, and turned out to be for me. and being in good time, and was so different from me!
‘I have been acquainted with you,’ said Mr. Omer, af- Presently the tune left off, and a good-looking young fel-
ter watching me for some minutes, during which I had low came across the yard into the room. He had a hammer
not made much impression on the breakfast, for the black in his hand, and his mouth was full of little nails, which he
things destroyed my appetite, ‘I have been acquainted with was obliged to take out before he could speak.
you a long time, my young friend.’ ‘Well, Joram!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘How do you get on?’
‘Have you, sir?’ ‘All right,’ said Joram. ‘Done, sir.’
‘All your life,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘I may say before it. I knew Minnie coloured a little, and the other two girls smiled

at one another. ram, who I had no doubt was her lover, came in and stole a
‘What! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I kiss from her while she was busy (he didn’t appear to mind
was at the club, then? Were you?’ said Mr. Omer, shutting me, at all), and said her father was gone for the chaise, and
up one eye. he must make haste and get himself ready. Then he went
‘Yes,’ said Joram. ‘As you said we could make a little trip out again; and then she put her thimble and scissors in her
of it, and go over together, if it was done, Minnie and me pocket, and stuck a needle threaded with black thread neat-
- and you.’ ly in the bosom of her gown, and put on her outer clothing
‘Oh! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether,’ smartly, at a little glass behind the door, in which I saw the
said Mr. Omer, laughing till he coughed. reflection of her pleased face.
‘- As you was so good as to say that,’ resumed the young All this I observed, sitting at the table in the corner with
man, ‘why I turned to with a will, you see. Will you give me my head leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on
your opinion of it?’ very different things. The chaise soon came round to the
‘I will,’ said Mr. Omer, rising. ‘My dear’; and he stopped front of the shop, and the baskets being put in first, I was
and turned to me: ‘would you like to see your -’ put in next, and those three followed. I remember it as a
‘No, father,’ Minnie interposed. kind of half chaise-cart, half pianoforte-van, painted of a
‘I thought it might be agreeable, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer. sombre colour, and drawn by a black horse with a long tail.
‘But perhaps you’re right.’ There was plenty of room for us all.
I can’t say how I knew it was my dear, dear mother’s cof- I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feel-
fin that they went to look at. I had never heard one making; ing in my life (I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being
I had never seen one that I know of.- but it came into my with them, remembering how they had been employed, and
mind what the noise was, while it was going on; and when seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not angry with them; I
the young man entered, I am sure I knew what he had been was more afraid of them, as if I were cast away among crea-
doing. tures with whom I had no community of nature. They were
The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names very cheerful. The old man sat in front to drive, and the two
I had not heard, brushed the shreds and threads from their young people sat behind him, and whenever he spoke to
dresses, and went into the shop to put that to rights, and them leaned forward, the one on one side of his chubby face
wait for customers. Minnie stayed behind to fold up what and the other on the other, and made a great deal of him.
they had made, and pack it in two baskets. This she did They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and mo-
upon her knees, humming a lively little tune the while. Jo- ped in my corner; scared by their love-making and hilarity,

though it was far from boisterous, and almost wondering ‘em home?’
that no judgement came upon them for their hardness of ‘Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all my clothes.’
heart. This was all the consolation that her firmness adminis-
So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and tered to me. I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in
drank and enjoyed themselves, I could touch nothing that exhibiting what she called her self-command, and her firm-
they touched, but kept my fast unbroken. So, when we ness, and her strength of mind, and her common sense, and
reached home, I dropped out of the chaise behind, as quick- the whole diabolical catalogue of her unamiable qualities,
ly as possible, that I might not be in their company before on such an occasion. She was particularly proud of her turn
those solemn windows, looking blindly on me like closed for business; and she showed it now in reducing everything
eyes once bright. And oh, how little need I had had to think to pen and ink, and being moved by nothing. All the rest of
what would move me to tears when I came back - seeing the that day, and from morning to night afterwards, she sat at
window of my mother’s room, and next it that which, in the that desk, scratching composedly with a hard pen, speaking
better time, was mine! in the same imperturbable whisper to everybody; never re-
I was in Peggotty’s arms before I got to the door, and she laxing a muscle of her face, or softening a tone of her voice,
took me into the house. Her grief burst out when she first or appearing with an atom of her dress astray.
saw me; but she controlled it soon, and spoke in whispers, Her brother took a book sometimes, but never read it
and walked softly, as if the dead could be disturbed. She that I saw. He would open it and look at it as if he were read-
had not been in bed, I found, for a long time. She sat up at ing, but would remain for a whole hour without turning the
night still, and watched. As long as her poor dear pretty was leaf, and then put it down and walk to and fro in the room.
above the ground, she said, she would never desert her. I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and counting
Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the his footsteps, hour after hour. He very seldom spoke to her,
parlour where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silent- and never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing,
ly, and pondering in his elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone, who except the clocks, in the whole motionless house.
was busy at her writing-desk, which was covered with let- In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peg-
ters and papers, gave me her cold finger-nails, and asked me, gotty, except that, in passing up or down stairs, I always
in an iron whisper, if I had been measured for my mourn- found her close to the room where my mother and her baby
ing. lay, and except that she came to me every night, and sat by
I said: ‘Yes.’ my bed’s head while I went to sleep. A day or two before
‘And your shirts,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘have you brought the burial - I think it was a day or two before, but I am con-

scious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with home. And now the bell begins to sound, and Mr. Omer
nothing to mark its progress - she took me into the room. I and another come to make us ready. As Peggotty was wont
only recollect that underneath some white covering on the to tell me, long ago, the followers of my father to the same
bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness all around grave were made ready in the same room.
it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbour Mr. Grayper,
that was in the house; and that when she would have turned Mr. Chillip, and I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers
the cover gently back, I cried: ‘Oh no! oh no!’ and held her and their load are in the garden; and they move before us
hand. down the path, and past the elms, and through the gate, and
If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect into the churchyard, where I have so often heard the birds
it better. The very air of the best parlour, when I went in at sing on a summer morning.
the door, the bright condition of the fire, the shining of the We stand around the grave. The day seems different to
wine in the decanters, the patterns of the glasses and plates, me from every other day, and the light not of the same co-
the faint sweet smell of cake, the odour of Miss Murdstone’s lour - of a sadder colour. Now there is a solemn hush, which
dress, and our black clothes. Mr. Chillip is in the room, and we have brought from home with what is resting in the
comes to speak to me. mould; and while we stand bareheaded, I hear the voice of
‘And how is Master David?’ he says, kindly. the clergyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet
I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which distinct and plain, saying: ‘I am the Resurrection and the
he holds in his. Life, saith the Lord!’ Then I hear sobs; and, standing apart
‘Dear me!’ says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with some- among the lookers-on, I see that good and faithful servant,
thing shining in his eye. ‘Our little friends grow up around whom of all the people upon earth I love the best, and unto
us. They grow out of our knowledge, ma’am?’ This is to Miss whom my childish heart is certain that the Lord will one
Murdstone, who makes no reply. day say: ‘Well done.’
‘There is a great improvement here, ma’am?’ says Mr. There are many faces that I know, among the little crowd;
Chillip. faces that I knew in church, when mine was always wonder-
Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a ing there; faces that first saw my mother, when she came to
formal bend: Mr. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, the village in her youthful bloom. I do not mind them - I
keeping me with him, and opens his mouth no more. mind nothing but my grief - and yet I see and know them
I remark this, because I remark everything that happens, all; and even in the background, far away, see Minnie look-
not because I care about myself, or have done since I came ing on, and her eye glancing on her sweetheart, who is near

me. like, of late; and that a hard word was like a blow to her. But
It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we turn to come she was always the same to me. She never changed to her
away. Before us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged, foolish Peggotty, didn’t my sweet girl.’
so linked in my mind with the young idea of what is gone, Here Peggotty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a
that all my sorrow has been nothing to the sorrow it calls little while.
forth. But they take me on; and Mr. Chillip talks to me; and ‘The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was
when we get home, puts some water to my lips; and when I the night when you came home, my dear. The day you went
ask his leave to go up to my room, dismisses me with the away, she said to me, ‘I never shall see my pretty darling
gentleness of a woman. again. Something tells me so, that tells the truth, I know.’
All this, I say, is yesterday’s event. Events of later date ‘She tried to hold up after that; and many a time, when
have floated from me to the shore where all forgotten things they told her she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made
will reappear, but this stands like a high rock in the ocean. believe to be so; but it was all a bygone then. She never told
I knew that Peggotty would come to me in my room. The her husband what she had told me - she was afraid of saying
Sabbath stillness of the time (the day was so like Sunday! it to anybody else - till one night, a little more than a week
I have forgotten that) was suited to us both. She sat down before it happened, when she said to him: ‘My dear, I think
by my side upon my little bed; and holding my hand, and I am dying.’
sometimes putting it to her lips, and sometimes smoothing ‘’It’s off my mind now, Peggotty,’ she told me, when I laid
it with hers, as she might have comforted my little brother, her in her bed that night. ‘He will believe it more and more,
told me, in her way, all that she had to tell concerning what poor fellow, every day for a few days to come; and then it
had happened. will be past. I am very tired. If this is sleep, sit by me while I
‘She was never well,’ said Peggotty, ‘for a long time. She sleep: don’t leave me. God bless both my children! God pro-
was uncertain in her mind, and not happy. When her baby tect and keep my fatherless boy!’
was born, I thought at first she would get better, but she was ‘I never left her afterwards,’ said Peggotty. ‘She often talk-
more delicate, and sunk a little every day. She used to like ed to them two downstairs - for she loved them; she couldn’t
to sit alone before her baby came, and then she cried; but af- bear not to love anyone who was about her - but when they
terwards she used to sing to it - so soft, that I once thought, went away from her bed-side, she always turned to me, as if
when I heard her, it was like a voice up in the air, that was there was rest where Peggotty was, and never fell asleep in
rising away. any other way.
‘I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened- ‘On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and

said: ‘If my baby should die too, Peggotty, please let them round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twi-
lay him in my arms, and bury us together.’ (It was done; for light in the parlour. What Peggotty had told me now, was so
the poor lamb lived but a day beyond her.) ‘Let my dearest far from bringing me back to the later period, that it rooted
boy go with us to our resting-place,’ she said, ‘and tell him the earlier image in my mind. It may be curious, but it is
that his mother, when she lay here, blessed him not once, true. In her death she winged her way back to her calm un-
but a thousand times.‘‘ troubled youth, and cancelled all the rest.
Another silence followed this, and another gentle beat- The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my
ing on my hand. infancy; the little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had
‘It was pretty far in the night,’ said Peggotty, ‘when she once been, hushed for ever on her bosom.
asked me for some drink; and when she had taken it, gave
me such a patient smile, the dear! - so beautiful!
‘Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she
said to me, how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had
always been to her, and how he had borne with her, and told
her, when she doubted herself, that a loving heart was bet-
ter and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a happy man
in hers. ‘Peggotty, my dear,’ she said then, ‘put me nearer to
you,’ for she was very weak. ‘Lay your good arm underneath
my neck,’ she said, ‘and turn me to you, for your face is go-
ing far off, and I want it to be near.’ I put it as she asked; and
oh Davy! the time had come when my first parting words
to you were true - when she was glad to lay her poor head
on her stupid cross old Peggotty’s arm - and she died like a
child that had gone to sleep!’
Thus ended Peggotty’s narration. From the moment of
my knowing of the death of my mother, the idea of her as
she had been of late had vanished from me. I remembered
her, from that instant, only as the young mother of my earli-
est impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls

CHAPTER 10 lieved me of a great deal of present uneasiness, might have
made me, if I had been capable of considering it closely, yet
more uncomfortable about the future. It was this. The con-
straint that had been put upon me, was quite abandoned.
I BECOME NEGLECTED, I was so far from being required to keep my dull post in
the parlour, that on several occasions, when I took my seat
AND AM PROVIDED FOR there, Miss Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I was so
far from being warned off from Peggotty’s society, that, pro-
vided I was not in Mr. Murdstone’s, I was never sought out
or inquired for. At first I was in daily dread of his taking my
education in hand again, or of Miss Murdstone’s devoting
T he first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when

the day of the solemnity was over, and light was free-
ly admitted into the house, was to give Peggotty a month’s
herself to it; but I soon began to think that such fears were
groundless, and that all I had to anticipate was neglect.
I do not conceive that this discovery gave me much pain
warning. Much as Peggotty would have disliked such a ser- then. I was still giddy with the shock of my mother’s death,
vice, I believe she would have retained it, for my sake, in and in a kind of stunned state as to all tributary things. I
preference to the best upon earth. She told me we must part, can recollect, indeed, to have speculated, at odd times, on
and told me why; and we condoled with one another, in all the possibility of my not being taught any more, or cared
sincerity. for any more; and growing up to be a shabby, moody man,
As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step lounging an idle life away, about the village; as well as on
taken. Happy they would have been, I dare say, if they could the feasibility of my getting rid of this picture by going away
have dismissed me at a month’s warning too. I mustered somewhere, like the hero in a story, to seek my fortune: but
courage once, to ask Miss Murdstone when I was going these were transient visions, daydreams I sat looking at
back to school; and she answered dryly, she believed I was sometimes, as if they were faintly painted or written on the
not going back at all. I was told nothing more. I was very wall of my room, and which, as they melted away, left the
anxious to know what was going to be done with me, and wall blank again.
so was Peggotty; but neither she nor I could pick up any in- ‘Peggotty,’ I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening,
formation on the subject. when I was warming my hands at the kitchen fire, ‘Mr.
There was one change in my condition, which, while it re- Murdstone likes me less than he used to. He never liked me

much, Peggotty; but he would rather not even see me now, dear old Peggotty, there. You won’t be quite at the other end
if he can help it.’ of the world, will you?’
‘Perhaps it’s his sorrow,’ said Peggotty, stroking my hair. ‘Contrary ways, please God!’ cried Peggotty, with great
‘I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it was animation. ‘As long as you are here, my pet, I shall come
his sorrow, I should not think of it at all. But it’s not that; oh, over every week of my life to see you. One day, every week
no, it’s not that.’ of my life!’
‘How do you know it’s not that?’ said Peggotty, after a I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise:
silence. but even this was not all, for Peggotty went on to say:
‘Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He ‘I’m a-going, Davy, you see, to my brother’s, first, for an-
is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss other fortnight’s visit - just till I have had time to look about
Murdstone; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be me, and get to be something like myself again. Now, I have
something besides.’ been thinking that perhaps, as they don’t want you here at
‘What would he be?’ said Peggotty. present, you might be let to go along with me.’
‘Angry,’ I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his If anything, short of being in a different relation to ev-
dark frown. ‘If he was only sorry, he wouldn’t look at me as ery one about me, Peggotty excepted, could have given me
he does. I am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.’ a sense of pleasure at that time, it would have been this
Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my project of all others. The idea of being again surrounded
hands, as silent as she. by those honest faces, shining welcome on me; of renewing
‘Davy,’ she said at length. the peacefulness of the sweet Sunday morning, when the
‘Yes, Peggotty?’ ‘I have tried, my dear, all ways I could bells were ringing, the stones dropping in the water, and
think of - all the ways there are, and all the ways there ain’t, the shadowy ships breaking through the mist; of roaming
in short - to get a suitable service here, in Blunderstone; but up and down with little Em’ly, telling her my troubles, and
there’s no such a thing, my love.’ finding charms against them in the shells and pebbles on
‘And what do you mean to do, Peggotty,’ says I, wistfully. the beach; made a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next mo-
‘Do you mean to go and seek your fortune?’ ment, to be sure, by a doubt of Miss Murdstone’s giving her
‘I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth,’ replied Peg- consent; but even that was set at rest soon, for she came
gotty, ‘and live there.’ out to take an evening grope in the store-closet while we
‘You might have gone farther off,’ I said, brightening a were yet in conversation, and Peggotty, with a boldness that
little, ‘and been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimes, my amazed me, broached the topic on the spot.

‘The boy will be idle there,’ said Miss Murdstone, looking kerchief at her eyes.
into a pickle-jar, ‘and idleness is the root of all evil. But, to So long as she remained in this condition, Mr. Barkis
be sure, he would be idle here - or anywhere, in my opin- gave no sign of life whatever. He sat in his usual place and
ion.’ attitude like a great stuffed figure. But when she began to
Peggotty had an angry answer ready, I could see; but she look about her, and to speak to me, he nodded his head and
swallowed it for my sake, and remained silent. grinned several times. I have not the least notion at whom,
‘Humph!’ said Miss Murdstone, still keeping her eye on or what he meant by it.
the pickles; ‘it is of more importance than anything else - it ‘It’s a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis!’ I said, as an act of po-
is of paramount importance - that my brother should not liteness.
be disturbed or made uncomfortable. I suppose I had bet- ‘It ain’t bad,’ said Mr. Barkis, who generally qualified his
ter say yes.’ speech, and rarely committed himself.
I thanked her, without making any demonstration of joy, ‘Peggotty is quite comfortable now, Mr. Barkis,’ I re-
lest it should induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor could I marked, for his satisfaction.
help thinking this a prudent course, since she looked at me ‘Is she, though?’ said Mr. Barkis.
out of the pickle-jar, with as great an access of sourness as if After reflecting about it, with a sagacious air, Mr. Barkis
her black eyes had absorbed its contents. However, the per- eyed her, and said:
mission was given, and was never retracted; for when the ‘ARE you pretty comfortable?’
month was out, Peggotty and I were ready to depart. Peggotty laughed, and answered in the affirmative.
Mr. Barkis came into the house for Peggotty’s boxes. I ‘But really and truly, you know. Are you?’ growled Mr.
had never known him to pass the garden-gate before, but Barkis, sliding nearer to her on the seat, and nudging her
on this occasion he came into the house. And he gave me a with his elbow. ‘Are you? Really and truly pretty comfort-
look as he shouldered the largest box and went out, which I able? Are you? Eh?’
thought had meaning in it, if meaning could ever be said to At each of these inquiries Mr. Barkis shuffled nearer to
find its way into Mr. Barkis’s visage. her, and gave her another nudge; so that at last we were all
Peggotty was naturally in low spirits at leaving what had crowded together in the left-hand corner of the cart, and I
been her home so many years, and where the two strong at- was so squeezed that I could hardly bear it.
tachments of her life - for my mother and myself - had been Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Bar-
formed. She had been walking in the churchyard, too, very kis gave me a little more room at once, and got away by
early; and she got into the cart, and sat in it with her hand- degrees. But I could not help observing that he seemed to

think he had hit upon a wonderful expedient for expressing I looked up into his face, and answered, with an attempt
himself in a neat, agreeable, and pointed manner, without to be very profound: ‘Oh!’
the inconvenience of inventing conversation. He manifest- ‘It didn’t come to a end there,’ said Mr. Barkis, nodding
ly chuckled over it for some time. By and by he turned to confidentially. ‘It was all right.’
Peggotty again, and repeating, ‘Are you pretty comfortable Again I answered, ‘Oh!’
though?’ bore down upon us as before, until the breath was ‘You know who was willin’,’ said my friend. ‘It was Barkis,
nearly edged out of my body. By and by he made another and Barkis only.’
descent upon us with the same inquiry, and the same re- I nodded assent.
sult. At length, I got up whenever I saw him coming, and ‘It’s all right,’ said Mr. Barkis, shaking hands; ‘I’m a friend
standing on the foot-board, pretended to look at the pros- of your’n. You made it all right, first. It’s all right.’
pect; after which I did very well. In his attempts to be particularly lucid, Mr. Barkis was
He was so polite as to stop at a public-house, expressly so extremely mysterious, that I might have stood looking in
on our account, and entertain us with broiled mutton and his face for an hour, and most assuredly should have got as
beer. Even when Peggotty was in the act of drinking, he was much information out of it as out of the face of a clock that
seized with one of those approaches, and almost choked her. had stopped, but for Peggotty’s calling me away. As we were
But as we drew nearer to the end of our journey, he had going along, she asked me what he had said; and I told her
more to do and less time for gallantry; and when we got on he had said it was all right.
Yarmouth pavement, we were all too much shaken and jolt- ‘Like his impudence,’ said Peggotty, ‘but I don’t mind
ed, I apprehend, to have any leisure for anything else. that! Davy dear, what should you think if I was to think of
Mr. Peggotty and Ham waited for us at the old place. being married?’
They received me and Peggotty in an affectionate manner, ‘Why - I suppose you would like me as much then, Peggot-
and shook hands with Mr. Barkis, who, with his hat on ty, as you do now?’ I returned, after a little consideration.
the very back of his head, and a shame-faced leer upon his Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the
countenance, and pervading his very legs, presented but a street, as well as of her relations going on before, the good
vacant appearance, I thought. They each took one of Peg- soul was obliged to stop and embrace me on the spot, with
gotty’s trunks, and we were going away, when Mr. Barkis many protestations of her unalterable love.
solemnly made a sign to me with his forefinger to come un- ‘Tell me what should you say, darling?’ she asked again,
der an archway. when this was over, and we were walking on.
‘I say,’ growled Mr. Barkis, ‘it was all right.’ ‘If you were thinking of being married - to Mr. Barkis,

Peggotty?’ be my fault if I wasn’t - if I wasn’t pretty comfortable,’ said
‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. Peggotty, laughing heartily. This quotation from Mr. Barkis
‘I should think it would be a very good thing. For then was so appropriate, and tickled us both so much, that we
you know, Peggotty, you would always have the horse and laughed again and again, and were quite in a pleasant hu-
cart to bring you over to see me, and could come for noth- mour when we came within view of Mr. Peggotty’s cottage.
ing, and be sure of coming.’ It looked just the same, except that it may, perhaps, have
‘The sense of the dear!’ cried Peggotty. ‘What I have been shrunk a little in my eyes; and Mrs. Gummidge was waiting
thinking of, this month back! Yes, my precious; and I think at the door as if she had stood there ever since. All within
I should be more independent altogether, you see; let alone was the same, down to the seaweed in the blue mug in my
my working with a better heart in my own house, than I bedroom. I went into the out-house to look about me; and
could in anybody else’s now. I don’t know what I might be the very same lobsters, crabs, and crawfish possessed by the
fit for, now, as a servant to a stranger. And I shall be always same desire to pinch the world in general, appeared to be in
near my pretty’s resting-place,’ said Peggotty, musing, ‘and the same state of conglomeration in the
be able to see it when I like; and when I lie down to rest, I same old corner.
may be laid not far off from my darling girl!’ But there was no little Em’ly to be seen, so I asked Mr.
We neither of us said anything for a little while. Peggotty where she was.
‘But I wouldn’t so much as give it another thought,’ said ‘She’s at school, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, wiping the heat
Peggotty, cheerily ‘if my Davy was anyways against it - not consequent on the porterage of Peggotty’s box from his
if I had been asked in church thirty times three times over, forehead; ‘she’ll be home,’ looking at the Dutch clock, ‘in
and was wearing out the ring in my pocket.’ from twenty minutes to half-an-hour’s time. We all on us
‘Look at me, Peggotty,’ I replied; ‘and see if I am not re- feel the loss of her, bless ye!’
ally glad, and don’t truly wish it!’ As indeed I did, with all Mrs. Gummidge moaned.
my heart. ‘Cheer up, Mawther!’ cried Mr. Peggotty.
‘Well, my life,’ said Peggotty, giving me a squeeze, ‘I have ‘I feel it more than anybody else,’ said Mrs. Gummidge;
thought of it night and day, every way I can, and I hope the ‘I’m a lone lorn creetur’, and she used to be a’most the only
right way; but I’ll think of it again, and speak to my broth- thing that didn’t go contrary with me.’
er about it, and in the meantime we’ll keep it to ourselves, Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head,
Davy, you and me. Barkis is a good plain creature,’ said Peg- applied herself to blowing the fire. Mr. Peggotty, looking
gotty, ‘and if I tried to do my duty by him, I think it would round upon us while she was so engaged, said in a low voice,

which he shaded with his hand: ‘The old ‘un!’ From this I in her I wondered at very much. The tea table was ready, and
rightly conjectured that no improvement had taken place our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead of
since my last visit in the state of Mrs. Gummidge’s spirits. coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company
Now, the whole place was, or it should have been, quite upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge: and on Mr. Peggot-
as delightful a place as ever; and yet it did not impress me in ty’s inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide
the same way. I felt rather disappointed with it. Perhaps it it, and could do nothing but laugh.
was because little Em’ly was not at home. I knew the way by ‘A little puss, it is!’ said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his
which she would come, and presently found myself stroll- great hand.
ing along the path to meet her. ‘So sh’ is! so sh’ is!’ cried Ham. ‘Mas’r Davy bor’, so sh’ is!’
A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon and he sat and chuckled at her for some time, in a state of
knew it to be Em’ly, who was a little creature still in stature, mingled admiration and delight, that made his face a burn-
though she was grown. But when she drew nearer, and I ing red.
saw her blue eyes looking bluer, and her dimpled face look- Little Em’ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; and by no
ing brighter, and her whole self prettier and gayer, a curious one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have
feeling came over me that made me pretend not to know coaxed into anything, by only going and laying her cheek
her, and pass by as if I were looking at something a long against his rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least,
way off. I have done such a thing since in later life, or I am when I saw her do it; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be thoroughly
mistaken. in the right. But she was so affectionate and sweet-natured,
Little Em’ly didn’t care a bit. She saw me well enough; and had such a pleasant manner of being both sly and shy at
but instead of turning round and calling after me, ran away once, that she captivated me more than ever.
laughing. This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so She was tender-hearted, too; for when, as we sat round
fast that we were very near the cottage before I caught her. the fire after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said little Em’ly. his pipe to the loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her
‘Why, you knew who it was, Em’ly,’ said I. eyes, and she looked at me so kindly across the table, that I
‘And didn’t YOU know who it was?’ said Em’ly. I was felt quite thankful to her.
going to kiss her, but she covered her cherry lips with her ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running
hands, and said she wasn’t a baby now, and ran away, laugh- them over his hand like water, ‘here’s another orphan, you
ing more than ever, into the house. see, sir. And here,’ said Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a back-
She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change handed knock in the chest, ‘is another of ‘em, though he

don’t look much like it.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, delighted; ‘he knows everything. He is aston-
‘If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, shak- ishingly clever.’
ing my head, ‘I don’t think I should FEEL much like it.’ ‘There’s a friend!’ murmured Mr. Peggotty, with a grave
‘Well said, Mas’r Davy bor’!’ cried Ham, in an ecstasy. toss of his head.
‘Hoorah! Well said! Nor more you wouldn’t! Hor! Hor!’ - ‘Nothing seems to cost him any trouble,’ said I. ‘He
Here he returned Mr. Peggotty’s back-hander, and little knows a task if he only looks at it. He is the best cricketer
Em’ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty. ‘And how’s your you ever saw. He will give you almost as many men as you
friend, sir?’ said Mr. Peggotty to me. like at draughts, and beat you easily.’
‘Steerforth?’ said I. Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to
‘That’s the name!’ cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham. ‘I say: ‘Of course he will.’
knowed it was something in our way.’ ‘He is such a speaker,’ I pursued, ‘that he can win any-
‘You said it was Rudderford,’ observed Ham, laughing. body over; and I don’t know what you’d say if you were to
‘Well!’ retorted Mr. Peggotty. ‘And ye steer with a rudder, hear him sing, Mr. Peggotty.’
don’t ye? It ain’t fur off. How is he, sir?’ Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to
‘He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peg- say: ‘I have no doubt of it.’
gotty.’ ‘Then, he’s such a generous, fine, noble fellow,’ said I,
‘There’s a friend!’ said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out his quite carried away by my favourite theme, ‘that it’s hardly
pipe. ‘There’s a friend, if you talk of friends! Why, Lord love possible to give him as much praise as he deserves. I am
my heart alive, if it ain’t a treat to look at him!’ sure I can never feel thankful enough for the generosity
‘He is very handsome, is he not?’ said I, my heart warm- with which he has protected me, so much younger and low-
ing with this praise. er in the school than himself.’
‘Handsome!’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘He stands up to you I was running on, very fast indeed, when my eyes rest-
like - like a - why I don’t know what he don’t stand up to ed on little Em’ly’s face, which was bent forward over the
you like. He’s so bold!’ table, listening with the deepest attention, her breath held,
‘Yes! That’s just his character,’ said I. ‘He’s as brave as a her blue eyes sparkling like jewels, and the colour mantling
lion, and you can’t think how frank he is, Mr. Peggotty.’ in her cheeks. She looked so extraordinarily earnest and
‘And I do suppose, now,’ said Mr. Peggotty, looking at pretty, that I stopped in a sort of wonder; and they all ob-
me through the smoke of his pipe, ‘that in the way of book- served her at the same time, for as I stopped, they laughed
larning he’d take the wind out of a’most anything.’ and looked at her.

‘Em’ly is like me,’ said Peggotty, ‘and would like to see at the door when I came back, disappointed. The best times
him.’ were when she sat quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat
Em’ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung on the wooden step at her feet, reading to her. It seems to
down her head, and her face was covered with blushes. me, at this hour, that I have never seen such sunlight as on
Glancing up presently through her stray curls, and seeing those bright April afternoons; that I have never seen such a
that we were all looking at her still (I am sure I, for one, sunny little figure as I used to see, sitting in the doorway of
could have looked at her for hours), she ran away, and kept the old boat; that I have never beheld such sky, such water,
away till it was nearly bedtime. such glorified ships sailing away into golden air.
I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of the boat, On the very first evening after our arrival, Mr. Barkis
and the wind came moaning on across the flat as it had done appeared in an exceedingly vacant and awkward condition,
before. But I could not help fancying, now, that it moaned and with a bundle of oranges tied up in a handkerchief. As
of those who were gone; and instead of thinking that the sea he made no allusion of any kind to this property, he was
might rise in the night and float the boat away, I thought of supposed to have left it behind him by accident when he
the sea that had risen, since I last heard those sounds, and went away; until Ham, running after him to restore it, came
drowned my happy home. I recollect, as the wind and wa- back with the information that it was intended for Peggot-
ter began to sound fainter in my ears, putting a short clause ty. After that occasion he appeared every evening at exactly
into my prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to marry the same hour, and always with a little bundle, to which he
little Em’ly, and so dropping lovingly asleep. never alluded, and which he regularly put behind the door
The days passed pretty much as they had passed before, and left there. These offerings of affection were of a most
except - it was a great exception- that little Em’ly and I sel- various and eccentric description. Among them I remem-
dom wandered on the beach now. She had tasks to learn, ber a double set of pigs’ trotters, a huge pin-cushion, half a
and needle-work to do; and was absent during a great part bushel or so of apples, a pair of jet earrings, some Spanish
of each day. But I felt that we should not have had those onions, a box of dominoes, a canary bird and cage, and a leg
old wanderings, even if it had been otherwise. Wild and of pickled pork.
full of childish whims as Em’ly was, she was more of a little Mr. Barkis’s wooing, as I remember it, was altogether of
woman than I had supposed. She seemed to have got a great a peculiar kind. He very seldom said anything; but would
distance away from me, in little more than a year. She liked sit by the fire in much the same attitude as he sat in his cart,
me, but she laughed at me, and tormented me; and when I and stare heavily at Peggotty, who was opposite. One night,
went to meet her, stole home another way, and was laughing being, as I suppose, inspired by love, he made a dart at the

bit of wax-candle she kept for her thread, and put it in his hair up on end on the top of his head. His bright buttons,
waistcoat-pocket and carried it off. After that, his great de- too, were of the largest size. Rendered complete by drab
light was to produce it when it was wanted, sticking to the pantaloons and a buff waistcoat, I thought Mr. Barkis a
lining of his pocket, in a partially melted state, and pocket phenomenon of respectability.
it again when it was done with. He seemed to enjoy himself When we were all in a bustle outside the door, I found
very much, and not to feel at all called upon to talk. Even that Mr. Peggotty was prepared with an old shoe, which was
when he took Peggotty out for a walk on the flats, he had no to be thrown after us for luck, and which he offered to Mrs.
uneasiness on that head, I believe; contenting himself with Gummidge for that purpose.
now and then asking her if she was pretty comfortable; and ‘No. It had better be done by somebody else, Dan’l,’ said
I remember that sometimes, after he was gone, Peggotty Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I’m a lone lorn creetur’ myself, and ev-
would throw her apron over her face, and laugh for half-an- erythink that reminds me of creetur’s that ain’t lone and
hour. Indeed, we were all more or less amused, except that lorn, goes contrary with me.’
miserable Mrs. Gummidge, whose courtship would appear ‘Come, old gal!’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘Take and heave it.’
to have been of an exactly parallel nature, she was so con- ‘No, Dan’l,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and
tinually reminded by these transactions of the old one. shaking her head. ‘If I felt less, I could do more. You don’t
At length, when the term of my visit was nearly expired, feel like me, Dan’l; thinks don’t go contrary with you, nor
it was given out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going you with them; you had better do it yourself.’
to make a day’s holiday together, and that little Em’ly and But here Peggotty, who had been going about from one
I were to accompany them. I had but a broken sleep the to another in a hurried way, kissing everybody, called out
night before, in anticipation of the pleasure of a whole day from the cart, in which we all were by this time (Em’ly and I
with Em’ly. We were all astir betimes in the morning; and on two little chairs, side by side), that Mrs. Gummidge must
while we were yet at breakfast, Mr. Barkis appeared in the do it. So Mrs. Gummidge did it; and, I am sorry to relate,
distance, driving a chaise-cart towards the object of his af- cast a damp upon the festive character of our departure,
fections. by immediately bursting into tears, and sinking subdued
Peggotty was dressed as usual, in her neat and quiet into the arms of Ham, with the declaration that she knowed
mourning; but Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat, of she was a burden, and had better be carried to the House at
which the tailor had given him such good measure, that the once. Which I really thought was a sensible idea, that Ham
cuffs would have rendered gloves unnecessary in the cold- might have acted on.
est weather, while the collar was so high that it pushed his Away we went, however, on our holiday excursion; and

the first thing we did was to stop at a church, where Mr. church for no other purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it
Barkis tied the horse to some rails, and went in with Peg- should be quietly done; and the clerk had given her away,
gotty, leaving little Em’ly and me alone in the chaise. I took and there had been no witnesses of the ceremony. She was
that occasion to put my arm round Em’ly’s waist, and pro- a little confused when Mr. Barkis made this abrupt an-
pose that as I was going away so very soon now, we should nouncement of their union, and could not hug me enough
determine to be very affectionate to one another, and very in token of her unimpaired affection; but she soon became
happy, all day. Little Em’ly consenting, and allowing me to herself again, and said she was very glad it was over.
kiss her, I became desperate; informing her, I recollect, that We drove to a little inn in a by-road, where we were ex-
I never could love another, and that I was prepared to shed pected, and where we had a very comfortable dinner, and
the blood of anybody who should aspire to her affections. passed the day with great satisfaction. If Peggotty had been
How merry little Em’ly made herself about it! With what married every day for the last ten years, she could hardly
a demure assumption of being immensely older and wiser have been more at her ease about it; it made no sort of dif-
than I, the fairy little woman said I was ‘a silly boy’; and ference in her: she was just the same as ever, and went out
then laughed so charmingly that I forgot the pain of being for a stroll with little Em’ly and me before tea, while Mr.
called by that disparaging name, in the pleasure of looking Barkis philosophically smoked his pipe, and enjoyed him-
at her. self, I suppose, with the contemplation of his happiness. If
Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the church, so, it sharpened his appetite; for I distinctly call to mind
but came out at last, and then we drove away into the coun- that, although he had eaten a good deal of pork and greens
try. As we were going along, Mr. Barkis turned to me, and at dinner, and had finished off with a fowl or two, he was
said, with a wink, - by the by, I should hardly have thought, obliged to have cold boiled bacon for tea, and disposed of a
before, that he could wink: large quantity without any emotion.
‘What name was it as I wrote up in the cart?’ I have often thought, since, what an odd, innocent, out-
‘Clara Peggotty,’ I answered. of-the-way kind of wedding it must have been! We got into
‘What name would it be as I should write up now, if there the chaise again soon after dark, and drove cosily back,
was a tilt here?’ looking up at the stars, and talking about them. I was their
‘Clara Peggotty, again?’ I suggested. chief exponent, and opened Mr. Barkis’s mind to an amaz-
‘Clara Peggotty BARKIS!’ he returned, and burst into a ing extent. I told him all I knew, but he would have believed
roar of laughter that shook the chaise. anything I might have taken it into my head to impart to
In a word, they were married, and had gone into the him; for he had a profound veneration for my abilities, and

informed his wife in my hearing, on that very occasion, that beside me on the locker for the only time in all that visit;
I was ‘a young Roeshus’ - by which I think he meant prod- and it was altogether a wonderful close to a wonderful day.
igy. It was a night tide; and soon after we went to bed, Mr.
When we had exhausted the subject of the stars, or rath- Peggotty and Ham went out to fish. I felt very brave at being
er when I had exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkis, left alone in the solitary house, the protector of Em’ly and
little Em’ly and I made a cloak of an old wrapper, and sat Mrs. Gummidge, and only wished that a lion or a serpent,
under it for the rest of the journey. Ah, how I loved her! or any ill-disposed monster, would make an attack upon us,
What happiness (I thought) if we were married, and were that I might destroy him, and cover myself with glory. But
going away anywhere to live among the trees and in the as nothing of the sort happened to be walking about on Yar-
fields, never growing older, never growing wiser, children mouth flats that night, I provided the best substitute I could
ever, rambling hand in hand through sunshine and among by dreaming of dragons until morning.
flowery meadows, laying down our heads on moss at night, With morning came Peggotty; who called to me, as usu-
in a sweet sleep of purity and peace, and buried by the birds al, under my window as if Mr. Barkis the carrier had been
when we were dead! Some such picture, with no real world from first to last a dream too. After breakfast she took me to
in it, bright with the light of our innocence, and vague as her own home, and a beautiful little home it was. Of all the
the stars afar off, was in my mind all the way. I am glad moveables in it, I must have been impressed by a certain old
to think there were two such guileless hearts at Peggotty’s bureau of some dark wood in the parlour (the tile-floored
marriage as little Em’ly’s and mine. I am glad to think the kitchen was the general sitting-room), with a retreating top
Loves and Graces took such airy forms in its homely pro- which opened, let down, and became a desk, within which
cession. was a large quarto edition of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. This
Well, we came to the old boat again in good time at night; precious volume, of which I do not recollect one word, I im-
and there Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good-bye, and drove mediately discovered and immediately applied myself to;
away snugly to their own home. I felt then, for the first time, and I never visited the house afterwards, but I kneeled on
that I had lost Peggotty. I should have gone to bed with a a chair, opened the casket where this gem was enshrined,
sore heart indeed under any other roof but that which shel- spread my arms over the desk, and fell to devouring the
tered little Em’ly’s head. book afresh. I was chiefly edified, I am afraid, by the pic-
Mr. Peggotty and Ham knew what was in my thoughts tures, which were numerous, and represented all kinds of
as well as I did, and were ready with some supper and their dismal horrors; but the Martyrs and Peggotty’s house have
hospitable faces to drive it away. Little Em’ly came and sat been inseparable in my mind ever since, and are now.

I took leave of Mr. Peggotty, and Ham, and Mrs. Gum- school that ever was kept! - to have been taught something,
midge, and little Em’ly, that day; and passed the night at anyhow, anywhere! No such hope dawned upon me. They
Peggotty’s, in a little room in the roof (with the Crocodile disliked me; and they sullenly, sternly, steadily, overlooked
Book on a shelf by the bed’s head) which was to be always me. I think Mr. Murdstone’s means were straitened at about
mine, Peggotty said, and should always be kept for me in this time; but it is little to the purpose. He could not bear
exactly the same state. me; and in putting me from him he tried, as I believe, to
‘Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive and have put away the notion that I had any claim upon him - and
this house over my head,’ said Peggotty, ‘you shall find it as succeeded.
if I expected you here directly minute. I shall keep it every I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved;
day, as I used to keep your old little room, my darling; and but the wrong that was done to me had no intervals of re-
if you was to go to China, you might think of it as being kept lenting, and was done in a systematic, passionless manner.
just the same, all the time you were away.’ Day after day, week after week, month after month, I was
I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nurse, with coldly neglected. I wonder sometimes, when I think of it,
all my heart, and thanked her as well as I could. That was what they would have done if I had been taken with an ill-
not very well, for she spoke to me thus, with her arms ness; whether I should have lain down in my lonely room,
round my neck, in the morning, and I was going home in and languished through it in my usual solitary way, or
the morning, and I went home in the morning, with herself whether anybody would have helped me out.
and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left me at the gate, not eas- When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took
ily or lightly; and it was a strange sight to me to see the cart my meals with them; in their absence, I ate and drank by
go on, taking Peggotty away, and leaving me under the old myself. At all times I lounged about the house and neigh-
elm-trees looking at the house, in which there was no face bourhood quite disregarded, except that they were jealous
to look on mine with love or liking any more. of my making any friends: thinking, perhaps, that if I did,
And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look I might complain to someone. For this reason, though Mr.
back upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary Chillip often asked me to go and see him (he was a wid-
condition, - apart from all friendly notice, apart from the ower, having, some years before that, lost a little small
society of all other boys of my own age, apart from all com- light-haired wife, whom I can just remember connecting in
panionship but my own spiritless thoughts, - which seems my own thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was but
to cast its gloom upon this paper as I write. seldom that I enjoyed the happiness of passing an afternoon
What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest in his closet of a surgery; reading some book that was new

to me, with the smell of the whole Pharmacopoeia coming I had been out, one day, loitering somewhere, in the list-
up my nose, or pounding something in a mortar under his less, meditative manner that my way of life engendered,
mild directions. when, turning the corner of a lane near our house, I came
For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike of upon Mr. Murdstone walking with a gentleman. I was con-
her, I was seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to her fused, and was going by them, when the gentleman cried:
promise, she either came to see me, or met me somewhere ‘What! Brooks!’
near, once every week, and never empty-handed; but many ‘No, sir, David Copperfield,’ I said.
and bitter were the disappointments I had, in being refused ‘Don’t tell me. You are Brooks,’ said the gentleman. ‘You
permission to pay a visit to her at her house. Some few times, are Brooks of Sheffield. That’s your name.’
however, at long intervals, I was allowed to go there; and At these words, I observed the gentleman more attentive-
then I found out that Mr. Barkis was something of a mi- ly. His laugh coming to my remembrance too, I knew him
ser, or as Peggotty dutifully expressed it, was ‘a little near’, to be Mr. Quinion, whom I had gone over to Lowestoft with
and kept a heap of money in a box under his bed, which he Mr. Murdstone to see, before - it is no matter - I need not
pretended was only full of coats and trousers. In this cof- recall when.
fer, his riches hid themselves with such a tenacious modesty, ‘And how do you get on, and where are you being edu-
that the smallest instalments could only be tempted out by cated, Brooks?’ said Mr. Quinion.
artifice; so that Peggotty had to prepare a long and elabo- He had put his hand upon my shoulder, and turned me
rate scheme, a very Gunpowder Plot, for every Saturday’s about, to walk with them. I did not know what to reply, and
expenses. glanced dubiously at Mr. Murdstone.
All this time I was so conscious of the waste of any prom- ‘He is at home at present,’ said the latter. ‘He is not being
ise I had given, and of my being utterly neglected, that I educated anywhere. I don’t know what to do with him. He
should have been perfectly miserable, I have no doubt, but is a difficult subject.’
for the old books. They were my only comfort; and I was as That old, double look was on me for a moment; and then
true to them as they were to me, and read them over and his eyes darkened with a frown, as it turned, in its aversion,
over I don’t know how many times more. elsewhere.
I now approach a period of my life, which I can never ‘Humph!’ said Mr. Quinion, looking at us both, I thought.
lose the remembrance of, while I remember anything: and ‘Fine weather!’
the recollection of which has often, without my invocation, Silence ensued, and I was considering how I could best
come before me like a ghost, and haunted happier times. disengage my shoulder from his hand, and go away, when

he said: ‘For stubbornness won’t do here,’ said his sister ‘What it
‘I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? Eh, wants is, to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be,
Brooks?’ too!’
‘Aye! He is sharp enough,’ said Mr. Murdstone, impa- He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approv-
tiently. ‘You had better let him go. He will not thank you al, and went on:
for troubling him.’ ‘I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. At any
On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the rate, you know it now. You have received some considerable
best of my way home. Looking back as I turned into the education already. Education is costly; and even if it were
front garden, I saw Mr. Murdstone leaning against the not, and I could afford it, I am of opinion that it would not
wicket of the churchyard, and Mr. Quinion talking to him. be at all advantageous to you to be kept at school. What is
They were both looking after me, and I felt that they were before you, is a fight with the world; and the sooner you be-
speaking of me. gin it, the better.’
Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast, I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in
the next morning, I had put my chair away, and was go- my poor way: but it occurs to me now, whether or no.
ing out of the room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back. ‘You have heard the ‘counting-house’ mentioned some-
He then gravely repaired to another table, where his sister times,’ said Mr. Murdstone.
sat herself at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his ‘The counting-house, sir?’ I repeated. ‘Of Murdstone and
pockets, stood looking out of window; and I stood looking Grinby, in the wine trade,’ he replied.
at them all. I suppose I looked uncertain, for he went on hastily:
‘David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘to the young this is a world ‘You have heard the ‘counting-house’ mentioned, or the
for action; not for moping and droning in.’ business, or the cellars, or the wharf, or something about
- ‘As you do,’ added his sister. it.’
‘Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, ‘I think I have heard the business mentioned, sir,’ I said,
to the young this is a world for action, and not for moping remembering what I vaguely knew of his and his sister’s re-
and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your sources. ‘But I don’t know when.’
disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and ‘It does not matter when,’ he returned. ‘Mr. Quinion
to which no greater service can be done than to force it to manages that business.’
conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it I glanced at the latter deferentially as he stood looking
and break it.’ out of window.

‘Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some Murdstone considered the best armour for the legs in that
other boys, and that he sees no reason why it shouldn’t, on fight with the world which was now to come off. behold me
the same terms, give employment to you.’ so attired, and with my little worldly all before me in a small
‘He having,’ Mr. Quinion observed in a low voice, and trunk, sitting, a lone lorn child (as Mrs. Gummidge might
half turning round, ‘no other prospect, Murdstone.’ have said), in the post-chaise that was carrying Mr. Quin-
Mr. Murdstone, with an impatient, even an angry ges- ion to the London coach at Yarmouth! See, how our house
ture, resumed, without noticing what he had said: and church are lessening in the distance; how the grave be-
‘Those terms are, that you will earn enough for yourself neath the tree is blotted out by intervening objects; how the
to provide for your eating and drinking, and pocket-money. spire points upwards from my old playground no more, and
Your lodging (which I have arranged for) will be paid by me. the sky is empty!
So will your washing -’
‘- Which will be kept down to my estimate,’ said his sis-
ter.
‘Your clothes will be looked after for you, too,’ said Mr.
Murdstone; ‘as you will not be able, yet awhile, to get them
for yourself. So you are now going to London, David, with
Mr. Quinion, to begin the world on your own account.’
‘In short, you are provided for,’ observed his sister; ‘and
will please to do your duty.’
Though I quite understood that the purpose of this
announcement was to get rid of me, I have no distinct
remembrance whether it pleased or frightened me. My im-
pression is, that I was in a state of confusion about it, and,
oscillating between the two points, touched neither. Nor
had I much time for the clearing of my thoughts, as Mr.
Quinion was to go upon the morrow.
Behold me, on the morrow, in a much-worn little white
hat, with a black crape round it for my mother, a black jack-
et, and a pair of hard, stiff corduroy trousers - which Miss

CHAPTER 11 the tide was in, and on the mud when the tide was out, and
literally overrun with rats. Its panelled rooms, discoloured
with the dirt and smoke of a hundred years, I dare say; its
decaying floors and staircase; the squeaking and scuffling
I BEGIN LIFE ON MY of the old grey rats down in the cellars; and the dirt and rot-
tenness of the place; are things, not of many years ago, in my
OWN ACCOUNT, AND mind, but of the present instant. They are all before me, just
as they were in the evil hour when I went among them for
DON’T LIKE IT the first time, with my trembling hand in Mr. Quinion’s.
Murdstone and Grinby’s trade was among a good many
kinds of people, but an important branch of it was the sup-
ply of wines and spirits to certain packet ships. I forget
now where they chiefly went, but I think there were some
I know enough of the world now, to have almost lost the

capacity of being much surprised by anything; but it is
matter of some surprise to me, even now, that I can have
among them that made voyages both to the East and West
Indies. I know that a great many empty bottles were one of
the consequences of this traffic, and that certain men and
been so easily thrown away at such an age. A child of excel- boys were employed to examine them against the light, and
lent abilities, and with strong powers of observation, quick, reject those that were flawed, and to rinse and wash them.
eager, delicate, and soon hurt bodily or mentally, it seems When the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be
wonderful to me that nobody should have made any sign in pasted on full ones, or corks to be fitted to them, or seals to
my behalf. But none was made; and I became, at ten years be put upon the corks, or finished bottles to be packed in
old, a little labouring hind in the service of Murdstone and casks. All this work was my work, and of the boys employed
Grinby. upon it I was one.
Murdstone and Grinby’s warehouse was at the waterside. There were three or four of us, counting me. My working
It was down in Blackfriars. Modern improvements have al- place was established in a corner of the warehouse, where
tered the place; but it was the last house at the bottom of Mr. Quinion could see me, when he chose to stand up on
a narrow street, curving down hill to the river, with some the bottom rail of his stool in the counting-house, and look
stairs at the end, where people took boat. It was a crazy old at me through a window above the desk. Hither, on the first
house with a wharf of its own, abutting on the water when morning of my so auspiciously beginning life on my own

account, the oldest of the regular boys was summoned to washing the bottles; and sobbed as if there were a flaw in my
show me my business. His name was Mick Walker, and he own breast, and it were in danger of bursting.
wore a ragged apron and a paper cap. He informed me that The counting-house clock was at half past twelve, and
his father was a bargeman, and walked, in a black velvet there was general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr.
head-dress, in the Lord Mayor’s Show. He also informed me Quinion tapped at the counting-house window, and beck-
that our principal associate would be another boy whom he oned to me to go in. I went in, and found there a stoutish,
introduced by the - to me - extraordinary name of Mealy middle-aged person, in a brown surtout and black tights
Potatoes. I discovered, however, that this youth had not and shoes, with no more hair upon his head (which was a
been christened by that name, but that it had been bestowed large one, and very shining) than there is upon an egg, and
upon him in the warehouse, on account of his complexion, with a very extensive face, which he turned full upon me.
which was pale or mealy. Mealy’s father was a waterman, His clothes were shabby, but he had an imposing shirt-col-
who had the additional distinction of being a fireman, and lar on. He carried a jaunty sort of a stick, with a large pair
was engaged as such at one of the large theatres; where some of rusty tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his
young relation of Mealy’s - I think his little sister - did Imps coat, - for ornament, I afterwards found, as he very seldom
in the Pantomimes. looked through it, and couldn’t see anything when he did.
No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I ‘This,’ said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, ‘is he.’
sunk into this companionship; compared these henceforth ‘This,’ said the stranger, with a certain condescending roll
everyday associates with those of my happier childhood - in his voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing some-
not to say with Steerforth, Traddles, and the rest of those thing genteel, which impressed me very much, ‘is Master
boys; and felt my hopes of growing up to be a learned and Copperfield. I hope I see you well, sir?’
distinguished man, crushed in my bosom. The deep re- I said I was very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficient-
membrance of the sense I had, of being utterly without hope ly ill at ease, Heaven knows; but it was not in my nature to
now; of the shame I felt in my position; of the misery it was complain much at that time of my life, so I said I was very
to my young heart to believe that day by day what I had well, and hoped he was.
learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy ‘I am,’ said the stranger, ‘thank Heaven, quite well. I have
and my emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by received a letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he mentions
little, never to be brought back any more; cannot be written. that he would desire me to receive into an apartment in the
As often as Mick Walker went away in the course of that rear of my house, which is at present unoccupied - and is, in
forenoon, I mingled my tears with the water in which I was short, to be let as a - in short,’ said the stranger, with a smile

and in a burst of confidence, ‘as a bedroom - the young be- So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane under
ginner whom I have now the pleasure to -’ and the stranger his arm: very upright, and humming a tune when he was
waved his hand, and settled his chin in his shirt-collar. clear of the counting-house.
‘This is Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion to me. Mr. Quinion then formally engaged me to be as useful
‘Ahem!’ said the stranger, ‘that is my name.’ as I could in the warehouse of Murdstone and Grinby, at a
‘Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion, ‘is known to Mr. salary, I think, of six shillings a week. I am not clear wheth-
Murdstone. He takes orders for us on commission, when er it was six or seven. I am inclined to believe, from my
he can get any. He has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, uncertainty on this head, that it was six at first and seven
on the subject of your lodgings, and he will receive you as afterwards. He paid me a week down (from his own pock-
a lodger.’ et, I believe), and I gave Mealy sixpence out of it to get my
‘My address,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘is Windsor Terrace, trunk carried to Windsor Terrace that night: it being too
City Road. I - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the same heavy for my strength, small as it was. I paid sixpence more
genteel air, and in another burst of confidence - ‘I live for my dinner, which was a meat pie and a turn at a neigh-
there.’ bouring pump; and passed the hour which was allowed for
I made him a bow. that meal, in walking about the streets.
‘Under the impression,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘that your At the appointed time in the evening, Mr. Micawber re-
peregrinations in this metropolis have not as yet been appeared. I washed my hands and face, to do the greater
extensive, and that you might have some difficulty in pen- honour to his gentility, and we walked to our house, as I sup-
etrating the arcana of the Modern Babylon in the direction pose I must now call it, together; Mr. Micawber impressing
of the City Road, - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in another the name of streets, and the shapes of corner houses upon
burst of confidence, ‘that you might lose yourself - I shall be me, as we went along, that I might find my way back, easily,
happy to call this evening, and install you in the knowledge in the morning.
of the nearest way.’ Arrived at this house in Windsor Terrace (which I no-
I thanked him with all my heart, for it was friendly in ticed was shabby like himself, but also, like himself, made
him to offer to take that trouble. all the show it could), he presented me to Mrs. Micawber,
‘At what hour,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘shall I -’ a thin and faded lady, not at all young, who was sitting in
‘At about eight,’ said Mr. Quinion. the parlour (the first floor was altogether unfurnished, and
‘At about eight,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘I beg to wish you the blinds were kept down to delude the neighbours), with
good day, Mr. Quinion. I will intrude no longer.’ a baby at her breast. This baby was one of twins; and I may

remark here that I hardly ever, in all my experience of the have imagined it. I only know that I believe to this hour that
family, saw both the twins detached from Mrs. Micawber he WAS in the Marines once upon a time, without knowing
at the same time. One of them was always taking refresh- why. He was a sort of town traveller for a number of miscel-
ment. laneous houses, now; but made little or nothing of it, I am
There were two other children; Master Micawber, aged afraid.
about four, and Miss Micawber, aged about three. These, ‘If Mr. Micawber’s creditors will not give him time,’ said
and a dark-complexioned young woman, with a habit of Mrs. Micawber, ‘they must take the consequences; and the
snorting, who was servant to the family, and informed me, sooner they bring it to an issue the better. Blood cannot be
before half an hour had expired, that she was ‘a Orfling’, obtained from a stone, neither can anything on account be
and came from St. Luke’s workhouse, in the neighbourhood, obtained at present (not to mention law expenses) from Mr.
completed the establishment. My room was at the top of the Micawber.’
house, at the back: a close chamber; stencilled all over with I never can quite understand whether my precocious
an ornament which my young imagination represented as a self-dependence confused Mrs. Micawber in reference to
blue muffin; and very scantily furnished. my age, or whether she was so full of the subject that she
‘I never thought,’ said Mrs. Micawber, when she came up, would have talked about it to the very twins if there had
twin and all, to show me the apartment, and sat down to been nobody else to communicate with, but this was the
take breath, ‘before I was married, when I lived with papa strain in which she began, and she went on accordingly all
and mama, that I should ever find it necessary to take a the time I knew her.
lodger. But Mr. Micawber being in difficulties, all consider- Poor Mrs. Micawber! She said she had tried to exert
ations of private feeling must give way.’ herself, and so, I have no doubt, she had. The centre of the
I said: ‘Yes, ma’am.’ street door was perfectly covered with a great brass-plate,
‘Mr. Micawber’s difficulties are almost overwhelming just on which was engraved ‘Mrs. Micawber’s Boarding Es-
at present,’ said Mrs. Micawber; ‘and whether it is possible tablishment for Young Ladies’: but I never found that any
to bring him through them, I don’t know. When I lived at young lady had ever been to school there; or that any young
home with papa and mama, I really should have hardly un- lady ever came, or proposed to come; or that the least prep-
derstood what the word meant, in the sense in which I now aration was ever made to receive any young lady. The only
employ it, but experientia does it, - as papa used to say.’ visitors I ever saw, or heard of, were creditors. THEY used
I cannot satisfy myself whether she told me that Mr. Mi- to come at all hours, and some of them were quite ferocious.
cawber had been an officer in the Marines, or whether I One dirty-faced man, I think he was a boot-maker, used

to edge himself into the passage as early as seven o’clock time. My own exclusive breakfast of a penny loaf and a pen-
in the morning, and call up the stairs to Mr. Micawber - nyworth of milk, I provided myself. I kept another small
‘Come! You ain’t out yet, you know. Pay us, will you? Don’t loaf, and a modicum of cheese, on a particular shelf of a
hide, you know; that’s mean. I wouldn’t be mean if I was particular cupboard, to make my supper on when I came
you. Pay us, will you? You just pay us, d’ye hear? Come!’ Re- back at night. This made a hole in the six or seven shillings,
ceiving no answer to these taunts, he would mount in his I know well; and I was out at the warehouse all day, and had
wrath to the words ‘swindlers’ and ‘robbers’; and these be- to support myself on that money all the week. From Monday
ing ineffectual too, would sometimes go to the extremity of morning until Saturday night, I had no advice, no counsel,
crossing the street, and roaring up at the windows of the no encouragement, no consolation, no assistance, no sup-
second floor, where he knew Mr. Micawber was. At these port, of any kind, from anyone, that I can call to mind, as I
times, Mr. Micawber would be transported with grief and hope to go to heaven!
mortification, even to the length (as I was once made aware I was so young and childish, and so little qualified - how
by a scream from his wife) of making motions at himself could I be otherwise? - to undertake the whole charge of my
with a razor; but within half-an-hour afterwards, he would own existence, that often, in going to Murdstone and Grin-
polish up his shoes with extraordinary pains, and go out, by’s, of a morning, I could not resist the stale pastry put out
humming a tune with a greater air of gentility than ever. for sale at half-price at the pastrycooks’ doors, and spent in
Mrs. Micawber was quite as elastic. I have known her to be that the money I should have kept for my dinner. Then, I
thrown into fainting fits by the king’s taxes at three o’clock, went without my dinner, or bought a roll or a slice of pud-
and to eat lamb chops, breaded, and drink warm ale (paid ding. I remember two pudding shops, between which I was
for with two tea-spoons that had gone to the pawnbroker’s) divided, according to my finances. One was in a court close
at four. On one occasion, when an execution had just been to St. Martin’s Church - at the back of the church, - which
put in, coming home through some chance as early as six is now removed altogether. The pudding at that shop was
o’clock, I saw her lying (of course with a twin) under the made of currants, and was rather a special pudding, but was
grate in a swoon, with her hair all torn about her face; but I dear, twopennyworth not being larger than a pennyworth
never knew her more cheerful than she was, that very same of more ordinary pudding. A good shop for the latter was
night, over a veal cutlet before the kitchen fire, telling me in the Strand - somewhere in that part which has been re-
stories about her papa and mama, and the company they built since. It was a stout pale pudding, heavy and flabby,
used to keep. and with great flat raisins in it, stuck in whole at wide dis-
In this house, and with this family, I passed my leisure tances apart. It came up hot at about my time every day,

and many a day did I dine off it. When I dined regular- or porter, to moisten what I had had for dinner, they were
ly and handsomely, I had a saveloy and a penny loaf, or a afraid to give it me. I remember one hot evening I went into
fourpenny plate of red beef from a cook’s shop; or a plate of the bar of a public-house, and said to the landlord: ‘What is
bread and cheese and a glass of beer, from a miserable old your best - your very best - ale a glass?’ For it was a special
public-house opposite our place of business, called the Lion, occasion. I don’t know what. It may have been my birthday.
or the Lion and something else that I have forgotten. Once, ‘Twopence-halfpenny,’ says the landlord, ‘is the price of
I remember carrying my own bread (which I had brought the Genuine Stunning ale.’
from home in the morning) under my arm, wrapped in a ‘Then,’ says I, producing the money, ‘just draw me a glass
piece of paper, like a book, and going to a famous alamode of the Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head
beef-house near Drury Lane, and ordering a ‘small plate’ of to it.’
that delicacy to eat with it. What the waiter thought of such The landlord looked at me in return over the bar, from
a strange little apparition coming in all alone, I don’t know; head to foot, with a strange smile on his face; and instead of
but I can see him now, staring at me as I ate my dinner, and drawing the beer, looked round the screen and said some-
bringing up the other waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny thing to his wife. She came out from behind it, with her
for himself, and I wish he hadn’t taken it. work in her hand, and joined him in surveying me. Here
We had half-an-hour, I think, for tea. When I had money we stand, all three, before me now. The landlord in his shirt-
enough, I used to get half-a-pint of ready-made coffee and sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame; his wife
a slice of bread and butter. When I had none, I used to look looking over the little half-door; and I, in some confusion,
at a venison shop in Fleet Street; or I have strolled, at such looking up at them from outside the partition. They asked
a time, as far as Covent Garden Market, and stared at the me a good many questions; as, what my name was, how old
pineapples. I was fond of wandering about the Adelphi, be- I was, where I lived, how I was employed, and how I came
cause it was a mysterious place, with those dark arches. I see there. To all of which, that I might commit nobody, I in-
myself emerging one evening from some of these arches, on vented, I am afraid, appropriate answers. They served me
a little public-house close to the river, with an open space with the ale, though I suspect it was not the Genuine Stun-
before it, where some coal-heavers were dancing; to look at ning; and the landlord’s wife, opening the little half-door of
whom I sat down upon a bench. I wonder what they thought the bar, and bending down, gave me my money back, and
of me! gave me a kiss that was half admiring and half compassion-
I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I ate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.
went into the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and uninten-

tionally, the scantiness of my resources or the difficulties of had made some efforts to entertain them, over our work,
my life. I know that if a shilling were given me by Mr. Quin- with some results of the old readings; which were fast per-
ion at any time, I spent it in a dinner or a tea. I know that I ishing out of my remembrance. Mealy Potatoes uprose once,
worked, from morning until night, with common men and and rebelled against my being so distinguished; but Mick
boys, a shabby child. I know that I lounged about the streets, Walker settled him in no time.
insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I know that, but for My rescue from this kind of existence I considered quite
the mercy of God, I might easily have been, for any care that hopeless, and abandoned, as such, altogether. I am solemn-
was taken of me, a little robber or a little vagabond. ly convinced that I never for one hour was reconciled to it,
Yet I held some station at Murdstone and Grinby’s too. or was otherwise than miserably unhappy; but I bore it; and
Besides that Mr. Quinion did what a careless man so oc- even to Peggotty, partly for the love of her and partly for
cupied, and dealing with a thing so anomalous, could, to shame, never in any letter (though many passed between
treat me as one upon a different footing from the rest, I nev- us) revealed the truth.
er said, to man or boy, how it was that I came to be there, Mr. Micawber’s difficulties were an addition to the dis-
or gave the least indication of being sorry that I was there. tressed state of my mind. In my forlorn state I became quite
That I suffered in secret, and that I suffered exquisitely, no attached to the family, and used to walk about, busy with
one ever knew but I. How much I suffered, it is, as I have Mrs. Micawber’s calculations of ways and means, and heavy
said already, utterly beyond my power to tell. But I kept my with the weight of Mr. Micawber’s debts. On a Saturday
own counsel, and I did my work. I knew from the first, that, night, which was my grand treat, - partly because it was
if I could not do my work as well as any of the rest, I could a great thing to walk home with six or seven shillings in
not hold myself above slight and contempt. I soon became my pocket, looking into the shops and thinking what such
at least as expeditious and as skilful as either of the oth- a sum would buy, and partly because I went home early,
er boys. Though perfectly familiar with them, my conduct - Mrs. Micawber would make the most heart-rending confi-
and manner were different enough from theirs to place a dences to me; also on a Sunday morning, when I mixed the
space between us. They and the men generally spoke of me portion of tea or coffee I had bought over-night, in a little
as ‘the little gent’, or ‘the young Suffolker.’ A certain man shaving-pot, and sat late at my breakfast. It was nothing at
named Gregory, who was foreman of the packers, and an- all unusual for Mr. Micawber to sob violently at the begin-
other named Tipp, who was the carman, and wore a red ning of one of these Saturday night conversations, and sing
jacket, used to address me sometimes as ‘David’: but I think about jack’s delight being his lovely Nan, towards the end of
it was mostly when we were very confidential, and when I it. I have known him come home to supper with a flood of

tears, and a declaration that nothing was now left but a jail; a Wednesday night when we held this conversation - and I
and go to bed making a calculation of the expense of put- hastily produced them, and with heartfelt emotion begged
ting bow-windows to the house, ‘in case anything turned Mrs. Micawber to accept of them as a loan. But that lady,
up’, which was his favourite expression. And Mrs. Micaw- kissing me, and making me put them back in my pocket,
ber was just the same. replied that she couldn’t think of it.
A curious equality of friendship, originating, I suppose, ‘No, my dear Master Copperfield,’ said she, ‘far be it from
in our respective circumstances, sprung up between me and my thoughts! But you have a discretion beyond your years,
these people, notwithstanding the ludicrous disparity in our and can render me another kind of service, if you will; and
years. But I never allowed myself to be prevailed upon to ac- a service I will thankfully accept of.’
cept any invitation to eat and drink with them out of their I begged Mrs. Micawber to name it.
stock (knowing that they got on badly with the butcher and ‘I have parted with the plate myself,’ said Mrs. Micaw-
baker, and had often not too much for themselves), until ber. ‘Six tea, two salt, and a pair of sugars, I have at different
Mrs. Micawber took me into her entire confidence. This she times borrowed money on, in secret, with my own hands.
did one evening as follows: But the twins are a great tie; and to me, with my recol-
‘Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I make no lections, of papa and mama, these transactions are very
stranger of you, and therefore do not hesitate to say that Mr. painful. There are still a few trifles that we could part with.
Micawber’s difficulties are coming to a crisis.’ Mr. Micawber’s feelings would never allow him to dispose
It made me very miserable to hear it, and I looked at Mrs. of them; and Clickett’ - this was the girl from the workhouse
Micawber’s red eyes with the utmost sympathy. - ‘being of a vulgar mind, would take painful liberties if so
‘With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese - which much confidence was reposed in her. Master Copperfield, if
is not adapted to the wants of a young family’ - said Mrs. I might ask you -’
Micawber, ‘there is really not a scrap of anything in the lar- I understood Mrs. Micawber now, and begged her to
der. I was accustomed to speak of the larder when I lived make use of me to any extent. I began to dispose of the more
with papa and mama, and I use the word almost uncon- portable articles of property that very evening; and went
sciously. What I mean to express is, that there is nothing to out on a similar expedition almost every morning, before I
eat in the house.’ went to Murdstone and Grinby’s.
‘Dear me!’ I said, in great concern. Mr. Micawber had a few books on a little chiffonier,
I had two or three shillings of my week’s money in my which he called the library; and those went first. I carried
pocket - from which I presume that it must have been on them, one after another, to a bookstall in the City Road

- one part of which, near our house, was almost all book- upon him - and I really thought his heart was broken and
stalls and bird shops then - and sold them for whatever they mine too. But I heard, afterwards, that he was seen to play a
would bring. The keeper of this bookstall, who lived in a lively game at skittles, before noon.
little house behind it, used to get tipsy every night, and to On the first Sunday after he was taken there, I was to go
be violently scolded by his wife every morning. More than and see him, and have dinner with him. I was to ask my
once, when I went there early, I had audience of him in a way to such a place, and just short of that place I should see
turn-up bedstead, with a cut in his forehead or a black eye, such another place, and just short of that I should see a yard,
bearing witness to his excesses over-night (I am afraid he which I was to cross, and keep straight on until I saw a turn-
was quarrelsome in his drink), and he, with a shaking hand, key. All this I did; and when at last I did see a turnkey (poor
endeavouring to find the needful shillings in one or other little fellow that I was!), and thought how, when Roderick
of the pockets of his clothes, which lay upon the floor, while Random was in a debtors’ prison, there was a man there
his wife, with a baby in her arms and her shoes down at heel, with nothing on him but an old rug, the turnkey swam be-
never left off rating him. Sometimes he had lost his money, fore my dimmed eyes and my beating heart.
and then he would ask me to call again; but his wife had Mr. Micawber was waiting for me within the gate, and
always got some - had taken his, I dare say, while he was we went up to his room (top story but one), and cried very
drunk - and secretly completed the bargain on the stairs, much. He solemnly conjured me, I remember, to take warn-
as we went down together. At the pawnbroker’s shop, too, I ing by his fate; and to observe that if a man had twenty
began to be very well known. The principal gentleman who pounds a-year for his income, and spent nineteen pounds
officiated behind the counter, took a good deal of notice of nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy, but
me; and often got me, I recollect, to decline a Latin noun that if he spent twenty pounds one he would be miserable.
or adjective, or to conjugate a Latin verb, in his ear, while After which he borrowed a shilling of me for porter, gave me
he transacted my business. After all these occasions Mrs. a written order on Mrs. Micawber for the amount, and put
Micawber made a little treat, which was generally a supper; away his pocket-handkerchief, and cheered up.
and there was a peculiar relish in these meals which I well We sat before a little fire, with two bricks put within the
remember. rusted grate, one on each side, to prevent its burning too
At last Mr. Micawber’s difficulties came to a crisis, and many coals; until another debtor, who shared the room
he was arrested early one morning, and carried over to the with Mr. Micawber, came in from the bakehouse with the
King’s Bench Prison in the Borough. He told me, as he went loin of mutton which was our joint-stock repast. Then I was
out of the house, that the God of day had now gone down sent up to ‘Captain Hopkins’ in the room overhead, with

Mr. Micawber’s compliments, and I was his young friend, of the emptied house in Windsor Terrace; Mrs. Micawber,
and would Captain Hopkins lend me a knife and fork. the children, the Orfling, and myself; and lived in those
Captain Hopkins lent me the knife and fork, with his rooms night and day. I have no idea for how long, though it
compliments to Mr. Micawber. There was a very dirty lady seems to me for a long time. At last Mrs. Micawber resolved
in his little room, and two wan girls, his daughters, with to move into the prison, where Mr. Micawber had now se-
shock heads of hair. I thought it was better to borrow Cap- cured a room to himself. So I took the key of the house to
tain Hopkins’s knife and fork, than Captain Hopkins’s comb. the landlord, who was very glad to get it; and the beds were
The Captain himself was in the last extremity of shabbiness, sent over to the King’s Bench, except mine, for which a little
with large whiskers, and an old, old brown great-coat with room was hired outside the walls in the neighbourhood of
no other coat below it. I saw his bed rolled up in a corner; that Institution, very much to my satisfaction, since the Mi-
and what plates and dishes and pots he had, on a shelf; and cawbers and I had become too used to one another, in our
I divined (God knows how) that though the two girls with troubles, to part. The Orfling was likewise accommodated
the shock heads of hair were Captain Hopkins’s children, with an inexpensive lodging in the same neighbourhood.
the dirty lady was not married to Captain Hopkins. My Mine was a quiet back-garret with a sloping roof, com-
timid station on his threshold was not occupied more than manding a pleasant prospect of a timberyard; and when I
a couple of minutes at most; but I came down again with all took possession of it, with the reflection that Mr. Micaw-
this in my knowledge, as surely as the knife and fork were ber’s troubles had come to a crisis at last, I thought it quite
in my hand. a paradise.
There was something gipsy-like and agreeable in the din- All this time I was working at Murdstone and Grinby’s in
ner, after all. I took back Captain Hopkins’s knife and fork the same common way, and with the same common com-
early in the afternoon, and went home to comfort Mrs. Mi- panions, and with the same sense of unmerited degradation
cawber with an account of my visit. She fainted when she as at first. But I never, happily for me no doubt, made a sin-
saw me return, and made a little jug of egg-hot afterwards gle acquaintance, or spoke to any of the many boys whom I
to console us while we talked it over. saw daily in going to the warehouse, in coming from it, and
I don’t know how the household furniture came to be in prowling about the streets at meal-times. I led the same
sold for the family benefit, or who sold it, except that I did secretly unhappy life; but I led it in the same lonely, self-re-
not. Sold it was, however, and carried away in a van; ex- liant manner. The only changes I am conscious of are, firstly,
cept the bed, a few chairs, and the kitchen table. With these that I had grown more shabby, and secondly, that I was now
possessions we encamped, as it were, in the two parlours relieved of much of the weight of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber’s

cares; for some relatives or friends had engaged to help appeared to be got out of the way, somehow; at all events it
them at their present pass, and they lived more comfort- ceased to be the rock-ahead it had been; and Mrs. Micawber
ably in the prison than they had lived for a long while out informed me that ‘her family’ had decided that Mr. Micaw-
of it. I used to breakfast with them now, in virtue of some ber should apply for his release under the Insolvent Debtors
arrangement, of which I have forgotten the details. I for- Act, which would set him free, she expected, in about six
get, too, at what hour the gates were opened in the morning, weeks.
admitting of my going in; but I know that I was often up ‘And then,’ said Mr. Micawber, who was present, ‘I have
at six o’clock, and that my favourite lounging-place in the no doubt I shall, please Heaven, begin to be beforehand
interval was old London Bridge, where I was wont to sit in with the world, and to live in a perfectly new manner, if - in
one of the stone recesses, watching the people going by, or short, if anything turns up.’
to look over the balustrades at the sun shining in the water, By way of going in for anything that might be on the
and lighting up the golden flame on the top of the Monu- cards, I call to mind that Mr. Micawber, about this time,
ment. The Orfling met me here sometimes, to be told some composed a petition to the House of Commons, praying
astonishing fictions respecting the wharves and the Tow- for an alteration in the law of imprisonment for debt. I set
er; of which I can say no more than that I hope I believed down this remembrance here, because it is an instance to
them myself. In the evening I used to go back to the prison, myself of the manner in which I fitted my old books to my
and walk up and down the parade with Mr. Micawber; or altered life, and made stories for myself, out of the streets,
play casino with Mrs. Micawber, and hear reminiscences of and out of men and women; and how some main points in
her papa and mama. Whether Mr. Murdstone knew where the character I shall unconsciously develop, I suppose, in
I was, I am unable to say. I never told them at Murdstone writing my life, were gradually forming all this while.
and Grinby’s. There was a club in the prison, in which Mr. Micawber,
Mr. Micawber’s affairs, although past their crisis, were as a gentleman, was a great authority. Mr. Micawber had
very much involved by reason of a certain ‘Deed’, of which stated his idea of this petition to the club, and the club had
I used to hear a great deal, and which I suppose, now, to strongly approved of the same. Wherefore Mr. Micawber
have been some former composition with his creditors, (who was a thoroughly good-natured man, and as active a
though I was so far from being clear about it then, that I am creature about everything but his own affairs as ever existed,
conscious of having confounded it with those demoniacal and never so happy as when he was busy about something
parchments which are held to have, once upon a time, ob- that could never be of any profit to him) set to work at the
tained to a great extent in Germany. At last this document petition, invented it, engrossed it on an immense sheet of

paper, spread it out on a table, and appointed a time for all thor’s vanity, and contemplating (not severely) the spikes on
the club, and all within the walls if they chose, to come up the opposite wall.
to his room and sign it. As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and
When I heard of this approaching ceremony, I was so Blackfriars, and lounged about at meal-times in obscure
anxious to see them all come in, one after another, though streets, the stones of which may, for anything I know, be
I knew the greater part of them already, and they me, that worn at this moment by my childish feet, I wonder how
I got an hour’s leave of absence from Murdstone and Grin- many of these people were wanting in the crowd that used
by’s, and established myself in a corner for that purpose. As to come filing before me in review again, to the echo of Cap-
many of the principal members of the club as could be got tain Hopkins’s voice! When my thoughts go back, now, to
into the small room without filling it, supported Mr. Mi- that slow agony of my youth, I wonder how much of the his-
cawber in front of the petition, while my old friend Captain tories I invented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy
Hopkins (who had washed himself, to do honour to so sol- over well-remembered facts! When I tread the old ground,
emn an occasion) stationed himself close to it, to read it to I do not wonder that I seem to see and pity, going on be-
all who were unacquainted with its contents. The door was fore me, an innocent romantic boy, making his imaginative
then thrown open, and the general population began to world out of such strange experiences and sordid things!
come in, in a long file: several waiting outside, while one en-
tered, affixed his signature, and went out. To everybody in
succession, Captain Hopkins said: ‘Have you read it?’ - ‘No.’
- ‘Would you like to hear it read?’ If he weakly showed the
least disposition to hear it, Captain Hopkins, in a loud so-
norous voice, gave him every word of it. The Captain would
have read it twenty thousand times, if twenty thousand
people would have heard him, one by one. I remember a
certain luscious roll he gave to such phrases as ‘The people’s
representatives in Parliament assembled,’ ‘Your petitioners
therefore humbly approach your honourable house,’ ‘His
gracious Majesty’s unfortunate subjects,’ as if the words
were something real in his mouth, and delicious to taste;
Mr. Micawber, meanwhile, listening with a little of an au-

CHAPTER 12 ‘On such an occasion I will give you, Master Copperfield,’
said Mrs. Micawber, ‘in a little more flip,’ for we had been
having some already, ‘the memory of my papa and mama.’
‘Are they dead, ma’am?’ I inquired, after drinking the
LIKING LIFE ON MY toast in a wine-glass.
‘My mama departed this life,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘before
OWN ACCOUNT NO Mr. Micawber’s difficulties commenced, or at least before
they became pressing. My papa lived to bail Mr. Micawber
BETTER, I FORM A several times, and then expired, regretted by a numerous
circle.’
GREAT RESOLUTION Mrs. Micawber shook her head, and dropped a pious tear
upon the twin who happened to be in hand.
As I could hardly hope for a more favourable opportu-
nity of putting a question in which I had a near interest, I
said to Mrs. Micawber:
I n due time, Mr. Micawber’s petition was ripe for hearing;

and that gentleman was ordered to be discharged under
the Act, to my great joy. His creditors were not implacable;
‘May I ask, ma’am, what you and Mr. Micawber intend to
do, now that Mr. Micawber is out of his difficulties, and at
liberty? Have you settled yet?’
and Mrs. Micawber informed me that even the revengeful ‘My family,’ said Mrs. Micawber, who always said those
boot-maker had declared in open court that he bore him no two words with an air, though I never could discover who
malice, but that when money was owing to him he liked to came under the denomination, ‘my family are of opinion
be paid. He said he thought it was human nature. that Mr. Micawber should quit London, and exert his tal-
M r Micawber returned to the King’s Bench when his ents in the country. Mr. Micawber is a man of great talent,
case was over, as some fees were to be settled, and some Master Copperfield.’
formalities observed, before he could be actually released. I said I was sure of that.
The club received him with transport, and held an harmon- ‘Of great talent,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber. ‘My family are
ic meeting that evening in his honour; while Mrs. Micawber of opinion, that, with a little interest, something might be
and I had a lamb’s fry in private, surrounded by the sleep- done for a man of his ability in the Custom House. The in-
ing family. fluence of my family being local, it is their wish that Mr.

Micawber should go down to Plymouth. They think it in- long table, and leading the chorus of
dispensable that he should be upon the spot.’
‘That he may be ready?’ I suggested. Gee up, Dobbin,
‘Exactly,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘That he may be ready Gee ho, Dobbin,
- in case of anything turning up.’ Gee up, Dobbin,
‘And do you go too, ma’am?’ Gee up, and gee ho - o - o!
The events of the day, in combination with the twins, if
not with the flip, had made Mrs. Micawber hysterical, and with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarm-
she shed tears as she replied: ing state, upon which he immediately burst into tears, and
‘I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may came away with me with his waistcoat full of the heads and
have concealed his difficulties from me in the first instance, tails of shrimps, of which he had been partaking.
but his sanguine temper may have led him to expect that ‘Emma, my angel!’ cried Mr. Micawber, running into the
he would overcome them. The pearl necklace and bracelets room; ‘what is the matter?’
which I inherited from mama, have been disposed of for ‘I never will desert you, Micawber!’ she exclaimed.
less than half their value; and the set of coral, which was the ‘My life!’ said Mr. Micawber, taking her in his arms. ‘I am
wedding gift of my papa, has been actually thrown away for perfectly aware of it.’
nothing. But I never will desert Mr. Micawber. No!’ cried ‘He is the parent of my children! He is the father of
Mrs. Micawber, more affected than before, ‘I never will do my twins! He is the husband of my affections,’ cried Mrs.
it! It’s of no use asking me!’ Micawber, struggling; ‘and I ne - ver - will - desert Mr. Mi-
I felt quite uncomfortable - as if Mrs. Micawber sup- cawber!’
posed I had asked her to do anything of the sort! - and sat Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of
looking at her in alarm. her devotion (as to me, I was dissolved in tears), that he
‘Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is im- hung over her in a passionate manner, imploring her to
provident. I do not deny that he has kept me in the dark as look up, and to be calm. But the more he asked Mrs. Mi-
to his resources and his liabilities both,’ she went on, look- cawber to look up, the more she fixed her eyes on nothing;
ing at the wall; ‘but I never will desert Mr. Micawber!’ and the more he asked her to compose herself, the more she
Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect wouldn’t. Consequently Mr. Micawber was soon so over-
scream, I was so frightened that I ran off to the club-room, come, that he mingled his tears with hers and mine; until
and disturbed Mr. Micawber in the act of presiding at a he begged me to do him the favour of taking a chair on the

staircase, while he got her into bed. I would have taken my itself into a settled resolution.
leave for the night, but he would not hear of my doing that I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and
until the strangers’ bell should ring. So I sat at the staircase had been so intimate with them in their distresses, and
window, until he came out with another chair and joined was so utterly friendless without them, that the prospect
me. of being thrown upon some new shift for a lodging, and
‘How is Mrs. Micawber now, sir?’ I said. going once more among unknown people, was like being
‘Very low,’ said Mr. Micawber, shaking his head; ‘reac- that moment turned adrift into my present life, with such a
tion. Ah, this has been a dreadful day! We stand alone now knowledge of it ready made as experience had given me. All
- everything is gone from us!’ the sensitive feelings it wounded so cruelly, all the shame
Mr. Micawber pressed my hand, and groaned, and after- and misery it kept alive within my breast, became more
wards shed tears. I was greatly touched, and disappointed poignant as I thought of this; and I determined that the life
too, for I had expected that we should be quite gay on this was unendurable.
happy and long-looked-for occasion. But Mr. and Mrs. Mi- That there was no hope of escape from it, unless the es-
cawber were so used to their old difficulties, I think, that cape was my own act, I knew quite well. I rarely heard from
they felt quite shipwrecked when they came to consider that Miss Murdstone, and never from Mr. Murdstone: but two
they were released from them. All their elasticity was de- or three parcels of made or mended clothes had come up
parted, and I never saw them half so wretched as on this for me, consigned to Mr. Quinion, and in each there was
night; insomuch that when the bell rang, and Mr. Micaw- a scrap of paper to the effect that J. M. trusted D. C. was
ber walked with me to the lodge, and parted from me there applying himself to business, and devoting himself wholly
with a blessing, I felt quite afraid to leave him by himself, he to his duties - not the least hint of my ever being anything
was so profoundly miserable. else than the common drudge into which I was fast settling
But through all the confusion and lowness of spirits down.
in which we had been, so unexpectedly to me, involved, I The very next day showed me, while my mind was in the
plainly discerned that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber and their first agitation of what it had conceived, that Mrs. Micawber
family were going away from London, and that a parting had not spoken of their going away without warrant. They
between us was near at hand. It was in my walk home that took a lodging in the house where I lived, for a week; at the
night, and in the sleepless hours which followed when I lay expiration of which time they were to start for Plymouth.
in bed, that the thought first occurred to me - though I don’t Mr. Micawber himself came down to the counting-house,
know how it came into my head - which afterwards shaped in the afternoon, to tell Mr. Quinion that he must relin-

quish me on the day of his departure, and to give me a high was very sorry we were going to lose one another.
character, which I am sure I deserved. And Mr. Quinion, ‘My dear young friend,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I am older
calling in Tipp the carman, who was a married man, and than you; a man of some experience in life, and - and of
had a room to let, quartered me prospectively on him - by some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally speak-
our mutual consent, as he had every reason to think; for I ing. At present, and until something turns up (which I am,
said nothing, though my resolution was now taken. I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow but
I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, dur- advice. Still my advice is so far worth taking, that - in short,
ing the remaining term of our residence under the same that I have never taken it myself, and am the’ - here Mr. Mi-
roof; and I think we became fonder of one another as the cawber, who had been beaming and smiling, all over his
time went on. On the last Sunday, they invited me to dinner; head and face, up to the present moment, checked himself
and we had a loin of pork and apple sauce, and a pudding. and frowned - ‘the miserable wretch you behold.’
I had bought a spotted wooden horse over-night as a part- ‘My dear Micawber!’ urged his wife.
ing gift to little Wilkins Micawber - that was the boy - and ‘I say,’ returned Mr. Micawber, quite forgetting himself,
a doll for little Emma. I had also bestowed a shilling on the and smiling again, ‘the miserable wretch you behold. My
Orfling, who was about to be disbanded. advice is, never do tomorrow what you can do today. Pro-
We had a very pleasant day, though we were all in a ten- crastination is the thief of time. Collar him!’
der state about our approaching separation. ‘My poor papa’s maxim,’ Mrs. Micawber observed.
‘I shall never, Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘your papa was very well
‘revert to the period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties, in his way, and Heaven forbid that I should disparage him.
without thinking of you. Your conduct has always been of Take him for all in all, we ne’er shall - in short, make the
the most delicate and obliging description. You have never acquaintance, probably, of anybody else possessing, at his
been a lodger. You have been a friend.’ time of life, the same legs for gaiters, and able to read the
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber; ‘Copperfield,’ for so he had same description of print, without spectacles. But he ap-
been accustomed to call me, of late, ‘has a heart to feel for plied that maxim to our marriage, my dear; and that was so
the distresses of his fellow-creatures when they are behind far prematurely entered into, in consequence, that I never
a cloud, and a head to plan, and a hand to - in short, a gen- recovered the expense.’ Mr. Micawber looked aside at Mrs.
eral ability to dispose of such available property as could be Micawber, and added: ‘Not that I am sorry for it. Quite the
made away with.’ contrary, my love.’ After which, he was grave for a minute
I expressed my sense of this commendation, and said I or so.

‘My other piece of advice, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micaw- at them, a mist cleared from her eyes, and she saw what a
ber, ‘you know. Annual income twenty pounds, annual little creature I really was. I think so, because she beckoned
expenditure nineteen nineteen and six, result happiness. to me to climb up, with quite a new and motherly expres-
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty sion in her face, and put her arm round my neck, and gave
pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blight- me just such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. I
ed, the leaf is withered, the god of day goes down upon the had barely time to get down again before the coach started,
dreary scene, and - and in short you are for ever floored. As and I could hardly see the family for the handkerchiefs they
I am!’ waved. It was gone in a minute. The Orfling and I stood
To make his example the more impressive, Mr. Micaw- looking vacantly at each other in the middle of the road,
ber drank a glass of punch with an air of great enjoyment and then shook hands and said good-bye; she going back,
and satisfaction, and whistled the College Hornpipe. I suppose, to St. Luke’s workhouse, as I went to begin my
I did not fail to assure him that I would store these pre- weary day at Murdstone and Grinby’s.
cepts in my mind, though indeed I had no need to do so, for, But with no intention of passing many more weary days
at the time, they affected me visibly. Next morning I met there. No. I had resolved to run away. - To go, by some
the whole family at the coach office, and saw them, with a means or other, down into the country, to the only relation
desolate heart, take their places outside, at the back. I had in the world, and tell my story to my aunt, Miss Betsey.
‘Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘God bless I have already observed that I don’t know how this desper-
you! I never can forget all that, you know, and I never would ate idea came into my brain. But, once there, it remained
if I could.’ there; and hardened into a purpose than which I have never
‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘farewell! Every hap- entertained a more determined purpose in my life. I am far
piness and prosperity! If, in the progress of revolving years, from sure that I believed there was anything hopeful in it,
I could persuade myself that my blighted destiny had been but my mind was thoroughly made up that it must be car-
a warning to you, I should feel that I had not occupied an- ried into execution.
other man’s place in existence altogether in vain. In case Again, and again, and a hundred times again, since
of anything turning up (of which I am rather confident), I the night when the thought had first occurred to me and
shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power to im- banished sleep, I had gone over that old story of my poor
prove your prospects.’ mother’s about my birth, which it had been one of my great
I think, as Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coach, delights in the old time to hear her tell, and which I knew
with the children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully by heart. My aunt walked into that story, and walked out of

it, a dread and awful personage; but there was one little trait and resolved to set out at the end of that week.
in her behaviour which I liked to dwell on, and which gave Being a very honest little creature, and unwilling to
me some faint shadow of encouragement. I could not forget disgrace the memory I was going to leave behind me at
how my mother had thought that she felt her touch her pret- Murdstone and Grinby’s, I considered myself bound to re-
ty hair with no ungentle hand; and though it might have main until Saturday night; and, as I had been paid a week’s
been altogether my mother’s fancy, and might have had no wages in advance when I first came there, not to present
foundation whatever in fact, I made a little picture, out of myself in the counting-house at the usual hour, to receive
it, of my terrible aunt relenting towards the girlish beauty my stipend. For this express reason, I had borrowed the
that I recollected so well and loved so much, which soft- half-guinea, that I might not be without a fund for my trav-
ened the whole narrative. It is very possible that it had been elling-expenses. Accordingly, when the Saturday night
in my mind a long time, and had gradually engendered my came, and we were all waiting in the warehouse to be paid,
determination. and Tipp the carman, who always took precedence, went in
As I did not even know where Miss Betsey lived, I wrote a first to draw his money, I shook Mick Walker by the hand;
long letter to Peggotty, and asked her, incidentally, if she re- asked him, when it came to his turn to be paid, to say to Mr.
membered; pretending that I had heard of such a lady living Quinion that I had gone to move my box to Tipp’s; and, bid-
at a certain place I named at random, and had a curiosity to ding a last good night to Mealy Potatoes, ran away.
know if it were the same. In the course of that letter, I told My box was at my old lodging, over the water, and I had
Peggotty that I had a particular occasion for half a guinea; written a direction for it on the back of one of our address
and that if she could lend me that sum until I could repay cards that we nailed on the casks: ‘Master David, to be left
it, I should be very much obliged to her, and would tell her till called for, at the Coach Office, Dover.’ This I had in my
afterwards what I had wanted it for. pocket ready to put on the box, after I should have got it out
Peggotty’s answer soon arrived, and was, as usual, full of of the house; and as I went towards my lodging, I looked
affectionate devotion. She enclosed the half guinea (I was about me for someone who would help me to carry it to the
afraid she must have had a world of trouble to get it out of booking-office.
Mr. Barkis’s box), and told me that Miss Betsey lived near There was a long-legged young man with a very little
Dover, but whether at Dover itself, at Hythe, Sandgate, or empty donkey-cart, standing near the Obelisk, in the Black-
Folkestone, she could not say. One of our men, however, in- friars Road, whose eye I caught as I was going by, and who,
forming me on my asking him about these places, that they addressing me as ‘Sixpenn’orth of bad ha’pence,’ hoped ‘I
were all close together, I deemed this enough for my object, should know him agin to swear to’ - in allusion, I have no

doubt, to my staring at him. I stopped to assure him that I guinea out of my pocket in pulling the card out. I put it in
had not done so in bad manners, but uncertain whether he my mouth for safety, and though my hands trembled a good
might or might not like a job. deal, had just tied the card on very much to my satisfaction,
‘Wot job?’ said the long-legged young man. when I felt myself violently chucked under the chin by the
‘To move a box,’ I answered. long-legged young man, and saw my half-guinea fly out of
‘Wot box?’ said the long-legged young man. my mouth into his hand.
I told him mine, which was down that street there, and ‘Wot!’ said the young man, seizing me by my jacket collar,
which I wanted him to take to the Dover coach office for with a frightful grin. ‘This is a pollis case, is it? You’re a-go-
sixpence. ing to bolt, are you? Come to the pollis, you young warmin,
‘Done with you for a tanner!’ said the long-legged young come to the pollis!’
man, and directly got upon his cart, which was nothing but ‘You give me my money back, if you please,’ said I, very
a large wooden tray on wheels, and rattled away at such a much frightened; ‘and leave me alone.’
rate, that it was as much as I could do to keep pace with the ‘Come to the pollis!’ said the young man. ‘You shall prove
donkey. it yourn to the pollis.’
There was a defiant manner about this young man, and ‘Give me my box and money, will you,’ I cried, bursting
particularly about the way in which he chewed straw as he into tears.
spoke to me, that I did not much like; as the bargain was The young man still replied: ‘Come to the pollis!’ and
made, however, I took him upstairs to the room I was leav- was dragging me against the donkey in a violent manner, as
ing, and we brought the box down, and put it on his cart. if there were any affinity between that animal and a magis-
Now, I was unwilling to put the direction-card on there, lest trate, when he changed his mind, jumped into the cart, sat
any of my landlord’s family should fathom what I was do- upon my box, and, exclaiming that he would drive to the
ing, and detain me; so I said to the young man that I would pollis straight, rattled away harder than ever.
be glad if he would stop for a minute, when he came to the I ran after him as fast as I could, but I had no breath to
dead-wall of the King’s Bench prison. The words were no call out with, and should not have dared to call out, now, if
sooner out of my mouth, than he rattled away as if he, my I had. I narrowly escaped being run over, twenty times at
box, the cart, and the donkey, were all equally mad; and I least, in half a mile. Now I lost him, now I saw him, now I
was quite out of breath with running and calling after him, lost him, now I was cut at with a whip, now shouted at, now
when I caught him at the place appointed. down in the mud, now up again, now running into some-
Being much flushed and excited, I tumbled my half- body’s arms, now running headlong at a post. At length,

confused by fright and heat, and doubting whether half
London might not by this time be turning out for my appre- CHAPTER 13
hension, I left the young man to go where he would with my
box and money; and, panting and crying, but never stop-
ping, faced about for Greenwich, which I had understood
was on the Dover Road: taking very little more out of the THE SEQUEL OF MY
world, towards the retreat of my aunt, Miss Betsey, than I
had brought into it, on the night when my arrival gave her RESOLUTION
so much umbrage.
F or anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of

running all the way to Dover, when I gave up the pur-
suit of the young man with the donkey-cart, and started for
Greenwich. My scattered senses were soon collected as to
that point, if I had; for I came to a stop in the Kent Road, at
a terrace with a piece of water before it, and a great foolish
image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here I sat down on
a doorstep, quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I had
already made, and with hardly breath enough to cry for the
loss of my box and half-guinea.
It was by this time dark; I heard the clocks strike ten, as I
sat resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine
weather. When I had recovered my breath, and had got rid
of a stifling sensation in my throat, I rose up and went on.
In the midst of my distress, I had no notion of going back.
I doubt if I should have had any, though there had been a
Swiss snow-drift in the Kent Road.
But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in

the world (and I am sure I wonder how they came to be ‘Oh! you know best, sir,’ I returned modestly.
left in my pocket on a Saturday night!) troubled me none ‘I can’t be buyer and seller too,’ said Mr. Dolloby. ‘Put a
the less because I went on. I began to picture to myself, as a price on this here little weskit.’
scrap of newspaper intelligence, my being found dead in a ‘Would eighteenpence be?’- I hinted, after some hesita-
day or two, under some hedge; and I trudged on miserably, tion.
though as fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. ‘I
shop, where it was written up that ladies’ and gentlemen’s should rob my family,’ he said, ‘if I was to offer ninepence
wardrobes were bought, and that the best price was given for it.’
for rags, bones, and kitchen-stuff. The master of this shop This was a disagreeable way of putting the business;
was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleeves, smoking; and as because it imposed upon me, a perfect stranger, the un-
there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling pleasantness of asking Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my
from the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning account. My circumstances being so very pressing, howev-
inside to show what they were, I fancied that he looked like er, I said I would take ninepence for it, if he pleased. Mr.
a man of a revengeful disposition, who had hung all his en- Dolloby, not without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I
emies, and was enjoying himself. wished him good night, and walked out of the shop the
My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber sug- richer by that sum, and the poorer by a waistcoat. But when
gested to me that here might be a means of keeping off the I buttoned my jacket, that was not much. Indeed, I fore-
wolf for a little while. I went up the next by-street, took off saw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next, and that I
my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came back should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt
to the shop door. and a pair of trousers, and might deem myself lucky if I got
‘If you please, sir,’ I said, ‘I am to sell this for a fair price.’ there even in that trim. But my mind did not run so much
Mr. Dolloby - Dolloby was the name over the shop door, on this as might be supposed. Beyond a general impression
at least - took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head, of the distance before me, and of the young man with the
against the door-post, went into the shop, followed by me, donkey-cart having used me cruelly, I think I had no very
snuffed the two candles with his fingers, spread the waist- urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again set off with
coat on the counter, and looked at it there, held it up against my ninepence in my pocket.
the light, and looked at it there, and ultimately said: A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which
‘What do you call a price, now, for this here little wes- I was going to carry into execution. This was, to lie behind
kit?’ the wall at the back of my old school, in a corner where

there used to be a haystack. I imagined it would be a kind of but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still re-
company to have the boys, and the bedroom where I used to mained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not
tell the stories, so near me: although the boys would know sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however
nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield strong my reliance was on his good nature, to wish to trust
me no shelter. him with my situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr.
I had had a hard day’s work, and was pretty well jaded Creakle’s boys were getting up, and struck into the long
when I came climbing out, at last, upon the level of Black- dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road
heath. It cost me some trouble to find out Salem House; but when I was one of them, and when I little expected that any
I found it, and I found a haystack in the corner, and I lay eyes would ever see me the wayfarer I was now, upon it.
down by it; having first walked round the wall, and looked What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday
up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent morning at Yarmouth! In due time I heard the church-bells
within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying ringing, as I plodded on; and I met people who were going
down, without a roof above my head! to church; and I passed a church or two where the congre-
Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, gation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into
against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs the sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in
barked, that night - and I dreamed of lying on my old the shade of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with
school-bed, talking to the boys in my room; and found my- his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by. But the
self sitting upright, with Steerforth’s name upon my lips, peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on every-
looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glim- thing, except me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked
mering above me. When I remembered where I was at that in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the quiet
untimely hour, a feeling stole upon me that made me get up, picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and
afraid of I don’t know what, and walk about. But the fainter beauty, weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I
glimmering of the stars, and the pale light in the sky where hardly think I should have had the courage to go on until
the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being very next day. But it always went before me, and I followed.
heavy, I lay down again and slept - though with a knowl- I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on
edge in my sleep that it was cold - until the warm beams the straight road, though not very easily, for I was new to
of the sun, and the ringing of the getting-up bell at Salem that kind of toil. I see myself, as evening closes in, coming
House, awoke me. If I could have hoped that Steerforth was over the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired, and eating
there, I would have lurked about until he came out alone; bread that I had bought for supper. One or two little houses,

with the notice, ‘Lodgings for Travellers’, hanging out, had a long time without offering my merchandise to anyone.
tempted me; but I was afraid of spending the few pence I This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-
had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the store shops, and such shops as Mr. Dolloby’s, in preference
trampers I had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, there- to the regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought
fore, but the sky; and toiling into Chatham, - which, in that looked promising, at the corner of a dirty lane, ending in
night’s aspect, is a mere dream of chalk, and drawbridges, an enclosure full of stinging-nettles, against the palings of
and mastless ships in a muddy river, roofed like Noah’s arks, which some second-hand sailors’ clothes, that seemed to
- crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery overhang- have overflowed the shop, were fluttering among some cots,
ing a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay and rusty guns, and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so
down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sen- many old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed vari-
try’s footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above ous enough to open all the doors in the world.
him than the boys at Salem House had known of my lying Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was
by the wall, slept soundly until morning. darkened rather than lighted by a little window, overhung
Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite with clothes, and was descended into by some steps, I went
dazed by the beating of drums and marching of troops, with a palpitating heart; which was not relieved when an
which seemed to hem me in on every side when I went down ugly old man, with the lower part of his face all covered
towards the long narrow street. Feeling that I could go but with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind
a very little way that day, if I were to reserve any strength it, and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful
for getting to my journey’s end, I resolved to make the sale old man to look at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smell-
of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly, I took the ing terribly of rum. His bedstead, covered with a tumbled
jacket off, that I might learn to do without it; and carrying and ragged piece of patchwork, was in the den he had come
it under my arm, began a tour of inspection of the various from, where another little window showed a prospect of
slop-shops. more stinging-nettles, and a lame donkey.
It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in ‘Oh, what do you want?’ grinned this old man, in a fierce,
second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally monotonous whine. ‘Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you
speaking, on the look-out for customers at their shop doors. want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, go-
But as most of them had, hanging up among their stock, an roo, goroo!’
officer’s coat or two, epaulettes and all, I was rendered timid I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly
by the costly nature of their dealings, and walked about for by the repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind

of rattle in his throat, that I could make no answer; here- make it an exchange.’ I never was so frightened in my life,
upon the old man, still holding me by the hair, repeated: before or since; but I told him humbly that I wanted money,
‘Oh, what do you want? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do and that nothing else was of any use to me, but that I would
you want? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, wait for it, as he desired, outside, and had no wish to hurry
goroo!’ - which he screwed out of himself, with an energy him. So I went outside, and sat down in the shade in a cor-
that made his eyes start in his head. ner. And I sat there so many hours, that the shade became
‘I wanted to know,’ I said, trembling, ‘if you would buy sunlight, and the sunlight became shade again, and still I
a jacket.’ sat there waiting for the money.
‘Oh, let’s see the jacket!’ cried the old man. ‘Oh, my heart There never was such another drunken madman in that
on fire, show the jacket to us! Oh, my eyes and limbs, bring line of business, I hope. That he was well known in the
the jacket out!’ neighbourhood, and enjoyed the reputation of having sold
With that he took his trembling hands, which were like himself to the devil, I soon understood from the visits he
the claws of a great bird, out of my hair; and put on a pair of received from the boys, who continually came skirmish-
spectacles, not at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes. ing about the shop, shouting that legend, and calling to him
‘Oh, how much for the jacket?’ cried the old man, after to bring out his gold. ‘You ain’t poor, you know, Charley,
examining it. ‘Oh - goroo! - how much for the jacket?’ as you pretend. Bring out your gold. Bring out some of the
‘Half-a-crown,’ I answered, recovering myself. gold you sold yourself to the devil for. Come! It’s in the lin-
‘Oh, my lungs and liver,’ cried the old man, ‘no! Oh, my ing of the mattress, Charley. Rip it open and let’s have some!’
eyes, no! Oh, my limbs, no! Eighteenpence. Goroo!’ This, and many offers to lend him a knife for the purpose,
Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a
to be in danger of starting out; and every sentence he spoke, succession of rushes on his part, and flights on the part of
he delivered in a sort of tune, always exactly the same, and the boys. Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of
more like a gust of wind, which begins low, mounts up high, them, and come at me, mouthing as if he were going to tear
and falls again, than any other comparison I can find for it. me in pieces; then, remembering me, just in time, would
‘Well,’ said I, glad to have closed the bargain, ‘I’ll take dive into the shop, and lie upon his bed, as I thought from
eighteenpence.’ the sound of his voice, yelling in a frantic way, to his own
‘Oh, my liver!’ cried the old man, throwing the jacket on windy tune, the ‘Death of Nelson’; with an Oh! before every
a shelf. ‘Get out of the shop! Oh, my lungs, get out of the line, and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As if this were
shop! Oh, my eyes and limbs - goroo! - don’t ask for money; not bad enough for me, the boys, connecting me with the

establishment, on account of the patience and perseverance rested comfortably, after having washed my blistered feet
with which I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted me, and used in a stream, and dressed them as well as I was able, with
me very ill all day. some cool leaves. When I took the road again next morn-
He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an ing, I found that it lay through a succession of hop-grounds
exchange; at one time coming out with a fishing-rod, at an- and orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the or-
other with a fiddle, at another with a cocked hat, at another chards to be ruddy with ripe apples; and in a few places the
with a flute. But I resisted all these overtures, and sat there hop-pickers were already at work. I thought it all extremely
in desperation; each time asking him, with tears in my eyes, beautiful, and made up my mind to sleep among the hops
for my money or my jacket. At last he began to pay me in that night: imagining some cheerful companionship in the
halfpence at a time; and was full two hours getting by easy long perspectives of poles, with the graceful leaves twining
stages to a shilling. round them.
‘Oh, my eyes and limbs!’ he then cried, peeping hideously The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired
out of the shop, after a long pause, ‘will you go for twopence me with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of
more?’ them were most ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at
‘I can’t,’ I said; ‘I shall be starved.’ me as I went by; and stopped, perhaps, and called after me
‘Oh, my lungs and liver, will you go for threepence?’ to come back and speak to them, and when I took to my
‘I would go for nothing, if I could,’ I said, ‘but I want the heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow - a tinker, I
money badly.’ suppose, from his wallet and brazier - who had a woman
‘Oh, go-roo!’ (it is really impossible to express how he with him, and who faced about and stared at me thus; and
twisted this ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round then roared to me in such a tremendous voice to come back,
the door-post at me, showing nothing but his crafty old that I halted and looked round.
head); ‘will you go for fourpence?’ ‘Come here, when you’re called,’ said the tinker, ‘or I’ll
I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and rip your young body open.’
taking the money out of his claw, not without trembling, I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them,
went away more hungry and thirsty than I had ever been, a trying to propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that
little before sunset. But at an expense of threepence I soon the woman had a black eye.
refreshed myself completely; and, being in better spirits ‘Where are you going?’ said the tinker, gripping the bo-
then, limped seven miles upon my road. som of my shirt with his blackened hand.
My bed at night was under another haystack, where I ‘I am going to Dover,’ I said.

‘Where do you come from?’ asked the tinker, giving his feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned
hand another turn in my shirt, to hold me more securely. upon the woman with an oath, and knocked her down. I
‘I come from London,’ I said. never shall forget seeing her fall backward on the hard road,
‘What lay are you upon?’ asked the tinker. ‘Are you a and lie there with her bonnet tumbled off, and her hair all
prig?’ whitened in the dust; nor, when I looked back from a dis-
‘N-no,’ I said. tance, seeing her sitting on the pathway, which was a bank
‘Ain’t you, by G—? If you make a brag of your honesty to by the roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a cor-
me,’ said the tinker, ‘I’ll knock your brains out.’ ner of her shawl, while he went on ahead.
With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I
me, and then looked at me from head to foot. saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could
‘Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?’ said find a hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone
the tinker. ‘If you have, out with it, afore I take it away!’ out of sight; which happened so often, that I was very se-
I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the riously delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the
woman’s look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained
form ‘No!’ with her lips. and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth,
‘I am very poor,’ I said, attempting to smile, ‘and have before I came into the world. It always kept me company. It
got no money.’ was there, among the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was
‘Why, what do you mean?’ said the tinker, looking so with me on my waking in the morning; it went before me
sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my all day. I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny street
pocket. of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light; and with
‘Sir!’ I stammered. the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, grey
‘What do you mean,’ said the tinker, ‘by wearing my Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When
brother’s silk handkerchief! Give it over here!’ And he had I came, at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it
mine off my neck in a moment, and tossed it to the woman. relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope; and not
The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought until I reached that first great aim of my journey, and actu-
this a joke, and tossed it back to me, nodded once, as slight- ally set foot in the town itself, on the sixth day of my flight,
ly as before, and made the word ‘Go!’ with her lips. Before did it desert me. But then, strange to say, when I stood with
I could obey, however, the tinker seized the handkerchief my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed fig-
out of my hand with a roughness that threw me away like a ure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a

dream, and to leave me helpless and dispirited. ‘Pretty stiff in the back?’ said he, making himself up-
I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and right.
received various answers. One said she lived in the South ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should think it very likely.’
Foreland Light, and had singed her whiskers by doing so; ‘Carries a bag?’ said he - ‘bag with a good deal of room in
another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside it - is gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?’
the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a third, My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the un-
that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a doubted accuracy of this description.
fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high ‘Why then, I tell you what,’ said he. ‘If you go up there,’
wind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among pointing with his whip towards the heights, ‘and keep right
whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally dis- on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think
respectful; and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, you’ll hear of her. My opinion is she won’t stand anything,
generally replied, without hearing what I had to say, that so here’s a penny for you.’
they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and desti- I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with
tute than I had done at any period of my running away. My it. Dispatching this refreshment by the way, I went in the
money was all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was direction my friend had indicated, and walked on a good
hungry, thirsty, and worn out; and seemed as distant from distance without coming to the houses he had mentioned.
my end as if I had remained in London. At length I saw some before me; and approaching them, went
The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was into a little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop,
sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near at home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to
the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards tell me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a
those other places which had been mentioned, when a fly- man behind the counter, who was weighing some rice for a
driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. young woman; but the latter, taking the inquiry to herself,
Something good-natured in the man’s face, as I handed it turned round quickly.
up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where ‘My mistress?’ she said. ‘What do you want with her,
Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question so boy?’
often, that it almost died upon my lips. ‘I want,’ I replied, ‘to speak to her, if you please.’
‘Trotwood,’ said he. ‘Let me see. I know the name, too. ‘To beg of her, you mean,’ retorted the damsel.
Old lady?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘indeed.’ But suddenly remembering that in
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘rather.’ truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in con-

fusion, and felt my face burn. slept - and torn besides - might have frightened the birds
MY aunt’s handmaid, as I supposed she was from what from my aunt’s garden, as I stood at the gate. My hair had
she had said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out known no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck,
of the shop; telling me that I could follow her, if I wanted and hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun,
to know where Miss Trotwood lived. I needed no second were burnt to a berry-brown. From head to foot I was pow-
permission; though I was by this time in such a state of dered almost as white with chalk and dust, as if I had come
consternation and agitation, that my legs shook under me. out of a lime-kiln. In this plight, and with a strong con-
I followed the young woman, and we soon came to a very sciousness of it, I waited to introduce myself to, and make
neat little cottage with cheerful bow-windows: in front of my first impression on, my formidable aunt.
it, a small square gravelled court or garden full of flowers, The unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading
carefully tended, and smelling deliciously. me to infer, after a while, that she was not there, I lifted up
‘This is Miss Trotwood’s,’ said the young woman. ‘Now my eyes to the window above it, where I saw a florid, pleas-
you know; and that’s all I have got to say.’ With which ant-looking gentleman, with a grey head, who shut up one
words she hurried into the house, as if to shake off the re- eye in a grotesque manner, nodded his head at me several
sponsibility of my appearance; and left me standing at the times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and went away.
garden-gate, looking disconsolately over the top of it to- I had been discomposed enough before; but I was so
wards the parlour window, where a muslin curtain partly much the more discomposed by this unexpected behaviour,
undrawn in the middle, a large round green screen or fan that I was on the point of slinking off, to think how I had
fastened on to the windowsill, a small table, and a great best proceed, when there came out of the house a lady with
chair, suggested to me that my aunt might be at that mo- her handkerchief tied over her cap, and a pair of garden-
ment seated in awful state. ing gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a
My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The toll-man’s apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her im-
soles had shed themselves bit by bit, and the upper leath- mediately to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the
ers had broken and burst until the very shape and form of house exactly as my poor mother had so often described her
shoes had departed from them. My hat (which had served stalking up our garden at Blunderstone Rookery.
me for a night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no ‘Go away!’ said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and mak-
old battered handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have ing a distant chop in the air with her knife. ‘Go along! No
been ashamed to vie with it. My shirt and trousers, stained boys here!’
with heat, dew, grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched

to a corner of her garden, and stooped to dig up some literal bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my
tle root there. Then, without a scrap of courage, but with a mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random,
great deal of desperation, I went softly in and stood beside for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and sal-
her, touching her with my finger. ad dressing. When she had administered these restoratives,
‘If you please, ma’am,’ I began. as I was still quite hysterical, and unable to control my sobs,
She started and looked up. she put me on the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and
‘If you please, aunt.’ the handkerchief from her own head under my feet, lest I
‘EH?’ exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I should sully the cover; and then, sitting herself down be-
have never heard approached. hind the green fan or screen I have already mentioned, so
‘If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.’ that I could not see her face, ejaculated at intervals, ‘Mercy
‘Oh, Lord!’ said my aunt. And sat flat down in the gar- on us!’ letting those exclamations off like minute guns.
den-path. After a time she rang the bell. ‘Janet,’ said my aunt, when
‘I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk - her servant came in. ‘Go upstairs, give my compliments to
where you came, on the night when I was born, and saw my Mr. Dick, and say I wish to speak to him.’
dear mama. I have been very unhappy since she died. I have Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on
been slighted, and taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, the sofa (I was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to
and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you. my aunt), but went on her errand. My aunt, with her hands
I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all the behind her, walked up and down the room, until the gentle-
way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey.’ man who had squinted at me from the upper window came
Here my self-support gave way all at once; and with a move- in laughing.
ment of my hands, intended to show her my ragged state, ‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘don’t be a fool, because nobody
and call it to witness that I had suffered something, I broke can be more discreet than you can, when you choose. We all
into a passion of crying, which I suppose had been pent up know that. So don’t be a fool, whatever you are.’
within me all the week. The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked
My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder dis- at me, I thought, as if he would entreat me to say nothing
charged from her countenance, sat on the gravel, staring at about the window.
me, until I began to cry; when she got up in a great hur- ‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘you have heard me mention
ry, collared me, and took me into the parlour. Her first David Copperfield? Now don’t pretend not to have a memo-
proceeding there was to unlock a tall press, bring out sev- ry, because you and I know better.’

‘David Copperfield?’ said Mr. Dick, who did not appear ‘Why, if I was you,’ said Mr. Dick, considering, and look-
to me to remember much about it. ‘David Copperfield? Oh ing vacantly at me, ‘I should -’ The contemplation of me
yes, to be sure. David, certainly.’ seemed to inspire him with a sudden idea, and he added,
‘Well,’ said my aunt, ‘this is his boy - his son. He would briskly, ‘I should wash him!’
be as like his father as it’s possible to be, if he was not so like ‘Janet,’ said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph,
his mother, too.’ which I did not then understand, ‘Mr. Dick sets us all right.
‘His son?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘David’s son? Indeed!’ Heat the bath!’
‘Yes,’ pursued my aunt, ‘and he has done a pretty piece of Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could
business. He has run away. Ah! His sister, Betsey Trotwood, not help observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it
never would have run away.’ My aunt shook her head firmly, was in progress, and completing a survey I had already been
confident in the character and behaviour of the girl who engaged in making of the room.
never was born. MY aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means
‘Oh! you think she wouldn’t have run away?’ said Mr. ill-looking. There was an inflexibility in her face, in her
Dick. voice, in her gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account
‘Bless and save the man,’ exclaimed my aunt, sharply, for the effect she had made upon a gentle creature like my
‘how he talks! Don’t I know she wouldn’t? She would have mother; but her features were rather handsome than other-
lived with her god-mother, and we should have been devot- wise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed
ed to one another. Where, in the name of wonder, should that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was
his sister, Betsey Trotwood, have run from, or to?’ grey, was arranged in two plain divisions, under what I be-
‘Nowhere,’ said Mr. Dick. lieve would be called a mob-cap; I mean a cap, much more
‘Well then,’ returned my aunt, softened by the reply, ‘how common then than now, with side-pieces fastening under
can you pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, when you are the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour, and perfectly
as sharp as a surgeon’s lancet? Now, here you see young Da- neat; but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little en-
vid Copperfield, and the question I put to you is, what shall cumbered as possible. I remember that I thought it, in form,
I do with him?’ more like a riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut off,
‘What shall you do with him?’ said Mr. Dick, feebly, than anything else. She wore at her side a gentleman’s gold
scratching his head. ‘Oh! do with him?’ watch, if I might judge from its size and make, with an ap-
‘Yes,’ said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinger propriate chain and seals; she had some linen at her throat
held up. ‘Come! I want some very sound advice.’ not unlike a shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like little

shirt-wristbands. carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old
Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey-headed, and china, the punchbowl full of dried rose-leaves, the tall press
florid: I should have said all about him, in saying so, had guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out
not his head been curiously bowed - not by age; it reminded of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking
me of one of Mr. Creakle’s boys’ heads after a beating - and note of everything.
his grey eyes prominent and large, with a strange kind of Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt,
watery brightness in them that made me, in combination to my great alarm, became in one moment rigid with indig-
with his vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and his nation, and had hardly voice to cry out, ‘Janet! Donkeys!’
childish delight when she praised him, suspect him of be- Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the
ing a little mad; though, if he were mad, how he came to be house were in flames, darted out on a little piece of green in
there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed like any oth- front, and warned off two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that
er ordinary gentleman, in a loose grey morning coat and had presumed to set hoof upon it; while my aunt, rushing
waistcoat, and white trousers; and had his watch in his fob, out of the house, seized the bridle of a third animal lad-
and his money in his pockets: which he rattled as if he were en with a bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from
very proud of it. those sacred precincts, and boxed the ears of the unlucky
Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or urchin in attendance who had dared to profane that hal-
twenty, and a perfect picture of neatness. Though I made lowed ground.
no further observation of her at the moment, I may men- To this hour I don’t know whether my aunt had any law-
tion here what I did not discover until afterwards, namely, ful right of way over that patch of green; but she had settled it
that she was one of a series of protegees whom my aunt had in her own mind that she had, and it was all the same to her.
taken into her service expressly to educate in a renounce- The one great outrage of her life, demanding to be constantly
ment of mankind, and who had generally completed their avenged, was the passage of a donkey over that immaculate
abjuration by marrying the baker. spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged, however in-
The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down teresting to her the conversation in which she was taking
my pen, a moment since, to think of it, the air from the sea part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment,
came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flow- and she was upon him straight. Jugs of water, and water-
ers; and I saw the old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed ing-pots, were kept in secret places ready to be discharged
and polished, my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the on the offending boys; sticks were laid in ambush behind
round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered the door; sallies were made at all hours; and incessant war

prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the comfortably, and had then stood looking at me. The words,
donkey-boys; or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys, ‘Pretty fellow,’ or ‘Poor fellow,’ seemed to be in my ears, too;
understanding how the case stood, delighted with constitu- but certainly there was nothing else, when I awoke, to lead
tional obstinacy in coming that way. I only know that there me to believe that they had been uttered by my aunt, who
were three alarms before the bath was ready; and that on sat in the bow-window gazing at the sea from behind the
the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I saw my green fan, which was mounted on a kind of swivel, and
aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fif- turned any way.
teen, and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pud-
he seemed to comprehend what was the matter. These inter- ding; I sitting at table, not unlike a trussed bird myself, and
ruptions were of the more ridiculous to me, because she was moving my arms with considerable difficulty. But as my
giving me broth out of a table-spoon at the time (having aunt had swathed me up, I made no complaint of being in-
firmly persuaded herself that I was actually starving, and convenienced. All this time I was deeply anxious to know
must receive nourishment at first in very small quantities), what she was going to do with me; but she took her din-
and, while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she ner in profound silence, except when she occasionally fixed
would put it back into the basin, cry ‘Janet! Donkeys!’ and her eyes on me sitting opposite, and said, ‘Mercy upon us!’
go out to the assault. which did not by any means relieve my anxiety.
The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensible The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the
of acute pains in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and table (of which I had a glass), my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick
was now so tired and low that I could hardly keep myself again, who joined us, and looked as wise as he could when
awake for five minutes together. When I had bathed, they (I she requested him to attend to my story, which she elicited
mean my aunt and Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a pair from me, gradually, by a course of questions. During my
of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, and tied me up in two or recital, she kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would
three great shawls. What sort of bundle I looked like, I don’t have gone to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he
know, but I felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint and lapsed into a smile, was checked by a frown from my aunt.
drowsy, I soon lay down on the sofa again and fell asleep. ‘Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Baby, that
It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy she must go and be married again,’ said my aunt, when I
which had occupied my mind so long, but I awoke with the had finished, ‘I can’t conceive.’
impression that my aunt had come and bent over me, and ‘Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband,’ Mr.
had put my hair away from my face, and laid my head more Dick suggested.

‘Fell in love!’ repeated my aunt. ‘What do you mean? and marries a Murderer - or a man with a name like it - and
What business had she to do it?’ stands in THIS child’s light! And the natural consequence
‘Perhaps,’ Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little, ‘she is, as anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he
did it for pleasure.’ prowls and wanders. He’s as like Cain before he was grown
‘Pleasure, indeed!’ replied my aunt. ‘A mighty pleasure up, as he can be.’
for the poor Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this
a fellow, certain to ill-use her in some way or other. What character.
did she propose to herself, I should like to know! She had ‘And then there’s that woman with the Pagan name,’ said
had one husband. She had seen David Copperfield out of my aunt, ‘that Peggotty, she goes and gets married next. Be-
the world, who was always running after wax dolls from his cause she has not seen enough of the evil attending such
cradle. She had got a baby - oh, there were a pair of babies things, she goes and gets married next, as the child relates.
when she gave birth to this child sitting here, that Friday I only hope,’ said my aunt, shaking her head, ‘that her hus-
night! - and what more did she want?’ band is one of those Poker husbands who abound in the
Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought newspapers, and will beat her well with one.’
there was no getting over this. I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and
‘She couldn’t even have a baby like anybody else,’ said my made the subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed
aunt. ‘Where was this child’s sister, Betsey Trotwood? Not she was mistaken. That Peggotty was the best, the truest, the
forthcoming. Don’t tell me!’ most faithful, most devoted, and most self-denying friend
Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened. and servant in the world; who had ever loved me dearly, who
‘That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side,’ had ever loved my mother dearly; who had held my moth-
said my aunt, ‘Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was er’s dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother
he about? All he could do, was to say to me, like a robin red- had imprinted her last grateful kiss. And my remembrance
breast - as he is - ‘It’s a boy.’ A boy! Yah, the imbecility of of them both, choking me, I broke down as I was trying to
the whole set of ‘em!’ say that her home was my home, and that all she had was
The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick ex- mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for
ceedingly; and me, too, if I am to tell the truth. her humble station, which made me fear that I might bring
‘And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not some trouble on her - I broke down, I say, as I was trying to
stood sufficiently in the light of this child’s sister, Betsey say so, and laid my face in my hands upon the table.
Trotwood,’ said my aunt, ‘she marries a second time - goes ‘Well, well!’ said my aunt, ‘the child is right to stand by

those who have stood by him - Janet! Donkeys!’ bed is ready, we’ll take him up to it.’
I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate don- Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it;
keys, we should have come to a good understanding; for my kindly, but in some sort like a prisoner; my aunt going in
aunt had laid her hand on my shoulder, and the impulse front and Janet bringing up the rear. The only circumstance
was upon me, thus emboldened, to embrace her and be- which gave me any new hope, was my aunt’s stopping on
seech her protection. But the interruption, and the disorder the stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was preva-
she was thrown into by the struggle outside, put an end to lent there; and janet’s replying that she had been making
all softer ideas for the present, and kept my aunt indignantly tinder down in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But there were
declaiming to Mr. Dick about her determination to appeal no other clothes in my room than the odd heap of things
for redress to the laws of her country, and to bring actions I wore; and when I was left there, with a little taper which
for trespass against the whole donkey proprietorship of Do- my aunt forewarned me would burn exactly five minutes,
ver, until tea-time. I heard them lock my door on the outside. Turning these
After tea, we sat at the window - on the look-out, as I things over in my mind I deemed it possible that my aunt,
imagined, from my aunt’s sharp expression of face, for more who could know nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit
invaders - until dusk, when Janet set candles, and a back- of running away, and took precautions, on that account, to
gammon-board, on the table, and pulled down the blinds. have me in safe keeping.
‘Now, Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, with her grave look, and The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house, over-
her forefinger up as before, ‘I am going to ask you another looking the sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly.
question. Look at this child.’ After I had said my prayers, and the candle had burnt out,
‘David’s son?’ said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled I remember how I still sat looking at the moonlight on the
face. water, as if I could hope to read my fortune in it, as in a
‘Exactly so,’ returned my aunt. ‘What would you do with bright book; or to see my mother with her child, coming
him, now?’ from Heaven, along that shining path, to look upon me as
‘Do with David’s son?’ said Mr. Dick. she had looked when I last saw her sweet face. I remem-
‘Ay,’ replied my aunt, ‘with David’s son.’ ber how the solemn feeling with which at length I turned
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Yes. Do with - I should put him to my eyes away, yielded to the sensation of gratitude and rest
bed.’ which the sight of the white-curtained bed - and how much
‘Janet!’ cried my aunt, with the same complacent triumph more the lying softly down upon it, nestling in the snow-
that I had remarked before. ‘Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the white sheets! - inspired. I remember how I thought of all the

solitary places under the night sky where I had slept, and
how I prayed that I never might be houseless any more, and CHAPTER 14
never might forget the houseless. I remember how I seemed
to float, then, down the melancholy glory of that track upon
the sea, away into the world of dreams.
MY AUNT MAKES UP
HER MIND ABOUT ME
O n going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing

so profoundly over the breakfast table, with her elbow
on the tray, that the contents of the urn had overflowed the
teapot and were laying the whole table-cloth under water,
when my entrance put her meditations to flight. I felt sure
that I had been the subject of her reflections, and was more
than ever anxious to know her intentions towards me. Yet
I dared not express my anxiety, lest it should give her of-
fence.
My eyes, however, not being so much under control as
my tongue, were attracted towards my aunt very often dur-
ing breakfast. I never could look at her for a few moments
together but I found her looking at me - in an odd thought-
ful manner, as if I were an immense way off, instead of
being on the other side of the small round table. When she
had finished her breakfast, my aunt very deliberately leaned
back in her chair, knitted her brows, folded her arms, and
contemplated me at her leisure, with such a fixedness of at-

tention that I was quite overpowered by embarrassment. her own hands; and, when everything was washed and set
Not having as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted to in the tray again, and the cloth folded and put on the top of
hide my confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tum- the whole, rang for Janet to remove it. She next swept up the
bled over my fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped crumbs with a little broom (putting on a pair of gloves first),
bits of bacon a surprising height into the air instead of cut- until there did not appear to be one microscopic speck left
ting them for my own eating, and choked myself with my on the carpet; next dusted and arranged the room, which
tea, which persisted in going the wrong way instead of the was dusted and arranged to a hair’sbreadth already. When
right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat blushing under all these tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took
my aunt’s close scrutiny. off the gloves and apron, folded them up, put them in the
‘Hallo!’ said my aunt, after a long time. particular corner of the press from which they had been
I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respectful- taken, brought out her work-box to her own table in the
ly. open window, and sat down, with the green fan between
‘I have written to him,’ said my aunt. her and the light, to work.
‘To -?’ ‘I wish you’d go upstairs,’ said my aunt, as she threaded
‘To your father-in-law,’ said my aunt. ‘I have sent him a her needle, ‘and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and I’ll
letter that I’ll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall be glad to know how he gets on with his Memorial.’
out, I can tell him!’ I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commis-
‘Does he know where I am, aunt?’ I inquired, alarmed. sion.
‘I have told him,’ said my aunt, with a nod. ‘I suppose,’ said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she
‘Shall I - be - given up to him?’ I faltered. had eyed the needle in threading it, ‘you think Mr. Dick a
‘I don’t know,’ said my aunt. ‘We shall see.’ short name, eh?’
‘Oh! I can’t think what I shall do,’ I exclaimed, ‘if I have ‘I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday,’ I con-
to go back to Mr. Murdstone!’ fessed.
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said my aunt, shaking ‘You are not to suppose that he hasn’t got a longer name,
her head. ‘I can’t say, I am sure. We shall see.’ if he chose to use it,’ said my aunt, with a loftier air. ‘Babley
My spirits sank under these words, and I became very - Mr. Richard Babley - that’s the gentleman’s true name.’
downcast and heavy of heart. My aunt, without appearing I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth
to take much heed of me, put on a coarse apron with a bib, and the familiarity I had been already guilty of, that I had
which she took out of the press; washed up the teacups with better give him the full benefit of that name, when my aunt

went on to say: and I - I believe I have made a start. I think I have made a
‘But don’t you call him by it, whatever you do. He can’t start,’ said Mr. Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair,
bear his name. That’s a peculiarity of his. Though I don’t and casting anything but a confident look at his manuscript.
know that it’s much of a peculiarity, either; for he has been ‘You have been to school?’
ill-used enough, by some that bear it, to have a mortal an- ‘Yes, sir,’ I answered; ‘for a short time.’
tipathy for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his name here, and ‘Do you recollect the date,’ said Mr. Dick, looking ear-
everywhere else, now - if he ever went anywhere else, which nestly at me, and taking up his pen to note it down, ‘when
he don’t. So take care, child, you don’t call him anything King Charles the First had his head cut off?’ I said I believed
BUT Mr. Dick.’ it happened in the year sixteen hundred and forty-nine.
I promised to obey, and went upstairs with my message; ‘Well,’ returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his
thinking, as I went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his pen, and looking dubiously at me. ‘So the books say; but I
Memorial long, at the same rate as I had seen him working at don’t see how that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how
it, through the open door, when I came down, he was prob- could the people about him have made that mistake of put-
ably getting on very well indeed. I found him still driving at ting some of the trouble out of his head, after it was taken
it with a long pen, and his head almost laid upon the paper. off, into mine?’
He was so intent upon it, that I had ample leisure to observe I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give
the large paper kite in a corner, the confusion of bundles of no information on this point.
manuscript, the number of pens, and, above all, the quan- ‘It’s very strange,’ said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look
tity of ink (which he seemed to have in, in half-gallon jars by upon his papers, and with his hand among his hair again,
the dozen), before he observed my being present. ‘that I never can get that quite right. I never can make that
‘Ha! Phoebus!’ said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen. ‘How perfectly clear. But no matter, no matter!’ he said cheerfully,
does the world go? I’ll tell you what,’ he added, in a lower and rousing himself, ‘there’s time enough! My compliments
tone, ‘I shouldn’t wish it to be mentioned, but it’s a -’ here to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well indeed.’
he beckoned to me, and put his lips close to my ear - ‘it’s I was going away, when he directed my attention to the
a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy!’ said Mr. Dick, taking kite.
snuff from a round box on the table, and laughing heartily. ‘What do you think of that for a kite?’ he said.
Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it
I delivered my message. must have been as much as seven feet high.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Dick, in answer, ‘my compliments to her, ‘I made it. We’ll go and fly it, you and I,’ said Mr. Dick.

‘Do you see this?’ on dangerous ground.
He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, ‘Not a morsel,’ said my aunt.
very closely and laboriously written; but so plainly, that as ‘Oh, indeed!’ I observed faintly.
I looked along the lines, I thought I saw some allusion to ‘If there is anything in the world,’ said my aunt, with
King Charles the First’s head again, in one or two places. great decision and force of manner, ‘that Mr. Dick is not,
‘There’s plenty of string,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘and when it flies it’s that.’
high, it takes the facts a long way. That’s my manner of dif- I had nothing better to offer, than another timid, ‘Oh,
fusing ‘em. I don’t know where they may come down. It’s indeed!’
according to circumstances, and the wind, and so forth; but ‘He has been CALLED mad,’ said my aunt. ‘I have a self-
I take my chance of that.’ ish pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or I should
His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had some- not have had the benefit of his society and advice for these
thing so reverend in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I last ten years and upwards - in fact, ever since your sister,
was not sure but that he was having a good-humoured jest Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.’
with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and we parted the ‘So long as that?’ I said.
best friends possible. ‘And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call
‘Well, child,’ said my aunt, when I went downstairs. ‘And him mad,’ pursued my aunt. ‘Mr. Dick is a sort of distant
what of Mr. Dick, this morning?’ connexion of mine - it doesn’t matter how; I needn’t enter
I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was into that. If it hadn’t been for me, his own brother would
getting on very well indeed. have shut him up for life. That’s all.’
‘What do you think of him?’ said my aunt. I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my
I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the aunt felt strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt
question, by replying that I thought him a very nice gentle- strongly too.
man; but my aunt was not to be so put off, for she laid her ‘A proud fool!’ said my aunt. ‘Because his brother was a
work down in her lap, and said, folding her hands upon it: little eccentric - though he is not half so eccentric as a good
‘Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me many people - he didn’t like to have him visible about his
what she thought of anyone, directly. Be as like your sister house, and sent him away to some private asylum-place:
as you can, and speak out!’ though he had been left to his particular care by their de-
‘Is he - is Mr. Dick - I ask because I don’t know, aunt - is ceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a
he at all out of his mind, then?’ I stammered; for I felt I was wise man he must have been to think so! Mad himself, no

doubt.’ connects his illness with great disturbance and agitation,
Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavoured naturally, and that’s the figure, or the simile, or whatever
to look quite convinced also. it’s called, which he chooses to use. And why shouldn’t he,
‘So I stepped in,’ said my aunt, ‘and made him an offer. I if he thinks proper!’
said, ‘Your brother’s sane - a great deal more sane than you I said: ‘Certainly, aunt.’
are, or ever will be, it is to be hoped. Let him have his little ‘It’s not a business-like way of speaking,’ said my aunt,
income, and come and live with me. I am not afraid of him, ‘nor a worldly way. I am aware of that; and that’s the reason
I am not proud, I am ready to take care of him, and shall why I insist upon it, that there shan’t be a word about it in
not ill-treat him as some people (besides the asylum-folks) his Memorial.’
have done.’ After a good deal of squabbling,’ said my aunt, ‘Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writ-
‘I got him; and he has been here ever since. He is the most ing, aunt?’
friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for ad- ‘Yes, child,’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. ‘He is
vice! - But nobody knows what that man’s mind is, except memorializing the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody
myself.’ or other - one of those people, at all events, who are paid
My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if to be memorialized - about his affairs. I suppose it will go
she smoothed defiance of the whole world out of the one, in, one of these days. He hasn’t been able to draw it up yet,
and shook it out of the other. without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it
‘He had a favourite sister,’ said my aunt, ‘a good creature, don’t signify; it keeps him employed.’
and very kind to him. But she did what they all do - took a In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been
husband. And HE did what they all do - made her wretch- for upwards of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles
ed. It had such an effect upon the mind of Mr. Dick (that’s the First out of the Memorial; but he had been constantly
not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear of his getting into it, and was there now.
brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into ‘I say again,’ said my aunt, ‘nobody knows what that
a fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection man’s mind is except myself; and he’s the most amenable
of it is oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to and friendly creature in existence. If he likes to fly a kite
you about King Charles the First, child?’ sometimes, what of that! Franklin used to fly a kite. He was
‘Yes, aunt.’ a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I am not mistaken.
‘Ah!’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a lit- And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous object
tle vexed. ‘That’s his allegorical way of expressing it. He than anybody else.’

If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with
these particulars for my especial behoof, and as a piece which I had been decorated on the first day, and which con-
of confidence in me, I should have felt very much distin- fined me to the house, except for an hour after dark, when
guished, and should have augured favourably from such a my aunt, for my health’s sake, paraded me up and down
mark of her good opinion. But I could hardly help observ- on the cliff outside, before going to bed. At length the re-
ing that she had launched into them, chiefly because the ply from Mr. Murdstone came, and my aunt informed me,
question was raised in her own mind, and with very little to my infinite terror, that he was coming to speak to her
reference to me, though she had addressed herself to me in herself on the next day. On the next day, still bundled up
the absence of anybody else. in my curious habiliments, I sat counting the time, flushed
At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes and rising fears
championship of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only in- within me; and waiting to be startled by the sight of the
spired my young breast with some selfish hope for myself, gloomy face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute.
but warmed it unselfishly towards her. I believe that I began MY aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usu-
to know that there was something about my aunt, notwith- al, but I observed no other token of her preparing herself to
standing her many eccentricities and odd humours, to be receive the visitor so much dreaded by me. She sat at work in
honoured and trusted in. Though she was just as sharp that the window, and I sat by, with my thoughts running astray
day as on the day before, and was in and out about the don- on all possible and impossible results of Mr. Murdstone’s
keys just as often, and was thrown into a tremendous state visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had been
of indignation, when a young man, going by, ogled Janet at indefinitely postponed; but it was growing so late, that my
a window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours aunt had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden
that could be committed against my aunt’s dignity), she alarm of donkeys, and to my consternation and amazement,
seemed to me to command more of my respect, if not less I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a side-saddle, ride deliberately
of my fear. over the sacred piece of green, and stop in front of the house,
The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessar- looking about her.
ily elapsed before a reply could be received to her letter to ‘Go along with you!’ cried my aunt, shaking her head and
Mr. Murdstone, was extreme; but I made an endeavour to her fist at the window. ‘You have no business there. How
suppress it, and to be as agreeable as I could in a quiet way, dare you trespass? Go along! Oh! you bold-faced thing!’
both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and I would have MY aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which
gone out to fly the great kite; but that I had still no other Miss Murdstone looked about her, that I really believe she

was motionless, and unable for the moment to dart out ac- Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest,
cording to custom. I seized the opportunity to inform her had dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother
who it was; and that the gentleman now coming near the of- at the bottom of the steps, until my aunt should be at lei-
fender (for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped sure to receive them. My aunt, a little ruffled by the combat,
behind), was Mr. Murdstone himself. marched past them into the house, with great dignity, and
‘I don’t care who it is!’ cried my aunt, still shaking her took no notice of their presence, until they were announced
head and gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow- by Janet.
window. ‘I won’t be trespassed upon. I won’t allow it. Go ‘Shall I go away, aunt?’ I asked, trembling.
away! Janet, turn him round. Lead him off!’ and I saw, from ‘No, sir,’ said my aunt. ‘Certainly not!’ With which she
behind my aunt, a sort of hurried battle-piece, in which pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a
the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all his four legs chair, as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I
planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him round by continued to occupy during the whole interview, and from
the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murd- it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the room.
stone struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who ‘Oh!’ said my aunt, ‘I was not aware at first to whom I had
had come to see the engagement, shouted vigorously. But the pleasure of objecting. But I don’t allow anybody to ride
my aunt, suddenly descrying among them the young male- over that turf. I make no exceptions. I don’t allow anybody
factor who was the donkey’s guardian, and who was one of to do it.’
the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in ‘Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,’ said
his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon Miss Murdstone.
him, captured him, dragged him, with his jacket over his ‘Is it!’ said my aunt.
head, and his heels grinding the ground, into the garden, Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities,
and, calling upon Janet to fetch the constables and justices, and interposing began:
that he might be taken, tried, and executed on the spot, held ‘Miss Trotwood!’
him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did ‘I beg your pardon,’ observed my aunt with a keen look.
not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety ‘You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of my
of feints and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, late nephew, David Copperfield, of Blunderstone Rookery!
soon went whooping away, leaving some deep impressions - Though why Rookery, I don’t know!’
of his nailed boots in the flower-beds, and taking his don- ‘I am,’ said Mr. Murdstone.
key in triumph with him. ‘You’ll excuse my saying, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘that I

think it would have been a much better and happier thing if on:
you had left that poor child alone.’ ‘Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I consid-
‘I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,’ ered it an act of greater justice to myself, and perhaps of
observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, ‘that I consider our la- more respect to you-’
mented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mere ‘Thank you,’ said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. ‘You
child.’ needn’t mind me.’
‘It is a comfort to you and me, ma’am,’ said my aunt, ‘who ‘To answer it in person, however inconvenient the jour-
are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy ney,’ pursued Mr. Murdstone, ‘rather than by letter. This
by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same unhappy boy who has run away from his friends and his
of us.’ occupation -’
‘No doubt!’ returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, ‘And whose appearance,’ interposed his sister, directing
not with a very ready or gracious assent. ‘And it certainly general attention to me in my indefinable costume, ‘is per-
might have been, as you say, a better and happier thing for fectly scandalous and disgraceful.’
my brother if he had never entered into such a marriage. I ‘Jane Murdstone,’ said her brother, ‘have the goodness
have always been of that opinion.’ not to interrupt me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has
‘I have no doubt you have,’ said my aunt. ‘Janet,’ ring- been the occasion of much domestic trouble and uneasi-
ing the bell, ‘my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to ness; both during the lifetime of my late dear wife, and since.
come down.’ He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent temper; and an
Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, untoward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and my-
frowning at the wall. When he came, my aunt performed self have endeavoured to correct his vices, but ineffectually.
the ceremony of introduction. And I have felt - we both have felt, I may say; my sister being
‘Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judge- fully in my confidence - that it is right you should receive
ment,’ said my aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to this grave and dispassionate assurance from our lips.’
Mr. Dick, who was biting his forefinger and looking rather ‘It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything
foolish, ‘I rely.’ stated by my brother,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘but I beg to
Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, observe, that, of all the boys in the world, I believe this is
and stood among the group, with a grave and attentive ex- the worst boy.’
pression of face. ‘Strong!’ said my aunt, shortly.
My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went ‘But not at all too strong for the facts,’ returned Miss

Murdstone. Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible mur-
‘Ha!’ said my aunt. ‘Well, sir?’ mur.
‘I have my own opinions,’ resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose ‘Humph!’ said my aunt. ‘Unfortunate baby!’
face darkened more and more, the more he and my aunt ob- Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all this time,
served each other, which they did very narrowly, ‘as to the was rattling it so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary
best mode of bringing him up; they are founded, in part, to check him with a look, before saying:
on my knowledge of him, and in part on my knowledge of ‘The poor child’s annuity died with her?’
my own means and resources. I am responsible for them to ‘Died with her,’ replied Mr. Murdstone.
myself, I act upon them, and I say no more about them. It is ‘And there was no settlement of the little property - the
enough that I place this boy under the eye of a friend of my house and garden - the what’s-its-name Rookery without
own, in a respectable business; that it does not please him; any rooks in it - upon her boy?’
that he runs away from it; makes himself a common vaga- ‘It had been left to her, unconditionally, by her first hus-
bond about the country; and comes here, in rags, to appeal band,’ Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up
to you, Miss Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honour- with the greatest irascibility and impatience.
ably, the exact consequences - so far as they are within my ‘Good Lord, man, there’s no occasion to say that. Left to
knowledge - of your abetting him in this appeal.’ her unconditionally! I think I see David Copperfield look-
‘But about the respectable business first,’ said my aunt. ing forward to any condition of any sort or kind, though it
‘If he had been your own boy, you would have put him to it, stared him point-blank in the face! Of course it was left to
just the same, I suppose?’ her unconditionally. But when she married again - when
‘If he had been my brother’s own boy,’ returned Miss she took that most disastrous step of marrying you, in
Murdstone, striking in, ‘his character, I trust, would have short,’ said my aunt, ‘to be plain - did no one put in a word
been altogether different.’ for the boy at that time?’
‘Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would ‘My late wife loved her second husband, ma’am,’ said Mr.
still have gone into the respectable business, would he?’ said Murdstone, ‘and trusted implicitly in him.’
my aunt. ‘Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhap-
‘I believe,’ said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of his py, most unfortunate baby,’ returned my aunt, shaking her
head, ‘that Clara would have disputed nothing which my- head at him. ‘That’s what she was. And now, what have you
self and my sister Jane Murdstone were agreed was for the got to say next?’
best.’ ‘Merely this, Miss Trotwood,’ he returned. ‘I am here to

take David back - to take him back unconditionally, to dis- to go, David?’
pose of him as I think proper, and to deal with him as I I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said
think right. I am not here to make any promise, or give any that neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or
pledge to anybody. You may possibly have some idea, Miss had ever been kind to me. That they had made my mama,
Trotwood, of abetting him in his running away, and in his who always loved me dearly, unhappy about me, and that
complaints to you. Your manner, which I must say does not I knew it well, and that Peggotty knew it. I said that I had
seem intended to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. been more miserable than I thought anybody could believe,
Now I must caution you that if you abet him once, you abet who only knew how young I was. And I begged and prayed
him for good and all; if you step in between him and me, my aunt - I forget in what terms now, but I remember that
now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, for ever. I cannot they affected me very much then - to befriend and protect
trifle, or be trifled with. I am here, for the first and last time, me, for my father’s sake.
to take him away. Is he ready to go? If he is not - and you tell ‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘what shall I do with this child?’
me he is not; on any pretence; it is indifferent to me what - Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined,
my doors are shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take ‘Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly.’
it for granted, are open to him.’ ‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt triumphantly, ‘give me your
To this address, my aunt had listened with the closest at- hand, for your common sense is invaluable.’ Having shaken
tention, sitting perfectly upright, with her hands folded on it with great cordiality, she pulled me towards her and said
one knee, and looking grimly on the speaker. When he had to Mr. Murdstone:
finished, she turned her eyes so as to command Miss Murd- ‘You can go when you like; I’ll take my chance with the
stone, without otherwise disturbing her attitude, and said: boy. If he’s all you say he is, at least I can do as much for him
‘Well, ma’am, have YOU got anything to remark?’ then, as you have done. But I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Indeed, Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘all that ‘Miss Trotwood,’ rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his
I could say has been so well said by my brother, and all that shoulders, as he rose, ‘if you were a gentleman -’
I know to be the fact has been so plainly stated by him, that ‘Bah! Stuff and nonsense!’ said my aunt. ‘Don’t talk to
I have nothing to add except my thanks for your politeness. me!’
For your very great politeness, I am sure,’ said Miss Murd- ‘How exquisitely polite!’ exclaimed Miss Murdstone, ris-
stone; with an irony which no more affected my aunt, than ing. ‘Overpowering, really!’
it discomposed the cannon I had slept by at Chatham. ‘Do you think I don’t know,’ said my aunt, turning a deaf
‘And what does the boy say?’ said my aunt. ‘Are you ready ear to the sister, and continuing to address the brother, and

to shake her head at him with infinite expression, ‘what of my aunt’s address towards herself; ‘and my suspicion is
kind of life you must have led that poor, unhappy, misdi- that it’s intoxication.’
rected baby? Do you think I don’t know what a woeful day Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the inter-
it was for the soft little creature when you first came in her ruption, continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as
way - smirking and making great eyes at her, I’ll be bound, if there had been no such thing.
as if you couldn’t say boh! to a goose!’ ‘Mr. Murdstone,’ she said, shaking her finger at him, ‘you
‘I never heard anything so elegant!’ said Miss Murd- were a tyrant to the simple baby, and you broke her heart.
stone. She was a loving baby - I know that; I knew it, years before
‘Do you think I can’t understand you as well as if I had you ever saw her - and through the best part of her weak-
seen you,’ pursued my aunt, ‘now that I DO see and hear ness you gave her the wounds she died of. There is the truth
you - which, I tell you candidly, is anything but a pleasure to for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your in-
me? Oh yes, bless us! who so smooth and silky as Mr. Murd- struments may make the most of it.’
stone at first! The poor, benighted innocent had never seen ‘Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,’ interposed Miss
such a man. He was made of sweetness. He worshipped her. Murdstone, ‘whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of
He doted on her boy - tenderly doted on him! He was to be words in which I am not experienced, my brother’s instru-
another father to him, and they were all to live together in a ments?’
garden of roses, weren’t they? Ugh! Get along with you, do!’ ‘It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before YOU
said my aunt. ever saw her - and why, in the mysterious dispensations of
‘I never heard anything like this person in my life!’ ex- Providence, you ever did see her, is more than humanity
claimed Miss Murdstone. can comprehend - it was clear enough that the poor soft
‘And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,’ said little thing would marry somebody, at some time or other;
my aunt - ‘God forgive me that I should call her so, and but I did hope it wouldn’t have been as bad as it has turned
she gone where YOU won’t go in a hurry - because you had out. That was the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave
not done wrong enough to her and hers, you must begin to birth to her boy here,’ said my aunt; ‘to the poor child you
train her, must you? begin to break her, like a poor caged sometimes tormented her through afterwards, which is a
bird, and wear her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing disagreeable remembrance and makes the sight of him odi-
YOUR notes?’ ous now. Aye, aye! you needn’t wince!’ said my aunt. ‘I know
‘This is either insanity or intoxication,’ said Miss Murd- it’s true without that.’
stone, in a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her

with a smile upon his face, though his black eyebrows were of David’s son.’
heavily contracted. I remarked now, that, though the smile ‘Very good,’ returned my aunt, ‘that’s settled. I have been
was on his face still, his colour had gone in a moment, and thinking, do you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him
he seemed to breathe as if he had been running. Trotwood?’
‘Good day, sir,’ said my aunt, ‘and good-bye! Good day to ‘Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly,’ said
you, too, ma’am,’ said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his Mr. Dick. ‘David’s son’s Trotwood.’
sister. ‘Let me see you ride a donkey over my green again, ‘Trotwood Copperfield, you mean,’ returned my aunt.
and as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I’ll ‘Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield,’ said Mr.
knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it!’ Dick, a little abashed.
It would require a painter, and no common painter too, My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-
to depict my aunt’s face as she delivered herself of this very made clothes, which were purchased for me that afternoon,
unexpected sentiment, and Miss Murdstone’s face as she were marked ‘Trotwood Copperfield’, in her own handwrit-
heard it. But the manner of the speech, no less than the mat- ing, and in indelible marking-ink, before I put them on; and
ter, was so fiery, that Miss Murdstone, without a word in it was settled that all the other clothes which were ordered
answer, discreetly put her arm through her brother’s, and to be made for me (a complete outfit was bespoke that after-
walked haughtily out of the cottage; my aunt remaining in noon) should be marked in the same way.
the window looking after them; prepared, I have no doubt, Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with every-
in case of the donkey’s reappearance, to carry her threat thing new about me. Now that the state of doubt was over,
into instant execution. I felt, for many days, like one in a dream. I never thought
No attempt at defiance being made, however, her face that I had a curious couple of guardians, in my aunt and Mr.
gradually relaxed, and became so pleasant, that I was em- Dick. I never thought of anything about myself, distinctly.
boldened to kiss and thank her; which I did with great The two things clearest in my mind were, that a remoteness
heartiness, and with both my arms clasped round her neck. had come upon the old Blunderstone life - which seemed
I then shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with to lie in the haze of an immeasurable distance; and that
me a great many times, and hailed this happy close of the a curtain had for ever fallen on my life at Murdstone and
proceedings with repeated bursts of laughter. Grinby’s. No one has ever raised that curtain since. I have
‘You’ll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of lifted it for a moment, even in this narrative, with a reluc-
this child, Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt. tant hand, and dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘to be the guardian life is fraught with so much pain to me, with so much men-

tal suffering and want of hope, that I have never had the
courage even to examine how long I was doomed to lead it. CHAPTER 15
Whether it lasted for a year, or more, or less, I do not know.
I only know that it was, and ceased to be; and that I have
written, and there I leave it.
I MAKE ANOTHER
BEGINNING
M r. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and

very often, when his day’s work was done, went out
together to fly the great kite. Every day of his life he had a
long sitting at the Memorial, which never made the least
progress, however hard he laboured, for King Charles the
First always strayed into it, sooner or later, and then it was
thrown aside, and another one begun. The patience and
hope with which he bore these perpetual disappointments,
the mild perception he had that there was something wrong
about King Charles the First, the feeble efforts he made to
keep him out, and the certainty with which he came in, and
tumbled the Memorial out of all shape, made a deep im-
pression on me. What Mr. Dick supposed would come of
the Memorial, if it were completed; where he thought it was
to go, or what he thought it was to do; he knew no more
than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary that
he should trouble himself with such questions, for if any-
thing were certain under the sun, it was certain that the

Memorial never would be finished. It was quite an affect- lighted by her referring to it.
ing sight, I used to think, to see him with the kite when it ‘Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?’ said my
was up a great height in the air. What he had told me, in his aunt.
room, about his belief in its disseminating the statements I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near
pasted on it, which were nothing but old leaves of abortive her.
Memorials, might have been a fancy with him sometimes; ‘Good,’ said my aunt. ‘Should you like to go tomorrow?’
but not when he was out, looking up at the kite in the sky, Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my
and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He never looked so aunt’s evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of
serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I sat by him of an the proposal, and said: ‘Yes.’
evening, on a green slope, and saw him watch the kite high ‘Good,’ said my aunt again. ‘Janet, hire the grey pony and
in the quiet air, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion, chaise tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and pack up Mas-
and bore it (such was my boyish thought) into the skies. As ter Trotwood’s clothes tonight.’
he wound the string in and it came lower and lower down I was greatly elated by these orders; but my heart smote
out of the beautiful light, until it fluttered to the ground, me for my selfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr.
and lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to wake gradually Dick, who was so low-spirited at the prospect of our sepa-
out of a dream; and I remember to have seen him take it up, ration, and played so ill in consequence, that my aunt, after
and look about him in a lost way, as if they had both come giving him several admonitory raps on the knuckles with
down together, so that I pitied him with all my heart. her dice-box, shut up the board, and declined to play with
While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. him any more. But, on hearing from my aunt that I should
Dick, I did not go backward in the favour of his staunch sometimes come over on a Saturday, and that he could
friend, my aunt. She took so kindly to me, that, in the sometimes come and see me on a Wednesday, he revived;
course of a few weeks, she shortened my adopted name of and vowed to make another kite for those occasions, of pro-
Trotwood into Trot; and even encouraged me to hope, that portions greatly surpassing the present one. In the morning
if I went on as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her he was downhearted again, and would have sustained him-
affections with my sister Betsey Trotwood. self by giving me all the money he had in his possession,
‘Trot,’ said my aunt one evening, when the backgam- gold and silver too, if my aunt had not interposed, and lim-
mon-board was placed as usual for herself and Mr. Dick, ited the gift to five shillings, which, at his earnest petition,
‘we must not forget your education.’ were afterwards increased to ten. We parted at the garden-
This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite de- gate in a most affectionate manner, and Mr. Dick did not

go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight At length we stopped before a very old house bulging
of it. out over the road; a house with long low lattice-windows
My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, bulging out still farther, and beams with carved heads on
drove the grey pony through Dover in a masterly manner; the ends bulging out too, so that I fancied the whole house
sitting high and stiff like a state coachman, keeping a steady was leaning forward, trying to see who was passing on the
eye upon him wherever he went, and making a point of narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its clean-
not letting him have his own way in any respect. When we liness. The old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched
came into the country road, she permitted him to relax a door, ornamented with carved garlands of fruit and flow-
little, however; and looking at me down in a valley of cush- ers, twinkled like a star; the two stone steps descending
ion by her side, asked me whether I was happy? to the door were as white as if they had been covered with
‘Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt,’ I said. fair linen; and all the angles and corners, and carvings and
She was much gratified; and both her hands being occu- mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass, and quainter lit-
pied, patted me on the head with her whip. tle windows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any
‘Is it a large school, aunt?’ I asked. snow that ever fell upon the hills.
‘Why, I don’t know,’ said my aunt. ‘We are going to Mr. When the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes
Wickfield’s first.’ were intent upon the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear
‘Does he keep a school?’ I asked. at a small window on the ground floor (in a little round tow-
‘No, Trot,’ said my aunt. ‘He keeps an office.’ er that formed one side of the house), and quickly disappear.
I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as The low arched door then opened, and the face came out.
she offered none, and we conversed on other subjects un- It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window,
til we came to Canterbury, where, as it was market-day, my though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which
aunt had a great opportunity of insinuating the grey pony is sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired peo-
among carts, baskets, vegetables, and huckster’s goods. The ple. It belonged to a red-haired person - a youth of fifteen,
hair-breadth turns and twists we made, drew down upon us as I take it now, but looking much older - whose hair was
a variety of speeches from the people standing about, which cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any
were not always complimentary; but my aunt drove on with eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown, so un-
perfect indifference, and I dare say would have taken her sheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how
own way with as much coolness through an enemy’s coun- he went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed
try. in decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned

up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room,
particularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the po- which was furnished as an office, with books, papers, tin
ny’s head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in boxes, and so forth. It looked into a garden, and had an iron
the chaise. safe let into the wall; so immediately over the mantelshelf,
‘Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?’ said my aunt. that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps got round it
‘Mr. Wickfield’s at home, ma’am,’ said Uriah Heep, ‘if when they swept the chimney.
you’ll please to walk in there’ - pointing with his long hand ‘Well, Miss Trotwood,’ said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon
to the room he meant. found that it was he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward
We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into of the estates of a rich gentleman of the county; ‘what wind
a long low parlour looking towards the street, from the win- blows you here? Not an ill wind, I hope?’
dow of which I caught a glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep ‘No,’ replied my aunt. ‘I have not come for any law.’
breathing into the pony’s nostrils, and immediately cover- ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘You had bet-
ing them with his hand, as if he were putting some spell ter come for anything else.’ His hair was quite white now,
upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece were two though his eyebrows were still black. He had a very agree-
portraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair (though not by able face, and, I thought, was handsome. There was a
any means an old man) and black eyebrows, who was look- certain richness in his complexion, which I had been long
ing over some papers tied together with red tape; the other, accustomed, under Peggotty’s tuition, to connect with port
of a lady, with a very placid and sweet expression of face, wine; and I fancied it was in his voice too, and referred his
who was looking at me. growing corpulency to the same cause. He was very cleanly
I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah’s pic- dressed, in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen trou-
ture, when, a door at the farther end of the room opening, sers; and his fine frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth looked
a gentleman entered, at sight of whom I turned to the first- unusually soft and white, reminding my strolling fancy (I
mentioned portrait again, to make quite sure that it had call to mind) of the plumage on the breast of a swan.
not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as the ‘This is my nephew,’ said my aunt.
gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some ‘Wasn’t aware you had one, Miss Trotwood,’ said Mr.
years older than when he had had his picture painted. Wickfield.
‘Miss Betsey Trotwood,’ said the gentleman, ‘pray walk ‘My grand-nephew, that is to say,’ observed my aunt.
in. I was engaged for a moment, but you’ll excuse my being ‘Wasn’t aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my
busy. You know my motive. I have but one in life.’ word,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘I have adopted him,’ said my aunt, with a wave of her see it and judge for herself; also, to take her, with the same
hand, importing that his knowledge and his ignorance object, to two or three houses where he thought I could be
were all one to her, ‘and I have brought him here, to put to boarded. My aunt embracing the proposal, we were all three
a school where he may be thoroughly well taught, and well going out together, when he stopped and said:
treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what it is, and ‘Our little friend here might have some motive, perhaps,
all about it.’ for objecting to the arrangements. I think we had better
‘Before I can advise you properly,’ said Mr. Wickfield - leave him behind?’
‘the old question, you know. What’s your motive in this?’ My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point; but to fa-
‘Deuce take the man!’ exclaimed my aunt. ‘Always fish- cilitate matters I said I would gladly remain behind, if they
ing for motives, when they’re on the surface! Why, to make pleased; and returned into Mr. Wickfield’s office, where I
the child happy and useful.’ sat down again, in the chair I had first occupied, to await
‘It must be a mixed motive, I think,’ said Mr. Wickfield, their return.
shaking his head and smiling incredulously. It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow pas-
‘A mixed fiddlestick,’ returned my aunt. ‘You claim to sage, which ended in the little circular room where I had
have one plain motive in all you do yourself. You don’t seen Uriah Heep’s pale face looking out of the window. Uri-
suppose, I hope, that you are the only plain dealer in the ah, having taken the pony to a neighbouring stable, was at
world?’ work at a desk in this room, which had a brass frame on
‘Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood,’ the top to hang paper upon, and on which the writing he
he rejoined, smiling. ‘Other people have dozens, scores, was making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face
hundreds. I have only one. There’s the difference. However, was towards me, I thought, for some time, the writing being
that’s beside the question. The best school? Whatever the between us, that he could not see me; but looking that way
motive, you want the best?’ more attentively, it made me uncomfortable to observe that,
My aunt nodded assent. every now and then, his sleepless eyes would come below
‘At the best we have,’ said Mr. Wickfield, considering, the writing, like two red suns, and stealthily stare at me for
‘your nephew couldn’t board just now.’ I dare say a whole minute at a time, during which his pen
‘But he could board somewhere else, I suppose?’ suggest- went, or pretended to go, as cleverly as ever. I made several
ed my aunt. attempts to get out of their way - such as standing on a chair
Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion, to look at a map on the other side of the room, and poring
he proposed to take my aunt to the school, that she might over the columns of a Kentish newspaper - but they always

attracted me back again; and whenever I looked towards wood. You may pay for him, if you like. We won’t be hard
those two red suns, I was sure to find them, either just ris- about terms, but you shall pay if you will.’
ing or just setting. ‘On that understanding,’ said my aunt, ‘though it doesn’t
At length, much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield lessen the real obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him.’
came back, after a pretty long absence. They were not so ‘Then come and see my little housekeeper,’ said Mr.
successful as I could have wished; for though the advantag- Wickfield.
es of the school were undeniable, my aunt had not approved We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase; with
of any of the boarding-houses proposed for me. a balustrade so broad that we might have gone up that, al-
‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said my aunt. ‘I don’t know what most as easily; and into a shady old drawing-room, lighted
to do, Trot.’ by some three or four of the quaint windows I had looked
‘It does happen unfortunately,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘But up at from the street: which had old oak seats in them, that
I’ll tell you what you can do, Miss Trotwood.’ seemed to have come of the same trees as the shining oak
‘What’s that?’ inquired my aunt. floor, and the great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily
‘Leave your nephew here, for the present. He’s a quiet fel- furnished room, with a piano and some lively furniture
low. He won’t disturb me at all. It’s a capital house for study. in red and green, and some flowers. It seemed to be all old
As quiet as a monastery, and almost as roomy. Leave him nooks and corners; and in every nook and corner there was
here.’ some queer little table, or cupboard, or bookcase, or seat, or
My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was deli- something or other, that made me think there was not such
cate of accepting it. So did I. ‘Come, Miss Trotwood,’ said another good corner in the room; until I looked at the next
Mr. Wickfield. ‘This is the way out of the difficulty. It’s only one, and found it equal to it, if not better. On everything
a temporary arrangement, you know. If it don’t act well, or there was the same air of retirement and cleanliness that
don’t quite accord with our mutual convenience, he can marked the house outside.
easily go to the right-about. There will be time to find some Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the pan-
better place for him in the meanwhile. You had better de- elled wall, and a girl of about my own age came quickly out
termine to leave him here for the present!’ and kissed him. On her face, I saw immediately the placid
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said my aunt; ‘and so is and sweet expression of the lady whose picture had looked
he, I see; but -’ at me downstairs. It seemed to my imagination as if the
‘Come! I know what you mean,’ cried Mr. Wickfield. ‘You portrait had grown womanly, and the original remained a
shall not be oppressed by the receipt of favours, Miss Trot- child. Although her face was quite bright and happy, there

was a tranquillity about it, and about her - a quiet, good, were left to take leave of one another without any restraint.
calm spirit - that I never have forgotten; that I shall never She told me that everything would be arranged for me by
forget. This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield, and that I should want for nothing, and gave
Mr. Wickfield said. When I heard how he said it, and saw me the kindest words and the best advice.
how he held her hand, I guessed what the one motive of his ‘Trot,’ said my aunt in conclusion, ‘be a credit to yourself,
life was. to me, and Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you!’
She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again
in it; and she looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper and again, and send my love to Mr. Dick.
as the old house could have. She listened to her father as he ‘Never,’ said my aunt, ‘be mean in anything; never be
told her about me, with a pleasant face; and when he had false; never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I
concluded, proposed to my aunt that we should go upstairs can always be hopeful of you.’
and see my room. We all went together, she before us: and I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her
a glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and dia- kindness or forget her admonition.
mond panes; and the broad balustrade going all the way up ‘The pony’s at the door,’ said my aunt, ‘and I am off! Stay
to it. here.’ With these words she embraced me hastily, and went
I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I out of the room, shutting the door after her. At first I was
had seen a stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recol- startled by so abrupt a departure, and almost feared I had
lect its subject. But I know that when I saw her turn round, displeased her; but when I looked into the street, and saw
in the grave light of the old staircase, and wait for us, above, how dejectedly she got into the chaise, and drove away
I thought of that window; and I associated something of its without looking up, I understood her better and did not do
tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield ever afterwards. her that injustice.
My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made By five o’clock, which was Mr. Wickfield’s dinner-hour,
for me; and we went down to the drawing-room again, I had mustered up my spirits again, and was ready for my
well pleased and gratified. As she would not hear of stay- knife and fork. The cloth was only laid for us two; but Agnes
ing to dinner, lest she should by any chance fail to arrive at was waiting in the drawing-room before dinner, went down
home with the grey pony before dark; and as I apprehend with her father, and sat opposite to him at table. I doubted
Mr. Wickfield knew her too well to argue any point with whether he could have dined without her.
her; some lunch was provided for her there, and Agnes went We did not stay there, after dinner, but came upstairs
back to her governess, and Mr. Wickfield to his office. So we into the drawing-room again: in one snug corner of which,

Agnes set glasses for her father, and a decanter of port wine. ing out of the window, and seeing one of the faces on the
I thought he would have missed its usual flavour, if it had beam-ends looking at me sideways, I fancied it was Uriah
been put there for him by any other hands. Heep got up there somehow, and shut him out in a hurry.
There he sat, taking his wine, and taking a good deal of
it, for two hours; while Agnes played on the piano, worked,
and talked to him and me. He was, for the most part, gay
and cheerful with us; but sometimes his eyes rested on her,
and he fell into a brooding state, and was silent. She always
observed this quickly, I thought, and always roused him
with a question or caress. Then he came out of his medita-
tion, and drank more wine.
Agnes made the tea, and presided over it; and the time
passed away after it, as after dinner, until she went to bed;
when her father took her in his arms and kissed her, and,
she being gone, ordered candles in his office. Then I went
to bed too.
But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to
the door, and a little way along the street, that I might have
another peep at the old houses, and the grey Cathedral;
and might think of my coming through that old city on my
journey, and of my passing the very house I lived in, with-
out knowing it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting
up the office; and feeling friendly towards everybody, went
in and spoke to him, and at parting, gave him my hand. But
oh, what a clammy hand his was! as ghostly to the touch as
to the sight! I rubbed mine afterwards, to warm it, AND TO
RUB HIS OFF.
It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to
my room, it was still cold and wet upon my memory. Lean-

CHAPTER 16 blind old horse who once used to crop the grass, and tumble
over the graves, in Blunderstone churchyard, he said he was
glad to see me: and then he gave me his hand; which I didn’t
know what to do with, as it did nothing for itself.
I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE But, sitting at work, not far from Doctor Strong, was a
very pretty young lady - whom he called Annie, and who
SENSES THAN ONE was his daughter, I supposed - who got me out of my dif-
ficulty by kneeling down to put Doctor Strong’s shoes on,
and button his gaiters, which she did with great cheerful-
ness and quickness. When she had finished, and we were
going out to the schoolroom, I was much surprised to hear
N ext morning, after breakfast, I entered on school life

again. I went, accompanied by Mr. Wickfield, to the
scene of my future studies - a grave building in a courtyard,
Mr. Wickfield, in bidding her good morning, address her
as ‘Mrs. Strong’; and I was wondering could she be Doc-
tor Strong’s son’s wife, or could she be Mrs. Doctor Strong,
with a learned air about it that seemed very well suited to the when Doctor Strong himself unconsciously enlightened
stray rooks and jackdaws who came down from the Cathe- me.
dral towers to walk with a clerkly bearing on the grass-plot ‘By the by, Wickfield,’ he said, stopping in a passage with
- and was introduced to my new master, Doctor Strong. his hand on my shoulder; ‘you have not found any suitable
Doctor Strong looked almost as rusty, to my thinking, as provision for my wife’s cousin yet?’
the tall iron rails and gates outside the house; and almost ‘No,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘No. Not yet.’
as stiff and heavy as the great stone urns that flanked them, ‘I could wish it done as soon as it can be done, Wickfield,’
and were set up, on the top of the red-brick wall, at regu- said Doctor Strong, ‘for Jack Maldon is needy, and idle;
lar distances all round the court, like sublimated skittles, and of those two bad things, worse things sometimes come.
for Time to play at. He was in his library (I mean Doctor What does Doctor Watts say,’ he added, looking at me, and
Strong was), with his clothes not particularly well brushed, moving his head to the time of his quotation, ‘“Satan finds
and his hair not particularly well combed; his knee-smalls some mischief still, for idle hands to do.‘‘
unbraced; his long black gaiters unbuttoned; and his shoes ‘Egad, Doctor,’ returned Mr. Wickfield, ‘if Doctor Watts
yawning like two caverns on the hearth-rug. Turning upon knew mankind, he might have written, with as much truth,
me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of a long-forgotten ‘Satan finds some mischief still, for busy hands to do.’ The

busy people achieve their full share of mischief in the world, you,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘It might have simplified my office
you may rely upon it. What have the people been about, very much, if I had known it before. But I confess I enter-
who have been the busiest in getting money, and in getting tained another impression.’
power, this century or two? No mischief?’ Doctor Strong regarded him with a puzzled and doubt-
‘Jack Maldon will never be very busy in getting either, I ing look, which almost immediately subsided into a smile
expect,’ said Doctor Strong, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. that gave me great encouragement; for it was full of ami-
‘Perhaps not,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘and you bring me back ability and sweetness, and there was a simplicity in it, and
to the question, with an apology for digressing. No, I have indeed in his whole manner, when the studious, pondering
not been able to dispose of Mr. Jack Maldon yet. I believe,’ frost upon it was got through, very attractive and hopeful to
he said this with some hesitation, ‘I penetrate your motive, a young scholar like me. Repeating ‘no’, and ‘not the least’,
and it makes the thing more difficult.’ and other short assurances to the same purport, Doctor
‘My motive,’ returned Doctor Strong, ‘is to make some Strong jogged on before us, at a queer, uneven pace; and
suitable provision for a cousin, and an old playfellow, of we followed: Mr. Wickfield, looking grave, I observed, and
Annie’s.’ shaking his head to himself, without knowing that I saw
‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘at home or abroad.’ him.
‘Aye!’ replied the Doctor, apparently wondering why he The schoolroom was a pretty large hall, on the quietest
emphasized those words so much. ‘At home or abroad.’ side of the house, confronted by the stately stare of some
‘Your own expression, you know,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Or half-dozen of the great urns, and commanding a peep of
abroad.’ an old secluded garden belonging to the Doctor, where the
‘Surely,’ the Doctor answered. ‘Surely. One or other.’ peaches were ripening on the sunny south wall. There were
‘One or other? Have you no choice?’ asked Mr. Wick- two great aloes, in tubs, on the turf outside the windows;
field. the broad hard leaves of which plant (looking as if they were
‘No,’ returned the Doctor. made of painted tin) have ever since, by association, been
‘No?’ with astonishment. symbolical to me of silence and retirement. About five-and-
‘Not the least.’ twenty boys were studiously engaged at their books when
‘No motive,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘for meaning abroad, we went in, but they rose to give the Doctor good morn-
and not at home?’ ing, and remained standing when they saw Mr. Wickfield
‘No,’ returned the Doctor. and me.
‘I am bound to believe you, and of course I do believe ‘A new boy, young gentlemen,’ said the Doctor; ‘Trot-

wood Copperfield.’ Was there anything about me which would reveal my pro-
One Adams, who was the head-boy, then stepped out of ceedings in connexion with the Micawber family - all those
his place and welcomed me. He looked like a young cler- pawnings, and sellings, and suppers - in spite of myself?
gyman, in his white cravat, but he was very affable and Suppose some of the boys had seen me coming through
good-humoured; and he showed me my place, and present- Canterbury, wayworn and ragged, and should find me out?
ed me to the masters, in a gentlemanly way that would have What would they say, who made so light of money, if they
put me at my ease, if anything could. could know how I had scraped my halfpence together, for
It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been the purchase of my daily saveloy and beer, or my slices of
among such boys, or among any companions of my own pudding? How would it affect them, who were so innocent
age, except Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes, that I felt as of London life, and London streets, to discover how know-
strange as ever I have done in my life. I was so conscious of ing I was (and was ashamed to be) in some of the meanest
having passed through scenes of which they could have no phases of both? All this ran in my head so much, on that first
knowledge, and of having acquired experiences foreign to day at Doctor Strong’s, that I felt distrustful of my slightest
my age, appearance, and condition as one of them, that I look and gesture; shrunk within myself whensoever I was
half believed it was an imposture to come there as an ordi- approached by one of my new schoolfellows; and hurried
nary little schoolboy. I had become, in the Murdstone and off the minute school was over, afraid of committing myself
Grinby time, however short or long it may have been, so in my response to any friendly notice or advance.
unused to the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield’s old
awkward and inexperienced in the commonest things be- house, that when I knocked at it, with my new school-books
longing to them. Whatever I had learnt, had so slipped away under my arm, I began to feel my uneasiness softening away.
from me in the sordid cares of my life from day to night, As I went up to my airy old room, the grave shadow of the
that now, when I was examined about what I knew, I knew staircase seemed to fall upon my doubts and fears, and to
nothing, and was put into the lowest form of the school. But, make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily con-
troubled as I was, by my want of boyish skill, and of book- ning my books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for
learning too, I was made infinitely more uncomfortable by good at three); and went down, hopeful of becoming a pass-
the consideration, that, in what I did know, I was much far- able sort of boy yet.
ther removed from my companions than in what I did not. Agnes was in the drawing-room, waiting for her father,
My mind ran upon what they would think, if they knew who was detained by someone in his office. She met me with
of my familiar acquaintance with the King’s Bench Prison? her pleasant smile, and asked me how I liked the school. I

told her I should like it very much, I hoped; but I was a little with something; but I did not pursue the question in my
strange to it at first. mind, for dinner was just then announced, and we went
‘You have never been to school,’ I said, ‘have you?’ ‘Oh down and took the same seats as before.
yes! Every day.’ We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red
‘Ah, but you mean here, at your own home?’ head and his lank hand at the door, and said:
‘Papa couldn’t spare me to go anywhere else,’ she an- ‘Here’s Mr. Maldon begs the favour of a word, sir.’
swered, smiling and shaking her head. ‘His housekeeper ‘I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon,’ said his mas-
must be in his house, you know.’ ter.
‘He is very fond of you, I am sure,’ I said. ‘Yes, sir,’ returned Uriah; ‘but Mr. Maldon has come back,
She nodded ‘Yes,’ and went to the door to listen for his and he begs the favour of a word.’
coming up, that she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked
was not there, she came back again. at me, and looked at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and
‘Mama has been dead ever since I was born,’ she said, in looked at the plates, and looked at every object in the room,
her quiet way. ‘I only know her picture, downstairs. I saw I thought, - yet seemed to look at nothing; he made such
you looking at it yesterday. Did you think whose it was?’ an appearance all the while of keeping his red eyes duti-
I told her yes, because it was so like herself. fully on his master. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s only to say, on
‘Papa says so, too,’ said Agnes, pleased. ‘Hark! That’s reflection,’ observed a voice behind Uriah, as Uriah’s head
papa now!’ was pushed away, and the speaker’s substituted - ‘pray ex-
Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went cuse me for this intrusion - that as it seems I have no choice
to meet him, and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted in the matter, the sooner I go abroad the better. My cousin
me cordially; and told me I should certainly be happy under Annie did say, when we talked of it, that she liked to have
Doctor Strong, who was one of the gentlest of men. her friends within reach rather than to have them banished,
‘There may be some, perhaps - I don’t know that there are and the old Doctor -’
- who abuse his kindness,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Never be one ‘Doctor Strong, was that?’ Mr. Wickfield interposed,
of those, Trotwood, in anything. He is the least suspicious gravely.
of mankind; and whether that’s a merit, or whether it’s a ‘Doctor Strong, of course,’ returned the other; ‘I call him
blemish, it deserves consideration in all dealings with the the old Doctor; it’s all the same, you know.’
Doctor, great or small.’ ‘I don’t know,’ returned Mr. Wickfield.
He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied ‘Well, Doctor Strong,’ said the other - ‘Doctor Strong

was of the same mind, I believed. But as it appears from But appearing to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with
the course you take with me he has changed his mind, why his dinner in the same sedate, immovable manner, and that
there’s no more to be said, except that the sooner I am off, there was no hope of making him relax a muscle of his face,
the better. Therefore, I thought I’d come back and say, that he added: ‘However, I have said what I came to say, and,
the sooner I am off the better. When a plunge is to be made with another apology for this intrusion, I may take myself
into the water, it’s of no use lingering on the bank.’ off. Of course I shall observe your directions, in consider-
‘There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your case, ing the matter as one to be arranged between you and me
Mr. Maldon, you may depend upon it,’ said Mr. Wickfield. solely, and not to be referred to, up at the Doctor’s.’
‘Thank’ee,’ said the other. ‘Much obliged. I don’t want to ‘Have you dined?’ asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion of
look a gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious thing his hand towards the table.
to do; otherwise, I dare say, my cousin Annie could easily ‘Thank’ee. I am going to dine,’ said Mr. Maldon, ‘with my
arrange it in her own way. I suppose Annie would only have cousin Annie. Good-bye!’
to say to the old Doctor -’ Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thought-
‘Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her fully as he went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young
husband - do I follow you?’ said Mr. Wickfield. gentleman, I thought, with a handsome face, a rapid utter-
‘Quite so,’ returned the other, ‘- would only have to say, ance, and a confident, bold air. And this was the first I ever
that she wanted such and such a thing to be so and so; and saw of Mr. Jack Maldon; whom I had not expected to see so
it would be so and so, as a matter of course.’ soon, when I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning.
‘And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon?’ asked Mr. When we had dined, we went upstairs again, where ev-
Wickfield, sedately eating his dinner. erything went on exactly as on the previous day. Agnes
‘Why, because Annie’s a charming young girl, and the set the glasses and decanters in the same corner, and Mr.
old Doctor - Doctor Strong, I mean - is not quite a charm- Wickfield sat down to drink, and drank a good deal. Agnes
ing young boy,’ said Mr. Jack Maldon, laughing. ‘No offence played the piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talk-
to anybody, Mr. Wickfield. I only mean that I suppose some ed, and played some games at dominoes with me. In good
compensation is fair and reasonable in that sort of mar- time she made tea; and afterwards, when I brought down
riage.’ my books, looked into them, and showed me what she knew
‘Compensation to the lady, sir?’ asked Mr. Wickfield of them (which was no slight matter, though she said it was),
gravely. and what was the best way to learn and understand them. I
‘To the lady, sir,’ Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing. see her, with her modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear

her beautiful calm voice, as I write these words. The influ- et.
ence for all good, which she came to exercise over me at a ‘A dull old house,’ he said, ‘and a monotonous life; but
later time, begins already to descend upon my breast. I love I must have her near me. I must keep her near me. If the
little Em’ly, and I don’t love Agnes - no, not at all in that way thought that I may die and leave my darling, or that my dar-
- but I feel that there are goodness, peace, and truth, wher- ling may die and leave me, comes like a spectre, to distress
ever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the coloured window my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in -’
in the church, seen long ago, falls on her always, and on me He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the
when I am near her, and on everything around. place where he had sat, and mechanically going through
The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, the action of pouring wine from the empty decanter, set it
and she having left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, pre- down and paced back again.
paratory to going away myself. But he checked me and said: ‘If it is miserable to bear, when she is here,’ he said, ‘what
‘Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or to go else- would it be, and she away? No, no, no. I cannot try that.’
where?’ He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long
‘To stay,’ I answered, quickly. that I could not decide whether to run the risk of disturb-
‘You are sure?’ ing him by going, or to remain quietly where I was, until he
‘If you please. If I may!’ should come out of his reverie. At length he aroused him-
‘Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I am afraid,’ self, and looked about the room until his eyes encountered
he said. mine.
‘Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all!’ ‘Stay with us, Trotwood, eh?’ he said in his usual manner,
‘Than Agnes,’ he repeated, walking slowly to the great and as if he were answering something I had just said. ‘I am
chimney-piece, and leaning against it. ‘Than Agnes!’ glad of it. You are company to us both. It is wholesome to
He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until have you here. Wholesome for me, wholesome for Agnes,
his eyes were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for wholesome perhaps for all of us.’
they were cast down, and shaded by his hand; but I had no- ‘I am sure it is for me, sir,’ I said. ‘I am so glad to be here.’
ticed them a little while before. ‘That’s a fine fellow!’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘As long as you
‘Now I wonder,’ he muttered, ‘whether my Agnes tires are glad to be here, you shall stay here.’ He shook hands
of me. When should I ever tire of her! But that’s different, with me upon it, and clapped me on the back; and told me
that’s quite different.’ that when I had anything to do at night after Agnes had left
He was musing, not speaking to me; so I remained qui- us, or when I wished to read for my own pleasure, I was free

to come down to his room, if he were there and if I desired in them, had a singular and most uncomfortable way of ex-
it for company’s sake, and to sit with him. I thanked him for panding and contracting themselves - that they seemed to
his consideration; and, as he went down soon afterwards, twinkle instead of his eyes, which hardly ever twinkled at
and I was not tired, went down too, with a book in my hand, all.
to avail myself, for half-an-hour, of his permission. ‘I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?’ I said, after look-
But, seeing a light in the little round office, and immedi- ing at him for some time.
ately feeling myself attracted towards Uriah Heep, who had ‘Me, Master Copperfield?’ said Uriah. ‘Oh, no! I’m a very
a sort of fascination for me, I went in there instead. I found umble person.’
Uriah reading a great fat book, with such demonstrative at- It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed; for
tention, that his lank forefinger followed up every line as he he frequently ground the palms against each other as if to
read, and made clammy tracks along the page (or so I fully squeeze them dry and warm, besides often wiping them, in
believed) like a snail. a stealthy way, on his pocket-handkerchief.
‘You are working late tonight, Uriah,’ says I. ‘I am well aware that I am the umblest person going,’ said
‘Yes, Master Copperfield,’ says Uriah. Uriah Heep, modestly; ‘let the other be where he may. My
As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him more mother is likewise a very umble person. We live in a numble
conveniently, I observed that he had not such a thing as a abode, Master Copperfield, but have much to be thankful
smile about him, and that he could only widen his mouth for. My father’s former calling was umble. He was a sexton.’
and make two hard creases down his cheeks, one on each ‘What is he now?’ I asked.
side, to stand for one. ‘He is a partaker of glory at present, Master Copper-
‘I am not doing office-work, Master Copperfield,’ said field,’ said Uriah Heep. ‘But we have much to be thankful
Uriah. for. How much have I to be thankful for in living with Mr.
‘What work, then?’ I asked. Wickfield!’
‘I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copper- I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long?
field,’ said Uriah. ‘I am going through Tidd’s Practice. Oh, ‘I have been with him, going on four year, Master Cop-
what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master Copperfield!’ perfield,’ said Uriah; shutting up his book, after carefully
My stool was such a tower of observation, that as I watched marking the place where he had left off. ‘Since a year after
him reading on again, after this rapturous exclamation, and my father’s death. How much have I to be thankful for, in
following up the lines with his forefinger, I observed that that! How much have I to be thankful for, in Mr. Wickfield’s
his nostrils, which were thin and pointed, with sharp dints kind intention to give me my articles, which would other-

wise not lay within the umble means of mother and self!’ I said, ‘Yes,’ boldly; not that I knew anything about it,
‘Then, when your articled time is over, you’ll be a regular Heaven forgive me!
lawyer, I suppose?’ said I. ‘I hope you have, too, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.
‘With the blessing of Providence, Master Copperfield,’ ‘But I am sure you must have.’
returned Uriah. ‘Everybody must have,’ I returned.
‘Perhaps you’ll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield’s business, ‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah Heep,
one of these days,’ I said, to make myself agreeable; ‘and it ‘for that remark! It is so true! Umble as I am, I know it is so
will be Wickfield and Heep, or Heep late Wickfield.’ true! Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield!’ He writhed him-
‘Oh no, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, shaking his self quite off his stool in the excitement of his feelings, and,
head, ‘I am much too umble for that!’ being off, began to make arrangements for going home.
He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face ‘Mother will be expecting me,’ he said, referring to a pale,
on the beam outside my window, as he sat, in his humil- inexpressive-faced watch in his pocket, ‘and getting uneasy;
ity, eyeing me sideways, with his mouth widened, and the for though we are very umble, Master Copperfield, we are
creases in his cheeks. much attached to one another. If you would come and see
‘Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent man, Master Copper- us, any afternoon, and take a cup of tea at our lowly dwell-
field,’ said Uriah. ‘If you have known him long, you know it, ing, mother would be as proud of your company as I should
I am sure, much better than I can inform you.’ be.’
I replied that I was certain he was; but that I had not I said I should be glad to come.
known him long myself, though he was a friend of my ‘Thank you, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, put-
aunt’s. ting his book away upon the shelf - ‘I suppose you stop here,
‘Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘Your aunt some time, Master Copperfield?’
is a sweet lady, Master Copperfield!’ I said I was going to be brought up there, I believed, as
He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express long as I remained at school.
enthusiasm, which was very ugly; and which diverted my ‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed Uriah. ‘I should think YOU
attention from the compliment he had paid my relation, to would come into the business at last, Master Copperfield!’
the snaky twistings of his throat and body. I protested that I had no views of that sort, and that no
‘A sweet lady, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah Heep. ‘She such scheme was entertained in my behalf by anybody; but
has a great admiration for Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield, Uriah insisted on blandly replying to all my assurances, ‘Oh,
I believe?’ yes, Master Copperfield, I should think you would, indeed!’

and, ‘Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield, I should think you from Mr. Creakle’s as good is from evil. It was very gravely
would, certainly!’ over and over again. Being, at last, ready and decorously ordered, and on a sound system; with an
to leave the office for the night, he asked me if it would suit appeal, in everything, to the honour and good faith of the
my convenience to have the light put out; and on my an- boys, and an avowed intention to rely on their possession of
swering ‘Yes,’ instantly extinguished it. After shaking hands those qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy of
with me - his hand felt like a fish, in the dark - he opened it, which worked wonders. We all felt that we had a part in
the door into the street a very little, and crept out, and shut the management of the place, and in sustaining its charac-
it, leaving me to grope my way back into the house: which ter and dignity. Hence, we soon became warmly attached
cost me some trouble and a fall over his stool. This was the to it - I am sure I did for one, and I never knew, in all my
proximate cause, I suppose, of my dreaming about him, for time, of any other boy being otherwise - and learnt with a
what appeared to me to be half the night; and dreaming, good will, desiring to do it credit. We had noble games out
among other things, that he had launched Mr. Peggotty’s of hours, and plenty of liberty; but even then, as I remem-
house on a piratical expedition, with a black flag at the ber, we were well spoken of in the town, and rarely did any
masthead, bearing the inscription ‘Tidd’s Practice’, under disgrace, by our appearance or manner, to the reputation of
which diabolical ensign he was carrying me and little Em’ly Doctor Strong and Doctor Strong’s boys.
to the Spanish Main, to be drowned. Some of the higher scholars boarded in the Doctor’s
I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to house, and through them I learned, at second hand, some
school next day, and a good deal the better next day, and so particulars of the Doctor’s history - as, how he had not yet
shook it off by degrees, that in less than a fortnight I was been married twelve months to the beautiful young lady I
quite at home, and happy, among my new companions. I had seen in the study, whom he had married for love; for she
was awkward enough in their games, and backward enough had not a sixpence, and had a world of poor relations (so our
in their studies; but custom would improve me in the first fellows said) ready to swarm the Doctor out of house and
respect, I hoped, and hard work in the second. Accordingly, home. Also, how the Doctor’s cogitating manner was attrib-
I went to work very hard, both in play and in earnest, and utable to his being always engaged in looking out for Greek
gained great commendation. And, in a very little while, the roots; which, in my innocence and ignorance, I supposed to
Murdstone and Grinby life became so strange to me that I be a botanical furor on the Doctor’s part, especially as he
hardly believed in it, while my present life grew so familiar, always looked at the ground when he walked about, until
that I seemed to have been leading it a long time. I understood that they were roots of words, with a view to
Doctor Strong’s was an excellent school; as different a new Dictionary which he had in contemplation. Adams,

our head-boy, who had a turn for mathematics, had made certain it is true), that on a frosty day, one winter-time, he
a calculation, I was informed, of the time this Dictionary actually did bestow his gaiters on a beggar-woman, who oc-
would take in completing, on the Doctor’s plan, and at the casioned some scandal in the neighbourhood by exhibiting
Doctor’s rate of going. He considered that it might be done a fine infant from door to door, wrapped in those garments,
in one thousand six hundred and forty-nine years, count- which were universally recognized, being as well known
ing from the Doctor’s last, or sixty-second, birthday. in the vicinity as the Cathedral. The legend added that the
But the Doctor himself was the idol of the whole school: only person who did not identify them was the Doctor him-
and it must have been a badly composed school if he had self, who, when they were shortly afterwards displayed at
been anything else, for he was the kindest of men; with a the door of a little second-hand shop of no very good re-
simple faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts pute, where such things were taken in exchange for gin, was
of the very urns upon the wall. As he walked up and down more than once observed to handle them approvingly, as if
that part of the courtyard which was at the side of the house, admiring some curious novelty in the pattern, and consid-
with the stray rooks and jackdaws looking after him with ering them an improvement on his own.
their heads cocked slyly, as if they knew how much more It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty
knowing they were in worldly affairs than he, if any sort of young wife. He had a fatherly, benignant way of showing
vagabond could only get near enough to his creaking shoes his fondness for her, which seemed in itself to express a
to attract his attention to one sentence of a tale of distress, good man. I often saw them walking in the garden where
that vagabond was made for the next two days. It was so no- the peaches were, and I sometimes had a nearer observa-
torious in the house, that the masters and head-boys took tion of them in the study or the parlour. She appeared to
pains to cut these marauders off at angles, and to get out of me to take great care of the Doctor, and to like him very
windows, and turn them out of the courtyard, before they much, though I never thought her vitally interested in the
could make the Doctor aware of their presence; which was Dictionary: some cumbrous fragments of which work the
sometimes happily effected within a few yards of him, with- Doctor always carried in his pockets, and in the lining of
out his knowing anything of the matter, as he jogged to and his hat, and generally seemed to be expounding to her as
fro. Outside his own domain, and unprotected, he was a they walked about.
very sheep for the shearers. He would have taken his gaiters I saw a good deal of Mrs. Strong, both because she had
off his legs, to give away. In fact, there was a story current taken a liking for me on the morning of my introduction
among us (I have no idea, and never had, on what author- to the Doctor, and was always afterwards kind to me, and
ity, but I have believed it for so many years that I feel quite interested in me; and because she was very fond of Agnes,

and was often backwards and forwards at our house. There It was the night of a little party at the Doctor’s, which was
was a curious constraint between her and Mr. Wickfield, I given on the occasion of Mr. Jack Maldon’s departure for
thought (of whom she seemed to be afraid), that never wore India, whither he was going as a cadet, or something of that
off. When she came there of an evening, she always shrunk kind: Mr. Wickfield having at length arranged the busi-
from accepting his escort home, and ran away with me in- ness. It happened to be the Doctor’s birthday, too. We had
stead. And sometimes, as we were running gaily across the had a holiday, had made presents to him in the morning,
Cathedral yard together, expecting to meet nobody, we had made a speech to him through the head-boy, and had
would meet Mr. Jack Maldon, who was always surprised to cheered him until we were hoarse, and until he had shed
see us. tears. And now, in the evening, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and I,
Mrs. Strong’s mama was a lady I took great delight in. went to have tea with him in his private capacity.
Her name was Mrs. Markleham; but our boys used to call Mr. Jack Maldon was there, before us. Mrs. Strong,
her the Old Soldier, on account of her generalship, and the dressed in white, with cherry-coloured ribbons, was play-
skill with which she marshalled great forces of relations ing the piano, when we went in; and he was leaning over her
against the Doctor. She was a little, sharp-eyed woman, to turn the leaves. The clear red and white of her complex-
who used to wear, when she was dressed, one unchangeable ion was not so blooming and flower-like as usual, I thought,
cap, ornamented with some artificial flowers, and two arti- when she turned round; but she looked very pretty, Won-
ficial butterflies supposed to be hovering above the flowers. derfully pretty.
There was a superstition among us that this cap had come ‘I have forgotten, Doctor,’ said Mrs. Strong’s mama, when
from France, and could only originate in the workmanship we were seated, ‘to pay you the compliments of the day -
of that ingenious nation: but all I certainly know about it, though they are, as you may suppose, very far from being
is, that it always made its appearance of an evening, where- mere compliments in my case. Allow me to wish you many
soever Mrs. Markleham made HER appearance; that it was happy returns.’
carried about to friendly meetings in a Hindoo basket; that ‘I thank you, ma’am,’ replied the Doctor.
the butterflies had the gift of trembling constantly; and that ‘Many, many, many, happy returns,’ said the Old Soldier.
they improved the shining hours at Doctor Strong’s ex- ‘Not only for your own sake, but for Annie’s, and John Mal-
pense, like busy bees. don’s, and many other people’s. It seems but yesterday to me,
I observed the Old Soldier - not to adopt the name dis- John, when you were a little creature, a head shorter than
respectfully - to pretty good advantage, on a night which Master Copperfield, making baby love to Annie behind the
is made memorable to me by something else I shall relate. gooseberry bushes in the back-garden.’

‘My dear mama,’ said Mrs. Strong, ‘never mind that ‘With nobody present, but our dear and confidential friend
now.’ Mr. Wickfield, I cannot consent to be put down. I shall begin
‘Annie, don’t be absurd,’ returned her mother. ‘If you are to assert the privileges of a mother-in-law, if you go on like
to blush to hear of such things now you are an old married that, and scold you. I am perfectly honest and outspoken.
woman, when are you not to blush to hear of them?’ What I am saying, is what I said when you first overpowered
‘Old?’ exclaimed Mr. Jack Maldon. ‘Annie? Come!’ me with surprise - you remember how surprised I was? - by
‘Yes, John,’ returned the Soldier. ‘Virtually, an old mar- proposing for Annie. Not that there was anything so very
ried woman. Although not old by years - for when did you much out of the way, in the mere fact of the proposal - it
ever hear me say, or who has ever heard me say, that a girl would be ridiculous to say that! - but because, you having
of twenty was old by years! - your cousin is the wife of the known her poor father, and having known her from a baby
Doctor, and, as such, what I have described her. It is well for six months old, I hadn’t thought of you in such a light at all,
you, John, that your cousin is the wife of the Doctor. You or indeed as a marrying man in any way, - simply that, you
have found in him an influential and kind friend, who will know.’
be kinder yet, I venture to predict, if you deserve it. I have ‘Aye, aye,’ returned the Doctor, good-humouredly. ‘Never
no false pride. I never hesitate to admit, frankly, that there mind.’
are some members of our family who want a friend. You ‘But I DO mind,’ said the Old Soldier, laying her fan upon
were one yourself, before your cousin’s influence raised up his lips. ‘I mind very much. I recall these things that I may
one for you.’ be contradicted if I am wrong. Well! Then I spoke to Annie,
The Doctor, in the goodness of his heart, waved his hand and I told her what had happened. I said, ‘My dear, here’s
as if to make light of it, and save Mr. Jack Maldon from any Doctor Strong has positively been and made you the sub-
further reminder. But Mrs. Markleham changed her chair ject of a handsome declaration and an offer.’ Did I press it
for one next the Doctor’s, and putting her fan on his coat- in the least? No. I said, ‘Now, Annie, tell me the truth this
sleeve, said: moment; is your heart free?’ ‘Mama,’ she said crying, ‘I am
‘No, really, my dear Doctor, you must excuse me if I ap- extremely young’ - which was perfectly true - ‘and I hardly
pear to dwell on this rather, because I feel so very strongly. I know if I have a heart at all.’ ‘Then, my dear,’ I said, ‘you may
call it quite my monomania, it is such a subject of mine. You rely upon it, it’s free. At all events, my love,’ said I, ‘Doctor
are a blessing to us. You really are a Boon, you know.’ Strong is in an agitated state of mind, and must be answered.
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said the Doctor. He cannot be kept in his present state of suspense.’ ‘Mama,’
‘No, no, I beg your pardon,’ retorted the Old Soldier. said Annie, still crying, ‘would he be unhappy without me?

If he would, I honour and respect him so much, that I think ways to have, she wouldn’t.’
I will have him.’ So it was settled. And then, and not till ‘Annie, my dear,’ said the Doctor. ‘That was wrong. It
then, I said to Annie, ‘Annie, Doctor Strong will not only robbed me of a pleasure.’
be your husband, but he will represent your late father: he ‘Almost the very words I said to her!’ exclaimed her
will represent the head of our family, he will represent the mother. ‘Now really, another time, when I know what she
wisdom and station, and I may say the means, of our fam- would tell you but for this reason, and won’t, I have a great
ily; and will be, in short, a Boon to it.’ I used the word at the mind, my dear Doctor, to tell you myself.’
time, and I have used it again, today. If I have any merit it ‘I shall be glad if you will,’ returned the Doctor.
is consistency.’ ‘Shall I?’
The daughter had sat quite silent and still during this ‘Certainly.’
speech, with her eyes fixed on the ground; her cousin stand- ‘Well, then, I will!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘That’s a bargain.’
ing near her, and looking on the ground too. She now said And having, I suppose, carried her point, she tapped the
very softly, in a trembling voice: Doctor’s hand several times with her fan (which she kissed
‘Mama, I hope you have finished?’ ‘No, my dear Annie,’ first), and returned triumphantly to her former station.
returned the Old Soldier, ‘I have not quite finished. Since Some more company coming in, among whom were
you ask me, my love, I reply that I have not. I complain that the two masters and Adams, the talk became general; and
you really are a little unnatural towards your own family; it naturally turned on Mr. Jack Maldon, and his voyage,
and, as it is of no use complaining to you. I mean to com- and the country he was going to, and his various plans and
plain to your husband. Now, my dear Doctor, do look at that prospects. He was to leave that night, after supper, in a post-
silly wife of yours.’ chaise, for Gravesend; where the ship, in which he was to
As the Doctor turned his kind face, with its smile of sim- make the voyage, lay; and was to be gone - unless he came
plicity and gentleness, towards her, she drooped her head home on leave, or for his health - I don’t know how many
more. I noticed that Mr. Wickfield looked at her steadily. years. I recollect it was settled by general consent that In-
‘When I happened to say to that naughty thing, the oth- dia was quite a misrepresented country, and had nothing
er day,’ pursued her mother, shaking her head and her fan objectionable in it, but a tiger or two, and a little heat in the
at her, playfully, ‘that there was a family circumstance she warm part of the day. For my own part, I looked on Mr. Jack
might mention to you - indeed, I think, was bound to men- Maldon as a modern Sindbad, and pictured him the bosom
tion - she said, that to mention it was to ask a favour; and friend of all the Rajahs in the East, sitting under canopies,
that, as you were too generous, and as for her to ask was al- smoking curly golden pipes - a mile long, if they could be

straightened out. feel that a parting of that sort was an awkward thing, and
Mrs. Strong was a very pretty singer: as I knew, who of- that the nearer it approached, the more awkward it was. Mr.
ten heard her singing by herself. But, whether she was afraid Jack Maldon tried to be very talkative, but was not at his
of singing before people, or was out of voice that evening, it ease, and made matters worse. And they were not improved,
was certain that she couldn’t sing at all. She tried a duet, as it appeared to me, by the Old Soldier: who continually re-
once, with her cousin Maldon, but could not so much as called passages of Mr. Jack Maldon’s youth.
begin; and afterwards, when she tried to sing by herself, al- The Doctor, however, who felt, I am sure, that he was
though she began sweetly, her voice died away on a sudden, making everybody happy, was well pleased, and had no
and left her quite distressed, with her head hanging down suspicion but that we were all at the utmost height of en-
over the keys. The good Doctor said she was nervous, and, joyment.
to relieve her, proposed a round game at cards; of which he ‘Annie, my dear,’ said he, looking at his watch, and fill-
knew as much as of the art of playing the trombone. But I re- ing his glass, ‘it is past your cousin jack’s time, and we must
marked that the Old Soldier took him into custody directly, not detain him, since time and tide - both concerned in this
for her partner; and instructed him, as the first preliminary case - wait for no man. Mr. Jack Maldon, you have a long
of initiation, to give her all the silver he had in his pocket. voyage, and a strange country, before you; but many men
We had a merry game, not made the less merry by the have had both, and many men will have both, to the end of
Doctor’s mistakes, of which he committed an innumerable time. The winds you are going to tempt, have wafted thou-
quantity, in spite of the watchfulness of the butterflies, and sands upon thousands to fortune, and brought thousands
to their great aggravation. Mrs. Strong had declined to play, upon thousands happily back.’
on the ground of not feeling very well; and her cousin Mal- ‘It’s an affecting thing,’ said Mrs. Markleham - ‘however
don had excused himself because he had some packing to it’s viewed, it’s affecting, to see a fine young man one has
do. When he had done it, however, he returned, and they sat known from an infant, going away to the other end of the
together, talking, on the sofa. From time to time she came world, leaving all he knows behind, and not knowing what’s
and looked over the Doctor’s hand, and told him what to before him. A young man really well deserves constant sup-
play. She was very pale, as she bent over him, and I thought port and patronage,’ looking at the Doctor, ‘who makes
her finger trembled as she pointed out the cards; but the such sacrifices.’
Doctor was quite happy in her attention, and took no notice ‘Time will go fast with you, Mr. Jack Maldon,’ pursued
of this, if it were so. the Doctor, ‘and fast with all of us. Some of us can hard-
At supper, we were hardly so gay. Everyone appeared to ly expect, perhaps, in the natural course of things, to greet

you on your return. The next best thing is to hope to do it, There was great alarm at first, until it was found that she
and that’s my case. I shall not weary you with good advice. was in a swoon, and that the swoon was yielding to the usu-
You have long had a good model before you, in your cousin al means of recovery; when the Doctor, who had lifted her
Annie. Imitate her virtues as nearly as you can.’ head upon his knee, put her curls aside with his hand, and
Mrs. Markleham fanned herself, and shook her head. said, looking around:
‘Farewell, Mr. Jack,’ said the Doctor, standing up; on ‘Poor Annie! She’s so faithful and tender-hearted! It’s the
which we all stood up. ‘A prosperous voyage out, a thriving parting from her old playfellow and friend - her favourite
career abroad, and a happy return home!’ cousin - that has done this. Ah! It’s a pity! I am very sorry!’
We all drank the toast, and all shook hands with Mr. Jack When she opened her eyes, and saw where she was, and
Maldon; after which he hastily took leave of the ladies who that we were all standing about her, she arose with as-
were there, and hurried to the door, where he was received, sistance: turning her head, as she did so, to lay it on the
as he got into the chaise, with a tremendous broadside of Doctor’s shoulder - or to hide it, I don’t know which. We
cheers discharged by our boys, who had assembled on the went into the drawing-room, to leave her with the Doctor
lawn for the purpose. Running in among them to swell the and her mother; but she said, it seemed, that she was better
ranks, I was very near the chaise when it rolled away; and I than she had been since morning, and that she would rather
had a lively impression made upon me, in the midst of the be brought among us; so they brought her in, looking very
noise and dust, of having seen Mr. Jack Maldon rattle past white and weak, I thought, and sat her on a sofa.
with an agitated face, and something cherry-coloured in his ‘Annie, my dear,’ said her mother, doing something to
hand. her dress. ‘See here! You have lost a bow. Will anybody be so
After another broadside for the Doctor, and another for good as find a ribbon; a cherry-coloured ribbon?’
the Doctor’s wife, the boys dispersed, and I went back into It was the one she had worn at her bosom. We all looked
the house, where I found the guests all standing in a group for it; I myself looked everywhere, I am certain - but nobody
about the Doctor, discussing how Mr. Jack Maldon had could find it.
gone away, and how he had borne it, and how he had felt ‘Do you recollect where you had it last, Annie?’ said her
it, and all the rest of it. In the midst of these remarks, Mrs. mother.
Markleham cried: ‘Where’s Annie?’ I wondered how I could have thought she looked white,
No Annie was there; and when they called to her, no An- or anything but burning red, when she answered that she
nie replied. But all pressing out of the room, in a crowd, to had had it safe, a little while ago, she thought, but it was not
see what was the matter, we found her lying on the hall floor. worth looking for.

Nevertheless, it was looked for again, and still not found. shame, pride, love, and trustfulness - I see them all; and in
She entreated that there might be no more searching; but it them all, I see that horror of I don’t know what.
was still sought for, in a desultory way, until she was quite My entrance, and my saying what I wanted, roused her.
well, and the company took their departure. It disturbed the Doctor too, for when I went back to replace
We walked very slowly home, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and the candle I had taken from the table, he was patting her
I - Agnes and I admiring the moonlight, and Mr. Wickfield head, in his fatherly way, and saying he was a merciless
scarcely raising his eyes from the ground. When we, at last, drone to let her tempt him into reading on; and he would
reached our own door, Agnes discovered that she had left have her go to bed.
her little reticule behind. Delighted to be of any service to But she asked him, in a rapid, urgent manner, to let her
her, I ran back to fetch it. stay - to let her feel assured (I heard her murmur some bro-
I went into the supper-room where it had been left, which ken words to this effect) that she was in his confidence that
was deserted and dark. But a door of communication be- night. And, as she turned again towards him, after glancing
tween that and the Doctor’s study, where there was a light, at me as I left the room and went out at the door, I saw her
being open, I passed on there, to say what I wanted, and to cross her hands upon his knee, and look up at him with the
get a candle. same face, something quieted, as he resumed his reading.
The Doctor was sitting in his easy-chair by the fireside, It made a great impression on me, and I remembered it
and his young wife was on a stool at his feet. The Doctor, a long time afterwards; as I shall have occasion to narrate
with a complacent smile, was reading aloud some manu- when the time comes.
script explanation or statement of a theory out of that
interminable Dictionary, and she was looking up at him.
But with such a face as I never saw. It was so beautiful in its
form, it was so ashy pale, it was so fixed in its abstraction, it
was so full of a wild, sleep-walking, dreamy horror of I don’t
know what. The eyes were wide open, and her brown hair
fell in two rich clusters on her shoulders, and on her white
dress, disordered by the want of the lost ribbon. Distinctly
as I recollect her look, I cannot say of what it was expressive,
I cannot even say of what it is expressive to me now, rising
again before my older judgement. Penitence, humiliation,

CHAPTER 17 they showed me that Peggotty had been crying all over the
paper, and what could I have desired more?
I made out, without much difficulty, that she could not
take quite kindly to my aunt yet. The notice was too short
SOMEBODY TURNS UP after so long a prepossession the other way. We never knew
a person, she wrote; but to think that Miss Betsey should
seem to be so different from what she had been thought to
be, was a Moral! - that was her word. She was evidently still
afraid of Miss Betsey, for she sent her grateful duty to her
I t has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran

away; but, of course, I wrote her a letter almost as soon
as I was housed at Dover, and another, and a longer letter,
but timidly; and she was evidently afraid of me, too, and
entertained the probability of my running away again soon:
if I might judge from the repeated hints she threw out, that
containing all particulars fully related, when my aunt took the coach-fare to Yarmouth was always to be had of her for
me formally under her protection. On my being settled at the asking.
Doctor Strong’s I wrote to her again, detailing my happy She gave me one piece of intelligence which affected me
condition and prospects. I never could have derived any- very much, namely, that there had been a sale of the fur-
thing like the pleasure from spending the money Mr. Dick niture at our old home, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone
had given me, that I felt in sending a gold half-guinea to were gone away, and the house was shut up, to be let or sold.
Peggotty, per post, enclosed in this last letter, to discharge God knows I had no part in it while they remained there,
the sum I had borrowed of her: in which epistle, not before, but it pained me to think of the dear old place as altogether
I mentioned about the young man with the donkey-cart. abandoned; of the weeds growing tall in the garden, and
To these communications Peggotty replied as promptly, the fallen leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths. I imag-
if not as concisely, as a merchant’s clerk. Her utmost pow- ined how the winds of winter would howl round it, how the
ers of expression (which were certainly not great in ink) cold rain would beat upon the window-glass, how the moon
were exhausted in the attempt to write what she felt on the would make ghosts on the walls of the empty rooms, watch-
subject of my journey. Four sides of incoherent and inter- ing their solitude all night. I thought afresh of the grave in
jectional beginnings of sentences, that had no end, except the churchyard, underneath the tree: and it seemed as if the
blots, were inadequate to afford her any relief. But the blots house were dead too, now, and all connected with my father
were more expressive to me than the best composition; for and mother were faded away.

There was no other news in Peggotty’s letters. Mr. Barkis pered with the stipulation that he should not be served with
was an excellent husband, she said, though still a little near; more than one shilling’s-worth in the course of any one day.
but we all had our faults, and she had plenty (though I am This, and the reference of all his little bills at the county inn
sure I don’t know what they were); and he sent his duty, and where he slept, to my aunt, before they were paid, induced
my little bedroom was always ready for me. Mr. Peggotty me to suspect that he was only allowed to rattle his money,
was well, and Ham was well, and Mrs.. Gummidge was but and not to spend it. I found on further investigation that
poorly, and little Em’ly wouldn’t send her love, but said that this was so, or at least there was an agreement between him
Peggotty might send it, if she liked. and my aunt that he should account to her for all his dis-
All this intelligence I dutifully imparted to my aunt, only bursements. As he had no idea of deceiving her, and always
reserving to myself the mention of little Em’ly, to whom I desired to please her, he was thus made chary of launching
instinctively felt that she would not very tenderly incline. into expense. On this point, as well as on all other possible
While I was yet new at Doctor Strong’s, she made several points, Mr. Dick was convinced that my aunt was the wis-
excursions over to Canterbury to see me, and always at un- est and most wonderful of women; as he repeatedly told me
seasonable hours: with the view, I suppose, of taking me with infinite secrecy, and always in a whisper.
by surprise. But, finding me well employed, and bearing a ‘Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after
good character, and hearing on all hands that I rose fast in imparting this confidence to me, one Wednesday; ‘who’s
the school, she soon discontinued these visits. I saw her on the man that hides near our house and frightens her?’
a Saturday, every third or fourth week, when I went over ‘Frightens my aunt, sir?’
to Dover for a treat; and I saw Mr. Dick every alternate Mr. Dick nodded. ‘I thought nothing would have fright-
Wednesday, when he arrived by stage-coach at noon, to stay ened her,’ he said, ‘for she’s -’ here he whispered softly, ‘don’t
until next morning. mention it - the wisest and most wonderful of women.’ Hav-
On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a ing said which, he drew back, to observe the effect which
leathern writing-desk, containing a supply of stationery this description of her made upon me.
and the Memorial; in relation to which document he had a ‘The first time he came,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘was- let me
notion that time was beginning to press now, and that it re- see- sixteen hundred and forty-nine was the date of King
ally must be got out of hand. Charles’s execution. I think you said sixteen hundred and
Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render forty-nine?’
his visits the more agreeable, my aunt had instructed me ‘Yes, sir.’
to open a credit for him at a cake shop, which was ham- ‘I don’t know how it can be,’ said Mr. Dick, sorely puzzled

and shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I am as old as that.’ last night, and he came up behind her again, and I knew
‘Was it in that year that the man appeared, sir?’ I asked. him again.’
‘Why, really’ said Mr. Dick, ‘I don’t see how it can have ‘And did he frighten my aunt again?’
been in that year, Trotwood. Did you get that date out of ‘All of a shiver,’ said Mr. Dick, counterfeiting that af-
history?’ fection and making his teeth chatter. ‘Held by the palings.
‘Yes, sir.’ Cried. But, Trotwood, come here,’ getting me close to him,
‘I suppose history never lies, does it?’ said Mr. Dick, with that he might whisper very softly; ‘why did she give him
a gleam of hope. money, boy, in the moonlight?’
‘Oh dear, no, sir!’ I replied, most decisively. I was ingenu- ‘He was a beggar, perhaps.’
ous and young, and I thought so. Mr. Dick shook his head, as utterly renouncing the sug-
‘I can’t make it out,’ said Mr. Dick, shaking his head. gestion; and having replied a great many times, and with
‘There’s something wrong, somewhere. However, it was very great confidence, ‘No beggar, no beggar, no beggar, sir!’ went
soon after the mistake was made of putting some of the on to say, that from his window he had afterwards, and late
trouble out of King Charles’s head into my head, that the at night, seen my aunt give this person money outside the
man first came. I was walking out with Miss Trotwood after garden rails in the moonlight, who then slunk away - into
tea, just at dark, and there he was, close to our house.’ the ground again, as he thought probable - and was seen no
‘Walking about?’ I inquired. more: while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly back into
‘Walking about?’ repeated Mr. Dick. ‘Let me see, I must the house, and had, even that morning, been quite different
recollect a bit. N-no, no; he was not walking about.’ from her usual self; which preyed on Mr. Dick’s mind.
I asked, as the shortest way to get at it, what he WAS do- I had not the least belief, in the outset of this story, that
ing. the unknown was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick’s,
‘Well, he wasn’t there at all,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘until he came and one of the line of that ill-fated Prince who occasioned
up behind her, and whispered. Then she turned round and him so much difficulty; but after some reflection I began
fainted, and I stood still and looked at him, and he walked to entertain the question whether an attempt, or threat of
away; but that he should have been hiding ever since (in the an attempt, might have been twice made to take poor Mr.
ground or somewhere), is the most extraordinary thing!’ Dick himself from under my aunt’s protection, and whether
‘HAS he been hiding ever since?’ I asked. my aunt, the strength of whose kind feeling towards him I
‘To be sure he has,’ retorted Mr. Dick, nodding his head knew from herself, might have been induced to pay a price
gravely. ‘Never came out, till last night! We were walking for his peace and quiet. As I was already much attached to

Mr. Dick, and very solicitous for his welfare, my fears fa- old court cards; make spoked wheels out of cotton reels, and
voured this supposition; and for a long time his Wednesday bird-cages of old wire. But he was greatest of all, perhaps, in
hardly ever came round, without my entertaining a misgiv- the articles of string and straw; with which we were all per-
ing that he would not be on the coach-box as usual. There suaded he could do anything that could be done by hands.
he always appeared, however, grey-headed, laughing, and Mr. Dick’s renown was not long confined to us. After a
happy; and he never had anything more to tell of the man few Wednesdays, Doctor Strong himself made some inqui-
who could frighten my aunt. ries of me about him, and I told him all my aunt had told
These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick’s me; which interested the Doctor so much that he request-
life; they were far from being the least happy of mine. He ed, on the occasion of his next visit, to be presented to him.
soon became known to every boy in the school; and though This ceremony I performed; and the Doctor begging Mr.
he never took an active part in any game but kite-flying, Dick, whensoever he should not find me at the coach office,
was as deeply interested in all our sports as anyone among to come on there, and rest himself until our morning’s work
us. How often have I seen him, intent upon a match at mar- was over, it soon passed into a custom for Mr. Dick to come
bles or pegtop, looking on with a face of unutterable interest, on as a matter of course, and, if we were a little late, as of-
and hardly breathing at the critical times! How often, at ten happened on a Wednesday, to walk about the courtyard,
hare and hounds, have I seen him mounted on a little knoll, waiting for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doc-
cheering the whole field on to action, and waving his hat tor’s beautiful young wife (paler than formerly, all this time;
above his grey head, oblivious of King Charles the Martyr’s more rarely seen by me or anyone, I think; and not so gay,
head, and all belonging to it! How many a summer hour but not less beautiful), and so became more and more famil-
have I known to be but blissful minutes to him in the crick- iar by degrees, until, at last, he would come into the school
et-field! How many winter days have I seen him, standing and wait. He always sat in a particular corner, on a particu-
blue-nosed, in the snow and east wind, looking at the boys lar stool, which was called ‘Dick’, after him; here he would
going down the long slide, and clapping his worsted gloves sit, with his grey head bent forward, attentively listening to
in rapture! whatever might be going on, with a profound veneration for
He was an universal favourite, and his ingenuity in little the learning he had never been able to acquire.
things was transcendent. He could cut oranges into such This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctor, whom
devices as none of us had an idea of. He could make a boat he thought the most subtle and accomplished philosopher of
out of anything, from a skewer upwards. He could turn any age. It was long before Mr. Dick ever spoke to him oth-
cramp-bones into chessmen; fashion Roman chariots from erwise than bareheaded; and even when he and the Doctor

had struck up quite a friendship, and would walk together having a high respect for my native sagacity, but consider-
by the hour, on that side of the courtyard which was known ing that I inherited a good deal from my aunt.
among us as The Doctor’s Walk, Mr. Dick would pull off his One Thursday morning, when I was about to walk with
hat at intervals to show his respect for wisdom and knowl- Mr. Dick from the hotel to the coach office before going
edge. How it ever came about that the Doctor began to read back to school (for we had an hour’s school before break-
out scraps of the famous Dictionary, in these walks, I never fast), I met Uriah in the street, who reminded me of the
knew; perhaps he felt it all the same, at first, as reading to promise I had made to take tea with himself and his moth-
himself. However, it passed into a custom too; and Mr. Dick, er: adding, with a writhe, ‘But I didn’t expect you to keep it,
listening with a face shining with pride and pleasure, in his Master Copperfield, we’re so very umble.’
heart of hearts believed the Dictionary to be the most de- I really had not yet been able to make up my mind wheth-
lightful book in the world. er I liked Uriah or detested him; and I was very doubtful
As I think of them going up and down before those about it still, as I stood looking him in the face in the street.
schoolroom windows - the Doctor reading with his com- But I felt it quite an affront to be supposed proud, and said I
placent smile, an occasional flourish of the manuscript, only wanted to be asked.
or grave motion of his head; and Mr. Dick listening, en- ‘ Oh, if that’s all, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘and it
chained by interest, with his poor wits calmly wandering really isn’t our umbleness that prevents you, will you come
God knows where, upon the wings of hard words - I think this evening? But if it is our umbleness, I hope you won’t
of it as one of the pleasantest things, in a quiet way, that I mind owning to it, Master Copperfield; for we are well
have ever seen. I feel as if they might go walking to and fro aware of our condition.’
for ever, and the world might somehow be the better for it I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfield, and if he ap-
- as if a thousand things it makes a noise about, were not one proved, as I had no doubt he would, I would come with
half so good for it, or me. pleasure. So, at six o’clock that evening, which was one of
Agnes was one of Mr. Dick’s friends, very soon; and in of- the early office evenings, I announced myself as ready, to
ten coming to the house, he made acquaintance with Uriah. Uriah.
The friendship between himself and me increased continu- ‘Mother will be proud, indeed,’ he said, as we walked
ally, and it was maintained on this odd footing: that, while away together. ‘Or she would be proud, if it wasn’t sinful,
Mr. Dick came professedly to look after me as my guardian, Master Copperfield.’
he always consulted me in any little matter of doubt that ‘Yet you didn’t mind supposing I was proud this morn-
arose, and invariably guided himself by my advice; not only ing,’ I returned.

‘Oh dear, no, Master Copperfield!’ returned Uriah. ‘Oh, me. A person like myself had better not aspire. If he is to get
believe me, no! Such a thought never came into my head! I on in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield!’
shouldn’t have deemed it at all proud if you had thought US I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks
too umble for you. Because we are so very umble.’ so deep, as when he delivered himself of these sentiments:
‘Have you been studying much law lately?’ I asked, to shaking his head all the time, and writhing modestly.
change the subject. ‘I think you are wrong, Uriah,’ I said. ‘I dare say there
‘Oh, Master Copperfield,’ he said, with an air of self-de- are several things that I could teach you, if you would like
nial, ‘my reading is hardly to be called study. I have passed to learn them.’
an hour or two in the evening, sometimes, with Mr. Tidd.’ ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, Master Copperfield,’ he an-
‘Rather hard, I suppose?’ said I. ‘He is hard to me some- swered; ‘not in the least. But not being umble yourself, you
times,’ returned Uriah. ‘But I don’t know what he might be don’t judge well, perhaps, for them that are. I won’t provoke
to a gifted person.’ my betters with knowledge, thank you. I’m much too umble.
After beating a little tune on his chin as he walked on, Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield!’
with the two forefingers of his skeleton right hand, he add- We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight
ed: into from the street, and found there Mrs. Heep, who was
‘There are expressions, you see, Master Copperfield - Lat- the dead image of Uriah, only short. She received me with
in words and terms - in Mr. Tidd, that are trying to a reader the utmost humility, and apologized to me for giving her
of my umble attainments.’ son a kiss, observing that, lowly as they were, they had their
‘Would you like to be taught Latin?’ I said briskly. ‘I will natural affections, which they hoped would give no offence
teach it you with pleasure, as I learn it.’ to anyone. It was a perfectly decent room, half parlour and
‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ he answered, shak- half kitchen, but not at all a snug room. The tea-things were
ing his head. ‘I am sure it’s very kind of you to make the set upon the table, and the kettle was boiling on the hob.
offer, but I am much too umble to accept it.’ There was a chest of drawers with an escritoire top, for Uri-
‘What nonsense, Uriah!’ ah to read or write at of an evening; there was Uriah’s blue
‘Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I bag lying down and vomiting papers; there was a compa-
am greatly obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure ny of Uriah’s books commanded by Mr. Tidd; there was a
you; but I am far too umble. There are people enough to corner cupboard: and there were the usual articles of fur-
tread upon me in my lowly state, without my doing outrage niture. I don’t remember that any individual object had a
to their feelings by possessing learning. Learning ain’t for bare, pinched, spare look; but I do remember that the whole

place had. very attentive. Presently they began to talk about aunts, and
It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep’s humility, that she then I told them about mine; and about fathers and moth-
still wore weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that ers, and then I told them about mine; and then Mrs. Heep
had occurred since Mr. Heep’s decease, she still wore weeds. began to talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began to tell
I think there was some compromise in the cap; but other- her about mine - but stopped, because my aunt had advised
wise she was as weedy as in the early days of her mourning. me to observe a silence on that subject. A tender young cork,
‘This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure,’ however, would have had no more chance against a pair of
said Mrs. Heep, making the tea, ‘when Master Copperfield corkscrews, or a tender young tooth against a pair of den-
pays us a visit.’ tists, or a little shuttlecock against two battledores, than I
‘I said you’d think so, mother,’ said Uriah. had against Uriah and Mrs. Heep. They did just what they
‘If I could have wished father to remain among us for any liked with me; and wormed things out of me that I had no
reason,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘it would have been, that he might desire to tell, with a certainty I blush to think of. the more
have known his company this afternoon.’ especially, as in my juvenile frankness, I took some credit to
I felt embarrassed by these compliments; but I was sen- myself for being so confidential and felt that I was quite the
sible, too, of being entertained as an honoured guest, and I patron of my two respectful entertainers.
thought Mrs. Heep an agreeable woman. They were very fond of one another: that was certain. I
‘My Uriah,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘has looked forward to this, take it, that had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature;
sir, a long while. He had his fears that our umbleness stood but the skill with which the one followed up whatever the
in the way, and I joined in them myself. Umble we are, um- other said, was a touch of art which I was still less proof
ble we have been, umble we shall ever be,’ said Mrs. Heep. against. When there was nothing more to be got out of me
‘I am sure you have no occasion to be so, ma’am,’ I said, about myself (for on the Murdstone and Grinby life, and on
‘unless you like.’ my journey, I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wickfield
‘Thank you, sir,’ retorted Mrs. Heep. ‘We know our sta- and Agnes. Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep
tion and are thankful in it.’ caught it and threw it back to Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little
I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and while, then sent it back to Mrs. Heep, and so they went on
that Uriah gradually got opposite to me, and that they re- tossing it about until I had no idea who had got it, and was
spectfully plied me with the choicest of the eatables on the quite bewildered. The ball itself was always changing too.
table. There was nothing particularly choice there, to be Now it was Mr. Wickfield, now Agnes, now the excellence
sure; but I took the will for the deed, and felt that they were of Mr. Wickfield, now my admiration of Agnes; now the

extent of Mr. Wickfield’s business and resources, now our life; I may say, with the turning-point of my existence. Cop-
domestic life after dinner; now, the wine that Mr. Wickfield perfield, my dear fellow, how do you do?’
took, the reason why he took it, and the pity that it was he I cannot say - I really cannot say - that I was glad to see
took so much; now one thing, now another, then everything Mr. Micawber there; but I was glad to see him too, and
at once; and all the time, without appearing to speak very shook hands with him, heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Mi-
often, or to do anything but sometimes encourage them a cawber was.
little, for fear they should be overcome by their humility ‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of
and the honour of my company, I found myself perpetually old, and settling his chin in his shirt-collar. ‘She is tolerably
letting out something or other that I had no business to let convalescent. The twins no longer derive their sustenance
out and seeing the effect of it in the twinkling of Uriah’s from Nature’s founts - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in one
dinted nostrils. of his bursts of confidence, ‘they are weaned - and Mrs. Mi-
I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish cawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be
myself well out of the visit, when a figure coming down rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one
the street passed the door - it stood open to air the room, who has proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at
which was warm, the weather being close for the time of the sacred altar of friendship.’
year - came back again, looked in, and walked in, exclaim- I said I should be delighted to see her.
ing loudly, ‘Copperfield! Is it possible?’ ‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Micawber.
It was Mr. Micawber! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eye- Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and
glass, and his walking-stick, and his shirt-collar, and his looked about him.
genteel air, and the condescending roll in his voice, all com- ‘I have discovered my friend Copperfield,’ said Mr.
plete! Micawber genteelly, and without addressing himself partic-
‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, putting out ularly to anyone, ‘not in solitude, but partaking of a social
his hand, ‘this is indeed a meeting which is calculated to meal in company with a widow lady, and one who is appar-
impress the mind with a sense of the instability and un- ently her offspring - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in another
certainty of all human - in short, it is a most extraordinary of his bursts of confidence, ‘her son. I shall esteem it an hon-
meeting. Walking along the street, reflecting upon the our to be presented.’
probability of something turning up (of which I am at pres- I could do no less, under these circumstances, than
ent rather sanguine), I find a young but valued friend turn make Mr. Micawber known to Uriah Heep and his mother;
up, who is connected with the most eventful period of my which I accordingly did. As they abased themselves before

him, Mr. Micawber took a seat, and waved his hand in his ence of our friends here, that I am a man who has, for some
most courtly manner. years, contended against the pressure of pecuniary difficul-
‘Any friend of my friend Copperfield’s,’ said Mr. Micaw- ties.’ I knew he was certain to say something of this kind;
ber, ‘has a personal claim upon myself.’ he always would be so boastful about his difficulties. ‘Some-
‘We are too umble, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘my son and me, times I have risen superior to my difficulties. Sometimes my
to be the friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so difficulties have - in short, have floored me. There have been
good as take his tea with us, and we are thankful to him for times when I have administered a succession of facers to
his company, also to you, sir, for your notice.’ them; there have been times when they have been too many
‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Micawber, with a bow, ‘you are for me, and I have given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber, in
very obliging: and what are you doing, Copperfield? Still in the words of Cato, ‘Plato, thou reasonest well. It’s all up now.
the wine trade?’ I can show fight no more.’ But at no time of my life,’ said
I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away; and Mr. Micawber, ‘have I enjoyed a higher degree of satisfac-
replied, with my hat in my hand, and a very red face, I have tion than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties,
no doubt, that I was a pupil at Doctor Strong’s. chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory
‘A pupil?’ said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows. ‘I am notes at two and four months, by that word) into the bosom
extremely happy to hear it. Although a mind like my friend of my friend Copperfield.’
Copperfield’s’ - to Uriah and Mrs. Heep - ‘does not require Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying,
that cultivation which, without his knowledge of men and ‘Mr. Heep! Good evening. Mrs. Heep! Your servant,’ and
things, it would require, still it is a rich soil teeming with then walking out with me in his most fashionable manner,
latent vegetation - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, smiling, in making a good deal of noise on the pavement with his shoes,
another burst of confidence, ‘it is an intellect capable of get- and humming a tune as we went.
ting up the classics to any extent.’ It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he
Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one an- occupied a little room in it, partitioned off from the com-
other, made a ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to mercial room, and strongly flavoured with tobacco-smoke.
express his concurrence in this estimation of me. I think it was over the kitchen, because a warm greasy smell
‘Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, sir?’ I said, to get Mr. appeared to come up through the chinks in the floor, and
Micawber away. there was a flabby perspiration on the walls. I know it was
‘If you will do her that favour, Copperfield,’ replied Mr. near the bar, on account of the smell of spirits and jingling
Micawber, rising. ‘I have no scruple in saying, in the pres- of glasses. Here, recumbent on a small sofa, underneath a

picture of a race-horse, with her head close to the fire, and not disguise from you, my dear Master Copperfield, that
her feet pushing the mustard off the dumb-waiter at the when that branch of my family which is settled in Plym-
other end of the room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr. outh, became aware that Mr. Micawber was accompanied
Micawber entered first, saying, ‘My dear, allow me to intro- by myself, and by little Wilkins and his sister, and by the
duce to you a pupil of Doctor Strong’s.’ twins, they did not receive him with that ardour which he
I noticed, by the by, that although Mr. Micawber was just might have expected, being so newly released from captiv-
as much confused as ever about my age and standing, he al- ity. In fact,’ said Mrs. Micawber, lowering her voice, - ‘this
ways remembered, as a genteel thing, that I was a pupil of is between ourselves - our reception was cool.’
Doctor Strong’s. ‘Dear me!’ I said.
Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I ‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘It is truly painful to contem-
was very glad to see her too, and, after an affectionate greet- plate mankind in such an aspect, Master Copperfield, but
ing on both sides, sat down on the small sofa near her. our reception was, decidedly, cool. There is no doubt about
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if you will mention to it. In fact, that branch of my family which is settled in Plym-
Copperfield what our present position is, which I have no outh became quite personal to Mr. Micawber, before we had
doubt he will like to know, I will go and look at the paper been there a week.’
the while, and see whether anything turns up among the I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of
advertisements.’ themselves.
‘I thought you were at Plymouth, ma’am,’ I said to Mrs. ‘Still, so it was,’ continued Mrs. Micawber. ‘Under such
Micawber, as he went out. circumstances, what could a man of Mr. Micawber’s spir-
‘My dear Master Copperfield,’ she replied, ‘we went to it do? But one obvious course was left. To borrow, of that
Plymouth.’ branch of my family, the money to return to London, and
‘To be on the spot,’ I hinted. to return at any sacrifice.’
‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To be on the spot. But, the ‘Then you all came back again, ma’am?’ I said.
truth is, talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The lo- ‘We all came back again,’ replied Mrs. Micawber. ‘Since
cal influence of my family was quite unavailing to obtain then, I have consulted other branches of my family on the
any employment in that department, for a man of Mr. Mi- course which it is most expedient for Mr. Micawber to take
cawber’s abilities. They would rather NOT have a man of - for I maintain that he must take some course, Master Cop-
Mr. Micawber’s abilities. He would only show the deficiency perfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively. ‘It is clear
of the others. Apart from which,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I will that a family of six, not including a domestic, cannot live

upon air.’ a remittance from London, to discharge our pecuniary ob-
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ said I. ligations at this hotel. Until the arrival of that remittance,’
‘The opinion of those other branches of my family,’ said Mrs. Micawber with much feeling, ‘I am cut off from
pursued Mrs. Micawber, ‘is, that Mr. Micawber should im- my home (I allude to lodgings in Pentonville), from my boy
mediately turn his attention to coals.’ and girl, and from my twins.’
‘To what, ma’am?’ I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in
‘To coals,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To the coal trade. Mr. Mi- this anxious extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber,
cawber was induced to think, on inquiry, that there might who now returned: adding that I only wished I had money
be an opening for a man of his talent in the Medway Coal enough, to lend them the amount they needed. Mr. Micaw-
Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very properly said, the first ber’s answer expressed the disturbance of his mind. He said,
step to be taken clearly was, to come and see the Medway. shaking hands with me, ‘Copperfield, you are a true friend;
Which we came and saw. I say ‘we’, Master Copperfield; for but when the worst comes to the worst, no man is with-
I never will,’ said Mrs. Micawber with emotion, ‘I never will out a friend who is possessed of shaving materials.’ At this
desert Mr. Micawber.’ dreadful hint Mrs. Micawber threw her arms round Mr. Mi-
I murmured my admiration and approbation. cawber’s neck and entreated him to be calm. He wept; but
‘We came,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber, ‘and saw the Med- so far recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell for
way. My opinion of the coal trade on that river is, that it may the waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of
require talent, but that it certainly requires capital. Talent, shrimps for breakfast in the morning.
Mr. Micawber has; capital, Mr. Micawber has not. We saw, When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so
I think, the greater part of the Medway; and that is my in- much to come and dine before they went away, that I could
dividual conclusion. Being so near here, Mr. Micawber was not refuse. But, as I knew I could not come next day, when I
of opinion that it would be rash not to come on, and see should have a good deal to prepare in the evening, Mr. Mi-
the Cathedral. Firstly, on account of its being so well worth cawber arranged that he would call at Doctor Strong’s in
seeing, and our never having seen it; and secondly, on ac- the course of the morning (having a presentiment that the
count of the great probability of something turning up in remittance would arrive by that post), and propose the day
a cathedral town. We have been here,’ said Mrs. Micawber, after, if it would suit me better. Accordingly I was called out
‘three days. Nothing has, as yet, turned up; and it may not of school next forenoon, and found Mr. Micawber in the
surprise you, my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it parlour; who had called to say that the dinner would take
would a stranger, to know that we are at present waiting for place as proposed. When I asked him if the remittance had

come, he pressed my hand and departed. bowl of hot punch with her own hands.
As I was looking out of window that same evening, it sur- Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw
prised me, and made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber him such good company. He made his face shine with the
and Uriah Heep walk past, arm in arm: Uriah humbly sen- punch, so that it looked as if it had been varnished all over.
sible of the honour that was done him, and Mr. Micawber He got cheerfully sentimental about the town, and pro-
taking a bland delight in extending his patronage to Uriah. posed success to it; observing that Mrs. Micawber and
But I was still more surprised, when I went to the little ho- himself had been made extremely snug and comfortable
tel next day at the appointed dinner-hour, which was four there and that he never should forget the agreeable hours
o’clock, to find, from what Mr. Micawber said, that he had they had passed in Canterbury. He proposed me afterwards;
gone home with Uriah, and had drunk brandy-and-water and he, and Mrs. Micawber, and I, took a review of our past
at Mrs. Heep’s. acquaintance, in the course of which we sold the property
‘And I’ll tell you what, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Mi- all over again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber: or, at least,
cawber, ‘your friend Heep is a young fellow who might be said, modestly, ‘If you’ll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall
attorney-general. If I had known that young man, at the pe- now have the pleasure of drinking your health, ma’am.’ On
riod when my difficulties came to a crisis, all I can say is, which Mr. Micawber delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Mi-
that I believe my creditors would have been a great deal bet- cawber’s character, and said she had ever been his guide,
ter managed than they were.’ philosopher, and friend, and that he would recommend me,
I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that when I came to a marrying time of life, to marry such an-
Mr. Micawber had paid them nothing at all as it was; but I other woman, if such another woman could be found.
did not like to ask. Neither did I like to say, that I hoped he As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber became still
had not been too communicative to Uriah; or to inquire if more friendly and convivial. Mrs. Micawber’s spirits be-
they had talked much about me. I was afraid of hurting Mr. coming elevated, too, we sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’. When we
Micawber’s feelings, or, at all events, Mrs. Micawber’s, she came to ‘Here’s a hand, my trusty frere’, we all joined hands
being very sensitive; but I was uncomfortable about it, too, round the table; and when we declared we would ‘take a
and often thought about it afterwards. right gude Willie Waught’, and hadn’t the least idea what it
We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of meant, we were really affected.
fish; the kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted; fried sausage- In a word, I never saw anybody so thoroughly jovial as
meat; a partridge, and a pudding. There was wine, and there Mr. Micawber was, down to the very last moment of the
was strong ale; and after dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a evening, when I took a hearty farewell of himself and his

amiable wife. Consequently, I was not prepared, at seven I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending
o’clock next morning, to receive the following communi- letter, that I ran off directly towards the little hotel with the
cation, dated half past nine in the evening; a quarter of an intention of taking it on my way to Doctor Strong’s, and
hour after I had left him: - trying to soothe Mr. Micawber with a word of comfort. But,
‘My DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, half-way there, I met the London coach with Mr. and Mrs.
‘The die is cast - all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with Micawber up behind; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of
a sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this eve- tranquil enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micawber’s conversa-
ning, that there is no hope of the remittance! Under these tion, eating walnuts out of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking
circumstances, alike humiliating to endure, humiliating to out of his breast pocket. As they did not see me, I thought it
contemplate, and humiliating to relate, I have discharged best, all things considered, not to see them. So, with a great
the pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment, by weight taken off my mind, I turned into a by-street that was
giving a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, the nearest way to school, and felt, upon the whole, relieved
at my residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, that they were gone; though I still liked them very much,
it will not be taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is nevertheless.
impending, and the tree must fall.
‘Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear
Copperfield, be a beacon to you through life. He writes with
that intention, and in that hope. If he could think himself
of so much use, one gleam of day might, by possibility, pen-
etrate into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining existence
- though his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it), ex-
tremely problematical.
‘This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield,
you will ever receive
‘From
‘The
‘Beggared Outcast,
‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’

CHAPTER 18 I, even I, weak aspirant, may arrive in time. He is not my
private friend and public patron, as Steerforth was, but I
hold him in a reverential respect. I chiefly wonder what he’ll
be, when he leaves Doctor Strong’s, and what mankind will
A RETROSPECT do to maintain any place against him.
But who is this that breaks upon me? This is Miss Shep-
herd, whom I love.
Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls’ es-
tablishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, in a
M y school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence

- the unseen, unfelt progress of my life - from child-
hood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that
spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses
Nettingalls’ young ladies come to the Cathedral too. I can-
not look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss Shepherd.
flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, When the choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. In the
whether there are any marks along its course, by which I service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd’s name - I put her
can remember how it ran. in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own room, I
A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, am sometimes moved to cry out, ‘Oh, Miss Shepherd!’ in a
where we all went together, every Sunday morning, assem- transport of love.
bling first at school for that purpose. The earthy smell, the For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd’s feelings,
sunless air, the sensation of the world being shut out, the re- but, at length, Fate being propitious, we meet at the danc-
sounding of the organ through the black and white arched ing-school. I have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch
galleries and aisles, are wings that take me back, and hold Miss Shepherd’s glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm
me hovering above those days, in a half-sleeping and half- of my jacket, and come out at my hair. I say nothing to Miss
waking dream. Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shepherd
I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen in a few and myself live but to be united.
months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts
a mighty creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is for a present, I wonder? They are not expressive of affec-
unattainable. Agnes says ‘No,’ but I say ‘Yes,’ and tell her tion, they are difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular
that she little thinks what stores of knowledge have been shape, they are hard to crack, even in room doors, and they
mastered by the wonderful Being, at whose place she thinks are oily when cracked; yet I feel that they are appropriate

to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition
Miss Shepherd; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss of an armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher?
Shepherd in the cloak-room. Ecstasy! What are my agony He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a vague
and indignation next day, when I hear a flying rumour belief abroad, that the beef suet with which he anoints his
that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match
stocks for turning in her toes! for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked, young butcher,
Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vi- with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an in-
sion of my life, how do I ever come to break with her? I can’t jurious tongue. His main use of this tongue, is, to disparage
conceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd Doctor Strong’s young gentlemen. He says, publicly, that if
and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having they want anything he’ll give it ‘em. He names individuals
said she wished I wouldn’t stare so, and having avowed a among them (myself included), whom he could undertake
preference for Master Jones - for Jones! a boy of no merit to settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He
whatever! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads,
At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingalls’ establish- and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these
ment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher.
by, and laughs to her companion. All is over. The devotion It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the
of a life - it seems a life, it is all the same - is at an end; Miss corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am
Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal attended by a select body of our boys; the butcher, by two
Family know her no more. other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep. The pre-
I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. I liminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand
am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls’ young face to face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand
ladies, and shouldn’t dote on any of them, if they were twice candles out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don’t
as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the danc- know where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is.
ing-school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can’t I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we
dance by themselves and leave us alone. I am growing great are always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon
in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctor the trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but
Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar. confident; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my
Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea second’s knee; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and
by the next post. cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to

discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer about the ry march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end - and
head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off, what comes next! I am the head-boy, now! I look down on
congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest
publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; from which I in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself,
augur, justly, that the victory is his. when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part
I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the
put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, road of life - as something I have passed, rather than have
and find a great puffy place bursting out on my upper lip, actually been - and almost think of him as of someone else.
which swells immoderately. For three or four days I re- And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wick-
main at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade field’s, where is she? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect
over my eyes; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is likeness of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves
a sister to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and about the house; and Agnes - my sweet sister, as I call her in
makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence my thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the better angel of
completely, always; I tell her all about the butcher, and the the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-deny-
wrongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks I couldn’t have ing influence - is quite a woman.
done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks What other changes have come upon me, besides the
and trembles at my having fought him. changes in my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I
Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the have garnered all this while? I wear a gold watch and chain,
head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been a ring upon my little finger, and a long-tailed coat; and I use
this many and many a day. Adams has left the school so a great deal of bear’s grease - which, taken in conjunction
long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong, with the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I worship
there are not many there, besides myself, who know him. the eldest Miss Larkins.
Adams is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall,
to be an advocate, and to wear a wig. I am surprised to find dark, black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss
him a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in Larkins is not a chicken; for the youngest Miss Larkins is
appearance. He has not staggered the world yet, either; for not that, and the eldest must be three or four years older.
it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be about thirty. My
as if he had never joined it. passion for her is beyond all bounds.
A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and histo- The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful

thing to bear. I see them speaking to her in the street. I see ficers go in, or to hear them up in the drawing-room, where
them cross the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I even walk, on two
a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pave- or three occasions, in a sickly, spoony manner, round and
ment, accompanied by her sister’s bonnet. She laughs and round the house after the family are gone to bed, wondering
talks, and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own which is the eldest Miss Larkins’s chamber (and pitching, I
spare time in walking up and down to meet her. If I can dare say now, on Mr. Larkins’s instead); wishing that a fire
bow to her once in the day (I know her to bow to, knowing would burst out; that the assembled crowd would stand ap-
Mr. Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow now and then. palled; that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might
The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball, rear it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for
where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with something she had left behind, and perish in the flames. For
the military, ought to have some compensation, if there be I am generally disinterested in my love, and think I could be
even-handed justice in the world. content to make a figure before Miss Larkins, and expire.
My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear Generally, but not always. Sometimes brighter visions
my newest silk neckerchief continually. I have no relief but rise before me. When I dress (the occupation of two hours),
in putting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned for a great ball given at the Larkins’s (the anticipation of
over and over again. I seem, then, to be worthier of the three weeks), I indulge my fancy with pleasing images. I
eldest Miss Larkins. Everything that belongs to her, or is picture myself taking courage to make a declaration to Miss
connected with her, is precious to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff Larkins. I picture Miss Larkins sinking her head upon my
old gentleman with a double chin, and one of his eyes im- shoulder, and saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can I believe my
movable in his head) is fraught with interest to me. When ears!’ I picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next morning,
I can’t meet his daughter, I go where I am likely to meet and saying, ‘My dear Copperfield, my daughter has told me
him. To say ‘How do you do, Mr. Larkins? Are the young all. Youth is no objection. Here are twenty thousand pounds.
ladies and all the family quite well?’ seems so pointed, that Be happy!’ I picture my aunt relenting, and blessing us; and
I blush. Mr. Dick and Doctor Strong being present at the marriage
I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen, ceremony. I am a sensible fellow, I believe - I believe, on
and say that seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins, looking back, I mean - and modest I am sure; but all this
what of that? Besides, I shall be one-and-twenty in no time goes on notwithstanding. I repair to the enchanted house,
almost. I regularly take walks outside Mr. Larkins’s house where there are lights, chattering, music, flowers, officers
in the evening, though it cuts me to the heart to see the of- (I am sorry to see), and the eldest Miss Larkins, a blaze of

beauty. She is dressed in blue, with blue flowers in her hair give it her, and say:
- forget-me-nots - as if SHE had any need to wear forget-me- ‘I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins.’
nots. It is the first really grown-up party that I have ever ‘Indeed! What is that?’ returns Miss Larkins.
been invited to, and I am a little uncomfortable; for I appear ‘A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does
not to belong to anybody, and nobody appears to have any- gold.’
thing to say to me, except Mr. Larkins, who asks me how my ‘You’re a bold boy,’ says Miss Larkins. ‘There.’
schoolfellows are, which he needn’t do, as I have not come She gives it me, not displeased; and I put it to my lips,
there to be insulted. and then into my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her
But after I have stood in the doorway for some time, hand through my arm, and says, ‘Now take me back to Cap-
and feasted my eyes upon the goddess of my heart, she ap- tain Bailey.’
proaches me - she, the eldest Miss Larkins! - and asks me I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview,
pleasantly, if I dance? and the waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain el-
I stammer, with a bow, ‘With you, Miss Larkins.’ derly gentleman who has been playing whist all night, upon
‘With no one else?’ inquires Miss Larkins. her arm, and says:
‘I should have no pleasure in dancing with anyone else.’ ‘Oh! here is my bold friend! Mr. Chestle wants to know
Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes), you, Mr. Copperfield.’
and says, ‘Next time but one, I shall be very glad.’ I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am
The time arrives. ‘It is a waltz, I think,’ Miss Larkins much gratified.
doubtfully observes, when I present myself. ‘Do you waltz? ‘I admire your taste, sir,’ says Mr. Chestle. ‘It does you
If not, Captain Bailey -’ credit. I suppose you don’t take much interest in hops; but
But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take I am a pretty large grower myself; and if you ever like to
Miss Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain come over to our neighbourhood - neighbourhood of Ash-
Bailey. He is wretched, I have no doubt; but he is nothing to ford - and take a run about our place, -we shall be glad for
me. I have been wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest Miss you to stop as long as you like.’
Larkins! I don’t know where, among whom, or how long. I I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I
only know that I swim about in space, with a blue angel, in am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins
a state of blissful delirium, until I find myself alone with her once again. She says I waltz so well! I go home in a state of
in a little room, resting on a sofa. She admires a flower (pink unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long,
camellia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my button-hole. I with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For

some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections; but
I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imper- CHAPTER 19
fectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge,
the perished flower.
‘Trotwood,’ says Agnes, one day after dinner. ‘Who do
you think is going to be married tomorrow? Someone you I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND
admire.’
‘Not you, I suppose, Agnes?’ MAKE A DISCOVERY
‘Not me!’ raising her cheerful face from the music she
is copying. ‘Do you hear him, Papa? - The eldest Miss Lar-
kins.’
‘To - to Captain Bailey?’ I have just enough power to ask.
‘No; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower.’
I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off
I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when
my school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my
leaving Doctor Strong’s. I had been very happy there, I had a
my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear’s grease, and great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and dis-
I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins’s faded flow- tinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry
er. Being, by that time, rather tired of this kind of life, and to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was
having received new provocation from the butcher, I throw glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal,
the flower away, go out with the butcher, and gloriously de- of the importance attaching to a young man at his own dis-
feat him. posal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that
This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not
bear’s grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were
now, in my progress to seventeen. these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I
seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left
school without natural regret. The separation has not made
the impression on me, that other separations have. I try in
vain to recall how I felt about it, and what its circumstances
were; but it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose
the opening prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile

experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life was look at it from a new point of view, and not as a schoolboy.’
more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin ‘I will, aunt.’
to read, than anything else. ‘It has occurred to me,’ pursued my aunt, ‘that a little
MY aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the change, and a glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful
calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I in helping you to know your own mind, and form a cooler
had endeavoured to find a satisfactory answer to her often- judgement. Suppose you were to go down into the old part
repeated question, ‘What I would like to be?’ But I had no of the country again, for instance, and see that - that out-of-
particular liking, that I could discover, for anything. If I the-way woman with the savagest of names,’ said my aunt,
could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science rubbing her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive
of navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expe- Peggotty for being so called.
dition, and gone round the world on a triumphant voyage ‘Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best!’
of discovery, I think I might have considered myself com- ‘Well,’ said my aunt, ‘that’s lucky, for I should like it too.
pletely suited. But, in the absence of any such miraculous But it’s natural and rational that you should like it. And I
provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit am very well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will al-
that would not lie too heavily upon her purse; and to do my ways be natural and rational.’
duty in it, whatever it might be. ‘I hope so, aunt.’
Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a ‘Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, ‘would have
meditative and sage demeanour. He never made a sugges- been as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You’ll
tion but once; and on that occasion (I don’t know what put be worthy of her, won’t you?’
it in his head), he suddenly proposed that I should be ‘a Bra- ‘I hope I shall be worthy of YOU, aunt. That will be
zier’. My aunt received this proposal so very ungraciously, enough for me.’
that he never ventured on a second; but ever afterwards ‘It’s a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours
confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her sug- didn’t live,’ said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, ‘or
gestions, and rattling his money. she’d have been so vain of her boy by this time, that her
‘Trot, I tell you what, my dear,’ said my aunt, one morning soft little head would have been completely turned, if there
in the Christmas season when I left school: ‘as this knotty was anything of it left to turn.’ (My aunt always excused any
point is still unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it in this
in our decision if we can help it, I think we had better take way to my poor mother.) ‘Bless me, Trotwood, how you do
a little breathing-time. In the meanwhile, you must try to remind me of her!’

‘Pleasantly, I hope, aunt?’ said I. ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, ‘I intend, Trot-
‘He’s as like her, Dick,’ said my aunt, emphatically, ‘he’s wood, to get that done immediately - it really must be done
as like her, as she was that afternoon before she began to fret immediately! And then it will go in, you know - and then
- bless my heart, he’s as like her, as he can look at me out of -’ said Mr. Dick, after checking himself, and pausing a long
his two eyes!’ time, ‘there’ll be a pretty kettle of fish!’
‘Is he indeed?’ said Mr. Dick. In pursuance of my aunt’s kind scheme, I was shortly af-
‘And he’s like David, too,’ said my aunt, decisively. terwards fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and
‘He is very like David!’ said Mr. Dick. a portmanteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedi-
‘But what I want you to be, Trot,’ resumed my aunt, ‘- I tion. At parting, my aunt gave me some good advice, and
don’t mean physically, but morally; you are very well physi- a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that I
cally - is, a firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of should look about me, and should think a little, she would
your own. With resolution,’ said my aunt, shaking her cap recommend me to stay a few days in London, if I liked it,
at me, and clenching her hand. ‘With determination. With either on my way down into Suffolk, or in coming back. In
character, Trot - with strength of character that is not to a word, I was at liberty to do what I would, for three weeks
be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by or a month; and no other conditions were imposed upon
anything. That’s what I want you to be. That’s what your fa- my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and look-
ther and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and ing about me, and a pledge to write three times a week and
been the better for it.’ faithfully report myself.
I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described. I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Ag-
‘That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance nes and Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had
upon yourself, and to act for yourself,’ said my aunt, ‘I shall not yet relinquished), and also of the good Doctor. Agnes
send you upon your trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. was very glad to see me, and told me that the house had not
Dick’s going with you; but, on second thoughts, I shall keep been like itself since I had left it.
him to take care of me.’ ‘I am sure I am not like myself when I am away,’ said I.
Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; un- ‘I seem to want my right hand, when I miss you. Though
til the honour and dignity of having to take care of the most that’s not saying much; for there’s no head in my right hand,
wonderful woman in the world, restored the sunshine to and no heart. Everyone who knows you, consults with you,
his face. and is guided by you, Agnes.’
‘Besides,’ said my aunt, ‘there’s the Memorial -’ ‘Everyone who knows me, spoils me, I believe,’ she an-

swered, smiling. We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest
‘No. it’s because you are like no one else. You are so good, and earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our fa-
and so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and miliar relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes, now
you are always right.’ suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, and speaking in a dif-
‘You talk,’ said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as ferent manner, said:
she sat at work, ‘as if I were the late Miss Larkins.’ ‘Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and
‘Come! It’s not fair to abuse my confidence,’ I answered, that I may not have another opportunity of asking for a long
reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. ‘But I time, perhaps - something I would ask, I think, of no one
shall confide in you, just the same, Agnes. I can never grow else. Have you observed any gradual alteration in Papa?’
out of that. Whenever I fall into trouble, or fall in love, I I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she
shall always tell you, if you’ll let me - even when I come to had too. I must have shown as much, now, in my face; for
fall in love in earnest.’ her eyes were in a moment cast down, and I saw tears in
‘Why, you have always been in earnest!’ said Agnes, them.
laughing again. ‘Tell me what it is,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘Oh! that was as a child, or a schoolboy,’ said I, laughing ‘I think - shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so
in my turn, not without being a little shame-faced. ‘Times much?’
are altering now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state ‘Yes,’ she said.
of earnestness one day or other. My wonder is, that you are ‘I think he does himself no good by the habit that has in-
not in earnest yourself, by this time, Agnes.’ creased upon him since I first came here. He is often very
Agnes laughed again, and shook her head. nervous - or I fancy so.’
‘Oh, I know you are not!’ said I, ‘because if you had been ‘It is not fancy,’ said Agnes, shaking her head.
you would have told me. Or at least’ - for I saw a faint blush ‘His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes
in her face, ‘you would have let me find it out for myself. look wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when
But there is no one that I know of, who deserves to love you, he is least like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on
Agnes. Someone of a nobler character, and more worthy al- some business.’
together than anyone I have ever seen here, must rise up, ‘By Uriah,’ said Agnes.
before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a ‘Yes; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having
wary eye on all admirers; and shall exact a great deal from understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of
the successful one, I assure you.’ himself, seems to make him so uneasy, that next day he is

worse, and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and Wickfield answered.
haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in this ‘But now I mean to do it,’ returned the Doctor. ‘My first
state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head master will succeed me - I am in earnest at last - so you’ll
upon his desk, and shed tears like a child.’ soon have to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to
Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet them, like a couple of knaves.’
speaking, and in a moment she had met her father at the ‘And to take care,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you’re not im-
door of the room, and was hanging on his shoulder. The exposed on, eh? As you certainly would be, in any contract
pression of her face, as they both looked towards me, I felt you should make for yourself. Well! I am ready. There are
to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him, worse tasks than that, in my calling.’
and gratitude to him for all his love and care, in her beauti- ‘I shall have nothing to think of then,’ said the Doctor,
ful look; and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal with a smile, ‘but my Dictionary; and this other contract-
tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to let no bargain - Annie.’
harsh construction find any place against him; she was, at As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea
once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet so compas- table by Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with
sionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too; that such unwonted hesitation and timidity, that his attention
nothing she could have said would have expressed more to became fixed upon her, as if something were suggested to
me, or moved me more. his thoughts.
We were to drink tea at the Doctor’s. We went there at ‘There is a post come in from India, I observe,’ he said,
the usual hour; and round the study fireside found the Doc- after a short silence.
tor, and his young wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who ‘By the by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!’ said the
made as much of my going away as if I were going to China, Doctor.
received me as an honoured guest; and called for a log of ‘Indeed!’ ‘Poor dear Jack!’ said Mrs. Markleham, shaking
wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of her head. ‘That trying climate! - like living, they tell me, on
his old pupil reddening in the blaze. a sand-heap, underneath a burning-glass! He looked strong,
‘I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood’s stead, but he wasn’t. My dear Doctor, it was his spirit, not his con-
Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, warming his hands; ‘I am get- stitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I
ting lazy, and want ease. I shall relinquish all my young am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin never
people in another six months, and lead a quieter life.’ was strong - not what can be called ROBUST, you know,’
‘You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor,’ Mr. said Mrs. Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round

upon us generally, ‘- from the time when my daughter and looking penitently at his adviser. ‘That is to say, our joint
himself were children together, and walking about, arm-in- plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home.’
arm, the livelong day.’ ‘And I said’ added Mr. Wickfield gravely, ‘abroad. I was
Annie, thus addressed, made no reply. the means of sending him abroad. It’s my responsibility.’
‘Do I gather from what you say, ma’am, that Mr. Maldon ‘Oh! Responsibility!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘Everything
is ill?’ asked Mr. Wickfield. was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; everything
‘Ill!’ replied the Old Soldier. ‘My dear sir, he’s all sorts of was done for the kindest and best, we know. But if the dear
things.’ fellow can’t live there, he can’t live there. And if he can’t
‘Except well?’ said Mr. Wickfield. live there, he’ll die there, sooner than he’ll overturn the
‘Except well, indeed!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘He has had Doctor’s plans. I know him,’ said the Old Soldier, fanning
dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, ‘and I know he’ll
agues, and every kind of thing you can mention. As to his die there, sooner than he’ll overturn the Doctor’s plans.’
liver,’ said the Old Soldier resignedly, ‘that, of course, he ‘Well, well, ma’am,’ said the Doctor cheerfully, ‘I am
gave up altogether, when he first went out!’ not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I
‘Does he say all this?’ asked Mr. Wickfield. can substitute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes
‘Say? My dear sir,’ returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to go
her head and her fan, ‘you little know my poor Jack Maldon back, and we must endeavour to make some more suitable
when you ask that question. Say? Not he. You might drag and fortunate provision for him in this country.’
him at the heels of four wild horses first.’ Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous
‘Mama!’ said Mrs. Strong. speech - which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or
‘Annie, my dear,’ returned her mother, ‘once for all, I led up to - that she could only tell the Doctor it was like him-
must really beg that you will not interfere with me, unless it self, and go several times through that operation of kissing
is to confirm what I say. You know as well as I do that your the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand with it. Af-
cousin Maldon would be dragged at the heels of any num- ter which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being
ber of wild horses - why should I confine myself to four! more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered,
I WON’T confine myself to four - eight, sixteen, two-and- for her sake, on her old playfellow; and entertained us with
thirty, rather than say anything calculated to overturn the some particulars concerning other deserving members of
Doctor’s plans.’ her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserv-
‘Wickfield’s plans,’ said the Doctor, stroking his face, and ing legs.

All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or times, my dearest Annie’ - and so forth - it’s not there. ‘The
lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance amiable old Proctor’ - who’s he? Dear me, Annie, how il-
upon her as she sat by his own daughter’s side. It appeared legibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how stupid I am!
to me that he never thought of being observed by anyone; ‘Doctor,’ of course. Ah! amiable indeed!’ Here she left off, to
but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was look-
connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked ing at us in a state of placid satisfaction. ‘Now I have found
what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to it. ‘You may not be surprised to hear, Annie,’ - no, to be sure,
himself, and to whom he had written? knowing that he never was really strong; what did I say just
‘Why, here,’ said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from now? - ‘that I have undergone so much in this distant place,
the chimney-piece above the Doctor’s head, ‘the dear fellow as to have decided to leave it at all hazards; on sick leave, if I
says to the Doctor himself - where is it? Oh! - ‘I am sorry to can; on total resignation, if that is not to be obtained. What
inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I I have endured, and do endure here, is insupportable.’ And
fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,’ said Mrs.
a time, as the only hope of restoration.’ That’s pretty plain, Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refold-
poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie’s letter ing the letter, ‘it would be insupportable to me to think of.’
is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.’ Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady
‘Not now, mama,’ she pleaded in a low tone. looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence;
‘My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the but sat severely silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
most ridiculous persons in the world,’ returned her moth- Long after the subject was dismissed, and other topics oc-
er, ‘and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your cupied us, he remained so; seldom raising his eyes, unless to
own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the
I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that Doctor, or his wife, or both.
confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am surprised. The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great
You ought to know better.’ sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They
The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it sang together, and played duets together, and we had quite
to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I a little concert. But I remarked two things: first, that though
took it, trembled. Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite her-
‘Now let us see,’ said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass self, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which
to her eye, ‘where the passage is. ‘The remembrance of old separated them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr.

Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between her and tion, and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet,
Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness. And now, I must fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and
confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure
when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-
with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The in- trees, which remained shut up in themselves a hundred
nocent beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had years together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot, and the
been; I mistrusted the natural grace and charm of her man- stone urns, and the Doctor’s walk, and the congenial sound
ner; and when I looked at Agnes by her side, and thought of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if
how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within me the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked be-
that it was an ill-assorted friendship. fore my face, and its peace and honour given to the winds.
She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other But morning brought with it my parting from the old
was so happy too, that they made the evening fly away as house, which Agnes had filled with her influence; and that
if it were but an hour. It closed in an incident which I well occupied my mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon,
remember. They were taking leave of each other, and Agnes no doubt; I might sleep again - perhaps often - in my old
was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr. Wickfield room; but the days of my inhabiting there were gone, and
stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed
quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time up such of my books and clothes as still remained there to
had been cancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway be sent to Dover, than I cared to show to Uriah Heep; who
on the night of the departure, the expression of that night in was so officious to help me, that I uncharitably thought him
the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his. mighty glad that I was going.
I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with
how impossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards, an indifferent show of being very manly, and took my seat
to separate her from this look, and remember her face in its upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and
innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home. forgiving, going through the town, that I had half a mind to
I seemed to have left the Doctor’s roof with a dark cloud nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shil-
lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, lings to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher
was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who as he stood scraping the great block in the shop, and more-
were treacherous to him, and with resentment against those over, his appearance was so little improved by the loss of a
who injured him. The impending shadow of a great afflic- front tooth which I had knocked out, that I thought it best

to make no advances. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?’
The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got ‘N-no,’ I said, ‘not exactly.’
fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the ‘Here’s a gen’lm’n behind me, I’ll pound it,’ said William,
coachman, and to speak extremely gruff. The latter point I ‘as has bred ‘em by wholesale.’
achieved at great personal inconvenience; but I stuck to it, The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very
because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing. unpromising squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall
‘You are going through, sir?’ said the coachman. white hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fit-
‘Yes, William,’ I said, condescendingly (I knew him); ‘I ting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside
am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk after- his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over
wards.’ the coachman’s shoulder, so near to me, that his breath
‘Shooting, sir?’ said the coachman. quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked at him,
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn’t
time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt com- squint, in a very knowing manner.
plimented, too. ‘Ain’t you?’ asked William.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, pretending to be undecided, ‘wheth- ‘Ain’t I what?’ said the gentleman behind.
er I shall take a shot or not.’ ‘Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,’ ‘Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?’
said William. ‘I should think so,’ said the gentleman. ‘There ain’t no
‘So I understand,’ said I. sort of orse that I ain’t bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and
‘Is Suffolk your county, sir?’ asked William. dorgs is some men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me
‘Yes,’ I said, with some importance. ‘Suffolk’s my coun- - lodging, wife, and children - reading, writing, and Arith-
ty.’ metic - snuff, tobacker, and sleep.’
‘I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,’ ‘That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-
said William. box, is it though?’ said William in my ear, as he handled
I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to the reins.
uphold the institutions of my county, and to evince a famil- I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that
iarity with them; so I shook my head, as much as to say, ‘I he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.
believe you!’ ‘Well, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said William, ‘I think it
‘And the Punches,’ said William. ‘There’s cattle! A Suf- would be more correct.’
folk Punch, when he’s a good un, is worth his weight in gold. I have always considered this as the first fall I had in

life. When I booked my place at the coach office I had had look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the
‘Box Seat’ written against the entry, and had given the book- shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at last, with-
keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great-coat and in a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem House
shawl, expressly to do honour to that distinguished emi- where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy hand,
nence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and had felt I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get
that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many
stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who caged sparrows.
had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a
being able to walk across me, more like a fly than a human mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A
being, while the horses were at a canter! waiter showed me into the coffee-room; and a chambermaid
A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a
small occasions, when it would have been better away, was hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was
assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in
outside the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indif-
in gruffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach ferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being
for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished, familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.
and dreadfully young. ‘Well now,’ said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, ‘what
It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry
up there behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, in general: have a fowl!’
and with plenty of money in my pocket; and to look out I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the
for the places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had humour for a fowl.
abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspic- ‘Ain’t you?’ said the waiter. ‘Young gentlemen is generally
uous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!’
trampers whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to
style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker’s blackened suggest anything else.
hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clat- ‘Do you care for taters?’ said the waiter, with an insin-
tered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a uating smile, and his head on one side. ‘Young gentlemen
glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived generally has been overdosed with taters.’
who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal

cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the music, the company, the smooth stupendous changes
the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling, and
Esquire - which I knew there were not, and couldn’t be, but opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when
thought it manly to appear to expect. I came out into the rainy street, at twelve o’clock at night,
He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I felt as if I had come from the clouds, where I had been
I was much surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing,
dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling,
asked me what I would take with it; and on my replying patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.
‘Half a pint of sherry,’thought it a favourable opportunity, I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street
I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale for a little while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but
leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received,
this opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I soon recalled me to myself, and put me in the road back
observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was to the hotel; whither I went, revolving the glorious vision
his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters, I sat
those vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making revolving it still, at past one o’clock, with my eyes on the
up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat; coffee-room fire.
and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than were to I was so filled with the play, and with the past - for it was,
be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, in a manner, like a shining transparency, through which I
but I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing. saw my earlier life moving along - that I don’t know when
Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I in- the figure of a handsome well-formed young man dressed
fer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages with a tasteful easy negligence which I have reason to re-
of the process), I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent member very well, became a real presence to me. But I
Garden Theatre that I chose; and there, from the back of a recollect being conscious of his company without having
centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime. To noticed his coming in - and my still sitting, musing, over
have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking the coffee-room fire.
in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy
taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twist-
delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the ing them, and hitting them, and putting them through all
whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, kinds of contortions in his small pantry. In going towards

the door, I passed the person who had come in, and saw him ping me on the shoulder.
plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He ‘I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been
did not know me, but I knew him in a moment. adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country, and
At another time I might have wanted the confidence or have just finished my education there. How do YOU come
the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until to be here, Steerforth?’
next day, and might have lost him. But, in the then con- ‘Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,’ he returned;
dition of my mind, where the play was still running high, ‘that is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically
his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my - and I am on my way now to my mother’s. You’re a devilish
gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. just what you used to
so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, be, now I look at you! Not altered in the least!’
with a fast-beating heart, and said: ‘I knew you immediately,’ I said; ‘but you are more easily
‘Steerforth! won’t you speak to me?’ remembered.’
He looked at me - just as he used to look, sometimes -but He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering
I saw no recognition in his face. curls of his hair, and said gaily:
‘You don’t remember me, I am afraid,’ said I. ‘Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives
‘My God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s little Copperfield!’ a little way out of town; and the roads being in a beastly
I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. condition, and our house tedious enough, I remained here
But for very shame, and the fear that it might displease him, tonight instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-
I could have held him round the neck and cried. dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling
‘I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I away at the play.’
am so overjoyed to see you!’ ‘I have been at the play, too,’ said I. ‘At Covent Garden.
‘And I am rejoiced to see you, too!’ he said, shaking my What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steer-
hands heartily. ‘Why, Copperfield, old boy, don’t be over- forth!’
powered!’ And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how Steerforth laughed heartily.
the delight I had in meeting him affected me. ‘My dear young Davy,’ he said, clapping me on the shoul-
I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had der again, ‘you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at
not been able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, sunrise, is not fresher than you are. I have been at Covent
and we sat down together, side by side. Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable business.
‘Why, how do you come to be here?’ said Steerforth, clap- Holloa, you sir!’

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very at- of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early
tentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came morning coaches, rumbling out of the archway underneath,
forward deferentially. made me dream of thunder and the gods.
‘Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?’ said
Steerforth.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Where does he sleep? What’s his number? You know
what I mean,’ said Steerforth.
‘Well, sir,’ said the waiter, with an apologetic air. ‘Mr.
Copperfield is at present in forty-four, sir.’
‘And what the devil do you mean,’ retorted Steerforth, ‘by
putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?’
‘Why, you see we wasn’t aware, sir,’ returned the waiter,
still apologetically, ‘as Mr. Copperfield was anyways par-
ticular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it
would be preferred. Next you, sir.’
‘Of course it would be preferred,’ said Steerforth. ‘And do
it at once.’ The waiter immediately withdrew to make the
exchange. Steerforth, very much amused at my having been
put into forty-four, laughed again, and clapped me on the
shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him next
morning at ten o’clock - an invitation I was only too proud
and happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our
candles and went upstairs, where we parted with friendly
heartiness at his door, and where I found my new room a
great improvement on my old one, it not being at all musty,
and having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was
quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for
six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed

CHAPTER 20 clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the fire,
the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little
round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at
first, Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and
STEERFORTH’S HOME superior to me in all respects (age included); but his easy pa-
tronage soon put that to rights, and made me quite at home.
I could not enough admire the change he had wrought in
the Golden Cross; or compare the dull forlorn state I had
held yesterday, with this morning’s comfort and this morn-
W hen the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight

o’clock, and informed me that my shaving-wa-
ter was outside, I felt severely the having no occasion for
ing’s entertainment. As to the waiter’s familiarity, it was
quenched as if it had never been. He attended on us, as I
may say, in sackcloth and ashes.
it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed ‘Now, Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, when we were alone,
too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I ‘I should like to hear what you are doing, and where you are
was dressing; and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and going, and all about you. I feel as if you were my property.’
guilty air when I passed her on the staircase, as I was going Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest
down to breakfast. I was so sensitively aware, indeed, of be- in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed the little expe-
ing younger than I could have wished, that for some time I dition that I had before me, and whither it tended.
could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under the ig- ‘As you are in no hurry, then,’ said Steerforth, ‘come
noble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with home with me to Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will
a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on be pleased with my mother - she is a little vain and prosy
horseback, surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches, and about me, but that you can forgive her - and she will be
looking anything but regal in a drizzling rain and a dark- pleased with you.’
brown fog, until I was admonished by the waiter that the ‘I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough
gentleman was waiting for me. to say you are,’ I answered, smiling.
It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth ex- ‘Oh!’ said Steerforth, ‘everyone who likes me, has a claim
pecting me, but in a snug private apartment, red-curtained on her that is sure to be acknowledged.’
and Turkey-carpeted, where the fire burnt bright, and a ‘Then I think I shall be a favourite,’ said I.
fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table covered with a ‘Good!’ said Steerforth. ‘Come and prove it. We will go

and see the lions for an hour or two - it’s something to have come to it.’
a fresh fellow like you to show them to, Copperfield - and I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and
then we’ll journey out to Highgate by the coach.’ was glad to change the subject. Fortunately it was not diffi-
I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that cult to do, for Steerforth could always pass from one subject
I should wake presently in number forty-four, to the solitary to another with a carelessness and lightness that were his
box in the coffee-room and the familiar waiter again. After own.
I had written to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meet- Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short
ing with my admired old schoolfellow, and my acceptance winter day wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-
of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw coach stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on
a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the summit of the hill. An elderly lady, though not very far
the Museum, where I could not help observing how much advanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome
Steerforth knew, on an infinite variety of subjects, and of face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steer-
how little account he seemed to make his knowledge. forth as ‘My dearest James,’ folded him in her arms. To this
‘You’ll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘if lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a state-
you have not done so already; and they will have good rea- ly welcome.
son to be proud of you.’ It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and or-
‘I take a degree!’ cried Steerforth. ‘Not I! my dear Daisy derly. From the windows of my room I saw all London lying
- will you mind my calling you Daisy?’ in the distance like a great vapour, with here and there
‘Not at all!’ said I. some lights twinkling through it. I had only time, in dress-
‘That’s a good fellow! My dear Daisy,’ said Steerforth, ing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces of
laughing. ‘I have not the least desire or intention to distin- work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth’s mother when she
guish myself in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my was a girl), and some pictures in crayons of ladies with pow-
purpose. I find that I am heavy company enough for myself dered hair and bodices, coming and going on the walls, as
as I am.’ the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered, when I was
‘But the fame -’ I was beginning. called to dinner.
‘You romantic Daisy!’ said Steerforth, laughing still more There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight
heartily: ‘why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy- short figure, dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with
headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them some appearance of good looks too, who attracted my atten-
do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s wel- tion: perhaps because I had not expected to see her; perhaps

because I found myself sitting opposite to her; perhaps be- it, really?’
cause of something really remarkable in her. She had black ‘Really what?’ said Mrs. Steerforth.
hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon ‘Oh! You mean it’s not!’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I’m
her lip. It was an old scar - I should rather call it seam, for it very glad to hear it! Now, I know what to do! That’s the ad-
was not discoloured, and had healed years ago - which had vantage of asking. I shall never allow people to talk before
once cut through her mouth, downward towards the chin, me about wastefulness and profligacy, and so forth, in con-
but was now barely visible across the table, except above nexion with that life, any more.’
and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had altered. I ‘And you will be right,’ said Mrs. Steerforth. ‘My son’s
concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years tutor is a conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit
of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little di- reliance on my son, I should have reliance on him.’
lapidated - like a house - with having been so long to let; yet ‘Should you?’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Dear me! Conscientious,
had, as I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thin- is he? Really conscientious, now?’
ness seemed to be the effect of some wasting fire within her, ‘Yes, I am convinced of it,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.
which found a vent in her gaunt eyes. ‘How very nice!’ exclaimed Miss Dartle. ‘What a com-
She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth fort! Really conscientious? Then he’s not - but of course he
and his mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, can’t be, if he’s really conscientious. Well, I shall be quite
and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth’s companion. happy in my opinion of him, from this time. You can’t think
It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted how it elevates him in my opinion, to know for certain that
to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great deal more he’s really conscientious!’
of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth ob- Her own views of every question, and her correction of
served, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led everything that was said to which she was opposed, Miss
but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus: Dartle insinuated in the same way: sometimes, I could not
‘Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only conceal from myself, with great power, though in contra-
ask for information, but isn’t it always so? I thought that diction even of Steerforth. An instance happened before
kind of life was on all hands understood to be - eh?’ ‘It is ed- dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my
ucation for a very grave profession, if you mean that, Rosa,’ intention of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how
Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness. glad I should be, if Steerforth would only go there with me;
‘Oh! Yes! That’s very true,’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘But and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurse,
isn’t it, though? - I want to be put right, if I am wrong - isn’t and Mr. Peggotty’s family, I reminded him of the boatman

whom he had seen at school. ‘Really!’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I don’t know, now, when
‘Oh! That bluff fellow!’ said Steerforth. ‘He had a son with I have been better pleased than to hear that. It’s so consol-
him, hadn’t he?’ ing! It’s such a delight to know that, when they suffer, they
‘No. That was his nephew,’ I replied; ‘whom he adopted, don’t feel! Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort
though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom of people; but now I shall just dismiss the idea of them, alto-
he adopted as a daughter. In short, his house - or rather his gether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I confess, but now
boat, for he lives in one, on dry land - is full of people who they’re cleared up. I didn’t know, and now I do know, and
are objects of his generosity and kindness. You would be that shows the advantage of asking - don’t it?’
delighted to see that household.’ I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or
‘Should I?’ said Steerforth. ‘Well, I think I should. I must to draw Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much
see what can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to when she was gone, and we two were sitting before the fire.
mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy), to see But he merely asked me what I thought of her.
that sort of people together, and to make one of ‘em.’ ‘She is very clever, is she not?’ I asked.
My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was ‘Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,’ said
in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of ‘that sort Steerforth, and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own
of people’, that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been face and figure these years past. She has worn herself away
watchful of us, now broke in again. by constant sharpening. She is all edge.’
‘Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?’ she said. ‘What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!’ I said.
‘Are they what? And are who what?’ said Steerforth. Steerforth’s face fell, and he paused a moment.
‘That sort of people. - Are they really animals and clods, ‘Why, the fact is,’ he returned, ‘I did that.’
and beings of another order? I want to know SO much.’ ‘By an unfortunate accident!’
‘Why, there’s a pretty wide separation between them and ‘No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I
us,’ said Steerforth, with indifference. ‘They are not to be threw a hammer at her. A promising young angel I must
expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not have been!’ I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a
to be shocked, or hurt easily. They are wonderfully virtu- painful theme, but that was useless now.
ous, I dare say - some people contend for that, at least; and I ‘She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,’ said Steer-
am sure I don’t want to contradict them - but they have not forth; ‘and she’ll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one
very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like their - though I can hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere.
coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.’ She was the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my fa-

ther’s. He died one day. My mother, who was then a widow, wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the letters
brought her here to be company to her. She has a couple of he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her
thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it ev- own chair by the fire; and she would have read me some of
ery year, to add to the principal. There’s the history of Miss them, and I should have been very glad to hear them too, if
Rosa Dartle for you.’ he had not interposed, and coaxed her out of the design.
‘And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?’ said I. ‘It was at Mr. Creakle’s, my son tells me, that you first
‘Humph!’ retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. ‘Some became acquainted,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were
brothers are not loved over much; and some love - but help talking at one table, while they played backgammon at an-
yourself, Copperfield! We’ll drink the daisies of the field, other. ‘Indeed, I recollect his speaking, at that time, of a
in compliment to you; and the lilies of the valley that toil pupil younger than himself who had taken his fancy there;
not, neither do they spin, in compliment to me - the more but your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my
shame for me!’ A moody smile that had overspread his fea- memory.’
tures cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own ‘He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I
frank, winning self again. assure you, ma’am,’ said I, ‘and I stood in need of such a
I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful inter- friend. I should have been quite crushed without him.’
est when we went in to tea. It was not long before I observed ‘He is always generous and noble,’ said Mrs. Steerforth,
that it was the most susceptible part of her face, and that, proudly.
when she turned pale, that mark altered first, and became a I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She
dull, lead-coloured streak, lengthening out to its full extent, knew I did; for the stateliness of her manner already abated
like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire. There was a towards me, except when she spoke in praise of him, and
little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast of then her air was always lofty.
the dice at back gammon - when I thought her, for one mo- ‘It was not a fit school generally for my son,’ said she;
ment, in a storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the ‘far from it; but there were particular circumstances to
old writing on the wall. be considered at the time, of more importance even than
It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth that selection. My son’s high spirit made it desirable that
devoted to her son. She seemed to be able to speak or think he should be placed with some man who felt its superior-
about nothing else. She showed me his picture as an infant, ity, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we
in a locket, with some of his baby-hair in it; she showed me found such a man there.’
his picture as he had been when I first knew him; and she I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not de-

spise him the more for it, but thought it a redeeming quality had done since I left Canterbury.
in him if he could be allowed any grace for not resisting one When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of
so irresistible as Steerforth. glasses and decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over
‘My son’s great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feel- the fire, that he would seriously think of going down into
ing of voluntary emulation and conscious pride,’ the fond the country with me. There was no hurry, he said; a week
lady went on to say. ‘He would have risen against all con- hence would do; and his mother hospitably said the same.
straint; but he found himself the monarch of the place, and While we were talking, he more than once called me Daisy;
he haughtily determined to be worthy of his station. It was which brought Miss Dartle out again.
like himself.’ ‘But really, Mr. Copperfield,’ she asked, ‘is it a nickname?
I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like him- And why does he give it you? Is it - eh? - because he thinks
self. you young and innocent? I am so stupid in these things.’
‘So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, I coloured in replying that I believed it was.
to the course in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, ‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Now I am glad to know that! I ask
outstrip every competitor,’ she pursued. ‘My son informs for information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you
me, Mr. Copperfield, that you were quite devoted to him, young and innocent; and so you are his friend. Well, that’s
and that when you met yesterday you made yourself known quite delightful!’
to him with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman if I She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth re-
made any pretence of being surprised by my son’s inspiring tired too. Steerforth and I, after lingering for half-an-hour
such emotions; but I cannot be indifferent to anyone who is over the fire, talking about Traddles and all the rest of them
so sensible of his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, at old Salem House, went upstairs together. Steerforth’s
and can assure you that he feels an unusual friendship for room was next to mine, and I went in to look at it. It was a
you, and that you may rely on his protection.’ picture of comfort, full of easy-chairs, cushions and foot-
Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did stools, worked by his mother’s hand, and with no sort of
everything else. If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should thing omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally,
have fancied that her figure had got thin, and her eyes had her handsome features looked down on her darling from a
got large, over that pursuit, and no other in the world. But I portrait on the wall, as if it were even something to her that
am very much mistaken if she missed a word of this, or lost her likeness should watch him while he slept.
a look of mine as I received it with the utmost pleasure, and I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by
honoured by Mrs. Steerforth’s confidence, felt older than I this time, and the curtains drawn before the windows and

round the bed, giving it a very snug appearance. I sat down
in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate on my happi- CHAPTER 21
ness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time,
when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at
me from above the chimney-piece.
It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling LITTLE EM’LY
look. The painter hadn’t made the scar, but I made it; and
there it was, coming and going; now confined to the upper
lip as I had seen it at dinner, and now showing the whole
extent of the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I had seen
it when she was passionate.
I wondered peevishly why they couldn’t put her any-
T here was a servant in that house, a man who, I under-
stood, was usually with Steerforth, and had come into
his service at the University, who was in appearance a pat-
where else instead of quartering her on me. To get rid of tern of respectability. I believe there never existed in his
her, I undressed quickly, extinguished my light, and went station a more respectable-looking man. He was taciturn,
to bed. But, as I fell asleep, I could not forget that she was soft-footed, very quiet in his manner, deferential, obser-
still there looking, ‘Is it really, though? I want to know’; and vant, always at hand when wanted, and never near when
when I awoke in the night, I found that I was uneasily ask- not wanted; but his great claim to consideration was his re-
ing all sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was or spectability. He had not a pliant face, he had rather a stiff
not - without knowing what I meant. neck, rather a tight smooth head with short hair clinging to
it at the sides, a soft way of speaking, with a peculiar hab-
it of whispering the letter S so distinctly, that he seemed
to use it oftener than any other man; but every peculiar-
ity that he had he made respectable. If his nose had been
upside-down, he would have made that respectable. He sur-
rounded himself with an atmosphere of respectability, and
walked secure in it. It would have been next to impossible
to suspect him of anything wrong, he was so thoroughly
respectable. Nobody could have thought of putting him
in a livery, he was so highly respectable. To have imposed

any derogatory work upon him, would have been to inflict watch I ever saw, and preventing the spring with his thumb
a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respectable man. from opening far, looked in at the face as if he were consult-
And of this, I noticed- the women-servants in the house- ing an oracular oyster, shut it up again, and said, if I pleased,
hold were so intuitively conscious, that they always did such it was half past eight.
work themselves, and generally while he read the paper by ‘Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested,
the pantry fire. sir.’
Such a self-contained man I never saw. But in that qual- ‘Thank you,’ said I, ‘very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth
ity, as in every other he possessed, he only seemed to be quite well?’
the more respectable. Even the fact that no one knew his ‘Thank you, sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well.’ Another
Christian name, seemed to form a part of his respectability. of his characteristics - no use of superlatives. A cool calm
Nothing could be objected against his surname, Littimer, medium always.
by which he was known. Peter might have been hanged, or ‘Is there anything more I can have the honour of doing
Tom transported; but Littimer was perfectly respectable. for you, sir? The warning-bell will ring at nine; the family
It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of take breakfast at half past nine.’
respectability in the abstract, but I felt particularly young ‘Nothing, I thank you.’
in this man’s presence. How old he was himself, I could not ‘I thank YOU, sir, if you please’; and with that, and with
guess - and that again went to his credit on the same score; a little inclination of his head when he passed the bed-side,
for in the calmness of respectability he might have num- as an apology for correcting me, he went out, shutting the
bered fifty years as well as thirty. door as delicately as if I had just fallen into a sweet sleep on
Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up, which my life depended.
to bring me that reproachful shaving-water, and to put out Every morning we held exactly this conversation: never
my clothes. When I undrew the curtains and looked out of any more, and never any less: and yet, invariably, however
bed, I saw him, in an equable temperature of respectabil- far I might have been lifted out of myself over-night, and
ity, unaffected by the east wind of January, and not even advanced towards maturer years, by Steerforth’s compan-
breathing frostily, standing my boots right and left in the ionship, or Mrs. Steerforth’s confidence, or Miss Dartle’s
first dancing position, and blowing specks of dust off my conversation, in the presence of this most respectable man I
coat as he laid it down like a baby. became, as our smaller poets sing, ‘a boy again’.
I gave him good morning, and asked him what o’clock it He got horses for us; and Steerforth, who knew every-
was. He took out of his pocket the most respectable hunting- thing, gave me lessons in riding. He provided foils for us,

and Steerforth gave me lessons in fencing - gloves, and I be- had. I believed that I was nearer to his heart than any other
gan, of the same master, to improve in boxing. It gave me no friend, and my own heart warmed with attachment to him.
manner of concern that Steerforth should find me a novice He made up his mind to go with me into the country, and
in these sciences, but I never could bear to show my want the day arrived for our departure. He had been doubtful at
of skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no reason to first whether to take Littimer or not, but decided to leave
believe that Littimer understood such arts himself; he never him at home. The respectable creature, satisfied with his lot
led me to suppose anything of the kind, by so much as the whatever it was, arranged our portmanteaux on the little
vibration of one of his respectable eyelashes; yet whenever carriage that was to take us into London, as if they were in-
he was by, while we were practising, I felt myself the green- tended to defy the shocks of ages, and received my modestly
est and most inexperienced of mortals. proffered donation with perfect tranquillity.
I am particular about this man, because he made a par- We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle, with
ticular effect on me at that time, and because of what took many thanks on my part, and much kindness on the de-
place thereafter. voted mother’s. The last thing I saw was Littimer’s unruffled
The week passed away in a most delightful manner. It eye; fraught, as I fancied, with the silent conviction that I
passed rapidly, as may be supposed, to one entranced as was very young indeed.
I was; and yet it gave me so many occasions for knowing What I felt, in returning so auspiciously to the old fa-
Steerforth better, and admiring him more in a thousand re- miliar places, I shall not endeavour to describe. We went
spects, that at its close I seemed to have been with him for a down by the Mail. I was so concerned, I recollect, even for
much longer time. A dashing way he had of treating me like the honour of Yarmouth, that when Steerforth said, as we
a plaything, was more agreeable to me than any behaviour drove through its dark streets to the inn, that, as well as he
he could have adopted. It reminded me of our old acquain- could make out, it was a good, queer, out-of-the-way kind
tance; it seemed the natural sequel of it; it showed me that of hole, I was highly pleased. We went to bed on our arrival
he was unchanged; it relieved me of any uneasiness I might (I observed a pair of dirty shoes and gaiters in connexion
have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and measur- with my old friend the Dolphin as we passed that door),
ing my claims upon his friendship by any equal standard; and breakfasted late in the morning. Steerforth, who was
above all, it was a familiar, unrestrained, affectionate de- in great spirits, had been strolling about the beach before I
meanour that he used towards no one else. As he had was up, and had made acquaintance, he said, with half the
treated me at school differently from all the rest, I joyfully boatmen in the place. Moreover, he had seen, in the dis-
believed that he treated me in life unlike any other friend he tance, what he was sure must be the identical house of Mr.

Peggotty, with smoke coming out of the chimney; and had was almost as great a personage as I was.
had a great mind, he told me, to walk in and swear he was ‘I’ll come anywhere you like,’ said Steerforth, ‘or do any-
myself grown out of knowledge. thing you like. Tell me where to come to; and in two hours
‘When do you propose to introduce me there, Daisy?’ he I’ll produce myself in any state you please, sentimental or
said. ‘I am at your disposal. Make your own arrangements.’ comical.’
‘Why, I was thinking that this evening would be a good I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of
time, Steerforth, when they are all sitting round the fire. I Mr. Barkis, carrier to Blunderstone and elsewhere; and, on
should like you to see it when it’s snug, it’s such a curious this understanding, went out alone. There was a sharp brac-
place.’ ing air; the ground was dry; the sea was crisp and clear; the
‘So be it!’ returned Steerforth. ‘This evening.’ sun was diffusing abundance of light, if not much warmth;
‘I shall not give them any notice that we are here, you and everything was fresh and lively. I was so fresh and live-
know,’ said I, delighted. ‘We must take them by surprise.’ ly myself, in the pleasure of being there, that I could have
‘Oh, of course! It’s no fun,’ said Steerforth, ‘unless we stopped the people in the streets and shaken hands with
take them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their ab- them.
original condition.’ The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we
‘Though they ARE that sort of people that you men- have only seen as children always do, I believe, when we
tioned,’ I returned. go back to them. But I had forgotten nothing in them, and
‘Aha! What! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosa, do found nothing changed, until I came to Mr. Omer’s shop.
you?’ he exclaimed with a quick look. ‘Confound the girl, OMER AND Joram was now written up, where OMER
I am half afraid of her. She’s like a goblin to me. But never used to be; but the inscription, DRAPER, TAILOR, HAB-
mind her. Now what are you going to do? You are going to ERDASHER, FUNERAL FURNISHER, &c., remained as it
see your nurse, I suppose?’ was.
‘Why, yes,’ I said, ‘I must see Peggotty first of all.’ My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop
‘Well,’ replied Steerforth, looking at his watch. ‘Suppose I door, after I had read these words from over the way, that
deliver you up to be cried over for a couple of hours. Is that I went across the road and looked in. There was a pretty
long enough?’ woman at the back of the shop, dancing a little child in her
I answered, laughing, that I thought we might get arms, while another little fellow clung to her apron. I had
through it in that time, but that he must come also; for he no difficulty in recognizing either Minnie or Minnie’s chil-
would find that his renown had preceded him, and that he dren. The glass door of the parlour was not open; but in the

workshop across the yard I could faintly hear the old tune party was a lady, I think?’
playing, as if it had never left off. ‘My mother,’ I rejoined.
‘Is Mr. Omer at home?’ said I, entering. ‘I should like to ‘To - be - sure,’ said Mr. Omer, touching my waistcoat
see him, for a moment, if he is.’ with his forefinger, ‘and there was a little child too! There
‘Oh yes, sir, he is at home,’ said Minnie; ‘the weather don’t was two parties. The little party was laid along with the oth-
suit his asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grandfather!’ er party. Over at Blunderstone it was, of course. Dear me!
The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a And how have you been since?’
lusty shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too.
buried his face in her skirts, to her great admiration. I heard ‘Oh! nothing to grumble at, you know,’ said Mr. Omer.
a heavy puffing and blowing coming towards us, and soon ‘I find my breath gets short, but it seldom gets longer as a
Mr. Omer, shorter-winded than of yore, but not much older- man gets older. I take it as it comes, and make the most of it.
looking, stood before me. That’s the best way, ain’t it?’
‘Servant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ Mr. Omer coughed again, in consequence of laughing,
‘You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,’ said and was assisted out of his fit by his daughter, who now
I, putting out my own. ‘You were very good-natured to me stood close beside us, dancing her smallest child on the
once, when I am afraid I didn’t show that I thought so.’ counter.
‘Was I though?’ returned the old man. ‘I’m glad to hear it, ‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Yes, to be sure. Two parties!
but I don’t remember when. Are you sure it was me?’ Why, in that very ride, if you’ll believe me, the day was
‘Quite.’ named for my Minnie to marry Joram. ‘Do name it, sir,’
‘I think my memory has got as short as my breath,’ said says Joram. ‘Yes, do, father,’ says Minnie. And now he’s
Mr. Omer, looking at me and shaking his head; ‘for I don’t come into the business. And look here! The youngest!’
remember you.’ Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon her
‘Don’t you remember your coming to the coach to meet temples, as her father put one of his fat fingers into the hand
me, and my having breakfast here, and our riding out to of the child she was dancing on the counter.
Blunderstone together: you, and I, and Mrs. Joram, and Mr. ‘Two parties, of course!’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his
Joram too - who wasn’t her husband then?’ head retrospectively. ‘Ex-actly so! And Joram’s at work, at
‘Why, Lord bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr. Omer, after be- this minute, on a grey one with silver nails, not this mea-
ing thrown by his surprise into a fit of coughing, ‘you don’t surement’ - the measurement of the dancing child upon
say so! Minnie, my dear, you recollect? Dear me, yes; the the counter - ‘by a good two inches. - Will you take some-

thing?’ had uttered this libellous pleasantry. He coughed to that ex-
I thanked him, but declined. tent, and his breath eluded all his attempts to recover it with
‘Let me see,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Barkis’s the carrier’s wife that obstinacy, that I fully expected to see his head go down
- Peggotty’s the boatman’s sister - she had something to do behind the counter, and his little black breeches, with the
with your family? She was in service there, sure?’ rusty little bunches of ribbons at the knees, come quivering
My answering in the affirmative gave him great satisfac- up in a last ineffectual struggle. At length, however, he got
tion. better, though he still panted hard, and was so exhausted
‘I believe my breath will get long next, my memory’s get- that he was obliged to sit on the stool of the shop-desk.
ting so much so,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, we’ve got a young ‘You see,’ he said, wiping his head, and breathing with
relation of hers here, under articles to us, that has as elegant difficulty, ‘she hasn’t taken much to any companions here;
a taste in the dress-making business - I assure you I don’t she hasn’t taken kindly to any particular acquaintances and
believe there’s a Duchess in England can touch her.’ friends, not to mention sweethearts. In consequence, an
‘Not little Em’ly?’ said I, involuntarily. ill-natured story got about, that Em’ly wanted to be a lady.
‘Em’ly’s her name,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘and she’s little too. Now my opinion is, that it came into circulation principally
But if you’ll believe me, she has such a face of her own that on account of her sometimes saying, at the school, that if
half the women in this town are mad against her.’ she was a lady she would like to do so-and-so for her uncle
‘Nonsense, father!’ cried Minnie. - don’t you see? - and buy him such-and-such fine things.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘I don’t say it’s the case with ‘I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me,’ I returned
you,’ winking at me, ‘but I say that half the women in Yar- eagerly, ‘when we were both children.’
mouth - ah! and in five mile round - are mad against that Mr. Omer nodded his head and rubbed his chin. ‘Just
girl.’ so. Then out of a very little, she could dress herself, you see,
‘Then she should have kept to her own station in life, fa- better than most others could out of a deal, and that made
ther,’ said Minnie, ‘and not have given them any hold to talk things unpleasant. Moreover, she was rather what might be
about her, and then they couldn’t have done it.’ called wayward - I’ll go so far as to say what I should call
‘Couldn’t have done it, my dear!’ retorted Mr. Omer. wayward myself,’ said Mr. Omer; ‘- didn’t know her own
‘Couldn’t have done it! Is that YOUR knowledge of life? What mind quite - a little spoiled - and couldn’t, at first, exactly
is there that any woman couldn’t do, that she shouldn’t do bind herself down. No more than that was ever said against
- especially on the subject of another woman’s good looks?’ her, Minnie?’
I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he ‘No, father,’ said Mrs. Joram. ‘That’s the worst, I believe.’

‘So when she got a situation,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘to keep a beating, softly, all the while.
fractious old lady company, they didn’t very well agree, and ‘Wouldn’t you like to step in,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘and speak
she didn’t stop. At last she came here, apprenticed for three to her? Walk in and speak to her, sir! Make yourself at
years. Nearly two of ‘em are over, and she has been as good home!’
a girl as ever was. Worth any six! Minnie, is she worth any I was too bashful to do so then - I was afraid of confusing
six, now?’ her, and I was no less afraid of confusing myself.- but I in-
‘Yes, father,’ replied Minnie. ‘Never say I detracted from formed myself of the hour at which she left of an evening, in
her!’ order that our visit might be timed accordingly; and taking
‘Very good,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘That’s right. And so, young leave of Mr. Omer, and his pretty daughter, and her little
gentleman,’ he added, after a few moments’ further rubbing children, went away to my dear old Peggotty’s.
of his chin, ‘that you may not consider me long-winded as Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner! The
well as short-breathed, I believe that’s all about it.’ moment I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me
As they had spoken in a subdued tone, while speaking of what I pleased to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she
Em’ly, I had no doubt that she was near. On my asking now, gave me no smile in return. I had never ceased to write to
if that were not so, Mr. Omer nodded yes, and nodded to- her, but it must have been seven years since we had met.
wards the door of the parlour. My hurried inquiry if I might ‘Is Mr. Barkis at home, ma’am?’ I said, feigning to speak
peep in, was answered with a free permission; and, looking roughly to her.
through the glass, I saw her sitting at her work. I saw her, a ‘He’s at home, sir,’ returned Peggotty, ‘but he’s bad abed
most beautiful little creature, with the cloudless blue eyes, with the rheumatics.’
that had looked into my childish heart, turned laughingly ‘Don’t he go over to Blunderstone now?’ I asked.
upon another child of Minnie’s who was playing near her; ‘When he’s well he do,’ she answered.
with enough of wilfulness in her bright face to justify what ‘Do YOU ever go there, Mrs. Barkis?’
I had heard; with much of the old capricious coyness lurk- She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick
ing in it; but with nothing in her pretty looks, I am sure, but movement of her hands towards each other.
what was meant for goodness and for happiness, and what ‘Because I want to ask a question about a house there,
was on a good and that they call the - what is it? - the Rookery,’ said I.
happy course. She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an
The tune across the yard that seemed as if it never had undecided frightened way, as if to keep me off.
left off - alas! it was the tune that never DOES leave off - was ‘Peggotty!’ I cried to her.

She cried, ‘My darling boy!’ and we both burst into tears, bim - he looked the queerest object I ever beheld.
and were locked in one another’s arms. ‘What name was it, as I wrote up in the cart, sir?’ said Mr.
What extravagances she committed; what laughing and Barkis, with a slow rheumatic smile.
crying over me; what pride she showed, what joy, what sor- ‘Ah! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave talks about that mat-
row that she whose pride and joy I might have been, could ter, hadn’t we?’
never hold me in a fond embrace; I have not the heart to tell. ‘I was willin’ a long time, sir?’ said Mr. Barkis.
I was troubled with no misgiving that it was young in me to ‘A long time,’ said I.
respond to her emotions. I had never laughed and cried in ‘And I don’t regret it,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Do you remem-
all my life, I dare say - not even to her - more freely than I ber what you told me once, about her making all the apple
did that morning. parsties and doing all the cooking?’
‘Barkis will be so glad,’ said Peggotty, wiping her eyes ‘Yes, very well,’ I returned.
with her apron, ‘that it’ll do him more good than pints of ‘It was as true,’ said Mr. Barkis, ‘as turnips is. It was as
liniment. May I go and tell him you are here? Will you come true,’ said Mr. Barkis, nodding his nightcap, which was his
up and see him, my dear?’ only means of emphasis, ‘as taxes is. And nothing’s truer
Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the than them.’
room as easily as she meant to, for as often as she got to the Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to
door and looked round at me, she came back again to have this result of his reflections in bed; and I gave it.
another laugh and another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to ‘Nothing’s truer than them,’ repeated Mr. Barkis; ‘a man
make the matter easier, I went upstairs with her; and having as poor as I am, finds that out in his mind when he’s laid up.
waited outside for a minute, while she said a word of prepa- I’m a very poor man, sir!’
ration to Mr. Barkis, presented myself before that invalid. ‘I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis.’
He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too ‘A very poor man, indeed I am,’ said Mr. Barkis.
rheumatic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from un-
shake the tassel on the top of his nightcap, which I did most der the bedclothes, and with a purposeless uncertain grasp
cordially. When I sat down by the side of the bed, he said took hold of a stick which was loosely tied to the side of
that it did him a world of good to feel as if he was driv- the bed. After some poking about with this instrument, in
ing me on the Blunderstone road again. As he lay in bed, the course of which his face assumed a variety of distracted
face upward, and so covered, with that exception, that he expressions, Mr. Barkis poked it against a box, an end of
seemed to be nothing but a face - like a conventional cheru- which had been visible to me all the time. Then his face be-

came composed. ing racked him in every joint; but while Peggotty’s eyes
‘Old clothes,’ said Mr. Barkis. were full of compassion for him, she said his generous im-
‘Oh!’ said I. pulse would do him good, and it was better not to check it.
‘I wish it was Money, sir,’ said Mr. Barkis. So he groaned on, until he had got into bed again, suffering,
‘I wish it was, indeed,’ said I. I have no doubt, a martyrdom; and then called us in, pre-
‘But it AIN’T,’ said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as tending to have just woke up from a refreshing sleep, and to
wide as he possibly could. produce a guinea from under his pillow. His satisfaction in
I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis, which happy imposition on us, and in having preserved the
turning his eyes more gently to his wife, said: impenetrable secret of the box, appeared to be a sufficient
‘She’s the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis. All compensation to him for all his tortures.
the praise that anyone can give to C. P. Barkis, she deserves, I prepared Peggotty for Steerforth’s arrival and it was
and more! My dear, you’ll get a dinner today, for company; not long before he came. I am persuaded she knew no dif-
something good to eat and drink, will you?’ ference between his having been a personal benefactor of
I should have protested against this unnecessary dem- hers, and a kind friend to me, and that she would have re-
onstration in my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the ceived him with the utmost gratitude and devotion in any
opposite side of the bed, extremely anxious I should not. So case. But his easy, spirited good humour; his genial manner,
I held my peace. his handsome looks, his natural gift of adapting himself to
‘I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my whomsoever he pleased, and making direct, when he cared
dear,’ said Mr. Barkis, ‘but I’m a little tired. If you and Mr. to do it, to the main point of interest in anybody’s heart;
David will leave me for a short nap, I’ll try and find it when bound her to him wholly in five minutes. His manner to me,
I wake.’ alone, would have won her. But, through all these causes
We left the room, in compliance with this request. When combined, I sincerely believe she had a kind of adoration for
we got outside the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. him before he left the house that night.
Barkis, being now ‘a little nearer’ than he used to be, always He stayed there with me to dinner - if I were to say will-
resorted to this same device before producing a single coin ingly, I should not half express how readily and gaily. He
from his store; and that he endured unheard-of agonies in went into Mr. Barkis’s room like light and air, brightening
crawling out of bed alone, and taking it from that unlucky and refreshing it as if he were healthy weather. There was
box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering suppressed no noise, no effort, no consciousness, in anything he did;
groans of the most dismal nature, as this magpie proceed- but in everything an indescribable lightness, a seeming im-

possibility of doing anything else, or doing anything better, wasteful careless course of winning what was worthless to
which was so graceful, so natural, and agreeable, that it him, and next minute thrown away - I say, if anyone had
overcomes me, even now, in the remembrance. told me such a lie that night, I wonder in what manner of re-
We made merry in the little parlour, where the Book of ceiving it my indignation would have found a vent! Probably
Martyrs, unthumbed since my time, was laid out upon the only in an increase, had that been possible, of the romantic
desk as of old, and where I now turned over its terrific pic- feelings of fidelity and friendship with which I walked be-
tures, remembering the old sensations they had awakened, side him, over the dark wintry sands towards the old boat;
but not feeling them. When Peggotty spoke of what she the wind sighing around us even more mournfully, than it
called my room, and of its being ready for me at night, and had sighed and moaned upon the night when I first dark-
of her hoping I would occupy it, before I could so much as ened Mr. Peggotty’s door.
look at Steerforth, hesitating, he was possessed of the whole ‘This is a wild kind of place, Steerforth, is it not?’
case. ‘Dismal enough in the dark,’ he said: ‘and the sea roars as
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’ll sleep here, while we stay, and if it were hungry for us. Is that the boat, where I see a light
I shall sleep at the hotel.’ yonder?’ ‘That’s the boat,’ said I.
‘But to bring you so far,’ I returned, ‘and to separate, ‘And it’s the same I saw this morning,’ he returned. ‘I
seems bad companionship, Steerforth.’ came straight to it, by instinct, I suppose.’
‘Why, in the name of Heaven, where do you naturally be- We said no more as we approached the light, but made
long?’ he said. ‘What is ‘seems’, compared to that?’ It was softly for the door. I laid my hand upon the latch; and whis-
settled at once. pering Steerforth to keep close to me, went in.
He maintained all his delightful qualities to the last, un- A murmur of voices had been audible on the outside, and,
til we started forth, at eight o’clock, for Mr. Peggotty’s boat. at the moment of our entrance, a clapping of hands: which
Indeed, they were more and more brightly exhibited as the latter noise, I was surprised to see, proceeded from the gen-
hours went on; for I thought even then, and I have no doubt erally disconsolate Mrs. Gummidge. But Mrs. Gummidge
now, that the consciousness of success in his determination was not the only person there who was unusually excited.
to please, inspired him with a new delicacy of perception, Mr. Peggotty, his face lighted up with uncommon satisfac-
and made it, subtle as it was, more easy to him. If anyone tion, and laughing with all his might, held his rough arms
had told me, then, that all this was a brilliant game, played wide open, as if for little Em’ly to run into them; Ham, with
for the excitement of the moment, for the employment of a mixed expression in his face of admiration, exultation,
high spirits, in the thoughtless love of superiority, in a mere and a lumbering sort of bashfulness that sat upon him very

well, held little Em’ly by the hand, as if he were presenting Come here, my little witch! There’s Mas’r Davy’s friend, my
her to Mr. Peggotty; little Em’ly herself, blushing and shy, dear! There’s the gent’lman as you’ve heerd on, Em’ly. He
but delighted with Mr. Peggotty’s delight, as her joyous eyes comes to see you, along with Mas’r Davy, on the brightest
expressed, was stopped by our entrance (for she saw us first) night of your uncle’s life as ever was or will be, Gorm the
in the very act of springing from Ham to nestle in Mr. Peg- t’other one, and horroar for it!’
gotty’s embrace. In the first glimpse we had of them all, and After delivering this speech all in a breath, and with ex-
at the moment of our passing from the dark cold night into traordinary animation and pleasure, Mr. Peggotty put one
the warm light room, this was the way in which they were of his large hands rapturously on each side of his niece’s
all employed: Mrs. Gummidge in the background, clapping face, and kissing it a dozen times, laid it with a gentle pride
her hands like a madwoman. and love upon his broad chest, and patted it as if his hand
The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by our had been a lady’s. Then he let her go; and as she ran into the
going in, that one might have doubted whether it had ever little chamber where I used to sleep, looked round upon us,
been. I was in the midst of the astonished family, face to quite hot and out of breath with his uncommon satisfac-
face with Mr. Peggotty, and holding out my hand to him, tion.
when Ham shouted: ‘If you two gent’lmen - gent’lmen growed now, and such
‘Mas’r Davy! It’s Mas’r Davy!’ gent’lmen -’ said Mr. Peggotty.
In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another, ‘So th’ are, so th’ are!’ cried Ham. ‘Well said! So th’ are.
and asking one another how we did, and telling one another Mas’r Davy bor’ - gent’lmen growed - so th’ are!’
how glad we were to meet, and all talking at once. Mr. Peg- ‘If you two gent’lmen, gent’lmen growed,’ said Mr. Peg-
gotty was so proud and overjoyed to see us, that he did not gotty, ‘don’t ex-cuse me for being in a state of mind, when
know what to say or do, but kept over and over again shak- you understand matters, I’ll arks your pardon. Em’ly, my
ing hands with me, and then with Steerforth, and then with dear! - She knows I’m a going to tell,’ here his delight broke
me, and then ruffling his shaggy hair all over his head, and out again, ‘and has made off. Would you be so good as look
laughing with such glee and triumph, that it was a treat to arter her, Mawther, for a minute?’
see him. Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.
‘Why, that you two gent’lmen - gent’lmen growed - ‘If this ain’t,’ said Mr. Peggotty, sitting down among us
should come to this here roof tonight, of all nights in my by the fire, ‘the brightest night o’ my life, I’m a shellfish -
life,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘is such a thing as never happened biled too - and more I can’t say. This here little Em’ly, sir,’ in
afore, I do rightly believe! Em’ly, my darling, come here! a low voice to Steerforth, ‘- her as you see a blushing here

just now -’ an. Not much of a person to look at, he warn’t,’ said Mr.
Steerforth only nodded; but with such a pleased ex- Peggotty, ‘something o’ my own build - rough - a good deal
pression of interest, and of participation in Mr. Peggotty’s o’ the sou’-wester in him - wery salt - but, on the whole, a
feelings, that the latter answered him as if he had spoken. honest sort of a chap, with his art in the right place.’
‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘That’s her, and so she is. I thought I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the
Thankee, sir.’ extent to which he sat grinning at us now.
Ham nodded to me several times, as if he would have ‘What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and do,’ said Mr.
said so too. Peggotty, with his face one high noon of enjoyment, ‘but he
‘This here little Em’ly of ours,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘has loses that there art of his to our little Em’ly. He follers her
been, in our house, what I suppose (I’m a ignorant man, about, he makes hisself a sort o’ servant to her, he loses in a
but that’s my belief) no one but a little bright-eyed creetur great measure his relish for his wittles, and in the long-run
can be in a house. She ain’t my child; I never had one; but I he makes it clear to me wot’s amiss. Now I could wish my-
couldn’t love her more. You understand! I couldn’t do it!’ self, you see, that our little Em’ly was in a fair way of being
‘I quite understand,’ said Steerforth. married. I could wish to see her, at all ewents, under articles
‘I know you do, sir,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘and thankee to a honest man as had a right to defend her. I don’t know
again. Mas’r Davy, he can remember what she was; you may how long I may live, or how soon I may die; but I know that
judge for your own self what she is; but neither of you can’t if I was capsized, any night, in a gale of wind in Yarmouth
fully know what she has been, is, and will be, to my loving Roads here, and was to see the town-lights shining for the
art. I am rough, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I am as rough as last time over the rollers as I couldn’t make no head against,
a Sea Porkypine; but no one, unless, mayhap, it is a wom- I could go down quieter for thinking ‘There’s a man ashore
an, can know, I think, what our little Em’ly is to me. And there, iron-true to my little Em’ly, God bless her, and no
betwixt ourselves,’ sinking his voice lower yet, ‘that wom- wrong can touch my Em’ly while so be as that man lives.‘‘
an’s name ain’t Missis Gummidge neither, though she has Mr. Peggotty, in simple earnestness, waved his right
a world of merits.’ Mr. Peggotty ruffled his hair again, with arm, as if he were waving it at the town-lights for the last
both hands, as a further preparation for what he was going time, and then, exchanging a nod with Ham, whose eye he
to say, and went on, with a hand upon each of his knees: caught, proceeded as before.
‘There was a certain person as had know’d our Em’ly, ‘Well! I counsels him to speak to Em’ly. He’s big enough,
from the time when her father was drownded; as had seen but he’s bashfuller than a little un, and he don’t like. So I
her constant; when a babby, when a young gal, when a wom- speak. ‘What! Him!’ says Em’ly. ‘Him that I’ve know’d so

intimate so many years, and like so much. Oh, Uncle! I nev- like a play, and you come in. Theer! the murder’s out!’ said
er can have him. He’s such a good fellow!’ I gives her a kiss, Mr. Peggotty - ‘You come in! It took place this here present
and I says no more to her than, ‘My dear, you’re right to hour; and here’s the man that’ll marry her, the minute she’s
speak out, you’re to choose for yourself, you’re as free as a out of her time.’
little bird.’ Then I aways to him, and I says, ‘I wish it could Ham staggered, as well he might, under the blow Mr.
have been so, but it can’t. But you can both be as you was, Peggotty dealt him in his unbounded joy, as a mark of
and wot I say to you is, Be as you was with her, like a man.’ confidence and friendship; but feeling called upon to say
He says to me, a-shaking of my hand, ‘I will!’ he says. And something to us, he said, with much faltering and great dif-
he was - honourable and manful - for two year going on, ficulty:
and we was just the same at home here as afore.’ ‘She warn’t no higher than you was, Mas’r Davy - when
Mr. Peggotty’s face, which had varied in its expression you first come - when I thought what she’d grow up to be.
with the various stages of his narrative, now resumed all its I see her grown up - gent’lmen - like a flower. I’d lay down
former triumphant delight, as he laid a hand upon my knee my life for her - Mas’r Davy - Oh! most content and cheer-
and a hand upon Steerforth’s (previously wetting them ful! She’s more to me - gent’lmen - than - she’s all to me that
both, for the greater emphasis of the action), and divided ever I can want, and more than ever I - than ever I could
the following speech between us: say. I - I love her true. There ain’t a gent’lman in all the
‘All of a sudden, one evening - as it might be tonight - land - nor yet sailing upon all the sea - that can love his lady
comes little Em’ly from her work, and him with her! There more than I love her, though there’s many a common man
ain’t so much in that, you’ll say. No, because he takes care - would say better - what he meant.’
on her, like a brother, arter dark, and indeed afore dark, and I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow as Ham
at all times. But this tarpaulin chap, he takes hold of her was now, trembling in the strength of what he felt for the
hand, and he cries out to me, joyful, ‘Look here! This is to pretty little creature who had won his heart. I thought the
be my little wife!’ And she says, half bold and half shy, and simple confidence reposed in us by Mr. Peggotty and by
half a laughing and half a crying, ‘Yes, Uncle! If you please.’ himself, was, in itself, affecting. I was affected by the sto-
- If I please!’ cried Mr. Peggotty, rolling his head in an ec- ry altogether. How far my emotions were influenced by the
stasy at the idea; ‘Lord, as if I should do anythink else! - ‘If recollections of my childhood, I don’t know. Whether I had
you please, I am steadier now, and I have thought better of it, come there with any lingering fancy that I was still to love
and I’ll be as good a little wife as I can to him, for he’s a dear, little Em’ly, I don’t know. I know that I was filled with plea-
good fellow!’ Then Missis Gummidge, she claps her hands sure by all this; but, at first, with an indescribably sensitive

pleasure, that a very little would have changed to pain. ing. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which
Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch the pre- arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all
vailing chord among them with any skill, I should have before him - and little Em’ly’s eyes were fastened on him
made a poor hand of it. But it depended upon Steerforth; all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adven-
and he did it with such address, that in a few minutes we ture of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if
were all as easy and as happy as it was possible to be. the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us - and little
‘Mr. Peggotty,’ he said, ‘you are a thoroughly good fel- Em’ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds,
low, and deserve to be as happy as you are tonight. My hand and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympa-
upon it! Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand upon that, thy with what was so pleasant and light-hearted. He got Mr.
too! Daisy, stir the fire, and make it a brisk one! and Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, ‘When the stormy winds
Peggotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to come do blow, do blow, do blow’; and he sang a sailor’s song him-
back (for whom I vacate this seat in the corner), I shall go. self, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost
Any gap at your fireside on such a night - such a gap least of fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the
all - I wouldn’t make, for the wealth of the Indies!’ house, and murmuring low through our unbroken silence,
So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little was there to listen.
Em’ly. At first little Em’ly didn’t like to come, and then Ham As to Mrs. Gummidge, he roused that victim of despon-
went. Presently they brought her to the fireside, very much dency with a success never attained by anyone else (so Mr.
confused, and very shy, - but she soon became more assured Peggotty informed me), since the decease of the old one. He
when she found how gently and respectfully Steerforth left her so little leisure for being miserable, that she said
spoke to her; how skilfully he avoided anything that would next day she thought she must have been bewitched.
embarrass her; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or
ships, and tides, and fish; how he referred to me about the the conversation. When little Em’ly grew more courageous,
time when he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House; how and talked (but still bashfully) across the fire to me, of our
delighted he was with the boat and all belonging to it; how old wanderings upon the beach, to pick up shells and peb-
lightly and easily he carried on, until he brought us, by de- bles; and when I asked her if she recollected how I used
grees, into a charmed circle, and we were all talking away to be devoted to her; and when we both laughed and red-
without any reserve. dened, casting these looks back on the pleasant old times,
Em’ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, so unreal to look at now; he was silent and attentive, and
and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charm- observed us thoughtfully. She sat, at this time, and all the

evening, on the old locker in her old little corner by the fire You may skirmish with Miss Dartle, or try to hide your
- Ham beside her, where I used to sit. I could not satisfy my- sympathies in jest from me, but I know better. When I see
self whether it was in her own little tormenting way, or in a how perfectly you understand them, how exquisitely you
maidenly reserve before us, that she kept quite close to the can enter into happiness like this plain fisherman’s, or hu-
wall, and away from him; but I observed that she did so, all mour a love like my old nurse’s, I know that there is not a joy
the evening. or sorrow, not an emotion, of such people, that can be indif-
As I remember, it was almost midnight when we took our ferent to you. And I admire and love you for it, Steerforth,
leave. We had had some biscuit and dried fish for supper, twenty times the more!’
and Steerforth had produced from his pocket a full flask He stopped, and, looking in my face, said, ‘Daisy, I be-
of Hollands, which we men (I may say we men, now, with- lieve you are in earnest, and are good. I wish we all were!’
out a blush) had emptied. We parted merrily; and as they Next moment he was gaily singing Mr. Peggotty’s song, as
all stood crowded round the door to light us as far as they we walked at a round pace back to Yarmouth.
could upon our road, I saw the sweet blue eyes of little Em’ly
peeping after us, from behind Ham, and heard her soft voice
calling to us to be careful how we went.
‘A most engaging little Beauty!’ said Steerforth, taking
my arm. ‘Well! It’s a quaint place, and they are quaint com-
pany, and it’s quite a new sensation to mix with them.’
‘How fortunate we are, too,’ I returned, ‘to have arrived
to witness their happiness in that intended marriage! I nev-
er saw people so happy. How delightful to see it, and to be
made the sharers in their honest joy, as we have been!’
‘That’s rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl; isn’t
he?’ said Steerforth.
He had been so hearty with him, and with them all, that
I felt a shock in this unexpected and cold reply. But turning
quickly upon him, and seeing a laugh in his eyes, I an-
swered, much relieved:
‘Ah, Steerforth! It’s well for you to joke about the poor!

CHAPTER 22 any other means of excitement that presented itself freshly
to him; so none of his proceedings surprised me.
Another cause of our being sometimes apart, was, that I
had naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstone, and
SOME OLD SCENES, AND revisiting the old familiar scenes of my childhood; while
Steerforth, after being there once, had naturally no great
SOME NEW PEOPLE interest in going there again. Hence, on three or four days
that I can at once recall, we went our several ways after an
early breakfast, and met again at a late dinner. I had no idea
how he employed his time in the interval, beyond a general
knowledge that he was very popular in the place, and had
S teerforth and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that

part of the country. We were very much together, I need
not say; but occasionally we were asunder for some hours
twenty means of actively diverting himself where another
man might not have found one.
For my own part, my occupation in my solitary pil-
at a time. He was a good sailor, and I was but an indifferent grimages was to recall every yard of the old road as I went
one; and when he went out boating with Mr. Peggotty, which along it, and to haunt the old spots, of which I never tired. I
was a favourite amusement of his, I generally remained haunted them, as my memory had often done, and lingered
ashore. My occupation of Peggotty’s spare-room put a con- among them as my younger thoughts had lingered when
straint upon me, from which he was free: for, knowing how I was far away. The grave beneath the tree, where both my
assiduously she attended on Mr. Barkis all day, I did not parents lay - on which I had looked out, when it was my
like to remain out late at night; whereas Steerforth, lying at father’s only, with such curious feelings of compassion, and
the Inn, had nothing to consult but his own humour. Thus by which I had stood, so desolate, when it was opened to
it came about, that I heard of his making little treats for receive my pretty mother and her baby - the grave which
the fishermen at Mr. Peggotty’s house of call, ‘The Willing Peggotty’s own faithful care had ever since kept neat, and
Mind’, after I was in bed, and of his being afloat, wrapped made a garden of, I walked near, by the hour. It lay a little off
in fishermen’s clothes, whole moonlight nights, and com- the churchyard path, in a quiet corner, not so far removed
ing back when the morning tide was at flood. By this time, but I could read the names upon the stone as I walked to
however, I knew that his restless nature and bold spirits de- and fro, startled by the sound of the church-bell when it
lighted to find a vent in rough toil and hard weather, as in struck the hour, for it was like a departed voice to me. My

reflections at these times were always associated with the and especially when Steerforth and I were happily seated
figure I was to make in life, and the distinguished things I over our dinner by a blazing fire, it was delicious to think
was to do. My echoing footsteps went to no other tune, but of having been there. So it was, though in a softened degree,
were as constant to that as if I had come home to build my when I went to my neat room at night; and, turning over the
castles in the air at a living mother’s side. leaves of the crocodile-book (which was always there, upon
There were great changes in my old home. The ragged a little table), remembered with a grateful heart how blest I
nests, so long deserted by the rooks, were gone; and the was in having such a friend as Steerforth, such a friend as
trees were lopped and topped out of their remembered Peggotty, and such a substitute for what I had lost as my ex-
shapes. The garden had run wild, and half the windows cellent and generous aunt.
of the house were shut up. It was occupied, but only by a MY nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from
poor lunatic gentleman, and the people who took care of these long walks, was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat
him. He was always sitting at my little window, looking out between the town and the sea, which I could make straight
into the churchyard; and I wondered whether his rambling across, and so save myself a considerable circuit by the high
thoughts ever went upon any of the fancies that used to oc- road. Mr. Peggotty’s house being on that waste-place, and
cupy mine, on the rosy mornings when I peeped out of that not a hundred yards out of my track, I always looked in as I
same little window in my night-clothes, and saw the sheep went by. Steerforth was pretty sure to be there expecting me,
quietly feeding in the light of the rising sun. and we went on together through the frosty air and gather-
Our old neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Grayper, were gone to ing fog towards the twinkling lights of the town.
South America, and the rain had made its way through the One dark evening, when I was later than usual - for I had,
roof of their empty house, and stained the outer walls. Mr. that day, been making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as
Chillip was married again to a tall, raw-boned, high-nosed we were now about to return home - I found him alone in
wife; and they had a weazen little baby, with a heavy head Mr. Peggotty’s house, sitting thoughtfully before the fire.
that it couldn’t hold up, and two weak staring eyes, with He was so intent upon his own reflections that he was quite
which it seemed to be always wondering why it had ever unconscious of my approach. This, indeed, he might eas-
been born. ily have been if he had been less absorbed, for footsteps
It was with a singular jumble of sadness and pleasure fell noiselessly on the sandy ground outside; but even my
that I used to linger about my native place, until the red- entrance failed to rouse him. I was standing close to him,
dening winter sun admonished me that it was time to start looking at him; and still, with a heavy brow, he was lost in
on my returning walk. But, when the place was left behind, his meditations.

He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoul- amazed me. He was more unlike himself than I could have
der, that he made me start too. supposed possible.
‘You come upon me,’ he said, almost angrily, ‘like a re- ‘It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of
proachful ghost!’ a nephew,’ he said, getting up and leaning moodily against
‘I was obliged to announce myself, somehow,’ I replied. the chimney-piece, with his face towards the fire, ‘than to
‘Have I called you down from the stars?’ be myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser, and
‘No,’ he answered. ‘No.’ be the torment to myself that I have been, in this Devil’s
‘Up from anywhere, then?’ said I, taking my seat near bark of a boat, within the last half-hour!’
him. I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first
‘I was looking at the pictures in the fire,’ he returned. I could only observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his
‘But you are spoiling them for me,’ said I, as he stirred head upon his hand, and looking gloomily down at the fire.
it quickly with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it At length I begged him, with all the earnestness I felt, to tell
a train of red-hot sparks that went careering up the little me what had occurred to cross him so unusually, and to let
chimney, and roaring out into the air. me sympathize with him, if I could not hope to advise him.
‘You would not have seen them,’ he returned. ‘I detest Before I had well concluded, he began to laugh - fretfully at
this mongrel time, neither day nor night. How late you are! first, but soon with returning gaiety.
Where have you been?’ ‘Tut, it’s nothing, Daisy! nothing!’ he replied. ‘I told you
‘I have been taking leave of my usual walk,’ said I. at the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself, some-
‘And I have been sitting here,’ said Steerforth, glancing times. I have been a nightmare to myself, just now - must
round the room, ‘thinking that all the people we found so have had one, I think. At odd dull times, nursery tales come
glad on the night of our coming down, might - to judge up into the memory, unrecognized for what they are. I be-
from the present wasted air of the place - be dispersed, or lieve I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who
dead, or come to I don’t know what harm. David, I wish to ‘didn’t care’, and became food for lions - a grander kind of
God I had had a judicious father these last twenty years!’ going to the dogs, I suppose. What old women call the hor-
‘My dear Steerforth, what is the matter?’ rors, have been creeping over me from head to foot. I have
‘I wish with all my soul I had been better guided!’ he been afraid of myself.’
exclaimed. ‘I wish with all my soul I could guide myself ‘You are afraid of nothing else, I think,’ said I.
better!’ ‘Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of
There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite too,’ he answered. ‘Well! So it goes by! I am not about to be

hipped again, David; but I tell you, my good fellow, once ‘So we agreed,’ I returned. ‘And our places by the coach
more, that it would have been well for me (and for more are taken, you know.’
than me) if I had had a steadfast and judicious father!’ ‘Ay! there’s no help for it, I suppose,’ said Steerforth. ‘I
His face was always full of expression, but I never saw have almost forgotten that there is anything to do in the
it express such a dark kind of earnestness as when he said world but to go out tossing on the sea here. I wish there was
these words, with his glance bent on the fire. not.’
‘So much for that!’ he said, making as if he tossed some- ‘As long as the novelty should last,’ said I, laughing.
thing light into the air, with his hand. ‘‘Why, being gone, I ‘Like enough,’ he returned; ‘though there’s a sarcas-
am a man again,’ like Macbeth. And now for dinner! If I tic meaning in that observation for an amiable piece of
have not (Macbeth-like) broken up the feast with most ad- innocence like my young friend. Well! I dare say I am a ca-
mired disorder, Daisy.’ pricious fellow, David. I know I am; but while the iron is hot,
‘But where are they all, I wonder!’ said I. I can strike it vigorously too. I could pass a reasonably good
‘God knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘After strolling to the ferry examination already, as a pilot in these waters, I think.’
looking for you, I strolled in here and found the place de- ‘Mr. Peggotty says you are a wonder,’ I returned.
serted. That set me thinking, and you found me thinking.’ ‘A nautical phenomenon, eh?’ laughed Steerforth.
The advent of Mrs. Gummidge with a basket, explained ‘Indeed he does, and you know how truly; I know how
how the house had happened to be empty. She had hurried ardent you are in any pursuit you follow, and how easily
out to buy something that was needed, against Mr. Peggot- you can master it. And that amazes me most in you, Steer-
ty’s return with the tide; and had left the door open in the forth- that you should be contented with such fitful uses of
meanwhile, lest Ham and little Em’ly, with whom it was an your powers.’
early night, should come home while she was gone. Steer- ‘Contented?’ he answered, merrily. ‘I am never contented,
forth, after very much improving Mrs. Gummidge’s spirits except with your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to fitful-
by a cheerful salutation and a jocose embrace, took my arm, ness, I have never learnt the art of binding myself to any of
and hurried me away. the wheels on which the Ixions of these days are turning
He had improved his own spirits, no less than Mrs. Gum- round and round. I missed it somehow in a bad apprentice-
midge’s, for they were again at their usual flow, and he was ship, and now don’t care about it. - You know I have bought
full of vivacious conversation as we went along. a boat down here?’
‘And so,’ he said, gaily, ‘we abandon this buccaneer life ‘What an extraordinary fellow you are, Steerforth!’ I ex-
tomorrow, do we?’ claimed, stopping - for this was the first I had heard of it.

‘When you may never care to come near the place again!’ some difference between him and his mother might have
‘I don’t know that,’ he returned. ‘I have taken a fancy led to his being in the frame of mind in which I had found
to the place. At all events,’ walking me briskly on, ‘I have him at the solitary fireside. I hinted so.
bought a boat that was for sale - a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says; ‘Oh no!’ he said, shaking his head, and giving a slight
and so she is - and Mr. Peggotty will be master of her in my laugh. ‘Nothing of the sort! Yes. He is come down, that man
absence.’ of mine.’
‘Now I understand you, Steerforth!’ said I, exultingly. ‘The same as ever?’ said I.
‘You pretend to have bought it for yourself, but you have re- ‘The same as ever,’ said Steerforth. ‘Distant and quiet as
ally done so to confer a benefit on him. I might have known the North Pole. He shall see to the boat being fresh named.
as much at first, knowing you. My dear kind Steerforth, She’s the ‘Stormy Petrel’ now. What does Mr. Peggotty care
how can I tell you what I think of your generosity?’ for Stormy Petrels! I’ll have her christened again.’
‘Tush!’ he answered, turning red. ‘The less said, the bet- ‘By what name?’ I asked.
ter.’ ‘The ‘Little Em’ly”.’
‘Didn’t I know?’ cried I, ‘didn’t I say that there was not As he had continued to look steadily at me, I took it as a
a joy, or sorrow, or any emotion of such honest hearts that reminder that he objected to being extolled for his consid-
was indifferent to you?’ eration. I could not help showing in my face how much it
‘Aye, aye,’ he answered, ‘you told me all that. There let it pleased me, but I said little, and he resumed his usual smile,
rest. We have said enough!’ and seemed relieved.
Afraid of offending him by pursuing the subject when he ‘But see here,’ he said, looking before us, ‘where the origi-
made so light of it, I only pursued it in my thoughts as we nal little Em’ly comes! And that fellow with her, eh? Upon
went on at even a quicker pace than before. my soul, he’s a true knight. He never leaves her!’
‘She must be newly rigged,’ said Steerforth, ‘and I shall Ham was a boat-builder in these days, having improved a
leave Littimer behind to see it done, that I may know she is natural ingenuity in that handicraft, until he had become a
quite complete. Did I tell you Littimer had come down?’ skilled workman. He was in his working-dress, and looked
‘ No.’ rugged enough, but manly withal, and a very fit protector
‘Oh yes! came down this morning, with a letter from my for the blooming little creature at his side. Indeed, there
mother.’ was a frankness in his face, an honesty, and an undisguised
As our looks met, I observed that he was pale even to show of his pride in her, and his love for her, which were, to
his lips, though he looked very steadily at me. I feared that me, the best of good looks. I thought, as they came towards

us, that they were well matched even in that particular. ‘For no better reason, truly, than because I was thinking,’
She withdrew her hand timidly from his arm as we he said, after a pause, ‘of something like it, when it came by.
stopped to speak to them, and blushed as she gave it to Where the Devil did it come from, I wonder!’
Steerforth and to me. When they passed on, after we had ‘From the shadow of this wall, I think,’ said I, as we
exchanged a few words, she did not like to replace that emerged upon a road on which a wall abutted.
hand, but, still appearing timid and constrained, walked ‘It’s gone!’ he returned, looking over his shoulder. ‘And
by herself. I thought all this very pretty and engaging, and all ill go with it. Now for our dinner!’
Steerforth seemed to think so too, as we looked after them But he looked again over his shoulder towards the sea-
fading away in the light of a young moon. line glimmering afar off, and yet again. And he wondered
Suddenly there passed us - evidently following them - a about it, in some broken expressions, several times, in the
young woman whose approach we had not observed, but short remainder of our walk; and only seemed to forget
whose face I saw as she went by, and thought I had a faint it when the light of fire and candle shone upon us, seated
remembrance of. She was lightly dressed; looked bold, and warm and merry, at table.
haggard, and flaunting, and poor; but seemed, for the time, Littimer was there, and had his usual effect upon me.
to have given all that to the wind which was blowing, and to When I said to him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss
have nothing in her mind but going after them. As the dark Dartle were well, he answered respectfully (and of course
distant level, absorbing their figures into itself, left but itself respectably), that they were tolerably well, he thanked me,
visible between us and the sea and clouds, her figure disap- and had sent their compliments. This was all, and yet he
peared in like manner, still no nearer to them than before. seemed to me to say as plainly as a man could say: ‘You are
‘That is a black shadow to be following the girl,’ said very young, sir; you are exceedingly young.’
Steerforth, standing still; ‘what does it mean?’ We had almost finished dinner, when taking a step or
He spoke in a low voice that sounded almost strange to two towards the table, from the corner where he kept watch
Me. upon us, or rather upon me, as I felt, he said to his master:
‘She must have it in her mind to beg of them, I think,’ ‘I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Mowcher is down here.’
said I. ‘Who?’ cried Steerforth, much astonished.
‘A beggar would be no novelty,’ said Steerforth; ‘but it is ‘Miss Mowcher, sir.’
a strange thing that the beggar should take that shape to- ‘Why, what on earth does she do here?’ said Steerforth.
night.’ ‘It appears to be her native part of the country, sir. She in-
‘Why?’ I asked. forms me that she makes one of her professional visits here,

every year, sir. I met her in the street this afternoon, and she Steerforth, she was obliged to meet the finger half-way, and
wished to know if she might have the honour of waiting on lay her nose against it. Her chin, which was what is called
you after dinner, sir.’ a double chin, was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the
‘Do you know the Giantess in question, Daisy?’ inquired strings of her bonnet, bow and all. Throat she had none;
Steerforth. waist she had none; legs she had none, worth mentioning;
I was obliged to confess - I felt ashamed, even of being at for though she was more than full-sized down to where her
this disadvantage before Littimer - that Miss Mowcher and waist would have been, if she had had any, and though she
I were wholly unacquainted. terminated, as human beings generally do, in a pair of feet,
‘Then you shall know her,’ said Steerforth, ‘for she is one she was so short that she stood at a common-sized chair as
of the seven wonders of the world. When Miss Mowcher at a table, resting a bag she carried on the seat. This lady
comes, show her in.’ - dressed in an off-hand, easy style; bringing her nose and
I felt some curiosity and excitement about this lady, es- her forefinger together, with the difficulty I have described;
pecially as Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I standing with her head necessarily on one side, and, with
referred to her, and positively refused to answer any ques- one of her sharp eyes shut up, making an uncommonly
tion of which I made her the subject. I remained, therefore, knowing face - after ogling Steerforth for a few moments,
in a state of considerable expectation until the cloth had broke into a torrent of words.
been removed some half an hour, and we were sitting over ‘What! My flower!’ she pleasantly began, shaking her
our decanter of wine before the fire, when the door opened, large head at him. ‘You’re there, are you! Oh, you naughty
and Littimer, with his habitual serenity quite undisturbed, boy, fie for shame, what do you do so far away from home?
announced: Up to mischief, I’ll be bound. Oh, you’re a downy fellow,
‘Miss Mowcher!’ Steerforth, so you are, and I’m another, ain’t I? Ha, ha, ha!
I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still look- You’d have betted a hundred pound to five, now, that you
ing at the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long wouldn’t have seen me here, wouldn’t you? Bless you, man
while making her appearance, when, to my infinite aston- alive, I’m everywhere. I’m here and there, and where not,
ishment, there came waddling round a sofa which stood like the conjurer’s half-crown in the lady’s handkercher.
between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about forty or forty- Talking of handkerchers - and talking of ladies - what a
five, with a very large head and face, a pair of roguish grey comfort you are to your blessed mother, ain’t you, my dear
eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable herself boy, over one of my shoulders, and I don’t say which!’
to lay a finger archly against her snub nose, as she ogled Miss Mowcher untied her bonnet, at this passage of her

discourse, threw back the strings, and sat down, panting, mind! You’d like to know whether I stop her hair from fall-
on a footstool in front of the fire - making a kind of ar- ing off, or dye it, or touch up her complexion, or improve
bour of the dining table, which spread its mahogany shelter her eyebrows, wouldn’t you? And so you shall, my darling
above her head. - when I tell you! Do you know what my great grandfather’s
‘Oh my stars and what’s-their-names!’ she went on, name was?’
clapping a hand on each of her little knees, and glancing ‘No,’ said Steerforth.
shrewdly at me, ‘I’m of too full a habit, that’s the fact, Steer- ‘It was Walker, my sweet pet,’ replied Miss Mowcher,
forth. After a flight of stairs, it gives me as much trouble to ‘and he came of a long line of Walkers, that I inherit all the
draw every breath I want, as if it was a bucket of water. If Hookey estates from.’
you saw me looking out of an upper window, you’d think I I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowch-
was a fine woman, wouldn’t you?’ er’s wink except Miss Mowcher’s self-possession. She had a
‘I should think that, wherever I saw you,’ replied Steer- wonderful way too, when listening to what was said to her,
forth. or when waiting for an answer to what she had said herself,
‘Go along, you dog, do!’ cried the little creature, mak- of pausing with her head cunningly on one side, and one eye
ing a whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she turned up like a magpie’s. Altogether I was lost in amaze-
was wiping her face, ‘and don’t be impudent! But I give you ment, and sat staring at her, quite oblivious, I am afraid, of
my word and honour I was at Lady Mithers’s last week - the laws of politeness.
THERE’S a woman! How SHE wears! - and Mithers himself She had by this time drawn the chair to her side, and
came into the room where I was waiting for her - THERE’S was busily engaged in producing from the bag (plunging
a man! How HE wears! and his wig too, for he’s had it these in her short arm to the shoulder, at every dive) a number of
ten years - and he went on at that rate in the complimen- small bottles, sponges, combs, brushes, bits of flannel, lit-
tary line, that I began to think I should be obliged to ring tle pairs of curling-irons, and other instruments, which she
the bell. Ha! ha! ha! He’s a pleasant wretch, but he wants tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From this employment
principle.’ she suddenly desisted, and said to Steerforth, much to my
‘What were you doing for Lady Mithers?’ asked Steer- confusion:
forth. ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘That’s tellings, my blessed infant,’ she retorted, tapping ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Steerforth; ‘he wants to know
her nose again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her you.’
eyes like an imp of supernatural intelligence. ‘Never YOU ‘Well, then, he shall! I thought he looked as if he did!’

returned Miss Mowcher, waddling up to me, bag in hand, ain’t. You’d say so, if you saw his moustachios. Red by na-
and laughing on me as she came. ‘Face like a peach!’ stand- ture, black by art.’
ing on tiptoe to pinch my cheek as I sat. ‘Quite tempting! ‘By your art, of course,’ said Steerforth.
I’m very fond of peaches. Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Mowcher winked assent. ‘Forced to send for me.
Mr. Copperfield, I’m sure.’ Couldn’t help it. The climate affected his dye; it did very
I said that I congratulated myself on having the honour well in Russia, but it was no go here. You never saw such a
to make hers, and that the happiness was mutual. rusty Prince in all your born days as he was. Like old iron!’
‘Oh, my goodness, how polite we are!’ exclaimed Miss ‘Is that why you called him a humbug, just now?’ inquired
Mowcher, making a preposterous attempt to cover her large Steerforth.
face with her morsel of a hand. ‘What a world of gammon ‘Oh, you’re a broth of a boy, ain’t you?’ returned Miss
and spinnage it is, though, ain’t it!’ Mowcher, shaking her head violently. ‘I said, what a set of
This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the humbugs we were in general, and I showed you the scraps
morsel of a hand came away from the face, and buried itself, of the Prince’s nails to prove it. The Prince’s nails do more
arm and all, in the bag again. for me in private families of the genteel sort, than all my
‘What do you mean, Miss Mowcher?’ said Steerforth. talents put together. I always carry ‘em about. They’re the
‘Ha! ha! ha! What a refreshing set of humbugs we are, to best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts the Prince’s nails,
be sure, ain’t we, my sweet child?’ replied that morsel of a she must be all right. I give ‘em away to the young ladies.
woman, feeling in the bag with her head on one side and her They put ‘em in albums, I believe. Ha! ha! ha! Upon my life,
eye in the air. ‘Look here!’ taking something out. ‘Scraps ‘the whole social system’ (as the men call it when they make
of the Russian Prince’s nails. Prince Alphabet turned top- speeches in Parliament) is a system of Prince’s nails!’ said
sy-turvy, I call him, for his name’s got all the letters in it, this least of women, trying to fold her short arms, and nod-
higgledy-piggledy.’ ding her large head.
‘The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he?’ said Steer- Steerforth laughed heartily, and I laughed too. Miss
forth. Mowcher continuing all the time to shake her head (which
‘I believe you, my pet,’ replied Miss Mowcher. ‘I keep his was very much on one side), and to look into the air with
nails in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes.’ one eye, and to wink with the other.
‘He pays well, I hope?’ said Steerforth. ‘Well, well!’ she said, smiting her small knees, and rising,
‘Pays, as he speaks, my dear child - through the nose,’ re- ‘this is not business. Come, Steerforth, let’s explore the polar
plied Miss Mowcher. ‘None of your close shavers the Prince regions, and have it over.’

She then selected two or three of the little instruments, little brushes, began rubbing and scraping away with both
and a little bottle, and asked (to my surprise) if the table on the crown of Steerforth’s head in the busiest manner I
would bear. On Steerforth’s replying in the affirmative, she ever witnessed, talking all the time.
pushed a chair against it, and begging the assistance of my ‘There’s Charley Pyegrave, the duke’s son,’ she said. ‘You
hand, mounted up, pretty nimbly, to the top, as if it were a know Charley?’ peeping round into his face.
stage. ‘A little,’ said Steerforth.
‘If either of you saw my ankles,’ she said, when she was ‘What a man HE is! THERE’S a whisker! As to Charley’s
safely elevated, ‘say so, and I’ll go home and destroy my- legs, if they were only a pair (which they ain’t), they’d defy
self!’ competition. Would you believe he tried to do without me
‘I did not,’ said Steerforth. - in the Life-Guards, too?’
‘I did not,’ said I. ‘Mad!’ said Steerforth.
‘Well then,’ cried Miss Mowcher,’ I’ll consent to live. Now, ‘It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried,’ returned
ducky, ducky, ducky, come to Mrs. Bond and be killed.’ Miss Mowcher. ‘What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he
This was an invocation to Steerforth to place himself un- goes into a perfumer’s shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the
der her hands; who, accordingly, sat himself down, with his Madagascar Liquid.’
back to the table, and his laughing face towards me, and ‘Charley does?’ said Steerforth.
submitted his head to her inspection, evidently for no oth- ‘Charley does. But they haven’t got any of the Madagas-
er purpose than our entertainment. To see Miss Mowcher car Liquid.’
standing over him, looking at his rich profusion of brown ‘What is it? Something to drink?’ asked Steerforth.
hair through a large round magnifying glass, which she ‘To drink?’ returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his
took out of her pocket, was a most amazing spectacle. cheek. ‘To doctor his own moustachios with, you know.
‘You’re a pretty fellow!’ said Miss Mowcher, after a brief There was a woman in the shop - elderly female - quite a
inspection. ‘You’d be as bald as a friar on the top of your Griffin - who had never even heard of it by name. ‘Begging
head in twelve months, but for me. just half a minute, my pardon, sir,’ said the Griffin to Charley, ‘it’s not - not - not
young friend, and we’ll give you a polishing that shall keep ROUGE, is it?’ ‘Rouge,’ said Charley to the Griffin. ‘What
your curls on for the next ten years!’ the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with
With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little rouge?’ ‘No offence, sir,’ said the Griffin; ‘we have it asked
bottle on to one of the little bits of flannel, and, again im- for by so many names, I thought it might be.’ Now that, my
parting some of the virtues of that preparation to one of the child,’ continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing all the time as

busily as ever, ‘is another instance of the refreshing hum- Steerforth, addressing his eyes to mine. ‘Eh, Daisy?’
bug I was speaking of. I do something in that way myself ‘Yes, indeed,’ said I.
- perhaps a good deal - perhaps a little - sharp’s the word, my ‘Aha?’ cried the little creature, glancing sharply at my
dear boy - never mind!’ face, and then peeping round at Steerforth’s. ‘Umph?’
‘In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?’ said Steer- The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both
forth. of us, and the second like a question put to Steerforth only.
‘Put this and that together, my tender pupil,’ returned the She seemed to have found no answer to either, but contin-
wary Mowcher, touching her nose, ‘work it by the rule of Se- ued to rub, with her head on one side and her eye turned
crets in all trades, and the product will give you the desired up, as if she were looking for an answer in the air and were
result. I say I do a little in that way myself. One Dowager, confident of its appearing presently.
SHE calls it lip-salve. Another, SHE calls it gloves. Another, ‘A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?’ she cried, after a
SHE calls it tucker-edging. Another, SHE calls it a fan. I call pause, and still keeping the same look-out. ‘Aye, aye?’
it whatever THEY call it. I supply it for ‘em, but we keep up ‘No,’ said Steerforth, before I could reply. ‘Nothing of the
the trick so, to one another, and make believe with such a sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used - or I am much
face, that they’d as soon think of laying it on, before a whole mistaken - to have a great admiration for her.’
drawing-room, as before me. And when I wait upon ‘em, ‘Why, hasn’t he now?’ returned Miss Mowcher. ‘Is he
they’ll say to me sometimes - WITH IT ON - thick, and no fickle? Oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change
mistake - ‘How am I looking, Mowcher? Am I pale?’ Ha! ha! every hour, until Polly his passion requited? - Is her name
ha! ha! Isn’t THAT refreshing, my young friend!’ Polly?’
I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me
as she stood upon the dining table, intensely enjoying this with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted
refreshment, rubbing busily at Steerforth’s head, and wink- me for a moment.
ing at me over it. ‘No, Miss Mowcher,’ I replied. ‘Her name is Emily.’
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Such things are not much in demand here- ‘Aha?’ she cried exactly as before. ‘Umph? What a rattle I
abouts. That sets me off again! I haven’t seen a pretty woman am! Mr. Copperfield, ain’t I volatile?’
since I’ve been here, jemmy.’ Her tone and look implied something that was not
‘No?’ said Steerforth. agreeable to me in connexion with the subject. So I said, in
‘Not the ghost of one,’ replied Miss Mowcher. a graver manner than any of us had yet assumed: ‘She is as
‘We could show her the substance of one, I think?’ said virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to be married to a

most worthy and deserving man in her own station of life. I happy ever afterwards”; oughtn’t it? Ah! What’s that game
esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her for at forfeits? I love my love with an E, because she’s enticing; I
her good looks.’ hate her with an E, because she’s engaged. I took her to the
‘Well said!’ cried Steerforth. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Now I’ll sign of the exquisite, and treated her with an elopement, her
quench the curiosity of this little Fatima, my dear Daisy, by name’s Emily, and she lives in the east? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Cop-
leaving her nothing to guess at. She is at present appren- perfield, ain’t I volatile?’
ticed, Miss Mowcher, or articled, or whatever it may be, to Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and
Omer and Joram, Haberdashers, Milliners, and so forth, in not waiting for any reply, she continued, without drawing
this town. Do you observe? Omer and Joram. The promise breath:
of which my friend has spoken, is made and entered into ‘There! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched
with her cousin; Christian name, Ham; surname, Peggotty; up to perfection, you are, Steerforth. If I understand any
occupation, boat-builder; also of this town. She lives with noddle in the world, I understand yours. Do you hear me
a relative; Christian name, unknown; surname, Peggotty; when I tell you that, my darling? I understand yours,’ peep-
occupation, seafaring; also of this town. She is the pretti- ing down into his face. ‘Now you may mizzle, jemmy (as we
est and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire say at Court), and if Mr. Copperfield will take the chair I’ll
her - as my friend does - exceedingly. If it were not that I operate on him.’
might appear to disparage her Intended, which I know my ‘What do you say, Daisy?’ inquired Steerforth, laughing,
friend would not like, I would add, that to me she seems to and resigning his seat. ‘Will you be improved?’
be throwing herself away; that I am sure she might do bet- ‘Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening.’
ter; and that I swear she was born to be a lady.’ ‘Don’t say no,’ returned the little woman, looking at me
Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very with the aspect of a connoisseur; ‘a little bit more eyebrow?’
slowly and distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and ‘Thank you,’ I returned, ‘some other time.’
her eye in the air as if she were still looking for that answer. ‘Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the
When he ceased she became brisk again in an instant, and temple,’ said Miss Mowcher. ‘We can do it in a fortnight.’
rattled away with surprising volubility. ‘No, I thank you. Not at present.’
‘Oh! And that’s all about it, is it?’ she exclaimed, trim- ‘Go in for a tip,’ she urged. ‘No? Let’s get the scaffolding
ming his whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors, that up, then, for a pair of whiskers. Come!’
went glancing round his head in all directions. ‘Very well: I could not help blushing as I declined, for I felt we were
very well! Quite a long story. Ought to end ‘and they lived on my weak point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I

was not at present disposed for any decoration within the With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she wad-
range of her art, and that I was, for the time being, proof dled away, she waddled to the door, where she stopped to
against the blandishments of the small bottle which she inquire if she should leave us a lock of her hair. ‘Ain’t I vola-
held up before one eye to enforce her persuasions, said we tile?’ she added, as a commentary on this offer, and, with
would make a beginning on an early day, and requested the her finger on her nose, departed.
aid of my hand to descend from her elevated station. Thus Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible
assisted, she skipped down with much agility, and began to for me to help laughing too; though I am not sure I should
tie her double chin into her bonnet. have done so, but for this inducement. When we had had
‘The fee,’ said Steerforth, ‘is -’ our laugh quite out, which was after some time, he told
‘Five bob,’ replied Miss Mowcher, ‘and dirt cheap, my me that Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive connexion,
chicken. Ain’t I volatile, Mr. Copperfield?’ and made herself useful to a variety of people in a variety
I replied politely: ‘Not at all.’ But I thought she was rath- of ways. Some people trifled with her as a mere oddity, he
er so, when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin said; but she was as shrewdly and sharply observant as any-
pieman, caught them, dropped them in her pocket, and one he knew, and as long-headed as she was short-armed.
gave it a loud slap. He told me that what she had said of being here, and there,
‘That’s the Till!’ observed Miss Mowcher, standing at the and everywhere, was true enough; for she made little darts
chair again, and replacing in the bag a miscellaneous col- into the provinces, and seemed to pick up customers ev-
lection of little objects she had emptied out of it. ‘Have I got erywhere, and to know everybody. I asked him what her
all my traps? It seems so. It won’t do to be like long Ned disposition was: whether it was at all mischievous, and if
Beadwood, when they took him to church ‘to marry him to her sympathies were generally on the right side of things:
somebody’, as he says, and left the bride behind. Ha! ha! ha! but, not succeeding in attracting his attention to these
A wicked rascal, Ned, but droll! Now, I know I’m going to questions after two or three attempts, I forbore or forgot to
break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must repeat them. He told me instead, with much rapidity, a good
call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it. Good-bye, Mr. deal about her skill, and her profits; and about her being a
Copperfield! Take care of yourself, jockey of Norfolk! How I scientific cupper, if I should ever have occasion for her ser-
have been rattling on! It’s all the fault of you two wretches. I vice in that capacity.
forgive you! ‘Bob swore!’ - as the Englishman said for ‘Good She was the principal theme of our conversation during
night’, when he first learnt French, and thought it so like the evening: and when we parted for the night Steerforth
English. ‘Bob swore,’ my ducks!’ called after me over the banisters, ‘Bob swore!’ as I went

downstairs. hear!’
I was surprised, when I came to Mr. Barkis’s house, to ‘They were indeed, Ham. What did Em’ly do?’ ‘Says Em’ly,
find Ham walking up and down in front of it, and still more ‘Martha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?’ - for they had
surprised to learn from him that little Em’ly was inside. I sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer’s.’
naturally inquired why he was not there too, instead of pac- ‘I recollect her now!’ cried I, recalling one of the two
ing the streets by himself? girls I had seen when I first went there. ‘I recollect her quite
‘Why, you see, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined, in a hesitating well!’
manner, ‘Em’ly, she’s talking to some ‘un in here.’ ‘Martha Endell,’ said Ham. ‘Two or three year older than
‘I should have thought,’ said I, smiling, ‘that that was a Em’ly, but was at the school with her.’
reason for your being in here too, Ham.’ ‘I never heard her name,’ said I. ‘I didn’t mean to inter-
‘Well, Mas’r Davy, in a general way, so ‘t would be,’ he rupt you.’
returned; ‘but look’ee here, Mas’r Davy,’ lowering his voice, ‘For the matter o’ that, Mas’r Davy,’ replied Ham, ‘all’s
and speaking very gravely. ‘It’s a young woman, sir - a told a’most in them words, ‘Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake,
young woman, that Em’ly knowed once, and doen’t ought have a woman’s heart towards me. I was once like you!’ She
to know no more.’ wanted to speak to Em’ly. Em’ly couldn’t speak to her theer,
When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the for her loving uncle was come home, and he wouldn’t - no,
figure I had seen following them, some hours ago. Mas’r Davy,’ said Ham, with great earnestness, ‘he couldn’t,
‘It’s a poor wurem, Mas’r Davy,’ said Ham, ‘as is trod kind-natur’d, tender-hearted as he is, see them two together,
under foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The side by side, for all the treasures that’s wrecked in the sea.’
mowld o’ the churchyard don’t hold any that the folk shrink I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite
away from, more.’ as well as Ham.
‘Did I see her tonight, Ham, on the sand, after we met ‘So Em’ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper,’ he pursued,
you?’ ‘and gives it to her out o’ winder to bring here. ‘Show that,’
‘Keeping us in sight?’ said Ham. ‘It’s like you did, Mas’r she says, ‘to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she’ll set you down
Davy. Not that I know’d then, she was theer, sir, but along by her fire, for the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can
of her creeping soon arterwards under Em’ly’s little winder, come.’ By and by she tells me what I tell you, Mas’r Davy,
when she see the light come, and whispering ‘Em’ly, Em’ly, and asks me to bring her. What can I do? She doen’t ought
for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart towards me. I was to know any such, but I can’t deny her, when the tears is on
once like you!’ Those was solemn words, Mas’r Davy, fur to her face.’

He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and twice as loud as usual. Em’ly spoke first.
took out with great care a pretty little purse. ‘Martha wants,’ she said to Ham, ‘to go to London.’
‘And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face, ‘Why to London?’ returned Ham.
Mas’r Davy,’ said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl
palm of his hand, ‘how could I deny her when she give me with a mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of
this to carry for her - knowing what she brought it for? Such her holding any companionship with her whom he loved so
a toy as it is!’ said Ham, thoughtfully looking on it. ‘With well, which I have always remembered distinctly. They both
such a little money in it, Em’ly my dear.’ spoke as if she were ill; in a soft, suppressed tone that was
I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away plainly heard, although it hardly rose above a whisper.
again - for that was more satisfactory to me than saying any- ‘Better there than here,’ said a third voice aloud - Mar-
thing - and we walked up and down, for a minute or two, tha’s, though she did not move. ‘No one knows me there.
in silence. The door opened then, and Peggotty appeared, Everybody knows me here.’
beckoning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away, but ‘What will she do there?’ inquired Ham.
she came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him
I would have avoided the room where they all were, but for for a moment; then laid it down again, and curved her right
its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than arm about her neck, as a woman in a fever, or in an agony of
once. The door opening immediately into it, I found myself pain from a shot, might twist herself.
among them before I considered whither I was going. ‘She will try to do well,’ said little Em’ly. ‘You don’t know
The girl - the same I had seen upon the sands - was near what she has said to us. Does he - do they - aunt?’
the fire. She was sitting on the ground, with her head and Peggotty shook her head compassionately.
one arm lying on a chair. I fancied, from the disposition of ‘I’ll try,’ said Martha, ‘if you’ll help me away. I never can
her figure, that Em’ly had but newly risen from the chair, do worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh!’ with
and that the forlorn head might perhaps have been lying a dreadful shiver, ‘take me out of these streets, where the
on her lap. I saw but little of the girl’s face, over which her whole town knows me from a child!’
hair fell loose and scattered, as if she had been disordering As Em’ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in
it with her own hands; but I saw that she was young, and of it a little canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were
a fair complexion. Peggotty had been crying. So had little her purse, and made a step or two forward; but finding her
Em’ly. Not a word was spoken when we first went in; and mistake, came back to where he had retired near me, and
the Dutch clock by the dresser seemed, in the silence, to tick showed it to him.

‘It’s all yourn, Em’ly,’ I could hear him say. ‘I haven’t nowt often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought
in all the wureld that ain’t yourn, my dear. It ain’t of no de- to be far different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so
light to me, except for you!’ to you, when I should think of nothing but how to be grate-
The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away ful, and to make you happy!’
and went to Martha. What she gave her, I don’t know. I saw ‘You always make me so,’ said Ham, ‘my dear! I am happy
her stooping over her, and putting money in her bosom. She in the sight of you. I am happy, all day long, in the thoughts
whispered something, as she asked was that enough? ‘More of you.’
than enough,’ the other said, and took her hand and kissed ‘Ah! that’s not enough!’ she cried. ‘That is because you
it. are good; not because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been
Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl about her, a better fortune for you, if you had been fond of someone
covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly else - of someone steadier and much worthier than me, who
to the door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if was all bound up in you, and never vain and changeable
she would have uttered something or turned back; but no like me!’
word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretch- ‘Poor little tender-heart,’ said Ham, in a low voice. ‘Mar-
ed moaning in her shawl, she went away. tha has overset her, altogether.’
As the door closed, little Em’ly looked at us three in a ‘Please, aunt,’ sobbed Em’ly, ‘come here, and let me lay my
hurried manner and then hid her face in her hands, and fell head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable tonight, aunt! Oh, I
to sobbing. am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I know!’
‘Doen’t, Em’ly!’ said Ham, tapping her gently on the Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em’ly,
shoulder. ‘Doen’t, my dear! You doen’t ought to cry so, pret- with her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up
ty!’ most earnestly into her face.
‘Oh, Ham!’ she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, ‘I am ‘Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me! Ham, dear, try to help
not so good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the me! Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to
thankful heart, sometimes, I ought to have!’ help me! I want to be a better girl than I am. I want to feel
‘Yes, yes, you have, I’m sure,’ said Ham. a hundred times more thankful than I do. I want to feel
‘No! no! no!’ cried little Em’ly, sobbing, and shaking her more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of a good man,
head. ‘I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not and to lead a peaceful life. Oh me, oh me! Oh my heart, my
near!’ And still she cried, as if her heart would break. heart!’
‘I try your love too much. I know I do!’ she sobbed. ‘I’m She dropped her face on my old nurse’s breast, and, ceas-

ing this supplication, which in its agony and grief was half
a woman’s, half a child’s, as all her manner was (being, in CHAPTER 23
that, more natural, and better suited to her beauty, as I
thought, than any other manner could have been), wept si-
lently, while my old nurse hushed her like an infant.
She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her; now I CORROBORATE Mr.
talking encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her, un-
til she began to raise her head and speak to us. So we got on, DICK, AND CHOOSE
until she was able to smile, and then to laugh, and then to
sit up, half ashamed; while Peggotty recalled her stray ring- A PROFESSION
lets, dried her eyes, and made her neat again, lest her uncle
should wonder, when she got home, why his darling had
been crying.
I saw her do, that night, what I had never seen her do
before. I saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on
the cheek, and creep close to his bluff form as if it were her
W hen I awoke in the morning I thought very much of
little Em’ly, and her emotion last night, after Martha
had left. I felt as if I had come into the knowledge of those
best support. When they went away together, in the waning domestic weaknesses and tendernesses in a sacred confi-
moonlight, and I looked after them, comparing their depar- dence, and that to disclose them, even to Steerforth, would
ture in my mind with Martha’s, I saw that she held his arm be wrong. I had no gentler feeling towards anyone than to-
with both her hands, and still kept close to him. wards the pretty creature who had been my playmate, and
whom I have always been persuaded, and shall always be
persuaded, to my dying day, I then devotedly loved. The
repetition to any ears - even to Steerforth’s - of what she
had been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me
by an accident, I felt would be a rough deed, unworthy of
myself, unworthy of the light of our pure childhood, which
I always saw encircling her head. I made a resolution, there-
fore, to keep it in my own breast; and there it gave her image
a new grace.

While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth
from my aunt. As it contained matter on which I thought being unusually silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in
Steerforth could advise me as well as anyone, and on which wondering, within myself, when I should see the old places
I knew I should be delighted to consult him, I resolved to again, and what new changes might happen to me or them
make it a subject of discussion on our journey home. For in the meanwhile. At length Steerforth, becoming gay and
the present we had enough to do, in taking leave of all our talkative in a moment, as he could become anything he
friends. Mr. Barkis was far from being the last among them, liked at any moment, pulled me by the arm:
in his regret at our departure; and I believe would even ‘Find a voice, David. What about that letter you were
have opened the box again, and sacrificed another guinea, speaking of at breakfast?’
if it would have kept us eight-and-forty hours in Yarmouth. ‘Oh!’ said I, taking it out of my pocket. ‘It’s from my
Peggotty and all her family were full of grief at our going. aunt.’
The whole house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us ‘And what does she say, requiring consideration?’
good-bye; and there were so many seafaring volunteers in ‘Why, she reminds me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘that I came out
attendance on Steerforth, when our portmanteaux went to on this expedition to look about me, and to think a little.’
the coach, that if we had had the baggage of a regiment with ‘Which, of course, you have done?’
us, we should hardly have wanted porters to carry it. In a ‘Indeed I can’t say I have, particularly. To tell you the
word, we departed to the regret and admiration of all con- truth, I am afraid I have forgotten it.’
cerned, and left a great many people very sorry behind US. ‘Well! look about you now, and make up for your negli-
Do you stay long here, Littimer?’ said I, as he stood wait- gence,’ said Steerforth. ‘Look to the right, and you’ll see a
ing to see the coach start. flat country, with a good deal of marsh in it; look to the left,
‘No, sir,’ he replied; ‘probably not very long, sir.’ and you’ll see the same. Look to the front, and you’ll find
‘He can hardly say, just now,’ observed Steerforth, care- no difference; look to the rear, and there it is still.’ I laughed,
lessly. ‘He knows what he has to do, and he’ll do it.’ and replied that I saw no suitable profession in the whole
‘That I am sure he will,’ said I. prospect; which was perhaps to be attributed to its flatness.
Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgement of my ‘What says our aunt on the subject?’ inquired Steerforth,
good opinion, and I felt about eight years old. He touched glancing at the letter in my hand. ‘Does she suggest any-
it once more, wishing us a good journey; and we left him thing?’
standing on the pavement, as respectable a mystery as any ‘Why, yes,’ said I. ‘She asks me, here, if I think I should
pyramid in Egypt. like to be a proctor? What do you think of it?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ replied Steerforth, coolly. ‘You may ty and the Yarmouth boatmen having put off in a gale of
as well do that as anything else, I suppose?’ wind with an anchor and cable to the ‘Nelson’ Indiaman in
I could not help laughing again, at his balancing all call- distress; and you shall go there another day, and find them
ings and professions so equally; and I told him so. deep in the evidence, pro and con, respecting a clergyman
‘What is a proctor, Steerforth?’ said I. who has misbehaved himself; and you shall find the judge
‘Why, he is a sort of monkish attorney,’ replied Steerforth. in the nautical case, the advocate in the clergyman’s case, or
‘He is, to some faded courts held in Doctors’ Commons, - a contrariwise. They are like actors: now a man’s a judge, and
lazy old nook near St. Paul’s Churchyard - what solicitors are now he is not a judge; now he’s one thing, now he’s another;
to the courts of law and equity. He is a functionary whose now he’s something else, change and change about; but it’s
existence, in the natural course of things, would have termi- always a very pleasant, profitable little affair of private the-
nated about two hundred years ago. I can tell you best what atricals, presented to an uncommonly select audience.’
he is, by telling you what Doctors’ Commons is. It’s a little ‘But advocates and proctors are not one and the same?’
out-of-the-way place, where they administer what is called said I, a little puzzled. ‘Are they?’
ecclesiastical law, and play all kinds of tricks with obsolete ‘No,’ returned Steerforth, ‘the advocates are civilians -
old monsters of acts of Parliament, which three-fourths of men who have taken a doctor’s degree at college - which
the world know nothing about, and the other fourth sup- is the first reason of my knowing anything about it. The
poses to have been dug up, in a fossil state, in the days of the proctors employ the advocates. Both get very comfortable
Edwards. It’s a place that has an ancient monopoly in suits fees, and altogether they make a mighty snug little party.
about people’s wills and people’s marriages, and disputes On the whole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors’
among ships and boats.’ Commons kindly, David. They plume themselves on their
‘Nonsense, Steerforth!’ I exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to gentility there, I can tell you, if that’s any satisfaction.’
say that there is any affinity between nautical matters and I made allowance for Steerforth’s light way of treating
ecclesiastical matters?’ the subject, and, considering it with reference to the staid
‘I don’t, indeed, my dear boy,’ he returned; ‘but I mean to air of gravity and antiquity which I associated with that
say that they are managed and decided by the same set of ‘lazy old nook near St. Paul’s Churchyard’, did not feel in-
people, down in that same Doctors’ Commons. You shall disposed towards my aunt’s suggestion; which she left to my
go there one day, and find them blundering through half free decision, making no scruple of telling me that it had
the nautical terms in Young’s Dictionary, apropos of the occurred to her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in
‘Nancy’ having run down the ‘Sarah Jane’, or Mr. Peggot- Doctors’ Commons for the purpose of settling her will in

my favour. ‘I am sorry for it, too,’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose. ‘I
‘That’s a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at have had no peace of mind, Trot, since I have been here.’ Be-
all events,’ said Steerforth, when I mentioned it; ‘and one fore I could ask why, she told me.
deserving of all encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that ‘I am convinced,’ said my aunt, laying her hand with mel-
you take kindly to Doctors’ Commons.’ ancholy firmness on the table, ‘that Dick’s character is not a
I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth character to keep the donkeys off. I am confident he wants
that my aunt was in town awaiting me (as I found from her strength of purpose. I ought to have left Janet at home, in-
letter), and that she had taken lodgings for a week at a kind stead, and then my mind might perhaps have been at ease.
of private hotel at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where there was a If ever there was a donkey trespassing on my green,’ said my
stone staircase, and a convenient door in the roof; my aunt aunt, with emphasis, ‘there was one this afternoon at four
being firmly persuaded that every house in London was go- o’clock. A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and
ing to be burnt down every night. I know it was a donkey!’
We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, some- I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected con-
times recurring to Doctors’ Commons, and anticipating solation.
the distant days when I should be a proctor there, which ‘It was a donkey,’ said my aunt; ‘and it was the one with
Steerforth pictured in a variety of humorous and whimsical the stumpy tail which that Murdering sister of a woman
lights, that made us both merry. When we came to our jour- rode, when she came to my house.’ This had been, ever since,
ney’s end, he went home, engaging to call upon me next day the only name my aunt knew for Miss Murdstone. ‘If there
but one; and I drove to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where I found is any Donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder to me
my aunt up, and waiting supper. to bear than another’s, that,’ said my aunt, striking the table,
If I had been round the world since we parted, we could ‘is the animal!’
hardly have been better pleased to meet again. My aunt Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturb-
cried outright as she embraced me; and said, pretending to ing herself unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey
laugh, that if my poor mother had been alive, that silly little in question was then engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of
creature would have shed tears, she had no doubt. business, and was not available for purposes of trespass. But
‘So you have left Mr. Dick behind, aunt?’ said I. ‘I am sor- my aunt wouldn’t hear of it.
ry for that. Ah, Janet, how do you do?’ Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my
As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aunt’s aunt’s rooms were very high up - whether that she might
visage lengthen very much. have more stone stairs for her money, or might be nearer

to the door in the roof, I don’t know - and consisted of a nantly on me, from among the borders of her nightcap.
roast fowl, a steak, and some vegetables, to all of which I ‘Well, Trot,’ she began, ‘what do you think of the proctor
did ample justice, and which were all excellent. But my aunt plan? Or have you not begun to think about it yet?’
had her own ideas concerning London provision, and ate ‘I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and
but little. I have talked a good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it
‘I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought very much indeed. I like it exceedingly.’
up in a cellar,’ said my aunt, ‘and never took the air except ‘Come!’ said my aunt. ‘That’s cheering!’
on a hackney coach-stand. I hope the steak may be beef, ‘I have only one difficulty, aunt.’
but I don’t believe it. Nothing’s genuine in the place, in my ‘Say what it is, Trot,’ she returned.
opinion, but the dirt.’ ‘Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I un-
‘Don’t you think the fowl may have come out of the coun- derstand, to be a limited profession, whether my entrance
try, aunt?’ I hinted. into it would not be very expensive?’
‘Certainly not,’ returned my aunt. ‘It would be no plea- ‘It will cost,’ returned my aunt, ‘to article you, just a thou-
sure to a London tradesman to sell anything which was sand pounds.’
what he pretended it was.’ ‘Now, my dear aunt,’ said I, drawing my chair nearer, ‘I
I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made am uneasy in my mind about that. It’s a large sum of money.
a good supper, which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. You have expended a great deal on my education, and have
When the table was cleared, Janet assisted her to arrange always been as liberal to me in all things as it was possi-
her hair, to put on her nightcap, which was of a smarter ble to be. You have been the soul of generosity. Surely there
construction than usual (’in case of fire’, my aunt said), and are some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any
to fold her gown back over her knees, these being her usual outlay, and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by
preparations for warming herself before going to bed. I then resolution and exertion. Are you sure that it would not be
made her, according to certain established regulations from better to try that course? Are you certain that you can af-
which no deviation, however slight, could ever be permit- ford to part with so much money, and that it is right that it
ted, a glass of hot wine and water, and a slice of toast cut should be so expended? I only ask you, my second mother,
into long thin strips. With these accompaniments we were to consider. Are you certain?’
left alone to finish the evening, my aunt sitting opposite to My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she
me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast was then engaged, looking me full in the face all the while;
in it, one by one, before eating them; and looking benig- and then setting her glass on the chimney-piece, and fold-

ing her hands upon her folded skirts, replied as follows: my aunt, ‘and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss,
‘Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide and we’ll go to the Commons after breakfast tomorrow.’
for your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I
bent upon it - so is Dick. I should like some people that I slept in a room on the same floor with my aunt’s, and was a
know to hear Dick’s conversation on the subject. Its sagacity little disturbed in the course of the night by her knocking
is wonderful. But no one knows the resources of that man’s at my door as often as she was agitated by a distant sound of
intellect, except myself!’ hackney-coaches or market-carts, and inquiring, ‘if I heard
She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers, the engines?’ But towards morning she slept better, and suf-
and went on: fered me to do so too.
‘It’s in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some At about mid-day, we set out for the office of Messrs
influence upon the present. Perhaps I might have been bet- Spenlow and Jorkins, in Doctors’ Commons. My aunt, who
ter friends with your poor father. Perhaps I might have been had this other general opinion in reference to London, that
better friends with that poor child your mother, even after every man she saw was a pickpocket, gave me her purse to
your sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you carry for her, which had ten guineas in it and some silver.
came to me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn, We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Street, to see
perhaps I thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you the giants of Saint Dunstan’s strike upon the bells - we
have ever been a credit to me and a pride and a pleasure. I had timed our going, so as to catch them at it, at twelve
have no other claim upon my means; at least’ - here to my o’clock - and then went on towards Ludgate Hill, and St.
surprise she hesitated, and was confused - ‘no, I have no Paul’s Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place,
other claim upon my means - and you are my adopted child. when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed,
Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my and looked frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a
whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman lowering ill-dressed man who had stopped and stared at us
whose prime of life was not so happy or conciliating as it in passing, a little before, was coming so close after us as to
might have been, than ever that old woman did for you.’ brush against her.
It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past ‘Trot! My dear Trot!’ cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper,
history. There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing and pressing my arm. ‘I don’t know what I am to do.’
so, and of dismissing it, which would have exalted her in my ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said I. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.
respect and affection, if anything could. Step into a shop, and I’ll soon get rid of this fellow.’
‘All is agreed and understood between us, now, Trot,’ said ‘No, no, child!’ she returned. ‘Don’t speak to him for the

world. I entreat, I order you!’ made such mysterious mention, though what the nature of
‘Good Heaven, aunt!’ said I. ‘He is nothing but a sturdy his hold upon my aunt could possibly be, I was quite unable
beggar.’ to imagine. After half an hour’s cooling in the churchyard, I
‘You don’t know what he is!’ replied my aunt. ‘You don’t saw the chariot coming back. The driver stopped beside me,
know who he is! You don’t know what you say!’ and my aunt was sitting in it alone.
We had stopped in an empty door-way, while this was She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her agita-
passing, and he had stopped too. tion to be quite prepared for the visit we had to make. She
‘Don’t look at him!’ said my aunt, as I turned my head in- desired me to get into the chariot, and to tell the coach-
dignantly, ‘but get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me in man to drive slowly up and down a little while. She said no
St. Paul’s Churchyard.’ more, except, ‘My dear child, never ask me what it was, and
‘Wait for you?’ I replied. don’t refer to it,’ until she had perfectly regained her com-
‘Yes,’ rejoined my aunt. ‘I must go alone. I must go with posure, when she told me she was quite herself now, and we
him.’ might get out. On her giving me her purse to pay the driver,
‘With him, aunt? This man?’ I found that all the guineas were gone, and only the loose
‘I am in my senses,’ she replied, ‘and I tell you I must. Get silver remained.
mea coach!’ Doctors’ Commons was approached by a little low arch-
However much astonished I might be, I was sensible that way. Before we had taken many paces down the street
I had no right to refuse compliance with such a peremptory beyond it, the noise of the city seemed to melt, as if by
command. I hurried away a few paces, and called a hackney- magic, into a softened distance. A few dull courts and nar-
chariot which was passing empty. Almost before I could let row ways brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow
down the steps, my aunt sprang in, I don’t know how, and and Jorkins; in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to
the man followed. She waved her hand to me to go away, pilgrims without the ceremony of knocking, three or four
so earnestly, that, all confounded as I was, I turned from clerks were at work as copyists. One of these, a little dry
them at once. In doing so, I heard her say to the coachman, man, sitting by himself, who wore a stiff brown wig that
‘Drive anywhere! Drive straight on!’ and presently the char- looked as if it were made of gingerbread, rose to receive my
iot passed me, going up the hill. aunt, and show us into Mr. Spenlow’s room.
What Mr. Dick had told me, and what I had supposed ‘Mr. Spenlow’s in Court, ma’am,’ said the dry man; ‘it’s
to be a delusion of his, now came into my mind. I could an Arches day; but it’s close by, and I’ll send for him di-
not doubt that this person was the person of whom he had rectly.’

As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was golden arm, to draw it out with, like those which are put up
fetched, I availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture over the goldbeaters’ shops. He was got up with such care,
of the room was old-fashioned and dusty; and the green and was so stiff, that he could hardly bend himself; being
baize on the top of the writing-table had lost all its colour, obliged, when he glanced at some papers on his desk, after
and was as withered and pale as an old pauper. There were sitting down in his chair, to move his whole body, from the
a great many bundles of papers on it, some endorsed as Al- bottom of his spine, like Punch.
legations, and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some I had previously been presented by my aunt, and had
as being in the Consistory Court, and some in the Arches been courteously received. He now said:
Court, and some in the Prerogative Court, and some in the ‘And so, Mr. Copperfield, you think of entering into our
Admiralty Court, and some in the Delegates’ Court; giv- profession? I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwood, when
ing me occasion to wonder much, how many Courts there I had the pleasure of an interview with her the other day,’
might be in the gross, and how long it would take to under- - with another inclination of his body - Punch again - ‘that
stand them all. Besides these, there were sundry immense there was a vacancy here. Miss Trotwood was good enough
manuscript Books of Evidence taken on affidavit, strongly to mention that she had a nephew who was her peculiar care,
bound, and tied together in massive sets, a set to each cause, and for whom she was seeking to provide genteelly in life.
as if every cause were a history in ten or twenty volumes. That nephew, I believe, I have now the pleasure of’ - Punch
All this looked tolerably expensive, I thought, and gave me again. I bowed my acknowledgements, and said, my aunt
an agreeable notion of a proctor’s business. I was casting had mentioned to me that there was that opening, and that
my eyes with increasing complacency over these and many I believed I should like it very much. That I was strongly in-
similar objects, when hasty footsteps were heard in the clined to like it, and had taken immediately to the proposal.
room outside, and Mr. Spenlow, in a black gown trimmed That I could not absolutely pledge myself to like it, until I
with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his hat as he knew something more about it. That although it was little
came. else than a matter of form, I presumed I should have an op-
He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable portunity of trying how I liked it, before I bound myself to
boots, and the stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He it irrevocably.
was buttoned up, mighty trim and tight, and must have ‘Oh surely! surely!’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘We always, in this
taken a great deal of pains with his whiskers, which were house, propose a month - an initiatory month. I should be
accurately curled. His gold watch-chain was so massive, happy, myself, to propose two months - three - an indefinite
that a fancy came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy period, in fact - but I have a partner. Mr. Jorkins.’

‘And the premium, sir,’ I returned, ‘is a thousand to the feelings of Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins would have his
pounds?’ bond. The heart and hand of the good angel Spenlow would
‘And the premium, Stamp included, is a thousand pounds,’ have been always open, but for the restraining demon Jor-
said Mr. Spenlow. ‘As I have mentioned to Miss Trotwood, I kins. As I have grown older, I think I have had experience of
am actuated by no mercenary considerations; few men are some other houses doing business on the principle of Spen-
less so, I believe; but Mr. Jorkins has his opinions on these low and Jorkins!
subjects, and I am bound to respect Mr. Jorkins’s opinions. It was settled that I should begin my month’s probation
Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand pounds too little, in short.’ as soon as I pleased, and that my aunt need neither remain
‘I suppose, sir,’ said I, still desiring to spare my aunt, in town nor return at its expiration, as the articles of agree-
‘that it is not the custom here, if an articled clerk were par- ment, of which I was to be the subject, could easily be sent
ticularly useful, and made himself a perfect master of his to her at home for her signature. When we had got so far,
profession’ - I could not help blushing, this looked so like Mr. Spenlow offered to take me into Court then and there,
praising myself - ‘I suppose it is not the custom, in the later and show me what sort of place it was. As I was willing
years of his time, to allow him any -’ enough to know, we went out with this object, leaving my
Mr. Spenlow, by a great effort, just lifted his head far aunt behind; who would trust herself, she said, in no such
enough out of his cravat to shake it, and answered, antici- place, and who, I think, regarded all Courts of Law as a sort
pating the word ‘salary’: of powder-mills that might blow up at any time.
‘No. I will not say what consideration I might give to that Mr. Spenlow conducted me through a paved courtyard
point myself, Mr. Copperfield, if I were unfettered. Mr. Jor- formed of grave brick houses, which I inferred, from the
kins is immovable.’ Doctors’ names upon the doors, to be the official abiding-
I was quite dismayed by the idea of this terrible Jor- places of the learned advocates of whom Steerforth had told
kins. But I found out afterwards that he was a mild man of me; and into a large dull room, not unlike a chapel to my
a heavy temperament, whose place in the business was to thinking, on the left hand. The upper part of this room was
keep himself in the background, and be constantly exhib- fenced off from the rest; and there, on the two sides of a
ited by name as the most obdurate and ruthless of men. If raised platform of the horse-shoe form, sitting on easy old-
a clerk wanted his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn’t lis- fashioned dining-room chairs, were sundry gentlemen in
ten to such a proposition. If a client were slow to settle his red gowns and grey wigs, whom I found to be the Doctors
bill of costs, Mr. Jorkins was resolved to have it paid; and aforesaid. Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-desk, in
however painful these things might be (and always were) the curve of the horse-shoe, was an old gentleman, whom,

if I had seen him in an aviary, I should certainly have taken We arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields without any new ad-
for an owl, but who, I learned, was the presiding judge. In ventures, except encountering an unlucky donkey in a
the space within the horse-shoe, lower than these, that is to costermonger’s cart, who suggested painful associations to
say, on about the level of the floor, were sundry other gentle- my aunt. We had another long talk about my plans, when
men, of Mr. Spenlow’s rank, and dressed like him in black we were safely housed; and as I knew she was anxious to
gowns with white fur upon them, sitting at a long green ta- get home, and, between fire, food, and pickpockets, could
ble. Their cravats were in general stiff, I thought, and their never be considered at her ease for half-an-hour in London,
looks haughty; but in this last respect I presently conceived I urged her not to be uncomfortable on my account, but to
I had done them an injustice, for when two or three of them leave me to take care of myself.
had to rise and answer a question of the presiding dignitary, ‘I have not been here a week tomorrow, without consid-
I never saw anything more sheepish. The public, represented ering that too, my dear,’ she returned. ‘There is a furnished
by a boy with a comforter, and a shabby-genteel man secret- little set of chambers to be let in the Adelphi, Trot, which
ly eating crumbs out of his coat pockets, was warming itself ought to suit you to a marvel.’
at a stove in the centre of the Court. The languid stillness of With this brief introduction, she produced from her
the place was only broken by the chirping of this fire and by pocket an advertisement, carefully cut out of a newspa-
the voice of one of the Doctors, who was wandering slowly per, setting forth that in Buckingham Street in the Adelphi
through a perfect library of evidence, and stopping to put there was to be let furnished, with a view of the river, a sin-
up, from time to time, at little roadside inns of argument gularly desirable, and compact set of chambers, forming a
on the journey. Altogether, I have never, on any occasion, genteel residence for a young gentleman, a member of one
made one at such a cosey, dosey, old-fashioned, time-for- of the Inns of Court, or otherwise, with immediate posses-
gotten, sleepy-headed little family-party in all my life; and I sion. Terms moderate, and could be taken for a month only,
felt it would be quite a soothing opiate to belong to it in any if required.
character - except perhaps as a suitor. ‘Why, this is the very thing, aunt!’ said I, flushed with the
Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreat, possible dignity of living in chambers.
I informed Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that ‘Then come,’ replied my aunt, immediately resuming the
time, and we rejoined my aunt; in company with whom I bonnet she had a minute before laid aside. ‘We’ll go and
presently departed from the Commons, feeling very young look at ‘em.’
when I went out of Spenlow and Jorkins’s, on account of the Away we went. The advertisement directed us to apply
clerks poking one another with their pens to point me out. to Mrs. Crupp on the premises, and we rung the area bell,

which we supposed to communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome cough, in the
was not until we had rung three or four times that we could midst of which she articulated with much difficulty. ‘He
prevail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with us, but at last was took ill here, ma’am, and - ugh! ugh! ugh! dear me! -
she appeared, being a stout lady with a flounce of flannel and he died!’
petticoat below a nankeen gown. ‘Hey! What did he die of?’ asked my aunt.
‘Let us see these chambers of yours, if you please, ma’am,’ ‘Well, ma’am, he died of drink,’ said Mrs. Crupp, in con-
said my aunt. fidence. ‘And smoke.’
‘For this gentleman?’ said Mrs. Crupp, feeling in her ‘Smoke? You don’t mean chimneys?’ said my aunt.
pocket for her keys. ‘No, ma’am,’ returned Mrs. Crupp. ‘Cigars and pipes.’
‘Yes, for my nephew,’ said my aunt. ‘That’s not catching, Trot, at any rate,’ remarked my aunt,
‘And a sweet set they is for sich!’ said Mrs. Crupp. turning to me.
So we went upstairs. ‘No, indeed,’ said I.
They were on the top of the house - a great point with In short, my aunt, seeing how enraptured I was with the
my aunt, being near the fire-escape - and consisted of a lit- premises, took them for a month, with leave to remain for
tle half-blind entry where you could see hardly anything, twelve months when that time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to
a little stone-blind pantry where you could see nothing at find linen, and to cook; every other necessary was already
all, a sitting-room, and a bedroom. The furniture was rather provided; and Mrs. Crupp expressly intimated that she
faded, but quite good enough for me; and, sure enough, the should always yearn towards me as a son. I was to take pos-
river was outside the windows. session the day after tomorrow, and Mrs. Crupp said, thank
As I was delighted with the place, my aunt and Mrs. Heaven she had now found summun she could care for!
Crupp withdrew into the pantry to discuss the terms, while On our way back, my aunt informed me how she confi-
I remained on the sitting-room sofa, hardly daring to think dently trusted that the life I was now to lead would make me
it possible that I could be destined to live in such a noble firm and self-reliant, which was all I wanted. She repeated
residence. After a single combat of some duration they this several times next day, in the intervals of our arrang-
returned, and I saw, to my joy, both in Mrs. Crupp’s counte- ing for the transmission of my clothes and books from Mr.
nance and in my aunt’s, that the deed was done. Wickfield’s; relative to which, and to all my late holiday, I
‘Is it the last occupant’s furniture?’ inquired my aunt. wrote a long letter to Agnes, of which my aunt took charge,
‘Yes, it is, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Crupp. as she was to leave on the succeeding day. Not to lengthen
‘What’s become of him?’ asked my aunt. these particulars, I need only add, that she made a hand-

some provision for all my possible wants during my month
of trial; that Steerforth, to my great disappointment and CHAPTER 24
hers too, did not make his appearance before she went away;
that I saw her safely seated in the Dover coach, exulting in
the coming discomfiture of the vagrant donkeys, with Janet
at her side; and that when the coach was gone, I turned my MY FIRST DISSIPATION
face to the Adelphi, pondering on the old days when I used
to roam about its subterranean arches, and on the happy
changes which had brought me to the surface.
I t was a wonderfully fine thing to have that lofty castle to

myself, and to feel, when I shut my outer door, like Rob-
inson Crusoe, when he had got into his fortification, and
pulled his ladder up after him. It was a wonderfully fine
thing to walk about town with the key of my house in my
pocket, and to know that I could ask any fellow to come
home, and make quite sure of its being inconvenient to no-
body, if it were not so to me. It was a wonderfully fine thing
to let myself in and out, and to come and go without a word
to anyone, and to ring Mrs. Crupp up, gasping, from the
depths of the earth, when I wanted her - and when she was
disposed to come. All this, I say, was wonderfully fine; but I
must say, too, that there were times when it was very drea-
ry.
It was fine in the morning, particularly in the fine morn-
ings. It looked a very fresh, free life, by daylight: still fresher,
and more free, by sunlight. But as the day declined, the life
seemed to go down too. I don’t know how it was; it seldom
looked well by candle-light. I wanted somebody to talk
to, then. I missed Agnes. I found a tremendous blank, in

the place of that smiling repository of my confidence. Mrs. company she would be in Buckingham Street.
Crupp appeared to be a long way off. I thought about my I was taking my coffee and roll in the morning, before
predecessor, who had died of drink and smoke; and I could going to the Commons - and I may observe in this place
have wished he had been so good as to live, and not bother that it is surprising how much coffee Mrs. Crupp used, and
me with his decease. how weak it was, considering - when Steerforth himself
After two days and nights, I felt as if I had lived there walked in, to my unbounded joy.
for a year, and yet I was not an hour older, but was quite as ‘My dear Steerforth,’ cried I, ‘I began to think I should
much tormented by my own youthfulness as ever. never see you again!’
Steerforth not yet appearing, which induced me to ap- ‘I was carried off, by force of arms,’ said Steerforth, ‘the
prehend that he must be ill, I left the Commons early on very next morning after I got home. Why, Daisy, what a rare
the third day, and walked out to Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth old bachelor you are here!’
was very glad to see me, and said that he had gone away I showed him over the establishment, not omitting the
with one of his Oxford friends to see another who lived near pantry, with no little pride, and he commended it highly. ‘I
St. Albans, but that she expected him to return tomorrow. tell you what, old boy,’ he added, ‘I shall make quite a town-
I was so fond of him, that I felt quite jealous of his Oxford house of this place, unless you give me notice to quit.’
friends. This was a delightful hearing. I told him if he waited for
As she pressed me to stay to dinner, I remained, and I that, he would have to wait till doomsday.
believe we talked about nothing but him all day. I told her ‘But you shall have some breakfast!’ said I, with my hand
how much the people liked him at Yarmouth, and what a on the bell-rope, ‘and Mrs. Crupp shall make you some
delightful companion he had been. Miss Dartle was full of fresh coffee, and I’ll toast you some bacon in a bachelor’s
hints and mysterious questions, but took a great interest in Dutch-oven, that I have got here.’
all our proceedings there, and said, ‘Was it really though?’ ‘No, no!’ said Steerforth. ‘Don’t ring! I can’t! I am going
and so forth, so often, that she got everything out of me she to breakfast with one of these fellows who is at the Piazza
wanted to know. Her appearance was exactly what I have Hotel, in Covent Garden.’
described it, when I first saw her; but the society of the two ‘But you’ll come back to dinner?’ said I.
ladies was so agreeable, and came so natural to me, that I ‘I can’t, upon my life. There’s nothing I should like better,
felt myself falling a little in love with her. I could not help but I must remain with these two fellows. We are all three
thinking, several times in the course of the evening, and off together tomorrow morning.’
particularly when I walked home at night, what delightful ‘Then bring them here to dinner,’ I returned. ‘Do you

think they would come?’ chops and mashed potatoes. As to a fish-kittle, Mrs. Crupp
‘Oh! they would come fast enough,’ said Steerforth; ‘but said, well! would I only come and look at the range? She
we should inconvenience you. You had better come and couldn’t say fairer than that. Would I come and look at it?
dine with us somewhere.’ As I should not have been much the wiser if I HAD looked
I would not by any means consent to this, for it occurred at it, I declined, and said, ‘Never mind fish.’ But Mrs. Crupp
to me that I really ought to have a little house-warming, and said, Don’t say that; oysters was in, why not them? So THAT
that there never could be a better opportunity. I had a new was settled. Mrs. Crupp then said what she would recom-
pride in my rooms after his approval of them, and burned mend would be this. A pair of hot roast fowls - from the
with a desire to develop their utmost resources. I there- pastry-cook’s; a dish of stewed beef, with vegetables - from
fore made him promise positively in the names of his two the pastry-cook’s; two little corner things, as a raised pie
friends, and we appointed six o’clock as the dinner-hour. and a dish of kidneys - from the pastrycook’s; a tart, and (if
When he was gone, I rang for Mrs. Crupp, and acquaint- I liked) a shape of jelly - from the pastrycook’s. This, Mrs.
ed her with my desperate design. Mrs. Crupp said, in the Crupp said, would leave her at full liberty to concentrate her
first place, of course it was well known she couldn’t be ex- mind on the potatoes, and to serve up the cheese and celery
pected to wait, but she knew a handy young man, who she as she could wish to see it done.
thought could be prevailed upon to do it, and whose terms I acted on Mrs. Crupp’s opinion, and gave the order at
would be five shillings, and what I pleased. I said, certainly the pastry-cook’s myself. Walking along the Strand, af-
we would have him. Next Mrs. Crupp said it was clear she terwards, and observing a hard mottled substance in the
couldn’t be in two places at once (which I felt to be reason- window of a ham and beef shop, which resembled marble,
able), and that ‘a young gal’ stationed in the pantry with a but was labelled ‘Mock Turtle’, I went in and bought a slab
bedroom candle, there never to desist from washing plates, of it, which I have since seen reason to believe would have
would be indispensable. I said, what would be the expense sufficed for fifteen people. This preparation, Mrs. Crupp, af-
of this young female? and Mrs. Crupp said she supposed ter some difficulty, consented to warm up; and it shrunk
eighteenpence would neither make me nor break me. I said so much in a liquid state, that we found it what Steerforth
I supposed not; and THAT was settled. Then Mrs. Crupp called ‘rather a tight fit’ for four.
said, Now about the dinner. These preparations happily completed, I bought a little
It was a remarkable instance of want of forethought on dessert in Covent Garden Market, and gave a rather exten-
the part of the ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp’s sive order at a retail wine-merchant’s in that vicinity. When
kitchen fireplace, that it was capable of cooking nothing but I came home in the afternoon, and saw the bottles drawn

up in a square on the pantry floor, they looked so numerous shadow always presented itself, immediately afterwards, on
(though there were two missing, which made Mrs. Crupp the wall of the entry, with a bottle at its mouth. The ‘young
very uncomfortable), that I was absolutely frightened at gal’ likewise occasioned me some uneasiness: not so much
them. by neglecting to wash the plates, as by breaking them. For
One of Steerforth’s friends was named Grainger, and being of an inquisitive disposition, and unable to confine
the other Markham. They were both very gay and lively fel- herself (as her positive instructions were) to the pantry, she
lows; Grainger, something older than Steerforth; Markham, was constantly peering in at us, and constantly imagining
youthful-looking, and I should say not more than twenty. I herself detected; in which belief, she several times retired
observed that the latter always spoke of himself indefinitely, upon the plates (with which she had carefully paved the
as ‘a man’, and seldom or never in the first person singular. floor), and did a great deal of destruction.
‘A man might get on very well here, Mr. Copperfield,’ These, however, were small drawbacks, and easily for-
said Markham - meaning himself. gotten when the cloth was cleared, and the dessert put on
‘It’s not a bad situation,’ said I, ‘and the rooms are really the table; at which period of the entertainment the handy
commodious.’ young man was discovered to be speechless. Giving him
‘I hope you have both brought appetites with you?’ said private directions to seek the society of Mrs. Crupp, and to
Steerforth. remove the ‘young gal’ to the basement also, I abandoned
‘Upon my honour,’ returned Markham, ‘town seems to myself to enjoyment.
sharpen a man’s appetite. A man is hungry all day long. A I began, by being singularly cheerful and light-hearted;
man is perpetually eating.’ all sorts of half-forgotten things to talk about, came rushing
Being a little embarrassed at first, and feeling much too into my mind, and made me hold forth in a most unwonted
young to preside, I made Steerforth take the head of the manner. I laughed heartily at my own jokes, and everybody
table when dinner was announced, and seated myself op- else’s; called Steerforth to order for not passing the wine;
posite to him. Everything was very good; we did not spare made several engagements to go to Oxford; announced that
the wine; and he exerted himself so brilliantly to make the I meant to have a dinner-party exactly like that, once a week,
thing pass off well, that there was no pause in our festivity. I until further notice; and madly took so much snuff out of
was not quite such good company during dinner as I could Grainger’s box, that I was obliged to go into the pantry, and
have wished to be, for my chair was opposite the door, and have a private fit of sneezing ten minutes long.
my attention was distracted by observing that the handy I went on, by passing the wine faster and faster yet, and
young man went out of the room very often, and that his continually starting up with a corkscrew to open more

wine, long before any was needed. I proposed Steerforth’s der. Steerforth had made a speech about me, in the course
health. I said he was my dearest friend, the protector of of which I had been affected almost to tears. I returned
my boyhood, and the companion of my prime. I said I was thanks, and hoped the present company would dine with
delighted to propose his health. I said I owed him more ob- me tomorrow, and the day after - each day at five o’clock,
ligations than I could ever repay, and held him in a higher that we might enjoy the pleasures of conversation and soci-
admiration than I could ever express. I finished by saying, ety through a long evening. I felt called upon to propose an
‘I’ll give you Steerforth! God bless him! Hurrah!’ We gave individual. I would give them my aunt. Miss Betsey Trot-
him three times three, and another, and a good one to fin- wood, the best of her sex!
ish with. I broke my glass in going round the table to shake Somebody was leaning out of my bedroom window, re-
hands with him, and I said (in two words) ‘Steerforth - you’ freshing his forehead against the cool stone of the parapet,
retheguidingstarofmyexistence.’ and feeling the air upon his face. It was myself. I was ad-
I went on, by finding suddenly that somebody was in dressing myself as ‘Copperfield’, and saying, ‘Why did you
the middle of a song. Markham was the singer, and he sang try to smoke? You might have known you couldn’t do it.’
‘When the heart of a man is depressed with care’. He said, Now, somebody was unsteadily contemplating his features
when he had sung it, he would give us ‘Woman!’ I took ob- in the looking-glass. That was I too. I was very pale in the
jection to that, and I couldn’t allow it. I said it was not a looking-glass; my eyes had a vacant appearance; and my
respectful way of proposing the toast, and I would never hair - only my hair, nothing else - looked drunk.
permit that toast to be drunk in my house otherwise than Somebody said to me, ‘Let us go to the theatre, Cop-
as ‘The Ladies!’ I was very high with him, mainly I think perfield!’ There was no bedroom before me, but again the
because I saw Steerforth and Grainger laughing at me - or jingling table covered with glasses; the lamp; Grainger on
at him - or at both of us. He said a man was not to be dic- my right hand, Markham on my left, and Steerforth oppo-
tated to. I said a man was. He said a man was not to be site - all sitting in a mist, and a long way off. The theatre? To
insulted, then. I said he was right there - never under my be sure. The very thing. Come along! But they must excuse
roof, where the Lares were sacred, and the laws of hospital- me if I saw everybody out first, and turned the lamp off - in
ity paramount. He said it was no derogation from a man’s case of fire.
dignity to confess that I was a devilish good fellow. I in- Owing to some confusion in the dark, the door was gone.
stantly proposed his health. I was feeling for it in the window-curtains, when Steer-
Somebody was smoking. We were all smoking. I was forth, laughing, took me by the arm and led me out. We
smoking, and trying to suppress a rising tendency to shud- went downstairs, one behind another. Near the bottom,

somebody fell, and rolled down. Somebody else said it was the dress-boxes, where the ladies were. A gentleman loung-
Copperfield. I was angry at that false report, until, finding ing, full dressed, on a sofa, with an opera-glass in his hand,
myself on my back in the passage, I began to think there passed before my view, and also my own figure at full length
might be some foundation for it. in a glass. Then I was being ushered into one of these box-
A very foggy night, with great rings round the lamps in es, and found myself saying something as I sat down, and
the streets! There was an indistinct talk of its being wet. I people about me crying ‘Silence!’ to somebody, and ladies
considered it frosty. Steerforth dusted me under a lamp- casting indignant glances at me, and - what! yes! - Agnes,
post, and put my hat into shape, which somebody produced sitting on the seat before me, in the same box, with a lady
from somewhere in a most extraordinary manner, for I and gentleman beside her, whom I didn’t know. I see her
hadn’t had it on before. Steerforth then said, ‘You are all face now, better than I did then, I dare say, with its indelible
right, Copperfield, are you not?’ and I told him, ‘Neverber- look of regret and wonder turned upon me.
rer.’ ‘Agnes!’ I said, thickly, ‘Lorblessmer! Agnes!’
A man, sitting in a pigeon-hole-place, looked out of the ‘Hush! Pray!’ she answered, I could not conceive why.
fog, and took money from somebody, inquiring if I was one ‘You disturb the company. Look at the stage!’
of the gentlemen paid for, and appearing rather doubtful I tried, on her injunction, to fix it, and to hear something
(as I remember in the glimpse I had of him) whether to take of what was going on there, but quite in vain. I looked at her
the money for me or not. Shortly afterwards, we were very again by and by, and saw her shrink into her corner, and put
high up in a very hot theatre, looking down into a large pit, her gloved hand to her forehead.
that seemed to me to smoke; the people with whom it was ‘Agnes!’ I said. ‘I’mafraidyou’renorwell.’
crammed were so indistinct. There was a great stage, too, ‘Yes, yes. Do not mind me, Trotwood,’ she returned. ‘Lis-
looking very clean and smooth after the streets; and there ten! Are you going away soon?’
were people upon it, talking about something or other, but ‘Amigoarawaysoo?’ I repeated.
not at all intelligibly. There was an abundance of bright ‘Yes.’
lights, and there was music, and there were ladies down in I had a stupid intention of replying that I was going
the boxes, and I don’t know what more. The whole building to wait, to hand her downstairs. I suppose I expressed it,
looked to me as if it were learning to swim; it conducted somehow; for after she had looked at me attentively for a
itself in such an unaccountable manner, when I tried to little while, she appeared to understand, and replied in a
steady it. low tone:
On somebody’s motion, we resolved to go downstairs to ‘I know you will do as I ask you, if I tell you I am very

earnest in it. Go away now, Trotwood, for my sake, and ask Oh, what a day it was!
your friends to take you home.’ Oh, what an evening, when I sat down by my fire to a ba-
She had so far improved me, for the time, that though I sin of mutton broth, dimpled all over with fat, and thought
was angry with her, I felt ashamed, and with a short ‘Goori!’ I was going the way of my predecessor, and should succeed
(which I intended for ‘Good night!’) got up and went away. to his dismal story as well as to his chambers, and had half
They followed, and I stepped at once out of the box-door a mind to rush express to Dover and reveal all! What an
into my bedroom, where only Steerforth was with me, help- evening, when Mrs. Crupp, coming in to take away the
ing me to undress, and where I was by turns telling him that broth-basin, produced one kidney on a cheese-plate as the
Agnes was my sister, and adjuring him to bring the cork- entire remains of yesterday’s feast, and I was really inclined
screw, that I might open another bottle of wine. to fall upon her nankeen breast and say, in heartfelt peni-
How somebody, lying in my bed, lay saying and doing tence, ‘Oh, Mrs. Crupp, Mrs. Crupp, never mind the broken
all this over again, at cross purposes, in a feverish dream meats! I am very miserable!’ - only that I doubted, even at
all night - the bed a rocking sea that was never still! How, that pass, if Mrs. Crupp were quite the sort of woman to
as that somebody slowly settled down into myself, did I be- confide in!
gin to parch, and feel as if my outer covering of skin were
a hard board; my tongue the bottom of an empty kettle,
furred with long service, and burning up over a slow fire;
the palms of my hands, hot plates of metal which no ice
could cool!
But the agony of mind, the remorse, and shame I felt
when I became conscious next day! My horror of having
committed a thousand offences I had forgotten, and which
nothing could ever expiate - my recollection of that indelible
look which Agnes had given me - the torturing impossibil-
ity of communicating with her, not knowing, Beast that I
was, how she came to be in London, or where she stayed -
my disgust of the very sight of the room where the revel had
been held - my racking head - the smell of smoke, the sight
of glasses, the impossibility of going out, or even getting up!

CHAPTER 25 resolve to break the seal.
I found, when I did open it, that it was a very kind note,
containing no reference to my condition at the theatre. All
it said was, ‘My dear Trotwood. I am staying at the house of
GOOD AND BAD ANGELS papa’s agent, Mr. Waterbrook, in Ely Place, Holborn. Will
you come and see me today, at any time you like to appoint?
Ever yours affectionately, AGNES. ‘
It took me such a long time to write an answer at all
to my satisfaction, that I don’t know what the ticket-por-
I was going out at my door on the morning after that de-

plorable day of headache, sickness, and repentance, with
an odd confusion in my mind relative to the date of my din-
ter can have thought, unless he thought I was learning to
write. I must have written half-a-dozen answers at least. I
began one, ‘How can I ever hope, my dear Agnes, to efface
ner-party, as if a body of Titans had taken an enormous lever from your remembrance the disgusting impression’ - there
and pushed the day before yesterday some months back, I didn’t like it, and then I tore it up. I began another, ‘Shake-
when I saw a ticket-porter coming upstairs, with a letter in speare has observed, my dear Agnes, how strange it is that a
his hand. He was taking his time about his errand, then; but man should put an enemy into his mouth’ - that reminded
when he saw me on the top of the staircase, looking at him me of Markham, and it got no farther. I even tried poetry. I
over the banisters, he swung into a trot, and came up pant- began one note, in a six-syllable line, ‘Oh, do not remember’
ing as if he had run himself into a state of exhaustion. - but that associated itself with the fifth of November, and
‘T. Copperfield, Esquire,’ said the ticket-porter, touching became an absurdity. After many attempts, I wrote, ‘My
his hat with his little cane. dear Agnes. Your letter is like you, and what could I say of
I could scarcely lay claim to the name: I was so disturbed it that would be higher praise than that? I will come at four
by the conviction that the letter came from Agnes. However, o’clock. Affectionately and sorrowfully, T.C.’ With this mis-
I told him I was T. Copperfield, Esquire, and he believed it, sive (which I was in twenty minds at once about recalling,
and gave me the letter, which he said required an answer. as soon as it was out of my hands), the ticket-porter at last
I shut him out on the landing to wait for the answer, and departed.
went into my chambers again, in such a nervous state that I If the day were half as tremendous to any other profes-
was fain to lay the letter down on my breakfast table, and fa- sional gentleman in Doctors’ Commons as it was to me, I
miliarize myself with the outside of it a little, before I could sincerely believe he made some expiation for his share in

that rotten old ecclesiastical cheese. Although I left the of- Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will
fice at half past three, and was prowling about the place of you trust?’
appointment within a few minutes afterwards, the appoint- ‘Ah, Agnes!’ I returned. ‘You are my good Angel!’
ed time was exceeded by a full quarter of an hour, according She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head.
to the clock of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, before I could muster ‘Yes, Agnes, my good Angel! Always my good Angel!’
up sufficient desperation to pull the private bell-handle let ‘If I were, indeed, Trotwood,’ she returned, ‘there is one
into the left-hand door-post of Mr. Waterbrook’s house. thing that I should set my heart on very much.’
The professional business of Mr. Waterbrook’s estab- I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowl-
lishment was done on the ground-floor, and the genteel edge of her meaning.
business (of which there was a good deal) in the upper part ‘On warning you,’ said Agnes, with a steady glance,
of the building. I was shown into a pretty but rather close ‘against your bad Angel.’
drawing-room, and there sat Agnes, netting a purse. ‘My dear Agnes,’ I began, ‘if you mean Steerforth -’
She looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so ‘I do, Trotwood,’ she returned. ‘Then, Agnes, you wrong
strongly of my airy fresh school days at Canterbury, and the him very much. He my bad Angel, or anyone’s! He, any-
sodden, smoky, stupid wretch I had been the other night, thing but a guide, a support, and a friend to me! My dear
that, nobody being by, I yielded to my self-reproach and Agnes! Now, is it not unjust, and unlike you, to judge him
shame, and - in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot deny from what you saw of me the other night?’
that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it ‘I do not judge him from what I saw of you the other
was upon the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or night,’ she quietly replied.
the most ridiculous. ‘From what, then?’
‘If it had been anyone but you, Agnes,’ said I, turning ‘From many things - trifles in themselves, but they do
away my head, ‘I should not have minded it half so much. not seem to me to be so, when they are put together. I judge
But that it should have been you who saw me! I almost wish him, partly from your account of him, Trotwood, and your
I had been dead, first.’ character, and the influence he has over you.’
She put her hand - its touch was like no other hand - There was always something in her modest voice that
upon my arm for a moment; and I felt so befriended and seemed to touch a chord within me, answering to that sound
comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and alone. It was always earnest; but when it was very earnest,
gratefully kissing it. as it was now, there was a thrill in it that quite subdued me.
‘Sit down,’ said Agnes, cheerfully. ‘Don’t be unhappy, I sat looking at her as she cast her eyes down on her work; I

sat seeming still to listen to her; and Steerforth, in spite of again as unreserved in our mutual confidence as of old.
all my attachment to him, darkened in that tone. ‘And when, Agnes,’ said I, ‘will you forgive me the other
‘It is very bold in me,’ said Agnes, looking up again, ‘who night?’
have lived in such seclusion, and can know so little of the ‘When I recall it,’ said Agnes.
world, to give you my advice so confidently, or even to have She would have dismissed the subject so, but I was too
this strong opinion. But I know in what it is engendered, full of it to allow that, and insisted on telling her how it
Trotwood, - in how true a remembrance of our having happened that I had disgraced myself, and what chain of ac-
grown up together, and in how true an interest in all relat- cidental circumstances had had the theatre for its final link.
ing to you. It is that which makes me bold. I am certain that It was a great relief to me to do this, and to enlarge on the
what I say is right. I am quite sure it is. I feel as if it were obligation that I owed to Steerforth for his care of me when
someone else speaking to you, and not I, when I caution you I was unable to take care of myself.
that you have made a dangerous friend.’ ‘You must not forget,’ said Agnes, calmly changing the
Again I looked at her, again I listened to her after she was conversation as soon as I had concluded, ‘that you are al-
silent, and again his image, though it was still fixed in my ways to tell me, not only when you fall into trouble, but
heart, darkened. when you fall in love. Who has succeeded to Miss Larkins,
‘I am not so unreasonable as to expect,’ said Agnes, re- Trotwood?’
suming her usual tone, after a little while, ‘that you will, or ‘No one, Agnes.’
that you can, at once, change any sentiment that has become ‘Someone, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, laughing, and holding
a conviction to you; least of all a sentiment that is rooted in up her finger.
your trusting disposition. You ought not hastily to do that. ‘No, Agnes, upon my word! There is a lady, certainly, at
I only ask you, Trotwood, if you ever think of me - I mean,’ Mrs. Steerforth’s house, who is very clever, and whom I like
with a quiet smile, for I was going to interrupt her, and she to talk to - Miss Dartle - but I don’t adore her.’
knew why, ‘as often as you think of me - to think of what I Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me
have said. Do you forgive me for all this?’ that if I were faithful to her in my confidence she thought
‘I will forgive you, Agnes,’ I replied, ‘when you come to she should keep a little register of my violent attachments,
do Steerforth justice, and to like him as well as I do.’ with the date, duration, and termination of each, like the
‘Not until then?’ said Agnes. table of the reigns of the kings and queens, in the History of
I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this England. Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah.
mention of him, but she returned my smile, and we were ‘Uriah Heep?’ said I. ‘No. Is he in London?’

‘He comes to the office downstairs, every day,’ returned word, Trotwood, - until papa is afraid of him.’
Agnes. ‘He was in London a week before me. I am afraid on There was more that she might have said; more that she
disagreeable business, Trotwood.’ knew, or that she suspected; I clearly saw. I could not give
‘On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,’ her pain by asking what it was, for I knew that she withheld
said I. ‘What can that be?’ it from me, to spare her father. It had long been going on to
Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands this, I was sensible: yes, I could not but feel, on the least re-
upon one another, and looking pensively at me out of those flection, that it had been going on to this for a long time. I
beautiful soft eyes of hers: remained silent.
‘I believe he is going to enter into partnership with papa.’ ‘His ascendancy over papa,’ said Agnes, ‘is very great.
‘What? Uriah? That mean, fawning fellow, worm himself He professes humility and gratitude - with truth, perhaps:
into such promotion!’ I cried, indignantly. ‘Have you made I hope so - but his position is really one of power, and I fear
no remonstrance about it, Agnes? Consider what a connex- he makes a hard use of his power.’
ion it is likely to be. You must speak out. You must not allow I said he was a hound, which, at the moment, was a great
your father to take such a mad step. You must prevent it, satisfaction to me.
Agnes, while there’s time.’ ‘At the time I speak of, as the time when papa spoke to
Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was me,’ pursued Agnes, ‘he had told papa that he was going
speaking, with a faint smile at my warmth: and then re- away; that he was very sorry, and unwilling to leave, but
plied: that he had better prospects. Papa was very much depressed
‘You remember our last conversation about papa? It was then, and more bowed down by care than ever you or I have
not long after that - not more than two or three days - when seen him; but he seemed relieved by this expedient of the
he gave me the first intimation of what I tell you. It was sad partnership, though at the same time he seemed hurt by it
to see him struggling between his desire to represent it to and ashamed of it.’
me as a matter of choice on his part, and his inability to ‘And how did you receive it, Agnes?’
conceal that it was forced upon him. I felt very sorry.’ ‘I did, Trotwood,’ she replied, ‘what I hope was right.
‘Forced upon him, Agnes! Who forces it upon him?’ Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa’s peace that the
‘Uriah,’ she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘has sacrifice should be made, I entreated him to make it. I said
made himself indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watch- it would lighten the load of his life - I hope it will! - and
ful. He has mastered papa’s weaknesses, fostered them, and that it would give me increased opportunities of being his
taken advantage of them, until - to say all that I mean in a companion. Oh, Trotwood!’ cried Agnes, putting her hands

before her face, as her tears started on it, ‘I almost feel as if to do) what may be uncongenial to you in him. He may not
I had been papa’s enemy, instead of his loving child. For I deserve it, for we know no certain ill of him. In any case,
know how he has altered, in his devotion to me. I know how think first of papa and me!’
he has narrowed the circle of his sympathies and duties, in Agnes had no time to say more, for the room door opened,
the concentration of his whole mind upon me. I know what and Mrs. Waterbrook, who was a large lady - or who wore
a multitude of things he has shut out for my sake, and how a large dress: I don’t exactly know which, for I don’t know
his anxious thoughts of me have shadowed his life, and which was dress and which was lady - came sailing in. I had
weakened his strength and energy, by turning them always a dim recollection of having seen her at the theatre, as if I
upon one idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could ever had seen her in a pale magic lantern; but she appeared to
work out his restoration, as I have so innocently been the remember me perfectly, and still to suspect me of being in
cause of his decline!’ a state of intoxication.
I had never before seen Agnes cry. I had seen tears in her Finding by degrees, however, that I was sober, and (I
eyes when I had brought new honours home from school, hope) that I was a modest young gentleman, Mrs. Water-
and I had seen them there when we last spoke about her fa- brook softened towards me considerably, and inquired,
ther, and I had seen her turn her gentle head aside when we firstly, if I went much into the parks, and secondly, if I went
took leave of one another; but I had never seen her grieve much into society. On my replying to both these questions
like this. It made me so sorry that I could only say, in a fool- in the negative, it occurred to me that I fell again in her
ish, helpless manner, ‘Pray, Agnes, don’t! Don’t, my dear good opinion; but she concealed the fact gracefully, and in-
sister!’ vited me to dinner next day. I accepted the invitation, and
But Agnes was too superior to me in character and pur- took my leave, making a call on Uriah in the office as I went
pose, as I know well now, whatever I might know or not out, and leaving a card for him in his absence.
know then, to be long in need of my entreaties. The beau- When I went to dinner next day, and on the street door
tiful, calm manner, which makes her so different in my being opened, plunged into a vapour-bath of haunch of
remembrance from everybody else, came back again, as if a mutton, I divined that I was not the only guest, for I imme-
cloud had passed from a serene sky. diately identified the ticket-porter in disguise, assisting the
‘We are not likely to remain alone much longer,’ said family servant, and waiting at the foot of the stairs to carry
Agnes, ‘and while I have an opportunity, let me earnestly up my name. He looked, to the best of his ability, when he
entreat you, Trotwood, to be friendly to Uriah. Don’t repel asked me for it confidentially, as if he had never seen me
him. Don’t resent (as I think you have a general disposition before; but well did I know him, and well did he know me.

Conscience made cowards of us both. him announced as Mr. Traddles! My mind flew back to Sa-
I found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle-aged gentleman, lem House; and could it be Tommy, I thought, who used to
with a short throat, and a good deal of shirt-collar, who only draw the skeletons!
wanted a black nose to be the portrait of a pug-dog. He told I looked for Mr. Traddles with unusual interest. He was a
me he was happy to have the honour of making my acquain- sober, steady-looking young man of retiring manners, with
tance; and when I had paid my homage to Mrs. Waterbrook, a comic head of hair, and eyes that were rather wide open;
presented me, with much ceremony, to a very awful lady in and he got into an obscure corner so soon, that I had some
a black velvet dress, and a great black velvet hat, whom I difficulty in making him out. At length I had a good view
remember as looking like a near relation of Hamlet’s - say of him, and either my vision deceived me, or it was the old
his aunt. unfortunate Tommy.
Mrs. Henry Spiker was this lady’s name; and her hus- I made my way to Mr. Waterbrook, and said, that I be-
band was there too: so cold a man, that his head, instead lieved I had the pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow
of being grey, seemed to be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Im- there.
mense deference was shown to the Henry Spikers, male and ‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Waterbrook, surprised. ‘You are too
female; which Agnes told me was on account of Mr. Henry young to have been at school with Mr. Henry Spiker?’
Spiker being solicitor to something Or to Somebody, I for- ‘Oh, I don’t mean him!’ I returned. ‘I mean the gentle-
get what or which, remotely connected with the Treasury. man named Traddles.’
I found Uriah Heep among the company, in a suit of black, ‘Oh! Aye, aye! Indeed!’ said my host, with much dimin-
and in deep humility. He told me, when I shook hands with ished interest. ‘Possibly.’
him, that he was proud to be noticed by me, and that he re- ‘If it’s really the same person,’ said I, glancing towards
ally felt obliged to me for my condescension. I could have him, ‘it was at a place called Salem House where we were
wished he had been less obliged to me, for he hovered about together, and he was an excellent fellow.’
me in his gratitude all the rest of the evening; and whenever ‘Oh yes. Traddles is a good fellow,’ returned my host nod-
I said a word to Agnes, was sure, with his shadowless eyes ding his head with an air of toleration. ‘Traddles is quite a
and cadaverous face, to be looking gauntly down upon us good fellow.’
from behind. ‘It’s a curious coincidence,’ said I.
There were other guests - all iced for the occasion, as it ‘It is really,’ returned my host, ‘quite a coincidence, that
struck me, like the wine. But there was one who attracted Traddles should be here at all: as Traddles was only invited
my attention before he came in, on account of my hearing this morning, when the place at table, intended to be oc-

cupied by Mrs. Henry Spiker’s brother, became vacant, in My reflections on this theme were still in progress when
consequence of his indisposition. A very gentlemanly man, dinner was announced. Mr. Waterbrook went down with
Mrs. Henry Spiker’s brother, Mr. Copperfield.’ Hamlet’s aunt. Mr. Henry Spiker took Mrs. Waterbrook.
I murmured an assent, which was full of feeling, consid- Agnes, whom I should have liked to take myself, was given
ering that I knew nothing at all about him; and I inquired to a simpering fellow with weak legs. Uriah, Traddles, and I,
what Mr. Traddles was by profession. as the junior part of the company, went down last, how we
‘Traddles,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, ‘is a young man could. I was not so vexed at losing Agnes as I might have
reading for the bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow - nobody’s been, since it gave me an opportunity of making myself
enemy but his own.’ known to Traddles on the stairs, who greeted me with great
‘Is he his own enemy?’ said I, sorry to hear this. fervour; while Uriah writhed with such obtrusive satisfac-
‘Well,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth, tion and self-abasement, that I could gladly have pitched
and playing with his watch-chain, in a comfortable, pros- him over the banisters. Traddles and I were separated at ta-
perous sort of way. ‘I should say he was one of those men ble, being billeted in two remote corners: he in the glare of a
who stand in their own light. Yes, I should say he would red velvet lady; I, in the gloom of Hamlet’s aunt. The dinner
never, for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was very long, and the conversation was about the Aristoc-
was recommended to me by a professional friend. Oh yes. racy - and Blood. Mrs. Waterbrook repeatedly told us, that
Yes. He has a kind of talent for drawing briefs, and stating if she had a weakness, it was Blood.
a case in writing, plainly. I am able to throw something in It occurred to me several times that we should have got
Traddles’s way, in the course of the year; something - for on better, if we had not been quite so genteel. We were so
him - considerable. Oh yes. Yes.’ exceedingly genteel, that our scope was very limited. A Mr.
I was much impressed by the extremely comfortable and and Mrs. Gulpidge were of the party, who had something
satisfied manner in which Mr. Waterbrook delivered him- to do at second-hand (at least, Mr. Gulpidge had) with the
self of this little word ‘Yes’, every now and then. There was law business of the Bank; and what with the Bank, and what
wonderful expression in it. It completely conveyed the idea with the Treasury, we were as exclusive as the Court Cir-
of a man who had been born, not to say with a silver spoon, cular. To mend the matter, Hamlet’s aunt had the family
but with a scaling-ladder, and had gone on mounting all the failing of indulging in soliloquy, and held forth in a desul-
heights of life one after another, until now he looked, from tory manner, by herself, on every topic that was introduced.
the top of the fortifications, with the eye of a philosopher These were few enough, to be sure; but as we always fell back
and a patron, on the people down in the trenches. upon Blood, she had as wide a field for abstract speculation

as her nephew himself. had got Blood in him, than I’d be picked up by a man who
We might have been a party of Ogres, the conversation hadn’t!’
assumed such a sanguine complexion. This sentiment, as compressing the general question into
‘I confess I am of Mrs. Waterbrook’s opinion,’ said Mr. a nutshell, gave the utmost satisfaction, and brought the
Waterbrook, with his wine-glass at his eye. ‘Other things gentleman into great notice until the ladies retired. After
are all very well in their way, but give me Blood!’ that, I observed that Mr. Gulpidge and Mr. Henry Spiker,
‘Oh! There is nothing,’ observed Hamlet’s aunt, ‘so sat- who had hitherto been very distant, entered into a defen-
isfactory to one! There is nothing that is so much one’s sive alliance against us, the common enemy, and exchanged
beau-ideal of - of all that sort of thing, speaking generally. a mysterious dialogue across the table for our defeat and
There are some low minds (not many, I am happy to believe, overthrow.
but there are some) that would prefer to do what I should ‘That affair of the first bond for four thousand five hun-
call bow down before idols. Positively Idols! Before service, dred pounds has not taken the course that was expected,
intellect, and so on. But these are intangible points. Blood Spiker,’ said Mr. Gulpidge.
is not so. We see Blood in a nose, and we know it. We meet ‘Do you mean the D. of A.’s?’ said Mr. Spiker.
with it in a chin, and we say, ‘There it is! That’s Blood!’ It ‘The C. of B.’s!’ said Mr. Gulpidge.
is an actual matter of fact. We point it out. It admits of no Mr. Spiker raised his eyebrows, and looked much con-
doubt.’ cerned.
The simpering fellow with the weak legs, who had tak- ‘When the question was referred to Lord - I needn’t name
en Agnes down, stated the question more decisively yet, I him,’ said Mr. Gulpidge, checking himself -
thought. ‘I understand,’ said Mr. Spiker, ‘N.’
‘Oh, you know, deuce take it,’ said this gentleman, look- Mr. Gulpidge darkly nodded - ‘was referred to him, his
ing round the board with an imbecile smile, ‘we can’t forego answer was, ‘Money, or no release.‘‘
Blood, you know. We must have Blood, you know. Some ‘Lord bless my soul!’ cried Mr. Spiker.
young fellows, you know, may be a little behind their sta- ‘‘Money, or no release,‘‘ repeated Mr. Gulpidge, firmly.
tion, perhaps, in point of education and behaviour, and may ‘The next in reversion - you understand me?’
go a little wrong, you know, and get themselves and other ‘K.,’ said Mr. Spiker, with an ominous look.
people into a variety of fixes - and all that - but deuce take ‘- K. then positively refused to sign. He was attended at
it, it’s delightful to reflect that they’ve got Blood in ‘em! My- Newmarket for that purpose, and he point-blank refused
self, I’d rather at any time be knocked down by a man who to do it.’

Mr. Spiker was so interested, that he became quite stony. him with such warmth that I made him tell Agnes what he
‘So the matter rests at this hour,’ said Mr. Gulpidge, thought of him. But Agnes only looked at me the while, and
throwing himself back in his chair. ‘Our friend Waterbrook very slightly shook her head when only I observed her.
will excuse me if I forbear to explain myself generally, on As she was not among people with whom I believed she
account of the magnitude of the interests involved.’ could be very much at home, I was almost glad to hear that
Mr. Waterbrook was only too happy, as it appeared to she was going away within a few days, though I was sorry at
me, to have such interests, and such names, even hinted at, the prospect of parting from her again so soon. This caused
across his table. He assumed an expression of gloomy intel- me to remain until all the company were gone. Convers-
ligence (though I am persuaded he knew no more about the ing with her, and hearing her sing, was such a delightful
discussion than I did), and highly approved of the discretion reminder to me of my happy life in the grave old house she
that had been observed. Mr. Spiker, after the receipt of such had made so beautiful, that I could have remained there
a confidence, naturally desired to favour his friend with half the night; but, having no excuse for staying any longer,
a confidence of his own; therefore the foregoing dialogue when the lights of Mr. Waterbrook’s society were all snuffed
was succeeded by another, in which it was Mr. Gulpidge’s out, I took my leave very much against my inclination. I felt
turn to be surprised, and that by another in which the sur- then, more than ever, that she was my better Angel; and if I
prise came round to Mr. Spiker’s turn again, and so on, turn thought of her sweet face and placid smile, as though they
and turn about. All this time we, the outsiders, remained had shone on me from some removed being, like an Angel,
oppressed by the tremendous interests involved in the I hope I thought no harm.
conversation; and our host regarded us with pride, as the I have said that the company were all gone; but I ought
victims of a salutary awe and astonishment. I was very glad to have excepted Uriah, whom I don’t include in that de-
indeed to get upstairs to Agnes, and to talk with her in a nomination, and who had never ceased to hover near us. He
corner, and to introduce Traddles to her, who was shy, but was close behind me when I went downstairs. He was close
agreeable, and the same good-natured creature still. As he beside me, when I walked away from the house, slowly fit-
was obliged to leave early, on account of going away next ting his long skeleton fingers into the still longer fingers of a
morning for a month, I had not nearly so much conversa- great Guy Fawkes pair of gloves.
tion with him as I could have wished; but we exchanged It was in no disposition for Uriah’s company, but in re-
addresses, and promised ourselves the pleasure of another membrance of the entreaty Agnes had made to me, that I
meeting when he should come back to town. He was great- asked him if he would come home to my rooms, and have
ly interested to hear that I knew Steerforth, and spoke of some coffee.

‘Oh, really, Master Copperfield,’ he rejoined - ‘I beg your perfield,’ said Uriah, ‘to see you waiting upon me is what
pardon, Mister Copperfield, but the other comes so natural, I never could have expected! But, one way and another, so
I don’t like that you should put a constraint upon yourself many things happen to me which I never could have ex-
to ask a numble person like me to your ouse.’ pected, I am sure, in my umble station, that it seems to rain
‘There is no constraint in the case,’ said I. ‘Will you blessings on my ed. You have heard something, I des-say, of
come?’ a change in my expectations, Master Copperfield, - I should
‘I should like to, very much,’ replied Uriah, with a say, Mister Copperfield?’
writhe. As he sat on my sofa, with his long knees drawn up un-
‘Well, then, come along!’ said I. der his coffee-cup, his hat and gloves upon the ground close
I could not help being rather short with him, but he ap- to him, his spoon going softly round and round, his shad-
peared not to mind it. We went the nearest way, without owless red eyes, which looked as if they had scorched their
conversing much upon the road; and he was so humble in lashes off, turned towards me without looking at me, the
respect of those scarecrow gloves, that he was still putting disagreeable dints I have formerly described in his nostrils
them on, and seemed to have made no advance in that la- coming and going with his breath, and a snaky undulation
bour, when we got to my place. pervading his frame from his chin to his boots, I decided in
I led him up the dark stairs, to prevent his knocking his my own mind that I disliked him intensely. It made me very
head against anything, and really his damp cold hand felt uncomfortable to have him for a guest, for I was young then,
so like a frog in mine, that I was tempted to drop it and run and unused to disguise what I so strongly felt.
away. Agnes and hospitality prevailed, however, and I con- ‘You have heard something, I des-say, of a change in my
ducted him to my fireside. When I lighted my candles, he expectations, Master Copperfield, - I should say, Mister
fell into meek transports with the room that was revealed Copperfield?’ observed Uriah.
to him; and when I heated the coffee in an unassuming ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘something.’
block-tin vessel in which Mrs. Crupp delighted to prepare ‘Ah! I thought Miss Agnes would know of it!’ he quiet-
it (chiefly, I believe, because it was not intended for the pur- ly returned. ‘I’m glad to find Miss Agnes knows of it. Oh,
pose, being a shaving-pot, and because there was a patent thank you, Master - Mister Copperfield!’
invention of great price mouldering away in the pantry), I could have thrown my bootjack at him (it lay ready
he professed so much emotion, that I could joyfully have on the rug), for having entrapped me into the disclosure
scalded him. of anything concerning Agnes, however immaterial. But I
‘Oh, really, Master Copperfield, - I mean Mister Cop- only drank my coffee.

‘What a prophet you have shown yourself, Mister Cop- ‘Oh how glad I am you have not!’ exclaimed Uriah. ‘To
perfield!’ pursued Uriah. ‘Dear me, what a prophet you have think that you should be the first to kindle the sparks of am-
proved yourself to be! Don’t you remember saying to me bition in my umble breast, and that you’ve not forgot it! Oh!
once, that perhaps I should be a partner in Mr. Wickfield’s - Would you excuse me asking for a cup more coffee?’
business, and perhaps it might be Wickfield and Heep? You Something in the emphasis he laid upon the kindling of
may not recollect it; but when a person is umble, Master those sparks, and something in the glance he directed at me
Copperfield, a person treasures such things up!’ as he said it, had made me start as if I had seen him illumi-
‘I recollect talking about it,’ said I, ‘though I certainly did nated by a blaze of light. Recalled by his request, preferred
not think it very likely then.’ ‘Oh! who would have thought in quite another tone of voice, I did the honours of the
it likely, Mister Copperfield!’ returned Uriah, enthusiasti- shaving-pot; but I did them with an unsteadiness of hand,
cally. ‘I am sure I didn’t myself. I recollect saying with my a sudden sense of being no match for him, and a perplexed
own lips that I was much too umble. So I considered myself suspicious anxiety as to what he might be going to say next,
really and truly.’ which I felt could not escape his observation.
He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the He said nothing at all. He stirred his coffee round and
fire, as I looked at him. round, he sipped it, he felt his chin softly with his grisly
‘But the umblest persons, Master Copperfield,’ he pres- hand, he looked at the fire, he looked about the room, he
ently resumed, ‘may be the instruments of good. I am glad gasped rather than smiled at me, he writhed and undulat-
to think I have been the instrument of good to Mr. Wick- ed about, in his deferential servility, he stirred and sipped
field, and that I may be more so. Oh what a worthy man he again, but he left the renewal of the conversation to me.
is, Mister Copperfield, but how imprudent he has been!’ ‘So, Mr. Wickfield,’ said I, at last, ‘who is worth five hun-
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said I. I could not help adding, dred of you - or me’; for my life, I think, I could not have
rather pointedly, ‘on all accounts.’ helped dividing that part of the sentence with an awkward
‘Decidedly so, Mister Copperfield,’ replied Uriah. ‘On jerk; ‘has been imprudent, has he, Mr. Heep?’
all accounts. Miss Agnes’s above all! You don’t remember ‘Oh, very imprudent indeed, Master Copperfield,’ re-
your own eloquent expressions, Master Copperfield; but I turned Uriah, sighing modestly. ‘Oh, very much so! But I
remember how you said one day that everybody must ad- wish you’d call me Uriah, if you please. It’s like old times.’
mire her, and how I thanked you for it! You have forgot that, ‘Well! Uriah,’ said I, bolting it out with some difficulty.
I have no doubt, Master Copperfield?’ ‘Thank you,’ he returned, with fervour. ‘Thank you, Mas-
‘No,’ said I, drily. ter Copperfield! It’s like the blowing of old breezes or the

ringing of old bellses to hear YOU say Uriah. I beg your par- his crafty face, with the appropriately red light of the fire
don. Was I making any observation?’ upon it, preparing for something else.
‘About Mr. Wickfield,’ I suggested. ‘Master Copperfield,’ he began - ‘but am I keeping you
‘Oh! Yes, truly,’ said Uriah. ‘Ah! Great imprudence, Mas- up?’
ter Copperfield. It’s a topic that I wouldn’t touch upon, to ‘You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.’
any soul but you. Even to you I can only touch upon it, and ‘Thank you, Master Copperfield! I have risen from my
no more. If anyone else had been in my place during the last umble station since first you used to address me, it is true;
few years, by this time he would have had Mr. Wickfield (oh, but I am umble still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than
what a worthy man he is, Master Copperfield, too!) under umble. You will not think the worse of my umbleness, if I
his thumb. Un—der—his thumb,’ said Uriah, very slowly, make a little confidence to you, Master Copperfield? Will
as he stretched out his cruel-looking hand above my table, you?’
and pressed his own thumb upon it, until it shook, and ‘Oh no,’ said I, with an effort.
shook the room. ‘Thank you!’ He took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
If I had been obliged to look at him with him splay foot began wiping the palms of his hands. ‘Miss Agnes, Master
on Mr. Wickfield’s head, I think I could scarcely have hated Copperfield -’ ‘Well, Uriah?’
him more. ‘Oh, how pleasant to be called Uriah, spontaneously!’ he
‘Oh, dear, yes, Master Copperfield,’ he proceeded, in a cried; and gave himself a jerk, like a convulsive fish. ‘You
soft voice, most remarkably contrasting with the action thought her looking very beautiful tonight, Master Copper-
of his thumb, which did not diminish its hard pressure in field?’
the least degree, ‘there’s no doubt of it. There would have ‘I thought her looking as she always does: superior, in all
been loss, disgrace, I don’t know what at all. Mr. Wickfield respects, to everyone around her,’ I returned.
knows it. I am the umble instrument of umbly serving him, ‘Oh, thank you! It’s so true!’ he cried. ‘Oh, thank you very
and he puts me on an eminence I hardly could have hoped much for that!’
to reach. How thankful should I be!’ With his face turned ‘Not at all,’ I said, loftily. ‘There is no reason why you
towards me, as he finished, but without looking at me, he should thank me.’
took his crooked thumb off the spot where he had planted it, ‘Why that, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘is, in fact,
and slowly and thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with it, as the confidence that I am going to take the liberty of repos-
if he were shaving himself. ing. Umble as I am,’ he wiped his hands harder, and looked
I recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw at them and at the fire by turns, ‘umble as my mother is, and

lowly as our poor but honest roof has ever been, the image very useful to him indeed, Master Copperfield), and how
of Miss Agnes (I don’t mind trusting you with my secret, I smooth the way for him, and keep him straight. She’s so
Master Copperfield, for I have always overflowed towards much attached to her father, Master Copperfield (oh, what a
you since the first moment I had the pleasure of beholding lovely thing it is in a daughter!), that I think she may come,
you in a pony-shay) has been in my breast for years. Oh, on his account, to be kind to me.’
Master Copperfield, with what a pure affection do I love the I fathomed the depth of the rascal’s whole scheme, and
ground my Agnes walks on!’ understood why he laid it bare.
I believe I had a delirious idea of seizing the red-hot pok- ‘If you’ll have the goodness to keep my secret, Master
er out of the fire, and running him through with it. It went Copperfield,’ he pursued, ‘and not, in general, to go against
from me with a shock, like a ball fired from a rifle: but the me, I shall take it as a particular favour. You wouldn’t wish
image of Agnes, outraged by so much as a thought of this to make unpleasantness. I know what a friendly heart
red-headed animal’s, remained in my mind when I looked you’ve got; but having only known me on my umble footing
at him, sitting all awry as if his mean soul griped his body, (on my umblest I should say, for I am very umble still), you
and made me giddy. He seemed to swell and grow before might, unbeknown, go against me rather, with my Agnes. I
my eyes; the room seemed full of the echoes of his voice; call her mine, you see, Master Copperfield. There’s a song
and the strange feeling (to which, perhaps, no one is quite a that says, ‘I’d crowns resign, to call her mine!’ I hope to do
stranger) that all this had occurred before, at some indefi- it, one of these days.’
nite time, and that I knew what he was going to say next, Dear Agnes! So much too loving and too good for anyone
took possession of me. that I could think of, was it possible that she was reserved to
A timely observation of the sense of power that there was be the wife of such a wretch as this!
in his face, did more to bring back to my remembrance the ‘There’s no hurry at present, you know, Master Copper-
entreaty of Agnes, in its full force, than any effort I could field,’ Uriah proceeded, in his slimy way, as I sat gazing
have made. I asked him, with a better appearance of com- at him, with this thought in my mind. ‘My Agnes is very
posure than I could have thought possible a minute before, young still; and mother and me will have to work our way
whether he had made his feelings known to Agnes. upwards, and make a good many new arrangements, before
‘Oh no, Master Copperfield!’ he returned; ‘oh dear, no! it would be quite convenient. So I shall have time gradually
Not to anyone but you. You see I am only just emerging to make her familiar with my hopes, as opportunities offer.
from my lowly station. I rest a good deal of hope on her Oh, I’m so much obliged to you for this confidence! Oh, it’s
observing how useful I am to her father (for I trust to be such a relief, you can’t think, to know that you understand

our situation, and are certain (as you wouldn’t wish to make had always been put right in the morning by the best au-
unpleasantness in the family) not to go against me!’ thorities. As no arguments I could urge, in my bewildered
He took the hand which I dared not withhold, and having condition, had the least effect upon his modesty in induc-
given it a damp squeeze, referred to his pale-faced watch. ing him to accept my bedroom, I was obliged to make the
‘Dear me!’ he said, ‘it’s past one. The moments slip away best arrangements I could, for his repose before the fire. The
so, in the confidence of old times, Master Copperfield, that mattress of the sofa (which was a great deal too short for his
it’s almost half past one!’ lank figure), the sofa pillows, a blanket, the table-cover, a
I answered that I had thought it was later. Not that I had clean breakfast-cloth, and a great-coat, made him a bed and
really thought so, but because my conversational powers covering, for which he was more than thankful. Having lent
were effectually scattered. him a night-cap, which he put on at once, and in which he
‘Dear me!’ he said, considering. ‘The ouse that I am stop- made such an awful figure, that I have never worn one since,
ping at - a sort of a private hotel and boarding ouse, Master I left him to his rest.
Copperfield, near the New River ed - will have gone to bed I never shall forget that night. I never shall forget how
these two hours.’ I turned and tumbled; how I wearied myself with think-
‘I am sorry,’ I returned, ‘that there is only one bed here, ing about Agnes and this creature; how I considered what
and that I -’ could I do, and what ought I to do; how I could come to no
‘Oh, don’t think of mentioning beds, Master Copperfield!’ other conclusion than that the best course for her peace was
he rejoined ecstatically, drawing up one leg. ‘But would you to do nothing, and to keep to myself what I had heard. If I
have any objections to my laying down before the fire?’ went to sleep for a few moments, the image of Agnes with
‘If it comes to that,’ I said, ‘pray take my bed, and I’ll lie her tender eyes, and of her father looking fondly on her, as
down before the fire.’ I had so often seen him look, arose before me with appeal-
His repudiation of this offer was almost shrill enough, ing faces, and filled me with vague terrors. When I awoke,
in the excess of its surprise and humility, to have penetrat- the recollection that Uriah was lying in the next room, sat
ed to the ears of Mrs. Crupp, then sleeping, I suppose, in heavy on me like a waking nightmare; and oppressed me
a distant chamber, situated at about the level of low-water with a leaden dread, as if I had had some meaner quality of
mark, soothed in her slumbers by the ticking of an incor- devil for a lodger.
rigible clock, to which she always referred me when we had The poker got into my dozing thoughts besides, and
any little difference on the score of punctuality, and which wouldn’t come out. I thought, between sleeping and waking,
was never less than three-quarters of an hour too slow, and that it was still red hot, and I had snatched it out of the fire,

and run him through the body. I was so haunted at last by
the idea, though I knew there was nothing in it, that I stole CHAPTER 26
into the next room to look at him. There I saw him, lying on
his back, with his legs extending to I don’t know where, gur-
glings taking place in his throat, stoppages in his nose, and
his mouth open like a post-office. He was so much worse in I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY
reality than in my distempered fancy, that afterwards I was
attracted to him in very repulsion, and could not help wan-
dering in and out every half-hour or so, and taking another
look at him. Still, the long, long night seemed heavy and
hopeless as ever, and no promise of day was in the murky
sky.
I saw no more of Uriah Heep, until the day when Agnes
left town. I was at the coach office to take leave of her and
see her go; and there was he, returning to Canterbury by
When I saw him going downstairs early in the morning the same conveyance. It was some small satisfaction to me
(for, thank Heaven! he would not stay to breakfast), it ap- to observe his spare, short-waisted, high-shouldered, mul-
peared to me as if the night was going away in his person. berry-coloured great-coat perched up, in company with an
When I went out to the Commons, I charged Mrs. Crupp umbrella like a small tent, on the edge of the back seat on
with particular directions to leave the windows open, that the roof, while Agnes was, of course, inside; but what I un-
my sitting-room might be aired, and purged of his pres- derwent in my efforts to be friendly with him, while Agnes
ence. looked on, perhaps deserved that little recompense. At the
coach window, as at the dinner-party, he hovered about us
without a moment’s intermission, like a great vulture: gorg-
ing himself on every syllable that I said to Agnes, or Agnes
said to me.
In the state of trouble into which his disclosure by my
fire had thrown me, I had thought very much of the words
Agnes had used in reference to the partnership. ‘I did what
I hope was right. Feeling sure that it was necessary for pa-
pa’s peace that the sacrifice should be made, I entreated him
to make it.’ A miserable foreboding that she would yield to,

and sustain herself by, the same feeling in reference to any I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness: for
sacrifice for his sake, had oppressed me ever since. I knew Steerforth was at Oxford, as he wrote to me, and when I
how she loved him. I knew what the devotion of her nature was not at the Commons, I was very much alone. I believe I
was. I knew from her own lips that she regarded herself as had at this time some lurking distrust of Steerforth. I wrote
the innocent cause of his errors, and as owing him a great to him most affectionately in reply to his, but I think I was
debt she ardently desired to pay. I had no consolation in see- glad, upon the whole, that he could not come to London just
ing how different she was from this detestable Rufus with then. I suspect the truth to be, that the influence of Agnes
the mulberry-coloured great-coat, for I felt that in the very was upon me, undisturbed by the sight of him; and that it
difference between them, in the self-denial of her pure soul was the more powerful with me, because she had so large a
and the sordid baseness of his, the greatest danger lay. All share in my thoughts and interest.
this, doubtless, he knew thoroughly, and had, in his cun- In the meantime, days and weeks slipped away. I was ar-
ning, considered well. ticled to Spenlow and Jorkins. I had ninety pounds a year
Yet I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice (exclusive of my house-rent and sundry collateral matters)
afar off, must destroy the happiness of Agnes; and I was so from my aunt. My rooms were engaged for twelve months
sure, from her manner, of its being unseen by her then, and certain: and though I still found them dreary of an eve-
having cast no shadow on her yet; that I could as soon have ning, and the evenings long, I could settle down into a state
injured her, as given her any warning of what impended. of equable low spirits, and resign myself to coffee; which I
Thus it was that we parted without explanation: she wav- seem, on looking back, to have taken by the gallon at about
ing her hand and smiling farewell from the coach window; this period of my existence. At about this time, too, I made
her evil genius writhing on the roof, as if he had her in his three discoveries: first, that Mrs. Crupp was a martyr to a
clutches and triumphed. curious disorder called ‘the spazzums’, which was generally
I could not get over this farewell glimpse of them for a accompanied with inflammation of the nose, and required
long time. When Agnes wrote to tell me of her safe arrival, to be constantly treated with peppermint; secondly, that
I was as miserable as when I saw her going away. Whenever something peculiar in the temperature of my pantry, made
I fell into a thoughtful state, this subject was sure to pres- the brandy-bottles burst; thirdly, that I was alone in the
ent itself, and all my uneasiness was sure to be redoubled. world, and much given to record that circumstance in frag-
Hardly a night passed without my dreaming of it. It became ments of English versification.
a part of my life, and as inseparable from my life as my own On the day when I was articled, no festivity took place,
head. beyond my having sandwiches and sherry into the office for

the clerks, and going alone to the theatre at night. I went to sumptuous nature, and said that he had drunk brown East
see The Stranger, as a Doctors’ Commons sort of play, and India sherry there, of a quality so precious as to make a man
was so dreadfully cut up, that I hardly knew myself in my wink. We had an adjourned cause in the Consistory that
own glass when I got home. Mr. Spenlow remarked, on this day - about excommunicating a baker who had been object-
occasion, when we concluded our business, that he should ing in a vestry to a paving-rate - and as the evidence was just
have been happy to have seen me at his house at Norwood twice the length of Robinson Crusoe, according to a calcu-
to celebrate our becoming connected, but for his domes- lation I made, it was rather late in the day before we finished.
tic arrangements being in some disorder, on account of the However, we got him excommunicated for six weeks, and
expected return of his daughter from finishing her educa- sentenced in no end of costs; and then the baker’s proctor,
tion at Paris. But, he intimated that when she came home he and the judge, and the advocates on both sides (who were
should hope to have the pleasure of entertaining me. I knew all nearly related), went out of town together, and Mr. Spen-
that he was a widower with one daughter, and expressed my low and I drove away in the phaeton.
acknowledgements. The phaeton was a very handsome affair; the horses
Mr. Spenlow was as good as his word. In a week or two, arched their necks and lifted up their legs as if they knew
he referred to this engagement, and said, that if I would do they belonged to Doctors’ Commons. There was a good deal
him the favour to come down next Saturday, and stay till of competition in the Commons on all points of display,
Monday, he would be extremely happy. Of course I said I and it turned out some very choice equipages then; though
would do him the favour; and he was to drive me down in I always have considered, and always shall consider, that in
his phaeton, and to bring me back. my time the great article of competition there was starch:
When the day arrived, my very carpet-bag was an ob- which I think was worn among the proctors to as great an
ject of veneration to the stipendiary clerks, to whom the extent as it is in the nature of man to bear.
house at Norwood was a sacred mystery. One of them in- We were very pleasant, going down, and Mr. Spenlow
formed me that he had heard that Mr. Spenlow ate entirely gave me some hints in reference to my profession. He said
off plate and china; and another hinted at champagne being it was the genteelest profession in the world, and must on
constantly on draught, after the usual custom of table-beer. no account be confounded with the profession of a solicitor:
The old clerk with the wig, whose name was Mr. Tiffey, had being quite another sort of thing, infinitely more exclusive,
been down on business several times in the course of his less mechanical, and more profitable. We took things much
career, and had on each occasion penetrated to the break- more easily in the Commons than they could be taken any-
fast-parlour. He described it as an apartment of the most where else, he observed, and that set us, as a privileged class,

apart. He said it was impossible to conceal the disagreeable tory judge could plead any court-day as an advocate. Well,
fact, that we were chiefly employed by solicitors; but he gave you played your round game out again. Still you were not
me to understand that they were an inferior race of men, satisfied. Very good. What did you do then? Why, you went
universally looked down upon by all proctors of any pre- to the Delegates. Who were the Delegates? Why, the Eccle-
tensions. siastical Delegates were the advocates without any business,
I asked Mr. Spenlow what he considered the best sort of who had looked on at the round game when it was play-
professional business? He replied, that a good case of a dis- ing in both courts, and had seen the cards shuffled, and
puted will, where there was a neat little estate of thirty or cut, and played, and had talked to all the players about
forty thousand pounds, was, perhaps, the best of all. In such it, and now came fresh, as judges, to settle the matter to
a case, he said, not only were there very pretty pickings, in the satisfaction of everybody! Discontented people might
the way of arguments at every stage of the proceedings, and talk of corruption in the Commons, closeness in the Com-
mountains upon mountains of evidence on interrogatory mons, and the necessity of reforming the Commons, said
and counter-interrogatory (to say nothing of an appeal ly- Mr. Spenlow solemnly, in conclusion; but when the price of
ing, first to the Delegates, and then to the Lords), but, the wheat per bushel had been highest, the Commons had been
costs being pretty sure to come out of the estate at last, both busiest; and a man might lay his hand upon his heart, and
sides went at it in a lively and spirited manner, and expense say this to the whole world, - ‘Touch the Commons, and
was no consideration. Then, he launched into a general down comes the country!’
eulogium on the Commons. What was to be particularly I listened to all this with attention; and though, I must
admired (he said) in the Commons, was its compactness. It say, I had my doubts whether the country was quite as
was the most conveniently organized place in the world. It much obliged to the Commons as Mr. Spenlow made out,
was the complete idea of snugness. It lay in a nutshell. For I respectfully deferred to his opinion. That about the price
example: You brought a divorce case, or a restitution case, of wheat per bushel, I modestly felt was too much for my
into the Consistory. Very good. You tried it in the Consisto- strength, and quite settled the question. I have never, to
ry. You made a quiet little round game of it, among a family this hour, got the better of that bushel of wheat. It has reap-
group, and you played it out at leisure. Suppose you were peared to annihilate me, all through my life, in connexion
not satisfied with the Consistory, what did you do then? with all kinds of subjects. I don’t know now, exactly, what
Why, you went into the Arches. What was the Arches? The it has to do with me, or what right it has to crush me, on
same court, in the same room, with the same bar, and the an infinite variety of occasions; but whenever I see my old
same practitioners, but another judge, for there the Consis- friend the bushel brought in by the head and shoulders (as

he always is, I observe), I give up a subject for lost. Sylph, I don’t know what she was - anything that no one
This is a digression. I was not the man to touch the ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was
Commons, and bring down the country. I submissively ex- swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no
pressed, by my silence, my acquiescence in all I had heard pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I
from my superior in years and knowledge; and we talked was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.
about The Stranger and the Drama, and the pairs of horses, ‘I,’ observed a well-remembered voice, when I had bowed
until we came to Mr. Spenlow’s gate. and murmured something, ‘have seen Mr. Copperfield be-
There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow’s house; and fore.’
though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend,
garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchant- Miss Murdstone!
ed. There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, I don’t think I was much astonished. To the best of my
and there were perspective walks that I could just distin- judgement, no capacity of astonishment was left in me.
guish in the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which There was nothing worth mentioning in the material world,
shrubs and flowers grew in the growing season. ‘Here Miss but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about. I said, ‘How do
Spenlow walks by herself,’ I thought. ‘Dear me!’ you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are well.’ She answered,
We went into the house, which was cheerfully lighted up, ‘Very well.’ I said, ‘How is Mr. Murdstone?’ She replied, ‘My
and into a hall where there were all sorts of hats, caps, great- brother is robust, I am obliged to you.’
coats, plaids, gloves, whips, and walking-sticks. ‘Where Mr. Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see
is Miss Dora?’ said Mr. Spenlow to the servant. ‘Dora!’ I us recognize each other, then put in his word.
thought. ‘What a beautiful name!’ ‘I am glad to find,’ he said, ‘Copperfield, that you and
We turned into a room near at hand (I think it was the Miss Murdstone are already acquainted.’
identical breakfast-room, made memorable by the brown ‘Mr. Copperfield and myself,’ said Miss Murdstone, with
East Indian sherry), and I heard a voice say, ‘Mr. Copperfield, severe composure, ‘are connexions. We were once slightly
my daughter Dora, and my daughter Dora’s confidential acquainted. It was in his childish days. Circumstances have
friend!’ It was, no doubt, Mr. Spenlow’s voice, but I didn’t separated us since. I should not have known him.’
know it, and I didn’t care whose it was. All was over in a I replied that I should have known her, anywhere. Which
moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. I was a captive and a was true enough.
slave. I loved Dora Spenlow to distraction! ‘Miss Murdstone has had the goodness,’ said Mr. Spen-
She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a low to me, ‘to accept the office - if I may so describe it - of

my daughter Dora’s confidential friend. My daughter Dora of occurrences in which I had had no share. When a most
having, unhappily, no mother, Miss Murdstone is obliging amiable person, with a highly polished bald head, asked me
enough to become her companion and protector.’ across the dinner table, if that were the first occasion of my
A passing thought occurred to me that Miss Murdstone, seeing the grounds, I could have done anything to him that
like the pocket instrument called a life-preserver, was not was savage and revengeful.
so much designed for purposes of protection as of assault. I don’t remember who was there, except Dora. I have not
But as I had none but passing thoughts for any subject save the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My im-
Dora, I glanced at her, directly afterwards, and was think- pression is, that I dined off Dora, entirely, and sent away
ing that I saw, in her prettily pettish manner, that she was half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to
not very much inclined to be particularly confidential to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little
her companion and protector, when a bell rang, which Mr. laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways, that
Spenlow said was the first dinner-bell, and so carried me ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was rather di-
off to dress. minutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought.
The idea of dressing one’s self, or doing anything in the When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone
way of action, in that state of love, was a little too ridicu- (no other ladies were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only
lous. I could only sit down before my fire, biting the key of disturbed by the cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone
my carpet-bag, and think of the captivating, girlish, bright- would disparage me to her. The amiable creature with the
eyed lovely Dora. What a form she had, what a face she had, polished head told me a long story, which I think was about
what a graceful, variable, enchanting manner! gardening. I think I heard him say, ‘my gardener’, sever-
The bell rang again so soon that I made a mere scram- al times. I seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but
ble of my dressing, instead of the careful operation I could I was wandering in a garden of Eden all the while, with
have wished under the circumstances, and went down- Dora.
stairs. There was some company. Dora was talking to an old My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of
gentleman with a grey head. Grey as he was - and a great- my engrossing affection were revived when we went into
grandfather into the bargain, for he said so - I was madly the drawing-room, by the grim and distant aspect of Miss
jealous of him. Murdstone. But I was relieved of them in an unexpected
What a state of mind I was in! I was jealous of everybody. manner.
I couldn’t bear the idea of anybody knowing Mr. Spenlow ‘David Copperfield,’ said Miss Murdstone, beckoning me
better than I did. It was torturing to me to hear them talk aside into a window. ‘A word.’

I confronted Miss Murdstone alone. and may bring us together on other occasions, I would say,
‘David Copperfield,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘I need not en- let us meet here as distant acquaintances. Family circum-
large upon family circumstances. They are not a tempting stances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting on that
subject.’ ‘Far from it, ma’am,’ I returned. footing, and it is quite unnecessary that either of us should
‘Far from it,’ assented Miss Murdstone. ‘I do not wish to make the other the subject of remark. Do you approve of
revive the memory of past differences, or of past outrages. I this?’
have received outrages from a person - a female I am sorry ‘Miss Murdstone,’ I returned, ‘I think you and Mr. Murd-
to say, for the credit of my sex - who is not to be mentioned stone used me very cruelly, and treated my mother with
without scorn and disgust; and therefore I would rather not great unkindness. I shall always think so, as long as I live.
mention her.’ But I quite agree in what you propose.’
I felt very fiery on my aunt’s account; but I said it would Miss Murdstone shut her eyes again, and bent her head.
certainly be better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to men- Then, just touching the back of my hand with the tips of her
tion her. I could not hear her disrespectfully mentioned, I cold, stiff fingers, she walked away, arranging the little fet-
added, without expressing my opinion in a decided tone. ters on her wrists and round her neck; which seemed to be
Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and disdainfully inclined the same set, in exactly the same state, as when I had seen
her head; then, slowly opening her eyes, resumed: her last. These reminded me, in reference to Miss Murd-
‘David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the stone’s nature, of the fetters over a jail door; suggesting on
fact, that I formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your the outside, to all beholders, what was to be expected with-
childhood. It may have been a mistaken one, or you may in.
have ceased to justify it. That is not in question between us All I know of the rest of the evening is, that I heard the
now. I belong to a family remarkable, I believe, for some empress of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French
firmness; and I am not the creature of circumstance or language, generally to the effect that, whatever was the
change. I may have my opinion of you. You may have your matter, we ought always to dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra la! accom-
opinion of me.’ panying herself on a glorified instrument, resembling a
I inclined my head, in my turn. guitar. That I was lost in blissful delirium. That I refused
‘But it is not necessary,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘that these refreshment. That my soul recoiled from punch particularly.
opinions should come into collision here. Under existing That when Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led
circumstances, it is as well on all accounts that they should her away, she smiled and gave me her delicious hand. That I
not. As the chances of life have brought us together again, caught a view of myself in a mirror, looking perfectly imbe-

cile and idiotic. That I retired to bed in a most maudlin state sary for the day to be aired, before I come out. Aired!’ (She
of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation. laughed, here, in the most melodious manner.) ‘On a Sun-
It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would day morning, when I don’t practise, I must do something.
go and take a stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, So I told papa last night I must come out. Besides, it’s the
and indulge my passion by dwelling on her image. On my brightest time of the whole day. Don’t you think so?’
way through the hall, I encountered her little dog, who was I hazarded a bold flight, and said (not without stammer-
called Jip - short for Gipsy. I approached him tenderly, for ing) that it was very bright to me then, though it had been
I loved even him; but he showed his whole set of teeth, got very dark to me a minute before.
under a chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn’t hear of the ‘Do you mean a compliment?’ said Dora, ‘or that the
least familiarity. weather has really changed?’
The garden was cool and solitary. I walked about, won- I stammered worse than before, in replying that I meant
dering what my feelings of happiness would be, if I could no compliment, but the plain truth; though I was not aware
ever become engaged to this dear wonder. As to marriage, of any change having taken place in the weather. It was in
and fortune, and all that, I believe I was almost as inno- the state of my own feelings, I added bashfully: to clench
cently undesigning then, as when I loved little Em’ly. To be the explanation.
allowed to call her ‘Dora’, to write to her, to dote upon and I never saw such curls - how could I, for there never were
worship her, to have reason to think that when she was with such curls! - as those she shook out to hide her blushes. As
other people she was yet mindful of me, seemed to me the to the straw hat and blue ribbons which was on the top of
summit of human ambition - I am sure it was the summit the curls, if I could only have hung it up in my room in
of mine. There is no doubt whatever that I was a lackadaisi- Buckingham Street, what a priceless possession it would
cal young spooney; but there was a purity of heart in all this, have been!
that prevents my having quite a contemptuous recollection ‘You have just come home from Paris,’ said I.
of it, let me laugh as I may. ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Have you ever been there?’
I had not been walking long, when I turned a corner, and ‘No.’
met her. I tingle again from head to foot as my recollection ‘Oh! I hope you’ll go soon! You would like it so much!’
turns that corner, and my pen shakes in my hand. Traces of deep-seated anguish appeared in my counte-
‘You - are - out early, Miss Spenlow,’ said I. nance. That she should hope I would go, that she should
‘It’s so stupid at home,’ she replied, ‘and Miss Murdstone think it possible I could go, was insupportable. I depre-
is so absurd! She talks such nonsense about its being neces- ciated Paris; I depreciated France. I said I wouldn’t leave

England, under existing circumstances, for any earthly in any such cross people, Jip and I. We mean to bestow our
consideration. Nothing should induce me. In short, she was confidence where we like, and to find out our own friends,
shaking the curls again, when the little dog came running instead of having them found out for us - don’t we, Jip?’
along the walk to our relief. jip made a comfortable noise, in answer, a little like a tea-
He was mortally jealous of me, and persisted in bark- kettle when it sings. As for me, every word was a new heap
ing at me. She took him up in her arms - oh my goodness! of fetters, riveted above the last.
- and caressed him, but he persisted upon barking still. He ‘It is very hard, because we have not a kind Mama, that
wouldn’t let me touch him, when I tried; and then she beat we are to have, instead, a sulky, gloomy old thing like Miss
him. It increased my sufferings greatly to see the pats she Murdstone, always following us about - isn’t it, Jip? Never
gave him for punishment on the bridge of his blunt nose, mind, Jip. We won’t be confidential, and we’ll make our-
while he winked his eyes, and licked her hand, and still selves as happy as we can in spite of her, and we’ll tease her,
growled within himself like a little double-bass. At length and not please her - won’t we, Jip?’
he was quiet - well he might be with her dimpled chin upon If it had lasted any longer, I think I must have gone down
his head! - and we walked away to look at a greenhouse. on my knees on the gravel, with the probability before me
‘You are not very intimate with Miss Murdstone, are of grazing them, and of being presently ejected from the
you?’ said Dora. -’My pet.’ premises besides. But, by good fortune the greenhouse was
(The two last words were to the dog. Oh, if they had only not far off, and these words brought us to it.
been to me!) It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums. We
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all so.’ loitered along in front of them, and Dora often stopped to
‘She is a tiresome creature,’ said Dora, pouting. ‘I can’t admire this one or that one, and I stopped to admire the
think what papa can have been about, when he chose such same one, and Dora, laughing, held the dog up childishly,
a vexatious thing to be my companion. Who wants a pro- to smell the flowers; and if we were not all three in Fairy-
tector? I am sure I don’t want a protector. Jip can protect land, certainly I was. The scent of a geranium leaf, at this
me a great deal better than Miss Murdstone, - can’t you, Jip, day, strikes me with a half comical half serious wonder as to
dear?’ what change has come over me in a moment; and then I see
He only winked lazily, when she kissed his ball of a a straw hat and blue ribbons, and a quantity of curls, and a
head. little black dog being held up, in two slender arms, against a
‘Papa calls her my confidential friend, but I am sure she bank of blossoms and bright leaves.
is no such thing - is she, Jip? We are not going to confide Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us

here; and presented her uncongenial cheek, the little wrin- tea again, however; and I had the melancholy pleasure of
kles in it filled with hair powder, to Dora to be kissed. Then taking off my hat to her in the phaeton, as she stood on the
she took Dora’s arm in hers, and marched us into breakfast door-step with Jip in her arms.
as if it were a soldier’s funeral. What the Admiralty was to me that day; what nonsense
How many cups of tea I drank, because Dora made it, I I made of our case in my mind, as I listened to it; how I
don’t know. But, I perfectly remember that I sat swilling tea saw ‘DORA’ engraved upon the blade of the silver oar which
until my whole nervous system, if I had had any in those they lay upon the table, as the emblem of that high jurisdic-
days, must have gone by the board. By and by we went to tion; and how I felt when Mr. Spenlow went home without
church. Miss Murdstone was between Dora and me in the me (I had had an insane hope that he might take me back
pew; but I heard her sing, and the congregation vanished. again), as if I were a mariner myself, and the ship to which
A sermon was delivered - about Dora, of course - and I am I belonged had sailed away and left me on a desert island; I
afraid that is all I know of the service. shall make no fruitless effort to describe. If that sleepy old
We had a quiet day. No company, a walk, a family dinner court could rouse itself, and present in any visible form the
of four, and an evening of looking over books and pictures; daydreams I have had in it about Dora, it would reveal my
Miss Murdstone with a homily before her, and her eye upon truth.
us, keeping guard vigilantly. Ah! little did Mr. Spenlow I don’t mean the dreams that I dreamed on that day
imagine, when he sat opposite to me after dinner that day, alone, but day after day, from week to week, and term to
with his pocket-handkerchief over his head, how fervently term. I went there, not to attend to what was going on, but
I was embracing him, in my fancy, as his son-in-law! Little to think about Dora. If ever I bestowed a thought upon the
did he think, when I took leave of him at night, that he had cases, as they dragged their slow length before me, it was
just given his full consent to my being engaged to Dora, and only to wonder, in the matrimonial cases (remembering
that I was invoking blessings on his head! Dora), how it was that married people could ever be other-
We departed early in the morning, for we had a Salvage wise than happy; and, in the Prerogative cases, to consider,
case coming on in the Admiralty Court, requiring a rath- if the money in question had been left to me, what were the
er accurate knowledge of the whole science of navigation, foremost steps I should immediately have taken in regard
in which (as we couldn’t be expected to know much about to Dora. Within the first week of my passion, I bought four
those matters in the Commons) the judge had entreated sumptuous waistcoats - not for myself; I had no pride in
two old Trinity Masters, for charity’s sake, to come and them; for Dora - and took to wearing straw-coloured kid
help him out. Dora was at the breakfast-table to make the gloves in the streets, and laid the foundations of all the

corns I have ever had. If the boots I wore at that period the disorder I have mentioned) if I could oblige her with a
could only be produced and compared with the natural size little tincture of cardamums mixed with rhubarb, and fla-
of my feet, they would show what the state of my heart was, voured with seven drops of the essence of cloves, which was
in a most affecting manner. the best remedy for her complaint; - or, if I had not such a
And yet, wretched cripple as I made myself by this act thing by me, with a little brandy, which was the next best.
of homage to Dora, I walked miles upon miles daily in the It was not, she remarked, so palatable to her, but it was the
hope of seeing her. Not only was I soon as well known on the next best. As I had never even heard of the first remedy, and
Norwood Road as the postmen on that beat, but I pervaded always had the second in the closet, I gave Mrs. Crupp a
London likewise. I walked about the streets where the best glass of the second, which (that I might have no suspicion
shops for ladies were, I haunted the Bazaar like an unquiet of its being devoted to any improper use) she began to take
spirit, I fagged through the Park again and again, long after in my presence.
I was quite knocked up. Sometimes, at long intervals and on ‘Cheer up, sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp. ‘I can’t abear to see you
rare occasions, I saw her. Perhaps I saw her glove waved in so, sir: I’m a mother myself.’
a carriage window; perhaps I met her, walked with her and I did not quite perceive the application of this fact to my-
Miss Murdstone a little way, and spoke to her. In the latter self, but I smiled on Mrs. Crupp, as benignly as was in my
case I was always very miserable afterwards, to think that I power.
had said nothing to the purpose; or that she had no idea of ‘Come, sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp. ‘Excuse me. I know what it
the extent of my devotion, or that she cared nothing about is, sir. There’s a lady in the case.’
me. I was always looking out, as may be supposed, for an- ‘Mrs. Crupp?’ I returned, reddening.
other invitation to Mr. Spenlow’s house. I was always being ‘Oh, bless you! Keep a good heart, sir!’ said Mrs. Crupp,
disappointed, for I got none. nodding encouragement. ‘Never say die, sir! If She don’t
Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration; for smile upon you, there’s a many as will. You are a young gen-
when this attachment was but a few weeks old, and I had tleman to be smiled on, Mr. Copperfull, and you must learn
not had the courage to write more explicitly even to Agnes, your walue, sir.’
than that I had been to Mr. Spenlow’s house, ‘whose fam- Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull: first-
ily,’ I added, ‘consists of one daughter’; - I say Mrs. Crupp ly, no doubt, because it was not my name; and secondly, I
must have been a woman of penetration, for, even in that am inclined to think, in some indistinct association with a
early stage, she found it out. She came up to me one evening, washing-day.
when I was very low, to ask (she being then afflicted with ‘What makes you suppose there is any young lady in the

case, Mrs. Crupp?’ said I. young lady in my case with a barmaid, or anything of that
‘Mr. Copperfull,’ said Mrs. Crupp, with a great deal of sort, if you please.’
feeling, ‘I’m a mother myself.’ ‘Mr. Copperfull,’ returned Mrs. Crupp, ‘I’m a mother
For some time Mrs. Crupp could only lay her hand upon myself, and not likely. I ask your pardon, sir, if I intrude.
her nankeen bosom, and fortify herself against returning I should never wish to intrude where I were not welcome.
pain with sips of her medicine. At length she spoke again. But you are a young gentleman, Mr. Copperfull, and my ad-
‘When the present set were took for you by your dear wice to you is, to cheer up, sir, to keep a good heart, and to
aunt, Mr. Copperfull,’ said Mrs. Crupp, ‘my remark were, know your own walue. If you was to take to something, sir,’
I had now found summun I could care for. ‘Thank Ev’in!’ said Mrs. Crupp, ‘if you was to take to skittles, now, which
were the expression, ‘I have now found summun I can care is healthy, you might find it divert your mind, and do you
for!’ - You don’t eat enough, sir, nor yet drink.’ good.’
‘Is that what you found your supposition on, Mrs. Crupp?’ With these words, Mrs. Crupp, affecting to be very care-
said I. ful of the brandy - which was all gone - thanked me with
‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp, in a tone approaching to severity, a majestic curtsey, and retired. As her figure disappeared
‘I’ve laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself. A into the gloom of the entry, this counsel certainly present-
young gentleman may be over-careful of himself, or he may ed itself to my mind in the light of a slight liberty on Mrs.
be under-careful of himself. He may brush his hair too reg- Crupp’s part; but, at the same time, I was content to receive
ular, or too un-regular. He may wear his boots much too it, in another point of view, as a word to the wise, and a
large for him, or much too small. That is according as the warning in future to keep my secret better.
young gentleman has his original character formed. But let
him go to which extreme he may, sir, there’s a young lady in
both of ‘em.’
Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a determined man-
ner, that I had not an inch of vantage-ground left.
‘It was but the gentleman which died here before yourself,’
said Mrs. Crupp, ‘that fell in love - with a barmaid - and
had his waistcoats took in directly, though much swelled
by drinking.’
‘Mrs. Crupp,’ said I, ‘I must beg you not to connect the

CHAPTER 27 bonnet, and an umbrella, in various stages of decomposi-
tion, as I was looking out for the number I wanted.
The general air of the place reminded me forcibly of the
days when I lived with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. An inde-
TOMMY TRADDLES scribable character of faded gentility that attached to the
house I sought, and made it unlike all the other houses in
the street - though they were all built on one monotonous
pattern, and looked like the early copies of a blundering boy
who was learning to make houses, and had not yet got out
I t may have been in consequence of Mrs. Crupp’s advice,

and, perhaps, for no better reason than because there was
a certain similarity in the sound of the word skittles and
of his cramped brick-and-mortar pothooks - reminded me
still more of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Happening to arrive
at the door as it was opened to the afternoon milkman, I
Traddles, that it came into my head, next day, to go and look was reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber more forcibly yet.
after Traddles. The time he had mentioned was more than ‘Now,’ said the milkman to a very youthful servant girl.
out, and he lived in a little street near the Veterinary Col- ‘Has that there little bill of mine been heerd on?’
lege at Camden Town, which was principally tenanted, as ‘Oh, master says he’ll attend to it immediate,’ was the re-
one of our clerks who lived in that direction informed me, ply.
by gentlemen students, who bought live donkeys, and made ‘Because,’ said the milkman, going on as if he had re-
experiments on those quadrupeds in their private apart- ceived no answer, and speaking, as I judged from his tone,
ments. Having obtained from this clerk a direction to the rather for the edification of somebody within the house,
academic grove in question, I set out, the same afternoon, than of the youthful servant - an impression which was
to visit my old schoolfellow. strengthened by his manner of glaring down the passage -
I found that the street was not as desirable a one as I ‘because that there little bill has been running so long, that I
could have wished it to be, for the sake of Traddles. The in- begin to believe it’s run away altogether, and never won’t be
habitants appeared to have a propensity to throw any little heerd of. Now, I’m not a going to stand it, you know!’ said
trifles they were not in want of, into the road: which not the milkman, still throwing his voice into the house, and
only made it rank and sloppy, but untidy too, on account of glaring down the passage.
the cabbage-leaves. The refuse was not wholly vegetable ei- As to his dealing in the mild article of milk, by the by,
ther, for I myself saw a shoe, a doubled-up saucepan, a black there never was a greater anomaly. His deportment would

have been fierce in a butcher or a brandy-merchant. landing to meet me. He was delighted to see me, and gave
The voice of the youthful servant became faint, but she me welcome, with great heartiness, to his little room. It was
seemed to me, from the action of her lips, again to murmur in the front of the house, and extremely neat, though sparely
that it would be attended to immediate. furnished. It was his only room, I saw; for there was a sofa-
‘I tell you what,’ said the milkman, looking hard at her bedstead in it, and his blacking-brushes and blacking were
for the first time, and taking her by the chin, ‘are you fond among his books - on the top shelf, behind a dictionary. His
of milk?’ table was covered with papers, and he was hard at work in
‘Yes, I likes it,’ she replied. ‘Good,’ said the milkman. an old coat. I looked at nothing, that I know of, but I saw
‘Then you won’t have none tomorrow. D’ye hear? Not a frag- everything, even to the prospect of a church upon his china
ment of milk you won’t have tomorrow.’ inkstand, as I sat down - and this, too, was a faculty con-
I thought she seemed, upon the whole, relieved by the firmed in me in the old Micawber times. Various ingenious
prospect of having any today. The milkman, after shaking arrangements he had made, for the disguise of his chest of
his head at her darkly, released her chin, and with anything drawers, and the accommodation of his boots, his shaving-
rather than good-will opened his can, and deposited the glass, and so forth, particularly impressed themselves upon
usual quantity in the family jug. This done, he went away, me, as evidences of the same Traddles who used to make
muttering, and uttered the cry of his trade next door, in a models of elephants’ dens in writing-paper to put flies in;
vindictive shriek. and to comfort himself under ill usage, with the memorable
‘Does Mr. Traddles live here?’ I then inquired. works of art I have so often mentioned.
A mysterious voice from the end of the passage replied In a corner of the room was something neatly covered
‘Yes.’ Upon which the youthful servant replied ‘Yes.’ up with a large white cloth. I could not make out what that
‘Is he at home?’ said I. was.
Again the mysterious voice replied in the affirmative, ‘Traddles,’ said I, shaking hands with him again, after I
and again the servant echoed it. Upon this, I walked in, had sat down, ‘I am delighted to see you.’
and in pursuance of the servant’s directions walked up- ‘I am delighted to see YOU, Copperfield,’ he returned. ‘I
stairs; conscious, as I passed the back parlour-door, that I am very glad indeed to see you. It was because I was thor-
was surveyed by a mysterious eye, probably belonging to oughly glad to see you when we met in Ely Place, and was
the mysterious voice. sure you were thoroughly glad to see me, that I gave you
When I got to the top of the stairs - the house was only this address instead of my address at chambers.’ ‘Oh! You
a story high above the ground floor - Traddles was on the have chambers?’ said I.

‘Why, I have the fourth of a room and a passage, and the ‘I think our schoolmaster might have made them hap-
fourth of a clerk,’ returned Traddles. ‘Three others and my- pier, without doing any harm to any of us, I acknowledge,’
self unite to have a set of chambers - to look business-like I returned.
- and we quarter the clerk too. Half-a-crown a week he costs ‘Perhaps he might,’ said Traddles. ‘But dear me, there was
me.’ a good deal of fun going on. Do you remember the nights
His old simple character and good temper, and some- in the bedroom? When we used to have the suppers? And
thing of his old unlucky fortune also, I thought, smiled at when you used to tell the stories? Ha, ha, ha! And do you
me in the smile with which he made this explanation. remember when I got caned for crying about Mr. Mell? Old
‘It’s not because I have the least pride, Copperfield, you Creakle! I should like to see him again, too!’
understand,’ said Traddles, ‘that I don’t usually give my ad- ‘He was a brute to you, Traddles,’ said I, indignantly; for
dress here. It’s only on account of those who come to me, his good humour made me feel as if I had seen him beaten
who might not like to come here. For myself, I am fighting but yesterday.
my way on in the world against difficulties, and it would be ‘Do you think so?’ returned Traddles. ‘Really? Perhaps he
ridiculous if I made a pretence of doing anything else.’ was rather. But it’s all over, a long while. Old Creakle!’
‘You are reading for the bar, Mr. Waterbrook informed ‘You were brought up by an uncle, then?’ said I.
me?’ said I. ‘Of course I was!’ said Traddles. ‘The one I was always go-
‘Why, yes,’ said Traddles, rubbing his hands slowly over ing to write to. And always didn’t, eh! Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I had
one another. ‘I am reading for the bar. The fact is, I have just an uncle then. He died soon after I left school.’
begun to keep my terms, after rather a long delay. It’s some ‘Indeed!’
time since I was articled, but the payment of that hundred ‘Yes. He was a retired - what do you call it! - draper -
pounds was a great pull. A great pull!’ said Traddles, with a cloth-merchant - and had made me his heir. But he didn’t
wince, as if he had had a tooth out. like me when I grew up.’
‘Do you know what I can’t help thinking of, Traddles, as ‘Do you really mean that?’ said I. He was so composed,
I sit here looking at you?’ I asked him. that I fancied he must have some other meaning.
‘No,’ said he. ‘Oh dear, yes, Copperfield! I mean it,’ replied Traddles.
‘That sky-blue suit you used to wear.’ ‘It was an unfortunate thing, but he didn’t like me at all. He
‘Lord, to be sure!’ cried Traddles, laughing. ‘Tight in the said I wasn’t at all what he expected, and so he married his
arms and legs, you know? Dear me! Well! Those were happy housekeeper.’
times, weren’t they?’ ‘And what did you do?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t do anything in particular,’ said Traddles. ‘I lived suppose there never was a young man with less originality
with them, waiting to be put out in the world, until his gout than I have.’
unfortunately flew to his stomach - and so he died, and so As Traddles seemed to expect that I should assent to this
she married a young man, and so I wasn’t provided for.’ as a matter of course, I nodded; and he went on, with the
‘Did you get nothing, Traddles, after all?’ same sprightly patience - I can find no better expression
‘Oh dear, yes!’ said Traddles. ‘I got fifty pounds. I had - as before.
never been brought up to any profession, and at first I was ‘So, by little and little, and not living high, I managed to
at a loss what to do for myself. However, I began, with the scrape up the hundred pounds at last,’ said Traddles; ‘and
assistance of the son of a professional man, who had been thank Heaven that’s paid - though it was - though it cer-
to Salem House - Yawler, with his nose on one side. Do you tainly was,’ said Traddles, wincing again as if he had had
recollect him?’ another tooth out, ‘a pull. I am living by the sort of work
No. He had not been there with me; all the noses were I have mentioned, still, and I hope, one of these days, to
straight in my day. get connected with some newspaper: which would almost
‘It don’t matter,’ said Traddles. ‘I began, by means of his be the making of my fortune. Now, Copperfield, you are so
assistance, to copy law writings. That didn’t answer very exactly what you used to be, with that agreeable face, and
well; and then I began to state cases for them, and make it’s so pleasant to see you, that I sha’n’t conceal anything.
abstracts, and that sort of work. For I am a plodding kind Therefore you must know that I am engaged.’
of fellow, Copperfield, and had learnt the way of doing such Engaged! Oh, Dora!
things pithily. Well! That put it in my head to enter myself ‘She is a curate’s daughter,’ said Traddles; ‘one of ten,
as a law student; and that ran away with all that was left of down in Devonshire. Yes!’ For he saw me glance, involun-
the fifty pounds. Yawler recommended me to one or two tarily, at the prospect on the inkstand. ‘That’s the church!
other offices, however - Mr. Waterbrook’s for one - and I You come round here to the left, out of this gate,’ tracing his
got a good many jobs. I was fortunate enough, too, to be- finger along the inkstand, ‘and exactly where I hold this pen,
come acquainted with a person in the publishing way, who there stands the house - facing, you understand, towards
was getting up an Encyclopaedia, and he set me to work; the church.’
and, indeed’ (glancing at his table), ‘I am at work for him The delight with which he entered into these particulars,
at this minute. I am not a bad compiler, Copperfield,’ said did not fully present itself to me until afterwards; for my
Traddles, preserving the same air of cheerful confidence in selfish thoughts were making a ground-plan of Mr. Spen-
all he said, ‘but I have no invention at all; not a particle. I low’s house and garden at the same moment.

‘She is such a dear girl!’ said Traddles; ‘a little older than Copperfield. So does the ironmongery - candle-boxes, and
me, but the dearest girl! I told you I was going out of town? gridirons, and that sort of necessaries - because those things
I have been down there. I walked there, and I walked back, tell, and mount up. However, ‘wait
and I had the most delightful time! I dare say ours is likely and hope!’ And I assure you she’s the dearest girl!’
to be a rather long engagement, but our motto is ‘Wait and ‘I am quite certain of it,’ said I.
hope!’ We always say that. ‘Wait and hope,’ we always say. ‘In the meantime,’ said Traddles, coming back to his chair;
And she would wait, Copperfield, till she was sixty - any age ‘and this is the end of my prosing about myself, I get on as
you can mention - for me!’ well as I can. I don’t make much, but I don’t spend much. In
Traddles rose from his chair, and, with a triumphant general, I board with the people downstairs, who are very
smile, put his hand upon the white cloth I had observed. agreeable people indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Micawber have
‘However,’ he said, ‘it’s not that we haven’t made a be- seen a good deal of life, and are excellent company.’
ginning towards housekeeping. No, no; we have begun. We ‘My dear Traddles!’ I quickly exclaimed. ‘What are you
must get on by degrees, but we have begun. Here,’ draw- talking about?’
ing the cloth off with great pride and care, ‘are two pieces Traddles looked at me, as if he wondered what I was talk-
of furniture to commence with. This flower-pot and stand, ing about.
she bought herself. You put that in a parlour window,’ said ‘Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!’ I repeated. ‘Why, I am inti-
Traddles, falling a little back from it to survey it with the mately acquainted with them!’
greater admiration, ‘with a plant in it, and - and there you An opportune double knock at the door, which I knew
are! This little round table with the marble top (it’s two feet well from old experience in Windsor Terrace, and which
ten in circumference), I bought. You want to lay a book nobody but Mr. Micawber could ever have knocked at that
down, you know, or somebody comes to see you or your door, resolved any doubt in my mind as to their being my
wife, and wants a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and - old friends. I begged Traddles to ask his landlord to walk
and there you are again!’ said Traddles. ‘It’s an admirable up. Traddles accordingly did so, over the banister; and Mr.
piece of workmanship - firm as a rock!’ I praised them both, Micawber, not a bit changed - his tights, his stick, his shirt-
highly, and Traddles replaced the covering as carefully as collar, and his eye-glass, all the same as ever - came into the
he had removed it. room with a genteel and youthful air.
‘It’s not a great deal towards the furnishing,’ said Trad- ‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Traddles,’ said Mr. Micaw-
dles, ‘but it’s something. The table-cloths, and pillow-cases, ber, with the old roll in his voice, as he checked himself in
and articles of that kind, are what discourage me most, humming a soft tune. ‘I was not aware that there was any

individual, alien to this tenement, in your sanctum.’ ‘I have none but good accounts of them,’ said I.
Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to me, and pulled up his ‘I am most delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘It
shirt-collar. was at Canterbury where we last met. Within the shadow,
‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’ said I. I may figuratively say, of that religious edifice immortal-
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘you are exceedingly obliging. I ized by Chaucer, which was anciently the resort of Pilgrims
am in statu quo.’ from the remotest corners of - in short,’ said Mr. Micawber,
‘And Mrs. Micawber?’ I pursued. ‘in the immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘she is also, thank God, in statu I replied that it was. Mr. Micawber continued talking as
quo.’ volubly as he could; but not, I thought, without showing,
‘And the children, Mr. Micawber?’ by some marks of concern in his countenance, that he was
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I rejoice to reply that they are, sensible of sounds in the next room, as of Mrs. Micawber
likewise, in the enjoyment of salubrity.’ washing her hands, and hurriedly opening and shutting
All this time, Mr. Micawber had not known me in the drawers that were uneasy in their action.
least, though he had stood face to face with me. But now, ‘You find us, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, with one
seeing me smile, he examined my features with more atten- eye on Traddles, ‘at present established, on what may be
tion, fell back, cried, ‘Is it possible! Have I the pleasure of designated as a small and unassuming scale; but, you are
again beholding Copperfield!’ and shook me by both hands aware that I have, in the course of my career, surmounted
with the utmost fervour. difficulties, and conquered obstacles. You are no stranger to
‘Good Heaven, Mr. Traddles!’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘to the fact, that there have been periods of my life, when it has
think that I should find you acquainted with the friend of been requisite that I should pause, until certain expected
my youth, the companion of earlier days! My dear!’ calling events should turn up; when it has been necessary that I
over the banisters to Mrs. Micawber, while Traddles looked should fall back, before making what I trust I shall not be
(with reason) not a little amazed at this description of me. accused of presumption in terming - a spring. The present
‘Here is a gentleman in Mr. Traddles’s apartment, whom he is one of those momentous stages in the life of man. You
wishes to have the pleasure of presenting to you, my love!’ find me, fallen back, FOR a spring; and I have every reason
Mr. Micawber immediately reappeared, and shook to believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be the result.’
hands with me again. I was expressing my satisfaction, when Mrs. Micawber
‘And how is our good friend the Doctor, Copperfield?’ came in; a little more slatternly than she used to be, or so
said Mr. Micawber, ‘and all the circle at Canterbury?’ she seemed now, to my unaccustomed eyes, but still with

some preparation of herself for company, and with a pair of Mr. Micawber, under pretence of showing me a nearer
brown gloves on. way than that by which I had come, accompanied me to the
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, leading her towards me, corner of the street; being anxious (he explained to me) to
‘here is a gentleman of the name of Copperfield, who wishes say a few words to an old friend, in confidence.
to renew his acquaintance with you.’ ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I need hardly
It would have been better, as it turned out, to have led tell you that to have beneath our roof, under existing cir-
gently up to this announcement, for Mrs. Micawber, being cumstances, a mind like that which gleams - if I may be
in a delicate state of health, was overcome by it, and was allowed the expression - which gleams - in your friend
taken so unwell, that Mr. Micawber was obliged, in great Traddles, is an unspeakable comfort. With a washerwom-
trepidation, to run down to the water-butt in the backyard, an, who exposes hard-bake for sale in her parlour-window,
and draw a basinful to lave her brow with. She presently re- dwelling next door, and a Bow-street officer residing over
vived, however, and was really pleased to see me. We had the way, you may imagine that his society is a source of con-
half-an-hour’s talk, all together; and I asked her about the solation to myself and to Mrs. Micawber. I am at present,
twins, who, she said, were ‘grown great creatures’; and after my dear Copperfield, engaged in the sale of corn upon com-
Master and Miss Micawber, whom she described as ‘abso- mission. It is not an avocation of a remunerative description
lute giants’, but they were not produced on that occasion. - in other words, it does not pay - and some temporary
Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to embarrassments of a pecuniary nature have been the con-
dinner. I should not have been averse to do so, but that I sequence. I am, however, delighted to add that I have now
imagined I detected trouble, and calculation relative to the an immediate prospect of something turning up (I am not
extent of the cold meat, in Mrs. Micawber’s eye. I therefore at liberty to say in what direction), which I trust will enable
pleaded another engagement; and observing that Mrs. Mi- me to provide, permanently, both for myself and for your
cawber’s spirits were immediately lightened, I resisted all friend Traddles, in whom I have an unaffected interest. You
persuasion to forego it. may, perhaps, be prepared to hear that Mrs. Micawber is
But I told Traddles, and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, that be- in a state of health which renders it not wholly improbable
fore I could think of leaving, they must appoint a day when that an addition may be ultimately made to those pledges
they would come and dine with me. The occupations to of affection which - in short, to the infantine group. Mrs.
which Traddles stood pledged, rendered it necessary to fix Micawber’s family have been so good as to express their dis-
a somewhat distant one; but an appointment was made for satisfaction at this state of things. I have merely to observe,
the purpose, that suited us all, and then I took my leave. that I am not aware that it is any business of theirs, and that

I repel that exhibition of feeling with scorn, and with defi-
ance!’ CHAPTER 28
Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left
me.
Mr. MICAWBER’S
GAUNTLET
U ntil the day arrived on which I was to entertain my

newly-found old friends, I lived principally on Dora
and coffee. In my love-lorn condition, my appetite lan-
guished; and I was glad of it, for I felt as though it would
have been an act of perfidy towards Dora to have a natu-
ral relish for my dinner. The quantity of walking exercise I
took, was not in this respect attended with its usual conse-
quence, as the disappointment counteracted the fresh air. I
have my doubts, too, founded on the acute experience ac-
quired at this period of my life, whether a sound enjoyment
of animal food can develop itself freely in any human sub-
ject who is always in torment from tight boots. I think the
extremities require to be at peace before the stomach will
conduct itself with vigour.
On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not
repeat my former extensive preparations. I merely provided
a pair of soles, a small leg of mutton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs.
Crupp broke out into rebellion on my first bashful hint in

reference to the cooking of the fish and joint, and said, with party, in preference to re-engaging the handy young man;
a dignified sense of injury, ‘No! No, sir! You will not ask me against whom I had conceived a prejudice, in consequence
sich a thing, for you are better acquainted with me than to of meeting him in the Strand, one Sunday morning, in a
suppose me capable of doing what I cannot do with ampial waistcoat remarkably like one of mine, which had been
satisfaction to my own feelings!’ But, in the end, a compro- missing since the former occasion. The ‘young gal’ was re-
mise was effected; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve engaged; but on the stipulation that she should only bring in
this feat, on condition that I dined from home for a fort- the dishes, and then withdraw to the landing-place, beyond
night afterwards. the outer door; where a habit of sniffing she had contracted
And here I may remark, that what I underwent from Mrs. would be lost upon the guests, and where her retiring on the
Crupp, in consequence of the tyranny she established over plates would be a physical impossibility.
me, was dreadful. I never was so much afraid of anyone. We Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch, to be
made a compromise of everything. If I hesitated, she was compounded by Mr. Micawber; having provided a bottle
taken with that wonderful disorder which was always lying of lavender-water, two wax-candles, a paper of mixed pins,
in ambush in her system, ready, at the shortest notice, to and a pincushion, to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilette at
prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently, after half- my dressing-table; having also caused the fire in my bed-
a-dozen unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last room to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber’s convenience; and
- which was not by any means to be relied upon - she would having laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the re-
appear with a reproachful aspect, sink breathless on a chair sult with composure.
near the door, lay her hand upon her nankeen bosom, and At the appointed time, my three visitors arrived togeth-
become so ill, that I was glad, at any sacrifice of brandy or er. Mr. Micawber with more shirt-collar than usual, and a
anything else, to get rid of her. If I objected to having my new ribbon to his eye-glass; Mrs. Micawber with her cap in
bed made at five o’clock in the afternoon - which I do still a whitey-brown paper parcel; Traddles carrying the parcel,
think an uncomfortable arrangement - one motion of her and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were all
hand towards the same nankeen region of wounded sen- delighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Mi-
sibility was enough to make me falter an apology. In short, cawber to my dressing-table, and she saw the scale on which
I would have done anything in an honourable way rather it was prepared for her, she was in such raptures, that she
than give Mrs. Crupp offence; and she was the terror of my called Mr. Micawber to come in and look.
life. ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘this is luxu-
I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for this dinner- rious. This is a way of life which reminds me of the period

when I was myself in a state of celibacy, and Mrs. Micawber of punch, and led him to the lemons. His recent despon-
had not yet been solicited to plight her faith at the Hyme- dency, not to say despair, was gone in a moment. I never
neal altar.’ saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance
‘He means, solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. of lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, and the
Micawber, archly. ‘He cannot answer for others.’ steam of boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon.
‘My dear,’ returned Mr. Micawber with sudden serious- It was wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin
ness, ‘I have no desire to answer for others. I am too well cloud of these delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mixed, and
aware that when, in the inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were tasted, and looked as if he were making, instead of punch,
reserved for me, it is possible you may have been reserved a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity. As to
for one, destined, after a protracted struggle, at length to Mrs. Micawber, I don’t know whether it was the effect of
fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a complicated na- the cap, or the lavender-water, or the pins, or the fire, or the
ture. I understand your allusion, my love. I regret it, but I wax-candles, but she came out of my room, comparatively
can bear it.’ speaking, lovely. And the lark was never gayer than that ex-
‘Micawber!’ exclaimed Mrs. Micawber, in tears. ‘Have I cellent woman.
deserved this! I, who never have deserted you; who never I suppose - I never ventured to inquire, but I suppose
WILL desert you, Micawber!’ ‘My love,’ said Mr. Micaw- - that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles, was taken ill. Be-
ber, much affected, ‘you will forgive, and our old and tried cause we broke down at that point. The leg of mutton came
friend Copperfield will, I am sure, forgive, the momentary up very red within, and very pale without: besides having a
laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it, as if
collision with the Minion of Power - in other words, with a if had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen
ribald Turncock attached to the water-works - and will pity, fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact
not condemn, its excesses.’ from the appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the ‘young
Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawber, and gal’ had dropped it all upon the stairs - where it remained,
pressed my hand; leaving me to infer from this broken allu- by the by, in a long train, until it was worn out. The pigeon-
sion that his domestic supply of water had been cut off that pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the crust being
afternoon, in consequence of default in the payment of the like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full
company’s rates. of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath.
To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject, I In short, the banquet was such a failure that I should have
informed Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl been quite unhappy - about the failure, I mean, for I was al-

ways unhappy about Dora - if I had not been relieved by the plates, and the mutton then preparing.
great good humour of my company, and by a bright sugges- What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of
tion from Mr. Micawber. it, the bustle of it, the frequent starting up to look after it,
‘My dear friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘ac- the frequent sitting down to dispose of it as the crisp slic-
cidents will occur in the best-regulated families; and in es came off the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so
families not regulated by that pervading influence which flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the midst of such
sanctifies while it enhances the - a - I would say, in short, by a tempting noise and savour, we reduced the leg of mut-
the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of Wife, they ton to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously.
may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with I am ashamed to record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora
philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of re- for a little while. I am satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber
marking that there are few comestibles better, in their way, could not have enjoyed the feast more, if they had sold a bed
than a Devil, and that I believe, with a little division of la- to provide it. Traddles laughed as heartily, almost the whole
bour, we could accomplish a good one if the young person time, as he ate and worked. Indeed we all did, all at once;
in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would put it to and I dare say there was never a greater success.
you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.’ We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all
There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morn- busily engaged, in our several departments, endeavouring
ing rasher of bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling, to bring the last batch of slices to a state of perfection that
and immediately applied ourselves to carrying Mr. Micaw- should crown the feast, when I was aware of a strange pres-
ber’s idea into effect. The division of labour to which he had ence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the
referred was this: - Traddles cut the mutton into slices; Mr. staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.
Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfec- ‘What’s the matter?’ I involuntarily asked.
tion) covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my
I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and master not here, sir?’
took them off, under Mr. Micawber’s direction; and Mrs. ‘No.’
Micawber heated, and continually stirred, some mushroom ‘Have you not seen him, sir?’
ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough ‘No; don’t you come from him?’
done to begin upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked ‘Not immediately so, sir.’
up at the wrist, more slices sputtering and blazing on the ‘Did he tell you you would find him here?’
fire, and our attention divided between the mutton on our ‘Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here

tomorrow, as he has not been here today.’ ‘Is he coming up eyes from what he was about. Yet his very elbows, when he
from Oxford?’ had his back towards me, seemed to teem with the expres-
‘I beg, sir,’ he returned respectfully, ‘that you will be seat- sion of his fixed opinion that I was extremely young.
ed, and allow me to do this.’ With which he took the fork ‘Can I do anything more, sir?’
from my unresisting hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if I thanked him and said, No; but would he take no din-
his whole attention were concentrated on it. ner himself?
We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, ‘None, I am obliged to you, sir.’
by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became in ‘Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?’
a moment the meekest of the meek before his respectable ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
serving-man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to show that ‘Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?’
he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle ‘I should imagine that he might be here tomorrow, sir. I
of a hastily concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his rather thought he might have been here today, sir. The mis-
coat, as if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on take is mine, no doubt, sir.’
her brown gloves, and assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ‘If you should see him first -’ said I.
ran his greasy hands through his hair, and stood it bolt up- ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I don’t think I shall see him
right, and stared in confusion on the table-cloth. As for me, first.’
I was a mere infant at the head of my own table; and hardly ‘In case you do,’ said I, ‘pray say that I am sorry he was
ventured to glance at the respectable phenomenon, who had not here today, as an old schoolfellow of his was here.’
come from Heaven knows where, to put my establishment ‘Indeed, sir!’ and he divided a bow between me and Trad-
to rights. dles, with a glance at the latter.
Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron, and He was moving softly to the door, when, in a forlorn
gravely handed it round. We all took some, but our appre- hope of saying something naturally - which I never could,
ciation of it was gone, and we merely made a show of eating to this man - I said:
it. As we severally pushed away our plates, he noiselessly ‘Oh! Littimer!’
removed them, and set on the cheese. He took that off, too, ‘Sir!’
when it was done with; cleared the table; piled everything ‘Did you remain long at Yarmouth, that time?’
on the dumb-waiter; gave us our wine-glasses; and, of his ‘Not particularly so, sir.’
own accord, wheeled the dumb-waiter into the pantry. All ‘You saw the boat completed?’
this was done in a perfect manner, and he never raised his ‘Yes, sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat

completed.’ perfield will permit me to take that social liberty, to the
‘I know!’ He raised his eyes to mine respectfully. days when my friend Copperfield and myself were younger,
‘Mr. Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose?’ and fought our way in the world side by side. I may say, of
‘I really can’t say, sir. I think - but I really can’t say, sir. I myself and Copperfield, in words we have sung together be-
wish you good night, sir.’ fore now, that
He comprehended everybody present, in the respectful We twa hae run about the braes And pu’d the gowans’
bow with which he followed these words, and disappeared. fine
My visitors seemed to breathe more freely when he was - in a figurative point of view - on several occasions. I am
gone; but my own relief was very great, for besides the con- not exactly aware,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in
straint, arising from that extraordinary sense of being at a his voice, and the old indescribable air of saying something
disadvantage which I always had in this man’s presence, my genteel, ‘what gowans may be, but I have no doubt that Cop-
conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had perfield and myself would frequently have taken a pull at
mistrusted his master, and I could not repress a vague un- them, if it had been feasible.’
easy dread that he might find it out. How was it, having so Mr. Micawber, at the then present moment, took a pull
little in reality to conceal, that I always DID feel as if this at his punch. So we all did: Traddles evidently lost in won-
man were finding me out? dering at what distant time Mr. Micawber and I could have
Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was been comrades in the battle of the world.
blended with a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing ‘Ahem!’ said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat, and
Steerforth himself, by bestowing many encomiums on the warming with the punch and with the fire. ‘My dear, an-
absent Littimer as a most respectable fellow, and a thor- other glass?’
oughly admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I may remark, Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little; but we couldn’t
had taken his full share of the general bow, and had re- allow that, so it was a glassful.
ceived it with infinite condescension. ‘As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copperfield,’ said
‘But punch, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, Mrs. Micawber, sipping her punch, ‘Mr. Traddles being a
tasting it, ‘like time and tide, waits for no man. Ah! it is at part of our domesticity, I should much like to have your
the present moment in high flavour. My love, will you give opinion on Mr. Micawber’s prospects. For corn,’ said Mrs.
me your opinion?’ Micawber argumentatively, ‘as I have repeatedly said to
Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent. Mr. Micawber, may be gentlemanly, but it is not remunera-
‘Then I will drink,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if my friend Cop- tive. Commission to the extent of two and ninepence in a

fortnight cannot, however limited our ideas, be considered from my own knowledge of him, is calculated to shine; and
remunerative.’ the profits, I am told, are e-NOR-MOUS! But if Mr. Micaw-
We were all agreed upon that. ber cannot get into those firms - which decline to answer
‘Then,’ said Mrs. Micawber, who prided herself on taking his letters, when he offers his services even in an inferior
a clear view of things, and keeping Mr. Micawber straight capacity - what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None.
by her woman’s wisdom, when he might otherwise go a lit- I may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber’s manners -’
tle crooked, ‘then I ask myself this question. If corn is not to ‘Hem! Really, my dear,’ interposed Mr. Micawber.
be relied upon, what is? Are coals to be relied upon? Not at ‘My love, be silent,’ said Mrs. Micawber, laying her brown
all. We have turned our attention to that experiment, on the glove on his hand. ‘I may have a conviction, Mr. Copper-
suggestion of my family, and we find it fallacious.’ field, that Mr. Micawber’s manners peculiarly qualify him
Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair with his hands for the Banking business. I may argue within myself, that
in his pockets, eyed us aside, and nodded his head, as much if I had a deposit at a banking-house, the manners of Mr.
as to say that the case was very clearly put. Micawber, as representing that banking-house, would in-
‘The articles of corn and coals,’ said Mrs. Micawber, still spire confidence, and must extend the connexion. But if the
more argumentatively, ‘being equally out of the question, various banking-houses refuse to avail themselves of Mr.
Mr. Copperfield, I naturally look round the world, and say, Micawber’s abilities, or receive the offer of them with con-
‘What is there in which a person of Mr. Micawber’s talent tumely, what is the use of dwelling upon THAT idea? None.
is likely to succeed?’ And I exclude the doing anything on As to originating a banking-business, I may know that there
commission, because commission is not a certainty. What are members of my family who, if they chose to place their
is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber’s peculiar tem- money in Mr. Micawber’s hands, might found an estab-
perament is, I am convinced, a certainty.’ lishment of that description. But if they do NOT choose to
Traddles and I both expressed, by a feeling murmur, that place their money in Mr. Micawber’s hands - which they
this great discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawber, don’t - what is the use of that? Again I contend that we are
and that it did him much credit. no farther advanced than we were before.’
‘I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ I shook my head, and said, ‘Not a bit.’ Traddles also
said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that I have long felt the Brewing busi- shook his head, and said, ‘Not a bit.’
ness to be particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at ‘What do I deduce from this?’ Mrs. Micawber went on to
Barclay and Perkins! Look at Truman, Hanbury, and Bux- say, still with the same air of putting a case lucidly. ‘What
ton! It is on that extensive footing that Mr. Micawber, I know is the conclusion, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I am

irresistibly brought? Am I wrong in saying, it is clear that gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, ‘Show me who will
we must live?’ take that up. Let the party immediately step forward.‘‘
I answered ‘Not at all!’ and Traddles answered ‘Not at I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was to be
all!’ and I found myself afterwards sagely adding, alone, done.
that a person must either live or die. ‘By advertising,’ said Mrs. Micawber - ‘in all the papers.
‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, ‘It is precisely that. And It appears to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in jus-
the fact is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we can not live tice to himself, in justice to his family, and I will even go so
without something widely different from existing circum- far as to say in justice to society, by which he has been hith-
stances shortly turning up. Now I am convinced, myself, erto overlooked, is to advertise in all the papers; to describe
and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber several times himself plainly as so-and-so, with such and such qualifica-
of late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of them- tions and to put it thus: ‘Now employ me, on remunerative
selves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. I may terms, and address, post-paid, to W. M., Post Office, Cam-
be wrong, but I have formed that opinion.’ den Town.‘‘
Both Traddles and I applauded it highly. ‘This idea of Mrs. Micawber’s, my dear Copperfield,’ said
‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then what do I recom- Mr. Micawber, making his shirt-collar meet in front of his
mend? Here is Mr. Micawber with a variety of qualifications chin, and glancing at me sideways, ‘is, in fact, the Leap to
- with great talent -’ which I alluded, when I last had the pleasure of seeing you.’
‘Really, my love,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘Advertising is rather expensive,’ I remarked, dubiously.
‘Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Mi- ‘Exactly so!’ said Mrs. Micawber, preserving the same
cawber, with a variety of qualifications, with great talent - I logical air. ‘Quite true, my dear Mr. Copperfield! I have
should say, with genius, but that may be the partiality of a made the identical observation to Mr. Micawber. It is for
wife -’ that reason especially, that I think Mr. Micawber ought (as
Traddles and I both murmured ‘No.’ I have already said, in justice to himself, in justice to his
‘And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable position family, and in justice to society) to raise a certain sum of
or employment. Where does that responsibility rest? Clearly money - on a bill.’
on society. Then I would make a fact so disgraceful known, Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled with his
and boldly challenge society to set it right. It appears to eye-glass and cast his eyes up at the ceiling; but I thought
me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, forcibly, him observant of Traddles, too, who was looking at the fire.
‘that what Mr. Micawber has to do, is to throw down the ‘If no member of my family,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘is

possessed of sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill to me that these are the means. I am aware that I am merely
- I believe there is a better business-term to express what I a female, and that a masculine judgement is usually consid-
mean -’ ered more competent to the discussion of such questions;
Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the ceiling, still I must not forget that, when I lived at home with my
suggested ‘Discount.’ papa and mama, my papa was in the habit of saying, ‘Em-
‘To discount that bill,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘then my ma’s form is fragile, but her grasp of a subject is inferior to
opinion is, that Mr. Micawber should go into the City, none.’ That my papa was too partial, I well know; but that he
should take that bill into the Money Market, and should was an observer of character in some degree, my duty and
dispose of it for what he can get. If the individuals in the my reason equally forbid me to doubt.’
Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great sac- With these words, and resisting our entreaties that she
rifice, that is between themselves and their consciences. I would grace the remaining circulation of the punch with
view it, steadily, as an investment. I recommend Mr. Mi- her presence, Mrs. Micawber retired to my bedroom. And
cawber, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to do the same; to regard really I felt that she was a noble woman - the sort of woman
it as an investment which is sure of return, and to make up who might have been a Roman matron, and done all man-
his mind to any sacrifice.’ ner of heroic things, in times of public trouble.
I felt, but I am sure I don’t know why, that this was self- In the fervour of this impression, I congratulated Mr.
denying and devoted in Mrs. Micawber, and I uttered a Micawber on the treasure he possessed. So did Traddles.
murmur to that effect. Traddles, who took his tone from Mr. Micawber extended his hand to each of us in succession,
me, did likewise, still looking at the fire. and then covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief,
‘I will not,’ said Mrs. Micawber, finishing her punch, and which I think had more snuff upon it than he was aware
gathering her scarf about her shoulders, preparatory to her of. He then returned to the punch, in the highest state of
withdrawal to my bedroom: ‘I will not protract these re- exhilaration.
marks on the subject of Mr. Micawber’s pecuniary affairs. He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that
At your fireside, my dear Mr. Copperfield, and in the pres- in our children we lived again, and that, under the pres-
ence of Mr. Traddles, who, though not so old a friend, is sure of pecuniary difficulties, any accession to their number
quite one of ourselves, I could not refrain from making you was doubly welcome. He said that Mrs. Micawber had lat-
acquainted with the course I advise Mr. Micawber to take. I terly had her doubts on this point, but that he had dispelled
feel that the time is arrived when Mr. Micawber should ex- them, and reassured her. As to her family, they were totally
ert himself and - I will add - assert himself, and it appears unworthy of her, and their sentiments were utterly indiffer-

ent to him, and they might - I quote his own expression - go convenient, and that the first thing he contemplated doing,
to the Devil. when the advertisement should have been the cause of some-
Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles. thing satisfactory turning up, was to move. He mentioned a
He said Traddles’s was a character, to the steady virtues of terrace at the western end of Oxford Street, fronting Hyde
which he (Mr. Micawber) could lay no claim, but which, he Park, on which he had always had his eye, but which he did
thanked Heaven, he could admire. He feelingly alluded to not expect to attain immediately, as it would require a large
the young lady, unknown, whom Traddles had honoured establishment. There would probably be an interval, he ex-
with his affection, and who had reciprocated that affection plained, in which he should content himself with the upper
by honouring and blessing Traddles with her affection. Mr. part of a house, over some respectable place of business -
Micawber pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us both, say in Piccadilly, - which would be a cheerful situation for
by saying, with a simplicity and honesty I had sense enough Mrs. Micawber; and where, by throwing out a bow-window,
to be quite charmed with, ‘I am very much obliged to you or carrying up the roof another story, or making some lit-
indeed. And I do assure you, she’s the dearest girl! -’ tle alteration of that sort, they might live, comfortably and
Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after that, of reputably, for a few years. Whatever was reserved for him,
hinting, with the utmost delicacy and ceremony, at the he expressly said, or wherever his abode might be, we might
state of MY affections. Nothing but the serious assurance of rely on this - there would always be a room for Traddles,
his friend Copperfield to the contrary, he observed, could and a knife and fork for me. We acknowledged his kind-
deprive him of the impression that his friend Copperfield ness; and he begged us to forgive his having launched into
loved and was beloved. After feeling very hot and uncom- these practical and business-like details, and to excuse it as
fortable for some time, and after a good deal of blushing, natural in one who was making entirely new arrangements
stammering, and denying, I said, having my glass in my in life.
hand, ‘Well! I would give them D.!’ which so excited and Mrs. Micawber, tapping at the wall again to know if tea
gratified Mr. Micawber, that he ran with a glass of punch were ready, broke up this particular phase of our friend-
into my bedroom, in order that Mrs. Micawber might drink ly conversation. She made tea for us in a most agreeable
D., who drank it with enthusiasm, crying from within, in a manner; and, whenever I went near her, in handing about
shrill voice, ‘Hear, hear! My dear Mr. Copperfield, I am de- the tea-cups and bread-and-butter, asked me, in a whisper,
lighted. Hear!’ and tapping at the wall, by way of applause. whether D. was fair, or dark, or whether she was short, or
Our conversation, afterwards, took a more worldly turn; tall: or something of that kind; which I think I liked. Af-
Mr. Micawber telling us that he found Camden Town inter tea, we discussed a variety of topics before the fire; and

Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing us (in a small, thin, ‘Certainly.’
flat voice, which I remembered to have considered, when I ‘Oh!’ said Traddles. ‘Yes, to be sure! I am very much
first knew her, the very table-beer of acoustics) the favourite obliged to you, Copperfield; but - I am afraid I have lent
ballads of ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’, and ‘Little Tafflin’. him that already.’
For both of these songs Mrs. Micawber had been famous ‘For the bill that is to be a certain investment?’ I in-
when she lived at home with her papa and mama. Mr. Mi- quired.
cawber told us, that when he heard her sing the first one, on ‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Not for that one. This is the first I
the first occasion of his seeing her beneath the parental roof, have heard of that one. I have been thinking that he will
she had attracted his attention in an extraordinary degree; most likely propose that one, on the way home. Mine’s an-
but that when it came to Little Tafflin, he had resolved to other.’
win that woman or perish in the attempt. ‘I hope there will be nothing wrong about it,’ said I. ‘I
It was between ten and eleven o’clock when Mrs. Mi- hope not,’ said Traddles. ‘I should think not, though, be-
cawber rose to replace her cap in the whitey-brown paper cause he told me, only the other day, that it was provided for.
parcel, and to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the That was Mr. Micawber’s expression, ‘Provided for.‘‘
opportunity of Traddles putting on his great-coat, to slip a Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to where we
letter into my hand, with a whispered request that I would were standing, I had only time to repeat my caution. Trad-
read it at my leisure. I also took the opportunity of my hold- dles thanked me, and descended. But I was much afraid,
ing a candle over the banisters to light them down, when when I observed the good-natured manner in which he
Mr. Micawber was going first, leading Mrs. Micawber, and went down with the cap in his hand, and gave Mrs. Mi-
Traddles was following with the cap, to detain Traddles for cawber his arm, that he would be carried into the Money
a moment on the top of the stairs. Market neck and heels.
‘Traddles,’ said I, ‘Mr. Micawber don’t mean any harm, I returned to my fireside, and was musing, half gravely
poor fellow: but, if I were you, I wouldn’t lend him any- and half laughing, on the character of Mr. Micawber and
thing.’ the old relations between us, when I heard a quick step as-
‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, smiling, ‘I cending the stairs. At first, I thought it was Traddles coming
haven’t got anything to lend.’ back for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind; but as
‘You have got a name, you know,’ said I. the step approached, I knew it, and felt my heart beat high,
‘Oh! You call THAT something to lend?’ returned Trad- and the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth’s.
dles, with a thoughtful look. I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that

sanctuary in my thoughts - if I may call it so - where I had Micawber. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that
placed her from the first. But when he entered, and stood gentleman, and said he was a man to know, and he must
before me with his hand out, the darkness that had fallen on know him. ‘But who do you suppose our other friend is?’
him changed to light, and I felt confounded and ashamed of said I, in my turn.
having doubted one I loved so heartily. I loved her none the ‘Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Not a bore, I hope? I
less; I thought of her as the same benignant, gentle angel in thought he looked a little like one.’
my life; I reproached myself, not her, with having done him ‘Traddles!’ I replied, triumphantly.
an injury; and I would have made him any atonement if I ‘Who’s he?’ asked Steerforth, in his careless way.
had known what to make, and how to make it. ‘Don’t you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at
‘Why, Daisy, old boy, dumb-foundered!’ laughed Steer- Salem House?’
forth, shaking my hand heartily, and throwing it gaily away. ‘Oh! That fellow!’ said Steerforth, beating a lump of coal
‘Have I detected you in another feast, you Sybarite! These on the top of the fire, with the poker. ‘Is he as soft as ever?
Doctors’ Commons fellows are the gayest men in town, I And where the deuce did you pick him up?’
believe, and beat us sober Oxford people all to nothing!’ His I extolled Traddles in reply, as highly as I could; for I felt
bright glance went merrily round the room, as he took the that Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforth, dismissing
seat on the sofa opposite to me, which Mrs. Micawber had the subject with a light nod, and a smile, and the remark
recently vacated, and stirred the fire into a blaze. that he would be glad to see the old fellow too, for he had al-
‘I was so surprised at first,’ said I, giving him welcome ways been an odd fish, inquired if I could give him anything
with all the cordiality I felt, ‘that I had hardly breath to greet to eat? During most of this short dialogue, when he had not
you with, Steerforth.’ been speaking in a wild vivacious manner, he had sat idly
‘Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch beating on the lump of coal with the poker. I observed that
say,’ replied Steerforth, ‘and so is the sight of you, Daisy, in he did the same thing while I was getting out the remains of
full bloom. How are you, my Bacchanal?’ the pigeon-pie, and so forth.
‘I am very well,’ said I; ‘and not at all Bacchanalian to- ‘Why, Daisy, here’s a supper for a king!’ he exclaimed,
night, though I confess to another party of three.’ starting out of his silence with a burst, and taking his seat
‘All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your at the table. ‘I shall do it justice, for I have come from Yar-
praise,’ returned Steerforth. ‘Who’s our friend in the mouth.’
tights?’ ‘I thought you came from Oxford?’ I returned.
I gave him the best idea I could, in a few words, of Mr. ‘Not I,’ said Steerforth. ‘I have been seafaring - better em-

ployed.’ a little apothecary there - surgeon, or whatever he is - who
‘Littimer was here today, to inquire for you,’ I remarked, brought your worship into the world. He was mighty
‘and I understood him that you were at Oxford; though, now learned about the case, to me; but the upshot of his opin-
I think of it, he certainly did not say so.’ ion was, that the carrier was making his last journey rather
‘Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him, to have been fast. - Put your hand into the breast pocket of my great-coat
inquiring for me at all,’ said Steerforth, jovially pouring out on the chair yonder, and I think you’ll find the letter. Is it
a glass of wine, and drinking to me. ‘As to understanding there?’
him, you are a cleverer fellow than most of us, Daisy, if you ‘Here it is!’ said I.
can do that.’ ‘That’s right!’
‘That’s true, indeed,’ said I, moving my chair to the ta- It was from Peggotty; something less legible than usual,
ble. ‘So you have been at Yarmouth, Steerforth!’ interested and brief. It informed me of her husband’s hopeless state,
to know all about it. ‘Have you been there long?’ and hinted at his being ‘a little nearer’ than heretofore, and
‘No,’ he returned. ‘An escapade of a week or so.’ consequently more difficult to manage for his own comfort.
‘And how are they all? Of course, little Emily is not mar- It said nothing of her weariness and watching, and praised
ried yet?’ him highly. It was written with a plain, unaffected, homely
‘Not yet. Going to be, I believe - in so many weeks, or piety that I knew to be genuine, and ended with ‘my duty to
months, or something or other. I have not seen much of ‘em. my ever darling’ - meaning myself.
By the by’; he laid down his knife and fork, which he had While I deciphered it, Steerforth continued to eat and
been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his drink.
pockets; ‘I have a letter for you.’ ‘It’s a bad job,’ he said, when I had done; ‘but the sun sets
‘From whom?’ every day, and people die every minute, and we mustn’t be
‘Why, from your old nurse,’ he returned, taking some pa- scared by the common lot. If we failed to hold our own, be-
pers out of his breast pocket. ‘‘J. Steerforth, Esquire, debtor, cause that equal foot at all men’s doors was heard knocking
to The Willing Mind”; that’s not it. Patience, and we’ll find somewhere, every object in this world would slip from us.
it presently. Old what’s-his-name’s in a bad way, and it’s No! Ride on! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that
about that, I believe.’ will do, but ride on! Ride on over all obstacles, and win the
‘Barkis, do you mean?’ race!’
‘Yes!’ still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their ‘And win what race?’ said I.
contents: ‘it’s all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw ‘The race that one has started in,’ said he. ‘Ride on!’

I noticed, I remember, as he paused, looking at me with ‘Quite,’ he returned. ‘I am for Highgate tonight. I have
his handsome head a little thrown back, and his glass raised not seen my mother this long time, and it lies upon my
in his hand, that, though the freshness of the sea-wind was conscience, for it’s something to be loved as she loves her
on his face, and it was ruddy, there were traces in it, made prodigal son. - Bah! Nonsense! - You mean to go tomorrow,
since I last saw it, as if he had applied himself to some ha- I suppose?’ he said, holding me out at arm’s length, with a
bitual strain of the fervent energy which, when roused, was hand on each of my shoulders.
so passionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts ‘Yes, I think so.’
to remonstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursu- ‘Well, then, don’t go till next day. I wanted you to come
ing any fancy that he took - such as this buffeting of rough and stay a few days with us. Here I am, on purpose to bid
seas, and braving of hard weather, for example - when my you, and you fly off to Yarmouth!’
mind glanced off to the immediate subject of our conversa- ‘You are a nice fellow to talk of flying off, Steerforth, who
tion again, and pursued that instead. are always running wild on some unknown expedition or
‘I tell you what, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘if your high spirits other!’
will listen to me -’ He looked at me for a moment without speaking, and
‘They are potent spirits, and will do whatever you like,’ he then rejoined, still holding me as before, and giving me a
answered, moving from the table to the fireside again. shake:
‘Then I tell you what, Steerforth. I think I will go down ‘Come! Say the next day, and pass as much of tomorrow
and see my old nurse. It is not that I can do her any good, as you can with us! Who knows when we may meet again,
or render her any real service; but she is so attached to me else? Come! Say the next day! I want you to stand between
that my visit will have as much effect on her, as if I could do Rosa Dartle and me, and keep us asunder.’
both. She will take it so kindly that it will be a comfort and ‘Would you love each other too much, without me?’
support to her. It is no great effort to make, I am sure, for ‘Yes; or hate,’ laughed Steerforth; ‘no matter which.
such a friend as she has been to me. Wouldn’t you go a day’s Come! Say the next day!’
journey, if you were in my place?’ I said the next day; and he put on his great-coat and
His face was thoughtful, and he sat considering a little lighted his cigar, and set off to walk home. Finding him in
before he answered, in a low voice, ‘Well! Go. You can do this intention, I put on my own great-coat (but did not light
no harm.’ my own cigar, having had enough of that for one while) and
‘You have just come back,’ said I, ‘and it would be in vain walked with him as far as the open road: a dull road, then,
to ask you to go with me?’ at night. He was in great spirits all the way; and when we

parted, and I looked after him going so gallantly and airily found in the fact, that a friendly acceptance granted to the
homeward, I thought of his saying, ‘Ride on over all obsta- undersigned, by the before-mentioned Mr. Thomas Trad-
cles, and win the race!’ and wished, for the first time, that he dles, for the sum Of 23l 4s 9 1/2d is over due, and is NOT
had some worthy race to run. provided for. Also, in the fact that the living responsibilities
I was undressing in my own room, when Mr. Micawber’s clinging to the undersigned will, in the course of nature, be
letter tumbled on the floor. Thus reminded of it, I broke the increased by the sum of one more helpless victim; whose
seal and read as follows. It was dated an hour and a half be- miserable appearance may be looked for - in round num-
fore dinner. I am not sure whether I have mentioned that, bers - at the expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar
when Mr. Micawber was at any particularly desperate cri- months from the present date.
sis, he used a sort of legal phraseology, which he seemed to ‘After premising thus much, it would be a work of super-
think equivalent to winding up his affairs. erogation to add, that dust and ashes are for ever scattered
‘SIR - for I dare not say my dear Copperfield,
‘It is expedient that I should inform you that the under- ‘On
signed is Crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the ‘The
premature knowledge of his calamitous position, you may ‘Head
observe in him this day; but hope has sunk beneath the ho- ‘Of
rizon, and the undersigned is Crushed. ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’
‘The present communication is penned within the per-
sonal range (I cannot call it the society) of an individual, Poor Traddles! I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this
in a state closely bordering on intoxication, employed by a time, to foresee that he might be expected to recover the
broker. That individual is in legal possession of the prem- blow; but my night’s rest was sorely distressed by thoughts
ises, under a distress for rent. His inventory includes, not of Traddles, and of the curate’s daughter, who was one of
only the chattels and effects of every description belonging ten, down in Devonshire, and who was such a dear girl, and
to the undersigned, as yearly tenant of this habitation, but who would wait for Traddles (ominous praise!) until she
also those appertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a was sixty, or any age that could be mentioned.
member of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.
‘If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing
cup, which is now ‘commended’ (in the language of an im-
mortal Writer) to the lips of the undersigned, it would be

CHAPTER 29 very agreeably. It arose out of a scuffle between two church-
wardens, one of whom was alleged to have pushed the other
against a pump; the handle of which pump projecting into a
school-house, which school-house was under a gable of the
I VISIT STEERFORTH AT church-roof, made the push an ecclesiastical offence. It was
an amusing case; and sent me up to Highgate, on the box of
HIS HOME, AGAIN the stage-coach, thinking about the Commons, and what
Mr. Spenlow had said about touching the Commons and
bringing down the country.
Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see me, and so was Rosa
Dartle. I was agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was
I mentioned to Mr. Spenlow in the morning, that I wanted

leave of absence for a short time; and as I was not in the
receipt of any salary, and consequently was not obnoxious
not there, and that we were attended by a modest little par-
lour-maid, with blue ribbons in her cap, whose eye it was
much more pleasant, and much less disconcerting, to catch
to the implacable Jorkins, there was no difficulty about it. I by accident, than the eye of that respectable man. But what
took that opportunity, with my voice sticking in my throat, I particularly observed, before I had been half-an-hour in
and my sight failing as I uttered the words, to express my the house, was the close and attentive watch Miss Dartle
hope that Miss Spenlow was quite well; to which Mr. Spen- kept upon me; and the lurking manner in which she seemed
low replied, with no more emotion than if he had been to compare my face with Steerforth’s, and Steerforth’s with
speaking of an ordinary human being, that he was much mine, and to lie in wait for something to come out between
obliged to me, and she was very well. the two. So surely as I looked towards her, did I see that eager
We articled clerks, as germs of the patrician order of proc- visage, with its gaunt black eyes and searching brow, intent
tors, were treated with so much consideration, that I was on mine; or passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth’s; or
almost my own master at all times. As I did not care, how- comprehending both of us at once. In this lynx-like scruti-
ever, to get to Highgate before one or two o’clock in the day, ny she was so far from faltering when she saw I observed it,
and as we had another little excommunication case in court that at such a time she only fixed her piercing look upon me
that morning, which was called The office of the judge pro- with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and
moted by Tipkins against Bullock for his soul’s correction, I knew that I was, in reference to any wrong she could pos-
passed an hour or two in attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow sibly suspect me of, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite

unable to endure their hungry lustre. a little more remiss than usual in his visits to his blind-
All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talk- ly-doting - eh?’ With another quick glance at them, and
ed to Steerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle in the such a glance at me as seemed to look into my innermost
little gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of our thoughts.
old exercises on the lawn behind the house, I saw her face ‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘pray do not think -’
pass from window to window, like a wandering light, until ‘I don’t!’ she said. ‘Oh dear me, don’t suppose that I think
it fixed itself in one, and watched us. When we all four went anything! I am not suspicious. I only ask a question. I don’t
out walking in the afternoon, she closed her thin hand on state any opinion. I want to found an opinion on what you
my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and tell me. Then, it’s not so? Well! I am very glad to know it.’
his mother went on out of hearing: and then spoke to me. ‘It certainly is not the fact,’ said I, perplexed, ‘that I am
‘You have been a long time,’ she said, ‘without coming accountable for Steerforth’s having been away from home
here. Is your profession really so engaging and interesting as longer than usual - if he has been: which I really don’t know
to absorb your whole attention? I ask because I always want at this moment, unless I understand it from you. I have not
to be informed, when I am ignorant. Is it really, though?’ seen him this long while, until last night.’
I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly ‘No?’
could not claim so much for it. ‘Indeed, Miss Dartle, no!’
‘Oh! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be As she looked full at me, I saw her face grow sharper and
put right when I am wrong,’ said Rosa Dartle. ‘You mean it paler, and the marks of the old wound lengthen out until it
is a little dry, perhaps?’ cut through the disfigured lip, and deep into the nether lip,
‘Well,’ I replied; ‘perhaps it was a little dry.’ and slanted down the face. There was something positively
‘Oh! and that’s a reason why you want relief and change awful to me in this, and in the brightness of her eyes, as she
- excitement and all that?’ said she. ‘Ah! very true! But isn’t it said, looking fixedly at me:
a little - Eh? - for him; I don’t mean you?’ ‘What is he doing?’
A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steer- I repeated the words, more to myself than her, being so
forth was walking, with his mother leaning on his arm, amazed.
showed me whom she meant; but beyond that, I was quite ‘What is he doing?’ she said, with an eagerness that
lost. And I looked so, I have no doubt. seemed enough to consume her like a fire. ‘In what is that
‘Don’t it - I don’t say that it does, mind I want to know man assisting him, who never looks at me without an in-
- don’t it rather engross him? Don’t it make him, perhaps, scrutable falsehood in his eyes? If you are honourable and

faithful, I don’t ask you to betray your friend. I ask you only reconcile than the two extremest opposites in creation. The
to tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it restlessness, idea did not originate in my own discernment, I am bound
is it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is leading to confess, but in a speech of Rosa Dartle’s.
him?’ She said at dinner:
‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘how shall I tell you, so that you ‘Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have
will believe me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth differ- been thinking about it all day, and I want to know.’
ent from what there was when I first came here? I can think ‘You want to know what, Rosa?’ returned Mrs. Steerforth.
of nothing. I firmly believe there is nothing. I hardly under- ‘Pray, pray, Rosa, do not be mysterious.’
stand even what you mean.’ ‘Mysterious!’ she cried. ‘Oh! really? Do you consider me
As she still stood looking fixedly at me, a twitching or so?’
throbbing, from which I could not dissociate the idea of ‘Do I constantly entreat you,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘to
pain, came into that cruel mark; and lifted up the corner of speak plainly, in your own natural manner?’
her lip as if with scorn, or with a pity that despised its ob- ‘Oh! then this is not my natural manner?’ she rejoined.
ject. She put her hand upon it hurriedly - a hand so thin and ‘Now you must really bear with me, because I ask for infor-
delicate, that when I had seen her hold it up before the fire mation. We never know ourselves.’
to shade her face, I had compared it in my thoughts to fine ‘It has become a second nature,’ said Mrs. Steerforth,
porcelain - and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, ‘I without any displeasure; ‘but I remember, - and so must
swear you to secrecy about this!’ said not a word more. you, I think, - when your manner was different, Rosa; when
Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son’s so- it was not so guarded, and was more trustful.’
ciety, and Steerforth was, on this occasion, particularly ‘I am sure you are right,’ she returned; ‘and so it is that
attentive and respectful to her. It was very interesting to me bad habits grow upon one! Really? Less guarded and more
to see them together, not only on account of their mutual trustful? How can I, imperceptibly, have changed, I won-
affection, but because of the strong personal resemblance der! Well, that’s very odd! I must study to regain my former
between them, and the manner in which what was haughty self.’
or impetuous in him was softened by age and sex, in her, to ‘I wish you would,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.
a gracious dignity. I thought, more than once, that it was ‘Oh! I really will, you know!’ she answered. ‘I will learn
well no serious cause of division had ever come between frankness from - let me see - from James.’
them; or two such natures - I ought rather to express it, two ‘You cannot learn frankness, Rosa,’ said Mrs. Steerforth
such shades of the same nature - might have been harder to quickly - for there was always some effect of sarcasm in what

Rosa Dartle said, though it was said, as this was, in the most case, for it is so very good to know that your duty to each
unconscious manner in the world - ‘in a better school.’ other would prevent it! Thank you very much.’
‘That I am sure of,’ she answered, with uncommon fer- One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dar-
vour. ‘If I am sure of anything, of course, you know, I am tle I must not omit; for I had reason to remember it thereafter,
sure of that.’ when all the irremediable past was rendered plain. During
Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a the whole of this day, but especially from this period of it,
little nettled; for she presently said, in a kind tone: Steerforth exerted himself with his utmost skill, and that
‘Well, my dear Rosa, we have not heard what it is that you was with his utmost ease, to charm this singular creature
want to be satisfied about?’ into a pleasant and pleased companion. That he should
‘That I want to be satisfied about?’ she replied, with pro- succeed, was no matter of surprise to me. That she should
voking coldness. ‘Oh! It was only whether people, who struggle against the fascinating influence of his delightful
are like each other in their moral constitution - is that the art - delightful nature I thought it then - did not surprise
phrase?’ me either; for I knew that she was sometimes jaundiced and
‘It’s as good a phrase as another,’ said Steerforth. perverse. I saw her features and her manner slowly change;
‘Thank you: - whether people, who are like each other in I saw her look at him with growing admiration; I saw her
their moral constitution, are in greater danger than people try, more and more faintly, but always angrily, as if she
not so circumstanced, supposing any serious cause of vari- condemned a weakness in herself, to resist the captivating
ance to arise between them, of being divided angrily and power that he possessed; and finally, I saw her sharp glance
deeply?’ soften, and her smile become quite gentle, and I ceased to
‘I should say yes,’ said Steerforth. be afraid of her as I had really been all day, and we all sat
‘Should you?’ she retorted. ‘Dear me! Supposing then, for about the fire, talking and laughing together, with as little
instance - any unlikely thing will do for a supposition - that reserve as if we had been children.
you and your mother were to have a serious quarrel.’ Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or be-
‘My dear Rosa,’ interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing cause Steerforth was resolved not to lose the advantage he
good-naturedly, ‘suggest some other supposition! James had gained, I do not know; but we did not remain in the
and I know our duty to each other better, I pray Heaven!’ dining-room more than five minutes after her departure.
‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully. ‘She is playing her harp,’ said Steerforth, softly, at the draw-
‘To be sure. That would prevent it? Why, of course it would. ing-room door, ‘and nobody but my mother has heard her
Exactly. Now, I am glad I have been so foolish as to put the do that, I believe, these three years.’ He said it with a curi-

ous smile, which was gone directly; and we went into the cat, and had burst out of the room.
room and found her alone. ‘What is the matter with Rosa?’ said Mrs. Steerforth,
‘Don’t get up,’ said Steerforth (which she had already coming in.
done)’ my dear Rosa, don’t! Be kind for once, and sing us ‘She has been an angel, mother,’ returned Steerforth, ‘for
an Irish song.’ a little while; and has run into the opposite extreme, since,
‘What do you care for an Irish song?’ she returned. by way of compensation.’
‘Much!’ said Steerforth. ‘Much more than for any other. ‘You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her tem-
Here is Daisy, too, loves music from his soul. Sing us an per has been soured, remember, and ought not to be tried.’
Irish song, Rosa! and let me sit and listen as I used to do.’ Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was
He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had made of her, until I went with Steerforth into his room to
risen, but sat himself near the harp. She stood beside it for say Good night. Then he laughed about her, and asked me
some little while, in a curious way, going through the mo- if I had ever seen such a fierce little piece of incomprehen-
tion of playing it with her right hand, but not sounding it. sibility.
At length she sat down, and drew it to her with one sudden I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then ca-
action, and played and sang. pable of expression, and asked if he could guess what it was
I don’t know what it was, in her touch or voice, that made that she had taken so much amiss, so suddenly.
that song the most unearthly I have ever heard in my life, ‘Oh, Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Anything you like
or can imagine. There was something fearful in the reality - or nothing! I told you she took everything, herself included,
of it. It was as if it had never been written, or set to music, to a grindstone, and sharpened it. She is an edge-tool, and
but sprung out of passion within her; which found imper- requires great care in dealing with. She is always dangerous.
fect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and crouched Good night!’
again when all was still. I was dumb when she leaned be- ‘Good night!’ said I, ‘my dear Steerforth! I shall be gone
side the harp again, playing it, but not sounding it, with her before you wake in the morning. Good night!’
right hand. He was unwilling to let me go; and stood, holding me
A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance: out, with a hand on each of my shoulders, as he had done
- Steerforth had left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his in my own room.
arm laughingly about her, and had said, ‘Come, Rosa, for ‘Daisy,’ he said, with a smile - ‘for though that’s not the
the future we will love each other very much!’ And she had name your godfathers and godmothers gave you, it’s the
struck him, and had thrown him off with the fury of a wild name I like best to call you by - and I wish, I wish, I wish,

you could give it to me!’
‘Why so I can, if I choose,’ said I. CHAPTER 30
‘Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must
think of me at my best, old boy. Come! Let us make that
bargain. Think of me at my best, if circumstances should
ever part us!’ A LOSS
‘You have no best to me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘and no worst.
You are always equally loved, and cherished in my heart.’
So much compunction for having ever wronged him,
even by a shapeless thought, did I feel within me, that the
confession of having done so was rising to my lips. But for
the reluctance I had to betray the confidence of Agnes, but
I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the
inn. I knew that Peggotty’s spare room - my room - was
likely to have occupation enough in a little while, if that
for my uncertainty how to approach the subject with no risk great Visitor, before whose presence all the living must give
of doing so, it would have reached them before he said, ‘God place, were not already in the house; so I betook myself to
bless you, Daisy, and good night!’ In my doubt, it did NOT the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.
reach them; and we shook hands, and we parted. It was ten o’clock when I went out. Many of the shops
I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as qui- were shut, and the town was dull. When I came to Omer
etly as I could, looked into his room. He was fast asleep; and Joram’s, I found the shutters up, but the shop door
lying, easily, with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr.
him lie at school. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlour door, I en-
The time came in its season, and that was very soon, tered, and asked him how he was.
when I almost wondered that nothing troubled his repose, ‘Why, bless my life and soul!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘how do
as I looked at him. But he slept - let me think of him so you find yourself? Take a seat. - Smoke not disagreeable, I
again - as I had often seen him sleep at school; and thus, in hope?’
this silent hour, I left him. ‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like it - in somebody else’s pipe.’
- Never more, oh God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch ‘What, not in your own, eh?’ Mr. Omer returned, laugh-
that passive hand in love and friendship. Never, never ing. ‘All the better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a
more! seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma.’
Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He

now sat down again very much out of breath, gasping at his said Mr. Omer. ‘Look at me! My wind may fail me at any
pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary, without moment, and it ain’t likely that, to my own knowledge, I’d
which he must perish. be self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain’t
‘I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,’ said I. likely, in a man who knows his wind will go, when it DOES
Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man a
shook his head. grandfather,’ said Mr. Omer.
‘Do you know how he is tonight?’ I asked. I said, ‘Not at all.’
‘The very question I should have put to you, sir,’ returned ‘It ain’t that I complain of my line of business,’ said Mr.
Mr. Omer, ‘but on account of delicacy. It’s one of the draw- Omer. ‘It ain’t that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt,
backs of our line of business. When a party’s ill, we can’t ask to all callings. What I wish is, that parties was brought up
how the party is.’ stronger-minded.’
The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face,
my apprehensions too, when I went in, of hearing the old took several puffs in silence; and then said, resuming his
tune. On its being mentioned, I recognized it, however, and first point:
said as much. ‘Accordingly we’re obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis
‘Yes, yes, you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his goes on, to limit ourselves to Em’ly. She knows what our
head. ‘We dursn’t do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that real objects are, and she don’t have any more alarms or sus-
the generality of parties mightn’t recover, to say ‘Omer and picions about us, than if we was so many lambs. Minnie and
Joram’s compliments, and how do you find yourself this Joram have just stepped down to the house, in fact (she’s
morning?’ - or this afternoon - as it may be.’ there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how
Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer re- he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till they come
cruited his wind by the aid of his pipe. back, they’d give you full partic’lers. Will you take some-
‘It’s one of the things that cut the trade off from atten- thing? A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and
tions they could often wish to show,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Take water, myself,’ said Mr. Omer, taking up his glass, ‘because
myself. If I have known Barkis a year, to move to as he went it’s considered softening to the passages, by which this trou-
by, I have known him forty years. But I can’t go and say, blesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord bless you,’
‘how is he?‘‘ said Mr. Omer, huskily, ‘it ain’t the passages that’s out of or-
I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so. der! ‘Give me breath enough,’ said I to my daughter Minnie,
‘I’m not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,’ ‘and I’ll find passages, my dear.‘‘

He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarm- ways recollect of Em’ly,’ said Mr. Omer, shaking his head
ing to see him laugh. When he was again in a condition to gently, ‘that she’s a most extraordinary affectionate little
be talked to, I thanked him for the proffered refreshment, thing. The proverb says, ‘You can’t make a silk purse out of
which I declined, as I had just had dinner; and, observing a sow’s ear.’ Well, I don’t know about that. I rather think you
that I would wait, since he was so good as to invite me, until may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of
his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired how that old boat, sir, that stone and marble couldn’t beat.’
little Emily was? ‘I am sure she has!’ said I.
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he ‘To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,’
might rub his chin: ‘I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her said Mr. Omer; ‘to see the way she holds on to him, tighter
marriage has taken place.’ and tighter, and closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight.
‘Why so?’ I inquired. Now, you know, there’s a struggle going on when that’s the
‘Well, she’s unsettled at present,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It ain’t case. Why should it be made a longer one than is needful?’
that she’s not as pretty as ever, for she’s prettier - I do assure I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acqui-
you, she is prettier. It ain’t that she don’t work as well as ever, esced, with all my heart, in what he said.
for she does. She WAS worth any six, and she IS worth any ‘Therefore, I mentioned to them,’ said Mr. Omer, in a
six. But somehow she wants heart. If you understand,’ said comfortable, easy-going tone, ‘this. I said, ‘Now, don’t con-
Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again, and smoking a lit- sider Em’ly nailed down in point of time, at all. Make it
tle, ‘what I mean in a general way by the expression, ‘A long your own time. Her services have been more valuable than
pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties, was supposed; her learning has been quicker than was sup-
hurrah!’ I should say to you, that that was - in a general way posed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what
- what I miss in Em’ly.’ remains; and she’s free when you wish. If she likes to make
Mr. Omer’s face and manner went for so much, that I any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing any
could conscientiously nod my head, as divining his mean- little thing for us at home, very well. If she don’t, very well
ing. My quickness of apprehension seemed to please him, still. We’re no losers, anyhow.’ For - don’t you see,’ said Mr.
and he went on: ‘Now I consider this is principally on ac- Omer, touching me with his pipe, ‘it ain’t likely that a man
count of her being in an unsettled state, you see. We have so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too, would
talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself, and her go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom,
sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider it is like her?’
principally on account of her being unsettled. You must al- ‘Not at all, I am certain,’ said I.

‘Not at all! You’re right!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, her was to see her with my daughter Minnie’s little girl, you’d
cousin - you know it’s a cousin she’s going to be married never forget it. Bless my heart alive!’ said Mr. Omer, pon-
to?’ dering, ‘how she loves that child!’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I know him well.’ Having so favourable an opportunity, it occurred to me
‘Of course you do,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir! Her cousin to ask Mr. Omer, before our conversation should be in-
being, as it appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked terrupted by the return of his daughter and her husband,
me in a very manly sort of manner for this (conducting whether he knew anything of Martha.
himself altogether, I must say, in a way that gives me a high ‘Ah!’ he rejoined, shaking his head, and looking very
opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable a lit- much dejected. ‘No good. A sad story, sir, however you
tle house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on. That little come to know it. I never thought there was harm in the girl.
house is now furnished right through, as neat and complete I wouldn’t wish to mention it before my daughter Minnie
as a doll’s parlour; and but for Barkis’s illness having taken - for she’d take me up directly - but I never did. None of us
this bad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man and ever did.’
wife - I dare say, by this time. As it is, there’s a postpone- Mr. Omer, hearing his daughter’s footstep before I heard
ment.’ it, touched me with his pipe, and shut up one eye, as a
‘And Emily, Mr. Omer?’ I inquired. ‘Has she become caution. She and her husband came in immediately after-
more settled?’ wards.
‘Why that, you know,’ he returned, rubbing his double Their report was, that Mr. Barkis was ‘as bad as bad
chin again, ‘can’t naturally be expected. The prospect of the could be’; that he was quite unconscious; and that Mr. Chil-
change and separation, and all that, is, as one may say, close lip had mournfully said in the kitchen, on going away just
to her and far away from her, both at once. Barkis’s death now, that the College of Physicians, the College of Surgeons,
needn’t put it off much, but his lingering might. Anyway, and Apothecaries’ Hall, if they were all called in together,
it’s an uncertain state of matters, you see.’ couldn’t help him. He was past both Colleges, Mr. Chillip
‘I see,’ said I. said, and the Hall could only poison him.
‘Consequently,’ pursued Mr. Omer, ‘Em’ly’s still a little Hearing this, and learning that Mr. Peggotty was there,
down, and a little fluttered; perhaps, upon the whole, she’s I determined to go to the house at once. I bade good night
more so than she was. Every day she seems to get fonder and to Mr. Omer, and to Mr. and Mrs. Joram; and directed my
fonder of her uncle, and more loth to part from all of us. A steps thither, with a solemn feeling, which made Mr. Barkis
kind word from me brings the tears into her eyes; and if you quite a new and different creature.

My low tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. - it’s nat’ral.’
He was not so much surprised to see me as I had expect- She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face,
ed. I remarked this in Peggotty, too, when she came down; nor spoke a word.
and I have seen it since; and I think, in the expectation of ‘It’s getting late, my dear,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and here’s
that dread surprise, all other changes and surprises dwin- Ham come fur to take you home. Theer! Go along with
dle into nothing. t’other loving art! What’ Em’ly? Eh, my pretty?’
I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the The sound of her voice had not reached me, but he bent
kitchen, while he softly closed the door. Little Emily was his head as if he listened to her, and then said:
sitting by the fire, with her hands before her face. Ham was ‘Let you stay with your uncle? Why, you doen’t mean
standing near her. to ask me that! Stay with your uncle, Moppet? When your
We spoke in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any husband that’ll be so soon, is here fur to take you home?
sound in the room above. I had not thought of it on the oc- Now a person wouldn’t think it, fur to see this little thing
casion of my last visit, but how strange it was to me, now, to alongside a rough-weather chap like me,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
miss Mr. Barkis out of the kitchen! looking round at both of us, with infinite pride; ‘but the
‘This is very kind of you, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty. sea ain’t more salt in it than she has fondness in her for her
‘It’s oncommon kind,’ said Ham. uncle - a foolish little Em’ly!’
‘Em’ly, my dear,’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘See here! Here’s ‘Em’ly’s in the right in that, Mas’r Davy!’ said Ham. ‘Loo-
Mas’r Davy come! What, cheer up, pretty! Not a wured to kee here! As Em’ly wishes of it, and as she’s hurried and
Mas’r Davy?’ frightened, like, besides, I’ll leave her till morning. Let me
There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The stay too!’
coldness of her hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its ‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘You doen’t ought - a married
only sign of animation was to shrink from mine; and then man like you - or what’s as good - to take and hull away a
she glided from the chair, and creeping to the other side of day’s work. And you doen’t ought to watch and work both.
her uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling still, upon That won’t do. You go home and turn in. You ain’t afeerd
his breast. of Em’ly not being took good care on, I know.’ Ham yield-
‘It’s such a loving art,’ said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her ed to this persuasion, and took his hat to go. Even when
rich hair with his great hard hand, ‘that it can’t abear the he kissed her. - and I never saw him approach her, but I
sorrer of this. It’s nat’ral in young folk, Mas’r Davy, when felt that nature had given him the soul of a gentleman - she
they’re new to these here trials, and timid, like my little bird, seemed to cling closer to her uncle, even to the avoidance of

her chosen husband. I shut the door after him, that it might he had often talked of me, before he fell into a stupor; and
cause no disturbance of the quiet that prevailed; and when I that she believed, in case of his coming to himself again, he
turned back, I found Mr. Peggotty still talking to her. would brighten up at sight of me, if he could brighten up at
‘Now, I’m a going upstairs to tell your aunt as Mas’r any earthly thing.
Davy’s here, and that’ll cheer her up a bit,’ he said. ‘Sit ye The probability of his ever doing so, appeared to me,
down by the fire, the while, my dear, and warm those mor- when I saw him, to be very small. He was lying with his
tal cold hands. You doen’t need to be so fearsome, and take head and shoulders out of bed, in an uncomfortable atti-
on so much. What? You’ll go along with me? - Well! come tude, half resting on the box which had cost him so much
along with me - come! If her uncle was turned out of house pain and trouble. I learned, that, when he was past creeping
and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas’r Davy,’ out of bed to open it, and past assuring himself of its safety
said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than before, ‘it’s my by means of the divining rod I had seen him use, he had re-
belief she’d go along with him, now! But there’ll be some- quired to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, where
one else, soon, - someone else, soon, Em’ly!’ he had ever since embraced it, night and day. His arm lay on
Afterwards, when I went upstairs, as I passed the door it now. Time and the world were slipping from beneath him,
of my little chamber, which was dark, I had an indistinct but the box was there; and the last words he had uttered
impression of her being within it, cast down upon the floor. were (in an explanatory tone) ‘Old clothes!’
But, whether it was really she, or whether it was a confusion ‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty, almost cheerfully: bend-
of the shadows in the room, I don’t know now. ing over him, while her brother and I stood at the bed’s
I had leisure to think, before the kitchen fire, of pret- foot. ‘Here’s my dear boy - my dear boy, Master Davy, who
ty little Emily’s dread of death - which, added to what Mr. brought us together, Barkis! That you sent messages by, you
Omer had told me, I took to be the cause of her being so un- know! Won’t you speak to Master Davy?’
like herself - and I had leisure, before Peggotty came down, He was as mute and senseless as the box, from which his
even to think more leniently of the weakness of it: as I sat form derived the only expression it had.
counting the ticking of the clock, and deepening my sense ‘He’s a going out with the tide,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me,
of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took me in her behind his hand.
arms, and blessed and thanked me over and over again for My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty’s; but I re-
being such a comfort to her (that was what she said) in her peated in a whisper, ‘With the tide?’
distress. She then entreated me to come upstairs, sobbing ‘People can’t die, along the coast,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘ex-
that Mr. Barkis had always liked me and admired me; that cept when the tide’s pretty nigh out. They can’t be born,

unless it’s pretty nigh in - not properly born, till flood. He’s
a going out with the tide. It’s ebb at half-arter three, slack CHAPTER 31
water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he’ll hold his own
till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.’
We remained there, watching him, a long time - hours.
What mysterious influence my presence had upon him in A GREATER LOSS
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 mutter-
ing about driving me 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 out fast.’
I t was not difficult for me, on Peggotty’s solicitation, to re-
solve to stay where I was, until after the remains of the
poor carrier should have made their last journey to Blun-
‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty. derstone. She had long ago bought, out of her own savings,
‘C. P. Barkis,’ he cried faintly. ‘No better woman any- a little piece of ground in our old churchyard near the grave
where!’ of ‘her sweet girl’, as she always called my mother; and there
‘Look! Here’s Master Davy!’ said Peggotty. For he now they were to rest.
opened his eyes. In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for
I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he her (little enough at the utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice
tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with to think, as even now I could wish myself to have been. But
a pleasant smile: I am afraid I had a supreme satisfaction, of a personal and
‘Barkis is willin’!’ professional nature, in taking charge of Mr. Barkis’s will,
And, it being low water, he went out with the tide. and expounding its contents.
I may claim the merit of having originated the sugges-
tion that the will should be looked for in the box. After
some search, it was found in the box, at the bottom of a
horse’s nose-bag; wherein (besides hay) there was discov-
ered an old gold watch, with chain and seals, which Mr.
Barkis had worn on his wedding-day, and which had never
been seen before or since; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the

form of a leg; an imitation lemon, full of minute cups and sions, any number of times, to those whom they concerned.
saucers, which I have some idea Mr. Barkis must have pur- I began to think there was more in the Commons than I
chased to present to me when I was a child, and afterwards had supposed. I examined the will with the deepest atten-
found himself unable to part with; eighty-seven guineas tion, pronounced it perfectly formal in all respects, made a
and a half, in guineas and half-guineas; two hundred and pencil-mark or so in the margin, and thought it rather ex-
ten pounds, in perfectly clean Bank notes; certain receipts traordinary that I knew so much.
for Bank of England stock; an old horseshoe, a bad shilling, In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for Peg-
a piece of camphor, and an oyster-shell. From the circum- gotty, of all the property into which she had come; in
stance of the latter article having been much polished, and arranging all the affairs in an orderly manner; and in being
displaying prismatic colours on the inside, I conclude that her referee and adviser on every point, to our joint delight; I
Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about pearls, which nev- passed the week before the funeral. I did not see little Emily
er resolved themselves into anything definite. in that interval, but they told me she was to be quietly mar-
For years and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on ried in a fortnight.
all his journeys, every day. That it might the better escape I did not attend the funeral in character, if I may venture
notice, he had invented a fiction that it belonged to ‘Mr. to say so. I mean I was not dressed up in a black coat and a
Blackboy’, and was ‘to be left with Barkis till called for’; a fa- streamer, to frighten the birds; but I walked over to Blun-
ble he had elaborately written on the lid, in characters now derstone early in the morning, and was in the churchyard
scarcely legible. when it came, attended only by Peggotty and her brother.
He had hoarded, all these years, I found, to good purpose. The mad gentleman looked on, out of my little window; Mr.
His property in money amounted to nearly three thousand Chillip’s baby wagged its heavy head, and rolled its goggle
pounds. Of this he bequeathed the interest of one thousand eyes, at the clergyman, over its nurse’s shoulder; Mr. Omer
to Mr. Peggotty for his life; on his decease, the principal to breathed short in the background; no one else was there;
be equally divided between Peggotty, little Emily, and me, and it was very quiet. We walked about the churchyard for
or the survivor or survivors of us, share and share alike. All an hour, after all was over; and pulled some young leaves
the rest he died possessed of, he bequeathed to Peggotty; from the tree above my mother’s grave.
whom he left residuary legatee, and sole executrix of that A dread falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on the dis-
his last will and testament. tant town, towards which I retraced my solitary steps. I fear
I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this document to approach it. I cannot bear to think of what did come,
aloud with all possible ceremony, and set forth its provi- upon that memorable night; of what must come again, if

I go on. place. In her own old place sat Peggotty, once more, look-
It is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, ing (but for her dress) as if she had never left it. She had
if I stopped my most unwilling hand. It is done. Nothing fallen back, already, on the society of the work-box with St.
can undo it; nothing can make it otherwise than as it was. Paul’s upon the lid, the yard-measure in the cottage, and
My old nurse was to go to London with me next day, on the bit of wax-candle; and there they all were, just as if they
the business of the will. Little Emily was passing that day at had never been disturbed. Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be
Mr. Omer’s. We were all to meet in the old boathouse that fretting a little, in her old corner; and consequently looked
night. Ham would bring Emily at the usual hour. I would quite natural, too.
walk back at my leisure. The brother and sister would return ‘You’re first of the lot, Mas’r Davy!’ said Mr. Peggotty
as they had come, and be expecting us, when the day closed with a happy face. ‘Doen’t keep in that coat, sir, if it’s wet.’
in, at the fireside. ‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, giving him my outer
I parted from them at the wicket-gate, where visionary coat to hang up. ‘It’s quite dry.’
Strap had rested with Roderick Random’s knapsack in the ‘So ‘tis!’ said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoulders. ‘As a
days of yore; and, instead of going straight back, walked chip! Sit ye down, sir. It ain’t o’ no use saying welcome to
a little distance on the road to Lowestoft. Then I turned, you, but you’re welcome, kind and hearty.’
and walked back towards Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at a ‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well, Peggot-
decent alehouse, some mile or two from the Ferry I have ty!’ said I, giving her a kiss. ‘And how are you, old woman?’
mentioned before; and thus the day wore away, and it was ‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down beside us,
evening when I reached it. Rain was falling heavily by that and rubbing his hands in his sense of relief from recent
time, and it was a wild night; but there was a moon behind trouble, and in the genuine heartiness of his nature; ‘there’s
the clouds, and it was not dark. not a woman in the wureld, sir - as I tell her - that need to
I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty’s house, and feel more easy in her mind than her! She done her dooty by
of the light within it shining through the window. A little the departed, and the departed know’d it; and the departed
floundering across the sand, which was heavy, brought me done what was right by her, as she done what was right by
to the door, and I went in. the departed; - and - and - and it’s all right!’
It looked very comfortable indeed. Mr. Peggotty had Mrs. Gummidge groaned.
smoked his evening pipe and there were preparations for ‘Cheer up, my pritty mawther!’ said Mr. Peggotty. (But
some supper by and by. The fire was bright, the ashes were he shook his head aside at us, evidently sensible of the ten-
thrown up, the locker was ready for little Emily in her old dency of the late occurrences to recall the memory of the

old one.) ‘Doen’t be down! Cheer up, for your own self, on’y you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, bending over me with great glee,
a little bit, and see if a good deal more doen’t come nat’ral!’ ‘meets two objects. She says, says Em’ly, ‘Theer’s home!’ she
‘Not to me, Dan’l,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge. ‘Nothink’s says. And likewise, says Em’ly, ‘My uncle’s theer!’ Fur if I
nat’ral to me but to be lone and lorn.’ ain’t theer, I never have no light showed.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty, soothing her sorrows. ‘You’re a baby!’ said Peggotty; very fond of him for it, if
‘Yes, yes, Dan’l!’ said Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I ain’t a person she thought so.
to live with them as has had money left. Thinks go too con- ‘Well,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his legs pret-
trary with me. I had better be a riddance.’ ty wide apart, and rubbing his hands up and down them in
‘Why, how should I ever spend it without you?’ said Mr. his comfortable satisfaction, as he looked alternately at us
Peggotty, with an air of serious remonstrance. ‘What are and at the fire. ‘I doen’t know but I am. Not, you see, to
you a talking on? Doen’t I want you more now, than ever I look at.’
did?’ ‘Not azackly,’ observed Peggotty.
‘I know’d I was never wanted before!’ cried Mrs. Gum- ‘No,’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, ‘not to look at, but to - to con-
midge, with a pitiable whimper, ‘and now I’m told so! How sider on, you know. I doen’t care, bless you! Now I tell you.
could I expect to be wanted, being so lone and lorn, and so When I go a looking and looking about that theer pritty
contrary!’ house of our Em’ly’s, I’m - I’m Gormed,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for with sudden emphasis - ‘theer! I can’t say more - if I doen’t
having made a speech capable of this unfeeling construc- feel as if the littlest things was her, a’most. I takes ‘em up
tion, but was prevented from replying, by Peggotty’s pulling and I put ‘em down, and I touches of ‘em as delicate as if
his sleeve, and shaking her head. After looking at Mrs. they was our Em’ly. So ‘tis with her little bonnets and that. I
Gummidge for some moments, in sore distress of mind, he couldn’t see one on ‘em rough used a purpose - not fur the
glanced at the Dutch clock, rose, snuffed the candle, and whole wureld. There’s a babby fur you, in the form of a great
put it in the window. Sea Porkypine!’ said Mr. Peggotty, relieving his earnestness
‘Theer!’said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily.’Theer we are, Missis with a roar of laughter.
Gummidge!’ Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned. ‘Lighted up, Peggotty and I both laughed, but not so loud.
accordin’ to custom! You’re a wonderin’ what that’s fur, sir! ‘It’s my opinion, you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a de-
Well, it’s fur our little Em’ly. You see, the path ain’t over lighted face, after some further rubbing of his legs, ‘as this
light or cheerful arter dark; and when I’m here at the hour is along of my havin’ played with her so much, and made
as she’s a comin’ home, I puts the light in the winder. That, believe as we was Turks, and French, and sharks, and every

wariety of forinners - bless you, yes; and lions and whales, tonishment and fright, that he was deadly pale. He pushed
and I doen’t know what all! - when she warn’t no higher me hastily into the open air, and closed the door upon us.
than my knee. I’ve got into the way on it, you know. Why, Only upon us two.
this here candle, now!’ said Mr. Peggotty, gleefully hold- ‘Ham! what’s the matter?’
ing out his hand towards it, ‘I know wery well that arter ‘Mas’r Davy! -’ Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully
she’s married and gone, I shall put that candle theer, just the he wept!
same as now. I know wery well that when I’m here o’ nights I was paralysed by the sight of such grief. I don’t know
(and where else should I live, bless your arts, whatever for- what I thought, or what I dreaded. I could only look at him.
tun’ I come into!) and she ain’t here or I ain’t theer, I shall ‘Ham! Poor good fellow! For Heaven’s sake, tell me what’s
put the candle in the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretend- the matter!’
ing I’m expecting of her, like I’m a doing now. THERE’S a ‘My love, Mas’r Davy - the pride and hope of my art - her
babby for you,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with another roar, ‘in the that I’d have died for, and would die for now - she’s gone!’
form of a Sea Porkypine! Why, at the present minute, when ‘Gone!’
I see the candle sparkle up, I says to myself, ‘She’s a looking ‘Em’ly’s run away! Oh, Mas’r Davy, think HOW she’s
at it! Em’ly’s a coming!’ THERE’S a babby for you, in the run away, when I pray my good and gracious God to kill
form of a Sea Porkypine! Right for all that,’ said Mr. Peg- her (her that is so dear above all things) sooner than let her
gotty, stopping in his roar, and smiting his hands together; come to ruin and disgrace!’
‘fur here she is!’ The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the quivering
It was only Ham. The night should have turned more of his clasped hands, the agony of his figure, remain asso-
wet since I came in, for he had a large sou’wester hat on, ciated with the lonely waste, in my remembrance, to this
slouched over his face. hour. It is always night there, and he is the only object in
‘Wheer’s Em’ly?’ said Mr. Peggotty. the scene.
Ham made a motion with his head, as if she were outside. ‘You’re a scholar,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘and know what’s
Mr. Peggotty took the light from the window, trimmed it, right and best. What am I to say, indoors? How am I ever to
put it on the table, and was busily stirring the fire, when break it to him, Mas’r Davy?’
Ham, who had not moved, said: I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to hold the
‘Mas’r Davy, will you come out a minute, and see what latch on the outside, to gain a moment’s time. It was too late.
Em’ly and me has got to show you?’ Mr. Peggotty thrust forth his face; and never could I forget
We went out. As I passed him at the door, I saw, to my as- the change that came upon it when he saw us, if I were to

live five hundred years. little, and was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven that I am
I remember a great wail and cry, and the women hang- going away from, have compassion on my uncle! Tell him
ing about him, and we all standing in the room; I with a that I never loved him half so dear. Be his comfort. Love
paper in my hand, which Ham had given me; Mr. Peggotty, some good girl that will be what I was once to uncle, and be
with his vest torn open, his hair wild, his face and lips quite true to you, and worthy of you, and know no shame but me.
white, and blood trickling down his bosom (it had sprung God bless all! I’ll pray for all, often, on my knees. If he don’t
from his mouth, I think), looking fixedly at me. bring me back a lady, and I don’t pray for my own self, I’ll
‘Read it, sir,’ he said, in a low shivering voice. ‘Slow, please. pray for all. My parting love to uncle. My last tears, and my
I doen’t know as I can understand.’ last thanks, for uncle!‘‘
In the midst of the silence of death, I read thus, from a That was all.
blotted letter: He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still looking at
‘’When you, who love me so much better than I ever have me. At length I ventured to take his hand, and to entreat
deserved, even when my mind was innocent, see this, I shall him, as well as I could, to endeavour to get some command
be far away.‘‘ of himself. He replied, ‘I thankee, sir, I thankee!’ without
‘I shall be fur away,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Stop! Em’ly fur moving.
away. Well!’ Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of
‘’When I leave my dear home - my dear home - oh, my HIS affliction, that he wrung his hand; but, otherwise, he
dear home! - in the morning,‘‘ remained in the same state, and no one dared to disturb
the letter bore date on the previous night: him.
‘’- it will be never to come back, unless he brings me back Slowly, at last, he moved his eyes from my face, as if he
a lady. This will be found at night, many hours after, in- were waking from a vision, and cast them round the room.
stead of me. Oh, if you knew how my heart is torn. If even Then he said, in a low voice:
you, that I have wronged so much, that never can forgive ‘Who’s the man? I want to know his name.’
me, could only know what I suffer! I am too wicked to write Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock that
about myself! Oh, take comfort in thinking that I am so struck me back.
bad. Oh, for mercy’s sake, tell uncle that I never loved him ‘There’s a man suspected,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Who is it?’
half so dear as now. Oh, don’t remember how affectionate ‘Mas’r Davy!’ implored Ham. ‘Go out a bit, and let me tell
and kind you have all been to me - don’t remember we were him what I must. You doen’t ought to hear it, sir.’
ever to be married - but try to think as if I died when I was I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair, and tried to

utter some reply; but my tongue was fettered, and my sight do it,’ he said, impatiently. ‘Bear a hand and help me. Well!’
was weak. when somebody had done so. ‘Now give me that theer hat!’
‘I want to know his name!’ I heard said once more. Ham asked him whither he was going.
‘For some time past,’ Ham faltered, ‘there’s been a ser- ‘I’m a going to seek my niece. I’m a going to seek my
vant about here, at odd times. There’s been a gen’lm’n too. Em’ly. I’m a going, first, to stave in that theer boat, and sink
Both of ‘em belonged to one another.’ it where I would have drownded him, as I’m a living soul, if
Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now looking at I had had one thought of what was in him! As he sat afore
him. me,’ he said, wildly, holding out his clenched right hand, ‘as
‘The servant,’ pursued Ham, ‘was seen along with - our he sat afore me, face to face, strike me down dead, but I’d
poor girl - last night. He’s been in hiding about here, this have drownded him, and thought it right! - I’m a going to
week or over. He was thought to have gone, but he was hid- seek my niece.’
ing. Doen’t stay, Mas’r Davy, doen’t!’ ‘Where?’ cried Ham, interposing himself before the
I felt Peggotty’s arm round my neck, but I could not have door.
moved if the house had been about to fall upon me. ‘Anywhere! I’m a going to seek my niece through the
‘A strange chay and hosses was outside town, this morn- wureld. I’m a going to find my poor niece in her shame, and
ing, on the Norwich road, a’most afore the day broke,’ Ham bring her back. No one stop me! I tell you I’m a going to
went on. ‘The servant went to it, and come from it, and went seek my niece!’
to it again. When he went to it again, Em’ly was nigh him. ‘No, no!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between them,
The t’other was inside. He’s the man.’ in a fit of crying. ‘No, no, Dan’l, not as you are now. Seek her
‘For the Lord’s love,’ said Mr. Peggotty, falling back, and in a little while, my lone lorn Dan’l, and that’ll be but right!
putting out his hand, as if to keep off what he dreaded. but not as you are now. Sit ye down, and give me your for-
‘Doen’t tell me his name’s Steerforth!’ giveness for having ever been a worrit to you, Dan’l - what
‘Mas’r Davy,’ exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, ‘it ain’t have my contraries ever been to this! - and let us speak a
no fault of yourn - and I am far from laying of it to you - but word about them times when she was first an orphan, and
his name is Steerforth, and he’s a damned villain!’ when Ham was too, and when I was a poor widder wom-
Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, and moved an, and you took me in. It’ll soften your poor heart, Dan’l,’
no more, until he seemed to wake again, all at once, and laying her head upon his shoulder, ‘and you’ll bear your sor-
pulled down his rough coat from its peg in a corner. row better; for you know the promise, Dan’l, ‘As you have
‘Bear a hand with this! I’m struck of a heap, and can’t done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto

me’,- and that can never fail under this roof, that’s been our
shelter for so many, many year!’ CHAPTER 32
He was quite passive now; and when I heard him crying,
the impulse that had been upon me to go down upon my
knees, and ask their pardon for the desolation I had caused,
and curse Steer- forth, yielded to a better feeling, My over- THE BEGINNING OF
charged heart found the same relief, and I cried too.
A LONG JOURNEY
W hat is natural in me, is natural in many other men, I

infer, and so I am not afraid to write that I never had
loved Steerforth better than when the ties that bound me
to him were broken. In the keen distress of the discovery of
his unworthiness, I thought more of all that was brilliant
in him, I softened more towards all that was good in him,
I did more justice to the qualities that might have made
him a man of a noble nature and a great name, than ever I
had done in the height of my devotion to him. Deeply as I
felt my own unconscious part in his pollution of an honest
home, I believed that if I had been brought face to face with
him, I could not have uttered one reproach. I should have
loved him so well still - though he fascinated me no lon-
ger - I should have held in so much tenderness the memory
of my affection for him, that I think I should have been as
weak as a spirit-wounded child, in all but the entertainment
of a thought that we could ever be re-united. That thought
I never had. I felt, as he had felt, that all was at an end be-

tween us. What his remembrances of me were, I have never me, when we had all three walked a little while in silence,
known - they were light enough, perhaps, and easily dis- ‘of what we ought and doen’t ought to do. But we see our
missed - but mine of him were as the remembrances of a course now.’
cherished friend, who was dead. I happened to glance at Ham, then looking out to sea
Yes, Steerforth, long removed from the scenes of this poor upon the distant light, and a frightful thought came into
history! My sorrow may bear involuntary witness against my mind - not that his face was angry, for it was not; I recall
you at the judgement Throne; but my angry thoughts or my nothing but an expression of stern determination in it - that
reproaches never will, I know! if ever he encountered Steerforth, he would kill him.
The news of what had happened soon spread through ‘My dooty here, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘is done. I’m a go-
the town; insomuch that as I passed along the streets next ing to seek my -’ he stopped, and went on in a firmer voice:
morning, I overheard the people speaking of it at their ‘I’m a going to seek her. That’s my dooty evermore.’
doors. Many were hard upon her, some few were hard upon He shook his head when I asked him where he would
him, but towards her second father and her lover there was seek her, and inquired if I were going to London tomorrow?
but one sentiment. Among all kinds of people a respect for I told him I had not gone today, fearing to lose the chance
them in their distress prevailed, which was full of gentleness of being of any service to him; but that I was ready to go
and delicacy. The seafaring men kept apart, when those two when he would.
were seen early, walking with slow steps on the beach; and ‘I’ll go along with you, sir,’ he rejoined, ‘if you’re agree-
stood in knots, talking compassionately among themselves. able, tomorrow.’
It was on the beach, close down by the sea, that I found We walked again, for a while, in silence.
them. It would have been easy to perceive that they had not ‘Ham,’he presently resumed,’he’ll hold to his present
slept all last night, even if Peggotty had failed to tell me of work, and go and live along with my sister. The old boat
their still sitting just as I left them, when it was broad day. yonder -’
They looked worn; and I thought Mr. Peggotty’s head was ‘Will you desert the old boat, Mr. Peggotty?’ I gently in-
bowed in one night more than in all the years I had known terposed.
him. But they were both as grave and steady as the sea itself, ‘My station, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, ‘ain’t there no lon-
then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless - yet with a heavy ger; and if ever a boat foundered, since there was darkness
roll upon it, as if it breathed in its rest - and touched, on the on the face of the deep, that one’s gone down. But no, sir, no;
horizon, with a strip of silvery light from the unseen sun. I doen’t mean as it should be deserted. Fur from that.’
‘We have had a mort of talk, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty to We walked again for a while, as before, until he ex-

plained: ‘Ay, Mas’r Davy. I doen’t rightly know how ‘tis, but from
‘My wishes is, sir, as it shall look, day and night, winter over yon there seemed to me to come - the end of it like,’
and summer, as it has always looked, since she fust know’d looking at me as if he were waking, but with the same de-
it. If ever she should come a wandering back, I wouldn’t have termined face.
the old place seem to cast her off, you understand, but seem ‘What end?’ I asked, possessed by my former fear.
to tempt her to draw nigher to ‘t, and to peep in, maybe, like ‘I doen’t know,’he said, thoughtfully; ‘I was calling to
a ghost, out of the wind and rain, through the old winder, mind that the beginning of it all did take place here - and
at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe, Mas’r Davy, seein’ then the end come. But it’s gone! Mas’r Davy,’ he added; an-
none but Missis Gummidge there, she might take heart to swering, as I think, my look; ‘you han’t no call to be afeerd
creep in, trembling; and might come to be laid down in her of me: but I’m kiender muddled; I don’t fare to feel no mat-
old bed, and rest her weary head where it was once so gay.’ ters,’ - which was as much as to say that he was not himself,
I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried. and quite confounded.
‘Every night,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as reg’lar as the night Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and
comes, the candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that said no more. The remembrance of this, in connexion with
if ever she should see it, it may seem to say ‘Come back, my my former thought, however, haunted me at intervals, even
child, come back!’ If ever there’s a knock, Ham (partic’ler until the inexorable end came at its appointed time.
a soft knock), arter dark, at your aunt’s door, doen’t you go We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs.
nigh it. Let it be her - not you - that sees my fallen child!’ Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was
He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us for busy preparing breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty’s hat, and
some minutes. During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, placed his seat for him, and spoke so comfortably and softly,
and observing the same expression on his face, and his eyes that I hardly knew her.
still directed to the distant light, I touched his arm. ‘Dan’l, my good man,’ said she, ‘you must eat and drink,
Twice I called him by his name, in the tone in which I and keep up your strength, for without it you’ll do nowt.
might have tried to rouse a sleeper, before he heeded me. Try, that’s a dear soul! An if I disturb you with my click-
When I at last inquired on what his thoughts were so bent, etten,’ she meant her chattering, ‘tell me so, Dan’l, and I
he replied: won’t.’
‘On what’s afore me, Mas’r Davy; and over yon.’ ‘On the When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window,
life before you, do you mean?’ He had pointed confusedly where she sedulously employed herself in repairing some
out to sea. shirts and other clothes belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and

neatly folding and packing them in an old oilskin bag, such working hands on all that shore but would have laboured
as sailors carry. Meanwhile, she continued talking, in the hard for Mr. Peggotty, and been well paid in being asked to
same quiet manner: do it, yet she persisted, all day long, in toiling under weights
‘All times and seasons, you know, Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gum- that she was quite unequal to, and fagging to and fro on
midge, ‘I shall be allus here, and everythink will look all sorts of unnecessary errands. As to deploring her mis-
accordin’ to your wishes. I’m a poor scholar, but I shall fortunes, she appeared to have entirely lost the recollection
write to you, odd times, when you’re away, and send my let- of ever having had any. She preserved an equable cheer-
ters to Mas’r Davy. Maybe you’ll write to me too, Dan’l, odd fulness in the midst of her sympathy, which was not the
times, and tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn least astonishing part of the change that had come over her.
journies.’ Querulousness was out of the question. I did not even ob-
‘You’ll be a solitary woman heer, I’m afeerd!’ said Mr. serve her voice to falter, or a tear to escape from her eyes, the
Peggotty. whole day through, until twilight; when she and I and Mr.
‘No, no, Dan’l,’ she returned, ‘I shan’t be that. Doen’t you Peggotty being alone together, and he having fallen asleep
mind me. I shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you’ in perfect exhaustion, she broke into a half-suppressed fit of
(Mrs. Gummidge meant a home), ‘again you come back - to sobbing and crying, and taking me to the door, said, ‘Ever
keep a Beein here for any that may hap to come back, Dan’l. bless you, Mas’r Davy, be a friend to him, poor dear!’ Then,
In the fine time, I shall set outside the door as I used to do. If she immediately ran out of the house to wash her face, in
any should come nigh, they shall see the old widder woman order that she might sit quietly beside him, and be found at
true to ‘em, a long way off.’ work there, when he should awake. In short I left her, when
What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She I went away at night, the prop and staff of Mr. Peggotty’s af-
was another woman. She was so devoted, she had such a fliction; and I could not meditate enough upon the lesson
quick perception of what it would be well to say, and what it that I read in Mrs. Gummidge, and the new experience she
would be well to leave unsaid; she was so forgetful of herself, unfolded to me.
and so regardful of the sorrow about her, that I held her in It was between nine and ten o’clock when, strolling in
a sort of veneration. The work she did that day! There were a melancholy manner through the town, I stopped at Mr.
many things to be brought up from the beach and stored Omer’s door. Mr. Omer had taken it so much to heart, his
in the outhouse - as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lob- daughter told me, that he had been very low and poorly all
ster-pots, bags of ballast, and the like; and though there was day, and had gone to bed without his pipe.
abundance of assistance rendered, there being not a pair of ‘A deceitful, bad-hearted girl,’ said Mrs. Joram. ‘There

was no good in her, ever!’ That good creature - I mean Peggotty - all untired by
‘Don’t say so,’ I returned. ‘You don’t think so.’ her late anxieties and sleepless nights, was at her broth-
‘Yes, I do!’ cried Mrs. Joram, angrily. er’s, where she meant to stay till morning. An old woman,
‘No, no,’ said I. who had been employed about the house for some weeks
Mrs. Joram tossed her head, endeavouring to be very past, while Peggotty had been unable to attend to it, was
stern and cross; but she could not command her softer self, the house’s only other occupant besides myself. As I had
and began to cry. I was young, to be sure; but I thought no occasion for her services, I sent her to bed, by no means
much the better of her for this sympathy, and fancied it be- against her will, and sat down before the kitchen fire a little
came her, as a virtuous wife and mother, very well indeed. while, to think about all this.
‘What will she ever do!’ sobbed Minnie. ‘Where will she I was blending it with the deathbed of the late Mr. Bar-
go! What will become of her! Oh, how could she be so cruel, kis, and was driving out with the tide towards the distance
to herself and him!’ at which Ham had looked so singularly in the morning,
I remembered the time when Minnie was a young and when I was recalled from my wanderings by a knock at the
pretty girl; and I was glad she remembered it too, so feel- door. There was a knocker upon the door, but it was not that
ingly. which made the sound. The tap was from a hand, and low
‘My little Minnie,’ said Mrs. Joram, ‘has only just now down upon the door, as if it were given by a child.
been got to sleep. Even in her sleep she is sobbing for Em’ly. It made me start as much as if it had been the knock of a
All day long, little Minnie has cried for her, and asked me, footman to a person of distinction. I opened the door; and
over and over again, whether Em’ly was wicked? What can I at first looked down, to my amazement, on nothing but a
say to her, when Em’ly tied a ribbon off her own neck round great umbrella that appeared to be walking about of itself.
little Minnie’s the last night she was here, and laid her head But presently I discovered underneath it, Miss Mowcher.
down on the pillow beside her till she was fast asleep! The I might not have been prepared to give the little crea-
ribbon’s round my little Minnie’s neck now. It ought not to ture a very kind reception, if, on her removing the umbrella,
be, perhaps, but what can I do? Em’ly is very bad, but they which her utmost efforts were unable to shut up, she had
were fond of one another. And the child knows nothing!’ shown me the ‘volatile’ expression of face which had made
Mrs. Joram was so unhappy that her husband came out so great an impression on me at our first and last meeting.
to take care of her. Leaving them together, I went home to But her face, as she turned it up to mine, was so earnest;
Peggotty’s; more melancholy myself, if possible, than I had and when I relieved her of the umbrella (which would have
been yet. been an inconvenient one for the Irish Giant), she wrung

her little hands in such an afflicted manner; that I rather inconsiderate young people, fairly and full grown, to see
inclined towards her. any natural feeling in a little thing like me! They make a
‘Miss Mowcher!’ said I, after glancing up and down the plaything of me, use me for their amusement, throw me
empty street, without distinctly knowing what I expected away when they are tired, and wonder that I feel more than
to see besides; ‘how do you come here? What is the matter?’ a toy horse or a wooden soldier! Yes, yes, that’s the way. The
She motioned to me with her short right arm, to shut the old way!’
umbrella for her; and passing me hurriedly, went into the ‘It may be, with others,’ I returned, ‘but I do assure you it
kitchen. When I had closed the door, and followed, with the is not with me. Perhaps I ought not to be at all surprised to
umbrella in my hand, I found her sitting on the corner of see you as you are now: I know so little of you. I said, with-
the fender - it was a low iron one, with two flat bars at top to out consideration, what I thought.’
stand plates upon - in the shadow of the boiler, swaying her- ‘What can I do?’ returned the little woman, standing up,
self backwards and forwards, and chafing her hands upon and holding out her arms to show herself. ‘See! What I am,
her knees like a person in pain. my father was; and my sister is; and my brother is. I have
Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this untime- worked for sister and brother these many years - hard, Mr.
ly visit, and the only spectator of this portentous behaviour, Copperfield - all day. I must live. I do no harm. If there are
I exclaimed again, ‘Pray tell me, Miss Mowcher, what is the people so unreflecting or so cruel, as to make a jest of me,
matter! are you ill?’ what is left for me to do but to make a jest of myself, them,
‘My dear young soul,’ returned Miss Mowcher, squeezing and everything? If I do so, for the time, whose fault is that?
her hands upon her heart one over the other. ‘I am ill here, Mine?’
I am very ill. To think that it should come to this, when I No. Not Miss Mowcher’s, I perceived.
might have known it and perhaps prevented it, if I hadn’t ‘If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false
been a thoughtless fool!’ friend,’ pursued the little woman, shaking her head at
Again her large bonnet (very disproportionate to the fig- me, with reproachful earnestness, ‘how much of his help
ure) went backwards and forwards, in her swaying of her or good will do you think I should ever have had? If little
little body to and fro; while a most gigantic bonnet rocked, Mowcher (who had no hand, young gentleman, in the mak-
in unison with it, upon the wall. ing of herself) addressed herself to him, or the like of him,
‘I am surprised,’ I began, ‘to see you so distressed and se- because of her misfortunes, when do you suppose her small
rious’- when she interrupted me. voice would have been heard? Little Mowcher would have as
‘Yes, it’s always so!’ she said. ‘They are all surprised, these much need to live, if she was the bitterest and dullest of pig-

mies; but she couldn’t do it. No. She might whistle for her I remembered very well what she referred to, having had
bread and butter till she died of Air.’ it in my thoughts many times that day. I told her so.
Miss Mowcher sat down on the fender again, and took ‘May the Father of all Evil confound him,’ said the lit-
out her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. tle woman, holding up her forefinger between me and her
‘Be thankful for me, if you have a kind heart, as I think sparkling eyes, ‘and ten times more confound that wicked
you have,’ she said, ‘that while I know well what I am, I can servant; but I believed it was YOU who had a boyish pas-
be cheerful and endure it all. I am thankful for myself, at sion for her!’
any rate, that I can find my tiny way through the world, ‘I?’ I repeated.
without being beholden to anyone; and that in return for all ‘Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,’ cried Miss
that is thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I go along, I can Mowcher, wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to
throw bubbles back. If I don’t brood over all I want, it is the and fro again upon the fender, ‘why did you praise her so,
better for me, and not the worse for anyone. If I am a play- and blush, and look disturbed? ‘
thing for you giants, be gentle with me.’ I could not conceal from myself that I had done this,
Miss Mowcher replaced her handkerchief in her pocket, though for a reason very different from her supposition.
looking at me with very intent expression all the while, and ‘What did I know?’ said Miss Mowcher, taking out her
pursued: handkerchief again, and giving one little stamp on the
‘I saw you in the street just now. You may suppose I am ground whenever, at short intervals, she applied it to her
not able to walk as fast as you, with my short legs and short eyes with both hands at once. ‘He was crossing you and
breath, and I couldn’t overtake you; but I guessed where wheedling you, I saw; and you were soft wax in his hands,
you came, and came after you. I have been here before, to- I saw. Had I left the room a minute, when his man told me
day, but the good woman wasn’t at home.’ that ‘Young Innocence’ (so he called you, and you may call
‘Do you know her?’ I demanded. him ‘Old Guilt’ all the days of your life) had set his heart
‘I know of her, and about her,’ she replied, ‘from Omer upon her, and she was giddy and liked him, but his master
and Joram. I was there at seven o’clock this morning. Do was resolved that no harm should come of it - more for your
you remember what Steerforth said to me about this unfor- sake than for hers - and that that was their business here?
tunate girl, that time when I saw you both at the inn?’ How could I BUT believe him? I saw Steerforth soothe and
The great bonnet on Miss Mowcher’s head, and the great- please you by his praise of her! You were the first to mention
er bonnet on the wall, began to go backwards and forwards her name. You owned to an old admiration of her. You were
again when she asked this question. hot and cold, and red and white, all at once when I spoke

to you of her. What could I think - what DID I think - but the other side of the hearth, lost in unhappy reflections, and
that you were a young libertine in everything but experi- looking at the fire too, and sometimes at her.
ence, and had fallen into hands that had experience enough, ‘I must go,’ she said at last, rising as she spoke. ‘It’s late.
and could manage you (having the fancy) for your own You don’t mistrust me?’
good? Oh! oh! oh! They were afraid of my finding out the Meeting her sharp glance, which was as sharp as ever
truth,’ exclaimed Miss Mowcher, getting off the fender, and when she asked me, I could not on that short challenge an-
trotting up and down the kitchen with her two short arms swer no, quite frankly.
distressfully lifted up, ‘because I am a sharp little thing - I ‘Come!’ said she, accepting the offer of my hand to help
need be, to get through the world at all! - and they deceived her over the fender, and looking wistfully up into my face,
me altogether, and I gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, ‘you know you wouldn’t mistrust me, if I was a full-sized
which I fully believe was the beginning of her ever speaking woman!’
to Littimer, who was left behind on purpose!’ I felt that there was much truth in this; and I felt rather
I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, look- ashamed of myself.
ing at Miss Mowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen ‘You are a young man,’ she said, nodding. ‘Take a word
until she was out of breath: when she sat upon the fender of advice, even from three foot nothing. Try not to associ-
again, and, drying her face with her handkerchief, shook ate bodily defects with mental, my good friend, except for
her head for a long time, without otherwise moving, and a solid reason.’
without breaking silence. She had got over the fender now, and I had got over my
‘My country rounds,’ she added at length, ‘brought me suspicion. I told her that I believed she had given me a faith-
to Norwich, Mr. Copperfield, the night before last. What ful account of herself, and that we had both been hapless
I happened to find there, about their secret way of coming instruments in designing hands. She thanked me, and said
and going, without you - which was strange - led to my sus- I was a good fellow.
pecting something wrong. I got into the coach from London ‘Now, mind!’ she exclaimed, turning back on her way to
last night, as it came through Norwich, and was here this the door, and looking shrewdly at me, with her forefinger
morning. Oh, oh, oh! too late!’ up again.- ‘I have some reason to suspect, from what I have
Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying heard - my ears are always open; I can’t afford to spare what
and fretting, that she turned round on the fender, putting powers I have - that they are gone abroad. But if ever they
her poor little wet feet in among the ashes to warm them, return, if ever any one of them returns, while I am alive, I
and sat looking at the fire, like a large doll. I sat in a chair on am more likely than another, going about as I do, to find it

out soon. Whatever I know, you shall know. If ever I can slept till morning.
do anything to serve the poor betrayed girl, I will do it In the morning I was joined by Mr. Peggotty and by my
faithfully, please Heaven! And Littimer had better have a old nurse, and we went at an early hour to the coach office,
bloodhound at his back, than little Mowcher!’ where Mrs. Gummidge and Ham were waiting to take leave
I placed implicit faith in this last statement, when I of us.
marked the look with which it was accompanied. ‘Mas’r Davy,’ Ham whispered, drawing me aside, while
‘Trust me no more, but trust me no less, than you would Mr. Peggotty was stowing his bag among the luggage, ‘his
trust a full-sized woman,’ said the little creature, touching life is quite broke up. He doen’t know wheer he’s going; he
me appealingly on the wrist. ‘If ever you see me again, un- doen’t know -what’s afore him; he’s bound upon a voyage
like what I am now, and like what I was when you first saw that’ll last, on and off, all the rest of his days, take my wured
me, observe what company I am in. Call to mind that I am for ‘t, unless he finds what he’s a seeking of. I am sure you’ll
a very helpless and defenceless little thing. Think of me at be a friend to him, Mas’r Davy?’
home with my brother like myself and sister like myself, ‘Trust me, I will indeed,’ said I, shaking hands with Ham
when my day’s work is done. Perhaps you won’t, then, be earnestly.
very hard upon me, or surprised if I can be distressed and ‘Thankee. Thankee, very kind, sir. One thing furder. I’m
serious. Good night!’ in good employ, you know, Mas’r Davy, and I han’t no way
I gave Miss Mowcher my hand, with a very different now of spending what I gets. Money’s of no use to me no
opinion of her from that which I had hitherto entertained, more, except to live. If you can lay it out for him, I shall do
and opened the door to let her out. It was not a trifling busi- my work with a better art. Though as to that, sir,’ and he
ness to get the great umbrella up, and properly balanced in spoke very steadily and mildly, ‘you’re not to think but I
her grasp; but at last I successfully accomplished this, and shall work at all times, like a man, and act the best that lays
saw it go bobbing down the street through the rain, without in my power!’
the least appearance of having anybody underneath it, ex- I told him I was well convinced of it; and I hinted that I
cept when a heavier fall than usual from some over-charged hoped the time might even come, when he would cease to
water-spout sent it toppling over, on one side, and discov- lead the lonely life he naturally contemplated now.
ered Miss Mowcher struggling violently to get it right. After ‘No, sir,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘all that’s past and over
making one or two sallies to her relief, which were rendered with me, sir. No one can never fill the place that’s empty.
futile by the umbrella’s hopping on again, like an immense But you’ll bear in mind about the money, as theer’s at all
bird, before I could reach it, I came in, went to bed, and times some laying by for him?’

Reminding him of the fact, that Mr. Peggotty derived a never allowed.
steady, though certainly a very moderate income from the Mr. Peggotty had made a communication to me on the
bequest of his late brother-in-law, I promised to do so. We way to London for which I was not unprepared. It was, that
then took leave of each other. I cannot leave him even now, he purposed first seeing Mrs. Steerforth. As I felt bound to
without remembering with a pang, at once his modest forti- assist him in this, and also to mediate between them; with
tude and his great sorrow. the view of sparing the mother’s feelings as much as pos-
As to Mrs. Gummidge, if I were to endeavour to describe sible, I wrote to her that night. I told her as mildly as I could
how she ran down the street by the side of the coach, seeing what his wrong was, and what my own share in his injury. I
nothing but Mr. Peggotty on the roof, through the tears she said he was a man in very common life, but of a most gentle
tried to repress, and dashing herself against the people who and upright character; and that I ventured to express a hope
were coming in the opposite direction, I should enter on a that she would not refuse to see him in his heavy trouble. I
task of some difficulty. Therefore I had better leave her sit- mentioned two o’clock in the afternoon as the hour of our
ting on a baker’s door-step, out of breath, with no shape at coming, and I sent the letter myself by the first coach in the
all remaining in her bonnet, and one of her shoes off, lying morning.
on the pavement at a considerable distance. At the appointed time, we stood at the door - the door
When we got to our journey’s end, our first pursuit was to of that house where I had been, a few days since, so hap-
look about for a little lodging for Peggotty, where her broth- py: where my youthful confidence and warmth of heart
er could have a bed. We were so fortunate as to find one, of had been yielded up so freely: which was closed against me
a very clean and cheap description, over a chandler’s shop, henceforth: which was now a waste, a ruin.
only two streets removed from me. When we had engaged No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had re-
this domicile, I bought some cold meat at an eating-house, placed his, on the occasion of my last visit, answered to our
and took my fellow-travellers home to tea; a proceeding, I summons, and went before us to the drawing-room. Mrs.
regret to state, which did not meet with Mrs. Crupp’s ap- Steerforth was sitting there. Rosa Dartle glided, as we went
proval, but quite the contrary. I ought to observe, however, in, from another part of the room and stood behind her
in explanation of that lady’s state of mind, that she was chair.
much offended by Peggotty’s tucking up her widow’s gown I saw, directly, in his mother’s face, that she knew from
before she had been ten minutes in the place, and setting himself what he had done. It was very pale; and bore the
to work to dust my bedroom. This Mrs. Crupp regarded in traces of deeper emotion than my letter alone, weakened by
the light of a liberty, and a liberty, she said, was a thing she the doubts her fondness would have raised upon it, would

have been likely to create. I thought her more like him than ‘She is uneducated and ignorant.’
ever I had thought her; and I felt, rather than saw, that the ‘Maybe she’s not; maybe she is,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I
resemblance was not lost on my companion. think not, ma’am; but I’m no judge of them things. Teach
She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immov- her better!’
able, passionless air, that it seemed as if nothing could ‘Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am
disturb. She looked very steadfastly at Mr. Peggotty when very unwilling to do, her humble connexions would render
he stood before her; and he looked quite as steadfastly at her. such a thing impossible, if nothing else did.’
Rosa Dartle’s keen glance comprehended all of us. For some ‘Hark to this, ma’am,’ he returned, slowly and quietly.
moments not a word was spoken. ‘You know what it is to love your child. So do I. If she was
She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a a hundred times my child, I couldn’t love her more. You
low voice, ‘I shouldn’t feel it nat’ral, ma’am, to sit down in doen’t know what it is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps
this house. I’d sooner stand.’ And this was succeeded by an- of riches in the wureld would be nowt to me (if they was
other silence, which she broke thus: mine) to buy her back! But, save her from this disgrace, and
‘I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. she shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us that she’s
What do you want of me? What do you ask me to do?’ growed up among, not one of us that’s lived along with her
He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast and had her for their all in all, these many year, will ever
for Emily’s letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. look upon her pritty face again. We’ll be content to let her
‘Please to read that, ma’am. That’s my niece’s hand!’ be; we’ll be content to think of her, far off, as if she was un-
She read it, in the same stately and impassive way, - underneath another sun and sky; we’ll be content to trust her
touched by its contents, as far as I could see, - and returned to her husband, - to her little children, p’raps, - and bide the
it to him. time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God!’
‘’Unless he brings me back a lady,‘‘ said Mr. Peggotty, The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not de-
tracing out that part with his finger. ‘I come to know, ma’am, void of all effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but
whether he will keep his wured?’ there was a touch of softness in her voice, as she answered:
‘No,’ she returned. ‘I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I
‘Why not?’ said Mr. Peggotty. am sorry to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would
‘It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot irretrievably blight my son’s career, and ruin his prospects.
fail to know that she is far below him.’ Nothing is more certain than that it never can take place,
‘Raise her up!’ said Mr. Peggotty. and never will. If there is any other compensation -’

‘I am looking at the likeness of the face,’ interrupted Mr. ‘I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the
Peggotty, with a steady but a kindling eye, ‘that has looked lightest object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose.
at me, in my home, at my fireside, in my boat - wheer not? Let him go where he will, with the means that my love has
- smiling and friendly, when it was so treacherous, that I go secured to him! Does he think to reduce me by long ab-
half wild when I think of it. If the likeness of that face don’t sence? He knows his mother very little if he does. Let him
turn to burning fire, at the thought of offering money to me put away his whim now, and he is welcome back. Let him
for my child’s blight and ruin, it’s as bad. I doen’t know, be- not put her away now, and he never shall come near me,
ing a lady’s, but what it’s worse.’ living or dying, while I can raise my hand to make a sign
She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush over- against it, unless, being rid of her for ever, he comes humbly
spread her features; and she said, in an intolerant manner, to me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my right. This is
grasping the arm-chair tightly with her hands: the acknowledgement I WILL HAVE. This is the separation
‘What compensation can you make to ME for opening that there is between us! And is this,’ she added, looking at
such a pit between me and my son? What is your love to her visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had
mine? What is your separation to ours?’ begun, ‘no injury?’
Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head While I heard and saw the mother as she said these
to whisper, but she would not hear a word. words, I seemed to hear and see the son, defying them. All
‘No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! that I had ever seen in him of an unyielding, wilful spirit, I
My son, who has been the object of my life, to whom its ev- saw in her. All the understanding that I had now of his mis-
ery thought has been devoted, whom I have gratified from directed energy, became an understanding of her character
a child in every wish, from whom I have had no separate too, and a perception that it was, in its strongest springs,
existence since his birth, - to take up in a moment with a the same.
miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay my confidence with She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former re-
systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me for her! To straint, that it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and
set this wretched fancy, against his mother’s claims upon that she begged to put an end to the interview. She rose with
his duty, love, respect, gratitude - claims that every day and an air of dignity to leave the room, when Mr. Peggotty sig-
hour of his life should have strengthened into ties that noth- nified that it was needless.
ing could be proof against! Is this no injury?’ ‘Doen’t fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no
Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectu- more to say, ma’am,’ he remarked, as he moved towards the
ally. door. ‘I come beer with no hope, and I take away no hope. I

have done what I thowt should be done, but I never looked ‘Is it your doing!’ she retorted. ‘Why do you bring this
fur any good to come of my stan’ning where I do. This has man here?’
been too evil a house fur me and mine, fur me to be in my ‘He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,’ I replied. ‘You
right senses and expect it.’ may not know it.’
With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her el- ‘I know that James Steerforth,’ she said, with her hand on
bow-chair, a picture of a noble presence and a handsome her bosom, as if to prevent the storm that was raging there,
face. from being loud, ‘has a false, corrupt heart, and is a trai-
We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass tor. But what need I know or care about this fellow, and his
sides and roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and common niece?’
shoots were green then, and the day being sunny, a pair of ‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you deepen the injury. It is suf-
glass doors leading to the garden were thrown open. Rosa ficient already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him a
Dartle, entering this way with a noiseless step, when we great wrong.’
were close to them, addressed herself to me: ‘I do him no wrong,’ she returned. ‘They are a depraved,
‘You do well,’ she said, ‘indeed, to bring this fellow here!’ worthless set. I would have her whipped!’
Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened Mr. Peggotty passed on, without a word, and went out
her face, and flashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have at the door.
thought compressible even into that face. The scar made by ‘Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!’ I said indignantly. ‘How
the hammer was, as usual in this excited state of her fea- can you bear to trample on his undeserved affliction!’
tures, strongly marked. When the throbbing I had seen ‘I would trample on them all,’ she answered. ‘I would
before, came into it as I looked at her, she absolutely lifted have his house pulled down. I would have her branded on
up her hand, and struck it. the face, dressed in rags, and cast out in the streets to starve.
‘This is a fellow,’ she said, ‘to champion and bring here, is If I had the power to sit in judgement on her, I would see it
he not? You are a true man!’ done. See it done? I would do it! I detest her. If I ever could
‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you are surely not so unjust as reproach her with her infamous condition, I would go any-
to condemn ME!’ where to do so. If I could hunt her to her grave, I would. If
‘Why do you bring division between these two mad crea- there was any word of comfort that would be a solace to her
tures?’ she returned. ‘Don’t you know that they are both in her dying hour, and only I possessed it, I wouldn’t part
mad with their own self-will and pride?’ with it for Life itself.’
‘Is it my doing?’ I returned. The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sen-

sible, but a weak impression of the passion by which she was He accepted, from his sister’s stock of ready money, a
possessed, and which made itself articulate in her whole small sum on account of his legacy; barely enough, I should
figure, though her voice, instead of being raised, was lower have thought, to keep him for a month. He promised to
than usual. No description I could give of her would do jus- communicate with me, when anything befell him; and he
tice to my recollection of her, or to her entire deliverance of slung his bag about him, took his hat and stick, and bade us
herself to her anger. I have seen passion in many forms, but both ‘Good-bye!’
I have never seen it in such a form as that. ‘All good attend you, dear old woman,’ he said, embrac-
When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and ing Peggotty, ‘and you too, Mas’r Davy!’ shaking hands
thoughtfully down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came with me. ‘I’m a-going to seek her, fur and wide. If she should
up with him, that having now discharged his mind of what come home while I’m away - but ah, that ain’t like to be! - or
he had purposed doing in London, he meant ‘to set out on if I should bring her back, my meaning is, that she and me
his travels’, that night. I asked him where he meant to go? shall live and die where no one can’t reproach her. If any
He only answered, ‘I’m a going, sir, to seek my niece.’ hurt should come to me, remember that the last words I left
We went back to the little lodging over the chandler’s for her was, ‘My unchanged love is with my darling child,
shop, and there I found an opportunity of repeating to Peg- and I forgive her!‘‘
gotty what he had said to me. She informed me, in return, He said this solemnly, bare-headed; then, putting on
that he had said the same to her that morning. She knew no his hat, he went down the stairs, and away. We followed to
more than I did, where he was going, but she thought he the door. It was a warm, dusty evening, just the time when,
had some project shaped out in his mind. in the great main thoroughfare out of which that by-way
I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, turned, there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of
and we all three dined together off a beefsteak pie - which feet upon the pavement, and a strong red sunshine. He
was one of the many good things for which Peggotty was fa- turned, alone, at the corner of our shady street, into a glow
mous - and which was curiously flavoured on this occasion, of light, in which we lost him.
I recollect well, by a miscellaneous taste of tea, coffee, butter, Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did I
bacon, cheese, new loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut wake at night, rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, or
ketchup, continually ascending from the shop. After dinner watch the falling rain, or hear the wind, but I thought of
we sat for an hour or so near the window, without talking his solitary figure toiling on, poor pilgrim, and recalled the
much; and then Mr. Peggotty got up, and brought his oil- words:
skin bag and his stout stick, and laid them on the table. ‘I’m a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should

come to me, remember that the last words I left for her was,
‘My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I forgive CHAPTER 33
her!‘‘
BLISSFUL
A ll this time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than

ever. Her idea was my refuge in disappointment and
distress, and made some amends to me, even for the loss
of my friend. The more I pitied myself, or pitied others, the
more I sought for consolation in the image of Dora. The
greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble in the world,
the brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high above
the world. I don’t think I had any definite idea where Dora
came from, or in what degree she was related to a higher
order of beings; but I am quite sure I should have scouted
the notion of her being simply human, like any other young
lady, with indignation and contempt.
If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not
merely over head and ears in love with her, but I was satu-
rated through and through. Enough love might have been
wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown any-
body in; and yet there would have remained enough within
me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.
The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came
back, was to take a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the

subject of a venerable riddle of my childhood, to go ‘round beam when he sat erect in Court among his papers, like a
and round the house, without ever touching the house’, little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by the by, it used
thinking about Dora. I believe the theme of this incompre- to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I remember,
hensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it was, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old judges and doctors
I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and wouldn’t have cared for Dora, if they had known her; how
round the house and garden for two hours, looking through they wouldn’t have gone out of their senses with rapture, if
crevices in the palings, getting my chin by dint of violent marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora
exertion above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses might have sung, and played upon that glorified guitar, un-
at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling on til she led me to the verge of madness, yet not have tempted
the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora - I don’t exactly one of those slow-goers an inch out of his road!
know what from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners
which she had a great objection. in the flower-beds of the heart, I took a personal offence
My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural against them all. The Bench was nothing to me but an in-
to me to confide in Peggotty, when I found her again by my sensible blunderer. The Bar had no more tenderness or
side of an evening with the old set of industrial implements, poetry in it, than the bar of a public-house.
busily making the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to Taking the management of Peggotty’s affairs into my
her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great secret. Peg- own hands, with no little pride, I proved the will, and came
gotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into my to a settlement with the Legacy Duty-office, and took her
view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in my to the Bank, and soon got everything into an orderly train.
favour, and quite unable to understand why I should have We varied the legal character of these proceedings by going
any misgivings, or be low-spirited about it. ‘The young lady to see some perspiring Wax-work, in Fleet Street (melted,
might think herself well off,’ she observed, ‘to have such a I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting Miss
beau. And as to her Pa,’ she said, ‘what did the gentleman Linwood’s Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum
expect, for gracious sake!’ of needlework, favourable to self-examination and repen-
I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow’s proctorial gown tance; and by inspecting the Tower of London; and going to
and stiff cravat took Peggotty down a little, and inspired the top of St. Paul’s. All these wonders afforded Peggotty as
her with a greater reverence for the man who was gradu- much pleasure as she was able to enjoy, under existing cir-
ally becoming more and more etherealized in my eyes every cumstances: except, I think, St. Paul’s, which, from her long
day, and about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to attachment to her work-box, became a rival of the picture

on the lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you are doing well?’
considered, by that work of art. ‘It can hardly be interesting to you,’ said I. ‘Yes, if you
Peggotty’s business, which was what we used to call ‘com- wish to know.’
mon-form business’ in the Commons (and very light and We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to
lucrative the common-form business was), being settled, I Peggotty.
took her down to the office one morning to pay her bill. Mr. ‘And you,’ said he. ‘I am sorry to observe that you have
Spenlow had stepped out, old Tiffey said, to get a gentleman lost your husband.’
sworn for a marriage licence; but as I knew he would be ‘It’s not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murd-
back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate’s, and to stone,’ replied Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. ‘I am
the Vicar-General’s office too, I told Peggotty to wait. glad to hope that there is nobody to blame for this one, - no-
We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as body to answer for it.’
regarded Probate transactions; generally making it a rule to ‘Ha!’ said he; ‘that’s a comfortable reflection. You have
look more or less cut up, when we had to deal with clients in done your duty?’
mourning. In a similar feeling of delicacy, we were always ‘I have not worn anybody’s life away,’ said Peggotty, ‘I am
blithe and light-hearted with the licence clients. Therefore thankful to think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited
I hinted to Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much and frightened any sweet creetur to an early grave!’
recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis’s decease; and in- He eyed her gloomily - remorsefully I thought - for an
deed he came in like a bridegroom. instant; and said, turning his head towards me, but looking
But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we at my feet instead of my face:
saw, in company with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very ‘We are not likely to encounter soon again; - a source of
little changed. His hair looked as thick, and was certainly satisfaction to us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this
as black, as ever; and his glance was as little to be trusted can never be agreeable. I do not expect that you, who always
as of old. rebelled against my just authority, exerted for your benefit
‘Ah, Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘You know this gen- and reformation, should owe me any good-will now. There
tleman, I believe?’ is an antipathy between us -’
I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely ‘An old one, I believe?’ said I, interrupting him.
recognized him. He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come
meet us two together; but quickly decided what to do, and from his dark eyes.
came up to me. ‘It rankled in your baby breast,’ he said. ‘It embittered the

life of your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do what he said, while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make
better, yet; I hope you may correct yourself.’ out Peggotty’s bill of costs.
Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on ‘Miss Trotwood,’ he remarked, ‘is very firm, no doubt, and
in a low voice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing not likely to give way to opposition. I have an admiration
into Mr. Spenlow’s room, and saying aloud, in his smooth- for her character, and I may congratulate you, Copperfield,
est manner: on being on the right side. Differences between relations are
‘Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow’s profession are accustomed much to be deplored - but they are extremely general - and
to family differences, and know how complicated and dif- the great thing is, to be on the right side’: meaning, I take it,
ficult they always are!’ With that, he paid the money for his on the side of the moneyed interest.
licence; and, receiving it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlow, ‘Rather a good marriage this, I believe?’ said Mr. Spen-
together with a shake of the hand, and a polite wish for his low.
happiness and the lady’s, went out of the office. I explained that I knew nothing about it.
I might have had more difficulty in constraining my- ‘Indeed!’ he said. ‘Speaking from the few words Mr.
self to be silent under his words, if I had had less difficulty Murdstone dropped - as a man frequently does on these oc-
in impressing upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my casions - and from what Miss Murdstone let fall, I should
account, good creature!) that we were not in a place for re- say it was rather a good marriage.’
crimination, and that I besought her to hold her peace. She ‘Do you mean that there is money, sir?’ I asked.
was so unusually roused, that I was glad to compound for ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I understand there’s money.
an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind of Beauty too, I am told.’
our old injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before ‘Indeed! Is his new wife young?’
Mr. Spenlow and the clerks. ‘Just of age,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘So lately, that I should
Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion think they had been waiting for that.’
between Mr. Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad ‘Lord deliver her!’ said Peggotty. So very emphatically
of, for I could not bear to acknowledge him, even in my own and unexpectedly, that we were all three discomposed; un-
breast, remembering what I did of the history of my poor til Tiffey came in with the bill.
mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if he thought any- Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr.
thing about the matter, that my aunt was the leader of the Spenlow, to look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his
state party in our family, and that there was a rebel party cravat and rubbing it softly, went over the items with a dep-
commanded by somebody else - so I gathered at least from recatory air - as if it were all Jorkins’s doing - and handed it

back to Tiffey with a bland sigh. Very good. There you were!
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Quite right. I should have been I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora’s father that
extremely happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges possibly we might even improve the world a little, if we
to the actual expenditure out of pocket, but it is an irksome got up early in the morning, and took off our coats to the
incident in my professional life, that I am not at liberty to work; but I confessed that I thought we might improve the
consult my own wishes. I have a partner - Mr. Jorkins.’ Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would particularly
As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being
next thing to making no charge at all, I expressed my ac- worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be
knowledgements on Peggotty’s behalf, and paid Tiffey in glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the
banknotes. Peggotty then retired to her lodging, and Mr. Commons susceptible?
Spenlow and I went into Court, where we had a divorce- Taking that part of the Commons which happened to
suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute (repealed be nearest to us - for our man was unmarried by this time,
now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen several and we were out of Court, and strolling past the Prerogative
marriages annulled), of which the merits were these. The Office - I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office
husband, whose name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired
out his marriage licence as Thomas only; suppressing the in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his ex-
Benjamin, in case he should not find himself as comfort- perience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being
able as he expected. NOT finding himself as comfortable Dora’s father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that
as he expected, or being a little fatigued with his wife, poor the Registry of that Court, containing the original wills of
fellow, he now came forward, by a friend, after being mar- all persons leaving effects within the immense province of
ried a year or two, and declared that his name was Thomas Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be an acci-
Benjamin, and therefore he was not married at all. Which dental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by
the Court confirmed, to his great satisfaction. the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not
I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of even ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the impor-
this, and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel tant documents it held, and positively, from the roof to the
of wheat which reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow basement, a mercenary speculation of the registrars, who
argued the matter with me. He said, Look at the world, took great fees from the public, and crammed the public’s
there was good and evil in that; look at the ecclesiastical law, wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other object
there was good and evil in THAT. It was all part of a system. than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little

unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits question of feeling. If the public felt that their wills were in
amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say safe keeping, and took it for granted that the office was not
nothing of the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of to be made better, who was the worse for it? Nobody. Who
seats), should not be obliged to spend a little of that money, was the better for it? All the Sinecurists. Very well. Then the
in finding a reasonably safe place for the important docu- good predominated. It might not be a perfect system; noth-
ments which all classes of people were compelled to hand ing was perfect; but what he objected to, was, the insertion
over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, of the wedge. Under the Prerogative Office, the country had
it was a little unjust, that all the great offices in this great been glorious. Insert the wedge into the Prerogative Office,
office should be magnificent sinecures, while the unfortu- and the country would cease to be glorious. He considered
nate working-clerks in the cold dark room upstairs were it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found
the worst rewarded, and the least considered men, doing them; and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would
important services, in London. That perhaps it was a lit- last our time. I deferred to his opinion, though I had great
tle indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it doubts of it myself. I find he was right, however; for it has
was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all not only lasted to the present moment, but has done so in
needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist the teeth of a great parliamentary report made (not too
in virtue of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a willingly) eighteen years ago, when all these objections of
pluralist, the holder of a staff in a cathedral, and what not), mine were set forth in detail, and when the existing stow-
- while the public was put to the inconvenience of which we age for wills was described as equal to the accumulation of
had a specimen every afternoon when the office was busy, only two years and a half more. What they have done with
and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps, in them since; whether they have lost many, or whether they
short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don’t know. I
was altogether such a pestilent job, and such a pernicious am glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there,
absurdity, that but for its being squeezed away in a corner yet awhile.
of St. Paul’s Churchyard, which few people knew, it must I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter,
have been turned completely inside out, and upside down, because here it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow
long ago. and I falling into this conversation, prolonged it and our
Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the saunter to and fro, until we diverged into general topics.
subject, and then argued this question with me as he had And so it came about, in the end, that Mr. Spenlow told me
argued the other. He said, what was it after all? It was a this day week was Dora’s birthday, and he would be glad if I

would come down and join a little picnic on the occasion. I name was Miss Mills. and Dora called her Julia. She was the
went out of my senses immediately; became a mere driveller bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!
next day, on receipt of a little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, Jip was there, and Jip WOULD bark at me again. When
‘Favoured by papa. To remind’; and passed the intervening I presented my bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy.
period in a state of dotage. Well he might. If he had the least idea how I adored his mis-
I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way tress, well he might!
of preparation for this blessed event. I turn hot when I re- ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!’
member the cravat I bought. My boots might be placed in said Dora.
any collection of instruments of torture. I provided, and I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying
sent down by the Norwood coach the night before, a deli- the best form of words for three miles) that I thought them
cate little hamper, amounting in itself, I thought, almost to beautiful before I saw them so near HER. But I couldn’t
a declaration. There were crackers in it with the tenderest manage it. She was too bewildering. To see her lay the flow-
mottoes that could be got for money. At six in the morn- ers against her little dimpled chin, was to lose all presence
ing, I was in Covent Garden Market, buying a bouquet for of mind and power of language in a feeble ecstasy. I wonder
Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a gallant grey, for I didn’t say, ‘Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss Mills. Let me
the occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it fresh, die here!’
trotting down to Norwood. Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip
I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pre- growled, and wouldn’t smell them. Then Dora laughed, and
tended not to see her, and rode past the house pretending to held them a little closer to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid
be anxiously looking for it, I committed two small fooleries hold of a bit of geranium with his teeth, and worried imagi-
which other young gentlemen in my circumstances might nary cats in it. Then Dora beat him, and pouted, and said,
have committed - because they came so very natural to me. ‘My poor beautiful flowers!’ as compassionately, I thought,
But oh! when I DID find the house, and DID dismount at as if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!
the garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across ‘You’ll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Dora,
the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac tree, ‘that that cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to
what a spectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, her brother’s marriage, and will be away at least three weeks.
among the butterflies, in a white chip bonnet and a dress of Isn’t that delightful?’
celestial blue! There was a young lady with her - compara- I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that
tively stricken in years - almost twenty, I should say. Her was delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with

an air of superior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon it. She often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself
us. with its fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met; and
‘She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,’ said Dora. my great astonishment is that I didn’t go over the head of
‘You can’t believe how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Ju- my gallant grey into the carriage.
lia.’ There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust,
‘Yes, I can, my dear!’ said Julia. I believe. I have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow re-
‘YOU can, perhaps, love,’ returned Dora, with her hand monstrated with me for riding in it; but I knew of none. I
on julia’s. ‘Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.’ was sensible of a mist of love and beauty about Dora, but of
I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in nothing else. He stood up sometimes, and asked me what I
the course of a chequered existence; and that to these, per- thought of the prospect. I said it was delightful, and I dare
haps, I might refer that wise benignity of manner which I say it was; but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone Dora,
had already noticed. i found, in the course of the day, that and the birds sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and
this was the case: Miss Mills having been unhappy in a mis- the wild flowers in the hedges were all Doras, to a bud. My
placed affection, and being understood to have retired from comfort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss Mills alone
the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take a could enter into my feelings thoroughly.
calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth. I don’t know how long we were going, and to this hour
But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora I know as little where we went. Perhaps it was near Guild-
went to him, saying, ‘Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!’ ford. Perhaps some Arabian-night magician, opened up the
And Miss Mills smiled thoughtfully, as who should say, ‘Ye place for the day, and shut it up for ever when we came away.
Mayflies, enjoy your brief existence in the bright morning It was a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf. There
of life!’ And we all walked from the lawn towards the car- were shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eye could
riage, which was getting ready. see, a rich landscape.
I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us;
such another. There were only those three, their hamper, my and my jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all
hamper, and the guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, of my own sex - especially one impostor, three or four years
the phaeton was open; and I rode behind it, and Dora sat my elder, with a red whisker, on which he established an
with her back to the horses, looking towards me. She kept amount of presumption not to be endured - were my mor-
the bouquet close to her on the cushion, and wouldn’t allow tal foes.
Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should crush We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves

in getting dinner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could morseful state. I was debating whether I should pretend
make a salad (which I don’t believe), and obtruded himself that I was not well, and fly - I don’t know where - upon my
on public notice. Some of the young ladies washed the let- gallant grey, when Dora and Miss Mills met me.
tuces for him, and sliced them under his directions. Dora ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘you are dull.’
was among these. I felt that fate had pitted me against this I begged her pardon. Not at all.
man, and one of us must fall. ‘And Dora,’ said Miss Mills, ‘YOU are dull.’
Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could Oh dear no! Not in the least.
eat it. Nothing should have induced ME to touch it!) and ‘Mr. Copperfield and Dora,’ said Miss Mills, with an al-
voted himself into the charge of the wine-cellar, which he most venerable air. ‘Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial
constructed, being an ingenious beast, in the hollow trunk misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which,
of a tree. By and by, I saw him, with the majority of a lobster once put forth and blighted, cannot be renewed. I speak,’
on his plate, eating his dinner at the feet of Dora! said Miss Mills, ‘from experience of the past - the remote,
I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some irrevocable past. The gushing fountains which sparkle in
time after this baleful object presented itself to my view. I the sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis in
was very merry, I know; but it was hollow merriment. I at- the desert of Sahara must not be plucked up idly.’
tached myself to a young creature in pink, with little eyes, I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that
and flirted with her desperately. She received my attentions extraordinary extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and
with favour; but whether on my account solely, or because kissed it - and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and
she had any designs on Red Whisker, I can’t say. Dora’s we all seemed, to my thinking, to go straight up to the sev-
health was drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt enth heaven. We did not come down again. We stayed up
my conversation for that purpose, and to resume it immedi- there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among
ately afterwards. I caught Dora’s eye as I bowed to her, and the trees: I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: and
I thought it looked appealing. But it looked at me over the Heaven knows, folly as it all was, it would have been a happy
head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant. fate to have been struck immortal with those foolish feel-
The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and ings, and have stayed among the trees for ever!
I rather think the latter separated us from motives of pol- But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and
icy. Howbeit, there was a general breaking up of the party, talking, and calling ‘where’s Dora?’ So we went back, and
while the remnants of the dinner were being put away; and they wanted Dora to sing. Red Whisker would have got the
I strolled off by myself among the trees, in a raging and re- guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora told him nobody

knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for in a quite used up, recluse; that little patriarch of something less
moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar than twenty, who had done with the world, and mustn’t on
out, and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief and gloves, any account have the slumbering echoes in the caverns of
and I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!
to ME who loved her, and all the others might applaud as ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘come to this side of
much as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it! the carriage a moment - if you can spare a moment. I want
I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too hap- to speak to you.’
py to be real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of
presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in get- Miss Mills, with my hand upon the carriage door!
ting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and ‘Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home
Miss Mills sang - about the slumbering echoes in the cav- with me the day after tomorrow. If you would like to call, I
erns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old - and am sure papa would be happy to see you.’ What could I do
the evening came on; and we had tea, with the kettle boiling but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills’s head, and store
gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever. Miss Mills’s address in the securest corner of my memo-
I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the ry! What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks
other people, defeated Red Whisker and all, went their sev- and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good offices,
eral ways, and we went ours through the still evening and and what an inestimable value I set upon her friendship!
the dying light, with sweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, ‘Go
Spenlow being a little drowsy after the champagne - honour back to Dora!’ and I went; and Dora leaned out of the car-
to the soil that grew the grape, to the grape that made the riage to talk to me, and we talked all the rest of the way; and
wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who I rode my gallant grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his
adulterated it! - and being fast asleep in a corner of the car- near fore leg against it, and ‘took the bark off’, as his owner
riage, I rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my told me, ‘to the tune of three pun’ sivin’ - which I paid, and
horse and patted him - oh, what a dear little hand it looked thought extremely cheap for so much joy. What time Miss
upon a horse! - and her shawl would not keep right, and Mills sat looking at the moon, murmuring verses- and re-
now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even calling, I suppose, the ancient days when she and earth had
fancied that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand anything in common.
that he must make up his mind to be friends with me. Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it
That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though many hours too soon; but Mr. Spenlow came to himself

a little short of it, and said, ‘You must come in, Copper- Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be.
field, and rest!’ and I consenting, we had sandwiches and Nobody wanted HIM. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills
wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora blushing looked would do.
so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat there I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and
staring, in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow in- Dora were. Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I
spired me with sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So recollect, it was a new song, called ‘Affection’s Dirge’), and
we parted; I riding all the way to London with the farewell Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings, when I
touch of Dora’s hand still light on mine, recalling every in- recognized my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden
cident and word ten thousand times; lying down in my own Market purchase! I cannot say that they were very like, or
bed at last, as enraptured a young noodle as ever was car- that they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever
ried out of his five wits by love. come under my observation; but I knew from the paper
When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare round them which was accurately copied, what the com-
my passion to Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or mis- position was.
ery was now the question. There was no other question that Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her
I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the an- papa was not at home: though I thought we all bore that
swer to it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few min-
torturing myself by putting every conceivable variety of utes, and then, laying down her pen upon ‘Affection’s Dirge’,
discouraging construction on all that ever had taken place got up, and left the room.
between Dora and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
vast expense, I went to Miss Mills’s, fraught with a declara- ‘I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home
tion. at night,’ said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a
How many times I went up and down the street, and long way for him.’
round the square - painfully aware of being a much bet- I began to think I would do it today.
ter answer to the old riddle than the original one - before ‘It was a long way for him,’ said I, ‘for he had nothing to
I could persuade myself to go up the steps and knock, is uphold him on the journey.’
no matter now. Even when, at last, I had knocked, and was ‘Wasn’t he fed, poor thing?’ asked Dora.
waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought of asking if I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.
that were Mr. Blackboy’s (in imitation of poor Barkis), beg- ‘Ye-yes,’ I said, ‘he was well taken care of. I mean he had
ging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground. not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near

you.’ at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every
Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lov-
little while - I had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and ers would love again; but no lover had loved, might, could,
with my legs in a very rigid state - would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I
‘You didn’t seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way, got
at one time of the day.’ more mad every moment.
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by,
spot. quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peace-
‘You didn’t care for that happiness in the least,’ said Dora, fully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect
slightly raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head, ‘when rapture. Dora and I were engaged.
you were sitting by Miss Kitt.’ I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in
Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in marriage. We must have had some, because Dora stipu-
pink, with the little eyes. lated that we were never to be married without her papa’s
‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said consent. But, in our youthful ecstasy, I don’t think that we
Dora, or why you should call it a happiness at all. But of really looked before us or behind us; or had any aspiration
course you don’t mean what you say. And I am sure no one beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep our secret
doubts your being at liberty to do whatever you like. Jip, from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered my
you naughty boy, come here!’ head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.
I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I inter- Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora,
cepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I going to find her, brought her back; - I apprehend, be-
never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told cause there was a tendency in what had passed to awaken
her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory. But she
worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time. gave us her blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friend-
When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my ship, and spoke to us, generally, as became a Voice from the
eloquence increased so much the more. If she would like Cloister.
me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was What an idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy,
ready. Life without Dora’s love was not a thing to have on foolish time it was!
any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t. I had loved her When I measured Dora’s finger for a ring that was to be
every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her made of Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I

took the measure, found me out, and laughed over his order- that the back kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love’s
book, and charged me anything he liked for the pretty little own temple, where we arranged a plan of correspondence
toy, with its blue stones - so associated in my remembrance through Miss Mills, always to comprehend at least one let-
with Dora’s hand, that yesterday, when I saw such another, ter on each side every day!
by chance, on the finger of my own daughter, there was a What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, fool-
momentary stirring in my heart, like pain! ish time! Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip,
When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of there is none that in one retrospect I can smile at half so
my own interest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of much, and think of half so tenderly.
being beloved, so much, that if I had walked the air, I could
not have been more above the people not so situated, who
were creeping on the earth!
When we had those meetings in the garden of the square,
and sat within the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I
love the London sparrows to this hour, for nothing else,
and see the plumage of the tropics in their smoky feathers!
When we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our
betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed
in a despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the ter-
rible expression that ‘our love had begun in folly, and ended
in madness!’ which dreadful words occasioned me to tear
my hair, and cry that all was over!
When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills,
whom I saw by stealth in a back kitchen where there was a
mangle, and implored Miss Mills to interpose between us
and avert insanity. When Miss Mills undertook the office
and returned with Dora, exhorting us, from the pulpit of
her own bitter youth, to mutual concession, and the avoid-
ance of the Desert of Sahara!
When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again,

CHAPTER 34 if, in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emo-
tions; my heart turned naturally there, and found its refuge
and best friend.
Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had
MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME been sad grief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily’s flight;
and that on me it made a double wound, by reason of the
circumstances attending it. I knew how quick she always
was to divine the truth, and that she would never be the first
to breathe his name.
I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I

wrote her a long letter, in which I tried to make her com-
prehend how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was. I
To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As
I read it, I seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like
her cordial voice in my ears. What can I say more!
entreated Agnes not to regard this as a thoughtless passion While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had
which could ever yield to any other, or had the least resem- called twice or thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being
blance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I informed by Peggotty (who always volunteered that infor-
assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, mation to whomsoever would receive it), that she was my
and expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever been old nurse, he had established a good-humoured acquain-
known. tance with her, and had stayed to have a little chat with her
Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was all
open window, and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes on her own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very
and gentle face came stealing over me, it shed such a peace- difficult indeed to stop, God bless her! when she had me for
ful influence upon the hurry and agitation in which I had her theme.
been living lately, and of which my very happiness partook This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on
in some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember a certain afternoon of his own appointing, which was now
that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the let- come, but that Mrs. Crupp had resigned everything apper-
ter was half done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes taining to her office (the salary excepted) until Peggotty
were one of the elements of my natural home. As if, in the should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after holding
retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high-
presence, Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As pitched voice, on the staircase - with some invisible Familiar

it would appear, for corporeally speaking she was quite pearing at my door, in spite of all these obstacles, ‘how do
alone at those times - addressed a letter to me, developing you do?’
her views. Beginning it with that statement of universal ap- ‘My dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to see you at
plication, which fitted every occurrence of her life, namely, last, and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I
that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that have been so much engaged -’
she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Traddles, ‘of course. Yours lives in
of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to London, I think.’
spies, intruders, and informers. She named no names, she ‘What did you say?’
said; let them the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, ‘She - excuse me - Miss D., you know,’ said Traddles, co-
and informers, especially in widders’ weeds (this clause was louring in his great delicacy, ‘lives in London, I believe?’
underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to look down ‘Oh yes. Near London.’
upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and ‘Mine, perhaps you recollect,’ said Traddles, with a
informers (but still naming no names), that was his own serious look, ‘lives down in Devonshire - one of ten. Conse-
pleasure. He had a right to please himself; so let him do. All quently, I am not so much engaged as you - in that sense.’
that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was, that she should not ‘I wonder you can bear,’ I returned, ‘to see her so sel-
be ‘brought in contract’ with such persons. Therefore she dom.’
begged to be excused from any further attendance on the ‘Hah!’ said Traddles, thoughtfully. ‘It does seem a won-
top set, until things were as they formerly was, and as they der. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there is no help
could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little for it?’
book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Satur- ‘I suppose so,’ I replied with a smile, and not without a
day morning, when she requested an immediate settlement blush. ‘And because you have so much constancy and pa-
of the same, with the benevolent view of saving trouble ‘and tience, Traddles.’
an ill-conwenience’ to all parties. ‘Dear me!’ said Traddles, considering about it, ‘do I strike
After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls you in that way, Copperfield? Really I didn’t know that I had.
on the stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring But she is such an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it’s
to delude Peggotty into breaking her legs. I found it rath- possible she may have imparted something of those virtues
er harassing to live in this state of siege, but was too much to me. Now you mention it, Copperfield, I shouldn’t wonder
afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out of it. at all. I assure you she is always forgetting herself, and tak-
‘My dear Copperfield,’ cried Traddles, punctually ap- ing care of the other nine.’

‘Is she the eldest?’ I inquired. ‘Is the mother living?’ I inquired.
‘Oh dear, no,’ said Traddles. ‘The eldest is a Beauty.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said Traddles, ‘she is alive. She is a very superior
He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the woman indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her
simplicity of this reply; and added, with a smile upon his constitution, and - in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.’
own ingenuous face: ‘Dear me!’ said I.
‘Not, of course, but that my Sophy - pretty name, Cop- ‘Very sad, is it not?’ returned Traddles. ‘But in a merely
perfield, I always think?’ domestic view it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy
‘Very pretty!’ said I. takes her place. She is quite as much a mother to her mother,
‘Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, as she is to the other nine.’
and would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in any- I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young
body’s eyes (I should think). But when I say the eldest is a lady; and, honestly with the view of doing my best to pre-
Beauty, I mean she really is a -’ he seemed to be describ- vent the good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon,
ing clouds about himself, with both hands: ‘Splendid, you to the detriment of their joint prospects in life, inquired
know,’ said Traddles, energetically. ‘Indeed!’ said I. how Mr. Micawber was?
‘Oh, I assure you,’ said Traddles, ‘something very uncom- ‘He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,’ said Traddles.
mon, indeed! Then, you know, being formed for society and ‘I am not living with him at present.’
admiration, and not being able to enjoy much of it in con- ‘No?’
sequence of their limited means, she naturally gets a little ‘No. You see the truth is,’ said Traddles, in a whisper, ‘he
irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts her in good had changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his
humour!’ temporary embarrassments; and he don’t come out till af-
‘Is Sophy the youngest?’ I hazarded. ter dark - and then in spectacles. There was an execution
‘Oh dear, no!’ said Traddles, stroking his chin. ‘The two put into our house, for rent. Mrs. Micawber was in such a
youngest are only nine and ten. Sophy educates ‘em.’ dreadful state that I really couldn’t resist giving my name to
‘The second daughter, perhaps?’ I hazarded. that second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine how de-
‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Sarah’s the second. Sarah has some- lightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter
thing the matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady will settled with it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her spirits.’
wear out by and by, the doctors say, but in the meantime ‘Hum!’ said I. ‘Not that her happiness was of long dura-
she has to lie down for a twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. tion,’ pursued Traddles, ‘for, unfortunately, within a week
Sophy’s the fourth.’ another execution came in. It broke up the establishment. I

have been living in a furnished apartment since then, and on one condition. That condition was, that he should make
the Mortimers have been very private indeed. I hope you a solemn resolution to grant no more loans of his name, or
won’t think it selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that the bro- anything else, to Mr. Micawber.
ker carried off my little round table with the marble top, ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, ‘I have already
and Sophy’s flower-pot and stand?’ done so, because I begin to feel that I have not only been
‘What a hard thing!’ I exclaimed indignantly. inconsiderate, but that I have been positively unjust to So-
‘It was a - it was a pull,’ said Traddles, with his usual phy. My word being passed to myself, there is no longer any
wince at that expression. ‘I don’t mention it reproachful- apprehension; but I pledge it to you, too, with the greatest
ly, however, but with a motive. The fact is, Copperfield, I readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have
was unable to repurchase them at the time of their seizure; no doubt Mr. Micawber would have paid it if he could, but
in the first place, because the broker, having an idea that I he could not. One thing I ought to mention, which I like
wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent; and, very much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It refers to the
in the second place, because I - hadn’t any money. Now, I second obligation, which is not yet due. He don’t tell me
have kept my eye since, upon the broker’s shop,’ said Trad- that it is provided for, but he says it WILL BE. Now, I think
dles, with a great enjoyment of his mystery, ‘which is up at there is something very fair and honest about that!’
the top of Tottenham Court Road, and, at last, today I find I was unwilling to damp my good friend’s confidence, and
them put out for sale. I have only noticed them from over therefore assented. After a little further conversation, we
the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you, he’d ask went round to the chandler’s shop, to enlist Peggotty; Trad-
any price for them! What has occurred to me, having now dles declining to pass the evening with me, both because he
the money, is, that perhaps you wouldn’t object to ask that endured the liveliest apprehensions that his property would
good nurse of yours to come with me to the shop - I can be bought by somebody else before he could re-purchase it,
show it her from round the corner of the next street - and and because it was the evening he always devoted to writing
make the best bargain for them, as if they were for herself, to the dearest girl in the world.
that she can!’ I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the
The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan street in Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bar-
to me, and the sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are gaining for the precious articles; or his agitation when she
among the freshest things in my remembrance. came slowly towards us after vainly offering a price, and
I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist was hailed by the relenting broker, and went back again.
him, and that we would all three take the field together, but The end of the negotiation was, that she bought the prop-

erty on tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on a quantity of luggage,
with pleasure. with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee, like
‘I am very much obliged to you, indeed,’ said Traddles, a female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning
on hearing it was to be sent to where he lived, that night. ‘If thoughtfully on a great kite, such as we had often been out
I might ask one other favour, I hope you would not think it together to fly, with more luggage piled about him!
absurd, Copperfield?’ ‘My dear aunt!’ cried I. ‘Why, what an unexpected plea-
I said beforehand, certainly not. sure!’
‘Then if you WOULD be good enough,’ said Traddles to We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordial-
Peggotty, ‘to get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it ly shook hands; and Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making
being Sophy’s, Copperfield) to carry it home myself!’ tea, and could not be too attentive, cordially said she had
Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed knowed well as Mr. Copperfull would have his heart in his
her with thanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court mouth, when he see his dear relations.
Road, carrying the flower-pot affectionately in his arms, ‘Holloa!’ said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before
with one of the most delighted expressions of countenance her awful presence. ‘How are YOU?’
I ever saw. ‘You remember my aunt, Peggotty?’ said I.
We then turned back towards my chambers. As the ‘For the love of goodness, child,’ exclaimed my aunt,
shops had charms for Peggotty which I never knew them ‘don’t call the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she
possess in the same degree for anybody else, I sauntered married and got rid of it, which was the best thing she could
easily along, amused by her staring in at the windows, and do, why don’t you give her the benefit of the change? What’s
waiting for her as often as she chose. We were thus a good your name now, - P?’ said my aunt, as a compromise for the
while in getting to the Adelphi. obnoxious appellation.
On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sud- ‘Barkis, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, with a curtsey.
den disappearance of Mrs. Crupp’s pitfalls, and also to the ‘Well! That’s human,’ said my aunt. ‘It sounds less as
prints of recent footsteps. We were both very much sur- if you wanted a missionary. How d’ye do, Barkis? I hope
prised, coming higher up, to find my outer door standing you’re well?’
open (which I had shut) and to hear voices inside. Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt’s
We looked at one another, without knowing what to extending her hand, Barkis came forward, and took the
make of this, and went into the sitting-room. What was my hand, and curtseyed her acknowledgements.
amazement to find, of all people upon earth, my aunt there, ‘We are older than we were, I see,’ said my aunt. ‘We have

only met each other once before, you know. A nice business ‘Mrs. Crupp is one of them,’ said my aunt. ‘Barkis, I’ll
we made of it then! Trot, my dear, another cup.’ trouble you to look after the tea, and let me have another
I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual cup, for I don’t fancy that woman’s pouring-out!’
inflexible state of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had
her on the subject of her sitting on a box. something of importance on her mind, and that there was
‘Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,’ said I. far more matter in this arrival than a stranger might have
‘Why should you be so uncomfortable?’ supposed. I noticed how her eye lighted on me, when she
‘Thank you, Trot,’ replied my aunt, ‘I prefer to sit upon thought my attention otherwise occupied; and what a curi-
my property.’ Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and ous process of hesitation appeared to be going on within her,
observed, ‘We needn’t trouble you to wait, ma’am.’ while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure. I
‘Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma’am?’ began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her;
said Mrs. Crupp. and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her
‘No, I thank you, ma’am,’ replied my aunt. about Dora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered!
‘Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma’am?’ As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I
said Mrs. Crupp. ‘Or would you be persuaded to try a new- sat down near her, and spoke to the birds, and played with
laid hegg? or should I brile a rasher? Ain’t there nothing I the cat, and was as easy as I could be. But I was very far from
could do for your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull?’ being really easy; and I should still have been so, even if Mr.
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ returned my aunt. ‘I shall do very well, Dick, leaning over the great kite behind my aunt, had not
I thank you.’ taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head darkly
Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express at me, and pointing at her.
sweet temper, and incessantly holding her head on one side, ‘Trot,’ said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea,
to express a general feebleness of constitution, and inces- and carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips
santly rubbing her hands, to express a desire to be of service - ‘you needn’t go, Barkis! - Trot, have you got to be firm and
to all deserving objects, gradually smiled herself, one-sid- self-reliant?’
ed herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room. ‘Dick!’ said ‘I hope so, aunt.’
my aunt. ‘You know what I told you about time-servers and ‘What do you think?’ inquired Miss Betsey.
wealth-worshippers?’ ‘I think so, aunt.’
Mr. Dick - with rather a scared look, as if he had forgot- ‘Then why, my love,’ said my aunt, looking earnestly at
ten it - returned a hasty answer in the affirmative. me, ‘why do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of

mine tonight?’
I shook my head, unable to guess. CHAPTER 35
‘Because,’ said my aunt, ‘it’s all I have. Because I’m ru-
ined, my dear!’
If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into
the river together, I could hardly have received a greater DEPRESSION
shock.
‘Dick knows it,’ said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on
my shoulder. ‘I am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the
world is in this room, except the cottage; and that I have left
Janet to let. Barkis, I want to get a bed for this gentleman
tonight. To save expense, perhaps you can make up some-
A s soon as I could recover my presence of mind, which
quite deserted me in the first overpowering shock of
my aunt’s intelligence, I proposed to Mr. Dick to come
thing here for myself. Anything will do. It’s only for tonight. round to the chandler’s shop, and take possession of the
We’ll talk about this, more, tomorrow.’ bed which Mr. Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler’s
I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her - shop being in Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market
I am sure, for her - by her falling on my neck, for a moment, being a very different place in those days, there was a low
and crying that she only grieved for me. In another moment wooden colonnade before the door (not very unlike that be-
she suppressed this emotion; and said with an aspect more fore the house where the little man and woman used to live,
triumphant than dejected: in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dick mightily.
‘We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to The glory of lodging over this structure would have com-
frighten us, my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We pensated him, I dare say, for many inconveniences; but, as
must live misfortune down, Trot!’ there were really few to bear, beyond the compound of fla-
vours I have already mentioned, and perhaps the want of a
little more elbow-room, he was perfectly charmed with his
accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him
that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick
justly observed to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed,
nursing his leg, ‘You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing
a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that sig-

nify to ME!’ Memorial -’
I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any under- ‘To be sure there is,’ said I. ‘But all we can do just now, Mr.
standing of the causes of this sudden and great change in Dick, is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt
my aunt’s affairs. As I might have expected, he had none at see that we are thinking about it.’
all. The only account he could give of it was, that my aunt He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and im-
had said to him, the day before yesterday, ‘Now, Dick, are plored me, if I should see him wandering an inch out of the
you really and truly the philosopher I take you for?’ That right course, to recall him by some of those superior meth-
then he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then my aunt had ods which were always at my command. But I regret to state
said, ‘Dick, I am ruined.’ That then he had said, ‘Oh, in- that the fright I had given him proved too much for his best
deed!’ That then my aunt had praised him highly, which he attempts at concealment. All the evening his eyes wandered
was glad of. And that then they had come to me, and had to my aunt’s face, with an expression of the most dismal ap-
had bottled porter and sandwiches on the road. prehension, as if he saw her growing thin on the spot. He
Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of was conscious of this, and put a constraint upon his head;
the bed, nursing his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes but his keeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes
wide open and a surprised smile, that I am sorry to say I like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at all. I
was provoked into explaining to him that ruin meant dis- saw him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a
tress, want, and starvation; but I was soon bitterly reproved small one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine;
for this harshness, by seeing his face turn pale, and tears and when my aunt insisted on his making his customary re-
course down his lengthened cheeks, while he fixed upon me past, I detected him in the act of pocketing fragments of his
a look of such unutterable woe, that it might have softened bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the purpose of reviv-
a far harder heart than mine. I took infinitely greater pains ing us with those savings, when we should have reached an
to cheer him up again than I had taken to depress him; and advanced stage of attenuation.
I soon understood (as I ought to have known at first) that My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of
he had been so confident, merely because of his faith in the mind, which was a lesson to all of us - to me, I am sure. She
wisest and most wonderful of women, and his unbounded was extremely gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadver-
reliance on my intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, tently called her by that name; and, strange as I knew she
he considered a match for any kind of disaster not abso- felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was to have my
lutely mortal. bed, and I was to lie in the sitting-room, to keep guard over
‘What can we do, Trotwood?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘There’s the her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in

case of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find some ‘Well, then, why DON’T you think so?’ said my aunt.
satisfaction in that circumstance. ‘Because you and I are very different people,’ I returned.
‘Trot, my dear,’ said my aunt, when she saw me making ‘Stuff and nonsense, Trot!’ replied my aunt.
preparations for compounding her usual night-draught, MY aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there
‘No!’ was very little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale
‘Nothing, aunt?’ with a tea-spoon, and soaking her strips of toast in it.
‘Not wine, my dear. Ale.’ ‘Trot,’ said she, ‘I don’t care for strange faces in general,
‘But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it but I rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!’
made of wine.’ ‘It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!’
‘Keep that, in case of sickness,’ said my aunt. ‘We mustn’t said I.
use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.’ ‘It’s a most extraordinary world,’ observed my aunt, rub-
I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My bing her nose; ‘how that woman ever got into it with that
aunt being resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it name, is unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy
was growing late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that oppor- to be born a Jackson, or something of that sort, one would
tunity of repairing to the chandler’s shop together. I parted think.’
from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his ‘Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,’ said I.
great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery. ‘I suppose not,’ returned my aunt, rather grudging the
My aunt was walking up and down the room when I admission; ‘but it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis
returned, crimping the borders of her nightcap with her now. That’s some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of
fingers. I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usu- you, Trot.’
al infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she was ‘There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,’
ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown said I.
turned back on her knees. ‘Nothing, I believe,’ returned my aunt. ‘Here, the poor
‘My dear,’ said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; ‘it’s fool has been begging and praying about handing over
a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.’ some of her money - because she has got too much of it. A
I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added: simpleton!’
‘Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, My aunt’s tears of pleasure were positively trickling
we are well off.’ down into the warm ale.
‘I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,’ said I. ‘She’s the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,’

said my aunt. ‘I knew, from the first moment when I saw her ‘Ah! And not silly?’ said my aunt.
with that poor dear blessed baby of a mother of yours, that ‘Silly, aunt!’
she was the most ridiculous of mortals. But there are good I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for
points in Barkis!’ a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I re-
Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her sented the idea, of course; but I was in a manner struck by it,
hand to her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed as a new one altogether.
her toast and her discourse together. ‘Not light-headed?’ said my aunt.
‘Ah! Mercy upon us!’ sighed my aunt. ‘I know all about it, ‘Light-headed, aunt!’ I could only repeat this daring
Trot! Barkis and myself had quite a gossip while you were speculation with the same kind of feeling with which I had
out with Dick. I know all about it. I don’t know where these repeated the preceding question.
wretched girls expect to go to, for my part. I wonder they ‘Well, well!’ said my aunt. ‘I only ask. I don’t depreciate
don’t knock out their brains against - against mantelpieces,’ her. Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed
said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her for one another, and are to go through a party-supper-table
by her contemplation of mine. kind of life, like two pretty pieces of confectionery, do you,
‘Poor Emily!’ said I. Trot?’
‘Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,’ returned my aunt. ‘She She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air,
should have thought of that, before she caused so much half playful and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.
misery! Give me a kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early ex- ‘We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,’ I re-
perience.’ plied; ‘and I dare say we say and think a good deal that is
As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to de- rather foolish. But we love one another truly, I am sure. If I
tain me, and said: thought Dora could ever love anybody else, or cease to love
‘Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do me; or that I could ever love anybody else, or cease to love
you?’ her; I don’t know what I should do - go out of my mind, I
‘Fancy, aunt!’ I exclaimed, as red as I could be. ‘I adore think!’
her with my whole soul!’ ‘Ah, Trot!’ said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling
‘Dora, indeed!’ returned my aunt. ‘And you mean to say gravely; ‘blind, blind, blind!’
the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose?’ ‘Someone that I know, Trot,’ my aunt pursued, after
‘My dear aunt,’ I replied, ‘no one can form the least idea a pause, ‘though of a very pliant disposition, has an ear-
what she is!’ nestness of affection in him that reminds me of poor Baby.

Earnestness is what that Somebody must look for, to sus- have no money in my pocket, and to wear a shabby coat,
tain him and improve him, Trot. Deep, downright, faithful and to be able to carry Dora no little presents, and to ride
earnestness.’ no gallant greys, and to show myself in no agreeable light!
‘If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!’ I cried. Sordid and selfish as I knew it was, and as I tortured my-
‘Oh, Trot!’ she said again; ‘blind, blind!’ and without self by knowing that it was, to let my mind run on my own
knowing why, I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of some- distress so much, I was so devoted to Dora that I could not
thing overshadow me like a cloud. help it. I knew that it was base in me not to think more of
‘However,’ said my aunt, ‘I don’t want to put two young my aunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness was in-
creatures out of conceit with themselves, or to make them separable from Dora, and I could not put Dora on one side
unhappy; so, though it is a girl and boy attachment, and girl for any mortal creature. How exceedingly miserable I was,
and boy attachments very often - mind! I don’t say always! that night!
- come to nothing, still we’ll be serious about it, and hope for As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes,
a prosperous issue one of these days. There’s time enough but I seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of
for it to come to anything!’ going to sleep. Now I was ragged, wanting to sell Dora
This was not upon the whole very comforting to a raptur- matches, six bundles for a halfpenny; now I was at the of-
ous lover; but I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, fice in a nightgown and boots, remonstrated with by Mr.
and I was mindful of her being fatigued. So I thanked her Spenlow on appearing before the clients in that airy attire;
ardently for this mark of her affection, and for all her other now I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that fell from old
kindnesses towards me; and after a tender good night, she Tiffey’s daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St. Paul’s struck
took her nightcap into my bedroom. one; now I was hopelessly endeavouring to get a licence to
How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought marry Dora, having nothing but one of Uriah Heep’s gloves
and thought about my being poor, in Mr. Spenlow’s eyes; to offer in exchange, which the whole Commons rejected;
about my not being what I thought I was, when I proposed and still, more or less conscious of my own room, I was
to Dora; about the chivalrous necessity of telling Dora what always tossing about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-
my worldly condition was, and releasing her from her en- clothes.
gagement if she thought fit; about how I should contrive to My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her
live, during the long term of my articles, when I was earn- walking to and fro. Two or,three times in the course of the
ing nothing; about doing something to assist my aunt, and night, attired in a long flannel wrapper in which she looked
seeing no way of doing anything; about coming down to seven feet high, she appeared, like a disturbed ghost, in my

room, and came to the side of the sofa on which I lay. On step I ought to take was, to try if my articles could be can-
the first occasion I started up in alarm, to learn that she in- celled and the premium recovered. I got some breakfast on
ferred from a particular light in the sky, that Westminster the Heath, and walked back to Doctors’ Commons, along
Abbey was on fire; and to be consulted in reference to the the watered roads
probability of its igniting Buckingham Street, in case the and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers, grow-
wind changed. Lying still, after that, I found that she sat ing in gardens and carried into town on hucksters’ heads,
down near me, whispering to herself ‘Poor boy!’ And then intent on this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.
it made me twenty times more wretched, to know how un- I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an
selfishly mindful she was of me, and how selfishly mindful hour’s loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who
I was of myself. was always first, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in
It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could my shady corner, looking up at the sunlight on the opposite
be short to anybody else. This consideration set me think- chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow
ing and thinking of an imaginary party where people were came in, crisp and curly.
dancing the hours away, until that became a dream too, and ‘How are you, Copperfield?’ said he. ‘Fine morning!’
I heard the music incessantly playing one tune, and saw ‘Beautiful morning, sir,’ said I. ‘Could I say a word to you
Dora incessantly dancing one dance, without taking the before you go into Court?’
least notice of me. The man who had been playing the harp ‘By all means,’ said he. ‘Come into my room.’
all night, was trying in vain to cover it with an ordinary- I followed him into his room, and he began putting on
sized nightcap, when I awoke; or I should rather say, when his gown, and touching himself up before a little glass he
I left off trying to go to sleep, and saw the sun shining in had, hanging inside a closet door.
through the window at last. ‘I am sorry to say,’ said I, ‘that I have some rather dis-
There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bot- heartening intelligence from my aunt.’
tom of one of the streets out of the Strand - it may be there ‘No!’ said he. ‘Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?’
still - in which I have had many a cold plunge. Dressing ‘It has no reference to her health, sir,’ I replied. ‘She has
myself as quietly as I could, and leaving Peggotty to look met with some large losses. In fact, she has very little left,
after my aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it, and then indeed.’
went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk ‘You as-tound me, Copperfield!’ cried Mr. Spenlow.
treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think it did I shook my head. ‘Indeed, sir,’ said I, ‘her affairs are
them good, for I soon came to the conclusion that the first so changed, that I wished to ask you whether it would be

possible - at a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the forbid, Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘that I should do any man
premium, of course,’ I put in this, on the spur of the moan injustice: still less, Mr. jorkins. But I know my partner,
ment, warned by the blank expression of his face - ‘to cancel Copperfield. Mr. jorkins is not a man to respond to a propo-
my articles?’ sition of this peculiar nature. Mr. jorkins is very difficult to
What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It move from the beaten track. You know what he is!’
was like asking, as a favour, to be sentenced to transporta- I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had
tion from Dora. originally been alone in the business, and now lived by
‘To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?’ himself in a house near Montagu Square, which was fear-
I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not fully in want of painting; that he came very late of a day, and
know where my means of subsistence were to come from, went away very early; that he never appeared to be consult-
unless I could earn them for myself. I had no fear for the ed about anything; and that he had a dingy little black-hole
future, I said - and I laid great emphasis on that, as if to im- of his own upstairs, where no business was ever done, and
ply that I should still be decidedly eligible for a son-in-law where there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his
one of these days - but, for the present, I was thrown upon desk, unsoiled by ink, and reported to be twenty years of
my own resources. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear this, Cop- age.
perfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘Extremely sorry. It is not usual ‘Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?’ I
to cancel articles for any such reason. It is not a professional asked.
course of proceeding. It is not a convenient precedent at all. ‘By no means,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘But I have some expe-
Far from it. At the same time -’ rience of Mr. jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise,
‘You are very good, sir,’ I murmured, anticipating a con- for I should be happy to meet your views in any respect. I
cession. cannot have the objection to your mentioning it to Mr. jor-
‘Not at all. Don’t mention it,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘At the kins, Copperfield, if you think it worth while.’
same time, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have Availing myself of this permission, which was given with
my hands unfettered - if I had not a partner - Mr. Jorkins -’ a warm shake of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and
My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another looking at the sunlight stealing from the chimney-pots
effort. down the wall of the opposite house, until Mr. jorkins
‘Do you think, sir,’ said I, ‘if I were to mention it to Mr. came. I then went up to Mr. jorkins’s room, and evidently
Jorkins -’ astonished Mr. jorkins very much by making my appear-
Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. ‘Heaven ance there.

‘Come in, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. jorkins. ‘Come in!’ ‘Oh! Personally!’ repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient
I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. jorkins manner. ‘I assure you there’s an objection, Mr. Copperfield.
pretty much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins Hopeless! What you wish to be done, can’t be done. I - I real-
was not by any means the awful creature one might have ly have got an appointment at the Bank.’ With that he fairly
expected, but a large, mild, smooth-faced man of sixty, who ran away; and to the best of my knowledge, it was three days
took so much snuff that there was a tradition in the Com- before he showed himself in the Commons again.
mons that he lived principally on that stimulant, having Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited
little room in his system for any other article of diet. until Mr. Spenlow came in, and then described what had
‘You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?’ passed; giving him to understand that I was not hopeless of
said Mr. jorkins; when he had heard me, very restlessly, to his being able to soften the adamantine jorkins, if he would
an end. undertake the task.
I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had in- ‘Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Spenlow, with a gracious
troduced his name. smile, ‘you have not known my partner, Mr. jorkins, as long
‘He said I should object?’ asked Mr. jorkins. as I have. Nothing is farther from my thoughts than to at-
I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered tribute any degree of artifice to Mr. jorkins. But Mr. jorkins
it probable. has a way of stating his objections which often deceives peo-
‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can’t advance your ple. No, Copperfield!’ shaking his head. ‘Mr. jorkins is not
object,’ said Mr. jorkins, nervously. ‘The fact is - but I have to be moved, believe me!’
an appointment at the Bank, if you’ll have the goodness to I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and
excuse me.’ Mr. jorkins, as to which of them really was the objecting
With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of partner; but I saw with sufficient clearness that there was
the room, when I made bold to say that I feared, then, there obduracy somewhere in the firm, and that the recovery of
was no way of arranging the matter? my aunt’s thousand pounds was out of the question. In a
‘No!’ said Mr. jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his state of despondency, which I remember with anything but
head. ‘Oh, no! I object, you know,’ which he said very rap- satisfaction, for I know it still had too much reference to
idly, and went out. ‘You must be aware, Mr. Copperfield,’ he myself (though always in connexion with Dora), I left the
added, looking restlessly in at the door again, ‘if Mr. Spen- office, and went homeward.
low objects -’ I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and
‘Personally, he does not object, sir,’ said I. to present to myself the arrangements we should have to

make for the future in their sternest aspect, when a hack- had fallen into adversity, and was leaving Dover for good,
ney-chariot coming after me, and stopping at my very feet, but had quite made up her mind to it, and was so well that
occasioned me to look up. A fair hand was stretched forth nobody need be uncomfortable about her. Agnes had come
to me from the window; and the face I had never seen with- to London to see my aunt, between whom and herself there
out a feeling of serenity and happiness, from the moment had been a mutual liking these many years: indeed, it dated
when it first turned back on the old oak staircase with the from the time of my taking up my residence in Mr. Wick-
great broad balustrade, and when I associated its softened field’s house. She was not alone, she said. Her papa was with
beauty with the stained-glass window in the church, was her - and Uriah Heep.
smiling on me. ‘And now they are partners,’ said I. ‘Confound him!’
‘Agnes!’ I joyfully exclaimed. ‘Oh, my dear Agnes, of all ‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘They have some business here; and I
people in the world, what a pleasure to see you!’ took advantage of their coming, to come too. You must not
‘Is it, indeed?’ she said, in her cordial voice. think my visit all friendly and disinterested, Trotwood, for
‘I want to talk to you so much!’ said I. ‘It’s such a lighten- - I am afraid I may be cruelly prejudiced - I do not like to let
ing of my heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror’s papa go away alone, with him.’ ‘Does he exercise the same
cap, there is no one I should have wished for but you!’ influence over Mr. Wickfield still, Agnes?’
‘What?’ returned Agnes. Agnes shook her head. ‘There is such a change at home,’
‘Well! perhaps Dora first,’ I admitted, with a blush. said she, ‘that you would scarcely know the dear old house.
‘Certainly, Dora first, I hope,’ said Agnes, laughing. They live with us now.’
‘But you next!’ said I. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘They?’ said I.
She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day be- ‘Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,’
ing very fine, she was glad to come out of the chariot, which said Agnes, looking up into my face.
smelt (I had my head in it all this time) like a stable put un- ‘I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,’ said I. ‘He
der a cucumber-frame. I dismissed the coachman, and she wouldn’t sleep there long.’
took my arm, and we walked on together. She was like Hope ‘I keep my own little room,’ said Agnes, ‘where I used to
embodied, to me. How different I felt in one short minute, learn my lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The
having Agnes at my side! little panelled room that opens from the drawing-room?’
My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes - ‘Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time,
very little longer than a Bank note - to which her epistolary coming out at the door, with your quaint little basket of
efforts were usually limited. She had stated therein that she keys hanging at your side?’

‘It is just the same,’ said Agnes, smiling. ‘I am glad you We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement.
think of it so pleasantly. We were very happy.’ A difference of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs.
‘We were, indeed,’ said I. Crupp, on an abstract question (the propriety of chambers
‘I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always des- being inhabited by the gentler sex); and my aunt, utterly in-
ert Mrs. Heep, you know. And so,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘I different to spasms on the part of Mrs. Crupp, had cut the
feel obliged to bear her company, when I might prefer to dispute short, by informing that lady that she smelt of my
be alone. But I have no other reason to complain of her. If brandy, and that she would trouble her to walk out. Both
she tires me, sometimes, by her praises of her son, it is only of these expressions Mrs. Crupp considered actionable, and
natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her.’ had expressed her intention of bringing before a ‘British
I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without Judy’ - meaning, it was supposed, the bulwark of our na-
detecting in her any consciousness of Uriah’s design. Her tional liberties.
mild but earnest eyes met mine with their own beautiful MY aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peg-
frankness, and there was no change in her gentle face. gotty was out showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse
‘The chief evil of their presence in the house,’ said Agnes, Guards - and being, besides, greatly pleased to see Agnes
‘is that I cannot be as near papa as I could wish - Uriah Heep - rather plumed herself on the affair than otherwise, and
being so much between us - and cannot watch over him, if received us with unimpaired good humour. When Agnes
that is not too bold a thing to say, as closely as I would. But if laid her bonnet on the table, and sat down beside her, I
any fraud or treachery is practising against him, I hope that could not but think, looking on her mild eyes and her radi-
simple love and truth will be strong in the end. I hope that ant forehead, how natural it seemed to have her there; how
real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or trustfully, although she was so young and inexperienced,
misfortune in the world.’ my aunt confided in her; how strong she was, indeed, in
A certain bright smile, which I never saw on any other simple love and truth.
face, died away, even while I thought how good it was, and We began to talk about my aunt’s losses, and I told them
how familiar it had once been to me; and she asked me, with what I had tried to do that morning.
a quick change of expression (we were drawing very near ‘Which was injudicious, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘but well
my street), if I knew how the reverse in my aunt’s circum- meant. You are a generous boy - I suppose I must say, young
stances had been brought about. On my replying no, she man, now - and I am proud of you, my dear. So far, so good.
had not told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and I fan- Now, Trot and Agnes, let us look the case of Betsey Trot-
cied I felt her arm tremble in mine. wood in the face, and see how it stands.’

I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively said, soonest mended!’
at my aunt. My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fix-
at Agnes. ing her eyes with a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour
‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, who had always kept her was gradually returning.
money matters to herself. ‘- I don’t mean your sister, Trot, ‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.
my dear, but myself - had a certain property. It don’t mat- ‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt. ‘If there had been
ter how much; enough to live on. More; for she had saved a more money to lose, it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say.
little, and added to it. Betsey funded her property for some Betsey would have contrived to throw that after the rest,
time, and then, by the advice of her man of business, laid and make another chapter, I have little doubt. But there was
it out on landed security. That did very well, and returned no more money, and there’s no more story.’
very good interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her
Betsey as if she was a man-of-war. Well! Then, Betsey had colour still came and went, but she breathed more free-
to look about her, for a new investment. She thought she ly. I thought I knew why. I thought she had had some fear
was wiser, now, than her man of business, who was not such that her unhappy father might be in some way to blame for
a good man of business by this time, as he used to be - I what had happened. My aunt took her hand in hers, and
am alluding to your father, Agnes - and she took it into her laughed.
head to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,’ said my ‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, ex-
aunt, ‘to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned cept, ‘And she lived happy ever afterwards.’ Perhaps I may
out to be. First, she lost in the mining way, and then she lost add that of Betsey yet, one of these days. Now, Agnes, you
in the diving way - fishing up treasure, or some such Tom have a wise head. So have you, Trot, in some things, though
Tiddler nonsense,’ explained my aunt, rubbing her nose; I can’t compliment you always’; and here my aunt shook her
‘and then she lost in the mining way again, and, last of all, own at me, with an energy peculiar to herself. ‘What’s to be
to set the thing entirely to rights, she lost in the banking done? Here’s the cottage, taking one time with another, will
way. I don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for a lit- produce say seventy pounds a year. I think we may safely
tle while,’ said my aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it, I put it down at that. Well! - That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt;
believe; but the Bank was at the other end of the world, and with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses,
tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow, it fell to piec- to stop very short when she appeared to be in a fair way of
es, and never will and never can pay sixpence; and Betsey’s going on for a long while.
sixpences were all there, and there’s an end of them. Least ‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick. He’s good

for a hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended gaged after four or five o’clock, and I have time early in the
on himself. I would sooner send him away, though I know morning. In one way and another,’ said I, conscious of red-
I am the only person who appreciates him, than have him, dening a little as I thought of the hours and hours I had
and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and I do devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon the
best, upon our means? What do you say, Agnes?’ Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’
‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’ ‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me,
‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, and speaking in a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful
alarmed; ‘or go to sea? I won’t hear of it. You are to be a consideration that I hear it now, ‘the duties of a secretary.’
proctor. We’re not going to have any knockings on the head ‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’
in THIS family, if you please, sir.’ ‘Because,’ continued Agnes, ‘Doctor Strong has acted on
I was about to explain that I was not desirous of intro- his intention of retiring, and has come to live in London;
ducing that mode of provision into the family, when Agnes and he asked papa, I know, if he could recommend him one.
inquired if my rooms were held for any long term? Don’t you think he would rather have his favourite old pupil
‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt. ‘They are near him, than anybody else?’
not to be got rid of, for six months at least, unless they could ‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you! You
be underlet, and that I don’t believe. The last man died here. are always my good angel. I told you so. I never think of you
Five people out of six would die - of course - of that woman in any other light.’
in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. I have a little ready Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good
money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can do, is, to Angel (meaning Dora) was enough; and went on to remind
live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’ me that the Doctor had been used to occupy himself in his
I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt study, early in the morning, and in the evening - and that
would sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla probably my leisure would suit his requirements very well.
warfare with Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning
summarily by declaring that, on the first demonstration of my own bread, than with the hope of earning it under my
hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat
whole remainder of her natural life. down and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object,
‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, diffidently, and appointing to call on him next day at ten in the fore-
‘that if you had time -’ noon. This I addressed to Highgate - for in that place, so
‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disen- memorable to me, he lived - and went and posted, myself,

without losing a minute. heard from Agnes, but his appearance shocked me.
Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noise- It was not that he looked many years older, though still
less presence seemed inseparable from the place. When I dressed with the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there
came back, I found my aunt’s birds hanging, just as they was an unwholesome ruddiness upon his face; or that his
had hung so long in the parlour window of the cottage; and eyes were full and bloodshot; or that there was a nervous
my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easier chair in its trembling in his hand, the cause of which I knew, and had
position at the open window; and even the round green fan, for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost his
which my aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to good looks, or his old bearing of a gentleman - for that he
the window-sill. I knew who had done all this, by its seem- had not - but the thing that struck me most, was, that with
ing to have quietly done itself; and I should have known in the evidences of his native superiority still upon him, he
a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the old should submit himself to that crawling impersonation of
order of my school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the two natures, in
miles away, instead of seeing her busy with them, and smil- their relative positions, Uriah’s of power and Mr. Wick-
ing at the disorder into which they had fallen. field’s of dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I
My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames can express. If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man,
(it really did look very well with the sun upon it, though I should hardly have thought it a more degrading spectacle.
not like the sea before the cottage), but she could not relent He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When
towards the London smoke, which, she said, ‘peppered ev- he came in, he stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he
erything’. A complete revolution, in which Peggotty bore felt it. This was only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to
a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of him, ‘Papa! Here is Miss Trotwood - and Trotwood, whom
my rooms, in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on, you have not seen for a long while!’ and then he approached,
thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do with a good and constrainedly gave my aunt his hand, and shook hands
deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did without any bustle more cordially with me. In the moment’s pause I speak of, I
at all, when a knock came at the door. saw Uriah’s countenance form itself into a most ill-favoured
‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa. He prom- smile. Agnes saw it too, I think, for she shrank from him.
ised me that he would come.’ What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of
I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, physiognomy to have made out, without her own consent. I
but Uriah Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. believe there never was anybody with such an imperturb-
I was prepared for a great change in him, after what I had able countenance when she chose. Her face might have

been a dead-wall on the occasion in question, for any light Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way,
it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence with her but standing at a good distance from me, and lifting my
usual abruptness. hand up and down like a pump handle, that he was a little
‘Well, Wickfield!’ said my aunt; and he looked up at her afraid of.
for the first time. ‘I have been telling your daughter how ‘And how do you think we are looking, Master Copper-
well I have been disposing of my money for myself, because field, - I should say, Mister?’ fawned Uriah. ‘Don’t you find
I couldn’t trust it to you, as you were growing rusty in busi- Mr. Wickfield blooming, sir? Years don’t tell much in our
ness matters. We have been taking counsel together, and firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising up the umble,
getting on very well, all things considered. Agnes is worth namely, mother and self - and in developing,’ he added, as
the whole firm, in my opinion.’ an afterthought, ‘the beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes.’
‘If I may umbly make the remark,’ said Uriah Heep, with He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such
a writhe, ‘I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and an intolerable manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking
should be only too appy if Miss Agnes was a partner.’ straight at him, lost all patience.
‘You’re a partner yourself, you know,’ returned my aunt, ‘Deuce take the man!’ said my aunt, sternly, ‘what’s he
‘and that’s about enough for you, I expect. How do you find about? Don’t be galvanic, sir!’
yourself, sir?’ ‘I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,’ returned Uriah; ‘I’m
In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him aware you’re nervous.’
with extraordinary curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably ‘Go along with you, sir!’ said my aunt, anything but ap-
clutching the blue bag he carried, replied that he was pretty peased. ‘Don’t presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If
well, he thanked my aunt, and hoped she was the same. you’re an eel, sir, conduct yourself like one. If you’re a man,
‘And you, Master - I should say, Mister Copperfield,’ control your limbs, sir! Good God!’ said my aunt, with great
pursued Uriah. ‘I hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see indignation, ‘I am not going to be serpentined and cork-
you, Mister Copperfield, even under present circumstanc- screwed out of my senses!’
es.’ I believed that; for he seemed to relish them very much. Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have
‘Present circumstances is not what your friends would wish been, by this explosion; which derived great additional
for you, Mister Copperfield, but it isn’t money makes the force from the indignant manner in which my aunt after-
man: it’s - I am really unequal with my umble powers to wards moved in her chair, and shook her head as if she were
express what it is,’ said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, ‘but it making snaps or bounces at him. But he said to me aside in
isn’t money!’ a meek voice:

‘I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, ing, if that worthy had not anticipated him.
though an excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think ‘I am bespoke myself,’ said Uriah, ‘on business; otherwise
I had the pleasure of knowing her, when I was a numble I should have been appy to have kept with my friends. But
clerk, before you did, Master Copperfield), and it’s only nat- I leave my partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever
ural, I am sure, that it should be made quicker by present yours! I wish you good-day, Master Copperfield, and leave
circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn’t much worse! I my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood.’
only called to say that if there was anything we could do, With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and
in present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield and leering at us like a mask.
Heep, -we should be really glad. I may go so far?’ said Uriah, We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury
with a sickly smile at his partner. days, an hour or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon be-
‘Uriah Heep,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous came more like his former self; though there was a settled
forced way, ‘is active in the business, Trotwood. What he depression upon him, which he never shook off. For all that,
says, I quite concur in. You know I had an old interest in he brightened; and had an evident pleasure in hearing us
you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite concur in!’ recall the little incidents of our old life, many of which he
‘Oh, what a reward it is,’ said Uriah, drawing up one leg, remembered very well. He said it was like those times, to be
at the risk of bringing down upon himself another visita- alone with Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaven
tion from my aunt, ‘to be so trusted in! But I hope I am able they had never changed. I am sure there was an influence in
to do something to relieve him from the fatigues of busi- the placid face of Agnes, and in the very touch of her hand
ness, Master Copperfield!’ upon his arm, that did wonders for him.
‘Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peg-
the same dull voice. ‘It’s a load off my mind, Trotwood, to gotty, in the inner room) would not accompany us to the
have such a partner.’ place where they were staying, but insisted on my going;
The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him and I went. We dined together. After dinner, Agnes sat be-
to me in the light he had indicated on the night when he side him, as of old, and poured out his wine. He took what
poisoned my rest. I saw the same ill-favoured smile upon she gave him, and no more - like a child - and we all three
his face again, and saw how he watched me. sat together at a window as the evening gathered in. When
‘You are not going, papa?’ said Agnes, anxiously. ‘Will it was almost dark, he lay down on a sofa, Agnes pillowing
you not walk back with Trotwood and me?’ his head and bending over him a little while; and when she
He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before reply- came back to the window, it was not so dark but I could see

tears glittering in her eyes.
I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her CHAPTER 36
love and truth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must
be drawing near the end, and then I would desire to remem-
ber her best! She filled my heart with such good resolutions,
strengthened my weakness so, by her example, so directed ENTHUSIASM
- I know not how, she was too modest and gentle to advise
me in many words - the wandering ardour and unsettled
purpose within me, that all the little good I have done, and
all the harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer
to her.
And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window
I began the next day with another dive into the Roman
bath, and then started for Highgate. I was not dispirited
now. I was not afraid of the shabby coat, and had no yearn-
in the dark; listened to my praises of her; praised again; and ings after gallant greys. My whole manner of thinking of
round the little fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own our late misfortune was changed. What I had to do, was, to
pure light, that made it yet more precious and more inno- show my aunt that her past goodness to me had not been
cent to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood, if I had known thrown away on an insensible, ungrateful object. What I
then, what I knew long afterwards! - had to do, was, to turn the painful discipline of my younger
There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and days to account, by going to work with a resolute and steady
as I turned my head towards the window, thinking of her heart. What I had to do, was, to take my woodman’s axe in
calm seraphic eyes, he made me start by muttering, as if he my hand, and clear my own way through the forest of dif-
were an echo of the morning: ‘Blind! Blind! Blind!’ ficulty, by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And
I went on at a mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking.
When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road,
pursuing such a different errand from that old one of plea-
sure, with which it was associated, it seemed as if a complete
change had come on my whole life. But that did not dis-
courage me. With the new life, came new purpose, new
intention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward. Dora
was the reward, and Dora must be won.

I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat gave me the idea of some fierce thing, that was dragging the
was not a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at length of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and wear-
those trees in the forest of difficulty, under circumstances ing its heart out.
that should prove my strength. I had a good mind to ask an I came softly away from my place of observation, and
old man, in wire spectacles, who was breaking stones upon avoiding that part of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had
the road, to lend me his hammer for a little while, and let not gone near it, strolled about until it was ten o’clock. The
me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite. I stimulated church with the slender spire, that stands on the top of the
myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that I felt hill now, was not there then to tell me the time. An old red-
as if I had been earning I don’t know how much. brick mansion, used as a school, was in its place; and a fine
In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, old house it must have been to go to school at, as I recol-
and examined it narrowly, - for I felt it necessary to be prac- lect it.
tical. It would do for me and Dora admirably: with a little When I approached the Doctor’s cottage - a pretty old
front garden for Jip to run about in, and bark at the trades- place, on which he seemed to have expended some money,
people through the railings, and a capital room upstairs if I might judge from the embellishments and repairs that
for my aunt. I came out again, hotter and faster than ever, had the look of being just completed - I saw him walking in
and dashed up to Highgate, at such a rate that I was there the garden at the side, gaiters and all, as if he had never left
an hour too early; and, though I had not been, should have off walking since the days of my pupilage. He had his old
been obliged to stroll about to cool myself, before I was at companions about him, too; for there were plenty of high
all presentable. trees in the neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were
My first care, after putting myself under this necessary on the grass, looking after him, as if they had been written
course of preparation, was to find the Doctor’s house. It was to about him by the Canterbury rooks, and were observing
not in that part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but him closely in consequence.
quite on the opposite side of the little town. When I had Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his atten-
made this discovery, I went back, in an attraction I could tion from that distance, I made bold to open the gate, and
not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth’s, and looked over walk after him, so as to meet him when he should turn
the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close. round. When he did, and came towards me, he looked at me
The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dar- thoughtfully for a few moments, evidently without think-
tle was walking, bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous step, ing about me at all; and then his benevolent face expressed
up and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both hands.

‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said the Doctor, ‘you are a sure; but don’t you think you could do better? You achieved
man! How do you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear distinction, you know, when you were with us. You are
Copperfield, how very much you have improved! You are qualified for many good things. You have laid a founda-
quite - yes - dear me!’ tion that any edifice may be raised upon; and is it not a pity
I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too. that you should devote the spring-time of your life to such a
‘Oh dear, yes!’ said the Doctor; ‘Annie’s quite well, and poor pursuit as I can offer?’
she’ll be delighted to see you. You were always her favou- I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in
rite. She said so, last night, when I showed her your letter. a rhapsodical style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly;
And - yes, to be sure - you recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Cop- reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession.
perfield?’ ‘Well, well,’ said the Doctor, ‘that’s true. Certainly, your
‘Perfectly, sir.’ having a profession, and being actually engaged in studying
‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘To be sure. He’s pretty well, it, makes a difference. But, my good young friend, what’s
too.’ seventy pounds a year?’
‘Has he come home, sir?’ I inquired. ‘It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,’ said I.
‘From India?’ said the Doctor. ‘Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon ‘Dear me!’ replied the Doctor. ‘To think of that! Not that I
couldn’t bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham - you mean to say it’s rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, be-
have not forgotten Mrs. Markleham?’ cause I have always contemplated making any young friend
Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time! I might thus employ, a present too. Undoubtedly,’ said the
‘Mrs. Markleham,’ said the Doctor, ‘was quite vexed Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand on my
about him, poor thing; so we have got him at home again; shoulder. ‘I have always taken an annual present into ac-
and we have bought him a little Patent place, which agrees count.’
with him much better.’ I knew enough of Mr. Jack Maldon ‘My dear tutor,’ said I (now, really, without any nonsense),
to suspect from this account that it was a place where there ‘to whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can ac-
was not much to do, and which was pretty well paid. The knowledge -’
Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my shoul- ‘No, no,’ interposed the Doctor. ‘Pardon me!’
der, and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went ‘If you will take such time as I have, and that is my morn-
on: ings and evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a
‘Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this propos- year, you will do me such a service as I cannot express.’
al of yours. It’s very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am ‘Dear me!’ said the Doctor, innocently. ‘To think that so

little should go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can I found Mr. Jack Maldon’s efforts more troublesome to me
do better, you will? On your word, now?’ said the Doctor, than I had expected, as he had not confined himself to mak-
- which he had always made a very grave appeal to the hon- ing numerous mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers,
our of us boys. and ladies’ heads, over the Doctor’s manuscript, that I often
‘On my word, sir!’ I returned, answering in our old school became involved in labyrinths of obscurity.
manner. The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our go-
‘Then be it so,’ said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoul- ing to work together on that wonderful performance, and
der, and still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up we settled to begin next morning at seven o’clock. We were
and down. to work two hours every morning, and two or three hours
‘And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,’ said I, with a every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On
little - I hope innocent - flattery, ‘if my employment is to be Sundays, of course, I was to rest also, and I considered these
on the Dictionary.’ very easy terms.
The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoul- Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfac-
der again, and exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful tion, the Doctor took me into the house to present me to
to behold, as if I had penetrated to the profoundest depths Mrs. Strong, whom we found in the Doctor’s new study,
of mortal sagacity, ‘My dear young friend, you have hit it. It dusting his books, - a freedom which he never permitted
IS the Dictionary!’ anybody else to take with those sacred favourites.
How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and
of it as his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. we sat down to table together. We had not been seated long,
He told me that since his retirement from scholastic life, he when I saw an approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong’s face,
had been advancing with it wonderfully; and that nothing before I heard any sound of it. A gentleman on horseback
could suit him better than the proposed arrangements for came to the gate, and leading his horse into the little court,
morning and evening work, as it was his custom to walk with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home, tied
about in the daytime with his considering cap on. His pa- him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into
pers were in a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. Jack the breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Mal-
Maldon having lately proffered his occasional services as an don; and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by India,
amanuensis, and not being accustomed to that occupation; I thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue, however, as
but we should soon put right what was amiss, and go on to young men who were not cutting down trees in the for-
swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our work, est of difficulty; and my impression must be received with

due allowance. not tend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my confi-
‘Mr. Jack!’ said the Doctor. ‘Copperfield!’ dence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.
Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very ‘I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go
warmly, I believed; and with an air of languid patronage, to the opera tonight,’ said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. ‘It’s
at which I secretly took great umbrage. But his languor the last good night there will be, this season; and there’s a
altogether was quite a wonderful sight; except when he ad- singer there, whom she really ought to hear. She is perfectly
dressed himself to his cousin Annie. ‘Have you breakfasted exquisite. Besides which, she is so charmingly ugly,’ relaps-
this morning, Mr. Jack?’ said the Doctor. ing into languor.
‘I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,’ he replied, with his head The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please
thrown back in an easy-chair. ‘I find it bores me.’ his young wife, turned to her and said:
‘Is there any news today?’ inquired the Doctor. ‘You must go, Annie. You must go.’
‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Maldon. ‘There’s an ac- ‘I would rather not,’ she said to the Doctor. ‘I prefer to re-
count about the people being hungry and discontented main at home. I would much rather remain at home.’
down in the North, but they are always being hungry and Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me,
discontented somewhere.’ and asked me about Agnes, and whether she should see her,
The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished and whether she was not likely to come that day; and was so
to change the subject, ‘Then there’s no news at all; and no much disturbed, that I wondered how even the Doctor, but-
news, they say, is good news.’ tering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious.
‘There’s a long statement in the papers, sir, about a mur- But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that
der,’ observed Mr. Maldon. ‘But somebody is always being she was young and ought to be amused and entertained,
murdered, and I didn’t read it.’ and must not allow herself to be made dull by a dull old fel-
A display of indifference to all the actions and passions low. Moreover, he said, he wanted to hear her sing all the
of mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished new singer’s songs to him; and how could she do that well,
quality at that time, I think, as I have observed it to be unless she went? So the Doctor persisted in making the en-
considered since. I have known it very fashionable indeed. gagement for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to
I have seen it displayed with such success, that I have en- dinner. This concluded, he went to his Patent place, I sup-
countered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as pose; but at all events went away on his horse, looking very
well have been born caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed me idle.
the more then, because it was new to me, but it certainly did I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had

been. She had not, but had sent into London to put her cous- and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice, as be-
in off; and had gone out in the afternoon to see Agnes, and ing too luxurious for my stern career.
had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with her; and they had Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burn-
walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the evening ing with impatience to do something more, I went to see
being delightful. I wondered then, whether she would have Traddles, now lodging up behind the parapet of a house in
gone if Agnes had not been in town, and whether Agnes Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been with me to
had some good influence over her too! Highgate twice already, and had resumed his companion-
She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good ship with the Doctor, I took with me.
face, or a very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my
in the window all the time we were at work; and made our aunt’s reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave
breakfast, which we took by snatches as we were employed. or convict worked as I did, he had begun to fret and worry
When I left, at nine o’clock, she was kneeling on the ground himself out of spirits and appetite, as having nothing useful
at the Doctor’s feet, putting on his shoes and gaiters for him. to do. In this condition, he felt more incapable of finishing
There was a softened shade upon her face, thrown from the Memorial than ever; and the harder he worked at it, the
some green leaves overhanging the open window of the low oftener that unlucky head of King Charles the First got into
room; and I thought all the way to Doctors’ Commons, of it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would increase,
the night when I had seen it looking at him as he read. unless we put some innocent deception upon him and
I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and caused him to believe that he was useful, or unless we could
home at nine or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction put him in the way of being really useful (which would be
in being so closely engaged, and never walked slowly on better), I made up my mind to try if Traddles could help us.
any account, and felt enthusiastically that the more I tired Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full statement of all that
myself, the more I was doing to deserve Dora. I had not re- had happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital an-
vealed myself in my altered character to Dora yet, because swer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship.
she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and I de- We found him hard at work with his inkstand and pa-
ferred all I had to tell her until then; merely informing her pers, refreshed by the sight of the flower-pot stand and the
in my letters (all our communications were secretly for- little round table in a corner of the small apartment. He
warded through Miss Mills), that I had much to tell her. In received us cordially, and made friends with Mr. Dick in a
the meantime, I put myself on a short allowance of bear’s moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolute certainty of hav-
grease, wholly abandoned scented soap and lavender water, ing seen him before, and we both said, ‘Very likely.’

The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was enough to me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on
this, - I had heard that many men distinguished in various the carpet.
pursuits had begun life by reporting the debates in Parlia- ‘You see,’ said Mr. Dick, wistfully, ‘if I could exert myself,
ment. Traddles having mentioned newspapers to me, as one Mr. Traddles - if I could beat a drum- or blow anything!’
of his hopes, I had put the two things together, and told Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred
Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I could such an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles,
qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed who would not have smiled for the world, replied compos-
me, as the result of his inquiries, that the mere mechanical edly:
acquisition necessary, except in rare cases, for thorough ex- ‘But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so,
cellence in it, that is to say, a perfect and entire command of Copperfield?’ ‘Excellent!’ said I. And indeed he was. He
the mystery of short-hand writing and reading, was about wrote with extraordinary neatness.
equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages; and that ‘Don’t you think,’ said Traddles, ‘you could copy writ-
it might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the ings, sir, if I got them for you?’
course of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. ‘Eh, Trotwood?’
this would settle the business; but I, only feeling that here I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. ‘Tell
indeed were a few tall trees to be hewn down, immediately him about the Memorial,’ said Mr. Dick.
resolved to work my way on to Dora through this thicket, I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keep-
axe in hand. ing King Charles the First out of Mr. Dick’s manuscripts;
‘I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!’ said Mr. Dick in the meanwhile looking very deferentially and
I. ‘I’ll begin tomorrow.’ seriously at Traddles, and sucking his thumb.
Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had ‘But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already
no notion as yet of my rapturous condition. drawn up and finished,’ said Traddles after a little consid-
‘I’ll buy a book,’ said I, ‘with a good scheme of this art eration. ‘Mr. Dick has nothing to do with them. Wouldn’t
in it; I’ll work at it at the Commons, where I haven’t half that make a difference, Copperfield? At all events, wouldn’t
enough to do; I’ll take down the speeches in our court for it be well to try?’
practice - Traddles, my dear fellow, I’ll master it!’ This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads
‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, opening his eyes, ‘I had no idea together apart, while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from
you were such a determined character, Copperfield!’ his chair, we concocted a scheme in virtue of which we got
I don’t know how he should have had, for it was new him to work next day, with triumphant success.

On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we and me the most wonderful young man.
set out the work Traddles procured for him - which was to ‘No starving now, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, shaking
make, I forget how many copies of a legal document about hands with me in a corner. ‘I’ll provide for her, Sir!’ and
some right of way - and on another table we spread the last he flourished his ten fingers in the air, as if they were ten
unfinished original of the great Memorial. Our instruc- banks.
tions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what he I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or
had before him, without the least departure from the origi- I. ‘It really,’ said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of
nal; and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest his pocket, and giving it to me, ‘put Mr. Micawber quite out
allusion to King Charles the First, he should fly to the Me- of my head!’
morial. We exhorted him to be resolute in this, and left my The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible op-
aunt to observe him. My aunt reported to us, afterwards, portunity of writing a letter) was addressed to me, ‘By the
that, at first, he was like a man playing the kettle-drums, kindness of T. Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple.’ It
and constantly divided his attentions between the two; but ran thus: -
that, finding this confuse and fatigue him, and having his ‘MY DEAR COPPERFIELD,
copy there, plainly before his eyes, he soon sat at it in an ‘You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the
orderly business-like manner, and postponed the Memori- intimation that something has turned up. I may have men-
al to a more convenient time. In a word, although we took tioned to you on a former occasion that I was in expectation
great care that he should have no more to do than was good of such an event.
for him, and although he did not begin with the beginning ‘I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial
of a week, he earned by the following Saturday night ten towns of our favoured island (where the society may be de-
shillings and nine-pence; and never, while I live, shall I for- scribed as a happy admixture of the agricultural and the
get his going about to all the shops in the neighbourhood to clerical), in immediate connexion with one of the learned
change this treasure into sixpences, or his bringing them to professions. Mrs. Micawber and our offspring will accom-
my aunt arranged in the form of a heart upon a waiter, with pany me. Our ashes, at a future period, will probably be
tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He was like one under the found commingled in the cemetery attached to a venerable
propitious influence of a charm, from the moment of his be- pile, for which the spot to which I refer has acquired a repu-
ing usefully employed; and if there were a happy man in the tation, shall I say from China to Peru?
world, that Saturday night, it was the grateful creature who ‘In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have
thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in existence, undergone many vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Mi-

cawber and myself cannot disguise from our minds that ising boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject to that
we part, it may be for years and it may be for ever, with an restlessness of limb which is not an unfrequent phenom-
individual linked by strong associations to the altar of our enon in youths of his age. I also became once more known
domestic life. If, on the eve of such a departure, you will ac- to his sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr. Micawber told
company our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, to our us, ‘her mother renewed her youth, like the Phoenix’.
present abode, and there reciprocate the wishes natural to ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘yourself and
the occasion, you will confer a Boon Mr. Traddles find us on the brink of migration, and will ex-
cuse any little discomforts incidental to that position.’
‘On Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that
‘One the family effects were already packed, and that the amount
‘Who of luggage was by no means overwhelming. I congratulated
‘Is Mrs. Micawber on the approaching change.
‘Ever yours, ‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘of your
‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’ friendly interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My
family may consider it banishment, if they please; but I am
I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his a wife and mother, and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.’
dust and ashes, and that something really had turned up at Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber’s eye, feelingly
last. Learning from Traddles that the invitation referred to acquiesced.
the evening then wearing away, I expressed my readiness ‘That,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that, at least, is my view, my
to do honour to it; and we went off together to the lodging dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation
which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, and which which I took upon myself when I repeated the irrevocable
was situated near the top of the Gray’s Inn Road. words, ‘I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins.’ I read the service over
The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we with a flat-candle on the previous night, and the conclusion
found the twins, now some eight or nine years old, reposing I derived from it was, that I never could desert Mr. Micaw-
in a turn-up bedstead in the family sitting-room, where Mr. ber. And,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘though it is possible I may
Micawber had prepared, in a wash-hand-stand jug, what he be mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I never will!’
called ‘a Brew’ of the agreeable beverage for which he was ‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, ‘I am
famous. I had the pleasure, on this occasion, of renewing the not conscious that you are expected to do anything of the
acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom I found a prom- sort.’

‘I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pursued Mrs. Mi- Mrs. Micawber, have in a great measure conduced to this
cawber, ‘that I am now about to cast my lot among strangers; result. The gauntlet, to which Mrs. Micawber referred upon
and I am also aware that the various members of my family, a former occasion, being thrown down in the form of an ad-
to whom Mr. Micawber has written in the most gentlemanly vertisement, was taken up by my friend Heep, and led to a
terms, announcing that fact, have not taken the least notice mutual recognition. Of my friend Heep,’ said Mr. Micawber,
of Mr. Micawber’s communication. Indeed I may be super- ‘who is a man of remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speak
stitious,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘but it appears to me that Mr. with all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the
Micawber is destined never to receive any answers what- positive remuneration at too high a figure, but he has made
ever to the great majority of the communications he writes. a great deal, in the way of extrication from the pressure of
I may augur, from the silence of my family, that they object pecuniary difficulties, contingent on the value of my ser-
to the resolution I have taken; but I should not allow myself vices; and on the value of those services I pin my faith. Such
to be swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even address and intelligence as I chance to possess,’ said Mr.
by my papa and mama, were they still living.’ Micawber, boastfully disparaging himself, with the old gen-
I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right teel air, ‘will be devoted to my friend Heep’s service. I have
direction. ‘It may be a sacrifice,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘to already some acquaintance with the law - as a defendant on
immure one’s-self in a Cathedral town; but surely, Mr. Cop- civil process - and I shall immediately apply myself to the
perfield, if it is a sacrifice in me, it is much more a sacrifice Commentaries of one of the most eminent and remarkable
in a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities.’ of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to add that
‘Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?’ said I. I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.’
Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the These observations, and indeed the greater part of the
wash-hand-stand jug, replied: observations made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs.
‘To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have en- Micawber’s discovering that Master Micawber was sitting
tered into arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged on his boots, or holding his head on with both arms as if
and contracted to our friend Heep, to assist and serve him he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking Traddles under the
in the capacity of - and to be - his confidential clerk.’ table, or shuffling his feet over one another, or producing
I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my sur- them at distances from himself apparently outrageous to
prise. nature, or lying sideways with his hair among the wine-
‘I am bound to state to you,’ he said, with an official air, glasses, or developing his restlessness of limb in some other
‘that the business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of form incompatible with the general interests of society; and

by Master Micawber’s receiving those discoveries in a re- Traddles, mildly breaking the truth to her. ‘I mean the real
sentful spirit. I sat all the while, amazed by Mr. Micawber’s prosaic fact, you know -’
disclosure, and wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Mi- ‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘my dear Mr. Traddles, I
cawber resumed the thread of the discourse, and claimed wish to be as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of
my attention. so much importance.’
‘What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful ‘- Is,’ said Traddles, ‘that this branch of the law, even if
of, is,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that he does not, my dear Mr. Mr. Micawber were a regular solicitor -’
Copperfield, in applying himself to this subordinate branch ‘Exactly so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. (’Wilkins, you are
of the law, place it out of his power to rise, ultimately, to the squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.’)
top of the tree. I am convinced that Mr. Micawber, giving ‘- Has nothing,’ pursued Traddles, ‘to do with that. Only
his mind to a profession so adapted to his fertile resources, a barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micaw-
and his flow of language, must distinguish himself. Now, ber could not be a barrister, without being entered at an inn
for example, Mr. Traddles,’ said Mrs. Micawber, assuming of court as a student, for five years.’
a profound air, ‘a judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an ‘Do I follow you?’ said Mrs. Micawber, with her most
individual place himself beyond the pale of those prefer- affable air of business. ‘Do I understand, my dear Mr. Trad-
ments by entering on such an office as Mr. Micawber has dles, that, at the expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber
accepted?’ would be eligible as a Judge or Chancellor?’
‘My dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber - but glancing inquisi- ‘He would be ELIGIBLE,’ returned Traddles, with a
tively at Traddles, too; ‘we have time enough before us, for strong emphasis on that word.
the consideration of those questions.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘That is quite sufficient.
‘Micawber,’ she returned, ‘no! Your mistake in life is, If such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege
that you do not look forward far enough. You are bound, by entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,’
in justice to your family, if not to yourself, to take in at a said Mrs. Micawber, ‘as a female, necessarily; but I have al-
comprehensive glance the extremest point in the horizon to ways been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I
which your abilities may lead you.’ have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the judicial
Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field
of exceeding satisfaction - still glancing at Traddles, as if he where that mind will develop itself, and take a command-
desired to have his opinion. ing station.’
‘Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,’ said I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his

judicial mind’s eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand When we were nearly come to the last round of the
complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious punch, I addressed myself to Traddles, and reminded him
resignation: that we must not separate, without wishing our friends
‘My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If health, happiness, and success in their new career. I begged
I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, exter- Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast
nally,’ in allusion to his baldness, ‘for that distinction. I do in due form: shaking hands with him across the table, and
not,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘regret my hair, and I may have kissing Mrs. Micawber, to commemorate that eventful oc-
been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is casion. Traddles imitated me in the first particular, but did
my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for not consider himself a sufficiently old friend to venture on
the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his the second.
account, to attain to eminence.’ ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, rising with
‘For the Church?’ said I, still pondering, between whiles, one of his thumbs in each of his waistcoat pockets, ‘the
on Uriah Heep. companion of my youth: if I may be allowed the expression
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘He has a remarkable head- - and my esteemed friend Traddles: if I may be permitted to
voice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at call him so - will allow me, on the part of Mrs. Micawber,
Canterbury, and our local connexion, will, no doubt, enable myself, and our offspring, to thank them in the warmest
him to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the and most uncompromising terms for their good wishes.
Cathedral corps.’ It may be expected that on the eve of a migration which
On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had will consign us to a perfectly new existence,’ Mr. Micawber
a certain expression of face, as if his voice were behind his spoke as if they were going five hundred thousand miles, ‘I
eyebrows; where it presently appeared to be, on his singing should offer a few valedictory remarks to two such friends
us (as an alternative between that and bed) ‘The Wood-Peck- as I see before me. But all that I have to say in this way, I
er tapping’. After many compliments on this performance, have said. Whatever station in society I may attain, through
we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too full the medium of the learned profession of which I am about
of my desperate intentions to keep my altered circumstanc- to become an unworthy member, I shall endeavour not to
es to myself, I made them known to Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be safe to adorn. Under
I cannot express how extremely delighted they both were, the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities, contracted
by the idea of my aunt’s being in difficulties; and how com- with a view to their immediate liquidation, but remain-
fortable and friendly it made them. ing unliquidated through a combination of circumstances,

I have been under the necessity of assuming a garb from the pecuniary part of this obligation, would weigh upon my
which my natural instincts recoil - I allude to spectacles mind to an insupportable extent. I have, therefore, prepared
- and possessing myself of a cognomen, to which I can es- for my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now hold in my
tablish no legitimate pretensions. All I have to say on that hand, a document, which accomplishes the desired object.
score is, that the cloud has passed from the dreary scene, I beg to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles my I.O.U.
and the God of Day is once more high upon the mountain for forty-one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy to re-
tops. On Monday next, on the arrival of the four o’clock af- cover my moral dignity, and to know that I can once more
ternoon coach at Canterbury, my foot will be on my native walk erect before my fellow man!’
heath - my name, Micawber!’ With this introduction (which greatly affected him),
Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these re- Mr. Micawber placed his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles,
marks, and drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. and said he wished him well in every relation of life. I am
He then said with much solemnity: persuaded, not only that this was quite the same to Mr.
‘One thing more I have to do, before this separation is Micawber as paying the money, but that Traddles himself
complete, and that is to perform an act of justice. My friend hardly knew the difference until he had had time to think
Mr. Thomas Traddles has, on two several occasions, ‘put about it. Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellow
his name’, if I may use a common expression, to bills of ex- man, on the strength of this virtuous action, that his chest
change for my accommodation. On the first occasion Mr. looked half as broad again when he lighted us downstairs.
Thomas Traddles was left - let me say, in short, in the lurch. We parted with great heartiness on both sides; and when
The fulfilment of the second has not yet arrived. The amount I had seen Traddles to his own door, and was going home
of the first obligation,’ here Mr. Micawber carefully referred alone, I thought, among the other odd and contradictory
to papers, ‘was, I believe, twenty-three, four, nine and a half, things I mused upon, that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I
of the second, according to my entry of that transaction, was probably indebted to some compassionate recollection
eighteen, six, two. These sums, united, make a total, if my he retained of me as his boy-lodger, for never having been
calculation is correct, amounting to forty-one, ten, eleven asked by him for money. I certainly should not have had the
and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do me the moral courage to refuse it; and I have no doubt he knew that
favour to check that total?’ (to his credit be it written), quite as well as I did.
I did so and found it correct.
‘To leave this metropolis,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘and my
friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of

CHAPTER 37 Mrs. Crupp, by paying her off, throwing the first pitcher she
planted on the stairs out of window, and protecting in per-
son, up and down the staircase, a supernumerary whom
she engaged from the outer world. These vigorous measures
A LITTLE COLD WATER struck such terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that she sub-
sided into her own kitchen, under the impression that my
aunt was mad. My aunt being supremely indifferent to Mrs.
Crupp’s opinion and everybody else’s, and rather favour-
ing than discouraging the idea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the bold,
M y new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was
stronger than ever in those tremendous practical res-
olutions that I felt the crisis required. I continued to walk
became within a few days so faint-hearted, that rather than
encounter my aunt upon the staircase, she would endeavour
to hide her portly form behind doors - leaving visible, how-
extremely fast, and to have a general idea that I was getting ever, a wide margin of flannel petticoat - or would shrink
on. I made it a rule to take as much out of myself as I possi- into dark corners. This gave my aunt such unspeakable sat-
bly could, in my way of doing everything to which I applied isfaction, that I believe she took a delight in prowling up
my energies. I made a perfect victim of myself. I even en- and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the top of
tertained some idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet, her head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the
vaguely conceiving that, in becoming a graminivorous ani- way.
mal, I should sacrifice to Dora. My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made
As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desper- so many little improvements in our domestic arrangements,
ate firmness, otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed that I seemed to be richer instead of poorer. Among the rest,
it forth. But another Saturday came, and on that Saturday she converted the pantry into a dressing-room for me; and
evening she was to be at Miss Mills’s; and when Mr. Mills purchased and embellished a bedstead for my occupation,
had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed to me in the street, which looked as like a bookcase in the daytime as a bed-
by a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle window), I was stead could. I was the object of her constant solicitude; and
to go there to tea. my poor mother herself could not have loved me better, or
By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham studied more how to make me happy.
Street, where Mr. Dick continued his copying in a state of Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in be-
absolute felicity. My aunt had obtained a signal victory over ing allowed to participate in these labours; and, although

she still retained something of her old sentiment of awe I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave
in reference to my aunt, had received so many marks of Peggotty such delight that she went away in good spirits.
encouragement and confidence, that they were the best I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Com-
friends possible. But the time had now come (I am speak- mons all day, by a variety of devices, and at the appointed
ing of the Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills’s) time in the evening repaired to Mr. Mills’s street. Mr. Mills,
when it was necessary for her to return home, and enter on who was a terrible fellow to fall asleep after dinner, had not
the discharge of the duties she had undertaken in behalf of yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in the middle win-
Ham. ‘So good-bye, Barkis,’ said my aunt, ‘and take care of dow.
yourself! I am sure I never thought I could be sorry to lose He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the
you!’ Club would fine him for being late. At last he came out; and
I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She then I saw my own Dora hang up the bird-cage, and peep
cried at parting, and confided her brother to my friendship into the balcony to look for me, and run in again when she
as Ham had done. We had heard nothing of him since he saw I was there, while Jip remained behind, to bark injuri-
went away, that sunny afternoon. ously at an immense butcher’s dog in the street, who could
‘And now, my own dear Davy,’ said Peggotty, ‘if, while have taken him like a pill.
you’re a prentice, you should want any money to spend; or Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and
if, when you’re out of your time, my dear, you should want Jip came scrambling out, tumbling over his own growls, un-
any to set you up (and you must do one or other, or both, der the impression that I was a Bandit; and we all three went
my darling); who has such a good right to ask leave to lend in, as happy and loving as could be. I soon carried desola-
it you, as my sweet girl’s own old stupid me!’ tion into the bosom of our joys - not that I meant to do it,
I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in but that I was so full of the subject - by asking Dora, with-
reply, but that if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would out the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?
borrow it of her. Next to accepting a large sum on the spot, My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association
I believe this gave Peggotty more comfort than anything I with the word was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of
could have done. crutches, or a wooden leg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in
‘And, my dear!’ whispered Peggotty, ‘tell the pretty little his mouth, or something of that kind; and she stared at me
angel that I should so have liked to see her, only for a min- with the most delightful wonder.
ute! And tell her that before she marries my boy, I’ll come ‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora.
and make your house so beautiful for you, if you’ll let me!’ ‘Love a beggar!’

‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’ age such as none but lovers knew; how I had begun to be
‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slap- practical, and look into the future; how a crust well earned
ping my hand, ‘as to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to
Jip bite you!’ the same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passion-
Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world ate eloquence quite surprising to myself, though I had been
to me, but it was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly thinking about it, day and night, ever since my aunt had
repeated: astonished me.
‘Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!’ ‘Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?’ said I, rapturously,
‘I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!’ said Dora, shaking her for I knew by her clinging to me that it was.
curls, ‘if you are so ridiculous.’ ‘Oh, yes!’ cried Dora. ‘Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be
But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her dreadful!’
curls, and laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, I dreadful! To Dora!
and first looked scared and anxious, then began to cry. That ‘Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!’ said
was dreadful. I fell upon my knees before the sofa, caressing Dora, nestling closer to me. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’
her, and imploring her not to rend my heart; but, for some ‘My dearest love,’ said I, ‘the crust well-earned -’
time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear! Oh ‘Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!’
dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia said Dora. ‘And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at
Mills! And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! twelve, or he’ll die.’
until I was almost beside myself. I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fond-
At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I ly explained to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop
got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, with his accustomed regularity. I drew a picture of our fru-
which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her gal home, made independent by my labour - sketching in
soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine. Then I told her, the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my aunt in her
with my arms clasped round her, how I loved her, so dearly, room upstairs.
and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to release her from ‘I am not dreadful now, Dora?’ said I, tenderly.
her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never could ‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Dora. ‘But I hope your aunt will keep
bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of pov- in her own room a good deal. And I hope she’s not a scold-
erty, if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart ing old thing!’
inspired by her; how I was already working with a cour- If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever,

I am sure I did. But I felt she was a little impracticable. It her. ‘But, Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think, - not
damped my new-born ardour, to find that ardour so diffi- despondingly, you know; far from that! - but if you will
cult of communication to her. I made another trial. When sometimes think - just to encourage yourself - that you are
she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as he engaged to a poor man -’
lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said: ‘Don’t, don’t! Pray don’t!’ cried Dora. ‘It’s so very dread-
‘My own! May I mention something?’ ful!’
‘Oh, please don’t be practical!’ said Dora, coaxingly. ‘Be- ‘My soul, not at all!’ said I, cheerfully. ‘If you will some-
cause it frightens me so!’ times think of that, and look about now and then at your
‘Sweetheart!’ I returned; ‘there is nothing to alarm you in papa’s housekeeping, and endeavour to acquire a little habit
all this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I want to - of accounts, for instance -’
make it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora!’ Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something
‘Oh, but that’s so shocking!’ cried Dora. that was half a sob and half a scream.
‘My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will ‘- It would be so useful to us afterwards,’ I went on. ‘And
enable us to bear much worse things.’ ‘But I haven’t got any if you would promise me to read a little - a little Cookery
strength at all,’ said Dora, shaking her curls. ‘Have I, Jip? Book that I would send you, it would be so excellent for
Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable!’ both of us. For our path in life, my Dora,’ said I, warming
It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him with the subject, ‘is stony and rugged now, and it rests with
up to me for that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy lit- us to smooth it. We must fight our way onward. We must
tle mouth into kissing form, as she directed the operation, be brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet,
which she insisted should be performed symmetrically, on and crush them!’
the centre of his nose. I did as she bade me - rewarding my- I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and
self afterwards for my obedience - and she charmed me out a most enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unneces-
of my graver character for I don’t know how long. sary to proceed. I had said enough. I had done it again. Oh,
‘But, Dora, my beloved!’ said I, at last resuming it; ‘I was she was so frightened! Oh, where was Julia Mills! Oh, take
going to mention something.’ her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! So that, in short, I
The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in was quite distracted, and raved about the drawing-room.
love with her, to see her fold her little hands and hold them I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water
up, begging and praying me not to be dreadful any more. on her face. I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair.
‘Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!’ I assured I denounced myself as a remorseless brute and a ruthless

beast. I implored her forgiveness. I besought her to look up. ensuing interval, I told Miss Mills that she was evermore
I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box for a smelling-bottle, and my friend, and that my heart must cease to vibrate ere I
in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case instead, could forget her sympathy.
and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fists at I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured,
Jip, who was as frantic as myself. I did every wild extrava- so very unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills re-
gance that could be done, and was a long way beyond the plied, on general principles, that the Cottage of content was
end of my wits when Miss Mills came into the room. better than the Palace of cold splendour, and that where
‘Who has done this?’ exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring love was, all was.
her friend. I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who
I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the de- should know it better than I, who loved Dora with a love
stroyer!’ - or words to that effect - and hid my face from the that never mortal had experienced yet? But on Miss Mills
light, in the sofa cushion. observing, with despondency, that it were well indeed for
At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we some hearts if this were so, I explained that I begged leave
were verging on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found to restrict the observation to mortals of the masculine gen-
out how matters stood, for my dear affectionate little Dora, der.
embracing her, began exclaiming that I was ‘a poor labour- I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered
er’; and then cried for me, and embraced me, and asked me that there was or was not any practical merit in the sugges-
would I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell tion I had been anxious to make, concerning the accounts,
on Miss Mills’s neck, sobbing as if her tender heart were the housekeeping, and the Cookery Book?
broken. Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:
Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. ‘Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffer-
She ascertained from me in a few words what it was all ing and trial supply, in some natures, the place of years, and
about, comforted Dora, and gradually convinced her that I will be as plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No.
I was not a labourer - from my manner of stating the case The suggestion is not appropriate to our Dora. Our dearest
I believe Dora concluded that I was a navigator, and went Dora is a favourite child of nature. She is a thing of light,
balancing myself up and down a plank all day with a wheel- and airiness, and joy. I am free to confess that if it could
barrow - and so brought us together in peace. When we be done, it might be well, but -’ And Miss Mills shook her
were quite composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put head.
some rose-water to her eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of

Miss Mills to ask her, whether, for Dora’s sake, if she had any It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she
opportunity of luring her attention to such preparations for said to me, in her pretty coaxing way - as if I were a doll, I
an earnest life, she would avail herself of it? Miss Mills re- used to think:
plied in the affirmative so readily, that I further asked her if ‘Now don’t get up at five o’clock, you naughty boy. It’s so
she would take charge of the Cookery Book; and, if she ever nonsensical!’
could insinuate it upon Dora’s acceptance, without fright- ‘My love,’ said I, ‘I have work to do.’
ening her, undertake to do me that crowning service. Miss ‘But don’t do it!’ returned Dora. ‘Why should you?’
Mills accepted this trust, too; but was not sanguine. It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face,
And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature, otherwise than lightly and playfully, that we must work to
that I really doubted whether she ought to be troubled with live.
anything so ordinary. And she loved me so much, and was ‘Oh! How ridiculous!’ cried Dora.
so captivating (particularly when she made Jip stand on his ‘How shall we live without, Dora?’ said I.
hind legs for toast, and when she pretended to hold that ‘How? Any how!’ said Dora.
nose of his against the hot teapot for punishment because She seemed to think she had quite settled the question,
he wouldn’t), that I felt like a sort of Monster who had got and gave me such a triumphant little kiss, direct from her
into a Fairy’s bower, when I thought of having frightened innocent heart, that I would hardly have put her out of con-
her, and made her cry. ceit with her answer, for a fortune.
After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same Well! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorb-
dear old French songs about the impossibility of ever on any ingly, entirely, and completely. But going on, too, working
account leaving off dancing, La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a pretty hard, and busily keeping red-hot all the irons I now
much greater Monster than before. had in the fire, I would sit sometimes of a night, opposite
We had only one check to our pleasure, and that hap- my aunt, thinking how I had frightened Dora that time, and
pened a little while before I took my leave, when, Miss Mills how I could best make my way with a guitar-case through
chancing to make some allusion to tomorrow morning, I the forest of difficulty, until I used to fancy that my head
unluckily let out that, being obliged to exert myself now, was turning quite grey.
I got up at five o’clock. Whether Dora had any idea that I
was a Private Watchman, I am unable to say; but it made
a great impression on her, and she neither played nor sang
any more.

CHAPTER 38 despotic characters I have ever known; who insisted, for in-
stance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb, meant
expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for
disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my
A DISSOLUTION OF mind, I found that they had driven everything else out of
it; then, beginning again, I forgot them; while I was picking
PARTNERSHIP them up, I dropped the other fragments of the system; in
short, it was almost heart-breaking.
It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora,
who was the stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark.
Every scratch in the scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest
I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parlia-

mentary Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began
to heat immediately, and one of the irons I kept hot, and
of difficulty, and I went on cutting them down, one after an-
other, with such vigour, that in three or four months I was
in a condition to make an experiment on one of our crack
hammered at, with a perseverance I may honestly admire. I speakers in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how the crack
bought an approved scheme of the noble art and mystery of speaker walked off from me before I began, and left my im-
stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); and plunged becile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!
into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too
the confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon high, and should never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles
dots, which in such a position meant such a thing, and in for advice; who suggested that he should dictate speeches
such another position something else, entirely different; the to me, at a pace, and with occasional stoppages, adapted to
wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unac- my weakness. Very grateful for this friendly aid, I accepted
countable consequences that resulted from marks like flies’ the proposal; and night after night, almost every night, for
legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not a long time, we had a sort of Private Parliament in Bucking-
only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me ham Street, after I came home from the Doctor’s.
in my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else!
these difficulties, and had mastered the alphabet, which was My aunt and Mr. Dick represented the Government or the
an Egyptian Temple in itself, there then appeared a proces- Opposition (as the case might be), and Traddles, with the
sion of new horrors, called arbitrary characters; the most assistance of Enfield’s Speakers, or a volume of parliamen-

tary orations, thundered astonishing invectives against have been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea what
them. Standing by the table, with his finger in the page my notes were about. But, as to reading them after I had got
to keep the place, and his right arm flourishing above his them, I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions
head, Traddles, as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. of an immense collection of tea-chests, or the golden char-
Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth, or Mr. Can- acters on all the great red and green bottles in the chemists’
ning, would work himself into the most violent heats, and shops!
deliver the most withering denunciations of the profligacy There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all
and corruption of my aunt and Mr. Dick; while I used to sit, over again. It was very hard, but I turned back, though with
at a little distance, with my notebook on my knee, fagging a heavy heart, and began laboriously and methodically to
after him with all my might and main. The inconsistency plod over the same tedious ground at a snail’s pace; stop-
and recklessness of Traddles were not to be exceeded by any ping to examine minutely every speck in the way, on all
real politician. He was for any description of policy, in the sides, and making the most desperate efforts to know these
compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to every elusive characters by sight wherever I met them. I was al-
denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an im- ways punctual at the office; at the Doctor’s too: and I really
movable Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally did work, as the common expression is, like a cart-horse.
throw in an interruption or two, as ‘Hear!’ or ‘No!’ or ‘Oh!’ One day, when I went to the Commons as usual, I found
when the text seemed to require it: which was always a signal Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
to Mr. Dick (a perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining
with the same cry. But Mr. Dick got taxed with such things of pains in his head - he had naturally a short throat, and I
in the course of his Parliamentary career, and was made do seriously believe he over-starched himself - I was at first
responsible for such awful consequences, that he became alarmed by the idea that he was not quite right in that direc-
uncomfortable in his mind sometimes. I believe he actu- tion; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.
ally began to be afraid he really had been doing something, Instead of returning my ‘Good morning’ with his usual
tending to the annihilation of the British constitution, and affability, he looked at me in a distant, ceremonious man-
the ruin of the country. ner, and coldly requested me to accompany him to a certain
Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock coffee-house, which, in those days, had a door opening into
pointed to midnight, and the candles were burning down. the Commons, just within the little archway in St. Paul’s
The result of so much good practice was, that by and by I Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and
began to keep pace with Traddles pretty well, and should with a warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions

were breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to go on stone brought a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied
a little before, on account of the narrowness of the way, I round with the dearest bit of blue ribbon, ‘those are also
observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?’
particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and,
he had found out about my darling Dora. glancing at such phrases at the top, as ‘My ever dearest and
If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, own Dora,’ ‘My best beloved angel,’ ‘My blessed one for ever,’
I could hardly have failed to know what was the matter and the like, blushed deeply, and inclined my head.
when I followed him into an upstairs room, and found Miss ‘No, thank you!’ said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechani-
Murdstone there, supported by a background of sideboard, cally offered them back to him. ‘I will not deprive you of
on which were several inverted tumblers sustaining lem- them. Miss Murdstone, be so good as to proceed!’
ons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and That gentle creature, after a moment’s thoughtful survey
flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for of the carpet, delivered herself with much dry unction as
mankind, are now obsolete. follows.
Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat ‘I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of
severely rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some
chair, and stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace. time. I observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield, when
‘Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. they first met; and the impression made upon me then was
Spenlow, what you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.’ not agreeable. The depravity of the human heart is such -’
I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule ‘You will oblige me, ma’am,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, ‘by
of my childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her confining yourself to facts.’
lips, in sympathy with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as
- opening her mouth a little at the same time - and produced if protesting against this unseemly interruption, and with
my last letter to Dora, teeming with expressions of devoted frowning dignity resumed:
affection. ‘Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as
‘I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Mr. dryly as I can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable
Spenlow. course of proceeding. I have already said, sir, that I have had
I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Cop-
mine, when I said, ‘It is, sir!’ perfield, for some time. I have frequently endeavoured to
‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murd- find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but without

effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss paper.’ Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her frock,
Spenlow’s father’; looking severely at him- ‘knowing how gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said,
little disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowl- ‘Dora, my love, you must permit me.’ ‘
edge the conscientious discharge of duty.’ Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was
Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly your work!
sternness of Miss Murdstone’s manner, and deprecated her ‘Miss Spenlow endeavoured,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘to
severity with a conciliatory little wave of his hand. bribe me with kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jew-
‘On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence ellery - that, of course, I pass over. The little dog retreated
occasioned by my brother’s marriage,’ pursued Miss Murd- under the sofa on my approaching him, and was with great
stone in a disdainful voice, ‘and on the return of Miss difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even when dislodged,
Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills, I imagined he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my endeavour-
that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion ing to take it from him, at the imminent risk of being bitten,
for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spen- he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer
low closely.’ himself to be held suspended in the air by means of the doc-
Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon’s ument. At length I obtained possession of it. After perusing
eye! it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such letters in
‘Still,’ resumed Miss Murdstone, ‘I found no proof until her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the packet
last night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too which is now in David Copperfield’s hand.’
many letters from her friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills be- Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and
ing her friend with her father’s full concurrence,’ another shutting her mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but
telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, ‘it was not for me to interfere. could never be bent.
If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural depravity ‘You have heard Miss Murdstone,’ said Mr. Spenlow,
of the human heart, at least I may - I must - be permitted, so turning to me. ‘I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have
far to refer to misplaced confidence.’ anything to say in reply?’
Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent. The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little trea-
‘Last evening after tea,’ pursued Miss Murdstone, ‘I ob- sure of my heart, sobbing and crying all night - of her being
served the little dog starting, rolling, and growling about alone, frightened, and wretched, then - of her having so
the drawing-room, worrying something. I said to Miss piteously begged and prayed that stony-hearted woman to
Spenlow, ‘Dora, what is that the dog has in his mouth? It’s forgive her - of her having vainly offered her those kisses,

work-boxes, and trinkets - of her being in such grievous dis- Spenlow, stopping short upon the hearth-rug. ‘Have you
tress, and all for me - very much impaired the little dignity considered your years, and my daughter’s years, Mr. Cop-
I had been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous perfield? Have you considered what it is to undermine the
state for a minute or so, though I did my best to disguise it. confidence that should subsist between my daughter and
‘There is nothing I can say, sir,’ I returned, ‘except that all myself? Have you considered my daughter’s station in life,
the blame is mine. Dora -’ the projects I may contemplate for her advancement, the
‘Miss Spenlow, if you please,’ said her father, majestical- testamentary intentions I may have with reference to her?
ly. Have you considered anything, Mr. Copperfield?’
‘- was induced and persuaded by me,’ I went on, swallow- ‘Very little, sir, I am afraid;’ I answered, speaking to him
ing that colder designation, ‘to consent to this concealment, as respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; ‘but pray believe
and I bitterly regret it.’ me, I have considered my own worldly position. When I ex-
‘You are very much to blame, sir,’ said Mr. Spenlow, walk- plained it to you, we were already engaged -’
ing to and fro upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what ‘I BEG,’ said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had
he said with his whole body instead of his head, on account ever seen him, as he energetically struck one hand upon the
of the stiffness of his cravat and spine. ‘You have done a other - I could not help noticing that even in my despair;
stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield. When ‘that YOU Will NOT talk to me of engagements, Mr. Cop-
I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is perfield!’
nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spir- The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed con-
it of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits a temptuously in one short syllable.
dishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.’ ‘When I explained my altered position to you, sir,’ I be-
‘I feel it, sir, I assure you,’ I returned. ‘But I never thought gan again, substituting a new form of expression for what
so, before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never was so unpalatable to him, ‘this concealment, into which
thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent -’ I am so unhappy as to have led Miss Spenlow, had begun.
‘Pooh! nonsense!’ said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. ‘Pray Since I have been in that altered position, I have strained
don’t tell me to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Cop- every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am
perfield!’ sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time - any
‘Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?’ I returned, length of time? We are both so young, sir, -’
with all humility. ‘You are right,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his
‘Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?’ said Mr. head a great many times, and frowning very much, ‘you are

both very young. It’s all nonsense. Let there be an end of ‘Very well!’ said Mr. Spenlow.
the nonsense. Take away those letters, and throw them in A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or
the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow’s letters to throw in the fire; stay. At length I was moving quietly towards the door, with
and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, the intention of saying that perhaps I should consult his
be restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make feelings best by withdrawing: when he said, with his hands
no further mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he could
don’t want sense; and this is the sensible course.’ do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole,
No. I couldn’t think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, a decidedly pious air:
but there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was ‘You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not
above all earthly considerations, and I loved Dora to idola- altogether destitute of worldly possessions, and that my
try, and Dora loved me. I didn’t exactly say so; I softened it daughter is my nearest and dearest relative?’
down as much as I could; but I implied it, and I was resolute I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped
upon it. I don’t think I made myself very ridiculous, but I the error into which I had been betrayed by the desperate
know I was resolute. nature of my love, did not induce him to think me merce-
‘Very well, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I must nary too?
try my influence with my daughter.’ ‘I don’t allude to the matter in that light,’ said Mr. Spen-
Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn low. ‘It would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you
respiration, which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was WERE mercenary, Mr. Copperfield - I mean, if you were
like both, gave it as her opinion that he should have done more discreet and less influenced by all this youthful non-
this at first. sense. No. I merely say, with quite another view, you are
‘I must try,’ said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this sup- probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my
port, ‘my influence with my daughter. Do you decline to child?’
take those letters, Mr. Copperfield?’ For I had laid them on I certainly supposed so.
the table. ‘And you can hardly think,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘having ex-
Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I perience of what we see, in the Commons here, every day,
couldn’t possibly take them from Miss Murdstone. of the various unaccountable and negligent proceedings of
‘Nor from me?’ said Mr. Spenlow. men, in respect of their testamentary arrangements - of all
No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from subjects, the one on which perhaps the strangest revelations
him. of human inconsistency are to be met with - but that mine

are made?’ any person with any knowledge of life,’ said Mr. Spenlow,
I inclined my head in acquiescence. adjusting his cravat with both hands. ‘Take a week, Mr.
‘I should not allow,’ said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident Copperfield.’
increase of pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I
he poised himself upon his toes and heels alternately, ‘my was able to make it of dejected and despairing constancy,
suitable provision for my child to be influenced by a piece came out of the room. Miss Murdstone’s heavy eyebrows
of youthful folly like the present. It is mere folly. Mere non- followed me to the door - I say her eyebrows rather than her
sense. In a little while, it will weigh lighter than any feather. eyes, because they were much more important in her face
But I might - I might - if this silly business were not com- - and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that
pletely relinquished altogether, be induced in some anxious hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone, that I
moment to guard her from, and surround her with protec- could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons
tions against, the consequences of any foolish step in the again, and that the dead weight on my mind was that hor-
way of marriage. Now, Mr. Copperfield, I hope that you will rible old spelling-book, with oval woodcuts, shaped, to my
not render it necessary for me to open, even for a quarter of youthful fancy, like the glasses out of spectacles.
an hour, that closed page in the book of life, and unsettle, When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and
even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long since com- the rest of them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own
posed.’ particular nook, thinking of this earthquake that had tak-
There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air en place so unexpectedly, and in the bitterness of my spirit
about him, which quite affected me. He was so peaceful and cursing Jip, I fell into such a state of torment about Dora,
resigned - clearly had his affairs in such perfect train, and so that I wonder I did not take up my hat and rush insanely
systematically wound up - that he was a man to feel touched to Norwood. The idea of their frightening her, and mak-
in the contemplation of. I really think I saw tears rise to his ing her cry, and of my not being there to comfort her, was
eyes, from the depth of his own feeling of all this. so excruciating, that it impelled me to write a wild letter to
But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own Mr. Spenlow, beseeching him not to visit upon her the con-
heart. When he told me I had better take a week to consider sequences of my awful destiny. I implored him to spare her
of what he had said, how could I say I wouldn’t take a week, gentle nature - not to crush a fragile flower - and addressed
yet how could I fail to know that no amount of weeks could him generally, to the best of my remembrance, as if, instead
influence such love as mine? of being her father, he had been an Ogre, or the Dragon of
‘In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with Wantley.3 This letter I sealed and laid upon his desk before

he returned; and when he came in, I saw him, through the style of Mr. Micawber.
half-opened door of his room, take it up and read it. However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills’s
He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he street, and walked up and down, until I was stealthily
went away in the afternoon he called me in, and told me that fetched in by Miss Mills’s maid, and taken the area way to
I need not make myself at all uneasy about his daughter’s the back kitchen. I have since seen reason to believe that
happiness. He had assured her, he said, that it was all non- there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in at the
sense; and he had nothing more to say to her. He believed front door, and being shown up into the drawing-room, ex-
he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), and I might cept Miss Mills’s love of the romantic and mysterious.
spare myself any solicitude on her account. In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I
‘You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obsti- suppose, to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did
nate, Mr. Copperfield,’ he observed, ‘for me to send my it. Miss Mills had received a hasty note from Dora, telling
daughter abroad again, for a term; but I have a better opin- her that all was discovered, and saying. ‘Oh pray come to
ion of you. I hope you will be wiser than that, in a few days. me, Julia, do, do!’ But Miss Mills, mistrusting the accept-
As to Miss Murdstone,’ for I had alluded to her in the letter, ability of her presence to the higher powers, had not yet
‘I respect that lady’s vigilance, and feel obliged to her; but gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.
she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr. Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to
Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All you have got pour them out. I could not help feeling, though she mingled
to do, Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.’ her tears with mine, that she had a dreadful luxury in our
All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted afflictions. She petted them, as I may say, and made the most
this sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened between
was to forget Dora. That was all, and what was that! I en- Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow.
treated Miss Mills to see me, that evening. If it could not Love must suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it
be done with Mr. Mills’s sanction and concurrence, I be- ever would be so. No matter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts
sought a clandestine interview in the back kitchen where confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then Love was
the Mangle was. I informed her that my reason was totter- avenged.
ing on its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn’t en-
its being deposed. I signed myself, hers distractedly; and courage fallacious hopes. She made me much more wretched
I couldn’t help feeling, while I read this composition over, than I was before, and I felt (and told her with the deepest
before sending it by a porter, that it was something in the gratitude) that she was indeed a friend. We resolved that

she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning, and ‘Dead?’ said I.
find some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, ‘He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the pha-
of my devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmed with eton by himself,’ said Tiffey, ‘having sent his own groom
grief; and I think Miss Mills enjoyed herself completely. home by the coach, as he sometimes did, you know -’
I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite ‘Well?’
of all she could say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up ‘The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped
despairing, and went out despairing. It was Saturday morn- at the stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody
ing, and I went straight to the Commons. in the carriage.’
I was surprised, when I came within sight of our of- ‘Had they run away?’
fice-door, to see the ticket-porters standing outside talking ‘They were not hot,’ said Tiffey, putting on his glasses;
together, and some half-dozen stragglers gazing at the win- ‘no hotter, I understand, than they would have been, go-
dows which were shut up. I quickened my pace, and, passing ing down at the usual pace. The reins were broken, but they
among them, wondering at their looks, went hurriedly in. had been dragging on the ground. The house was roused up
The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. directly, and three of them went out along the road. They
Old Tiffey, for the first time in his life I should think, was found him a mile off.’
sitting on somebody else’s stool, and had not hung up his ‘More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,’ interposed a junior.
hat. ‘Was it? I believe you are right,’ said Tiffey, - ‘more than a
‘This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,’ said he, as mile off - not far from the church - lying partly on the road-
I entered. side, and partly on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell
‘What is?’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter?’ out in a fit, or got out, feeling ill before the fit came on - or
‘Don’t you know?’ cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, even whether he was quite dead then, though there is no
coming round me. doubt he was quite insensible - no one appears to know. If
‘No!’ said I, looking from face to face. he breathed, certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance
‘Mr. Spenlow,’ said Tiffey. was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless.’
‘What about him!’ I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was
‘Dead!’ I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as thrown by this intelligence. The shock of such an event hap-
one of the clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a pening so suddenly, and happening to one with whom I
chair, untied my neck-cloth, and brought me some water. I had been in any respect at variance - the appalling vacancy
have no idea whether this took any time. in the room he had occupied so lately, where his chair and

table seemed to wait for him, and his handwriting of yes- My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed,
terday was like a ghost - the indefinable impossibility of outside, to her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief;
separating him from the place, and feeling, when the door and when her friend had asked her should she send her love
opened, as if he might come in - the lazy hush and rest there to me, had only cried, as she was always crying, ‘Oh, dear
was in the office, and the insatiable relish with which our papa! oh, poor papa!’ But she had not said No, and that I
people talked about it, and other people came in and out made the most of.
all day, and gorged themselves with the subject - this is eas- Mr. jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the oc-
ily intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, currence, came to the office a few days afterwards. He and
in the innermost recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking Tiffey were closeted together for some few moments, and
jealousy even of Death. How I felt as if its might would push then Tiffey looked out at the door and beckoned me in.
me from my ground in Dora’s thoughts. How I was, in a ‘Oh!’ said Mr. jorkins. ‘Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Cop-
grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief. How perfield, are about to examine the desks, the drawers, and
it made me restless to think of her weeping to others, or be- other such repositories of the deceased, with the view of
ing consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avaricious sealing up his private papers, and searching for a Will.
wish to shut out everybody from her but myself, and to be There is no trace of any, elsewhere. It may be as well for you
all in all to her, at that unseasonable time of all times. to assist us, if you please.’
In the trouble of this state of mind - not exclusively my I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the
own, I hope, but known to others - I went down to Nor- circumstances in which my Dora would be placed - as, in
wood that night; and finding from one of the servants, whose guardianship, and so forth - and this was something
when I made my inquiries at the door, that Miss Mills was towards it. We began the search at once; Mr. jorkins un-
there, got my aunt to direct a letter to her, which I wrote. I locking the drawers and desks, and we all taking out the
deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow, most sincerely, papers. The office-papers we placed on one side, and the pri-
and shed tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora, if vate papers (which were not numerous) on the other. We
Dora were in a state to hear it, that he had spoken to me were very grave; and when we came to a stray seal, or pen-
with the utmost kindness and consideration; and had cou- cil-case, or ring, or any little article of that kind which we
pled nothing but tenderness, not a single or reproachful associated personally with him, we spoke very low.
word, with her name. I know I did this selfishly, to have my We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on
name brought before her; but I tried to believe it was an act dustily and quietly, when Mr. jorkins said to us, applying
of justice to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it. exactly the same words to his late partner as his late partner

had applied to him: what he owed, or what he had paid, or of what he died pos-
‘Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten sessed. It was considered likely that for years he could have
track. You know what he was! I am disposed to think he had had no clear opinion on these subjects himself. By little and
made no will.’ little it came out, that, in the competition on all points of ap-
‘Oh, I know he had!’ said I. pearance and gentility then running high in the Commons,
They both stopped and looked at me. ‘On the very day he had spent more than his professional income, which was
when I last saw him,’ said I, ‘he told me that he had, and that not a very large one, and had reduced his private means, if
his affairs were long since settled.’ they ever had been great (which was exceedingly doubtful),
Mr. jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one to a very low ebb indeed. There was a sale of the furniture
accord. and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told me, little thinking
‘That looks unpromising,’ said Tiffey. how interested I was in the story, that, paying all the just
‘Very unpromising,’ said Mr. jorkins. debts of the deceased, and deducting his share of outstand-
‘Surely you don’t doubt -’ I began. ing bad and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn’t give
‘My good Mr. Copperfield!’ said Tiffey, laying his hand a thousand pounds for all the assets remaining.
upon my arm, and shutting up both his eyes as he shook This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suf-
his head: ‘if you had been in the Commons as long as I have, fered tortures all the time; and thought I really must have
you would know that there is no subject on which men are laid violent hands upon myself, when Miss Mills still re-
so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.’ ported to me, that my broken-hearted little Dora would say
‘Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!’ I replied nothing, when I was mentioned, but ‘Oh, poor papa! Oh,
persistently. dear papa!’ Also, that she had no other relations than two
‘I should call that almost final,’ observed Tiffey. ‘My aunts, maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived at Putney,
opinion is - no will.’ and who had not held any other than chance communica-
It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out tion with their brother for many years. Not that they had
that there was no will. He had never so much as thought of ever quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that having
making one, so far as his papers afforded any evidence; for been, on the occasion of Dora’s christening, invited to tea,
there was no kind of hint, sketch, or memorandum, of any when they considered themselves privileged to be invited to
testamentary intention whatever. What was scarcely less dinner, they had expressed their opinion in writing, that it
astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were in a most disor- was ‘better for the happiness of all parties’ that they should
dered state. It was extremely difficult, I heard, to make out stay away. Since which they had gone their road, and their

brother had gone his. young Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referred to Patience on
These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J. M.)
and proposed to take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging ‘Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight
to them both, and weeping, exclaimed, ‘O yes, aunts! Please tinge of damask revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name
take Julia Mills and me and Jip to Putney!’ So they went, of D. C. Introduced same, cautiously, in course of airing.
very soon after the funeral. D. immediately overcome. ‘Oh, dear, dear Julia! Oh, I have
How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don’t been a naughty and undutiful child!’ Soothed and caressed.
know; but I contrived, by some means or other, to prowl Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge of tomb. D. again over-
about the neighbourhood pretty often. Miss Mills, for the come. ‘Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? Oh, take me
more exact discharge of the duties of friendship, kept a somewhere!’ Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of wa-
journal; and she used to meet me sometimes, on the Com- ter from public-house. (Poetical affinity. Chequered sign on
mon, and read it, or (if she had not time to do that) lend it door-post; chequered human life. Alas! J. M.)
to me. How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a ‘Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with
sample! - blue bag, ‘for lady’s boots left out to heel”. Cook replies, ‘No
‘Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. such orders.’ Man argues point. Cook withdraws to inquire,
Called attention to J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled leaving man alone with J. On Cook’s return, man still ar-
J. Associations thus awakened, opened floodgates of sor- gues point, but ultimately goes. J. missing. D. distracted.
row. Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the dewdrops of the Information sent to police. Man to be identified by broad
heart? J. M.) nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search made in
‘Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsol-
we not remark this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. able. Renewed reference to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but
took airing in carriage. J. looking out of window, and bark- unavailing. Towards evening, strange boy calls. Brought
ing violently at dustman, occasioned smile to overspread into parlour. Broad nose, but no balustrades. Says he wants
features of D. (Of such slight links is chain of life composed! a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explain further,
J. M.) though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes
‘Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as Cook to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table.
congenial melody, ‘Evening Bells”. Effect not soothing, joy of D. who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Em-
but reverse. D. inexpressibly affected. Found sobbing af- boldened by this happy change, mention D. C. upstairs. D.
terwards, in own room. Quoted verses respecting self and weeps afresh, cries piteously, ‘Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t! It is so

wicked to think of anything but poor papa!’ - embraces J.
and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine himself to CHAPTER 39
the broad pinions of Time? J. M.)’
Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at
this period. To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while
before - to trace the initial letter of Dora’s name through her WICKFIELD AND HEEP
sympathetic pages - to be made more and more miserable
by her - were my only comforts. I felt as if I had been liv-
ing in a palace of cards, which had tumbled down, leaving
only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I felt as if some
grim enchanter had drawn a magic circle round the inno-
cent goddess of my heart, which nothing indeed but those
M y aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously
uncomfortable by my prolonged dejection, made a
pretence of being anxious that I should go to Dover, to see
same strong pinions, capable of carrying so many people that all was working well at the cottage, which was let; and
over so much, would enable me to enter! to conclude an agreement, with the same tenant, for a lon-
ger term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of
Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been unde-
cided, on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing
touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had
been educated, by marrying a pilot; but she decided against
that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I believe,
as because she happened not to like him.
Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell
rather willingly into my aunt’s pretence, as a means of
enabling me to pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I con-
sulted the good Doctor relative to an absence of three days;
and the Doctor wishing me to take that relaxation, - he
wished me to take more; but my energy could not bear that,
- I made up my mind to go.
As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be par-

ticular about my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, bashful in their appearance, and entice them to the offices
we were getting in no very good odour among the tip-top in which their respective employers were interested; which
proctors, and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful instructions were so well observed, that I myself, before I
position. The business had been indifferent under Mr. jor- was known by sight, was twice hustled into the premises of
kins, before Mr. Spenlow’s time; and although it had been our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of these
quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by the display touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feel-
which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on a ings, personal collisions took place; and the Commons was
sufficiently strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had for-
a blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off merly been in the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn
very much. Mr. jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in brokery line) walking about for some days with a black eye.
the firm, was an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose Any one of these scouts used to think nothing of politely
reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle, killing any
was turned over to him now, and when I saw him take his proctor whom she inquired for, representing his employer
snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt’s thousand as the lawful successor and representative of that proctor,
pounds more than ever. and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of to his employer’s office. Many captives were brought to me
hangers-on and outsiders about the Commons, who, within this way. As to marriage licences, the competition rose
out being proctors themselves, dabbled in common-form to such a pitch, that a shy gentleman in want of one, had
business, and got it done by real proctors, who lent their nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler, or
names in consideration of a share in the spoil; - and there be fought for, and become the prey of the strongest. One
were a good many of these too. As our house now want- of our clerks, who was an outsider, used, in the height of
ed business on any terms, we joined this noble band; and this contest, to sit with his hat on, that he might be ready to
threw out lures to the hangers-on and outsiders, to bring rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was
their business to us. Marriage licences and small probates brought in. The system of inveigling continues, I believe, to
were what we all looked for, and what paid us best; and the this day. The last time I was in the Commons, a civil able-
competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from
inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the a doorway, and whispering the word ‘Marriage-licence’ in
Commons, with instructions to do their utmost to cut off my ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me
all persons in mourning, and all gentlemen with anything up in his arms and lifting me into a proctor’s. From this di-

gression, let me proceed to Dover. lower room on the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had
I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; been of old accustomed to sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen
and was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by report- with great assiduity. He was dressed in a legal-looking suit
ing that the tenant inherited her feud, and waged incessant of black, and loomed, burly and large, in that small office.
war against donkeys. Having settled the little business I had Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little
to transact there, and slept there one night, I walked on to confused too. He would have conducted me immediately
Canterbury early in the morning. It was now winter again; into the presence of Uriah, but I declined.
and the fresh, cold windy day, and the sweeping downland, ‘I know the house of old, you recollect,’ said I, ‘and will
brightened up my hopes a little. find my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micaw-
Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old ber?’
streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits, and ‘My dear Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘To a man possessed of
eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names the higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal stud-
over the shops, the old people serving in them. It appeared ies is the amount of detail which they involve. Even in our
so long, since I had been a schoolboy there, that I wondered professional correspondence,’ said Mr. Micawber, glancing
the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little at some letters he was writing, ‘the mind is not at liberty to
I was changed myself. Strange to say, that quiet influence soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a great pur-
which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to suit. A great pursuit!’
pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable ca- He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah
thedral towers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy Heep’s old house; and that Mrs. Micawber would be de-
voices made them more retired than perfect silence would lighted to receive me, once more, under her own roof.
have done; the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues, ‘It is humble,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘- to quote a favourite
long thrown down, and crumbled away, like the reverential expression of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-
pilgrims who had gazed upon them; the still nooks, where stone to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation.’
the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled ends and I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satis-
ruined walls; the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape of fied with his friend Heep’s treatment of him? He got up to
field, orchard, and garden; everywhere - on everything - I ascertain if the door were close shut, before he replied, in a
felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, soften- lower voice:
ing spirit. ‘My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the
Arrived at Mr. Wickfield’s house, I found, in the little pressure of pecuniary embarrassments, is, with the gen-

erality of people, at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is which I trust will never be disturbed! - we draw a line. On
not diminished, when that pressure necessitates the draw- one side of this line,’ said Mr. Micawber, representing it
ing of stipendiary emoluments, before those emoluments on the desk with the office ruler, ‘is the whole range of the
are strictly due and payable. All I can say is, that my friend human intellect, with a trifling exception; on the other, IS
Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not more that exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs Wickfield
particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equal- and Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto.
ly to the honour of his head, and of his heart.’ I trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth, in
‘I should not have supposed him to be very free with his submitting this proposition to his cooler judgement?’
money either,’ I observed. Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which
‘Pardon me!’ said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, sat tightly on him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I
‘I speak of my friend Heep as I have experience.’ had no right to be offended. My telling him so, appeared to
‘I am glad your experience is so favourable,’ I returned. relieve him; and he shook hands with me.
‘You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. ‘I am charmed, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘let
Micawber; and hummed a tune. me assure you, with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superi-
‘Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?’ I asked, to change or young lady, of very remarkable attractions, graces, and
the subject. virtues. Upon my honour,’ said Mr. Micawber, indefinite-
‘Not much,’ said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. ‘Mr. Wick- ly kissing his hand and bowing with his genteelest air, ‘I
field is, I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!’ ‘I am glad of that, at
is - in short, he is obsolete.’ least,’ said I.
‘I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,’ said I. ‘If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the
‘My dear Copperfield!’ returned Mr. Micawber, after occasion of that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness
some uneasy evolutions on his stool, ‘allow me to offer a of passing with you, that D. was your favourite letter,’ said
remark! I am here, in a capacity of confidence. I am here, Mr. Micawber, ‘I should unquestionably have supposed that
in a position of trust. The discussion of some topics, even A. had been so.’
with Mrs. Micawber herself (so long the partner of my We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over
various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable lucid- us occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having
ity of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with been said and done before, in a remote time - of our having
the functions now devolving on me. I would therefore take been surrounded, dim ages ago, by the same faces, objects,
the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly intercourse - and circumstances - of our knowing perfectly what will be

said next, as if we suddenly remembered it! I never had this ‘I don’t know what to call it,’ I replied. ‘I think I am ear-
mysterious impression more strongly in my life, than be- nest and persevering?’
fore he uttered those words. ‘I am sure of it,’ said Agnes.
I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging ‘And patient, Agnes?’ I inquired, with a little hesitation.
him with my best remembrances to all at home. As I left ‘Yes,’ returned Agnes, laughing. ‘Pretty well.’
him, resuming his stool and his pen, and rolling his head ‘And yet,’ said I, ‘I get so miserable and worried, and am
in his stock, to get it into easier writing order, I clearly per- so unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself,
ceived that there was something interposed between him that I know I must want - shall I call it - reliance, of some
and me, since he had come into his new functions, which kind?’
prevented our getting at each other as we used to do, and ‘Call it so, if you will,’ said Agnes.
quite altered the character of our intercourse. ‘Well!’ I returned. ‘See here! You come to London, I rely
There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, on you, and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven
though it presented tokens of Mrs. Heep’s whereabouts. I out of it, I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered per-
looked into the room still belonging to Agnes, and saw her son. The circumstances that distressed me are not changed,
sitting by the fire, at a pretty old-fashioned desk she had, since I came into this room; but an influence comes over me
writing. in that short interval that alters me, oh, how much for the
My darkening the light made her look up. What a plea- better! What is it? What is your secret, Agnes?’
sure to be the cause of that bright change in her attentive Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.
face, and the object of that sweet regard and welcome! ‘It’s the old story,’ said I. ‘Don’t laugh, when I say it was
‘Ah, Agnes!’ said I, when we were sitting together, side by always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My
side; ‘I have missed you so much, lately!’ old troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but
‘Indeed?’ she replied. ‘Again! And so soon?’ whenever I have gone away from my adopted sister -’
I shook my head. Agnes looked up - with such a Heavenly face! - and gave
‘I don’t know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some fac- me her hand, which I kissed.
ulty of mind that I ought to have. You were so much in the ‘Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and ap-
habit of thinking for me, in the happy old days here, and I prove in the beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get
came so naturally to you for counsel and support, that I re- into all sorts of difficulty. When I have come to you, at last
ally think I have missed acquiring it.’ (as I have always done), I have come to peace and happi-
‘And what is it?’ said Agnes, cheerfully. ness. I come home, now, like a tired traveller, and find such

a blessed sense of rest!’ death, when I thought it right to mention to her - but I’ll tell
I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, you, if you will bear with me, how it was.’
that my voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of pov-
and broke into tears. I write the truth. Whatever contra- erty, about the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts,
dictions and inconsistencies there were within me, as there and all the rest of it.
are within so many of us; whatever might have been so dif- ‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she remonstrated, with a smile. ‘Just
ferent, and so much better; whatever I had done, in which your old headlong way! You might have been in earnest in
I had perversely wandered away from the voice of my own striving to get on in the world, without being so very sud-
heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently den with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl. Poor Dora!’
in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed
near me. in a voice, as she expressed in making this reply. It was as
In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with if I had seen her admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora,
her tender voice; and with that sweet composure, which had and tacitly reproving me, by her considerate protection, for
long ago made the house that held her quite a sacred place my hot haste in fluttering that little heart. It was as if I had
to me; she soon won me from this weakness, and led me on seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness, caressing Ag-
to tell all that had happened since our last meeting. nes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing against me,
‘And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,’ said I, when and loving me with all her childish innocence.
I had made an end of my confidence. ‘Now, my reliance is I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw
on you.’ those two together, in a bright perspective, such well-asso-
‘But it must not be on me, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, ciated friends, each adorning the other so much!
with a pleasant smile. ‘It must be on someone else.’ ‘What ought I to do then, Agnes?’ I inquired, after look-
‘On Dora?’ said I. ing at the fire a little while. ‘What would it be right to do?’
‘Assuredly.’ ‘I think,’ said Agnes, ‘that the honourable course to take,
‘Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,’ said I, a little embar- would be to write to those two ladies. Don’t you think that
rassed, ‘that Dora is rather difficult to - I would not, for the any secret course is an unworthy one?’
world, say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and ‘Yes. If YOU think so,’ said I.
truth - but rather difficult to - I hardly know how to express ‘I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,’ replied
it, really, Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily dis- Agnes, with a modest hesitation, ‘but I certainly feel - in
turbed and frightened. Some time ago, before her father’s short, I feel that your being secret and clandestine, is not

being like yourself.’ ened heart, though with a profound sense of the weighty
‘Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Ag- importance of my task, I devoted the whole afternoon to
nes, I am afraid,’ said I. the composition of the draft of this letter; for which great
‘Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,’ she re- purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went
turned; ‘and therefore I would write to those two ladies. I downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.
would relate, as plainly and as openly as possible, all that I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling of-
has taken place; and I would ask their permission to visit fice, built out in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean,
sometimes, at their house. Considering that you are young, in the midst of a quantity of books and papers. He received
and striving for a place in life, I think it would be well to say me in his usual fawning way, and pretended not to have
that you would readily abide by any conditions they might heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber; a pretence I took
impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr.
request, without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with Wickfield’s room, which was the shadow of its former self
her when they should think the time suitable. I would not be - having been divested of a variety of conveniences, for the
too vehement,’ said Agnes, gently, ‘or propose too much. I accommodation of the new partner - and stood before the
would trust to my fidelity and perseverance - and to Dora.’ fire, warming his back, and shaving his chin with his bony
‘But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speak- hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.
ing to her,’ said I. ‘And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing ‘You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Can-
about me!’ terbury?’ said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah
‘Is that likely?’ inquired Agnes, with the same sweet con- for his approval.
sideration in her face. ‘Is there room for me?’ said I.
‘God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,’ said I. ‘It ‘I am sure, Master Copperfield - I should say Mister, but
might be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that the other comes so natural,’ said Uriah, -’I would turn out
sort are odd characters sometimes) should not be likely per- of your old room with pleasure, if it would be agreeable.’
sons to address in that way!’ ‘No, no,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Why should you be incon-
‘I don’t think, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, raising her venienced? There’s another room. There’s another room.’
soft eyes to mine, ‘I would consider that. Perhaps it would ‘Oh, but you know,’ returned Uriah, with a grin, ‘I should
be better only to consider whether it is right to do this; and, really be delighted!’
if it is, to do it.’ To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other
I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a light- room or none at all; so it was settled that I should have the

other room; and, taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I Wickfield?’ inquired Mrs. Heep.
went upstairs again. ‘No,’ said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she
I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. was engaged. ‘You are too solicitous about him. He is very
But Mrs. Heep had asked permission to bring herself and well.’
her knitting near the fire, in that room; on pretence of its Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knit-
having an aspect more favourable for her rheumatics, as the ting.
wind then was, than the drawing-room or dining-parlour. She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived
Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies of early in the day, and we had still three or four hours be-
the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, with- fore dinner; but she sat there, plying her knitting-needles
out remorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a as monotonously as an hour-glass might have poured out
friendly salutation. its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I sat at the desk
‘I’m umbly thankful to you, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, in ac- in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, sat Ag-
knowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health, ‘but nes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted
I’m only pretty well. I haven’t much to boast of. If I could see up my eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw
my Uriah well settled in life, I couldn’t expect much more I it clear, and beam encouragement upon me, with its own
think. How do you think my Ury looking, sir?’ angelic expression, I was conscious presently of the evil eye
I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied passing me, and going on to her, and coming back to me
that I saw no change in him. again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the
‘Oh, don’t you think he’s changed?’ said Mrs. Heep. knitting was, I don’t know, not being learned in that art;
‘There I must umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don’t you but it looked like a net; and as she worked away with those
see a thinness in him?’ Chinese chopsticks of knitting-needles, she showed in the
‘Not more than usual,’ I replied. firelight like an ill-looking enchantress, baulked as yet by
‘Don’t you though!’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘But you don’t take the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a cast
notice of him with a mother’s eye!’ of her net by and by.
His mother’s eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same un-
thought as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and winking eyes. After dinner, her son took his turn; and when
I believe she and her son were devoted to one another. It Mr. Wickfield, himself, and I were left alone together, leered
passed me, and went on to Agnes. at me, and writhed until I could hardly bear it. In the draw-
‘Don’t YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss ing-room, there was the mother knitting and watching

again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the moth- ‘How fast you walk!’ said he. ‘My legs are pretty long, but
er sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, you’ve given ‘em quite a job.’
which she said her Ury (who was yawning in a great chair) ‘Where are you going?’ said I.
doted on; and at intervals she looked round at him, and re- ‘I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you’ll allow
ported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But me the pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.’ Saying
she hardly ever spoke - I question if she ever did - without this, with a jerk of his body, which might have been either
making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this propitiatory or derisive, he fell into step beside me.
was the duty assigned to her. ‘Uriah!’ said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.
This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and ‘Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah.
son, like two great bats hanging over the whole house, and ‘To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended),
darkening it with their ugly forms, made me so uncomfort- I came Out to walk alone, because I have had so much com-
able, that I would rather have remained downstairs, knitting pany.’
and all, than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep. Next day He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin,
the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day. ‘You mean mother.’
I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten ‘Why yes, I do,’ said I.
minutes. I could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her ‘Ah! But you know we’re so very umble,’ he returned.
to walk out with me; but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complain- ‘And having such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we
ing that she was worse, Agnes charitably remained within, must really take care that we’re not pushed to the wall by
to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out by them as isn’t umble. All stratagems are fair in love, sir.’
myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he
justified in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uri- rubbed them softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a
ah Heep had told me in London; for that began to trouble malevolent baboon, I thought, as anything human could
me again, very much. look.
I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the ‘You see,’ he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant
town, upon the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, way, and shaking his head at me, ‘you’re quite a dangerous
when I was hailed, through the dust, by somebody behind rival, Master Copperfield. You always was, you know.’
me. The shambling figure, and the scanty great-coat, were ‘Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her
not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up. home no home, because of me?’ said I.
‘Well?’ said I. ‘Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,’ he

replied. ‘Upon your soul?’ said Uriah.
‘Put my meaning into any words you like,’ said I. ‘You I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confir-
know what it is, Uriah, as well as I do.’ mation he required, when he caught hold of my hand, and
‘Oh no! You must put it into words,’ he said. ‘Oh, really! gave it a squeeze.
I couldn’t myself.’ ‘Oh, Master Copperfield!’ he said. ‘If you had only had
‘Do you suppose,’ said I, constraining myself to be very the condescension to return my confidence when I poured
temperate and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, ‘that I out the fulness of my art, the night I put you so much out
regard Miss Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister?’ of the way by sleeping before your sitting-room fire, I nev-
‘Well, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘you perceive I am er should have doubted you. As it is, I’m sure I’ll take off
not bound to answer that question. You may not, you know. mother directly, and only too appy. I know you’ll excuse
But then, you see, you may!’ the precautions of affection, won’t you? What a pity, Master
Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of Copperfield, that you didn’t condescend to return my confi-
his shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never dence! I’m sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never
saw. have condescended to me, as much as I could have wished. I
‘Come then!’ said I. ‘For the sake of Miss Wickfield -’ know you have never liked me, as I have liked you!’
‘My Agnes!’ he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contor- All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp
tion of himself. ‘Would you be so good as call her Agnes, fishy fingers, while I made every effort I decently could to
Master Copperfield!’ get it away. But I was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under
‘For the sake of Agnes Wickfield - Heaven bless her!’ the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured great-coat, and I walked
‘Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!’he in- on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with him.
terposed. ‘Shall we turn?’ said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face
‘I will tell you what I should, under any other circum- about towards the town, on which the early moon was now
stances, as soon have thought of telling to - Jack Ketch.’ shining, silvering the distant windows.
‘To who, sir?’ said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and ‘Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,’
shading his ear with his hand. said I, breaking a pretty long silence, ‘that I believe Agnes
‘To the hangman,’ I returned. ‘The most unlikely person Wickfield to be as far above you, and as far removed from
I could think of,’ - though his own face had suggested the all your aspirations, as that moon herself!’
allusion quite as a natural sequence. ‘I am engaged to an- ‘Peaceful! Ain’t she!’ said Uriah. ‘Very! Now confess,
other young lady. I hope that contents you.’ Master Copperfield, that you haven’t liked me quite as I

have liked you. All along you’ve thought me too umble now, appetite. I stopped at the umble point of my learning, and
I shouldn’t wonder?’ says I, ‘Hold hard!’ When you offered to teach me Latin, I
‘I am not fond of professions of humility,’ I returned, ‘or knew better. ‘People like to be above you,’ says father, ‘keep
professions of anything else.’ ‘There now!’ said Uriah, look- yourself down.’ I am very umble to the present moment,
ing flabby and lead-coloured in the moonlight. ‘Didn’t I Master Copperfield, but I’ve got a little power!’
know it! But how little you think of the rightful umbleness And he said all this - I knew, as I saw his face in the
of a person in my station, Master Copperfield! Father and moonlight - that I might understand he was resolved to rec-
me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys; ompense himself by using his power. I had never doubted
and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort his meanness, his craft and malice; but I fully comprehend-
of charitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of ed now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting, and
umbleness - not much else that I know of, from morning revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by this early,
to night. We was to be umble to this person, and umble to and this long, suppression.
that; and to pull off our caps here, and to make bows there; His account of himself was so far attended with an agree-
and always to know our place, and abase ourselves before able result, that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order
our betters. And we had such a lot of betters! Father got the that he might have another hug of himself under the chin.
monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made Once apart from him, I was determined to keep apart; and
a sexton by being umble. He had the character, among the we walked back, side by side, saying very little more by the
gentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved man, that they way. Whether his spirits were elevated by the communica-
were determined to bring him in. ‘Be umble, Uriah,’ says tion I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this
father to me, ‘and you’ll get on. It was what was always be- retrospect, I don’t know; but they were raised by some in-
ing dinned into you and me at school; it’s what goes down fluence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with him;
best. Be umble,’ says father,’ and you’ll do!’ And really it asked his mother (off duty, from the moment of our re-en-
ain’t done bad!’ tering the house) whether he was not growing too old for a
It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this bachelor; and once looked at Agnes so, that I would have
detestable cant of false humility might have originated out given all I had, for leave to knock him down.
of the Heep family. I had seen the harvest, but had never When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got
thought of the seed. into a more adventurous state. He had taken little or no
‘When I was quite a young boy,’ said Uriah, ‘I got to know wine; and I presume it was the mere insolence of triumph
what umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the temptation my

presence furnished to its exhibition. Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set
I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to
Wickfield to drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow-chair.
had given me as she went out, had limited myself to one ‘I’m an umble individual to give you her elth,’ proceeded
glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would Uriah, ‘but I admire - adore her.’
have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick for me. No physical pain that her father’s grey head could have
‘We seldom see our present visitor, sir,’ he said, address- borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me, than
ing Mr. Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end the mental endurance I saw compressed now within both
of the table, ‘and I should propose to give him welcome in his hands.
another glass or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. ‘Agnes,’ said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not
Copperfield, your elth and appiness!’ knowing what the nature of his action was, ‘Agnes Wick-
I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he field is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak
stretched across to me; and then, with very different emo- out, among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction,
tions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. but to be her usband -’
‘Come, fellow-partner,’ said Uriah, ‘if I may take the Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with
liberty, - now, suppose you give us something or another which her father rose up from the table! ‘What’s the matter?’
appropriate to Copperfield!’ said Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. ‘You are not gone
I pass over Mr. Wickfield’s proposing my aunt, his pro- mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope? If I say I’ve an ambi-
posing Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors’ Commons, his tion to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to
proposing Uriah, his drinking everything twice; his con- it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other
sciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that man!’
he made against it; the struggle between his shame in I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by
Uriah’s deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the everything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love
manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the mo-
and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, ment; tearing out his hair, beating his head, trying to force
and my hand recoils from writing it. me from him, and to force himself from me, not answering
‘Come, fellow-partner!’ said Uriah, at last, ‘I’ll give you a word, not looking at or seeing anyone; blindly striving
another one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted - a
to make it the divinest of her sex.’ frightful spectacle.

I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impas- Uriah, with his long forefinger pointing towards me. ‘He’ll
sioned manner, not to abandon himself to this wildness, but say something presently - mind you! - he’ll be sorry to have
to hear me. I besought him to think of Agnes, to connect said afterwards, and you’ll be sorry to have heard!’
me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I had grown up ‘I’ll say anything!’ cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate
together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was air. ‘Why should I not be in all the world’s power if I am in
his pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in yours?’
any form; I even reproached him with not having firmness ‘Mind! I tell you!’ said Uriah, continuing to warn me.
to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may ‘If you don’t stop his mouth, you’re not his friend! Why
have effected something, or his wildness may have spent it- shouldn’t you be in all the world’s power, Mr. Wickfield?
self; but by degrees he struggled less, and began to look at Because you have got a daughter. You and me know what we
me - strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At know, don’t we? Let sleeping dogs lie - who wants to rouse
length he said, ‘I know, Trotwood! My darling child and ‘em? I don’t. Can’t you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell
you - I know! But look at him!’ you, if I’ve gone too far, I’m sorry. What would you have,
He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, sir?’
evidently very much out in his calculations, and taken by ‘Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!’exclaimed Mr. Wickfield,
surprise. wringing his hands. ‘What I have come down to be, since
‘Look at my torturer,’ he replied. ‘Before him I have step I first saw you in this house! I was on my downward way
by step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed since!
house and home.’ Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remem-
‘I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your brance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief
peace and quiet, and your house and home too,’ said Uriah, for my child’s mother turned to disease; my natural love
with a sulky, hurried, defeated air of compromise. ‘Don’t be for my child turned to disease. I have infected everything
foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what I touched. I have brought misery on what I dearly love, I
you were prepared for, I can go back, I suppose? There’s no know -you know! I thought it possible that I could truly love
harm done.’ one creature in the world, and not love the rest; I thought it
‘I looked for single motives in everyone,’ said Mr. Wick- possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out
field, and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of the world, and not have some part in the grief of all who
of interest. But see what he is - oh, see what he is!’ mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been perverted!
‘You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,’ cried I have preyed on my own morbid coward heart, and it has

preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet
in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see room where Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books.
the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!’ Nobody came near me until late at night. I took up a book,
He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excite- and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike twelve, and was
ment into which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah still reading, without knowing what I read, when Agnes
came out of his corner. touched me.
‘I don’t know all I have done, in my fatuity,’ said Mr. ‘You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let
Wickfield, putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my con- us say good-bye, now!’
demnation. ‘He knows best,’ meaning Uriah Heep, ‘for he She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and
has always been at my elbow, whispering me. You see the beautiful!
millstone that he is about my neck. You find him in my ‘Heaven bless you!’ she said, giving me her hand.
house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a ‘Dearest Agnes!’ I returned, ‘I see you ask me not to speak
little time ago. What need have I to say more!’ of tonight - but is there nothing to be done?’
‘You haven’t need to say so much, nor half so much, nor ‘There is God to trust in!’ she replied.
anything at all,’ observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawn- ‘Can I do nothing- I, who come to you with my poor sor-
ing. ‘You wouldn’t have took it up so, if it hadn’t been for the rows?’
wine. You’ll think better of it tomorrow, sir. If I have said ‘And make mine so much lighter,’ she replied. ‘Dear Trot-
too much, or more than I meant, what of it? I haven’t stood wood, no!’
by it!’ ‘Dear Agnes,’ I said, ‘it is presumptuous for me, who am
The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a ves- so poor in all in which you are so rich - goodness, resolu-
tige of colour in her face, put her arm round his neck, and tion, all noble qualities - to doubt or direct you; but you
steadily said, ‘Papa, you are not well. Come with me!’ know how much I love you, and how much I owe you. You
He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were op- will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty, Ag-
pressed with heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes nes?’
met mine for but an instant, yet I saw how much she knew More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she
of what had passed. took her hands from me, and moved a step back.
‘I didn’t expect he’d cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,’ ‘Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more
said Uriah. ‘But it’s nothing. I’ll be friends with him tomor- than sister! Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as
row. It’s for his good. I’m umbly anxious for his good.’ yours, of such a love as yours!’

Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coach-
me, with its momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, man got up. For anything I know, he was eating something
not regretting. Oh, long, long afterwards, I saw that look to keep the raw morning air out; but he made motions with
subside, as it did now, into the lovely smile, with which she his mouth as if the pear were ripe already, and he were
told me she had no fear for herself - I need have none for smacking his lips over it.
her - and parted from me by the name of Brother, and was
gone!
It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach
at the inn door. The day was just breaking when we were
about to start, and then, as I sat thinking of her, came strug-
gling up the coach side, through the mingled day and night,
Uriah’s head.
‘Copperfield!’ said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung
by the iron on the roof, ‘I thought you’d be glad to hear be-
fore you went off, that there are no squares broke between
us. I’ve been into his room already, and we’ve made it all
smooth. Why, though I’m umble, I’m useful to him, you
know; and he understands his interest when he isn’t in
liquor! What an agreeable man he is, after all, Master Cop-
perfield!’
I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his
apology.
‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Uriah. ‘When a person’s umble, you
know, what’s an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,’ with a
jerk, ‘you have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe,
Master Copperfield?’
‘I suppose I have,’ I replied.
‘I did that last night,’ said Uriah; ‘but it’ll ripen yet! It
only wants attending to. I can wait!’

CHAPTER 40 she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney-piece; and,
resting her left elbow on her right arm, and her chin on her
left hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised
my eyes from what I was about, I met hers. ‘I am in the
THE WANDERER lovingest of tempers, my dear,’ she would assure me with a
nod, ‘but I am fidgeted and sorry!’
I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone
to bed, that she had left her night-mixture, as she always
called it, untasted on the chimney-piece. She came to her
W e had a very serious conversation in Buckingham

Street that night, about the domestic occurrences I
have detailed in the last chapter. My aunt was deeply inter-
door, with even more than her usual affection of manner,
when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery; but
only said, ‘I have not the heart to take it, Trot, tonight,’ and
ested in them, and walked up and down the room with her shook her head, and went in again.
arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenev- She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning,
er she was particularly discomposed, she always performed and approved of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then,
one of these pedestrian feats; and the amount of her dis- but wait, as patiently as I could, for the reply. I was still in
composure might always be estimated by the duration of this state of expectation, and had been, for nearly a week;
her walk. On this occasion she was so much disturbed in when I left the Doctor’s one snowy night, to walk home.
mind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door, and It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind
make a course for herself, comprising the full extent of the had blown for some time. The wind had gone down with the
bedrooms from wall to wall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat light, and so the snow had come on. It was a heavy, settled
quietly by the fire, she kept passing in and out, along this fall, I recollect, in great flakes; and it lay thick. The noise of
measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the regularity wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as if the streets
of a clock-pendulum. had been strewn that depth with feathers.
When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick’s My shortest way home, - and I naturally took the shortest
going out to bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two way on such a night - was through St. Martin’s Lane. Now,
old ladies. By that time she was tired of walking, and sat by the church which gives its name to the lane, stood in a less
the fire with her dress tucked up as usual. But instead of sit- free situation at that time; there being no open space before
ting in her usual manner, holding her glass upon her knee, it, and the lane winding down to the Strand. As I passed the

steps of the portico, I encountered, at the corner, a woman’s ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, patiently shaking his head, ‘I’m away
face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane, and tomorrow.’
disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But I could ‘Where were you going now?’ I asked.
not remember where. I had some association with it, that ‘Well!’ he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, ‘I
struck upon my heart directly; but I was thinking of any- was a-going to turn in somewheers.’
thing else when it came upon me, and was confused. In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard
On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of the Golden Cross, the inn so memorable to me in con-
of a man, who had put down some burden on the smooth nexion with his misfortune, nearly opposite to where we
snow, to adjust it; my seeing the face, and my seeing him, stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm through his,
were simultaneous. I don’t think I had stopped in my sur- and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out
prise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and of the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and find-
came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peg- ing it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in there.
gotty! When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his
Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom hair was long and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark
Emily had given the money that night in the kitchen. Mar- by the sun. He was greyer, the lines in his face and fore-
tha Endell - side by side with whom, he would not have head were deeper, and he had every appearance of having
seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all the treasures toiled and wandered through all varieties of weather; but
wrecked in the sea. he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by steadfast-
We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could ness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the
speak a word. snow from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from
‘Mas’r Davy!’ he said, gripping me tight, ‘it do my art his face, while I was inwardly making these remarks. As he
good to see you, sir. Well met, well met!’ sat down opposite to me at a table, with his back to the door
‘Well met, my dear old friend!’ said I. by which we had entered, he put out his rough hand again,
‘I had my thowts o’ coming to make inquiration for you, and grasped mine warmly.
sir, tonight,’ he said, ‘but knowing as your aunt was living ‘I’ll tell you, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, - ‘wheer all I’ve been,
along wi’ you - fur I’ve been down yonder - Yarmouth way and what-all we’ve heerd. I’ve been fur, and we’ve heerd lit-
- I was afeerd it was too late. I should have come early in the tle; but I’ll tell you!’
morning, sir, afore going away.’ I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have
‘Again?’ said I. nothing stronger than ale; and while it was being brought,

and being warmed at the fire, he sat thinking. There was tant from here, when you’re a-travelling alone.’ I told him,
a fine, massive gravity in his face, I did not venture to dis- best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and went away
turb. through France.’
‘When she was a child,’ he said, lifting up his head soon ‘Alone, and on foot?’ said I.
after we were left alone, ‘she used to talk to me a deal about ‘Mostly a-foot,’ he rejoined; ‘sometimes in carts along
the sea, and about them coasts where the sea got to be dark with people going to market; sometimes in empty coaches.
blue, and to lay a-shining and a-shining in the sun. I thowt, Many mile a day a-foot, and often with some poor soldier or
odd times, as her father being drownded made her think on another, travelling to see his friends. I couldn’t talk to him,’
it so much. I doen’t know, you see, but maybe she believed said Mr. Peggotty, ‘nor he to me; but we was company for
- or hoped - he had drifted out to them parts, where the flow- one another, too, along the dusty roads.’
ers is always a-blowing, and the country bright.’ I should have known that by his friendly tone.
‘It is likely to have been a childish fancy,’ I replied. ‘When I come to any town,’ he pursued, ‘I found the inn,
‘When she was - lost,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I know’d in my and waited about the yard till someone turned up (someone
mind, as he would take her to them countries. I know’d in mostly did) as know’d English. Then I told how that I was
my mind, as he’d have told her wonders of ‘em, and how she on my way to seek my niece, and they told me what man-
was to be a lady theer, and how he got her to listen to him ner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see any
fust, along o’ sech like. When we see his mother, I know’d as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn’t Em’ly, I
quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, went on agen. By little and little, when I come to a new vil-
and landed theer, as if I’d fell down from the sky.’ lage or that, among the poor people, I found they know’d
I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move about me. They would set me down at their cottage doors,
a little more, and a hand softly interpose to keep it open. and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show me
‘I found out an English gen’leman as was in authority,’ where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas’r Davy, as has had
said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and told him I was a-going to seek my a daughter of about Em’ly’s age, I’ve found a-waiting fur
niece. He got me them papers as I wanted fur to carry me me, at Our Saviour’s Cross outside the village, fur to do me
through - I doen’t rightly know how they’re called - and he sim’lar kindnesses. Some has had daughters as was dead.
would have give me money, but that I was thankful to have And God only knows how good them mothers was to me!’
no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I’m sure! ‘I’ve It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening
wrote afore you,’ he says to me, ‘and I shall speak to many face distinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his head,
as will come that way, and many will know you, fur dis- and see her too.

‘They would often put their children - particular their - not to cast it forth.
little girls,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘upon my knee; and many a ‘I never doubted her,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘No! Not a bit!
time you might have seen me sitting at their doors, when On’y let her see my face - on’y let her beer my voice - on’y let
night was coming in, a’most as if they’d been my Darling’s my stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts the home
children. Oh, my Darling!’ she had fled away from, and the child she had been - and if
Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid she had growed to be a royal lady, she’d have fell down at my
my trembling hand upon the hand he put before his face. feet! I know’d it well! Many a time in my sleep had I heerd
‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, ‘doen’t take no notice.’ her cry out, ‘Uncle!’ and seen her fall like death afore me.
In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on Many a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered
his breast, and went on with his story. ‘They often walked to her, ‘Em’ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness,
with me,’ he said, ‘in the morning, maybe a mile or two and to take you home!‘‘
upon my road; and when we parted, and I said, ‘I’m very He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a
thankful to you! God bless you!’ they always seemed to un- sigh.
derstand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. ‘He was nowt to me now. Em’ly was all. I bought a coun-
It warn’t hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like try dress to put upon her; and I know’d that, once found,
me to work his way over to Italy. When I got theer, I wan- she would walk beside me over them stony roads, go where
dered on as I had done afore. The people was just as good I would, and never, never, leave me more. To put that dress
to me, and I should have gone from town to town, may- upon her, and to cast off what she wore - to take her on my
be the country through, but that I got news of her being arm again, and wander towards home - to stop sometimes
seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know’d upon the road, and heal her bruised feet and her worse-
his servant see ‘em there, all three, and told me how they bruised heart - was all that I thowt of now. I doen’t believe I
travelled, and where they was. I made fur them mountains, should have done so much as look at him. But, Mas’r Davy,
Mas’r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur it warn’t to be - not yet! I was too late, and they was gone.
the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come Wheer, I couldn’t learn. Some said beer, some said theer. I
up with ‘em, and I crossed ‘em. When I got nigh the place travelled beer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em’ly,
as I had been told of, I began to think within my own self, and I travelled home.’
‘What shall I do when I see her?‘‘ ‘How long ago?’ I asked.
The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still ‘A matter o’ fower days,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I sighted the
drooped at the door, and the hands begged me - prayed me old boat arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder.

When I come nigh and looked in through the glass, I see Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it! I am kneel-
the faithful creetur Missis Gummidge sittin’ by the fire, as ing down to you, begging and praying you not to be as hard
we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, ‘Doen’t be afeerd! with me as I deserve - as I well, well, know I deserve - but
It’s Dan’l!’ and I went in. I never could have thowt the old to be so gentle and so good, as to write down something of
boat would have been so strange!’ From some pocket in his him, and to send it to me. You need not call me Little, you
breast, he took out, with a very careful hand a small pa- need not call me by the name I have disgraced; but oh, lis-
per bundle containing two or three letters or little packets, ten to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to write me
which he laid upon the table. some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by
‘This fust one come,’ he said, selecting it from the rest, my eyes again!
‘afore I had been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a ‘Dear, if your heart is hard towards me - justly hard, I
sheet of paper, directed to me, and put underneath the door know - but, listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged
in the night. She tried to hide her writing, but she couldn’t the most - him whose wife I was to have been - before you
hide it from Me!’ quite decide against my poor poor prayer! If he should be
He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, so compassionate as to say that you might write something
in exactly the same form, and laid it on one side. for me to read - I think he would, oh, I think he would, if
‘This come to Missis Gummidge,’ he said, opening an- you would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so
other, ‘two or three months ago.’After looking at it for some forgiving - tell him then (but not else), that when I hear the
moments, he gave it to me, and added in a low voice, ‘Be so wind blowing at night, I feel as if it was passing angrily from
good as read it, sir.’ seeing him and uncle, and was going up to God against me.
I read as follows: Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and oh, if I was fit, I
‘Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and uncle with
know it comes from my wicked hand! But try, try - not for my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
my sake, but for uncle’s goodness, try to let your heart soft- breath!’
en to me, only for a little little time! Try, pray do, to relent Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds.
towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of paper It was untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it
whether he is well, and what he said about me before you in the same way. Detailed instructions were added relative
left off ever naming me among yourselves - and whether, of to the address of a reply, which, although they betrayed the
a night, when it is my old time of coming home, you ever intervention of several hands, and made it difficult to arrive
see him look as if he thought of one he used to love so dear. at any very probable conclusion in reference to her place of

concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had writ- a man’s wanted for rough sarvice in rough weather, he’s
ten from that spot where she was stated to have been seen. theer. When there’s hard duty to be done with danger in it,
‘What answer was sent?’ I inquired of Mr. Peggotty. he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yet he’s as gentle as
‘Missis Gummidge,’ he returned, ‘not being a good schol- any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’t know
ar, sir, Ham kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on him.’
it. They told her I was gone to seek her, and what my part- He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them
ing words was.’ with his hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed
‘Is that another letter in your hand?’ said I. it tenderly in his breast again. The face was gone from the
‘It’s money, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little door. I still saw the snow drifting in; but nothing else was
way. ‘Ten pound, you see. And wrote inside, ‘From a true there.
friend,’ like the fust. But the fust was put underneath the ‘Well!’ he said, looking to his bag, ‘having seen you to-
door, and this come by the post, day afore yesterday. I’m a- night, Mas’r Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away
going to seek her at the post-mark.’ betimes tomorrow morning. You have seen what I’ve got
He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. heer’; putting his hand on where the little packet lay; ‘all that
He had found out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who troubles me is, to think that any harm might come to me,
knew that country, and they had drawn him a rude map afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was
on paper, which he could very well understand. He laid it lost, or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was nev-
between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one er know’d by him but what I’d took it, I believe the t’other
hand, tracked his course upon it with the other. wureld wouldn’t hold me! I believe I must come back!’
I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head. He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the
‘He works,’ he said, ‘as bold as a man can. His name’s hand again, before going out.
as good, in all that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the ‘I’d go ten thousand mile,’ he said, ‘I’d go till I dropped
wureld. Anyone’s hand is ready to help him, you under- dead, to lay that money down afore him. If I do that, and
stand, and his is ready to help them. He’s never been heerd find my Em’ly, I’m content. If I doen’t find her, maybe she’ll
fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is (’twixt ourselves) as come to hear, sometime, as her loving uncle only ended
it has cut him deep.’ his search for her when he ended his life; and if I know her,
‘Poor fellow, I can believe it!’ even that will turn her home at last!’
‘He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty in a sol- As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely
emn whisper - ‘kinder no care no-how for his life. When figure flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pre-

tence, and held him in conversation until it was gone.
He spoke of a traveller’s house on the Dover Road, where CHAPTER 41
he knew he could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I
went with him over Westminster Bridge, and parted from
him on the Surrey shore. Everything seemed, to my imagi-
nation, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he resumed his DORA’S AUNTS
solitary journey through the snow.
I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remem-
brance of the face, looked awfully around for it. It was not
there. The snow had covered our late footprints; my new
track was the only one to be seen; and even that began to die
away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back over my shoulder.
A t last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They
presented their compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and
informed him that they had given his letter their best con-
sideration, ‘with a view to the happiness of both parties’
- which I thought rather an alarming expression, not only
because of the use they had made of it in relation to the fam-
ily difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have
all my life) observed that conventional phrases are a sort
of fireworks, easily let off, and liable to take a great variety
of shapes and colours not at all suggested by their original
form. The Misses Spenlow added that they begged to for-
bear expressing, ‘through the medium of correspondence’,
an opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield’s communica-
tion; but that if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour
to call, upon a certain day (accompanied, if he thought
proper, by a confidential friend), they would be happy to
hold some conversation on the subject.
To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with
his respectful compliments, that he would have the honour
of waiting on the Misses Spenlow, at the time appointed;

accompanied, in accordance with their kind permission, by that might impair my severely practical character in the
his friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple. Hav- eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavoured to hit a happy
ing dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a medium between these two extremes; my aunt approved
condition of strong nervous agitation; and so remained un- the result; and Mr. Dick threw one of his shoes after Trad-
til the day arrived. dles and me, for luck, as we went downstairs.
It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be be- Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly
reaved, at this eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of attached to him as I was, I could not help wishing, on that
Miss Mills. But Mr. Mills, who was always doing something delicate occasion, that he had never contracted the habit of
or other to annoy me - or I felt as if he were, which was the brushing his hair so very upright. It gave him a surprised
same thing - had brought his conduct to a climax, by tak- look - not to say a hearth-broomy kind of expression - which,
ing it into his head that he would go to India. Why should my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.
he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure he had noth- I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were
ing to do with any other part of the world, and had a good walking to Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth
deal to do with that part; being entirely in the India trade, it down a little -
whatever that was (I had floating dreams myself concerning ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, lifting off his hat,
golden shawls and elephants’ teeth); having been at Calcut- and rubbing his hair all kinds of ways, ‘nothing would give
ta in his youth; and designing now to go out there again, me greater pleasure. But it won’t.’
in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to ‘Won’t be smoothed down?’ said I.
me. However, it was so much to him that for India he was ‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing will induce it. If I was to
bound, and Julia with him; and Julia went into the country carry a half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney,
to take leave of her relations; and the house was put into a it would be up again the moment the weight was taken off.
perfect suit of bills, announcing that it was to be let or sold, You have no idea what obstinate hair mine is, Copperfield. I
and that the furniture (Mangle and all) was to be taken at am quite a fretful porcupine.’
a valuation. So, here was another earthquake of which I be- I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly
came the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of its charmed by his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed
predecessor! his good-nature; and said that his hair must have taken all
I was in several minds how to dress myself on the im- the obstinacy out of his character, for he had none.
portant day; being divided between my desire to appear to ‘Oh!’ returned Traddles, laughing. ‘I assure you, it’s quite
advantage, and my apprehensions of putting on anything an old story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle’s wife couldn’t

bear it. She said it exasperated her. It stood very much in my scream and became insensible. I couldn’t approach the sub-
way, too, when I first fell in love with Sophy. Very much!’ ject again, for months.’
‘Did she object to it?’ ‘You did at last?’ said I.
‘SHE didn’t,’ rejoined Traddles; ‘but her eldest sister - the ‘Well, the Reverend Horace did,’ said Traddles. ‘He is
one that’s the Beauty - quite made game of it, I understand. an excellent man, most exemplary in every way; and he
In fact, all the sisters laugh at it.’ pointed out to her that she ought, as a Christian, to recon-
‘Agreeable!’ said I. cile herself to the sacrifice (especially as it was so uncertain),
‘Yes,’ returned Traddles with perfect innocence, ‘it’s a and to bear no uncharitable feeling towards me. As to my-
joke for us. They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her self, Copperfield, I give you my word, I felt a perfect bird of
desk, and is obliged to shut it in a clasped book, to keep it prey towards the family.’
down. We laugh about it.’ ‘The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?’
‘By the by, my dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘your experience ‘Why, I can’t say they did,’ he returned. ‘When we had
may suggest something to me. When you became engaged comparatively reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to
to the young lady whom you have just mentioned, did you break it to Sarah. You recollect my mentioning Sarah, as
make a regular proposal to her family? Was there anything the one that has something the matter with her spine?’
like - what we are going through today, for instance?’ I add- ‘Perfectly!’
ed, nervously. ‘She clenched both her hands,’ said Traddles, looking at
‘Why,’ replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a me in dismay; ‘shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became
thoughtful shade had stolen, ‘it was rather a painful trans- perfectly stiff; and took nothing for two days but toast-and-
action, Copperfield, in my case. You see, Sophy being of water, administered with a tea-spoon.’
so much use in the family, none of them could endure the ‘What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!’ I remarked.
thought of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!’ said Traddles. ‘She
settled among themselves that she never was to be married, is a very charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In
and they called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I men- fact, they all have. Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-
tioned it, with the greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler -’ reproach she underwent while she was in attendance upon
‘The mama?’ said I. Sarah, no words could describe. I know it must have been
‘The mama,’ said Traddles - ‘Reverend Horace Crewl- severe, by my own feelings, Copperfield; which were like a
er - when I mentioned it with every possible precaution to criminal’s. After Sarah was restored, we still had to break
Mrs. Crewler, the effect upon her was such that she gave a it to the other eight; and it produced various effects upon

them of a most pathetic nature. The two little ones, whom tious snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing
Sophy educates, have only just left off de-testing me.’ an old-fashioned clock ticking away on the chimney-piece,
‘At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?’ said and trying to make it keep time to the jerking of my heart,
I. - which it wouldn’t. Also of looking round the room for any
‘Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that Jip once
it,’ said Traddles, doubtfully. ‘The fact is, we avoid mention- barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by some-
ing the subject; and my unsettled prospects and indifferent body. Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the
circumstances are a great consolation to them. There will fireplace, and bowing in great confusion to two dry little el-
be a deplorable scene, whenever we are married. It will be derly ladies, dressed in black, and each looking wonderfully
much more like a funeral, than a wedding. And they’ll all like a preparation in chip or tan of the late Mr. Spenlow.
hate me for taking her away!’ ‘Pray,’ said one of the two little ladies, ‘be seated.’
His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat
shake of his head, impresses me more in the remembrance upon something which was not a cat - my first seat was - I
than it did in the reality, for I was by this time in a state of so far recovered my sight, as to perceive that Mr. Spenlow
such excessive trepidation and wandering of mind, as to be had evidently been the youngest of the family; that there
quite unable to fix my attention on anything. On our ap- was a disparity of six or eight years between the two sis-
proaching the house where the Misses Spenlow lived, I was ters; and that the younger appeared to be the manager of
at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and pres- the conference, inasmuch as she had my letter in her hand
ence of mind, that Traddles proposed a gentle stimulant in - so familiar as it looked to me, and yet so odd! - and was re-
the form of a glass of ale. This having been administered at ferring to it through an eye-glass. They were dressed alike,
a neighbouring public-house, he conducted me, with totter- but this sister wore her dress with a more youthful air than
ing steps, to the Misses Spenlow’s door. the other; and perhaps had a trifle more frill, or tucker, or
I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, brooch, or bracelet, or some little thing of that kind, which
when the maid opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across made her look more lively. They were both upright in their
a hall with a weather-glass in it, into a quiet little draw- carriage, formal, precise, composed, and quiet. The sister
ing-room on the ground-floor, commanding a neat garden. who had not my letter, had her arms crossed on her breast,
Also of sitting down here, on a sofa, and seeing Traddles’s and resting on each other, like an Idol.
hair start up, now his hat was removed, like one of those ‘Mr. Copperfield, I believe,’ said the sister who had got
obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of ficti- my letter, addressing herself to Traddles.

This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate tory of this matter. Our poor brother Francis’s death has
that I was Mr. Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to my- cancelled that.’
self, and they had to divest themselves of a preconceived ‘We had not,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘been in the habit of fre-
opinion that Traddles was Mr. Copperfield, and altogether quent association with our brother Francis; but there was
we were in a nice condition. To improve it, we all distinctly no decided division or disunion between us. Francis took
heard Jip give two short barks, and receive another choke. his road; we took ours. We considered it conducive to the
‘Mr. Copperfield!’ said the sister with the letter. happiness of all parties that it should be so. And it was so.’
I did something - bowed, I suppose - and was all atten- Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook
tion, when the other sister struck in. her head after speaking, and became upright again when
‘My sister Lavinia,’ said she ‘being conversant with silent. Miss Clarissa never moved her arms. She sometimes
matters of this nature, will state what we consider most cal- played tunes upon them with her fingers - minuets and
culated to promote the happiness of both parties.’ marches I should think - but never moved them.
I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an au- ‘Our niece’s position, or supposed position, is much
thority in affairs of the heart, by reason of there having changed by our brother Francis’s death,’ said Miss Lavinia;
anciently existed a certain Mr. Pidger, who played short ‘and therefore we consider our brother’s opinions as regard-
whist, and was supposed to have been enamoured of her. ed her position as being changed too. We have no reason
My private opinion is, that this was entirely a gratuitous as- to doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you are a young gentleman
sumption, and that Pidger was altogether innocent of any possessed of good qualities and honourable character; or
such sentiments - to which he had never given any sort of that you have an affection - or are fully persuaded that you
expression that I could ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia and have an affection - for our niece.’
Miss Clarissa had a superstition, however, that he would I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that
have declared his passion, if he had not been cut short in nobody had ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Trad-
his youth (at about sixty) by over-drinking his constitution, dles came to my assistance with a confirmatory murmur.
and over-doing an attempt to set it right again by swilling Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when
Bath water. They had a lurking suspicion even, that he died Miss Clarissa, who appeared to be incessantly beset by a de-
of secret love; though I must say there was a picture of him sire to refer to her brother Francis, struck in again:
in the house with a damask nose, which concealment did ‘If Dora’s mama,’ she said, ‘when she married our brother
not appear to have ever preyed upon. Francis, had at once said that there was not room for the
‘We will not,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘enter on the past his- family at the dinner-table, it would have been better for the

happiness of all parties.’ say so? Let our brother Francis and his wife have their so-
‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia. ‘Perhaps we needn’t ciety. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our society. We
mind that now.’ can find it for ourselves, I hope.’
‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘it belongs to the sub- As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me,
ject. With your branch of the subject, on which alone you both Traddles and I made some sort of reply. Traddles was
are competent to speak, I should not think of interfering. inaudible. I think I observed, myself, that it was highly
On this branch of the subject I have a voice and an opinion. creditable to all concerned. I don’t in the least know what
It would have been better for the happiness of all parties, if I meant.
Dora’s mama, when she married our brother Francis, had ‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved
mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should her mind, ‘you can go on, my dear.’
then have known what we had to expect. We should have Miss Lavinia proceeded:
said ‘Pray do not invite us, at any time”; and all possibility ‘Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very
of misunderstanding would have been avoided.’ careful indeed in considering this letter; and we have not
When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia considered it without finally showing it to our niece, and
resumed: again referring to my letter through her eye-glass. discussing it with our niece. We have no doubt that you
They both had little bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, think you like her very much.’
which were like birds’ eyes. They were not unlike birds, al- ‘Think, ma’am,’ I rapturously began, ‘oh! -’
together; having a sharp, brisk, sudden manner, and a little But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp ca-
short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like canaries. nary), as requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I
Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed: begged pardon.
‘You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, ‘Affection,’ said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for
Mr. Copperfield, to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to
niece.’ every clause, ‘mature affection, homage, devotion, does not
‘If our brother Francis,’ said Miss Clarissa, breaking out easily express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retir-
again, if I may call anything so calm a breaking out, ‘wished ing, it lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature
to surround himself with an atmosphere of Doctors’ Com- fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripen-
mons, and of Doctors’ Commons only, what right or desire ing in the shade.’
had we to object? None, I am sure. We have ever been far Of course I did not understand then that this was an al-
from wishing to obtrude ourselves on anyone. But why not lusion to her supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but

I saw, from the gravity with which Miss Clarissa nodded her knew how I loved her, and how earnest my love had made
head, that great weight was attached to these words. me. For the truth of this, I appealed to Traddles. And Trad-
‘The light - for I call them, in comparison with such dles, firing up as if he were plunging into a Parliamentary
sentiments, the light - inclinations of very young people,’ Debate, really did come out nobly: confirming me in good
pursued Miss Lavinia, ‘are dust, compared to rocks. It is round terms, and in a plain sensible practical manner, that
owing to the difficulty of knowing whether they are likely evidently made a favourable impression.
to endure or have any real foundation, that my sister Clar- ‘I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some
issa and myself have been very undecided how to act, Mr. little experience of such things,’ said Traddles, ‘being myself
Copperfield, and Mr. -’ engaged to a young lady - one of ten, down in Devonshire
‘Traddles,’ said my friend, finding himself looked at. - and seeing no probability, at present, of our engagement
‘I beg pardon. Of the Inner Temple, I believe?’ said Miss coming to a termination.’
Clarissa, again glancing at my letter. ‘You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Trad-
Traddles said ‘Exactly so,’ and became pretty red in the dles,’ observed Miss Lavinia, evidently taking a new interest
face. in him, ‘of the affection that is modest and retiring; that
Now, although I had not received any express encour- waits and waits?’
agement as yet, I fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, ‘Entirely, ma’am,’ said Traddles.
and particularly in Miss Lavinia, an intensified enjoyment Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Lavinia, and shook her head
of this new and fruitful subject of domestic interest, a set- gravely. Miss Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissa,
tling down to make the most of it, a disposition to pet it, and heaved a little sigh. ‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa,
in which there was a good bright ray of hope. I thought I ‘take my smelling-bottle.’
perceived that Miss Lavinia would have uncommon satis- Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromat-
faction in superintending two young lovers, like Dora and ic vinegar - Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude
me; and that Miss Clarissa would have hardly less satisfac- the while; and then went on to say, rather faintly:
tion in seeing her superintend us, and in chiming in with ‘My sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr.
her own particular department of the subject whenever that Traddles, what course we ought to take in reference to the
impulse was strong upon her. This gave me courage to pro- likings, or imaginary likings, of such very young people as
test most vehemently that I loved Dora better than I could your friend Mr. Copperfield and our niece.’
tell, or anyone believe; that all my friends knew how I loved ‘Our brother Francis’s child,’ remarked Miss Clarissa. ‘If
her; that my aunt, Agnes, Traddles, everyone who knew me, our brother Francis’s wife had found it convenient in her

lifetime (though she had an unquestionable right to act as ‘In this position of affairs,’ said Miss Lavinia, again
she thought best) to invite the family to her dinner-table, referring to her notes, ‘and admitting his visits on this un-
we might have known our brother Francis’s child better at derstanding only, we must require from Mr. Copperfield
the present moment. Sister Lavinia, proceed.’ a distinct assurance, on his word of honour, that no com-
Miss Lavinia turned my letter, so as to bring the su- munication of any kind shall take place between him and
perscription towards herself, and referred through her our niece without our knowledge. That no project whatever
eye-glass to some orderly-looking notes she had made on shall be entertained with regard to our niece, without being
that part of it. first submitted to us -’ ‘To you, sister Lavinia,’ Miss Clarissa
‘It seems to us,’ said she, ‘prudent, Mr. Traddles, to bring interposed.
these feelings to the test of our own observation. At pres- ‘Be it so, Clarissa!’ assented Miss Lavinia resignedly - ‘to
ent we know nothing of them, and are not in a situation to me - and receiving our concurrence. We must make this a
judge how much reality there may be in them. Therefore we most express and serious stipulation, not to be broken on
are inclined so far to accede to Mr. Copperfield’s proposal, any account. We wished Mr. Copperfield to be accompa-
as to admit his visits here.’ nied by some confidential friend today,’ with an inclination
‘I shall never, dear ladies,’ I exclaimed, relieved of an im- of her head towards Traddles, who bowed, ‘in order that
mense load of apprehension, ‘forget your kindness!’ there might be no doubt or misconception on this subject.
‘But,’ pursued Miss Lavinia, - ‘but, we would prefer to If Mr. Copperfield, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel the least
regard those visits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us. scruple, in giving this promise, I beg you to take time to
We must guard ourselves from recognizing any positive en- consider it.’
gagement between Mr. Copperfield and our niece, until we I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a
have had an opportunity -’ moment’s consideration could be necessary. I bound myself
‘Until YOU have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia,’ said by the required promise, in a most impassioned manner;
Miss Clarissa. called upon Traddles to witness it; and denounced myself
‘Be it so,’ assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh - ‘until I have as the most atrocious of characters if I ever swerved from it
had an opportunity of observing them.’ in the least degree.
‘Copperfield,’ said Traddles, turning to me, ‘you feel, I ‘Stay!’ said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand; ‘we re-
am sure, that nothing could be more reasonable or consid- solved, before we had the pleasure of receiving you two
erate.’ gentlemen, to leave you alone for a quarter of an hour, to
‘Nothing!’ cried I. ‘I am deeply sensible of it.’ consider this point. You will allow us to retire.’

It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was to receive visits, and return them. When it is better for the
necessary. They persisted in withdrawing for the specified happiness of all parties that no visiting should take place,
time. Accordingly, these little birds hopped out with great (as in the case of our brother Francis, and his establishment)
dignity; leaving me to receive the congratulations of Trad- that is quite different.’
dles, and to feel as if I were translated to regions of exquisite I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted
happiness. Exactly at the expiration of the quarter of an to make their acquaintance; though I must say I was not
hour, they reappeared with no less dignity than they had quite sure of their getting on very satisfactorily together.
disappeared. They had gone rustling away as if their little The conditions being now closed, I expressed my acknowl-
dresses were made of autumn-leaves: and they came rus- edgements in the warmest manner; and, taking the hand,
tling back, in like manner. first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressed it,
I then bound myself once more to the prescribed condi- in each case, to my lips.
tions. Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to
‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘the rest is with you.’ excuse us for a minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed,
Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took all in a tremble, and was conducted into another room.
the notes and glanced at them. There I found my blessed darling stopping her ears behind
‘We shall be happy,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘to see Mr. Cop- the door, with her dear little face against the wall; and Jip in
perfield to dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel.
convenience. Our hour is three.’ Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how
I bowed. she sobbed and cried at first, and wouldn’t come out from
‘In the course of the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘we shall behind the door! How fond we were of one another, when
be happy to see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half- she did come out at last; and what a state of bliss I was in,
past six.’ when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored him
I bowed again. to the light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunit-
‘Twice in the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘but, as a rule, not ed!
oftener.’ ‘My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!’
I bowed again. ‘Oh, DON’T!’ pleaded Dora. ‘Please!’
‘Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘mentioned in Mr. ‘Are you not my own for ever, Dora?’
Copperfield’s letter, will perhaps call upon us. When vis- ‘Oh yes, of course I am!’ cried Dora, ‘but I am so fright-
iting is better for the happiness of all parties, we are glad ened!’

‘Frightened, my own?’ ‘Nothing could be more satisfactory,’ said Traddles; ‘and
‘Oh yes! I don’t like him,’ said Dora. ‘Why don’t he go?’ they are very agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn’t be
‘Who, my life?’ at all surprised if you were to be married years before me,
‘Your friend,’ said Dora. ‘It isn’t any business of his. What Copperfield.’
a stupid he must be!’ ‘Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?’ I
‘My love!’ (There never was anything so coaxing as her inquired, in the pride of my heart.
childish ways.) ‘He is the best creature!’ ‘She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little
‘Oh, but we don’t want any best creatures!’ pouted Dora. sisters,’ said Traddles.
‘My dear,’ I argued, ‘you will soon know him well, and ‘Does she sing at all?’ I asked.
like him of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon; ‘Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the
and you’ll like her of all things too, when you know her.’ others a little when they’re out of spirits,’ said Traddles.
‘No, please don’t bring her!’ said Dora, giving me a hor- ‘Nothing scientific.’
rified little kiss, and folding her hands. ‘Don’t. I know she’s ‘She doesn’t sing to the guitar?’ said I.
a naughty, mischief-making old thing! Don’t let her come ‘Oh dear no!’ said Traddles.
here, Doady!’ which was a corruption of David. ‘Paint at all?’
Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and ‘Not at all,’ said Traddles.
admired, and was very much in love and very happy; and I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and
she showed me Jip’s new trick of standing on his hind legs see some of her flower-painting. He said he should like it
in a corner - which he did for about the space of a flash of very much, and we went home arm in arm in great good
lightning, and then fell down - and I don’t know how long humour and delight. I encouraged him to talk about Sophy,
I should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles, if Miss on the way; which he did with a loving reliance on her that I
Lavinia had not come in to take me away. Miss Lavinia was very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora,
very fond of Dora (she told me Dora was exactly like what with considerable inward satisfaction; but I candidly admit-
she had been herself at her age - she must have altered a ted to myself that she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl
good deal), and she treated Dora just as if she had been a toy. for Traddles, too.
I wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted
on my proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked with the successful issue of the conference, and with all that
herself in; so I went to Traddles without her, and walked had been said and done in the course of it. She was happy to
away with him on air. see me so happy, and promised to call on Dora’s aunts with-

out loss of time. But she took such a long walk up and down her head, without at all deferring to the prejudices of civ-
our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes, that I ilization on that subject. But Dora’s aunts soon agreed to
began to think she meant to walk till morning. regard my aunt as an eccentric and somewhat masculine
My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrat- lady, with a strong understanding; and although my aunt
ing all the good effects that had resulted from my following occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora’s aunts, by express-
her advice. She wrote, by return of post, to me. Her letter ing heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she
was hopeful, earnest, and cheerful. She was always cheerful loved me too well not to sacrifice some of her little pecu-
from that time. liarities to the general harmony.
I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily jour- The only member of our small society who positively re-
neys to Highgate considered, Putney was a long way off; fused to adapt himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never
and I naturally wanted to go there as often as I could. The saw my aunt without immediately displaying every tooth in
proposed tea-drinkings being quite impracticable, I com- his head, retiring under a chair, and growling incessantly:
pounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit every with now and then a doleful howl, as if she really were too
Saturday afternoon, without detriment to my privileged much for his feelings. All kinds of treatment were tried with
Sundays. So, the close of every week was a delicious time him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Bucking-
for me; and I got through the rest of the week by looking ham Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to the
forward to it. terror of all beholders); but he never could prevail upon him-
I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Do- self to bear my aunt’s society. He would sometimes think he
ra’s aunts rubbed on, all things considered, much more had got the better of his objection, and be amiable for a few
smoothly than I could have expected. My aunt made her minutes; and then would put up his snub nose, and howl to
promised visit within a few days of the conference; and that extent, that there was nothing for it but to blind him
within a few more days, Dora’s aunts called upon her, in due and put him in the plate-warmer. At length, Dora regularly
state and form. Similar but more friendly exchanges took muffled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my
place afterwards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. aunt was reported at the door.
I know that my aunt distressed Dora’s aunts very much, by One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into
utterly setting at naught the dignity of fly-conveyance, and this quiet train. It was, that Dora seemed by one consent
walking out to Putney at extraordinary times, as shortly to be regarded like a pretty toy or plaything. My aunt, with
after breakfast or just before tea; likewise by wearing her whom she gradually became familiar, always called her Lit-
bonnet in any manner that happened to be comfortable to tle Blossom; and the pleasure of Miss Lavinia’s life was to

wait upon her, curl her hair, make ornaments for her, and bud of her mouth; ‘and I’ll be good.’
treat her like a pet child. What Miss Lavinia did, her sister I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own
did as a matter of course. It was very odd to me; but they all accord, to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of,
seemed to treat Dora, in her degree, much as Dora treated and to show her how to keep accounts as I had once prom-
Jip in his. ised I would. I brought the volume with me on my next
I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry
one day when we were out walking (for we were licensed by and more inviting); and as we strolled about the Common,
Miss Lavinia, after a while, to go out walking by ourselves), I showed her an old housekeeping-book of my aunt’s, and
I said to her that I wished she could get them to behave to- gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case and
wards her differently. box of leads, to practise housekeeping with.
‘Because you know, my darling,’ I remonstrated, ‘you are But the cookery-book made Dora’s head ache, and the
not a child.’ figures made her cry. They wouldn’t add up, she said. So she
‘There!’ said Dora. ‘Now you’re going to be cross!’ rubbed them out, and drew little nosegays and likenesses of
‘Cross, my love?’ me and Jip, all over the tablets.
‘I am sure they’re very kind to me,’ said Dora, ‘and I am Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domes-
very happy -’ tic matters, as we walked about on a Saturday afternoon.
‘Well! But my dearest life!’ said I, ‘you might be very hap- Sometimes, for example, when we passed a butcher’s shop,
py, and yet be treated rationally.’ I would say:
Dora gave me a reproachful look - the prettiest look! - ‘Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you
and then began to sob, saying, if I didn’t like her, why had I were going to buy a shoulder of mutton for dinner, would
ever wanted so much to be engaged to her? And why didn’t you know how to buy it?’
I go away, now, if I couldn’t bear her? My pretty little Dora’s face would fall, and she would
What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how make her mouth into a bud again, as if she would very much
I doted on her, after that! prefer to shut mine with a kiss.
‘I am sure I am very affectionate,’ said Dora; ‘you oughtn’t ‘Would you know how to buy it, my darling?’ I would re-
to be cruel to me, Doady!’ peat, perhaps, if I were very inflexible.
‘Cruel, my precious love! As if I would - or could - be Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with
cruel to you, for the world!’ great triumph:
‘Then don’t find fault with me,’ said Dora, making a rose- ‘Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what

need I know? Oh, you silly boy!’
So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery- CHAPTER 42
book, what she would do, if we were married, and I were to
say I should like a nice Irish stew, she replied that she would
tell the servant to make it; and then clapped her little hands
together across my arm, and laughed in such a charming MISCHIEF
manner that she was more delightful than ever.
Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-
book was devoted, was being put down in the corner for
Jip to stand upon. But Dora was so pleased, when she had
trained him to stand upon it without offering to come off,
and at the same time to hold the pencil-case in his mouth,
I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this
manuscript is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard
I worked at that tremendous short-hand, and all improve-
that I was very glad I had bought it. ment appertaining to it, in my sense of responsibility to
And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower- Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have already
painting, and the songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a
ra la! and were as happy as the week was long. I occasion- patient and continuous energy which then began to be ma-
ally wished I could venture to hint to Miss Lavinia, that she tured within me, and which I know to be the strong part
treated the darling of my heart a little too much like a play- of my character, if it have any strength at all, that there, on
thing; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wondering to find looking back, I find the source of my success. I have been
that I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her like a very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have worked
plaything too - but not often. much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never
could have done what I have done, without the habits of
punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determina-
tion to concentrate myself on one object at a time, no matter
how quickly its successor should come upon its heels, which
I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit of self-
laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,
in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been
a good man indeed, if he would be spared the sharp con-

sciousness of many talents neglected, many opportunities had engaged to find a lodging in the neighbourhood for
wasted, many erratic and perverted feelings constantly at Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic complaint required change of
war within his breast, and defeating him. I do not hold one air, and who would be charmed to have it in such company.
natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My mean- Neither was I surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah,
ing simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have like a dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take pos-
tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have de- session.
voted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in ‘You see, Master Copperfield,’ said he, as he forced him-
great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in self upon my company for a turn in the Doctor’s garden,
earnest. I have never believed it possible that any natural or ‘where a person loves, a person is a little jealous - leastways,
improved ability can claim immunity from the companion- anxious to keep an eye on the beloved one.’
ship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope ‘Of whom are you jealous, now?’ said I.
to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment ‘Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,’ he returned, ‘of no
on this earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate op- one in particular just at present - no male person, at least.’
portunity, may form the two sides of the ladder on which ‘Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?’
some men mount, but the rounds of that ladder must be He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes,
made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no sub- and laughed.
stitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness. ‘Really, Master Copperfield,’ he said, ‘- I should say Mis-
Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw ter, but I know you’ll excuse the abit I’ve got into - you’re
my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, so insinuating, that you draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I
whatever it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules. don’t mind telling you,’ putting his fish-like hand on mine,
How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, ‘I’m not a lady’s man in general, sir, and I never was, with
I owe to Agnes, I will not repeat here. My narrative pro- Mrs. Strong.’
ceeds to Agnes, with a thankful love. His eyes looked green now, as they watched mine with a
She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor’s. Mr. rascally cunning.
Wickfield was the Doctor’s old friend, and the Doctor ‘What do you mean?’ said I.
wished to talk with him, and do him good. It had been mat- ‘Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,’ he re-
ter of conversation with Agnes when she was last in town, plied, with a dry grin, ‘I mean, just at present, what I say.’
and this visit was the result. She and her father came to- ‘And what do you mean by your look?’ I retorted, qui-
gether. I was not much surprised to hear from her that she etly.

‘By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that’s sharp practice! ‘He never could come into the office, without ordering
What do I mean by my look?’ and shoving me about,’ said Uriah. ‘One of your fine gentle-
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘By your look.’ men he was! I was very meek and umble - and I am. But I
He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily didn’t like that sort of thing - and I don’t!’
as it was in his nature to laugh. After some scraping of his He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks un-
chin with his hand, he went on to say, with his eyes cast til they seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance
downward - still scraping, very slowly: upon me all the while.
‘When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down ‘She is one of your lovely women, she is,’ he pursued,
upon me. She was for ever having my Agnes backwards and when he had slowly restored his face to its natural form;
forwards at her ouse, and she was for ever being a friend to ‘and ready to be no friend to such as me, I know. She’s just
you, Master Copperfield; but I was too far beneath her, my- the person as would put my Agnes up to higher sort of game.
self, to be noticed.’ Now, I ain’t one of your lady’s men, Master Copperfield; but
‘Well?’ said I; ‘suppose you were!’ I’ve had eyes in my ed, a pretty long time back. We umble
‘- And beneath him too,’ pursued Uriah, very distinctly, ones have got eyes, mostly speaking - and we look out of
and in a meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape ‘em.’
his chin. I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted,
‘Don’t you know the Doctor better,’ said I, ‘than to sup- but, I saw in his face, with poor success.
pose him conscious of your existence, when you were not ‘Now, I’m not a-going to let myself be run down, Cop-
before him?’ perfield,’ he continued, raising that part of his countenance,
He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, where his red eyebrows would have been if he had had any,
and he made his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater with malignant triumph, ‘and I shall do what I can to put
convenience of scraping, as he answered: a stop to this friendship. I don’t approve of it. I don’t mind
‘Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor! Oh no, poor acknowledging to you that I’ve got rather a grudging dispo-
man! I mean Mr. Maldon!’ sition, and want to keep off all intruders. I ain’t a-going, if I
My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and know it, to run the risk of being plotted against.’
apprehensions on that subject, all the Doctor’s happiness ‘You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the be-
and peace, all the mingled possibilities of innocence and lief that everybody else is doing the like, I think,’ said I.
compromise, that I could not unravel, I saw, in a moment, ‘Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve got
at the mercy of this fellow’s twisting. a motive, as my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it

tooth and nail. I mustn’t be put upon, as a numble person, I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in
too much. I can’t allow people in my way. Really they must any case; but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well.
come out of the cart, Master Copperfield!’ She was not in the drawing-room when I presented Agnes
‘I don’t understand you,’ said I. to her little aunts, but was shyly keeping out of the way. I
‘Don’t you, though?’ he returned, with one of his jerks. knew where to look for her, now; and sure enough I found
‘I’m astonished at that, Master Copperfield, you being usu- her stopping her ears again, behind the same dull old door.
ally so quick! I’ll try to be plainer, another time. - Is that Mr. At first she wouldn’t come at all; and then she pleaded for
Maldon a-norseback, ringing at the gate, sir?’ five minutes by my watch. When at length she put her arm
‘It looks like him,’ I replied, as carelessly as I could. through mine, to be taken to the drawing-room, her charm-
Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great ing little face was flushed, and had never been so pretty. But,
knobs of knees, and doubled himself up with laughter. With when we went into the room, and it turned pale, she was ten
perfectly silent laughter. Not a sound escaped from him. I thousand times prettier yet.
was so repelled by his odious behaviour, particularly by this Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew
concluding instance, that I turned away without any cer- Agnes was ‘too clever’. But when she saw her looking at once
emony; and left him doubled up in the middle of the garden, so cheerful and so earnest, and so thoughtful, and so good,
like a scarecrow in want of support. she gave a faint little cry of pleased surprise, and just put
It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on her affectionate arms round Agnes’s neck, and laid her in-
the next evening but one, which was a Sunday; that I took nocent cheek against her face.
Agnes to see Dora. I had arranged the visit, beforehand, I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I
with Miss Lavinia; and Agnes was expected to tea. saw those two sit down together, side by side. As when I saw
I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear my little darling looking up so naturally to those cordial
little betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All eyes. As when I saw the tender, beautiful regard which Ag-
the way to Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and nes cast upon her.
I outside, I pictured Dora to myself in every one of the pret- Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of
ty looks I knew so well; now making up my mind that I my joy. It was the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss
should like her to look exactly as she looked at such a time, Clarissa presided. I cut and handed the sweet seed-cake -
and then doubting whether I should not prefer her looking the little sisters had a bird-like fondness for picking up
as she looked at such another time; and almost worrying seeds and pecking at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked on with
myself into a fever about it. benignant patronage, as if our happy love were all her work;

and we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one an- ‘if you can!’
other. We made merry about Dora’s wanting to be liked, and
The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Dora said I was a goose, and she didn’t like me at any rate,
Her quiet interest in everything that interested Dora; her and the short evening flew away on gossamer-wings. The
manner of making acquaintance with Jip (who responded time was at hand when the coach was to call for us. I was
instantly); her pleasant way, when Dora was ashamed to standing alone before the fire, when Dora came stealing
come over to her usual seat by me; her modest grace and softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss before I
ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence went.
from Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete. ‘Don’t you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time
‘I am so glad,’ said Dora, after tea, ‘that you like me. I ago, Doady,’ said Dora, her bright eyes shining very bright-
didn’t think you would; and I want, more than ever, to be ly, and her little right hand idly busying itself with one of
liked, now Julia Mills is gone.’ the buttons of my coat, ‘I might have been more clever per-
I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had haps?’
sailed, and Dora and I had gone aboard a great East India- ‘My love!’ said I, ‘what nonsense!’
man at Gravesend to see her; and we had had preserved ‘Do you think it is nonsense?’ returned Dora, without
ginger, and guava, and other delicacies of that sort for looking at me. ‘Are you sure it is?’
lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp-stool ‘Of course I am!’ ‘I have forgotten,’ said Dora, still turn-
on the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under her arm, ing the button round and round, ‘what relation Agnes is to
in which the original reflections awakened by the contem- you, you dear bad boy.’
plation of Ocean were to be recorded under lock and key. ‘No blood-relation,’ I replied; ‘but we were brought up to-
Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an un- gether, like brother and sister.’
promising character; but Dora corrected that directly. ‘I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?’ said Dora,
‘Oh no!’ she said, shaking her curls at me; ‘it was all beginning on another button of my coat.
praise. He thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite ‘Perhaps because I couldn’t see you, and not love you,
afraid of it.’ Dora!’
‘My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to ‘Suppose you had never seen me at all,’ said Dora, going
some people whom he knows,’ said Agnes, with a smile; ‘it to another button.
is not worth their having.’ ‘Suppose we had never been born!’ said I, gaily.
‘But please let me have it,’ said Dora, in her coaxing way, I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in

admiring silence at the little soft hand travelling up the row phan child!
of buttons on my coat, and at the clustering hair that lay Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I
against my breast, and at the lashes of her downcast eyes, loved her that night. When we had again alighted, and were
slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At length walking in the starlight along the quiet road that led to the
her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to Doctor’s house, I told Agnes it was her doing.
give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little ‘When you were sitting by her,’ said I, ‘you seemed to be
kiss - once, twice, three times - and went out of the room. no less her guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now,
They all came back together within five minutes after- Agnes.’
wards, and Dora’s unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone ‘A poor angel,’ she returned, ‘but faithful.’
then. She was laughingly resolved to put Jip through the The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart,
whole of his performances, before the coach came. They made it natural to me to say:
took some time (not so much on account of their variety, ‘The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no
as Jip’s reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was one else that ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed
heard at the door. There was a hurried but affectionate part- today, that I have begun to hope you are happier at home?’
ing between Agnes and herself; and Dora was to write to ‘I am happier in myself,’ she said; ‘I am quite cheerful and
Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being foolish, she light-hearted.’
said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a sec- I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought
ond parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in it was the stars that made it seem so noble.
spite of the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come ‘There has been no change at home,’ said Agnes, after a
running out once more to remind Agnes at the coach win- few moments.
dow about writing, and to shake her curls at me on the box. ‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to - I wouldn’t distress you,
The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, Agnes, but I cannot help asking - to what we spoke of, when
where we were to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I we parted last?’
was impatient for the short walk in the interval, that Ag- ‘No, none,’ she answered.
nes might praise Dora to me. Ah! what praise it was! How ‘I have thought so much about it.’
lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty creature ‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in
I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, to my simple love and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me,
most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with Trotwood,’ she added, after a moment; ‘the step you dread
no pretence of doing so, of the trust in which I held the or- my taking, I shall never take.’

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any sea- in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were yet sitting
son of cool reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the
have this assurance from her own truthful lips. I told her hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.
so, earnestly. The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober
‘And when this visit is over,’ said I, - ‘for we may not be light of the shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close
alone another time, - how long is it likely to be, my dear Ag- beside it, with one of his skeleton hands over his mouth, and
nes, before you come to London again?’ the other resting on the Doctor’s table. The Doctor sat in his
‘Probably a long time,’ she replied; ‘I think it will be best study chair, covering his face with his hands. Mr. Wickfield,
- for papa’s sake - to remain at home. We are not likely to sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning forward, irreso-
meet often, for some time to come; but I shall be a good cor- lutely touching the Doctor’s arm.
respondent of Dora’s, and we shall frequently hear of one For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I
another that way.’ hastily advanced a step under that impression, when I met
We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor’s Uriah’s eye, and saw what was the matter. I would have
cottage. It was growing late. There was a light in the window withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain me,
of Mrs. Strong’s chamber, and Agnes, pointing to it, bade and I remained.
me good night. ‘At any rate,’ observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungain-
‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, giving me her hand, ‘by our ly person, ‘we may keep the door shut. We needn’t make it
misfortunes and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than known to ALL the town.’
in your happiness. If you can ever give me help, rely upon it Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I
I will ask you for it. God bless you always!’ In her beaming had left open, and carefully closed it. He then came back,
smile, and in these last tones of her cheerful voice, I seemed and took up his former position. There was an obtrusive
again to see and hear my little Dora in her company. I stood show of compassionate zeal in his voice and manner, more
awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with a heart intolerable - at least to me - than any demeanour he could
full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I have assumed.
had engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was go- ‘I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,’
ing out at the gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw said Uriah, ‘to point out to Doctor Strong what you and me
a light in the Doctor’s study. A half-reproachful fancy came have already talked about. You didn’t exactly understand
into my mind, that he had been working at the Dictionary me, though?’
without my help. With the view of seeing if this were so, and, I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my

good old master, said a few words that I meant to be words the sun, before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Mal-
of comfort and encouragement. He put his hand upon my don made excuses to come back, for nothing else; and that
shoulder, as it had been his custom to do when I was quite a he’s always here, for nothing else. When you come in, sir, I
little fellow, but did not lift his grey head. was just putting it to my fellow-partner,’ towards whom he
‘As you didn’t understand me, Master Copperfield,’ returned, ‘to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and hon-
sumed Uriah in the same officious manner, ‘I may take the our, whether he’d ever been of this opinion long ago, or not.
liberty of umbly mentioning, being among friends, that I Come, Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us?
have called Doctor Strong’s attention to the goings-on of Yes or no, sir? Come, partner!’
Mrs. Strong. It’s much against the grain with me, I assure ‘For God’s sake, my dear Doctor,’ said Mr. Wickfield
you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleas- again laying his irresolute hand upon the Doctor’s arm,
ant; but really, as it is, we’re all mixing ourselves up with ‘don’t attach too much weight to any suspicions I may have
what oughtn’t to be. That was what my meaning was, sir, entertained.’
when you didn’t understand me.’ I wonder now, when I re- ‘There!’ cried Uriah, shaking his head. ‘What a melan-
call his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake the choly confirmation: ain’t it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless
breath out of his body. your soul, when I was nothing but a clerk in his office, Cop-
‘I dare say I didn’t make myself very clear,’ he went on, perfield, I’ve seen him twenty times, if I’ve seen him once,
‘nor you neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to quite in a taking about it - quite put out, you know (and
give such a subject a wide berth. Hows’ever, at last I have very proper in him as a father; I’m sure I can’t blame him),
made up my mind to speak plain; and I have mentioned to to think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what
Doctor Strong that - did you speak, sir?’ oughtn’t to be.’
This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound ‘My dear Strong,’ said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice,
might have touched any heart, I thought, but it had no ef- ‘my good friend, I needn’t tell you that it has been my vice
fect upon Uriah’s. to look for some one master motive in everybody, and to try
‘- mentioned to Doctor Strong,’ he proceeded, ‘that any- all actions by one narrow test. I may have fallen into such
one may see that Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable doubts as I have had, through this mistake.’
lady as is Doctor Strong’s wife, are too sweet on one anoth- ‘You have had doubts, Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, with-
er. Really the time is come (we being at present all mixing out lifting up his head. ‘You have had doubts.’
ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be), when Doctor Strong ‘Speak up, fellow-partner,’ urged Uriah.
must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as ‘I had, at one time, certainly,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I - God

forgive me - I thought YOU had.’ her wanting in her duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if
‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pa- I must say all, feel averse to Agnes being in such a familiar
thetic grief. ‘I thought, at one time,’ said Mr. Wickfield, relation towards her, as to see what I saw, or in my diseased
‘that you wished to send Maldon abroad to effect a desirable theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned this to anyone.
separation.’ I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it is
‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor. ‘To give Annie plea- terrible to you to hear,’ said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued,
sure, by making some provision for the companion of her ‘if you knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel
childhood. Nothing else.’ compassion for me!’
‘So I found,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I couldn’t doubt it, when The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out
you told me so. But I thought - I implore you to remember his hand. Mr. Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with
the narrow construction which has been my besetting sin his head bowed down.
- that, in a case where there was so much disparity in point ‘I am sure,’ said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence
of years -’ like a Conger-eel, ‘that this is a subject full of unpleasant-
‘That’s the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!’ ob- ness to everybody. But since we have got so far, I ought to
served Uriah, with fawning and offensive pity. take the liberty of mentioning that Copperfield has noticed
‘- a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real it too.’
her respect for you, might have been influenced in marry- I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer
ing, by worldly considerations only. I make no allowance for to me!
innumerable feelings and circumstances that may have all ‘Oh! it’s very kind of you, Copperfield,’ returned Uriah,
tended to good. For Heaven’s sake remember that!’ undulating all over, ‘and we all know what an amiable char-
‘How kind he puts it!’ said Uriah, shaking his head. acter yours is; but you know that the moment I spoke to
‘Always observing her from one point of view,’ said Mr. you the other night, you knew what I meant. You know you
Wickfield; ‘but by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I en- knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don’t deny it! You deny it
treat you to consider what it was; I am forced to confess now, with the best intentions; but don’t do it, Copperfield.’
having no escape -’ I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon
‘No! There’s no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ observed me for a moment, and I felt that the confession of my old
Uriah, ‘when it’s got to this.’ misgivings and remembrances was too plainly written in
‘- that I did,’ said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and my face to be overlooked. It was of no use raging. I could
distractedly at his partner, ‘that I did doubt her, and think not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor tions, all too plainly tending in one direction (and that so
rose and walked twice or thrice across the room. Presently natural), is better than mine.’
he returned to where his chair stood; and, leaning on the I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his
back of it, and occasionally putting his handkerchief to his benignant manner towards his youthful wife; but the re-
eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more honour, to my spectful tenderness he manifested in every reference to
thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said: her on this occasion, and the almost reverential manner in
‘I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her integ-
much to blame. I have exposed one whom I hold in my rity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.
heart, to trials and aspersions - I call them aspersions, even ‘I married that lady,’ said the Doctor, ‘when she was ex-
to have been conceived in anybody’s inmost mind - of which tremely young. I took her to myself when her character was
she never, but for me, could have been the object.’ scarcely formed. So far as it was developed, it had been my
Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sym- happiness to form it. I knew her father well. I knew her well.
pathy. I had taught her what I could, for the love of all her beautiful
‘Of which my Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘never, but for me, and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear I did, in
could have been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and
you know; I do not feel, tonight, that I have much to live her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!’
for. But my life - my Life - upon the truth and honour of the He walked across the room, and came back to the same
dear lady who has been the subject of this conversation!’ place; holding the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his
I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the subdued voice, in its earnestness.
realization of the handsomest and most romantic figure ‘I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers
ever imagined by painter, could have said this, with a more and vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal
impressive and affecting dignity than the plain old Doctor though we were in years, she would live tranquilly and con-
did. tentedly with me. I did not shut out of my consideration the
‘But I am not prepared,’ he went on, ‘to deny - perhaps time when I should leave her free, and still young and still
I may have been, without knowing it, in some degree pre- beautiful, but with her judgement more matured - no, gen-
pared to admit - that I may have unwittingly ensnared tlemen - upon my truth!’
that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man quite un- His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidel-
accustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the ity and generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no
observation of several people, of different ages and posi- other grace could have imparted to it.

‘My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness
I have had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which and goodness, so adorned by, and so adorning, the per-
I did her great injustice.’ fect simplicity of his manner, brought into my eyes. He had
His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of moved to the door, when he added:
these words, stopped for a few moments; then he went on: ‘Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you
‘Once awakened from my dream - I have been a poor will respect it. What we have said tonight is never to be said
dreamer, in one way or other, all my life - I see how natu- more. Wickfield, give me an old friend’s arm upstairs!’
ral it is that she should have some regretful feeling towards Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a
her old companion and her equal. That she does regard him word they went slowly out of the room together, Uriah look-
with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts ing after them.
of what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. ‘Well, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah, meekly turning
Much that I have seen, but not noted, has come back upon to me. ‘The thing hasn’t took quite the turn that might have
me with new meaning, during this last trying hour. But, be- been expected, for the old Scholar - what an excellent man!
yond this, gentlemen, the dear lady’s name never must be - is as blind as a brickbat; but this family’s out of the cart, I
coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt.’ think!’
For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly en-
for a little while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded raged as I never was before, and never have been since.
as before: ‘You villain,’ said I, ‘what do you mean by entrapping me
‘It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the un- into your schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now,
happiness I have occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is you false rascal, as if we had been in discussion together?’
she who should reproach; not I. To save her from miscon- As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
struction, cruel misconstruction, that even my friends have exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I
not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired mean that he forced his confidence upon me, expressly to
we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time make me miserable, and had set a deliberate trap for me
comes - may it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure! in this very matter; that I couldn’t bear it. The whole of his
- when my death shall release her from constraint, I shall lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck it with my
close my eyes upon her honoured face, with unbounded open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had
confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow then, to burnt them.
happier and brighter days.’ He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connex-

ion, looking at each other. We stood so, a long time; long was going out to bed, when he came between me and the
enough for me to see the white marks of my fingers die out door.
of the deep red of his cheek, and leave it a deeper red. ‘Copperfield,’ he said, ‘there must be two parties to a
‘Copperfield,’ he said at length, in a breathless voice, quarrel. I won’t be one.’
‘have you taken leave of your senses?’ ‘You may go to the devil!’ said I.
‘I have taken leave of you,’ said I, wresting my hand away. ‘Don’t say that!’ he replied. ‘I know you’ll be sorry after-
‘You dog, I’ll know no more of you.’ wards. How can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to
‘Won’t you?’ said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek show such a bad spirit? But I forgive you.’
to put his hand there. ‘Perhaps you won’t be able to help it. ‘You forgive me!’ I repeated disdainfully.
Isn’t this ungrateful of you, now?’ ‘I do, and you can’t help yourself,’ replied Uriah. ‘To think
‘I have shown you often enough,’ said I, ‘that I despise you. of your going and attacking me, that have always been a
I have shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should friend to you! But there can’t be a quarrel without two par-
I dread your doing your worst to all about you? What else ties, and I won’t be one. I will be a friend to you, in spite of
do you ever do?’ you. So now you know what you’ve got to expect.’
He perfectly understood this allusion to the The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in
considerations that had hitherto restrained me in my com- which was very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that
munications with him. I rather think that neither the blow, the house might not be disturbed at an unseasonable hour,
nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for the assur- did not improve my temper; though my passion was cool-
ance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter. ing down. Merely telling him that I should expect from him
There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at what I always had expected, and had never yet been disap-
me, seemed to take every shade of colour that could make pointed in, I opened the door upon him, as if he had been
eyes ugly. a great walnut put there to be cracked, and went out of the
‘Copperfield,’ he said, removing his hand from his cheek, house. But he slept out of the house too, at his mother’s
‘you have always gone against me. I know you always used lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards, came
to be against me at Mr. Wickfield’s.’ up with me.
‘You may think what you like,’ said I, still in a towering ‘You know, Copperfield,’ he said, in my ear (I did not
rage. ‘If it is not true, so much the worthier you.’ turn my head), ‘you’re in quite a wrong position’; which I
‘And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!’ he rejoined. felt to be true, and that made me chafe the more; ‘you can’t
I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, make this a brave thing, and you can’t help being forgiven. I

don’t intend to mention it to mother, nor to any living soul. Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several
I’m determined to forgive you. But I do wonder that you weeks elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came
should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be on slowly, like a cloud when there is no wind. At first, she
so umble!’ seemed to wonder at the gentle compassion with which the
I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she should have
knew myself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me, her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her
it would have been a relief and a justification; but he had put life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I
me on a slow fire, on which I lay tormented half the night. would see her pausing and looking at him with that memo-
In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell rable face. Afterwards, I sometimes observed her rise, with
was ringing, and he was walking up and down with his her eyes full of tears, and go out of the room. Gradually, an
mother. He addressed me as if nothing had happened, and unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and deepened every
I could do no less than reply. I had struck him hard enough day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage
to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events his face then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.
was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the
hat perched on the top of it, was far from improving his ap- Doctor’s house, the Doctor became older in appearance,
pearance. I heard that he went to a dentist’s in London on and more grave; but the sweetness of his temper, the placid
the Monday morning, and had a tooth out. I hope it was a kindness of his manner, and his benevolent solicitude for
double one. her, if they were capable of any increase, were increased. I
The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and re- saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when
mained alone, for a considerable part of every day, during she came to sit in the window while we were at work (which
the remainder of the visit. Agnes and her father had been she had always done, but now began to do with a timid and
gone a week, before we resumed our usual work. On the day uncertain air that I thought very touching), take her fore-
preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his own head between his hands, kiss it, and go hurriedly away, too
hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; much moved to remain. I saw her stand where he had left
and laid an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, her, like a statue; and then bend down her head, and clasp
never to refer to the subject of that evening. I had confided her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.
it to my aunt, but to no one else. It was not a subject I could Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak
discuss with Agnes, and Agnes certainly had not the least even to me, in intervals when we were left alone. But she
suspicion of what had passed. never uttered a word. The Doctor always had some new

project for her participating in amusements away from marvellous performance, the Dictionary, to him; he was
home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham, who was now quite miserable unless the Doctor pulled it out of his
very fond of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with pocket, and began. When the Doctor and I were engaged,
anything else, entered into them with great good-will, and he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with
was loud in her commendations. But Annie, in a spiritless Mrs. Strong, and helping her to trim her favourite flowers,
unhappy way, only went whither she was led, and seemed to or weed the beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words
have no care for anything. in an hour: but his quiet interest, and his wistful face, found
I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who immediate response in both their breasts; each knew that
must have walked, at various times, a hundred miles in her the other liked him, and that he loved both; and he became
uncertainty. What was strangest of all was, that the only what no one else could be - a link between them.
real relief which seemed to make its way into the secret re- When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face,
gion of this domestic unhappiness, made its way there in walking up and down with the Doctor, delighted to be bat-
the person of Mr. Dick. tered by the hard words in the Dictionary; when I think
What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his ob- of him carrying huge watering-pots after Annie; kneeling
servation was, I am as unable to explain, as I dare say he down, in very paws of gloves, at patient microscopic work
would have been to assist me in the task. But, as I have re- among the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher could
corded in the narrative of my school days, his veneration for have expressed, in everything he did, a delicate desire to be
the Doctor was unbounded; and there is a subtlety of per- her friend; showering sympathy, trustfulness, and affection,
ception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards out of every hole in the watering-pot; when I think of him
man by one of the lower animals, which leaves the highest never wandering in that better mind of his to which un-
intellect behind. To this mind of the heart, if I may call it so, happiness addressed itself, never bringing the unfortunate
in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of the truth shot straight. King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grate-
He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his ful service, never diverted from his knowledge that there
spare hours, of walking up and down the garden with the was something wrong, or from his wish to set it right- I re-
Doctor; as he had been accustomed to pace up and down ally feel almost ashamed of having known that he was not
The Doctor’s Walk at Canterbury. But matters were no quite in his wits, taking account of the utmost I have done
sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time (and with mine.
got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If ‘Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!’ my
he had never been so happy as when the Doctor read that aunt would proudly remark, when we conversed about it.

‘Dick will distinguish himself yet!’ events of the day.
I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. ‘You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield,
While the visit at the Doctor’s was still in progress, I ob- what the poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform
served that the postman brought two or three letters every you that Mr. Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved.
morning for Uriah Heep, who remained at Highgate until He is secret. His life is a mystery to the partner of his joys
the rest went back, it being a leisure time; and that these and sorrows - I again allude to his wife - and if I should
were always directed in a business-like manner by Mr. Mi- assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from
cawber, who now assumed a round legal hand. I was glad morning to night at the office, I now know less of it than I
to infer, from these slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was do of the man in the south, connected with whose mouth
doing well; and consequently was much surprised to receive, the thoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold
about this time, the following letter from his amiable wife. plum porridge, I should adopt a popular fallacy to express
‘CANTERBURY, Monday Evening. an actual fact.
‘You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copper- ‘But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe.
field, to receive this communication. Still more so, by its He is estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no
contents. Still more so, by the stipulation of implicit confi- pride in his twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on
dence which I beg to impose. But my feelings as a wife and the unoffending stranger who last became a member of our
mother require relief; and as I do not wish to consult my circle. The pecuniary means of meeting our expenses, kept
family (already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber), down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him with
I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will
friend and former lodger. Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorably re-
‘You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that be- fuses to give any explanation whatever of this distracting
tween myself and Mr. Micawber (whom I will never desert), policy.
there has always been preserved a spirit of mutual confi- ‘This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will
dence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given a bill advise me, knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how
without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the you think it will be best to exert them in a dilemma so un-
period when that obligation would become due. This has wonted, you will add another friendly obligation to the
actually happened. But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had many you have already rendered me. With loves from the
no secrets from the bosom of affection - I allude to his wife children, and a smile from the happily-unconscious strang-
- and has invariably, on our retirement to rest, recalled the er, I remain, dear Mr. Copperfield,

Your afflicted,
‘EMMA MICAWBER.’ CHAPTER 43
I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micaw-
ber’s experience any other recommendation, than that she
should try to reclaim Mr. Micawber by patience and kind-
ness (as I knew she would in any case); but the letter set me ANOTHER RETROSPECT
thinking about him very much.
O nce again, let me pause upon a memorable period of

my life. Let me stand aside, to see the phantoms of
those days go by me, accompanying the shadow of myself,
in dim procession.
Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little
more than a summer day and a winter evening. Now, the
Common where I walk with Dora is all in bloom, a field of
bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in mounds and
bunches underneath a covering of snow. In a breath, the
river that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling in
the summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened
with drifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran towards
the sea, it flashes, darkens, and rolls away.
Not a thread changes, in the house of the two lit-
tle bird-like ladies. The clock ticks over the fireplace, the
weather-glass hangs in the hall. Neither clock nor weather-
glass is ever right; but we believe in both, devoutly.
I have come legally to man’s estate. I have attained the
dignity of twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may
be thrust upon one. Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a many trifling pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for them. Al-
respectable income by it. I am in high repute for my accom- together, I am well off, when I tell my income on the fingers
plishment in all pertaining to the art, and am joined with of my left hand, I pass the third finger and take in the fourth
eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for a to the middle joint.
Morning Newspaper. Night after night, I record predictions We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleas-
that never come to pass, professions that are never fulfilled, ant little cottage very near the one I looked at, when my
explanations that are only meant to mystify. I wallow in enthusiasm first came on. My aunt, however (who has sold
words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always before the house at Dover, to good advantage), is not going to re-
me, like a trussed fowl: skewered through and through with main here, but intends removing herself to a still more tiny
office-pens, and bound hand and foot with red tape. I am cottage close at hand. What does this portend? My mar-
sufficiently behind the scenes to know the worth of politi- riage? Yes!
cal life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and shall never be Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and
converted. Miss Clarissa have given their consent; and if ever canary
My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same birds were in a flutter, they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged
pursuit, but it is not in Traddles’s way. He is perfectly good- with the superintendence of my darling’s wardrobe, is con-
humoured respecting his failure, and reminds me that he stantly cutting out brown-paper cuirasses, and differing in
always did consider himself slow. He has occasional em- opinion from a highly respectable young man, with a long
ployment on the same newspaper, in getting up the facts of bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A dressmak-
dry subjects, to be written about and embellished by more er, always stabbed in the breast with a needle and thread,
fertile minds. He is called to the bar; and with admirable in- boards and lodges in the house; and seems to me, eating,
dustry and self-denial has scraped another hundred pounds drinking, or sleeping, never to take her thimble off. They
together, to fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends. make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending for
A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at his call; her to come and try something on. We can’t be happy to-
and, considering the figure, I should think the Inner Tem- gether for five minutes in the evening, but some intrusive
ple must have made a profit by it. female knocks at the door, and says, ‘Oh, if you please, Miss
I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear Dora, would you step upstairs!’
and trembling to authorship. I wrote a little something, in Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find
secret, and sent it to a magazine, and it was published in out articles of furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would
the magazine. Since then, I have taken heart to write a good be better for them to buy the goods at once, without this

ceremony of inspection; for, when we go to see a kitchen expected.
fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for Jip, Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hur-
with little bells on the top, and prefers that. And it takes ried dream. I can’t believe that it is going to be; and yet I
a long time to accustom Jip to his new residence, after we can’t believe but that everyone I pass in the street, must
have bought it; whenever he goes in or out, he makes all the have some kind of perception, that I am to be married the
little bells ring, and is horribly frightened. day after tomorrow. The Surrogate knows me, when I go
Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to down to be sworn; and disposes of me easily, as if there were
work immediately. Her department appears to be, to clean a Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not at all
everything over and over again. She rubs everything that wanted, but is in attendance as my general backer.
can be rubbed, until it shines, like her own honest forehead, ‘I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,’ I say
with perpetual friction. And now it is, that I begin to see her to Traddles, ‘it will be on the same errand for yourself. And
solitary brother passing through the dark streets at night, I hope it will be soon.’
and looking, as he goes, among the wandering faces. I never ‘Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,’
speak to him at such an hour. I know too well, as his grave he replies. ‘I hope so too. It’s a satisfaction to know that
figure passes onward, what he seeks, and what he dreads. she’ll wait for me any length of time, and that she really is
Why does Traddles look so important when he calls the dearest girl -’
upon me this afternoon in the Commons - where I still oc- ‘When are you to meet her at the coach?’ I ask.
casionally attend, for form’s sake, when I have time? The ‘At seven,’ says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver
realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am going watch - the very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school,
to take out the licence. to make a water-mill. ‘That is about Miss Wickfield’s time,
It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles con- is it not?’
templates it, as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half ‘A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.’ ‘I assure you,
in awe. There are the names, in the sweet old visionary con- my dear boy,’ says Traddles, ‘I am almost as pleased as if I
nexion, David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there, were going to be married myself, to think that this event
in the corner, is that Parental Institution, the Stamp Office, is coming to such a happy termination. And really the
which is so benignantly interested in the various transac- great friendship and consideration of personally associat-
tions of human life, looking down upon our Union; and ing Sophy with the joyful occasion, and inviting her to be a
there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing bridesmaid in conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands
on us in print, and doing it as cheap as could possibly be my warmest thanks. I am extremely sensible of it.’

I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and presently, and say he is glad to see me. Such a beautiful little
walk, and dine, and so on; but I don’t believe it. Nothing is house as it is, with everything so bright and new; with the
real. flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly gathered, and
Sophy arrives at the house of Dora’s aunts, in due course. the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out;
She has the most agreeable of faces, - not absolutely beau- with the spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-
tiful, but extraordinarily pleasant, - and is one of the most coloured furniture, and Dora’s garden hat with the blue
genial, unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever ribbon - do I remember, now, how I loved her in such an-
seen. Traddles presents her to us with great pride; and rubs other hat when I first knew her! - already hanging on its
his hands for ten minutes by the clock, with every individual little peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a cor-
hair upon his head standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate ner; and everybody tumbling over Jip’s pagoda, which is
him in a corner on his choice. much too big for the establishment. Another happy evening,
I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and quite as unreal as all the rest of it, and I steal into the usual
her cheerful and beautiful face is among us for the second room before going away. Dora is not there. I suppose they
time. Agnes has a great liking for Traddles, and it is capital have not done trying on yet. Miss Lavinia peeps in, and tells
to see them meet, and to observe the glory of Traddles as me mysteriously that she will not be long. She is rather long,
he commends the dearest girl in the world to her acquain- notwithstanding; but by and by I hear a rustling at the door,
tance. and someone taps.
Still I don’t believe it. We have a delightful evening, and I say, ‘Come in!’ but someone taps again.
are supremely happy; but I don’t believe it yet. I can’t col- I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair
lect myself. I can’t check off my happiness as it takes place. I of bright eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora’s eyes and
feel in a misty and unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up face, and Miss Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow’s dress,
very early in the morning a week or two ago, and had never bonnet and all, for me to see. I take my little wife to my
been to bed since. I can’t make out when yesterday was. I heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a little scream because I tum-
seem to have been carrying the licence about, in my pocket, ble the bonnet, and Dora laughs and cries at once, because I
many months. am so pleased; and I believe it less than ever.
Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house ‘Do you think it pretty, Doady?’ says Dora.
- our house - Dora’s and mine - I am quite unable to regard Pretty! I should rather think I did.
myself as its master. I seem to be there, by permission of ‘And are you sure you like me very much?’ says Dora.
somebody else. I half expect the real master to come home The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that

Miss Lavinia gives another little scream, and begs me to occupations.
understand that Dora is only to be looked at, and on no My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we
account to be touched. So Dora stands in a delightful state stop a little way short of the church, to put down Peggotty,
of confusion for a minute or two, to be admired; and then whom we have brought on the box, she gives it a squeeze,
takes off her bonnet - looking so natural without it! - and and me a kiss.
runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing down ‘God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer.
again in her own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got I think of poor dear Baby this morning.’ ‘So do I. And of all
a beautiful little wife, and whether he’ll forgive her for be- I owe to you, dear aunt.’
ing married, and kneels down to make him stand upon the ‘Tut, child!’ says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflow-
cookery-book, for the last time in her single life. ing cordiality to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick,
I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that who then gives his to me, who then gives mine to Traddles,
I have hard by; and get up very early in the morning, to ride and then we come to the church door.
to the Highgate road and fetch my aunt. The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a
I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed steam-power loom in full action, for any sedative effect it
in lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and has on me. I am too far gone for that.
is amazing. Janet has dressed her, and is there to look at The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.
me. Peggotty is ready to go to church, intending to behold A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-open-
the ceremony from the gallery. Mr. Dick, who is to give my er arranging us, like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails;
darling to me at the altar, has had his hair curled. Traddles, of my wondering, even then, why pew-openers must always
whom I have taken up by appointment at the turnpike, pres- be the most disagreeable females procurable, and whether
ents a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; there is any religious dread of a disastrous infection of good-
and both he and Mr. Dick have a general effect about them humour which renders it indispensable to set those vessels
of being all gloves. of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.
No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen
astray, and seem to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything and some other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner
whatever. Still, as we drive along in an open carriage, this behind me, strongly flavouring the church with rum; of the
fairy marriage is real enough to fill me with a sort of won- service beginning in a deep voice, and our all being very
dering pity for the unfortunate people who have no part in attentive.
it, but are sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary brides-

maid, being the first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; and of Dora be-
take it) to the memory of Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa ing so fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her,
applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes taking care of Dora; but still keeps her hand.
of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as a model of Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things,
sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Dora pretty and substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake,
trembling very much, and making her responses in faint as I should do in any other dream, without the least per-
whispers. ception of their flavour; eating and drinking, as I may say,
Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora’s nothing but love and marriage, and no more believing in
trembling less and less, but always clasping Agnes by the the viands than in anything else.
hand; of the service being got through, quietly and gravely; Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion,
of our all looking at each other in an April state of smiles without having an idea of what I want to say, beyond such as
and tears, when it is over; of my young wife being hysterical may be comprehended in the full conviction that I haven’t
in the vestry, and crying for her poor papa, her dear papa. said it. Of our being very sociably and simply happy (always
Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the reg- in a dream though); and of Jip’s having wedding cake, and
ister all round. Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to its not agreeing with him afterwards.
bring her to sign it; of Peggotty’s hugging me in a corner, Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Do-
and telling me she saw my own dear mother married; of its ra’s going away to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss
being over, and our going away. Clarissa remaining with us; and our walking in the gar-
Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle den; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at breakfast
with my sweet wife upon my arm, through a mist of half- touching Dora’s aunts, being mightily amused with herself,
seen people, pulpits, monuments, pews, fonts, organs, and but a little proud of it too.
church windows, in which there flutter faint airs of associa- Of Dora’s being ready, and of Miss Lavinia’s hovering
tion with my childish church at home, so long ago. about her, loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so
Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple much pleasant occupation. Of Dora’s making a long series
we are, and what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being of surprised discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of
so merry and talkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy little things; and of everybody’s running everywhere to
telling us that when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrust- fetch them.
ed with the licence) asked for it, she almost fainted, having Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins
been convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to have to say good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and rib-

bons, like a bed of flowers. Of my darling being almost
smothered among the flowers, and coming out, laughing CHAPTER 44
and crying both together, to my jealous arms.
Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us),
and Dora’s saying no, that she must carry him, or else he’ll
think she don’t like him any more, now she is married, and OUR HOUSEKEEPING
will break his heart. Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora
stopping and looking back, and saying, ‘If I have ever been
cross or ungrateful to anybody, don’t remember it!’ and
bursting into tears.
Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once
more. Of her once more stopping, and looking back, and
I t was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being
over, and the bridesmaids gone home, when I found my-
self sitting down in my own small house with Dora; quite
hurrying to Agnes, and giving Agnes, above all the others, thrown out of employment, as I may say, in respect of the
her last kisses and farewells. delicious old occupation of making love.
We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora al-
believe it at last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, ways there. It was so unaccountable not to be obliged to
whom I love so well! go out to see her, not to have any occasion to be torment-
‘Are you happy now, you foolish boy?’ says Dora, ‘and ing myself about her, not to have to write to her, not to be
sure you don’t repent?’ scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with
I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by her. Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from my
me. They are gone, and I resume the journey of my story. writing, and saw her seated opposite, I would lean back in
my chair, and think how queer it was that there we were,
alone together as a matter of course - nobody’s business any
more - all the romance of our engagement put away upon
a shelf, to rust - no one to please but one another - one an-
other to please, for life.
When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it
seemed so strange to me, as I was walking home, to think
that Dora was at home! It was such a wonderful thing, at

first, to have her coming softly down to talk to me as I ate attributable to the dustman.
my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know for cer- But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our
tain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such inexperience, and were unable to help ourselves. We should
an astonishing event to see her do it! have been at her mercy, if she had had any; but she was a re-
I doubt whether two young birds could have known less morseless woman, and had none. She was the cause of our
about keeping house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We first little quarrel.
had a servant, of course. She kept house for us. I have still ‘My dearest life,’ I said one day to Dora, ‘do you think
a latent belief that she must have been Mrs. Crupp’s daugh- Mary Anne has any idea of time?’
ter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with Mary ‘Why, Doady?’ inquired Dora, looking up, innocently,
Anne. from her drawing.
Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to ‘My love, because it’s five, and we were to have dined at
us, when we engaged her, as being feebly expressed in her four.’
name. She had a written character, as large as a proclama- Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she
tion; and, according to this document, could do everything thought it was too fast.
of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many ‘On the contrary, my love,’ said I, referring to my watch,
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the ‘it’s a few minutes too slow.’
prime of life; of a severe countenance; and subject (particu- My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to
larly in the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. be quiet, and drew a line with her pencil down the middle
She had a cousin in the Life-Guards, with such long legs of my nose; but I couldn’t dine off that, though it was very
that he looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else. agreeable.
His shell-jacket was as much too little for him as he was too ‘Don’t you think, my dear,’ said I, ‘it would be better for
big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it you to remonstrate with Mary Anne?’
need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to ‘Oh no, please! I couldn’t, Doady!’ said Dora.
it. Besides which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever ‘Why not, my love?’ I gently asked.
he passed the evening at our house, we always knew of it by ‘Oh, because I am such a little goose,’ said Dora, ‘and she
hearing one continual growl in the kitchen. knows I am!’
Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am there- I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the es-
fore willing to believe that she was in a fit when we found tablishment of any system of check on Mary Anne, that I
her under the boiler; and that the deficient tea-spoons were frowned a little.

‘Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy’s forehead!’ said uncertainty, and came back again.
Dora, and still being on my knee, she traced them with her ‘Dora, my darling!’
pencil; putting it to her rosy lips to make it mark blacker, ‘No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry
and working at my forehead with a quaint little mockery of that you married me, or else you wouldn’t reason with me!’
being industrious, that quite delighted me in spite of my- returned Dora.
self. I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this
‘There’s a good child,’ said Dora, ‘it makes its face so charge, that it gave me courage to be grave.
much prettier to laugh.’ ‘But, my love,’ said I. ‘Now, my own Dora,’ said I, ‘you are very childish, and
‘No, no! please!’ cried Dora, with a kiss, ‘don’t be a naugh- are talking nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I
ty Blue Beard! Don’t be serious!’ was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner was half over;
‘my precious wife,’ said I, ‘we must be serious sometimes. and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by be-
Come! Sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the ing obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; today, I don’t
pencil! There! Now let us talk sensibly. You know, dear’; what dine at all - and I am afraid to say how long we waited for
a little hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding-ring it breakfast - and then the water didn’t boil. I don’t mean to
was to see! ‘You know, my love, it is not exactly comfortable reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.’
to have to go out without one’s dinner. Now, is it?’ ‘Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!’
‘N-n-no!’ replied Dora, faintly. cried Dora.
‘My love, how you tremble!’ ‘Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said
‘Because I KNOW you’re going to scold me,’ exclaimed that!’
Dora, in a piteous voice. ‘You said, I wasn’t comfortable!’ cried Dora. ‘I said the
‘My sweet, I am only going to reason.’ housekeeping was not comfortable!’
‘Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!’ exclaimed ‘It’s exactly the same thing!’ cried Dora. And she evident-
Dora, in despair. ‘I didn’t marry to be reasoned with. If you ly thought so, for she wept most grievously.
meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you I took another turn across the room, full of love for my
ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!’ pretty wife, and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations
I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and to knock my head against the door. I sat down again, and
shook her curls from side to side, and said, ‘You cruel, cruel said:
boy!’ so many times, that I really did not exactly know what ‘I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal
to do: so I took a few turns up and down the room in my to learn. I am only trying to show you, my dear, that you

must - you really must’ (I was resolved not to give this up) - I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and
‘accustom yourself to look after Mary Anne. Likewise to act downcast, as I sat looking at the fire, than I could have sup-
a little for yourself, and me.’ posed possible so soon after the fulfilment of my brightest
‘I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speech- hopes. As I sat thinking, I happened to meet my aunt’s eyes,
es,’ sobbed Dora. ‘When you know that the other day, when which were resting on my face. There was an anxious ex-
you said you would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, pression in them, but it cleared directly.
miles and miles, and ordered it, to surprise you.’ ‘I assure you, aunt,’ said I, ‘I have been quite unhappy
‘And it was very kind of you, my own darling,’ said I. ‘I myself all night, to think of Dora’s being so. But I had no
felt it so much that I wouldn’t on any account have even other intention than to speak to her tenderly and lovingly
mentioned that you bought a Salmon - which was too much about our home-affairs.’
for two. Or that it cost one pound six - which was more than MY aunt nodded encouragement.
we can afford.’ ‘You must have patience, Trot,’ said she.
‘You enjoyed it very much,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And you said ‘Of course. Heaven knows I don’t mean to be unreason-
I was a Mouse.’ able, aunt!’
‘And I’ll say so again, my love,’ I returned, ‘a thousand ‘No, no,’ said my aunt. ‘But Little Blossom is a very tender
times!’ little blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.’
But I had wounded Dora’s soft little heart, and she was I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness
not to be comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and towards my wife; and I was sure that she knew I did.
bewailing, that I felt as if I had said I don’t know what to ‘Don’t you think, aunt,’ said I, after some further contem-
hurt her. I was obliged to hurry away; I was kept out late; plation of the fire, ‘that you could advise and counsel Dora a
and I felt all night such pangs of remorse as made me mis- little, for our mutual advantage, now and then?’
erable. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted ‘Trot,’ returned my aunt, with some emotion, ‘no! Don’t
by a vague sense of enormous wickedness. ask me such a thing.’
It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in sur-
I found my aunt, in our house, sitting up for me. prise.
‘Is anything the matter, aunt?’ said I, alarmed. ‘I look back on my life, child,’ said my aunt, ‘and I think
‘Nothing, Trot,’ she replied. ‘Sit down, sit down. Lit- of some who are in their graves, with whom I might have
tle Blossom has been rather out of spirits, and I have been been on kinder terms. If I judged harshly of other people’s
keeping her company. That’s all.’ mistakes in marriage, it may have been because I had bit-

ter reason to judge harshly of my own. Let that pass. I have are to work it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot; and
been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort of a woman, a good Heaven bless you both, in it, for a pair of babes in the wood
many years. I am still, and I always shall be. But you and I as you are!’
have done one another some good, Trot, - at all events, you My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss
have done me good, my dear; and division must not come to ratify the blessing.
between us, at this time of day.’ ‘Now,’ said she, ‘light my little lantern, and see me into
‘Division between us!’ cried I. my bandbox by the garden path’; for there was a communi-
‘Child, child!’ said my aunt, smoothing her dress, ‘how cation between our cottages in that direction. ‘Give Betsey
soon it might come between us, or how unhappy I might Trotwood’s love to Blossom, when you come back; and
make our Little Blossom, if I meddled in anything, a proph- whatever you do, Trot, never dream of setting Betsey up as a
et couldn’t say. I want our pet to like me, and be as gay as a scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she’s quite grim
butterfly. Remember your own home, in that second mar- enough and gaunt enough in her private capacity!’
riage; and never do both me and her the injury you have With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief,
hinted at!’ with which she was accustomed to make a bundle of it on
I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right; and such occasions; and I escorted her home. As she stood in
I comprehended the full extent of her generous feeling to- her garden, holding up her little lantern to light me back, I
wards my dear wife. thought her observation of me had an anxious air again; but
‘These are early days, Trot,’ she pursued, ‘and Rome was I was too much occupied in pondering on what she had said,
not built in a day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely and too much impressed - for the first time, in reality - by
for yourself’; a cloud passed over her face for a moment, I the conviction that Dora and I had indeed to work out our
thought; ‘and you have chosen a very pretty and a very af- future for ourselves, and that no one could assist us, to take
fectionate creature. It will be your duty, and it will be your much notice of it.
pleasure too - of course I know that; I am not delivering a Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet
lecture - to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualities me, now that I was alone; and cried upon my shoulder, and
she has, and not by the qualities she may not have. The lat- said I had been hard-hearted and she had been naughty;
ter you must develop in her, if you can. And if you cannot, and I said much the same thing in effect, I believe; and we
child,’ here my aunt rubbed her nose, ‘you must just accus- made it up, and agreed that our first little difference was to
tom yourself to do without ‘em. But remember, my dear, be our last, and that we were never to have another if we
your future is between you two. No one can assist you; you lived a hundred years.

The next domestic trial we went through, was the Ordeal Book, and found it there established as the allowance of a
of Servants. Mary Anne’s cousin deserted into our coal-hole, quarter of an hour to every pound, and say a quarter over.
and was brought out, to our great amazement, by a piquet of But the principle always failed us by some curious fatality,
his companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed in and we never could hit any medium between redness and
a procession that covered our front-garden with ignominy. cinders.
This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne, who went so mild- I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these
ly, on receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found failures we incurred a far greater expense than if we had
out about the tea-spoons, and also about the little sums she achieved a series of triumphs. It appeared to me, on look-
had borrowed in my name of the tradespeople without au- ing over the tradesmen’s books, as if we might have kept the
thority. After an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury - the oldest basement storey paved with butter, such was the extensive
inhabitant of Kentish Town, I believe, who went out char- scale of our consumption of that article. I don’t know wheth-
ing, but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that er the Excise returns of the period may have exhibited any
art - we found another treasure, who was one of the most increase in the demand for pepper; but if our performances
amiable of women, but who generally made a point of fall- did not affect the market, I should say several families must
ing either up or down the kitchen stairs with the tray, and have left off using it. And the most wonderful fact of all was,
almost plunged into the parlour, as into a bath, with the that we never had anything in the house.
tea-things. The ravages committed by this unfortunate, As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and com-
rendering her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded (with ing in a state of penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose
intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables; that might have happened several times to anybody. Also
terminating in a young person of genteel appearance, who the chimney on fire, the parish engine, and perjury on the
went to Greenwich Fair in Dora’s bonnet. After whom I re- part of the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were person-
member nothing but an average equality of failure. ally fortunate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials,
Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat who swelled our running account for porter at the public-
us. Our appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged house by such inexplicable items as ‘quartern rum shrub
goods to be brought out immediately. If we bought a lobster, (Mrs. C.)’; ‘Half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)’; ‘Glass
it was full of water. All our meat turned out to be tough, and rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)’ - the parentheses always
there was hardly any crust to our loaves. In search of the referring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on expla-
principle on which joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted nation, to have imbibed the whole of these refreshments.
enough, and not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a lit-

tle dinner to Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him friend, and made short runs at his plate, with such un-
to walk out with me that afternoon. He readily consent- daunted pertinacity, that he may be said to have engrossed
ing, I wrote to Dora, saying I would bring him home. It was the conversation.
pleasant weather, and on the road we made my domestic However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora
happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full was, and how sensitive she would be to any slight upon her
of it; and said, that, picturing himself with such a home, favourite, I hinted no objection. For similar reasons I made
and Sophy waiting and preparing for him, he could think no allusion to the skirmishing plates upon the floor; or to
of nothing wanting to complete his bliss. the disreputable appearance of the castors, which were all at
I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the further block-
opposite end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, ade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I
when we sat down, for a little more room. I did not know could not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplat-
how it was, but though there were only two of us, we were ed the boiled leg of mutton before me, previous to carving
at once always cramped for room, and yet had always room it, how it came to pass that our joints of meat were of such
enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been extraordinary shapes - and whether our butcher contracted
because nothing had a place of its own, except Jip’s pagoda, for all the deformed sheep that came into the world; but I
which invariably blocked up the main thoroughfare. On the kept my reflections to myself.
present occasion, Traddles was so hemmed in by the pago- ‘My love,’ said I to Dora, ‘what have you got in that dish?’
da and the guitar-case, and Dora’s flower-painting, and my I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempt-
writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the possibility of ing little faces at me, as if she wanted to kiss me.
his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his own ‘Oysters, dear,’ said Dora, timidly.
good-humour, ‘Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, ‘Was that YOUR thought?’ said I, delighted.
Oceans!’ ‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora.
There was another thing I could have wished, namely, ‘There never was a happier one!’ I exclaimed, laying down
that Jip had never been encouraged to walk about the table- the carving-knife and fork. ‘There is nothing Traddles likes
cloth during dinner. I began to think there was something so much!’
disorderly in his being there at all, even if he had not been ‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora, ‘and so I bought a beautiful
in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the melted but- little barrel of them, and the man said they were very good.
ter. On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced But I - I am afraid there’s something the matter with them.
expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old They don’t seem right.’ Here Dora shook her head, and dia-

monds twinkled in her eyes. quality of the beverage. Then Traddles and I played a game
‘They are only opened in both shells,’ said I. ‘Take the top or two at cribbage; and Dora singing to the guitar the while,
one off, my love.’ it seemed to me as if our courtship and marriage were a ten-
‘But it won’t come off!’ said Dora, trying very hard, and der dream of mine, and the night when I first listened to her
looking very much distressed. voice were not yet over.
‘Do you know, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, cheerfully ex- When Traddles went away, and I came back into the par-
amining the dish, ‘I think it is in consequence - they are lour from seeing him out, my wife planted her chair close
capital oysters, but I think it is in consequence - of their to mine, and sat down by my side. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said.
never having been opened.’ ‘Will you try to teach me, Doady?’
They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives ‘I must teach myself first, Dora,’ said I. ‘I am as bad as
- and couldn’t have used them if we had; so we looked at the you, love.’
oysters and ate the mutton. At least we ate as much of it as ‘Ah! But you can learn,’ she returned; ‘and you are a clev-
was done, and made up with capers. If I had permitted him, er, clever man!’
I am satisfied that Traddles would have made a perfect sav- ‘Nonsense, mouse!’ said I.
age of himself, and eaten a plateful of raw meat, to express ‘I wish,’ resumed my wife, after a long silence, ‘that I
enjoyment of the repast; but I would hear of no such im- could have gone down into the country for a whole year,
molation on the altar of friendship, and we had a course of and lived with Agnes!’
bacon instead; there happening, by good fortune, to be cold Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin
bacon in the larder. rested on them, and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.
My poor little wife was in such affliction when she ‘Why so?’ I asked.
thought I should be annoyed, and in such a state of joy ‘I think she might have improved me, and I think I might
when she found I was not, that the discomfiture I had sub- have learned from her,’ said Dora.
dued, very soon vanished, and we passed a happy evening; ‘All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to
Dora sitting with her arm on my chair while Traddles and I take care of for these many years, you should remember.
discussed a glass of wine, and taking every opportunity of Even when she was quite a child, she was the Agnes whom
whispering in my ear that it was so good of me not to be a we know,’ said I.
cruel, cross old boy. By and by she made tea for us; which it ‘Will you call me a name I want you to call me?’ inquired
was so pretty to see her do, as if she was busying herself with Dora, without moving.
a set of doll’s tea-things, that I was not particular about the ‘What is it?’ I asked with a smile.

‘It’s a stupid name,’ she said, shaking her curls for a mo- best account; I was young and inexperienced; but I never
ment. ‘Child-wife.’ turned a deaf ear to its artless pleading.
I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to
desiring to be so called. She answered without moving, oth- be a wonderful housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the
erwise than as the arm I twined about her may have brought tablets, pointed the pencil, bought an immense account-
her blue eyes nearer to me: book, carefully stitched up with a needle and thread all the
‘I don’t mean, you silly fellow, that you should use the leaves of the Cookery Book which Jip had torn, and made
name instead of Dora. I only mean that you should think of quite a desperate little attempt ‘to be good’, as she called
me that way. When you are going to be angry with me, say it. But the figures had the old obstinate propensity - they
to yourself, ‘it’s only my child-wife!’ When I am very disap- WOULD NOT add up. When she had entered two or three
pointing, say, ‘I knew, a long time ago, that she would make laborious items in the account-book, Jip would walk over
but a child-wife!’ When you miss what I should like to be, the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her
and I think can never be, say, ‘still my foolish child-wife own little right-hand middle finger got steeped to the very
loves me!’ For indeed I do.’ bone in ink; and I think that was the only decided result
I had not been serious with her; having no idea until now, obtained.
that she was serious herself. But her affectionate nature was Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at
so happy in what I now said to her with my whole heart, work - for I wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in
that her face became a laughing one before her glittering a small way to be known as a writer - I would lay down my
eyes were dry. She was soon my child-wife indeed; sitting pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be good. First of
down on the floor outside the Chinese House, ringing all all, she would bring out the immense account-book, and lay
the little bells one after another, to punish Jip for his recent it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would
bad behaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the doorway with open it at the place where Jip had made it illegible last night,
his head out, even too lazy to be teased. and call Jip up, to look at his misdeeds. This would occa-
This appeal of Dora’s made a strong impression on me. sion a diversion in Jip’s favour, and some inking of his nose,
I look back on the time I write of; I invoke the innocent perhaps, as a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down
figure that I dearly loved, to come out from the mists and on the table instantly, ‘like a lion’ - which was one of his
shadows of the past, and turn its gentle head towards me tricks, though I cannot say the likeness was striking - and,
once again; and I can still declare that this one little speech if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she
was constantly in my memory. I may not have used it to the would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in

it. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, so scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more
and find that it spluttered. Then she would take up another bewildered, that the remembrance of her natural gaiety
pen, and begin to write, and say in a low voice, ‘Oh, it’s a when I first strayed into her path, and of her being my child-
talking pen, and will disturb Doady!’ And then she would wife, would come reproachfully upon me; and I would lay
give it up as a bad job, and put the account-book away, after the pencil down, and call for the guitar.
pretending to crush the lion with it. I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties,
Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, but the same considerations made me keep them to myself.
she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of I am far from sure, now, that it was right to do this, but I did
bills and other documents, which looked more like curl-pa- it for my child-wife’s sake. I search my breast, and I commit
pers than anything else, and endeavour to get some result its secrets, if I know them, without any reservation to this
out of them. After severely comparing one with another, paper. The old unhappy loss or want of something had, I am
and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them out, conscious, some place in my heart; but not to the embitter-
and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over ment of my life. When I walked alone in the fine weather,
again, backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and and thought of the summer days when all the air had been
discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me filled with my boyish enchantment, I did miss something
pain to see her bright face clouded - and for me! - and I of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it was a soft-
would go softly to her, and say: ened glory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown
‘What’s the matter, Dora?’ upon the present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little
Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, ‘They won’t while, that I could have wished my wife had been my coun-
come right. They make my head ache so. And they won’t do sellor; had had more character and purpose, to sustain me
anything I want!’ and improve me by; had been endowed with power to fill
Then I would say, ‘Now let us try together. Let me show up the void which somewhere seemed to be about me; but I
you, Dora.’ felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of my hap-
Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to piness, that never had been meant to be, and never could
which Dora would pay profound attention, perhaps for five have been.
minutes; when she would begin to be dreadfully tired, and I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the soft-
would lighten the subject by curling my hair, or trying the ening influence of no other sorrows or experiences than
effect of my face with my shirt-collar turned down. If I tac- those recorded in these leaves. If I did any wrong, as I may
itly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look have done much, I did it in mistaken love, and in my want

of wisdom. I write the exact truth. It would avail me noth- ‘Yes! quite well, and very happy!’ said Dora. ‘But say
ing to extenuate it now. you’ll let me stop, and see you write.’
Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares ‘Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!’ I
of our life, and had no partner in them. We lived much as replied.
before, in reference to our scrambling household arrange- ‘Are they bright, though?’ returned Dora, laughing. ‘I’m
ments; but I had got used to those, and Dora I was pleased so glad they’re bright.’ ‘Little Vanity!’ said I.
to see was seldom vexed now. She was bright and cheerful in But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my
the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so.
her old trifles. ‘If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see
When the debates were heavy - I mean as to length, not you write!’ said Dora. ‘Do you think them pretty?’
quality, for in the last respect they were not often otherwise - ‘Very pretty.’
and I went home late, Dora would never rest when she heard ‘Then let me always stop and see you write.’
my footsteps, but would always come downstairs to meet ‘I am afraid that won’t improve their brightness, Dora.’
me. When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit for ‘Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you’ll not forget me
which I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was then, while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it,
engaged in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, if I say something very, very silly? - more than usual?’ in-
however late the hour, and be so mute, that I would often quired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face.
think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised ‘What wonderful thing is that?’ said I.
my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet ‘Please let me hold the pens,’ said Dora. ‘I want to have
attention of which I have already spoken. something to do with all those many hours when you are so
‘Oh, what a weary boy!’ said Dora one night, when I met industrious. May I hold the pens?’
her eyes as I was shutting up my desk. The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings
‘What a weary girl!’ said I. ‘That’s more to the purpose. tears into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and
You must go to bed another time, my love. It’s far too late regularly afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare
for you.’ bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connexion
‘No, don’t send me to bed!’ pleaded Dora, coming to my with my work, and her delight when I wanted a new pen -
side. ‘Pray, don’t do that!’ which I very often feigned to do - suggested to me a new way
‘Dora!’ To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of
‘Not well, my dear! not happy!’ wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was

in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:
the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitch- ‘Where’s Little Blossom?’
en to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable
stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he under-
stood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete
unless she signed her name at the end, and the way in which
she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, and then, when
I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recollec-
tions to me, simple as they might appear to other men.
She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went
jingling about the house with the whole bunch in a little
basket, tied to her slender waist. I seldom found that the
places to which they belonged were locked, or that they
were of any use except as a plaything for Jip - but Dora was
pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a
good deal was effected by this make-belief of housekeeping;
and was as merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house,
for a joke.
So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my
aunt than to me, and often told her of the time when she
was afraid she was ‘a cross old thing’. I never saw my aunt
unbend more systematically to anyone. She courted Jip,
though Jip never responded; listened, day after day, to the
guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music; never
attacked the Incapables, though the temptation must have
been severe; went wonderful distances on foot to purchase,
as surprises, any trifles that she found out Dora wanted;
and never came in by the garden, and missed her from the
room, but she would call out, at the foot of the stairs, in a

CHAPTER 45 that he was a constraint upon his young wife, and that there
was no congeniality of feeling between them, by so strongly
commending his design of lightening the load of her life.
‘My dear soul,’ she said to him one day when I was pres-
Mr. Dick fulfils my ent, ‘you know there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for
Annie to be always shut up here.’
aunt’s Predictions The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. ‘When she
comes to her mother’s age,’ said Mrs. Markleham, with a
flourish of her fan, ‘then it’ll be another thing. You might
put ME into a Jail, with genteel society and a rubber, and
I should never care to come out. But I am not Annie, you
I t was some time now, since I had left the Doctor. Living in
his neighbourhood, I saw him frequently; and we all went
to his house on two or three occasions to dinner or tea. The
know; and Annie is not her mother.’
‘Surely, surely,’ said the Doctor.
‘You are the best of creatures - no, I beg your pardon!’ for
Old Soldier was in permanent quarters under the Doctor’s the Doctor made a gesture of deprecation, ‘I must say before
roof. She was exactly the same as ever, and the same im- your face, as I always say behind your back, you are the best
mortal butterflies hovered over her cap. of creatures; but of course you don’t - now do you? - enter
Like some other mothers, whom I have known in the into the same pursuits and fancies as Annie?’
course of my life, Mrs. Markleham was far more fond of ‘No,’ said the Doctor, in a sorrowful tone.
pleasure than her daughter was. She required a great deal of ‘No, of course not,’ retorted the Old Soldier. ‘Take your
amusement, and, like a deep old soldier, pretended, in con- Dictionary, for example. What a useful work a Dictionary
sulting her own inclinations, to be devoting herself to her is! What a necessary work! The meanings of words! With-
child. The Doctor’s desire that Annie should be entertained, out Doctor Johnson, or somebody of that sort, we might
was therefore particularly acceptable to this excellent par- have been at this present moment calling an Italian-iron,
ent; who expressed unqualified approval of his discretion. a bedstead. But we can’t expect a Dictionary - especially
I have no doubt, indeed, that she probed the Doctor’s when it’s making - to interest Annie, can we?’
wound without knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain The Doctor shook his head.
matured frivolity and selfishness, not always inseparable ‘And that’s why I so much approve,’ said Mrs. Markleham,
from full-blown years, I think she confirmed him in his fear tapping him on the shoulder with her shut-up fan, ‘of your

thoughtfulness. It shows that you don’t expect, as many el- eral she resigned herself to her mother, and went where the
derly people do expect, old heads on young shoulders. You Old Soldier would.
have studied Annie’s character, and you understand it. It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied
That’s what I find so charming!’ them. Sometimes my aunt and Dora were invited to do
Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong ex- so, and accepted the invitation. Sometimes Dora only was
pressed some little sense of pain, I thought, under the asked. The time had been, when I should have been uneasy
infliction of these compliments. in her going; but reflection on what had passed that for-
‘Therefore, my dear Doctor,’ said the Old Soldier, giving mer night in the Doctor’s study, had made a change in my
him several affectionate taps, ‘you may command me, at all mistrust. I believed that the Doctor was right, and I had no
times and seasons. Now, do understand that I am entire- worse suspicions.
ly at your service. I am ready to go with Annie to operas, My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened
concerts, exhibitions, all kinds of places; and you shall nev- to be alone with me, and said she couldn’t make it out; she
er find that I am tired. Duty, my dear Doctor, before every wished they were happier; she didn’t think our military
consideration in the universe!’ friend (so she always called the Old Soldier) mended the
She was as good as her word. She was one of those peo- matter at all. My aunt further expressed her opinion, ‘that if
ple who can bear a great deal of pleasure, and she never our military friend would cut off those butterflies, and give
flinched in her perseverance in the cause. She seldom got ‘em to the chimney-sweepers for May-day, it would look like
hold of the newspaper (which she settled herself down in the beginning of something sensible on her part.’
the softest chair in the house to read through an eye-glass, But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had
every day, for two hours), but she found out something that evidently an idea in his head, she said; and if he could only
she was certain Annie would like to see. It was in vain for once pen it up into a corner, which was his great difficulty,
Annie to protest that she was weary of such things. Her he would distinguish himself in some extraordinary man-
mother’s remonstrance always was, ‘Now, my dear Annie, ner.
I am sure you know better; and I must tell you, my love, Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to
that you are not making a proper return for the kindness of occupy precisely the same ground in reference to the Doc-
Doctor Strong.’ tor and to Mrs. Strong. He seemed neither to advance nor to
This was usually said in the Doctor’s presence, and ap- recede. He appeared to have settled into his original foun-
peared to me to constitute Annie’s principal inducement for dation, like a building; and I must confess that my faith in
withdrawing her objections when she made any. But in gen- his ever Moving, was not much greater than if he had been

a building. ‘Weak?’ said Mr. Dick.
But one night, when I had been married some months, ‘Well,’ I replied, dubiously. ‘Rather so.’
Mr. Dick put his head into the parlour, where I was writing ‘Exactly!’ cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted
alone (Dora having gone out with my aunt to take tea with by my reply. ‘That is, Trotwood, when they took some of the
the two little birds), and said, with a significant cough: trouble out of you-know-who’s head, and put it you know
‘You couldn’t speak to me without inconveniencing your- where, there was a -’ Mr. Dick made his two hands revolve
self, Trotwood, I am afraid?’ very fast about each other a great number of times, and then
‘Certainly, Mr. Dick,’ said I; ‘come in!’ brought them into collision, and rolled them over and over
‘Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, laying his finger on the side one another, to express confusion. ‘There was that sort of
of his nose, after he had shaken hands with me. ‘Before I thing done to me somehow. Eh?’
sit down, I wish to make an observation. You know your I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.
aunt?’ ‘In short, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, dropping his voice to a
‘A little,’ I replied. whisper, ‘I am simple.’
‘She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!’ I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped
After the delivery of this communication, which he shot me.
out of himself as if he were loaded with it, Mr. Dick sat down ‘Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won’t hear of it;
with greater gravity than usual, and looked at me. but I am. I know I am. If she hadn’t stood my friend, sir, I
‘Now, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘I am going to put a question should have been shut up, to lead a dismal life these many
to you.’ years. But I’ll provide for her! I never spend the copying
‘As many as you please,’ said I. money. I put it in a box. I have made a will. I’ll leave it all to
‘What do you consider me, sir?’ asked Mr. Dick, folding her. She shall be rich - noble!’
his arms. Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped
‘A dear old friend,’ said I. ‘Thank you, Trotwood,’ re- his eyes. He then folded it up with great care, pressed it
turned Mr. Dick, laughing, and reaching across in high glee smooth between his two hands, put it in his pocket, and
to shake hands with me. ‘But I mean, boy,’ resuming his seemed to put my aunt away with it.
gravity, ‘what do you consider me in this respect?’ touching ‘Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘You
his forehead. are a fine scholar. You know what a learned man, what a
I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a great man, the Doctor is. You know what honour he has
word. always done me. Not proud in his wisdom. Humble, hum-

ble - condescending even to poor Dick, who is simple and ‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick.
knows nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of pa- The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the
per, to the kite, along the string, when it has been in the sky, knee, and leaned back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted
among the larks. The kite has been glad to receive it, sir, and up as high as he could possibly lift them, made me think
the sky has been brighter with it.’ him farther out of his wits than ever. He became as sud-
I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor denly grave again, and leaning forward as before, said - first
was deserving of our best respect and highest esteem. respectfully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if it re-
‘And his beautiful wife is a star,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘A shin- ally did represent my aunt:
ing star. I have seen her shine, sir. But,’ bringing his chair ‘Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why
nearer, and laying one hand upon my knee - ‘clouds, sir - has she done nothing to set things right?’
clouds.’ ‘Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,’
I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by I replied.
conveying the same expression into my own, and shaking ‘Fine scholar,’ said Mr. Dick, touching me with his finger.
my head. ‘Why has HE done nothing?’
‘What clouds?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘For the same reason,’ I returned.
He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious ‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick. And he stood up
to understand, that I took great pains to answer him slowly before me, more exultingly than before, nodding his head,
and distinctly, as I might have entered on an explanation and striking himself repeatedly upon the breast, until one
to a child. might have supposed that he had nearly nodded and struck
‘There is some unfortunate division between them,’ I re- all the breath out of his body.
plied. ‘Some unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may ‘A poor fellow with a craze, sir,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘a simple-
be inseparable from the discrepancy in their years. It may ton, a weak-minded person - present company, you know!’
have grown up out of almost nothing.’ striking himself again, ‘may do what wonderful people
Mr. Dick, who had told off every sentence with a thought- may not do. I’ll bring them together, boy. I’ll try. They’ll
ful nod, paused when I had done, and sat considering, with not blame me. They’ll not object to me. They’ll not mind
his eyes upon my face, and his hand upon my knee. what I do, if it’s wrong. I’m only Mr. Dick. And who minds
‘Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?’ he said, after Dick? Dick’s nobody! Whoo!’ He blew a slight, contemptu-
some time. ous breath, as if he blew himself away.
‘No. Devoted to her.’ It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mys-

tery, for we heard the coach stop at the little garden gate, said, and begged us to remain and see him. We went into
which brought my aunt and Dora home. the drawing-room with her, and sat down by the darkening
‘Not a word, boy!’ he pursued in a whisper; ‘leave all the window. There was never any ceremony about the visits of
blame with Dick - simple Dick - mad Dick. I have been such old friends and neighbours as we were.
thinking, sir, for some time, that I was getting it, and now I We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markle-
have got it. After what you have said to me, I am sure I have ham, who usually contrived to be in a fuss about something,
got it. All right!’ Not another word did Mr. Dick utter on came bustling in, with her newspaper in her hand, and said,
the subject; but he made a very telegraph of himself for the out of breath, ‘My goodness gracious, Annie, why didn’t
next half-hour (to the great disturbance of my aunt’s mind), you tell me there was someone in the Study!’
to enjoin inviolable secrecy on me. ‘My dear mama,’ she quietly returned, ‘how could I know
To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two that you desired the information?’
or three weeks, though I was sufficiently interested in the ‘Desired the information!’ said Mrs. Markleham, sinking
result of his endeavours; descrying a strange gleam of good on the sofa. ‘I never had such a turn in all my life!’
sense - I say nothing of good feeling, for that he always ex- ‘Have you been to the Study, then, mama?’ asked Annie.
hibited - in the conclusion to which he had come. At last ‘BEEN to the Study, my dear!’ she returned emphatically.
I began to believe, that, in the flighty and unsettled state ‘Indeed I have! I came upon the amiable creature - if you’ll
of his mind, he had either forgotten his intention or aban- imagine my feelings, Miss Trotwood and David - in the act
doned it. of making his will.’
One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out, Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.
my aunt and I strolled up to the Doctor’s cottage. It was au- ‘In the act, my dear Annie,’ repeated Mrs. Markleham,
tumn, when there were no debates to vex the evening air; spreading the newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and
and I remember how the leaves smelt like our garden at patting her hands upon it, ‘of making his last Will and Tes-
Blunderstone as we trod them under foot, and how the old, tament. The foresight and affection of the dear! I must tell
unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the sighing wind. you how it was. I really must, in justice to the darling - for
It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong he is nothing less! - tell you how it was. Perhaps you know,
was just coming out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lin- Miss Trotwood, that there is never a candle lighted in this
gered, busy with his knife, helping the gardener to point house, until one’s eyes are literally falling out of one’s head
some stakes. The Doctor was engaged with someone in his with being stretched to read the paper. And that there is not
study; but the visitor would be gone directly, Mrs. Strong a chair in this house, in which a paper can be what I call,

read, except one in the Study. This took me to the Study, his mind’s at rest. Well it may be! What a mind! Annie, my
where I saw a light. I opened the door. In company with love, I am going to the Study with my paper, for I am a poor
the dear Doctor were two professional people, evidently creature without news. Miss Trotwood, David, pray come
connected with the law, and they were all three standing and see the Doctor.’
at the table: the darling Doctor pen in hand. ‘This simply I was conscious of Mr. Dick’s standing in the shadow of
expresses then,’ said the Doctor - Annie, my love, attend to the room, shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her
the very words - ‘this simply expresses then, gentlemen, the to the Study; and of my aunt’s rubbing her nose violently, by
confidence I have in Mrs. Strong, and gives her all uncondi- the way, as a mild vent for her intolerance of our military
tionally?’ One of the professional people replied, ‘And gives friend; but who got first into the Study, or how Mrs. Markle-
her all unconditionally.’ Upon that, with the natural feel- ham settled herself in a moment in her easy-chair, or how
ings of a mother, I said, ‘Good God, I beg your pardon!’ fell my aunt and I came to be left together near the door (un-
over the door-step, and came away through the little back less her eyes were quicker than mine, and she held me back),
passage where the pantry is.’ I have forgotten, if I ever knew. But this I know, - that we
Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into the saw the Doctor before he saw us, sitting at his table, among
verandah, where she stood leaning against a pillar. the folio volumes in which he delighted, resting his head
‘But now isn’t it, Miss Trotwood, isn’t it, David, invigo- calmly on his hand. That, in the same moment, we saw Mrs.
rating,’ said Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her Strong glide in, pale and trembling. That Mr. Dick support-
with her eyes, ‘to find a man at Doctor Strong’s time of life, ed her on his arm. That he laid his other hand upon the
with the strength of mind to do this kind of thing? It only Doctor’s arm, causing him to look up with an abstracted air.
shows how right I was. I said to Annie, when Doctor Strong That, as the Doctor moved his head, his wife dropped down
paid a very flattering visit to myself, and made her the sub- on one knee at his feet, and, with her hands imploringly
ject of a declaration and an offer, I said, ‘My dear, there is no lifted, fixed upon his face the memorable look I had never
doubt whatever, in my opinion, with reference to a suitable forgotten. That at this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the
provision for you, that Doctor Strong will do more than he newspaper, and stared more like a figure-head intended for
binds himself to do.‘‘ a ship to be called The Astonishment, than anything else I
Here the bell rang, and we heard the sound of the visi- can think of.
tors’ feet as they went out. The gentleness of the Doctor’s manner and surprise, the
‘It’s all over, no doubt,’ said the Old Soldier, after listen- dignity that mingled with the supplicating attitude of his
ing; ‘the dear creature has signed, sealed, and delivered, and wife, the amiable concern of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness

with which my aunt said to herself, ‘That man mad!’ (tri- affection, admiration, and respect. I wish to make you hap-
umphantly expressive of the misery from which she had py. I truly love and honour you. Rise, Annie, pray!’
saved him) - I see and hear, rather than remember, as I write But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little while,
about it. she sank down closer to him, laid her arm across his knee,
‘Doctor!’ said Mr. Dick. ‘What is it that’s amiss? Look and dropping her head upon it, said:
here!’ ‘If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for
‘Annie!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Not at my feet, my dear!’ me, or for my husband in this matter; if I have any friend
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘I beg and pray that no one will leave the here, who can give a voice to any suspicion that my heart
room! Oh, my husband and father, break this long silence. has sometimes whispered to me; if I have any friend here,
Let us both know what it is that has come between us!’ who honours my husband, or has ever cared for me, and has
Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of anything within his knowledge, no matter what it is, that
speech, and seeming to swell with family pride and mother- may help to mediate between us, I implore that friend to
ly indignation, here exclaimed, ‘Annie, get up immediately, speak!’
and don’t disgrace everybody belonging to you by hum- There was a profound silence. After a few moments of
bling yourself like that, unless you wish to see me go out of painful hesitation, I broke the silence.
my mind on the spot!’ ‘Mrs. Strong,’ I said, ‘there is something within my
‘Mama!’ returned Annie. ‘Waste no words on me, for my knowledge, which I have been earnestly entreated by Doc-
appeal is to my husband, and even you are nothing here.’ tor Strong to conceal, and have concealed until tonight. But,
‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. ‘Me, nothing! I believe the time has come when it would be mistaken faith
The child has taken leave of her senses. Please to get me a and delicacy to conceal it any longer, and when your appeal
glass of water!’ absolves me from his injunction.’
I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I
any heed to this request; and it made no impression on any- knew that I was right. I could not have resisted its entreaty,
body else; so Mrs. Markleham panted, stared, and fanned if the assurance that it gave me had been less convincing.
herself. ‘Our future peace,’ she said, ‘may be in your hands. I trust
‘Annie!’ said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his hands. it confidently to your not suppressing anything. I know be-
‘My dear! If any unavoidable change has come, in the se- forehand that nothing you, or anyone, can tell me, will show
quence of time, upon our married life, you are not to blame. my husband’s noble heart in any other light than one. How-
The fault is mine, and only mine. There is no change in my soever it may seem to you to touch me, disregard that. I will

speak for myself, before him, and before God afterwards.’ (’Which you haven’t, you Marplot,’ observed my aunt, in
Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doc- an indignant whisper.)
tor for his permission, but, without any other compromise - ‘I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requi-
of the truth than a little softening of the coarseness of Uriah site to enter into these details.’
Heep, related plainly what had passed in that same room ‘No one but my husband can judge of that, mama,’ said
that night. The staring of Mrs. Markleham during the whole Annie without removing her eyes from his face, ‘and he will
narration, and the shrill, sharp interjections with which she hear me. If I say anything to give you pain, mama, forgive
occasionally interrupted it, defy description. me. I have borne pain first, often and long, myself.’
When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few mo- ‘Upon my word!’ gasped Mrs. Markleham.
ments, silent, with her head bent down, as I have described. ‘When I was very young,’ said Annie, ‘quite a little child,
Then, she took the Doctor’s hand (he was sitting in the same my first associations with knowledge of any kind were in-
attitude as when we had entered the room), and pressed it separable from a patient friend and teacher - the friend
to her breast, and kissed it. Mr. Dick softly raised her; and of my dead father - who was always dear to me. I can re-
she stood, when she began to speak, leaning on him, and member nothing that I know, without remembering him.
looking down upon her husband - from whom she never He stored my mind with its first treasures, and stamped
turned her eyes. his character upon them all. They never could have been, I
‘All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,’ think, as good as they have been to me, if I had taken them
she said in a low, submissive, tender voice, ‘I will lay bare from any other hands.’
before you. I could not live and have one reservation, know- ‘Makes her mother nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markle-
ing what I know now.’ ham.
‘Nay, Annie,’ said the Doctor, mildly, ‘I have never doubt- ‘Not so mama,’ said Annie; ‘but I make him what he was.
ed you, my child. There is no need; indeed there is no need, I must do that. As I grew up, he occupied the same place
my dear.’ still. I was proud of his interest: deeply, fondly, gratefully
‘There is great need,’ she answered, in the same way, ‘that attached to him. I looked up to him, I can hardly describe
I should open my whole heart before the soul of generosity how - as a father, as a guide, as one whose praise was dif-
and truth, whom, year by year, and day by day, I have loved ferent from all other praise, as one in whom I could have
and venerated more and more, as Heaven knows!’ trusted and confided, if I had doubted all the world. You
‘Really,’ interrupted Mrs. Markleham, ‘if I have any dis- know, mama, how young and inexperienced I was, when
cretion at all -’ you presented him before me, of a sudden, as a lover.’

‘I have mentioned the fact, fifty times at least, to every- lection, or a hope, that any power could separate from you!’
body here!’ said Mrs. Markleham. She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked
(’Then hold your tongue, for the Lord’s sake, and don’t as beautiful and true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor
mention it any more!’ muttered my aunt.) looked on her, henceforth, as steadfastly as she on him.
‘It was so great a change: so great a loss, I felt it, at first,’ ‘Mama is blameless,’ she went on, ‘of having ever urged
said Annie, still preserving the same look and tone, ‘that I you for herself, and she is blameless in intention every way,
was agitated and distressed. I was but a girl; and when so I am sure, - but when I saw how many importunate claims
great a change came in the character in which I had so long were pressed upon you in my name; how you were traded
looked up to him, I think I was sorry. But nothing could on in my name; how generous you were, and how Mr. Wick-
have made him what he used to be again; and I was proud field, who had your welfare very much at heart, resented it;
that he should think me so worthy, and we were married.’ ‘- the first sense of my exposure to the mean suspicion that my
At Saint Alphage, Canterbury,’ observed Mrs. Markleham. tenderness was bought - and sold to you, of all men on earth
(’Confound the woman!’ said my aunt, ‘she WON’T be - fell upon me like unmerited disgrace, in which I forced you
quiet!’) to participate. I cannot tell you what it was - mama cannot
‘I never thought,’ proceeded Annie, with a heightened imagine what it was - to have this dread and trouble always
colour, ‘of any worldly gain that my husband would bring on my mind, yet know in my own soul that on my marriage-
to me. My young heart had no room in its homage for any day I crowned the love and honour of my life!’
such poor reference. Mama, forgive me when I say that it ‘A specimen of the thanks one gets,’ cried Mrs. Markle-
was you who first presented to my mind the thought that ham, in tears, ‘for taking care of one’s family! I wish I was
anyone could wrong me, and wrong him, by such a cruel a Turk!’
suspicion.’ (’I wish you were, with all my heart - and in your native
‘Me!’ cried Mrs. Markleham. country!’ said my aunt.)
(’Ah! You, to be sure!’ observed my aunt, ‘and you can’t ‘It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about
fan it away, my military friend!’) my Cousin Maldon. I had liked him’: she spoke softly, but
‘It was the first unhappiness of my new life,’ said Annie. without any hesitation: ‘very much. We had been little lov-
‘It was the first occasion of every unhappy moment I have ers once. If circumstances had not happened otherwise, I
known. These moments have been more, of late, than I can might have come to persuade myself that I really loved him,
count; but not - my generous husband! - not for the reason and might have married him, and been most wretched.
you suppose; for in my heart there is not a thought, a recol- There can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of

mind and purpose.’ down all my load of shame and grief, and knew that I had
I pondered on those words, even while I was studiously to tell that, underneath your roof, one of my own kindred,
attending to what followed, as if they had some particular to whom you had been a benefactor, for the love of me,
interest, or some strange application that I could not divine. had spoken to me words that should have found no utter-
‘There can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of ance, even if I had been the weak and mercenary wretch he
mind and purpose’ -’no disparity in marriage like unsuit- thought me - my mind revolted from the taint the very tale
ability of mind and purpose.’ conveyed. It died upon my lips, and from that hour till now
‘There is nothing,’ said Annie, ‘that we have in common. has never passed them.’
I have long found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her
my husband for no more, instead of for so much, I should easy-chair; and retired behind her fan, as if she were never
be thankful to him for having saved me from the first mis- coming out any more.
taken impulse of my undisciplined heart.’ ‘I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word
She stood quite still, before the Doctor, and spoke with with him from that time; then, only when it has been nec-
an earnestness that thrilled me. Yet her voice was just as essary for the avoidance of this explanation. Years have
quiet as before. passed since he knew, from me, what his situation here was.
‘When he was waiting to be the object of your munif- The kindnesses you have secretly done for his advancement,
icence, so freely bestowed for my sake, and when I was and then disclosed to me, for my surprise and pleasure,
unhappy in the mercenary shape I was made to wear, I have been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhap-
thought it would have become him better to have worked piness and burden of my secret.’
his own way on. I thought that if I had been he, I would She sunk down gently at the Doctor’s feet, though he did
have tried to do it, at the cost of almost any hardship. But I his utmost to prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully,
thought no worse of him, until the night of his departure for into his face:
India. That night I knew he had a false and thankless heart. ‘Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right
I saw a double meaning, then, in Mr. Wickfield’s scrutiny or wrong, if this were to be done again, I think I should do
of me. I perceived, for the first time, the dark suspicion that just the same. You never can know what it was to be devot-
shadowed my life.’ ed to you, with those old associations; to find that anyone
‘Suspicion, Annie!’ said the Doctor. ‘No, no, no!’ could be so hard as to suppose that the truth of my heart
‘In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!’ was bartered away, and to be surrounded by appearances
she returned. ‘And when I came to you, that night, to lay confirming that belief. I was very young, and had no advis-

er. Between mama and me, in all relating to you, there was a all this knowledge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this
wide division. If I shrunk into myself, hiding the disrespect dear face, revered as a father’s, loved as a husband’s, sacred
I had undergone, it was because I honoured you so much, to me in my childhood as a friend’s, and solemnly declare
and so much wished that you should honour me!’ that in my lightest thought I have never wronged you; never
‘Annie, my pure heart!’ said the Doctor, ‘my dear girl!’ wavered in the love and the fidelity I owe you!’
‘A little more! a very few words more! I used to think She had her arms around the Doctor’s neck, and he leant
there were so many whom you might have married, who his head down over her, mingling his grey hair with her
would not have brought such charge and trouble on you, dark brown tresses.
and who would have made your home a worthier home. I ‘Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me
used to be afraid that I had better have remained your pupil, out! Do not think or speak of disparity between us, for there
and almost your child. I used to fear that I was so unsuited is none, except in all my many imperfections. Every suc-
to your learning and wisdom. If all this made me shrink ceeding year I have known this better, as I have esteemed
within myself (as indeed it did), when I had that to tell, it you more and more. Oh, take me to your heart, my husband,
was still because I honoured you so much, and hoped that for my love was founded on a rock, and it endures!’
you might one day honour me.’ In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up
‘That day has shone this long time, Annie,’ said the Doc- to Mr. Dick, without at all hurrying herself, and gave him
tor, and can have but one long night, my dear.’ a hug and a sounding kiss. And it was very fortunate, with
‘Another word! I afterwards meant - steadfastly meant, a view to his credit, that she did so; for I am confident that
and purposed to myself - to bear the whole weight of know- I detected him at that moment in the act of making prepa-
ing the unworthiness of one to whom you had been so good. rations to stand on one leg, as an appropriate expression of
And now a last word, dearest and best of friends! The cause delight.
of the late change in you, which I have seen with so much ‘You are a very remarkable man, Dick!’ said my aunt,
pain and sorrow, and have sometimes referred to my old ap- with an air of unqualified approbation; ‘and never pretend
prehension - at other times to lingering suppositions nearer to be anything else, for I know better!’
to the truth - has been made clear tonight; and by an acci- With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nod-
dent I have also come to know, tonight, the full measure of ded to me; and we three stole quietly out of the room, and
your noble trust in me, even under that mistake. I do not came away.
hope that any love and duty I may render in return, will ‘That’s a settler for our military friend, at any rate,’ said
ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with my aunt, on the way home. ‘I should sleep the better for that,

if there was nothing else to be glad of!’
‘She was quite overcome, I am afraid,’ said Mr. Dick, with CHAPTER 46
great commiseration.
‘What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?’ inquired
my aunt.
‘I don’t think I ever saw a crocodile,’ returned Mr. Dick, Intelligence
mildly.
‘There never would have been anything the matter, if it
hadn’t been for that old Animal,’ said my aunt, with strong
emphasis. ‘It’s very much to be wished that some mothers
would leave their daughters alone after marriage, and not
be so violently affectionate. They seem to think the only re-
I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect
memory for dates, about a year or so, when one evening,
as I was returning from a solitary walk, thinking of the book
turn that can be made them for bringing an unfortunate I was then writing - for my success had steadily increased
young woman into the world - God bless my soul, as if she with my steady application, and I was engaged at that time
asked to be brought, or wanted to come! - is full liberty to upon my first work of fiction - I came past Mrs. Steerforth’s
worry her out of it again. What are you thinking of, Trot?’ house. I had often passed it before, during my residence in
I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was that neighbourhood, though never when I could choose an-
still running on some of the expressions used. ‘There can be other road. Howbeit, it did sometimes happen that it was
no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and pur- not easy to find another, without making a long circuit; and
pose.’ ‘The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.’ so I had passed that way, upon the whole, pretty often.
‘My love was founded on a rock.’ But we were at home; and I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went
the trodden leaves were lying under-foot, and the autumn by with a quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy
wind was blowing. and dull. None of the best rooms abutted on the road; and
the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned windows, nev-
er cheerful under any circumstances, looked very dismal,
close shut, and with their blinds always drawn down. There
was a covered way across a little paved court, to an entrance
that was never used; and there was one round staircase win-
dow, at odds with all the rest, and the only one unshaded by

a blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look. I do staircase, and when I saw you pass again, to ask you to step
not remember that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had in and speak to her.’
been a casual passer-by, I should have probably supposed I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went
that some childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily along, how Mrs. Steerforth was. She said her lady was but
possessed no knowledge of the place, and had seen it of- poorly, and kept her own room a good deal.
ten in that changeless state, I should have pleased my fancy When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss
with many ingenious speculations, I dare say. Dartle in the garden, and left to make my presence known
As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind to her myself. She was sitting on a seat at one end of a kind
could not go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usu- of terrace, overlooking the great city. It was a sombre eve-
ally awakened a long train of meditations. Coming before ning, with a lurid light in the sky; and as I saw the prospect
me, on this particular evening that I mention, mingled with scowling in the distance, with here and there some larger
the childish recollections and later fancies, the ghosts of object starting up into the sullen glare, I fancied it was no
half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments inapt companion to the memory of this fierce woman.
dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to re-
imagination, incidental to the occupation with which my ceive me. I thought her, then, still more colourless and thin
thoughts had been busy, it was more than commonly sug- than when I had seen her last; the flashing eyes still brighter,
gestive. I fell into a brown study as I walked on, and a voice and the scar still plainer.
at my side made me start. Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on
It was a woman’s voice, too. I was not long in recollect- the last occasion; and there was an air of disdain about her,
ing Mrs. Steerforth’s little parlour-maid, who had formerly which she took no pains to conceal.
worn blue ribbons in her cap. She had taken them out now, ‘I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,’ said I,
to adapt herself, I suppose, to the altered character of the standing near her, with my hand upon the back of the seat,
house; and wore but one or two disconsolate bows of sober and declining her gesture of invitation to sit down.
brown. ‘If you please,’ said she. ‘Pray has this girl been found?’
‘If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk ‘No.’
in, and speak to Miss Dartle?’ ‘And yet she has run away!’
‘Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?’ I inquired. I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if
‘Not tonight, sir, but it’s just the same. Miss Dartle saw they were eager to load her with reproaches.
you pass a night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the ‘Run away?’ I repeated.

‘Yes! From him,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘If she is not found, looked at me, was worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.
perhaps she never will be found. She may be dead!’ ‘Now,’ said she, imperiously, without glancing at him,
The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I and touching the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this
never saw expressed in any other face that ever I have seen. instance, with pleasure rather than pain. ‘Tell Mr. Copper-
‘To wish her dead,’ said I, ‘may be the kindest wish that field about the flight.’
one of her own sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that ‘Mr. James and myself, ma’am -’
time has softened you so much, Miss Dartle.’ ‘Don’t address yourself to me!’ she interrupted with a
She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me frown.
with another scornful laugh, said: ‘Mr. James and myself, sir -’
‘The friends of this excellent and much-injured young ‘Nor to me, if you please,’ said I.
lady are friends of yours. You are their champion, and as- Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified
sert their rights. Do you wish to know what is known of by a slight obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable
her?’ to us was most agreeable to him; and began again.
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young
She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few woman, ever since she left Yarmouth under Mr. james’s pro-
steps towards a wall of holly that was near at hand, divid- tection. We have been in a variety of places, and seen a deal
ing the lawn from a kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, of foreign country. We have been in France, Switzerland, It-
‘Come here!’ - as if she were calling to some unclean beast. aly, in fact, almost all parts.’
‘You will restrain any demonstrative championship or He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing
vengeance in this place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?’ said himself to that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as
she, looking over her shoulder at me with the same expres- if he were striking chords upon a dumb piano.
sion. ‘Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young wom-
I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; an; and was more settled, for a length of time, than I have
and she said, ‘Come here!’ again; and returned, followed known him to be since I have been in his service. The young
by the respectable Mr. Littimer, who, with undiminished woman was very improvable, and spoke the languages; and
respectability, made me a bow, and took up his position wouldn’t have been known for the same country-person. I
behind her. The air of wicked grace: of triumph, in which, noticed that she was much admired wherever we went.’
strange to say, there was yet something feminine and allur- Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal
ing: with which she reclined upon the seat between us, and a glance at her, and slightly smile to himself.

‘Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. der pretence of coming back in a day or so, left it in charge
What with her dress; what with the air and sun; what with with me to break it out, that, for the general happiness of all
being made so much of; what with this, that, and the other; concerned, he was’ - here an interruption of the short cough
her merits really attracted general notice.’ - ‘gone. But Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave ex-
He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly tremely honourable; for he proposed that the young woman
over the distant prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop should marry a very respectable person, who was fully pre-
that busy mouth. pared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as good as
Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regu-
within the other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littim- lar way: her connexions being very common.’
er proceeded, with his eyes cast down, and his respectable He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was con-
head a little advanced, and a little on one side: vinced that the scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my
‘The young woman went on in this manner for some time, conviction reflected in Miss Dartle’s face.
being occasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began ‘This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was will-
to weary Mr. James by giving way to her low spirits and ing to do anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty,
tempers of that kind; and things were not so comfortable. and to restore harmony between himself and an affection-
Mr. James he began to be restless again. The more restless ate parent, who has undergone so much on his account.
he got, the worse she got; and I must say, for myself, that I Therefore I undertook the commission. The young woman’s
had a very difficult time of it indeed between the two. Still violence when she came to, after I broke the fact of his de-
matters were patched up here, and made good there, over parture, was beyond all expectations. She was quite mad,
and over again; and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer and had to be held by force; or, if she couldn’t have got to a
time than anybody could have expected.’ knife, or got to the sea, she’d have beaten her head against
Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me the marble floor.’
again now, with her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of
throat behind his hand with a respectable short cough, exultation in her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds
changed legs, and went on: this fellow had uttered.
‘At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good ‘But when I came to the second part of what had been
many words and reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morn- entrusted to me,’ said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands un-
ing, from the neighbourhood of Naples, where we had a villa easily, ‘which anybody might have supposed would have
(the young woman being very partial to the sea), and, un- been, at all events, appreciated as a kind intention, then the

young woman came out in her true colours. A more outra- Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before
geous person I never did see. Her conduct was surprisingly me of her sitting on the far-off shore, among the children
bad. She had no more gratitude, no more feeling, no more like herself when she was innocent, listening to little voices
patience, no more reason in her, than a stock or a stone. If I such as might have called her Mother had she been a poor
hadn’t been upon my guard, I am convinced she would have man’s wife; and to the great voice of the sea, with its eternal
had my blood.’ ‘Never more!’
‘I think the better of her for it,’ said I, indignantly. ‘When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dar-
Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, ‘Indeed, tle -’
sir? But you’re young!’ and resumed his narrative. ‘Did I tell you not to speak to me?’ she said, with stern
‘It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away every- contempt.
thing nigh her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, ‘You spoke to me, miss,’ he replied. ‘I beg your pardon.
an injury with, and to shut her up close. Notwithstanding But it is my service to obey.’
which, she got out in the night; forced the lattice of a win- ‘Do your service,’ she returned. ‘Finish your story, and
dow, that I had nailed up myself; dropped on a vine that was go!’
trailed below; and never has been seen or heard of, to my ‘When it was clear,’ he said, with infinite respectabil-
knowledge, since.’ ity and an obedient bow, ‘that she was not to be found, I
‘She is dead, perhaps,’ said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if went to Mr. James, at the place where it had been agreed
she could have spurned the body of the ruined girl. that I should write to him, and informed him of what had
‘She may have drowned herself, miss,’ returned Mr. Lit- occurred. Words passed between us in consequence, and I
timer, catching at an excuse for addressing himself to felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, and I
somebody. ‘It’s very possible. Or, she may have had as- have borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me
sistance from the boatmen, and the boatmen’s wives and too far. He hurt me. Knowing the unfortunate difference
children. Being given to low company, she was very much between himself and his mother, and what her anxiety of
in the habit of talking to them on the beach, Miss Dartle, mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of coming home to
and sitting by their boats. I have known her do it, when Mr. England, and relating -’
James has been away, whole days. Mr. James was far from ‘For money which I paid him,’ said Miss Dartle to me.
pleased to find out, once, that she had told the children she ‘Just so, ma’am - and relating what I knew. I am not
was a boatman’s daughter, and that in her own country, long aware,’ said Mr. Littimer, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that
ago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.’ there is anything else. I am at present out of employment,

and should be happy to meet with a respectable situation.’ but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid going.’
Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire ‘Is that all?’ inquired Miss Dartle of me.
if there were anything that I desired to ask. As there was I indicated that I had nothing more to say. ‘Except,’ I
something which had occurred to my mind, I said in reply: added, as I saw him moving off, ‘that I understand this fel-
‘I could wish to know from this - creature,’ I could not low’s part in the wicked story, and that, as I shall make it
bring myself to utter any more conciliatory word, ‘whether known to the honest man who has been her father from
they intercepted a letter that was written to her from home, her childhood, I would recommend him to avoid going too
or whether he supposes that she received it.’ much into public.’
He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened
ground, and the tip of every finger of his right hand deli- with his usual repose of manner.
cately poised against the tip of every finger of his left. ‘Thank you, sir. But you’ll excuse me if I say, sir, that
Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him. there are neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country,
‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, awakening from his and that people are not allowed to take the law into their
abstraction, ‘but, however submissive to you, I have my po- own hands. If they do, it is more to their own peril, I believe,
sition, though a servant. Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, than to other people’s. Consequently speaking, I am not at
are different people. If Mr. Copperfield wishes to know all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir.’
anything from me, I take the liberty of reminding Mr. Cop- With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to
perfield that he can put a question to me. I have a character Miss Dartle, went away through the arch in the wall of hol-
to maintain.’ ly by which he had come. Miss Dartle and I regarded each
After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my other for a little while in silence; her manner being exactly
eyes upon him, and said, ‘You have heard my question. what it was, when she had produced the man.
Consider it addressed to yourself, if you choose. What an- ‘He says besides,’ she observed, with a slow curling of her
swer do you make?’ lip, ‘that his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this
‘Sir,’ he rejoined, with an occasional separation and re- done, is away to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary.
union of those delicate tips, ‘my answer must be qualified; But this is of no interest to you. Between these two proud
because, to betray Mr. james’s confidence to his mother, and persons, mother and son, there is a wider breach than be-
to betray it to you, are two different actions. It is not prob- fore, and little hope of its healing, for they are one at heart,
able, I consider, that Mr. James would encourage the receipt and time makes each more obstinate and imperious. Nei-
of letters likely to increase low spirits and unpleasantness; ther is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I

wish to say. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean course which may relieve the mind of the decent man you
this low girl whom he picked out of the tide-mud,’ with her brought here (for whom I am sorry - I can say no more), my
black eyes full upon me, and her passionate finger up, ‘may son may be saved from again falling into the snares of a de-
be alive, - for I believe some common things are hard to die. signing enemy, well!’
If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such price found She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her,
and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may not by far away.
any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in ‘Madam,’ I said respectfully, ‘I understand. I assure you
one interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mis- I am in no danger of putting any strained construction on
chief that so coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent your motives. But I must say, even to you, having known
for you to hear what you have heard.’ this injured family from childhood, that if you suppose the
I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was ad- girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly deluded, and
vancing behind me. It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of
hand more coldly than of yore, and with an augmentation water from your son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mis-
of her former stateliness of manner, but still, I perceived - take.’
and I was touched by it - with an ineffaceable remembrance ‘Well, Rosa, well!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was
of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Her fine about to interpose, ‘it is no matter. Let it be. You are mar-
figure was far less upright, her handsome face was deeply ried, sir, I am told?’
marked, and her hair was almost white. But when she sat I answered that I had been some time married.
down on the seat, she was a handsome lady still; and well I ‘And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead,
knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been a light but I understand you are beginning to be famous.’
in my very dreams at school. ‘I have been very fortunate,’ I said, ‘and find my name
‘Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?’ connected with some praise.’
‘Yes.’ ‘You have no mother?’ - in a softened voice.
‘And has he heard Littimer himself?’ ‘No.’
‘Yes; I have told him why you wished it.’ ‘You are a good ‘It is a pity,’ she returned. ‘She would have been proud of
girl. I have had some slight correspondence with your for- you. Good night!’
mer friend, sir,’ addressing me, ‘but it has not restored his I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending
sense of duty or natural obligation. Therefore I have no oth- air, and it was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at
er object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned. If, by the peace. Her pride could still its very pulses, it appeared, and

draw the placid veil before her face, through which she sat He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a
looking straight before her on the far distance. few plants. The room was very neat and orderly. I saw in
As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could a moment that it was always kept prepared for her recep-
not help observing how steadily they both sat gazing on the tion, and that he never went out but he thought it possible
prospect, and how it thickened and closed around them. he might bring her home. He had not heard my tap at the
Here and there, some early lamps were seen to twinkle in door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon
the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky the his shoulder.
lurid light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the ‘Mas’r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit!
broad valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, Sit ye down. You’re kindly welcome, sir!’
mingling with the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering ‘Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, taking the chair he handed me,
waters would encompass them. I have reason to remember ‘don’t expect much! I have heard some news.’
this, and think of it with awe; for before I looked upon those ‘Of Em’ly!’
two again, a stormy sea had risen to their feet. He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and
Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right turned pale, as he fixed his eyes on mine.
that it should be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the fol- ‘It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.’
lowing evening I went into London in quest of him. He was He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in pro-
always wandering about from place to place, with his one found silence to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense
object of recovering his niece before him; but was more in of dignity, beauty even, with which the patient gravity of
London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen his face impressed me, when, having gradually removed his
him in the dead of night passing along the streets, searching, eyes from mine, he sat looking downward, leaning his fore-
among the few who loitered out of doors at those untimely head on his hand. He offered no interruption, but remained
hours, for what he dreaded to find. throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure
He kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in Hun- through the narrative, and to let every other shape go by
gerford Market, which I have had occasion to mention him, as if it were nothing.
more than once, and from which he first went forth upon When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued
his errand of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On mak- silent. I looked out of the window for a little while, and oc-
ing inquiry for him, I learned from the people of the house cupied myself with the plants.
that he had not gone out yet, and I should find him in his ‘How do you fare to feel about it, Mas’r Davy?’ he in-
room upstairs. quired at length.

‘I think that she is living,’ I replied. ‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head
‘I doen’t know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and mournfully. ‘If she had left of her own accord, she might;
in the wildness of her art -! That there blue water as she used not as It was, sir.’
to speak on. Could she have thowt o’ that so many year, be- ‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one per-
cause it was to be her grave!’ son, here, more likely to discover her than any other in the
He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and world. Do you remember - hear what I say, with fortitude -
walked across the little room. think of your great object! - do you remember Martha?’
‘And yet,’ he added, ‘Mas’r Davy, I have felt so sure as she ‘Of our town?’
was living - I have know’d, awake and sleeping, as it was so I needed no other answer than his face.
trew that I should find her - I have been so led on by it, and ‘Do you know that she is in London?’
held up by it - that I doen’t believe I can have been deceived. ‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiv-
No! Em’ly’s alive!’ er.
He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his ‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to
sunburnt face into a resolute expression. her, with Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor,
‘My niece, Em’ly, is alive, sir!’ he said, steadfastly. ‘I doen’t that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the
know wheer it comes from, or how ‘tis, but I am told as she’s room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door.’
alive!’ ‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night
He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I wait- when it snew so hard?’
ed for a few moments, until he could give me his undivided ‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after
attention; and then proceeded to explain the precaution, parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was
that, it had occurred to me last night, it would be wise to unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but
take. she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think
‘Now, my dear friend -’I began. we should communicate. Do you understand?’
‘Thankee, thankee, kind sir,’ he said, grasping my hand ‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost
in both of his. to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.
‘If she should make her way to London, which is likely - ‘You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could
for where could she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; find her? I could only hope to do so by chance.’
and what would she wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if ‘I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.’
she does not go home? -’ ‘It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to

find her tonight?’ ‘Sure I do!’ said he.
He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without ‘What do you suppose he meant?’
appearing to observe what he was doing, I saw how care- ‘Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘I’ve put the question to myself a
fully he adjusted the little room, put a candle ready and the mort o’ times, and never found no answer. And theer’s one
means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and finally took out curious thing - that, though he is so pleasant, I wouldn’t
of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have seen fare to feel comfortable to try and get his mind upon ‘t. He
her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a never said a wured to me as warn’t as dootiful as dootiful
bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion could be, and it ain’t likely as he’d begin to speak any other
to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waiting ways now; but it’s fur from being fleet water in his mind,
for her, many and many a night, no doubt. where them thowts lays. It’s deep, sir, and I can’t see down.’
‘The time was, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, as we came down- ‘You are right,’ said I, ‘and that has sometimes made me
stairs, ‘when I thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt anxious.’
underneath my Em’ly’s feet. God forgive me, theer’s a dif- ‘And me too, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined. ‘Even more so, I do
ference now!’ assure you, than his ventersome ways, though both belongs
As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, to the alteration in him. I doen’t know as he’d do violence
and partly to satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He under any circumstances, but I hope as them two may be
said, almost in the same words as formerly, that Ham was kep asunders.’
just the same, ‘wearing away his life with kiender no care We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Con-
nohow for ‘t; but never murmuring, and liked by all’. versing no more now, and walking at my side, he yielded
I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, himself up to the one aim of his devoted life, and went on,
in reference to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he with that hushed concentration of his faculties which would
believed it was dangerous? What he supposed, for example, have made his figure solitary in a multitude. We were not
Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should encounter? far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned his head and
‘I doen’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have thowt of it often- pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the oppo-
times, but I can’t awize myself of it, no matters.’ site side of the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that
I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her we sought.
departure, when we were all three on the beach. ‘Do you We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her,
recollect,’ said I, ‘a certain wild way in which he looked out when it occurred to me that she might be more disposed to
to sea, and spoke about ‘the end of it’?’ feel a woman’s interest in the lost girl, if we spoke to her in

a quieter place, aloof from the crowd, and where we should
be less observed. I advised my companion, therefore, that CHAPTER 47
we should not address her yet, but follow her; consulting
in this, likewise, an indistinct desire I had, to know where
she went.
He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing MARTHA
sight of her, but never caring to come very near, as she fre-
quently looked about. Once, she stopped to listen to a band
of music; and then we stopped too.
She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident,
from the manner in which she held her course, that she was
going to some fixed destination; and this, and her keeping
W e were now down in Westminster. We had turned
back to follow her, having encountered her coming
towards us; and Westminster Abbey was the point at which
in the busy streets, and I suppose the strange fascination she passed from the lights and noise of the leading streets.
in the secrecy and mystery of so following anyone, made She proceeded so quickly, when she got free of the two cur-
me adhere to my first purpose. At length she turned into a rents of passengers setting towards and from the bridge,
dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost; and that, between this and the advance she had of us when
I said, ‘We may speak to her now’; and, mending our pace, she struck off, we were in the narrow water-side street by
we went after her. Millbank before we came up with her. At that moment she
crossed the road, as if to avoid the footsteps that she heard
so close behind; and, without looking back, passed on even
more rapidly.
A glimpse of the river through a dull gateway, where
some waggons were housed for the night, seemed to arrest
my feet. I touched my companion without speaking, and
we both forbore to cross after her, and both followed on that
opposite side of the way; keeping as quietly as we could in
the shadow of the houses, but keeping very near her.
There was, and is when I write, at the end of that low-
lying street, a dilapidated little wooden building, probably

an obsolete old ferry-house. Its position is just at that point wooden piles, with a sickly substance clinging to the latter,
where the street ceases, and the road begins to lie between a like green hair, and the rags of last year’s handbills offer-
row of houses and the river. As soon as she came here, and ing rewards for drowned men fluttering above high-water
saw the water, she stopped as if she had come to her desti- mark, led down through the ooze and slush to the ebb-tide.
nation; and presently went slowly along by the brink of the There was a story that one of the pits dug for the dead in
river, looking intently at it. the time of the Great Plague was hereabout; and a blighting
All the way here, I had supposed that she was going to influence seemed to have proceeded from it over the whole
some house; indeed, I had vaguely entertained the hope that place. Or else it looked as if it had gradually decomposed
the house might be in some way associated with the lost girl. into that nightmare condition, out of the overflowings of
But that one dark glimpse of the river, through the gateway, the polluted stream.
had instinctively prepared me for her going no farther. As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left
The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as op- to corruption and decay, the girl we had followed strayed
pressive, sad, and solitary by night, as any about London. down to the river’s brink, and stood in the midst of this
There were neither wharves nor houses on the melancholy night-picture, lonely and still, looking at the water.
waste of road near the great blank Prison. A sluggish ditch There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud,
deposited its mud at the prison walls. Coarse grass and rank and these enabled us to come within a few yards of her
weeds straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In without being seen. I then signed to Mr. Peggotty to remain
one part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never where he was, and emerged from their shade to speak to her.
finished, rotted away. In another, the ground was cumbered I did not approach her solitary figure without trembling; for
with rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, this gloomy end to her determined walk, and the way in
pipes, furnaces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells, windmill- which she stood, almost within the cavernous shadow of
sails, and I know not what strange objects, accumulated the iron bridge, looking at the lights crookedly reflected in
by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust, underneath the strong tide, inspired a dread within me.
which - having sunk into the soil of their own weight in I think she was talking to herself. I am sure, although
wet weather - they had the appearance of vainly trying to absorbed in gazing at the water, that her shawl was off her
hide themselves. The clash and glare of sundry fiery Works shoulders, and that she was muffling her hands in it, in an
upon the river-side, arose by night to disturb everything ex- unsettled and bewildered way, more like the action of a
cept the heavy and unbroken smoke that poured out of their sleep-walker than a waking person. I know, and never can
chimneys. Slimy gaps and causeways, winding among old forget, that there was that in her wild manner which gave

me no assurance but that she would sink before my eyes, motion, I might have read his niece’s history, if I had known
until I had her arm within my grasp. nothing of it. I never saw, in any painting or reality, horror
At the same moment I said ‘Martha!’ and compassion so impressively blended. He shook as if he
She uttered a terrified scream, and struggled with me would have fallen; and his hand - I touched it with my own,
with such strength that I doubt if I could have held her for his appearance alarmed me - was deadly cold.
alone. But a stronger hand than mine was laid upon her; ‘She is in a state of frenzy,’ I whispered to him. ‘She will
and when she raised her frightened eyes and saw whose speak differently in a little time.’
it was, she made but one more effort and dropped down I don’t know what he would have said in answer. He
between us. We carried her away from the water to where made some motion with his mouth, and seemed to think
there were some dry stones, and there laid her down, cry- he had spoken; but he had only pointed to her with his out-
ing and moaning. In a little while she sat among the stones, stretched hand.
holding her wretched head with both her hands. A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she
‘Oh, the river!’ she cried passionately. ‘Oh, the river!’ once more hid her face among the stones, and lay before us,
‘Hush, hush!’ said I. ‘Calm yourself.’ a prostrate image of humiliation and ruin. Knowing that
But she still repeated the same words, continually ex- this state must pass, before we could speak to her with any
claiming, ‘Oh, the river!’ over and over again. hope, I ventured to restrain him when he would have raised
‘I know it’s like me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know that I belong her, and we stood by in silence until she became more tran-
to it. I know that it’s the natural company of such as I am! It quil.
comes from country places, where there was once no harm ‘Martha,’ said I then, leaning down, and helping her to
in it - and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and rise - she seemed to want to rise as if with the intention of
miserable - and it goes away, like my life, to a great sea, that going away, but she was weak, and leaned against a boat.
is always troubled - and I feel that I must go with it!’ I have ‘Do you know who this is, who is with me?’
never known what despair was, except in the tone of those She said faintly, ‘Yes.’
words. ‘Do you know that we have followed you a long way to-
‘I can’t keep away from it. I can’t forget it. It haunts me night?’
day and night. It’s the only thing in all the world that I am She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at
fit for, or that’s fit for me. Oh, the dreadful river!’ me, but stood in a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and
The thought passed through my mind that in the face of shawl in one hand, without appearing conscious of them,
my companion, as he looked upon her without speech or and pressing the other, clenched, against her forehead.

‘Are you composed enough,’ said I, ‘to speak on the sub- would try to make her what I am myself, knowing what I
ject which so interested you - I hope Heaven may remember am myself, so well? When I lost everything that makes life
it! - that snowy night?’ dear, the worst of all my thoughts was that I was parted for
Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some in- ever from her!’
articulate thanks to me for not having driven her away from Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale of
the door. the boat, and his eyes cast down, put his disengaged hand
‘I want to say nothing for myself,’ she said, after a few before his face.
moments. ‘I am bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell ‘And when I heard what had happened before that snowy
him, sir,’ she had shrunk away from him, ‘if you don’t feel night, from some belonging to our town,’ cried Martha, ‘the
too hard to me to do it, that I never was in any way the cause bitterest thought in all my mind was, that the people would
of his misfortune.’ ‘It has never been attributed to you,’ I re- remember she once kept company with me, and would say
turned, earnestly responding to her earnestness. I had corrupted her! When, Heaven knows, I would have
‘It was you, if I don’t deceive myself,’ she said, in a bro- died to have brought back her good name!’
ken voice, ‘that came into the kitchen, the night she took Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of
such pity on me; was so gentle to me; didn’t shrink away her remorse and grief was terrible.
from me like all the rest, and gave me such kind help! Was ‘To have died, would not have been much - what can I
it you, sir?’ say? - I would have lived!’ she cried. ‘I would have lived to
‘It was,’ said I. be old, in the wretched streets - and to wander about, avoid-
‘I should have been in the river long ago,’ she said, glanced, in the dark - and to see the day break on the ghastly line
ing at it with a terrible expression, ‘if any wrong to her had of houses, and remember how the same sun used to shine
been upon my mind. I never could have kept out of it a single into my room, and wake me once - I would have done even
winter’s night, if I had not been free of any share in that!’ that, to save her!’
‘The cause of her flight is too well understood,’ I said. Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and
‘You are innocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe, clenched them up, as if she would have ground them. She
- we know.’ writhed into some new posture constantly: stiffening her
‘Oh, I might have been much the better for her, if I had arms, twisting them before her face, as though to shut out
had a better heart!’ exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn from her eyes the little light there was, and drooping her
regret; ‘for she was always good to me! She never spoke a head, as if it were heavy with insupportable recollections.
word to me but what was pleasant and right. Is it likely I ‘What shall I ever do!’ she said, fighting thus with her de-

spair. ‘How can I go on as I am, a solitary curse to myself, tween Mas’r Davy and me, th’ night when it snew so hard,
a living disgrace to everyone I come near!’ Suddenly she you know as I have been - wheer not - fur to seek my dear
turned to my companion. ‘Stamp upon me, kill me! When niece. My dear niece,’ he repeated steadily. ‘Fur she’s more
she was your pride, you would have thought I had done her dear to me now, Martha, than she was dear afore.’
harm if I had brushed against her in the street. You can’t She put her hands before her face; but otherwise re-
believe - why should you? - a syllable that comes out of my mained quiet.
lips. It would be a burning shame upon you, even now, if ‘I have heerd her tell,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as you was ear-
she and I exchanged a word. I don’t complain. I don’t say ly left fatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take,
she and I are alike - I know there is a long, long way between in a rough seafaring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess
us. I only say, with all my guilt and wretchedness upon my that if you’d had such a friend, you’d have got into a way of
head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and love her. being fond of him in course of time, and that my niece was
Oh, don’t think that all the power I had of loving anything kiender daughter-like to me.’
is quite worn out! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully
me for being what I am, and having ever known her; but about her, taking it up from the ground for that purpose.
don’t think that of me!’ ‘Whereby,’ said he, ‘I know, both as she would go to the
He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in wureld’s furdest end with me, if she could once see me
a wild distracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently again; and that she would fly to the wureld’s furdest end to
raised her. keep off seeing me. For though she ain’t no call to doubt my
‘Martha,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘God forbid as I should judge love, and doen’t - and doen’t,’ he repeated, with a quiet as-
you. Forbid as I, of all men, should do that, my girl! You surance of the truth of what he said, ‘there’s shame steps in,
doen’t know half the change that’s come, in course of time, and keeps betwixt us.’
upon me, when you think it likely. Well!’ he paused a mo- I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of de-
ment, then went on. ‘You doen’t understand how ‘tis that livering himself, new evidence of his having thought of this
this here gentleman and me has wished to speak to you. You one topic, in every feature it presented.
doen’t understand what ‘tis we has afore us. Listen now!’ ‘According to our reckoning,’ he proceeded, ‘Mas’r Davy’s
His influence upon her was complete. She stood, shrink- here, and mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor
ingly, before him, as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but solitary course to London. We believe - Mas’r Davy, me,
her passionate sorrow was quite hushed and mute. and all of us - that you are as innocent of everything that
‘If you heerd,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘owt of what passed be- has befell her, as the unborn child. You’ve spoke of her be-

ing pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew she tion, and with a face that often changed, but had the same
was! I knew she always was, to all. You’re thankful to her, purpose in all its varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally
and you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemed as if her
Heaven reward you!’ spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet.
She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she She asked, when all was told, where we were to be com-
were doubtful of what he had said. municated with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp
‘Will you trust me?’ she asked, in a low voice of astonish- in the road, I wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pock-
ment. et-book, which I tore out and gave to her, and which she
‘Full and free!’ said Mr. Peggotty. put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she lived herself.
‘To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better not
I have any shelter to divide with her; and then, without her to know.
knowledge, come to you, and bring you to her?’ she asked Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had
hurriedly. already occurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could
We both replied together, ‘Yes!’ not prevail upon her to accept any money, nor could I exact
She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she any promise from her that she would do so at another time. I
would devote herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. represented to her that Mr. Peggotty could not be called, for
That she would never waver in it, never be diverted from it, one in his condition, poor; and that the idea of her engag-
never relinquish it, while there was any chance of hope. If ing in this search, while depending on her own resources,
she were not true to it, might the object she now had in life, shocked us both. She continued steadfast. In this particu-
which bound her to something devoid of evil, in its passing lar, his influence upon her was equally powerless with mine.
away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despair- She gratefully thanked him but remained inexorable.
ing, if that were possible, than she had been upon the river’s ‘There may be work to be got,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’
brink that night; and then might all help, human and Di- ‘At least take some assistance,’ I returned, ‘until you have
vine, renounce her evermore! tried.’
She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address ‘I could not do what I have promised, for money,’ she
us, but said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly qui- replied. ‘I could not take it, if I was starving. To give me
et, looking at the gloomy water. money would be to take away your trust, to take away the
We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; object that you have given me, to take away the only certain
which I recounted at length. She listened with great atten- thing that saves me from the river.’

‘In the name of the great judge,’ said I, ‘before whom you compassion in him that I was at no loss to interpret.
and all of us must stand at His dread time, dismiss that ter- It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached
rible idea! We can all do some good, if we will.’ my own gate, and was standing listening for the deep bell
She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, of St. Paul’s, the sound of which I thought had been borne
as she answered: towards me among the multitude of striking clocks, when
‘It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretch- I was rather surprised to see that the door of my aunt’s cot-
ed creature for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems tage was open, and that a faint light in the entry was shining
too bold. If any good should come of me, I might begin to out across the road.
hope; for nothing but harm has ever come of my deeds yet. I Thinking that my aunt might have relapsed into one of
am to be trusted, for the first time in a long while, with my her old alarms, and might be watching the progress of some
miserable life, on account of what you have given me to try imaginary conflagration in the distance, I went to speak to
for. I know no more, and I can say no more.’ her. It was with very great surprise that I saw a man stand-
Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; and, ing in her little garden.
putting out her trembling hand, and touching Mr. Peggotty, He had a glass and bottle in his hand, and was in the
as if there was some healing virtue in him, went away along act of drinking. I stopped short, among the thick foliage
the desolate road. She had been ill, probably for a long time. outside, for the moon was up now, though obscured; and
I observed, upon that closer opportunity of observation, I recognized the man whom I had once supposed to be a
that she was worn and haggard, and that her sunken eyes delusion of Mr. Dick’s, and had once encountered with my
expressed privation and endurance. aunt in the streets of the city.
We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat
same direction, until we came back into the lighted and with a hungry appetite. He seemed curious regarding the
populous streets. I had such implicit confidence in her dec- cottage, too, as if it were the first time he had seen it. After
laration, that I then put it to Mr. Peggotty, whether it would stooping to put the bottle on the ground, he looked up at
not seem, in the onset, like distrusting her, to follow her the windows, and looked about; though with a covert and
any farther. He being of the same mind, and equally reliant impatient air, as if he was anxious to be gone.
on her, we suffered her to take her own road, and took ours, The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, and
which was towards Highgate. He accompanied me a good my aunt came out. She was agitated, and told some money
part of the way; and when we parted, with a prayer for the into his hand. I heard it chink.
success of this fresh effort, there was a new and thoughtful ‘What’s the use of this?’ he demanded.

‘I can spare no more,’ returned my aunt. him at the gate, and went in as he came out. We eyed one
‘Then I can’t go,’ said he. ‘Here! You may take it back!’ another narrowly in passing, and with no favour.
‘You bad man,’ returned my aunt, with great emotion; ‘Aunt,’ said I, hurriedly. ‘This man alarming you again!
‘how can you use me so? But why do I ask? It is because you Let me speak to him. Who is he?’
know how weak I am! What have I to do, to free myself for ‘Child,’ returned my aunt, taking my arm, ‘come in, and
ever of your visits, but to abandon you to your deserts?’ don’t speak to me for ten minutes.’
‘And why don’t you abandon me to my deserts?’ said he. We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind
‘You ask me why!’ returned my aunt. ‘What a heart you the round green fan of former days, which was screwed on
must have!’ the back of a chair, and occasionally wiped her eyes, for
He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his about a quarter of an hour. Then she came out, and took a
head, until at length he said: seat beside me.
‘Is this all you mean to give me, then?’ ‘Trot,’ said my aunt, calmly, ‘it’s my husband.’
‘It is all I CAN give you,’ said my aunt. ‘You know I have ‘Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!’
had losses, and am poorer than I used to be. I have told you ‘Dead to me,’ returned my aunt, ‘but living.’
so. Having got it, why do you give me the pain of looking I sat in silent amazement.
at you for another moment, and seeing what you have be- ‘Betsey Trotwood don’t look a likely subject for the tender
come?’ passion,’ said my aunt, composedly, ‘but the time was, Trot,
‘I have become shabby enough, if you mean that,’ he said. when she believed in that man most entirely. When she
‘I lead the life of an owl.’ loved him, Trot, right well. When there was no proof of at-
‘You stripped me of the greater part of all I ever had,’ tachment and affection that she would not have given him.
said my aunt. ‘You closed my heart against the whole world, He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly breaking
years and years. You treated me falsely, ungratefully, and her heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and for
cruelly. Go, and repent of it. Don’t add new injuries to the ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.’
long, long list of injuries you have done me!’ ‘My dear, good aunt!’
‘Aye!’ he returned. ‘It’s all very fine - Well! I must do the ‘I left him,’ my aunt proceeded, laying her hand as usual
best I can, for the present, I suppose.’ on the back of mine, ‘generously. I may say at this distance
In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt’s of time, Trot, that I left him generously. He had been so
indignant tears, and came slouching out of the garden. Tak- cruel to me, that I might have effected a separation on easy
ing two or three quick steps, as if I had just come up, I met terms for myself; but I did not. He soon made ducks and

drakes of what I gave him, sank lower and lower, married
another woman, I believe, became an adventurer, a gambler, CHAPTER 48
and a cheat. What he is now, you see. But he was a fine-look-
ing man when I married him,’ said my aunt, with an echo
of her old pride and admiration in her tone; ‘and I believed
him - I was a fool! - to be the soul of honour!’ DOMESTIC
She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.
‘He is nothing to me now, Trot- less than nothing. But,
sooner than have him punished for his offences (as he
would be if he prowled about in this country), I give him
more money than I can afford, at intervals when he reap-
pears, to go away. I was a fool when I married him; and I am
I laboured hard at my book, without allowing it to inter-
fere with the punctual discharge of my newspaper duties;
and it came out and was very successful. I was not stunned
so far an incurable fool on that subject, that, for the sake of by the praise which sounded in my ears, notwithstanding
what I once believed him to be, I wouldn’t have even this that I was keenly alive to it, and thought better of my own
shadow of my idle fancy hardly dealt with. For I was in ear- performance, I have little doubt, than anybody else did. It
nest, Trot, if ever a woman was.’ has always been in my observation of human nature, that a
MY aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sigh, and man who has any good reason to believe in himself never
smoothed her dress. flourishes himself before the faces of other people in order
‘There, my dear!’ she said. ‘Now you know the beginning, that they may believe in him. For this reason, I retained my
middle, and end, and all about it. We won’t mention the modesty in very self-respect; and the more praise I got, the
subject to one another any more; neither, of course, will you more I tried to deserve.
mention it to anybody else. This is my grumpy, frumpy sto- It is not my purpose, in this record, though in all other
ry, and we’ll keep it to ourselves, Trot!’ essentials it is my written memory, to pursue the history of
my own fictions. They express themselves, and I leave them
to themselves. When I refer to them, incidentally, it is only
as a part of my progress.
Having some foundation for believing, by this time, that
nature and accident had made me an author, I pursued
my vocation with confidence. Without such assurance I

should certainly have left it alone, and bestowed my energy a relative, that I could discover, except a sister, who fled to
on some other endeavour. I should have tried to find out America the moment we had taken him off her hands; and
what nature and accident really had made me, and to be he became quartered on us like a horrible young change-
that, and nothing else. I had been writing, in the newspaper ling. He had a lively perception of his own unfortunate state,
and elsewhere, so prosperously, that when my new success and was always rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket,
was achieved, I considered myself reasonably entitled to es- or stooping to blow his nose on the extreme corner of a little
cape from the dreary debates. One joyful night, therefore, pocket-handkerchief, which he never would take complete-
I noted down the music of the parliamentary bagpipes for ly out of his pocket, but always economized and secreted.
the last time, and I have never heard it since; though I still This unlucky page, engaged in an evil hour at six pounds
recognize the old drone in the newspapers, without any ten per annum, was a source of continual trouble to me. I
substantial variation (except, perhaps, that there is more of watched him as he grew - and he grew like scarlet beans
it), all the livelong session. - with painful apprehensions of the time when he would be-
I now write of the time when I had been married, I sup- gin to shave; even of the days when he would be bald or grey.
pose, about a year and a half. After several varieties of I saw no prospect of ever getting rid of him; and, projecting
experiment, we had given up the housekeeping as a bad myself into the future, used to think what an inconvenience
job. The house kept itself, and we kept a page. The principal he would be when he was an old man.
function of this retainer was to quarrel with the cook; in I never expected anything less, than this unfortunate’s
which respect he was a perfect Whittington, without his cat, manner of getting me out of my difficulty. He stole Dora’s
or the remotest chance of being made Lord Mayor. watch, which, like everything else belonging to us, had no
He appears to me to have lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. particular place of its own; and, converting it into money,
His whole existence was a scuffle. He would shriek for help spent the produce (he was always a weak-minded boy) in
on the most improper occasions, - as when we had a little incessantly riding up and down between London and Ux-
dinner-party, or a few friends in the evening, - and would bridge outside the coach. He was taken to Bow Street, as
come tumbling out of the kitchen, with iron missiles fly- well as I remember, on the completion of his fifteenth jour-
ing after him. We wanted to get rid of him, but he was very ney; when four-and-sixpence, and a second-hand fife which
much attached to us, and wouldn’t go. He was a tearful boy, he couldn’t play, were found upon his person.
and broke into such deplorable lamentations, when a cessa- The surprise and its consequences would have been much
tion of our connexion was hinted at, that we were obliged less disagreeable to me if he had not been penitent. But he
to keep him. He had no mother - no anything in the way of was very penitent indeed, and in a peculiar way - not in the

lump, but by instalments. For example: the day after that on she found herself inside the iron bars. In short, I had no
which I was obliged to appear against him, he made certain peace of my life until he was expatriated, and made (as I af-
revelations touching a hamper in the cellar, which we be- terwards heard) a shepherd of, ‘up the country’ somewhere;
lieved to be full of wine, but which had nothing in it except I have no geographical idea where.
bottles and corks. We supposed he had now eased his mind, All this led me into some serious reflections, and pre-
and told the worst he knew of the cook; but, a day or two sented our mistakes in a new aspect; as I could not help
afterwards, his conscience sustained a new twinge, and he communicating to Dora one evening, in spite of my tender-
disclosed how she had a little girl, who, early every morn- ness for her.
ing, took away our bread; and also how he himself had been ‘My love,’ said I, ‘it is very painful to me to think that our
suborned to maintain the milkman in coals. In two or three want of system and management, involves not only our-
days more, I was informed by the authorities of his having selves (which we have got used to), but other people.’
led to the discovery of sirloins of beef among the kitchen- ‘You have been silent for a long time, and now you are go-
stuff, and sheets in the rag-bag. A little while afterwards, he ing to be cross!’ said Dora.
broke out in an entirely new direction, and confessed to a ‘No, my dear, indeed! Let me explain to you what I
knowledge of burglarious intentions as to our premises, on mean.’
the part of the pot-boy, who was immediately taken up. I got ‘I think I don’t want to know,’ said Dora.
to be so ashamed of being such a victim, that I would have ‘But I want you to know, my love. Put Jip down.’
given him any money to hold his tongue, or would have of- Dora put his nose to mine, and said ‘Boh!’ to drive my
fered a round bribe for his being permitted to run away. It seriousness away; but, not succeeding, ordered him into his
was an aggravating circumstance in the case that he had no Pagoda, and sat looking at me, with her hands folded, and a
idea of this, but conceived that he was making me amends most resigned little expression of countenance.
in every new discovery: not to say, heaping obligations on ‘The fact is, my dear,’ I began, ‘there is contagion in us.
my head. We infect everyone about us.’
At last I ran away myself, whenever I saw an emissary I might have gone on in this figurative manner, if Dora’s
of the police approaching with some new intelligence; and face had not admonished me that she was wondering with
lived a stealthy life until he was tried and ordered to be all her might whether I was going to propose any new kind
transported. Even then he couldn’t be quiet, but was always of vaccination, or other medical remedy, for this unwhole-
writing us letters; and wanted so much to see Dora before some state of ours. Therefore I checked myself, and made
he went away, that Dora went to visit him, and fainted when my meaning plainer.

‘It is not merely, my pet,’ said I, ‘that we lose money and ‘My darling girl,’ I retorted, ‘I really must entreat you to
comfort, and even temper sometimes, by not learning to be be reasonable, and listen to what I did say, and do say. My
more careful; but that we incur the serious responsibility of dear Dora, unless we learn to do our duty to those whom
spoiling everyone who comes into our service, or has any we employ, they will never learn to do their duty to us. I am
dealings with us. I begin to be afraid that the fault is not afraid we present opportunities to people to do wrong, that
entirely on one side, but that these people all turn out ill be- never ought to be presented. Even if we were as lax as we
cause we don’t turn out very well ourselves.’ are, in all our arrangements, by choice - which we are not
‘Oh, what an accusation,’ exclaimed Dora, opening her - even if we liked it, and found it agreeable to be so - which
eyes wide; ‘to say that you ever saw me take gold watches! we don’t - I am persuaded we should have no right to go
Oh!’ on in this way. We are positively corrupting people. We are
‘My dearest,’ I remonstrated, ‘don’t talk preposterous bound to think of that. I can’t help thinking of it, Dora. It is
nonsense! Who has made the least allusion to gold watch- a reflection I am unable to dismiss, and it sometimes makes
es?’ me very uneasy. There, dear, that’s all. Come now. Don’t be
‘You did,’ returned Dora. ‘You know you did. You said I foolish!’
hadn’t turned out well, and compared me to him.’ Dora would not allow me, for a long time, to remove the
‘To whom?’ I asked. handkerchief. She sat sobbing and murmuring behind it,
‘To the page,’ sobbed Dora. ‘Oh, you cruel fellow, to com- that, if I was uneasy, why had I ever been married? Why
pare your affectionate wife to a transported page! Why hadn’t I said, even the day before we went to church, that
didn’t you tell me your opinion of me before we were mar- I knew I should be uneasy, and I would rather not? If I
ried? Why didn’t you say, you hard-hearted thing, that you couldn’t bear her, why didn’t I send her away to her aunts at
were convinced I was worse than a transported page? Oh, Putney, or to Julia Mills in India? Julia would be glad to see
what a dreadful opinion to have of me! Oh, my goodness!’ her, and would not call her a transported page; Julia never
‘Now, Dora, my love,’ I returned, gently trying to remove had called her anything of the sort. In short, Dora was so
the handkerchief she pressed to her eyes, ‘this is not only afflicted, and so afflicted me by being in that condition, that
very ridiculous of you, but very wrong. In the first place, it’s I felt it was of no use repeating this kind of effort, though
not true.’ never so mildly, and I must take some other course.
‘You always said he was a story-teller,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And What other course was left to take? To ‘form her mind’?
now you say the same of me! Oh, what shall I do! What shall This was a common phrase of words which had a fair and
I do!’ promising sound, and I resolved to form Dora’s mind.

I began immediately. When Dora was very childish, and a very porcupine or hedgehog, bristling all over with deter-
I would have infinitely preferred to humour her, I tried to mination, I had effected nothing, it began to occur to me
be grave - and disconcerted her, and myself too. I talked to that perhaps Dora’s mind was already formed.
her on the subjects which occupied my thoughts; and I read On further consideration this appeared so likely, that I
Shakespeare to her - and fatigued her to the last degree. I abandoned my scheme, which had had a more promising
accustomed myself to giving her, as it were quite casually, appearance in words than in action; resolving henceforth
little scraps of useful information, or sound opinion - and to be satisfied with my child-wife, and to try to change her
she started from them when I let them off, as if they had been into nothing else by any process. I was heartily tired of being
crackers. No matter how incidentally or naturally I endeav- sagacious and prudent by myself, and of seeing my darling
oured to form my little wife’s mind, I could not help seeing under restraint; so I bought a pretty pair of ear-rings for her,
that she always had an instinctive perception of what I was and a collar for Jip, and went home one day to make myself
about, and became a prey to the keenest apprehensions. In agreeable.
particular, it was clear to me, that she thought Shakespeare Dora was delighted with the little presents, and kissed
a terrible fellow. The formation went on very slowly. me joyfully; but there was a shadow between us, however
I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowl- slight, and I had made up my mind that it should not be
edge; and whenever he came to see us, exploded my mines there. If there must be such a shadow anywhere, I would
upon him for the edification of Dora at second hand. The keep it for the future in my own breast.
amount of practical wisdom I bestowed upon Traddles in I sat down by my wife on the sofa, and put the ear-rings
this manner was immense, and of the best quality; but it had in her ears; and then I told her that I feared we had not been
no other effect upon Dora than to depress her spirits, and quite as good company lately, as we used to be, and that the
make her always nervous with the dread that it would be her fault was mine. Which I sincerely felt, and which indeed it
turn next. I found myself in the condition of a schoolmaster, was.
a trap, a pitfall; of always playing spider to Dora’s fly, and al- ‘The truth is, Dora, my life,’ I said; ‘I have been trying to
ways pouncing out of my hole to her infinite disturbance. be wise.’
Still, looking forward through this intermediate stage, to ‘And to make me wise too,’ said Dora, timidly. ‘Haven’t
the time when there should be a perfect sympathy between you, Doady?’
Dora and me, and when I should have ‘formed her mind’ to I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eye-
my entire satisfaction, I persevered, even for months. Find- brows, and kissed the parted lips.
ing at last, however, that, although I had been all this time ‘It’s of not a bit of use,’ said Dora, shaking her head, until

the ear-rings rang again. ‘You know what a little thing I am, ‘No, no,’ said I. ‘We must do the best we can.’
and what I wanted you to call me from the first. If you can’t ‘And you won’t tell me, any more, that we make other
do so, I am afraid you’ll never like me. Are you sure you people bad,’ coaxed Dora; ‘will you? Because you know it’s
don’t think, sometimes, it would have been better to have -’ so dreadfully cross!’
‘Done what, my dear?’ For she made no effort to pro- ‘No, no,’ said I.
ceed. ‘it’s better for me to be stupid than uncomfortable, isn’t
‘Nothing!’ said Dora. it?’ said Dora.
‘Nothing?’ I repeated. ‘Better to be naturally Dora than anything else in the
She put her arms round my neck, and laughed, and called world.’
herself by her favourite name of a goose, and hid her face on ‘In the world! Ah, Doady, it’s a large place!’
my shoulder in such a profusion of curls that it was quite a She shook her head, turned her delighted bright eyes up
task to clear them away and see it. to mine, kissed me, broke into a merry laugh, and sprang
‘Don’t I think it would have been better to have done away to put on Jip’s new collar.
nothing, than to have tried to form my little wife’s mind?’ So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. I
said I, laughing at myself. ‘Is that the question? Yes, indeed, had been unhappy in trying it; I could not endure my own
I do.’ solitary wisdom; I could not reconcile it with her former ap-
‘Is that what you have been trying?’ cried Dora. ‘Oh what peal to me as my child-wife. I resolved to do what I could,
a shocking boy!’ in a quiet way, to improve our proceedings myself, but I
‘But I shall never try any more,’ said I. ‘For I love her foresaw that my utmost would be very little, or I must de-
dearly as she is.’ generate into the spider again, and be for ever lying in wait.
‘Without a story - really?’ inquired Dora, creeping closer And the shadow I have mentioned, that was not to be be-
to me. tween us any more, but was to rest wholly on my own heart?
‘Why should I seek to change,’ said I, ‘what has been so How did that fall?
precious to me for so long! You never can show better than The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deep-
as your own natural self, my sweet Dora; and we’ll try no ened, if it were changed at all; but it was as undefined as ever,
conceited experiments, but go back to our old way, and be and addressed me like a strain of sorrowful music faintly
happy.’ heard in the night. I loved my wife dearly, and I was happy;
‘And be happy!’ returned Dora. ‘Yes! All day! And you but the happiness I had vaguely anticipated, once, was not
won’t mind things going a tiny morsel wrong, sometimes?’ the happiness I enjoyed, and there was always something

wanting. and half awoke, and slept again, in the innermost recess-
In fulfilment of the compact I have made with myself, to es of my mind. There was no evidence of it in me; I know
reflect my mind on this paper, I again examine it, closely, of no influence it had in anything I said or did. I bore the
and bring its secrets to the light. What I missed, I still re- weight of all our little cares, and all my projects; Dora held
garded - I always regarded - as something that had been a the pens; and we both felt that our shares were adjusted as
dream of my youthful fancy; that was incapable of realiza- the case required. She was truly fond of me, and proud of
tion; that I was now discovering to be so, with some natural me; and when Agnes wrote a few earnest words in her let-
pain, as all men did. But that it would have been better for ters to Dora, of the pride and interest with which my old
me if my wife could have helped me more, and shared the friends heard of my growing reputation, and read my book
many thoughts in which I had no partner; and that this as if they heard me speaking its contents, Dora read them
might have been; I knew. out to me with tears of joy in her bright eyes, and said I was
Between these two irreconcilable conclusions: the one, a dear old clever, famous boy.
that what I felt was general and unavoidable; the other, that ‘The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.’
it was particular to me, and might have been different: I bal- Those words of Mrs. Strong’s were constantly recurring to
anced curiously, with no distinct sense of their opposition me, at this time; were almost always present to my mind. I
to each other. When I thought of the airy dreams of youth awoke with them, often, in the night; I remember to have
that are incapable of realization, I thought of the better state even read them, in dreams, inscribed upon the walls of
preceding manhood that I had outgrown; and then the con- houses. For I knew, now, that my own heart was undis-
tented days with Agnes, in the dear old house, arose before ciplined when it first loved Dora; and that if it had been
me, like spectres of the dead, that might have some renew- disciplined, it never could have felt, when we were married,
al in another world, but never more could be reanimated what it had felt in its secret experience.
here. ‘There can be no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability
Sometimes, the speculation came into my thoughts, of mind and purpose.’ Those words I remembered too. I had
What might have happened, or what would have happened, endeavoured to adapt Dora to myself, and found it imprac-
if Dora and I had never known each other? But she was so ticable. It remained for me to adapt myself to Dora; to share
incorporated with my existence, that it was the idlest of all with her what I could, and be happy; to bear on my own
fancies, and would soon rise out of my reach and sight, like shoulders what I must, and be happy still. This was the dis-
gossamer floating in the air. cipline to which I tried to bring my heart, when I began to
I always loved her. What I am describing, slumbered, think. It made my second year much happier than my first;

and, what was better still, made Dora’s life all sunshine. Dora had helped him up on the sofa; where he really was
But, as that year wore on, Dora was not strong. I had defying my aunt to such a furious extent, that he couldn’t
hoped that lighter hands than mine would help to mould keep straight, but barked himself sideways. The more my
her character, and that a baby-smile upon her breast might aunt looked at him, the more he reproached her; for she had
change my child-wife to a woman. It was not to be. The spir- lately taken to spectacles, and for some inscrutable reason
it fluttered for a moment on the threshold of its little prison, he considered the glasses personal.
and, unconscious of captivity, took wing. Dora made him lie down by her, with a good deal of per-
‘When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt,’ said suasion; and when he was quiet, drew one of his long ears
Dora, ‘I shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and through and through her hand, repeating thoughtfully,
lazy.’ ‘Even little Jip! Oh, poor fellow!’
‘I suspect, my dear,’ said my aunt quietly working by her ‘His lungs are good enough,’ said my aunt, gaily, ‘and
side, ‘he has a worse disorder than that. Age, Dora.’ his dislikes are not at all feeble. He has a good many years
‘Do you think he is old?’ said Dora, astonished. ‘Oh, how before him, no doubt. But if you want a dog to race with,
strange it seems that Jip should be old!’ Little Blossom, he has lived too well for that, and I’ll give
‘It’s a complaint we are all liable to, Little One, as we get you one.’
on in life,’ said my aunt, cheerfully; ‘I don’t feel more free ‘Thank you, aunt,’ said Dora, faintly. ‘But don’t, please!’
from it than I used to be, I assure you.’ ‘No?’ said my aunt, taking off her spectacles.
‘But Jip,’ said Dora, looking at him with compassion, ‘I couldn’t have any other dog but Jip,’ said Dora. ‘It would
‘even little Jip! Oh, poor fellow!’ be so unkind to Jip! Besides, I couldn’t be such friends with
‘I dare say he’ll last a long time yet, Blossom,’ said my any other dog but Jip; because he wouldn’t have known me
aunt, patting Dora on the cheek, as she leaned out of her before I was married, and wouldn’t have barked at Doady
couch to look at Jip, who responded by standing on his hind when he first came to our house. I couldn’t care for any oth-
legs, and baulking himself in various asthmatic attempts er dog but Jip, I am afraid, aunt.’
to scramble up by the head and shoulders. ‘He must have ‘To be sure!’ said my aunt, patting her cheek again. ‘You
a piece of flannel in his house this winter, and I shouldn’t are right.’
wonder if he came out quite fresh again, with the flowers in ‘You are not offended,’ said Dora. ‘Are you?’
the spring. Bless the little dog!’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘if he ‘Why, what a sensitive pet it is!’ cried my aunt, bending
had as many lives as a cat, and was on the point of losing over her affectionately. ‘To think that I could be offended!’
‘em all, he’d bark at me with his last breath, I believe!’ ‘No, no, I didn’t really think so,’ returned Dora; ‘but I am

a little tired, and it made me silly for a moment - I am al- sion of it, and my child-wife was the gayest there.
ways a silly little thing, you know, but it made me more silly But, sometimes, when I took her up, and felt that she was
- to talk about Jip. He has known me in all that has happened lighter in my arms, a dead blank feeling came upon me, as
to me, haven’t you, Jip? And I couldn’t bear to slight him, if I were approaching to some frozen region yet unseen, that
because he was a little altered - could I, Jip?’ numbed my life. I avoided the recognition of this feeling
Jip nestled closer to his mistress, and lazily licked her by any name, or by any communing with myself; until one
hand. night, when it was very strong upon me, and my aunt had
‘You are not so old, Jip, are you, that you’ll leave your left her with a parting cry of ‘Good night, Little Blossom,’ I
mistress yet?’ said Dora. ‘We may keep one another com- sat down at my desk alone, and cried to think, Oh what a fa-
pany a little longer!’ tal name it was, and how the blossom withered in its bloom
My pretty Dora! When she came down to dinner on the upon the tree!
ensuing Sunday, and was so glad to see old Traddles (who
always dined with us on Sunday), we thought she would be
‘running about as she used to do’, in a few days. But they said,
wait a few days more; and then, wait a few days more; and
still she neither ran nor walked. She looked very pretty, and
was very merry; but the little feet that used to be so nimble
when they danced round Jip, were dull and motionless.
I began to carry her downstairs every morning, and up-
stairs every night. She would clasp me round the neck and
laugh, the while, as if I did it for a wager. Jip would bark and
caper round us, and go on before, and look back on the land-
ing, breathing short, to see that we were coming. My aunt,
the best and most cheerful of nurses, would trudge after us,
a moving mass of shawls and pillows. Mr. Dick would not
have relinquished his post of candle-bearer to anyone alive.
Traddles would be often at the bottom of the staircase, look-
ing on, and taking charge of sportive messages from Dora
to the dearest girl in the world. We made quite a gay proces-

CHAPTER 49 ed with our former lodgers, preserved by Mrs. Micawber),
with sentiments of personal esteem amounting to affection.
‘It is not for one, situated, through his original errors and
a fortuitous combination of unpropitious events, as is the
I AM INVOLVED foundered Bark (if he may be allowed to assume so mari-
time a denomination), who now takes up the pen to address
IN MYSTERY you - it is not, I repeat, for one so circumstanced, to adopt
the language of compliment, or of congratulation. That he
leaves to abler and to purer hands.
‘If your more important avocations should admit of your
ever tracing these imperfect characters thus far - which
I received one morning by the post, the following letter,

dated Canterbury, and addressed to me at Doctor’s Com-
mons; which I read with some surprise:
may be, or may not be, as circumstances arise - you will
naturally inquire by what object am I influenced, then, in
inditing the present missive? Allow me to say that I fully de-
‘MY DEAR SIR, fer to the reasonable character of that inquiry, and proceed
‘Circumstances beyond my individual control have, for to develop it; premising that it is not an object of a pecuni-
a considerable lapse of time, effected a severance of that in- ary nature.
timacy which, in the limited opportunities conceded to me ‘Without more directly referring to any latent ability
in the midst of my professional duties, of contemplating the that may possibly exist on my part, of wielding the thun-
scenes and events of the past, tinged by the prismatic hues derbolt, or directing the devouring and avenging flame in
of memory, has ever afforded me, as it ever must continue any quarter, I may be permitted to observe, in passing, that
to afford, gratifying emotions of no common description. my brightest visions are for ever dispelled - that my peace
This fact, my dear sir, combined with the distinguished el- is shattered and my power of enjoyment destroyed - that
evation to which your talents have raised you, deters me my heart is no longer in the right place - and that I no more
from presuming to aspire to the liberty of addressing the walk erect before my fellow man. The canker is in the flow-
companion of my youth, by the familiar appellation of Cop- er. The cup is bitter to the brim. The worm is at his work,
perfield! It is sufficient to know that the name to which I do and will soon dispose of his victim. The sooner the better.
myself the honour to refer, will ever be treasured among the But I will not digress. ‘Placed in a mental position of pecu-
muniments of our house (I allude to the archives connect- liar painfulness, beyond the assuaging reach even of Mrs.

Micawber’s influence, though exercised in the tripartite I read the letter over several times. Making due allow-
character of woman, wife, and mother, it is my intention ance for Mr. Micawber’s lofty style of composition, and for
to fly from myself for a short period, and devote a respite the extraordinary relish with which he sat down and wrote
of eight-and-forty hours to revisiting some metropolitan long letters on all possible and impossible occasions, I still
scenes of past enjoyment. Among other havens of domestic believed that something important lay hidden at the bot-
tranquillity and peace of mind, my feet will naturally tend tom of this roundabout communication. I put it down, to
towards the King’s Bench Prison. In stating that I shall be think about it; and took it up again, to read it once more;
(D. V.) on the outside of the south wall of that place of incar- and was still pursuing it, when Traddles found me in the
ceration on civil process, the day after tomorrow, at seven height of my perplexity.
in the evening, precisely, my object in this epistolary com- ‘My dear fellow,’ said I, ‘I never was better pleased to see
munication is accomplished. you. You come to give me the benefit of your sober judge-
‘I do not feel warranted in soliciting my former friend ment at a most opportune time. I have received a very
Mr. Copperfield, or my former friend Mr. Thomas Traddles singular letter, Traddles, from Mr. Micawber.’
of the Inner Temple, if that gentleman is still existent and ‘No?’ cried Traddles. ‘You don’t say so? And I have re-
forthcoming, to condescend to meet me, and renew (so far ceived one from Mrs. Micawber!’
as may be) our past relations of the olden time. I confine With that, Traddles, who was flushed with walking, and
myself to throwing out the observation, that, at the hour whose hair, under the combined effects of exercise and
and place I have indicated, may be found such ruined ves- excitement, stood on end as if he saw a cheerful ghost, pro-
tiges as yet duced his letter and made an exchange with me. I watched
him into the heart of Mr. Micawber’s letter, and returned
‘Remain, the elevation of eyebrows with which he said ‘‘Wielding
‘Of the thunderbolt, or directing the devouring and avenging
‘A flame!’ Bless me, Copperfield!’- and then entered on the pe-
‘Fallen Tower, rusal of Mrs. Micawber’s epistle.
‘WILKINS MICAWBER. It ran thus:
‘P.S. It may be advisable to superadd to the above, the ‘My best regards to Mr. Thomas Traddles, and if he should still
statement that Mrs. Micawber is not in confidential remember one who formerly had the happiness of being well
possession of my intentions.’ acquainted with him, may I beg a few moments of his leisure

time? I assure Mr. T. T. that I would not intrude upon his consideration? Oh yes, for I know his heart!
kindness, were I in any other position than on the confines of
distraction. ‘The quick eye of affection is not easily blinded, when of the
female sex. Mr. Micawber is going to London. Though he
‘Though harrowing to myself to mention, the alienation of studiously concealed his hand, this morning before breakfast,
Mr. Micawber (formerly so domesticated) from his wife and in writing the direction-card which he attached to the little
family, is the cause of my addressing my unhappy appeal brown valise of happier days, the eagle-glance of matrimonial
to Mr. Traddles, and soliciting his best indulgence. Mr. T. anxiety detected, d, o, n, distinctly traced. The West-End
can form no adequate idea of the change in Mr. Micawber’s destination of the coach, is the Golden Cross. Dare I fervently
conduct, of his wildness, of his violence. It has gradually implore Mr. T. to see my misguided husband, and to reason
augmented, until it assumes the appearance of aberration with him? Dare I ask Mr. T. to endeavour to step in between
of intellect. Scarcely a day passes, I assure Mr. Traddles, on Mr. Micawber and his agonized family? Oh no, for that would
which some paroxysm does not take place. Mr. T. will not be too much!
require me to depict my feelings, when I inform him that I
have become accustomed to hear Mr. Micawber assert that he ‘If Mr. Copperfield should yet remember one unknown to
has sold himself to the D. Mystery and secrecy have long been fame, will Mr. T. take charge of my unalterable regards and
his principal characteristic, have long replaced unlimited similar entreaties? In any case, he will have the benevolence
confidence. The slightest provocation, even being asked if to consider this communication strictly private, and on no
there is anything he would prefer for dinner, causes him to account whatever to be alluded to, however distantly, in
express a wish for a separation. Last night, on being childishly the presence of Mr. Micawber. If Mr. T. should ever reply
solicited for twopence, to buy ‘lemon-stunners’ - a local to it (which I cannot but feel to be most improbable), a
sweetmeat - he presented an oyster-knife at the twins! letter addressed to M. E., Post Office, Canterbury, will be
fraught with less painful consequences than any addressed
‘I entreat Mr. Traddles to bear with me in entering into these immediately to one, who subscribes herself, in extreme
details. Without them, Mr. T. would indeed find it difficult to distress,
form the faintest conception of my heart-rending situation.
‘Mr. Thomas Traddles’s respectful friend and suppliant,
‘May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport of my
letter? Will he now allow me to throw myself on his friendly ‘EMMA MICAWBER.’

‘What do you think of that letter?’ said Traddles, casting Although we appeared at the stipulated place a quarter
his eyes upon me, when I had read it twice. of an hour before the time, we found Mr. Micawber already
‘What do you think of the other?’ said I. For he was still there. He was standing with his arms folded, over against
reading it with knitted brows. the wall, looking at the spikes on the top, with a sentimen-
‘I think that the two together, Copperfield,’ replied Trad- tal expression, as if they were the interlacing boughs of trees
dles, ‘mean more than Mr. and Mrs. Micawber usually mean that had shaded him in his youth.
in their correspondence - but I don’t know what. They are When we accosted him, his manner was something more
both written in good faith, I have no doubt, and without any confused, and something less genteel, than of yore. He had
collusion. Poor thing!’ he was now alluding to Mrs. Micaw- relinquished his legal suit of black for the purposes of this
ber’s letter, and we were standing side by side comparing excursion, and wore the old surtout and tights, but not quite
the two; ‘it will be a charity to write to her, at all events, and with the old air. He gradually picked up more and more of it
tell her that we will not fail to see Mr. Micawber.’ as we conversed with him; but, his very eye-glass seemed to
I acceded to this the more readily, because I now re- hang less easily, and his shirt-collar, though still of the old
proached myself with having treated her former letter formidable dimensions, rather drooped.
rather lightly. It had set me thinking a good deal at the time, ‘Gentlemen!’ said Mr. Micawber, after the first saluta-
as I have mentioned in its place; but my absorption in my tions, ‘you are friends in need, and friends indeed. Allow
own affairs, my experience of the family, and my hearing me to offer my inquiries with reference to the physical wel-
nothing more, had gradually ended in my dismissing the fare of Mrs. Copperfield in esse, and Mrs. Traddles in posse,
subject. I had often thought of the Micawbers, but chiefly to - presuming, that is to say, that my friend Mr. Traddles is
wonder what ‘pecuniary liabilities’ they were establishing not yet united to the object of his affections, for weal and
in Canterbury, and to recall how shy Mr. Micawber was of for woe.’
me when he became clerk to Uriah Heep. We acknowledged his politeness, and made suitable re-
However, I now wrote a comforting letter to Mrs. Micaw- plies. He then directed our attention to the wall, and was
ber, in our joint names, and we both signed it. As we walked beginning, ‘I assure you, gentlemen,’ when I ventured to ob-
into town to post it, Traddles and I held a long conference, ject to that ceremonious form of address, and to beg that he
and launched into a number of speculations, which I need would speak to us in the old way.
not repeat. We took my aunt into our counsels in the after- ‘My dear Copperfield,’ he returned, pressing my hand,
noon; but our only decided conclusion was, that we would ‘your cordiality overpowers me. This reception of a shat-
be very punctual in keeping Mr. Micawber’s appointment. tered fragment of the Temple once called Man - if I may be

permitted so to express myself - bespeaks a heart that is an proffered arm of Traddles on the other, and walked away
honour to our common nature. I was about to observe that between us.
I again behold the serene spot where some of the happiest ‘There are some landmarks,’ observed Mr. Micawber,
hours of my existence fleeted by.’ looking fondly back over his shoulder, ‘on the road to the
‘Made so, I am sure, by Mrs. Micawber,’ said I. ‘I hope tomb, which, but for the impiety of the aspiration, a man
she is well?’ would wish never to have passed. Such is the Bench in my
‘Thank you,’ returned Mr. Micawber, whose face clouded chequered career.’
at this reference, ‘she is but so-so. And this,’ said Mr. Mi- ‘Oh, you are in low spirits, Mr. Micawber,’ said Traddles.
cawber, nodding his head sorrowfully, ‘is the Bench! Where, ‘I am, sir,’ interposed Mr. Micawber.
for the first time in many revolving years, the overwhelm- ‘I hope,’ said Traddles, ‘it is not because you have con-
ing pressure of pecuniary liabilities was not proclaimed, ceived a dislike to the law - for I am a lawyer myself, you
from day to day, by importune voices declining to vacate know.’
the passage; where there was no knocker on the door for any Mr. Micawber answered not a word.
creditor to appeal to; where personal service of process was ‘How is our friend Heep, Mr. Micawber?’ said I, after a
not required, and detainees were merely lodged at the gate! silence.
Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘when the shadow of that ‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bursting
iron-work on the summit of the brick structure has been re- into a state of much excitement, and turning pale, ‘if you
flected on the gravel of the Parade, I have seen my children ask after my employer as your friend, I am sorry for it; if
thread the mazes of the intricate pattern, avoiding the dark you ask after him as MY friend, I sardonically smile at it. In
marks. I have been familiar with every stone in the place. If whatever capacity you ask after my employer, I beg, without
I betray weakness, you will know how to excuse me.’ offence to you, to limit my reply to this - that whatever his
‘We have all got on in life since then, Mr. Micawber,’ said state of health may be, his appearance is foxy: not to say dia-
I. bolical. You will allow me, as a private individual, to decline
‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bitterly, ‘when pursuing a subject which has lashed me to the utmost verge
I was an inmate of that retreat I could look my fellow-man of desperation in my professional capacity.’
in the face, and punch his head if he offended me. My fel- I expressed my regret for having innocently touched
low-man and myself are no longer on those glorious terms!’ upon a theme that roused him so much. ‘May I ask,’ said I,
Turning from the building in a downcast manner, Mr. ‘without any hazard of repeating the mistake, how my old
Micawber accepted my proffered arm on one side, and the friends Mr. and Miss Wickfield are?’

‘Miss Wickfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, now turning red, ‘is, cawber,’ said I, ‘and forget whatever you have on your mind,
as she always is, a pattern, and a bright example. My dear in pleasanter reminiscences.’
Copperfield, she is the only starry spot in a miserable exis- ‘Or, if confiding anything to friends will be more likely
tence. My respect for that young lady, my admiration of her to relieve you, you shall impart it to us, Mr. Micawber,’ said
character, my devotion to her for her love and truth, and Traddles, prudently.
goodness! - Take me,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘down a turning, ‘Gentlemen,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘do with me as
for, upon my soul, in my present state of mind I am not you will! I am a straw upon the surface of the deep, and am
equal to this!’ tossed in all directions by the elephants - I beg your pardon;
We wheeled him off into a narrow street, where he took I should have said the elements.’
out his pocket-handkerchief, and stood with his back to a We walked on, arm-in-arm, again; found the coach in
wall. If I looked as gravely at him as Traddles did, he must the act of starting; and arrived at Highgate without encoun-
have found our company by no means inspiriting. tering any difficulties by the way. I was very uneasy and
‘It is my fate,’ said Mr. Micawber, unfeignedly sobbing, very uncertain in my mind what to say or do for the best
but doing even that, with a shadow of the old expression of - so was Traddles, evidently. Mr. Micawber was for the most
doing something genteel; ‘it is my fate, gentlemen, that the part plunged into deep gloom. He occasionally made an at-
finer feelings of our nature have become reproaches to me. tempt to smarten himself, and hum the fag-end of a tune;
My homage to Miss Wickfield, is a flight of arrows in my but his relapses into profound melancholy were only made
bosom. You had better leave me, if you please, to walk the the more impressive by the mockery of a hat exceedingly on
earth as a vagabond. The worm will settle my business in one side, and a shirt-collar pulled up to his eyes.
double-quick time.’ We went to my aunt’s house rather than to mine, be-
Without attending to this invocation, we stood by, until cause of Dora’s not being well. My aunt presented herself
he put up his pocket-handkerchief, pulled up his shirt-col- on being sent for, and welcomed Mr. Micawber with gra-
lar, and, to delude any person in the neighbourhood who cious cordiality. Mr. Micawber kissed her hand, retired to
might have been observing him, hummed a tune with his the window, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, had a
hat very much on one side. I then mentioned - not knowing mental wrestle with himself.
what might be lost if we lost sight of him yet - that it would Mr. Dick was at home. He was by nature so exceedingly
give me great pleasure to introduce him to my aunt, if he compassionate of anyone who seemed to be ill at ease, and
would ride out to Highgate, where a bed was at his service. was so quick to find any such person out, that he shook
‘You shall make us a glass of your own punch, Mr. Mi- hands with Mr. Micawber, at least half-a-dozen times in

five minutes. To Mr. Micawber, in his trouble, this warmth, At another time I should have been amused by this; but I
on the part of a stranger, was so extremely touching, that felt that we were all constrained and uneasy, and I watched
he could only say, on the occasion of each successive shake, Mr. Micawber so anxiously, in his vacillations between an
‘My dear sir, you overpower me!’ Which gratified Mr. Dick evident disposition to reveal something, and a counter-
so much, that he went at it again with greater vigour than disposition to reveal nothing, that I was in a perfect fever.
before. Traddles, sitting on the edge of his chair, with his eyes wide
‘The friendliness of this gentleman,’ said Mr. Micawber open, and his hair more emphatically erect than ever, stared
to my aunt, ‘if you will allow me, ma’am, to cull a figure of by turns at the ground and at Mr. Micawber, without so
speech from the vocabulary of our coarser national sports much as attempting to put in a word. My aunt, though I
- floors me. To a man who is struggling with a complicated saw that her shrewdest observation was concentrated on her
burden of perplexity and disquiet, such a reception is try- new guest, had more useful possession of her wits than ei-
ing, I assure you.’ ther of us; for she held him in conversation, and made it
‘My friend Mr. Dick,’ replied my aunt proudly, ‘is not a necessary for him to talk, whether he liked it or not.
common man.’ ‘You are a very old friend of my nephew’s, Mr. Micawber,’
‘That I am convinced of,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘My dear said my aunt. ‘I wish I had had the pleasure of seeing you
sir!’ for Mr. Dick was shaking hands with him again; ‘I am before.’
deeply sensible of your cordiality!’ ‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I wish I had had the
‘How do you find yourself?’ said Mr. Dick, with an anx- honour of knowing you at an earlier period. I was not al-
ious look. ways the wreck you at present behold.’
‘Indifferent, my dear sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, sigh- ‘I hope Mrs. Micawber and your family are well, sir,’ said
ing. my aunt.
‘You must keep up your spirits,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘and make Mr. Micawber inclined his head. ‘They are as well, ma’am,’
yourself as comfortable as possible.’ he desperately observed after a pause, ‘as Aliens and Out-
Mr. Micawber was quite overcome by these friendly casts can ever hope to be.’
words, and by finding Mr. Dick’s hand again within his ‘Lord bless you, sir!’ exclaimed my aunt, in her abrupt
own. ‘It has been my lot,’ he observed, ‘to meet, in the di- way. ‘What are you talking about?’
versified panorama of human existence, with an occasional ‘The subsistence of my family, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Mi-
oasis, but never with one so green, so gushing, as the pres- cawber, ‘trembles in the balance. My employer -’
ent!’ Here Mr. Micawber provokingly left off; and began to

peel the lemons that had been under my directions set be- candlestick, were among the most remarkable. I saw that a
fore him, together with all the other appliances he used in crisis was at hand, and it came. He clattered all his means
making punch. and implements together, rose from his chair, pulled out his
‘Your employer, you know,’ said Mr. Dick, jogging his pocket-handkerchief, and burst into tears.
arm as a gentle reminder. ‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, behind his
‘My good sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘you recall me, I handkerchief, ‘this is an occupation, of all others, requiring
am obliged to you.’ They shook hands again. ‘My employer, an untroubled mind, and self-respect. I cannot perform it.
ma’am - Mr. Heep - once did me the favour to observe to me, It is out of the question.’
that if I were not in the receipt of the stipendiary emolu- ‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘what is the matter? Pray speak
ments appertaining to my engagement with him, I should out. You are among friends.’
probably be a mountebank about the country, swallowing ‘Among friends, sir!’ repeated Mr. Micawber; and all he
a sword-blade, and eating the devouring element. For any- had reserved came breaking out of him. ‘Good heavens, it
thing that I can perceive to the contrary, it is still probable is principally because I AM among friends that my state
that my children may be reduced to seek a livelihood by of mind is what it is. What is the matter, gentlemen? What
personal contortion, while Mrs. Micawber abets their un- is NOT the matter? Villainy is the matter; baseness is the
natural feats by playing the barrel-organ.’ matter; deception, fraud, conspiracy, are the matter; and
Mr. Micawber, with a random but expressive flourish of the name of the whole atrocious mass is - HEEP!’
his knife, signified that these performances might be ex- MY aunt clapped her hands, and we all started up as if
pected to take place after he was no more; then resumed his we were possessed.
peeling with a desperate air. ‘The struggle is over!’ said Mr. Micawber violently ges-
My aunt leaned her elbow on the little round table that ticulating with his pocket-handkerchief, and fairly striking
she usually kept beside her, and eyed him attentively. Not- out from time to time with both arms, as if he were swim-
withstanding the aversion with which I regarded the idea ming under superhuman difficulties. ‘I will lead this life no
of entrapping him into any disclosure he was not prepared longer. I am a wretched being, cut off from everything that
to make voluntarily, I should have taken him up at this makes life tolerable. I have been under a Taboo in that in-
point, but for the strange proceedings in which I saw him fernal scoundrel’s service. Give me back my wife, give me
engaged; whereof his putting the lemon-peel into the kettle, back my family, substitute Micawber for the petty wretch
the sugar into the snuffer-tray, the spirit into the empty jug, who walks about in the boots at present on my feet, and call
and confidently attempting to pour boiling water out of a upon me to swallow a sword tomorrow, and I’ll do it. With

an appetite!’ me off, and wouldn’t hear a word.
I never saw a man so hot in my life. I tried to calm him, ‘No, Copperfield! - No communication - a - until - Miss
that we might come to something rational; but he got hotter Wickfield - a - redress from wrongs inflicted by consum-
and hotter, and wouldn’t hear a word. mate scoundrel - HEEP!’ (I am quite convinced he could
‘I’ll put my hand in no man’s hand,’ said Mr. Micawber, not have uttered three words, but for the amazing energy
gasping, puffing, and sobbing, to that degree that he was with which this word inspired him when he felt it coming.)
like a man fighting with cold water, ‘until I have - blown to ‘Inviolable secret - a - from the whole world - a - no excep-
fragments - the - a - detestable - serpent - HEEP! I’ll partake tions - this day week - a - at breakfast-time - a - everybody
of no one’s hospitality, until I have - a - moved Mount Ve- present - including aunt - a - and extremely friendly gentle-
suvius - to eruption - on - a - the abandoned rascal - HEEP! man - to be at the hotel at Canterbury - a - where - Mrs.
Refreshment - a - underneath this roof - particularly punch Micawber and myself - Auld Lang Syne in chorus - and - a
- would - a - choke me - unless - I had - previously - choked - will expose intolerable ruffian - HEEP! No more to say - a
the eyes - out of the head - a - of - interminable cheat, and - or listen to persuasion - go immediately - not capable - a
liar - HEEP! I - a- I’ll know nobody - and - a - say noth- - bear society - upon the track of devoted and doomed trai-
ing - and - a - live nowhere - until I have crushed - to - a tor - HEEP!’
- undiscoverable atoms - the - transcendent and immortal With this last repetition of the magic word that had kept
hypocrite and perjurer - HEEP!’ him going at all, and in which he surpassed all his previous
I really had some fear of Mr. Micawber’s dying on the efforts, Mr. Micawber rushed out of the house; leaving us
spot. The manner in which he struggled through these in a state of excitement, hope, and wonder, that reduced us
inarticulate sentences, and, whenever he found himself get- to a condition little better than his own. But even then his
ting near the name of Heep, fought his way on to it, dashed passion for writing letters was too strong to be resisted; for
at it in a fainting state, and brought it out with a vehemence while we were yet in the height of our excitement, hope, and
little less than marvellous, was frightful; but now, when he wonder, the following pastoral note was brought to me from
sank into a chair, steaming, and looked at us, with every a neighbouring tavern, at which he had called to write it: -
possible colour in his face that had no business there, and
an endless procession of lumps following one another in ‘Most secret and confidential.
hot haste up his throat, whence they seemed to shoot into
his forehead, he had the appearance of being in the last ex- ‘MY DEAR SIR,
tremity. I would have gone to his assistance, but he waved

‘I beg to be allowed to convey, through you, my apologies to
your excellent aunt for my late excitement. An explosion of CHAPTER 50
a smouldering volcano long suppressed, was the result of an
internal contest more easily conceived than described.
‘I trust I rendered tolerably intelligible my appointment Mr. PEGGOTTY’S

for the morning of this day week, at the house of public
entertainment at Canterbury, where Mrs. Micawber and DREAM COMES TRUE
myself had once the honour of uniting our voices to yours, in
the well-known strain of the Immortal exciseman nurtured
beyond the Tweed.
‘The duty done, and act of reparation performed, which can

alone enable me to contemplate my fellow mortal, I shall be
B y this time, some months had passed since our inter-
view on the bank of the river with Martha. I had never
seen her since, but she had communicated with Mr. Peggot-
known no more. I shall simply require to be deposited in that ty on several occasions. Nothing had come of her zealous
place of universal resort, where intervention; nor could I infer, from what he told me, that
any clue had been obtained, for a moment, to Emily’s fate. I
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, confess that I began to despair of her recovery, and gradu-
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep, ally to sink deeper and deeper into the belief that she was
dead.
‘- With the plain Inscription, His conviction remained unchanged. So far as I know
- and I believe his honest heart was transparent to me - he
‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’ never wavered again, in his solemn certainty of finding her.
His patience never tired. And, although I trembled for the
agony it might one day be to him to have his strong assur-
ance shivered at a blow, there was something so religious in
it, so affectingly expressive of its anchor being in the pur-
est depths of his fine nature, that the respect and honour in
which I held him were exalted every day.

His was not a lazy trustfulness that hoped, and did no when he came out, and that she had asked him not to leave
more. He had been a man of sturdy action all his life, and London on any account, until he should have seen her
he knew that in all things wherein he wanted help he must again.
do his own part faithfully, and help himself. I have known ‘Did she tell you why?’ I inquired.
him set out in the night, on a misgiving that the light might ‘I asked her, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘but it is but few
not be, by some accident, in the window of the old boat, and words as she ever says, and she on’y got my promise and so
walk to Yarmouth. I have known him, on reading some- went away.’
thing in the newspaper that might apply to her, take up his ‘Did she say when you might expect to see her again?’ I
stick, and go forth on a journey of three- or four-score miles. demanded.
He made his way by sea to Naples, and back, after hearing ‘No, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, drawing his hand thought-
the narrative to which Miss Dartle had assisted me. All his fully down his face. ‘I asked that too; but it was more (she
journeys were ruggedly performed; for he was always stead- said) than she could tell.’
fast in a purpose of saving money for Emily’s sake, when As I had long forborne to encourage him with hopes that
she should be found. In all this long pursuit, I never heard hung on threads, I made no other comment on this infor-
him repine; I never heard him say he was fatigued, or out mation than that I supposed he would see her soon. Such
of heart. speculations as it engendered within me I kept to myself,
Dora had often seen him since our marriage, and was and those were faint enough.
quite fond of him. I fancy his figure before me now, stand- I was walking alone in the garden, one evening, about
ing near her sofa, with his rough cap in his hand, and the a fortnight afterwards. I remember that evening well. It
blue eyes of my child-wife raised, with a timid wonder, to was the second in Mr. Micawber’s week of suspense. There
his face. Sometimes of an evening, about twilight, when he had been rain all day, and there was a damp feeling in the
came to talk with me, I would induce him to smoke his pipe air. The leaves were thick upon the trees, and heavy with
in the garden, as we slowly paced to and fro together; and wet; but the rain had ceased, though the sky was still dark;
then, the picture of his deserted home, and the comfortable and the hopeful birds were singing cheerfully. As I walked
air it used to have in my childish eyes of an evening when to and fro in the garden, and the twilight began to close
the fire was burning, and the wind moaning round it, came around me, their little voices were hushed; and that pecu-
most vividly into my mind. liar silence which belongs to such an evening in the country
One evening, at this hour, he told me that he had found when the lightest trees are quite still, save for the occasional
Martha waiting near his lodging on the preceding night droppings from their boughs, prevailed.

There was a little green perspective of trellis-work and quiet, and feeling that it was my own natural inclination
ivy at the side of our cottage, through which I could see, too, at such a time, I did not attempt to break the silence.
from the garden where I was walking, into the road before We proceeded without a word being spoken. Sometimes she
the house. I happened to turn my eyes towards this place, as glanced out of the window, as though she thought we were
I was thinking of many things; and I saw a figure beyond, going slowly, though indeed we were going fast; but other-
dressed in a plain cloak. It was bending eagerly towards me, wise remained exactly as at first.
and beckoning. We alighted at one of the entrances to the Square she had
‘Martha!’ said I, going to it. mentioned, where I directed the coach to wait, not know-
‘Can you come with me?’ she inquired, in an agitated ing but that we might have some occasion for it. She laid her
whisper. ‘I have been to him, and he is not at home. I wrote hand on my arm, and hurried me on to one of the sombre
down where he was to come, and left it on his table with my streets, of which there are several in that part, where the
own hand. They said he would not be out long. I have tid- houses were once fair dwellings in the occupation of sin-
ings for him. Can you come directly?’ gle families, but have, and had, long degenerated into poor
My answer was, to pass out at the gate immediately. She lodgings let off in rooms. Entering at the open door of one
made a hasty gesture with her hand, as if to entreat my pa- of these, and releasing my arm, she beckoned me to follow
tience and my silence, and turned towards London, whence, her up the common staircase, which was like a tributary
as her dress betokened, she had come expeditiously on channel to the street.
foot. The house swarmed with inmates. As we went up, doors
I asked her if that were not our destination? On her of rooms were opened and people’s heads put out; and we
motioning Yes, with the same hasty gesture as before, I passed other people on the stairs, who were coming down.
stopped an empty coach that was coming by, and we got In glancing up from the outside, before we entered, I had
into it. When I asked her where the coachman was to drive, seen women and children lolling at the windows over flow-
she answered, ‘Anywhere near Golden Square! And quick!’ er-pots; and we seemed to have attracted their curiosity,
- then shrunk into a corner, with one trembling hand before for these were principally the observers who looked out of
her face, and the other making the former gesture, as if she their doors. It was a broad panelled staircase, with massive
could not bear a voice. balustrades of some dark wood; cornices above the doors,
Now much disturbed, and dazzled with conflicting ornamented with carved fruit and flowers; and broad seats
gleams of hope and dread, I looked at her for some ex- in the windows. But all these tokens of past grandeur were
planation. But seeing how strongly she desired to remain miserably decayed and dirty; rot, damp, and age, had weak-

ened the flooring, which in many places was unsound and Martha, with an astonished look, repeated her former ac-
even unsafe. Some attempts had been made, I noticed, to tion, and softly led me up the stairs; and then, by a little
infuse new blood into this dwindling frame, by repairing back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which she
the costly old wood-work here and there with common pushed open with a touch, into a small empty garret with a
deal; but it was like the marriage of a reduced old noble to low sloping roof, little better than a cupboard. Between this,
a plebeian pauper, and each party to the ill-assorted union and the room she had called hers, there was a small door
shrunk away from the other. Several of the back windows of communication, standing partly open. Here we stopped,
on the staircase had been darkened or wholly blocked up. breathless with our ascent, and she placed her hand lightly
In those that remained, there was scarcely any glass; and, on my lips. I could only see, of the room beyond, that it was
through the crumbling frames by which the bad air seemed pretty large; that there was a bed in it; and that there were
always to come in, and never to go out, I saw, through other some common pictures of ships upon the walls. I could not
glassless windows, into other houses in a similar condition, see Miss Dartle, or the person whom we had heard her ad-
and looked giddily down into a wretched yard, which was dress. Certainly, my companion could not, for my position
the common dust-heap of the mansion. was the best. A dead silence prevailed for some moments.
We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or Martha kept one hand on my lips, and raised the other in a
three times, by the way, I thought I observed in the indis- listening attitude.
tinct light the skirts of a female figure going up before us. ‘It matters little to me her not being at home,’ said Rosa
As we turned to ascend the last flight of stairs between us Dartle haughtily, ‘I know nothing of her. It is you I come
and the roof, we caught a full view of this figure pausing for to see.’
a moment, at a door. Then it turned the handle, and went ‘Me?’ replied a soft voice.
in. At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it
‘What’s this!’ said Martha, in a whisper. ‘She has gone was Emily’s!
into my room. I don’t know her!’ ‘Yes,’ returned Miss Dartle, ‘I have come to look at you.
I knew her. I had recognized her with amazement, for What? You are not ashamed of the face that has done so
Miss Dartle. much?’
I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold
I had seen before, in a few words, to my conductress; and stern sharpness, and its mastered rage, presented her before
had scarcely done so, when we heard her voice in the room, me, as if I had seen her standing in the light. I saw the flash-
though not, from where we stood, what she was saying. ing black eyes, and the passion-wasted figure; and I saw the

scar, with its white track cutting through her lips, quivering there in common between US, do you think!’
and throbbing as she spoke. ‘Nothing but our sex,’ said Emily, with a burst of tears.
‘I have come to see,’ she said, ‘James Steerforth’s fancy; ‘And that,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘is so strong a claim, pre-
the girl who ran away with him, and is the town-talk of the ferred by one so infamous, that if I had any feeling in my
commonest people of her native place; the bold, flaunting, breast but scorn and abhorrence of you, it would freeze it
practised companion of persons like James Steerforth. I up. Our sex! You are an honour to our sex!’
want to know what such a thing is like.’ ‘I have deserved this,’ said Emily, ‘but it’s dreadful! Dear,
There was a rustle, as if the unhappy girl, on whom she dear lady, think what I have suffered, and how I am fallen!
heaped these taunts, ran towards the door, and the speaker Oh, Martha, come back! Oh, home, home!’
swiftly interposed herself before it. It was succeeded by a Miss Dartle placed herself in a chair, within view of the
moment’s pause. door, and looked downward, as if Emily were crouching on
When Miss Dartle spoke again, it was through her set the floor before her. Being now between me and the light, I
teeth, and with a stamp upon the ground. could see her curled lip, and her cruel eyes intently fixed on
‘Stay there!’ she said, ‘or I’ll proclaim you to the house, one place, with a greedy triumph.
and the whole street! If you try to evade me, I’ll stop you, if ‘Listen to what I say!’ she said; ‘and reserve your false arts
it’s by the hair, and raise the very stones against you!’ for your dupes. Do you hope to move me by your tears? No
A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my more than you could charm me by your smiles, you pur-
ears. A silence succeeded. I did not know what to do. Much chased slave.’
as I desired to put an end to the interview, I felt that I had ‘Oh, have some mercy on me!’ cried Emily. ‘Show me
no right to present myself; that it was for Mr. Peggotty alone some compassion, or I shall die mad!’
to see her and recover her. Would he never come? I thought ‘It would be no great penance,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘for your
impatiently. crimes. Do you know what you have done? Do you ever
‘So!’ said Rosa Dartle, with a contemptuous laugh, ‘I see think of the home you have laid waste?’
her at last! Why, he was a poor creature to be taken by that ‘Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don’t think of it!’
delicate mock-modesty, and that hanging head!’ cried Emily; and now I could just see her, on her knees, with
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, spare me!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘Who- her head thrown back, her pale face looking upward, her
ever you are, you know my pitiable story, and for Heaven’s hands wildly clasped and held out, and her hair streaming
sake spare me, if you would be spared yourself!’ about her. ‘Has there ever been a single minute, waking or
‘If I would be spared!’ returned the other fiercely; ‘what is sleeping, when it hasn’t been before me, just as it used to

be in the lost days when I turned my back upon it for ever ‘I speak,’ she said, not deigning to take any heed of this
and for ever! Oh, home, home! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you appeal, and drawing away her dress from the contamina-
ever could have known the agony your love would cause me tion of Emily’s touch, ‘I speak of HIS home - where I live.
when I fell away from good, you never would have shown it Here,’ she said, stretching out her hand with her contemp-
to me so constant, much as you felt it; but would have been tuous laugh, and looking down upon the prostrate girl, ‘is
angry to me, at least once in my life, that I might have had a worthy cause of division between lady-mother and gen-
some comfort! I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, tleman-son; of grief in a house where she wouldn’t have
for all of them were always fond of me!’ She dropped on her been admitted as a kitchen-girl; of anger, and repining, and
face, before the imperious figure in the chair, with an im- reproach. This piece of pollution, picked up from the water-
ploring effort to clasp the skirt of her dress. side, to be made much of for an hour, and then tossed back
Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as to her original place!’
a figure of brass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she ‘No! no!’ cried Emily, clasping her hands together. ‘When
knew that she must keep a strong constraint upon herself - I he first came into my way - that the day had never dawned
write what I sincerely believe - or she would be tempted to upon me, and he had met me being carried to my grave! - I
strike the beautiful form with her foot. I saw her, distinct- had been brought up as virtuous as you or any lady, and was
ly, and the whole power of her face and character seemed going to be the wife of as good a man as you or any lady in
forced into that expression. - Would he never come? the world can ever marry. If you live in his home and know
‘The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!’ she said, him, you know, perhaps, what his power with a weak, vain
when she had so far controlled the angry heavings of her girl might be. I don’t defend myself, but I know well, and he
breast, that she could trust herself to speak. ‘YOUR home! knows well, or he will know when he comes to die, and his
Do you imagine that I bestow a thought on it, or suppose mind is troubled with it, that he used all his power to de-
you could do any harm to that low place, which money ceive me, and that I believed him, trusted him, and loved
would not pay for, and handsomely? YOUR home! You were him!’
a part of the trade of your home, and were bought and sold Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat; recoiled; and in
like any other vendible thing your people dealt in.’ recoiling struck at her, with a face of such malignity, so
‘Oh, not that!’ cried Emily. ‘Say anything of me; but don’t darkened and disfigured by passion, that I had almost
visit my disgrace and shame, more than I have done, on thrown myself between them. The blow, which had no aim,
folks who are as honourable as you! Have some respect for fell upon the air. As she now stood panting, looking at her
them, as you are a lady, if you have no mercy for me.’ with the utmost detestation that she was capable of express-

ing, and trembling from head to foot with rage and scorn, I can believe, and trust, and love again, you know! I thought
thought I had never seen such a sight, and never could see you a broken toy that had lasted its time; a worthless span-
such another. gle that was tarnished, and thrown away. But, finding you
‘YOU love him? You?’ she cried, with her clenched hand, true gold, a very lady, and an ill-used innocent, with a fresh
quivering as if it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of heart full of love and trustfulness - which you look like, and
her wrath. is quite consistent with your story! - I have something more
Emily had shrunk out of my view. There was no reply. to say. Attend to it; for what I say I’ll do. Do you hear me,
‘And tell that to ME,’ she added, ‘with your shameful lips? you fairy spirit? What I say, I mean to do!’
Why don’t they whip these creatures? If I could order it to Her rage got the better of her again, for a moment; but it
be done, I would have this girl whipped to death.’ passed over her face like a spasm, and left her smiling.
And so she would, I have no doubt. I would not have ‘Hide yourself,’ she pursued, ‘if not at home, somewhere.
trusted her with the rack itself, while that furious look last- Let it be somewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life - or,
ed. She slowly, very slowly, broke into a laugh, and pointed better still, in some obscure death. I wonder, if your loving
at Emily with her hand, as if she were a sight of shame for heart will not break, you have found no way of helping it
gods and men. to be still! I have heard of such means sometimes. I believe
‘SHE love!’ she said. ‘THAT carrion! And he ever cared they may be easily found.’
for her, she’d tell me. Ha, ha! The liars that these traders A low crying, on the part of Emily, interrupted her here.
are!’ She stopped, and listened to it as if it were music.
Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of ‘I am of a strange nature, perhaps,’ Rosa Dartle went on;
the two, I would have much preferred to be the object of the ‘but I can’t breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it
latter. But, when she suffered it to break loose, it was only sickly. Therefore, I will have it cleared; I will have it purified
for a moment. She had chained it up again, and however it of you. If you live here tomorrow, I’ll have your story and
might tear her within, she subdued it to herself. your character proclaimed on the common stair. There are
‘I came here, you pure fountain of love,’ she said, ‘to see decent women in the house, I am told; and it is a pity such a
- as I began by telling you - what such a thing as you was like. light as you should be among them, and concealed. If, leav-
I was curious. I am satisfied. Also to tell you, that you had ing here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character
best seek that home of yours, with all speed, and hide your but your true one (which you are welcome to bear, without
head among those excellent people who are expecting you, molestation from me), the same service shall be done you,
and whom your money will console. When it’s all gone, you if I hear of your retreat. Being assisted by a gentleman who

not long ago aspired to the favour of your hand, I am san- do!’
guine as to that.’ The foot upon the stairs came nearer - nearer - passed her
Would he never, never come? How long was I to bear as she went down - rushed into the room!
this? How long could I bear it? ‘Oh me, oh me!’ exclaimed ‘Uncle!’
the wretched Emily, in a tone that might have touched the A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and
hardest heart, I should have thought; but there was no re- looking in, saw him supporting her insensible figure in his
lenting in Rosa Dartle’s smile. ‘What, what, shall I do!’ arms. He gazed for a few seconds in the face; then stooped
‘Do?’ returned the other. ‘Live happy in your own re- to kiss it - oh, how tenderly! - and drew a handkerchief be-
flections! Consecrate your existence to the recollection of fore it.
James Steerforth’s tenderness - he would have made you ‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it
his serving-man’s wife, would he not? - or to feeling grate- was covered, ‘I thank my Heav’nly Father as my dream’s
ful to the upright and deserving creature who would have come true! I thank Him hearty for having guided of me, in
taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remembrances, and His own ways, to my darling!’
the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourable With those words he took her up in his arms; and, with
position to which they have raised you in the eyes of ev- the veiled face lying on his bosom, and addressed towards
erything that wears the human shape, will not sustain you, his own, carried her, motionless and unconscious, down
marry that good man, and be happy in his condescension. the stairs.
If this will not do either, die! There are doorways and dust-
heaps for such deaths, and such despair - find one, and take
your flight to Heaven!’
I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was cer-
tain. It was his, thank God!
She moved slowly from before the door when she said
this, and passed out of my sight.
‘But mark!’ she added, slowly and sternly, opening the
other door to go away, ‘I am resolved, for reasons that I
have and hatreds that I entertain, to cast you out, unless
you withdraw from my reach altogether, or drop your pretty
mask. This is what I had to say; and what I say, I mean to

CHAPTER 51 ‘tis along of me as you’re a-going to quit us?’
‘You have something to say, my good friend,’ returned
my aunt, ‘and will do better without me.’
‘By your leave, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘I should
THE BEGINNING OF A take it kind, pervising you doen’t mind my clicketten, if
you’d bide heer.’
LONGER JOURNEY ‘Would you?’ said my aunt, with short good-nature. ‘Then
I am sure I will!’
So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty’s, and
walked with him to a leafy little summer-house there was
at the bottom of the garden, where she sat down on a bench,
I t was yet early in the morning of the following day, when,

as I was walking in my garden with my aunt (who took
little other exercise now, being so much in attendance on
and I beside her. There was a seat for Mr. Peggotty too, but
he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on the small rustic
table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little while before
my dear Dora), I was told that Mr. Peggotty desired to speak beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power
with me. He came into the garden to meet me half-way, on and force of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what
my going towards the gate; and bared his head, as it was a good and trusty companion it was to his honest brow and
always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom iron-grey hair.
he had a high respect. I had been telling her all that had ‘I took my dear child away last night,’ Mr. Peggotty began,
happened overnight. Without saying a word, she walked up as he raised his eyes to ours, ‘to my lodging, wheer I have
with a cordial face, shook hands with him, and patted him a long time been expecting of her and preparing fur her. It
on the arm. It was so expressively done, that she had no was hours afore she knowed me right; and when she did,
need to say a word. Mr. Peggotty understood her quite as she kneeled down at my feet, and kiender said to me, as if it
well as if she had said a thousand. was her prayers, how it all come to be. You may believe me,
‘I’ll go in now, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘and look after Little when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so playful -
Blossom, who will be getting up presently.’ and see her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour
‘Not along of my being heer, ma’am, I hope?’ said Mr. Peg- wrote in with his blessed hand - I felt a wownd go to my ‘art,
gotty. ‘Unless my wits is gone a bahd’s neezing’ - by which in the midst of all its thankfulness.’
Mr. Peggotty meant to say, bird’s-nesting - ‘this morning, He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence

of concealing why; and then cleared his voice. much amiss?’
‘It warn’t for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he
on’y to think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen’t spoke, so vividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he
know why I do so much as mention of it now, I’m sure. I presented what he described to me, with greater distinct-
didn’t have it in my mind a minute ago, to say a word about ness than I can express. I can hardly believe, writing now
myself; but it come up so nat’ral, that I yielded to it afore I long afterwards, but that I was actually present in these
was aweer.’ scenes; they are impressed upon me with such an astonish-
‘You are a self-denying soul,’ said my aunt, ‘and will have ing air of fidelity.
your reward.’ ‘As Em’ly’s eyes - which was heavy - see this woman bet-
Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing ter,’ Mr. Peggotty went on, ‘she know’d as she was one of
athwart his face, made a surprised inclination of the head them as she had often talked to on the beach. Fur, though
towards my aunt, as an acknowledgement of her good opin- she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in the night, she
ion; then took up the thread he had relinquished. had oftentimes wandered long ways, partly afoot, partly in
‘When my Em’ly took flight,’ he said, in stern wrath for boats and carriages, and know’d all that country, ‘long the
the moment, ‘from the house wheer she was made a prison- coast, miles and miles. She hadn’t no children of her own,
er by that theer spotted snake as Mas’r Davy see, - and his this woman, being a young wife; but she was a- looking to
story’s trew, and may GOD confound him! - she took flight have one afore long. And may my prayers go up to Heaven
in the night. It was a dark night, with a many stars a-shin- that ‘twill be a happiness to her, and a comfort, and a hon-
ing. She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, believing the our, all her life! May it love her and be dootiful to her, in her
old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turn away our old age; helpful of her at the last; a Angel to her heer, and
faces, for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying heerafter!’
out, like as if it was another person; and cut herself on them ‘Amen!’ said my aunt.
sharp-pinted stones and rocks, and felt it no more than if ‘She had been summat timorous and down,’ said Mr. Peg-
she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she run, and there gotty, and had sat, at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or
was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her ears. Of a sud- such work as it was, when Em’ly talked to the children. But
den - or so she thowt, you unnerstand - the day broke, wet Em’ly had took notice of her, and had gone and spoke to her;
and windy, and she was lying b’low a heap of stone upon and as the young woman was partial to the children herself,
the shore, and a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in they had soon made friends. Sermuchser, that when Em’ly
the language of that country, what was it as had gone so went that way, she always giv Em’ly flowers. This was her as

now asked what it was that had gone so much amiss. Em’ly was a crowding on her all at once, and nothing clear nor
told her, and she - took her home. She did indeed. She took welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long
her home,’ said Mr. Peggotty, covering his face. this lasted, I doen’t know; but then theer come a sleep; and
He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had in that sleep, from being a many times stronger than her
ever seen him affected by anything since the night she went own self, she fell into the weakness of the littlest child.’
away. My aunt and I did not attempt to disturb him. Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his
‘It was a little cottage, you may suppose,’ he said, pres- own description. After being silent for a few moments, he
ently, ‘but she found space for Em’ly in it, - her husband pursued his story.
was away at sea, - and she kep it secret, and prevailed upon ‘It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so qui-
such neighbours as she had (they was not many near) to et, that there warn’t a sound but the rippling of that blue
keep it secret too. Em’ly was took bad with fever, and, what sea without a tide, upon the shore. It was her belief, at first,
is very strange to me is, - maybe ‘tis not so strange to schol- that she was at home upon a Sunday morning; but the vine
ars, - the language of that country went out of her head, and leaves as she see at the winder, and the hills beyond, warn’t
she could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She home, and contradicted of her. Then, come in her friend to
recollects, as if she had dreamed it, that she lay there always watch alongside of her bed; and then she know’d as the old
a-talking her own tongue, always believing as the old boat boat warn’t round that next pint in the bay no more, but
was round the next pint in the bay, and begging and im- was fur off; and know’d where she was, and why; and broke
ploring of ‘em to send theer and tell how she was dying, and out a-crying on that good young woman’s bosom, wheer I
bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on’y a wured. hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of her with its pret-
A’most the whole time, she thowt, - now, that him as I made ty eyes!’
mention on just now was lurking for her unnerneath the He could not speak of this good friend of Emily’s with-
winder; now that him as had brought her to this was in the out a flow of tears. It was in vain to try. He broke down
room, - and cried to the good young woman not to give her again, endeavouring to bless her!
up, and know’d, at the same time, that she couldn’t unner- ‘That done my Em’ly good,’ he resumed, after such emo-
stand, and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise tion as I could not behold without sharing in; and as to my
the fire was afore her eyes, and the roarings in her ears; and aunt, she wept with all her heart; ‘that done Em’ly good, and
theer was no today, nor yesterday, nor yet tomorrow; but she begun to mend. But, the language of that country was
everything in her life as ever had been, or as ever could be, quite gone from her, and she was forced to make signs. So
and everything as never had been, and as never could be, she went on, getting better from day to day, slow, but sure,

and trying to learn the names of common things - names as England, and was set ashore at Dover.
she seemed never to have heerd in all her life - till one eve- ‘I doen’t know,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘for sure, when her ‘art
ning come, when she was a-setting at her window, looking begun to fail her; but all the way to England she had thowt
at a little girl at play upon the beach. And of a sudden this to come to her dear home. Soon as she got to England she
child held out her hand, and said, what would be in English, turned her face tow’rds it. But, fear of not being forgiv, fear
‘Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!’ - for you are to unner- of being pinted at, fear of some of us being dead along of her,
stand that they used at first to call her ‘Pretty lady’, as the fear of many things, turned her from it, kiender by force,
general way in that country is, and that she had taught ‘em upon the road: ‘Uncle, uncle,’ she says to me, ‘the fear of not
to call her ‘Fisherman’s daughter’ instead. The child says of being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast so
a sudden, ‘Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!’ Then Em’ly longed to do, was the most fright’ning fear of all! I turned
unnerstands her; and she answers, bursting out a-crying; back, when my ‘art was full of prayers that I might crawl to
and it all comes back! the old door-step, in the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face
‘When Em’ly got strong again,’ said Mr. Peggotty, after upon it, and theer be found dead in the morning.’
another short interval of silence, ‘she cast about to leave ‘She come,’ said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an
that good young creetur, and get to her own country. The awe-stricken whisper, ‘to London. She - as had never seen
husband was come home, then; and the two together put it in her life - alone - without a penny - young - so pretty
her aboard a small trader bound to Leghorn, and from that - come to London. A’most the moment as she lighted heer,
to France. She had a little money, but it was less than little all so desolate, she found (as she believed) a friend; a decent
as they would take for all they done. I’m a’most glad on it, woman as spoke to her about the needle-work as she had
though they was so poor! What they done, is laid up wheer been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it fur her,
neither moth or rust doth corrupt, and wheer thieves do about a lodging fur the night, and making secret inquira-
not break through nor steal. Mas’r Davy, it’ll outlast all the tion concerning of me and all at home, tomorrow. When
treasure in the wureld. my child,’ he said aloud, and with an energy of gratitude
‘Em’ly got to France, and took service to wait on travel- that shook him from head to foot, ‘stood upon the brink of
ling ladies at a inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, more than I can say or think on - Martha, trew to her prom-
that snake. - Let him never come nigh me. I doen’t know ise, saved her.’
what hurt I might do him! - Soon as she see him, without I could not repress a cry of joy.
him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned upon her, ‘Mas’r Davy!’ said he, gripping my hand in that strong
and she fled afore the very breath he draw’d. She come to hand of his, ‘it was you as first made mention of her to me.

I thankee, sir! She was arnest. She had know’d of her bitter less as I have seen of her dear face, as grow’d into a woman’s
knowledge wheer to watch and what to do. She had done at my hearth. But, all night long, her arms has been about
it. And the Lord was above all! She come, white and hur- my neck; and her head has laid heer; and we knows full well,
ried, upon Em’ly in her sleep. She says to her, ‘Rise up from as we can put our trust in one another, ever more.’
worse than death, and come with me!’ Them belonging to He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the table rested
the house would have stopped her, but they might as soon there in perfect repose, with a resolution in it that might
have stopped the sea. ‘Stand away from me,’ she says, ‘I am have conquered lions.
a ghost that calls her from beside her open grave!’ She told ‘It was a gleam of light upon me, Trot,’ said my aunt,
Em’ly she had seen me, and know’d I loved her, and for- drying her eyes, ‘when I formed the resolution of being god-
give her. She wrapped her, hasty, in her clothes. She took her, mother to your sister Betsey Trotwood, who disappointed
faint and trembling, on her arm. She heeded no more what me; but, next to that, hardly anything would have given me
they said, than if she had had no ears. She walked among greater pleasure, than to be godmother to that good young
‘em with my child, minding only her; and brought her safe creature’s baby!’
out, in the dead of the night, from that black pit of ruin! Mr. Peggotty nodded his understanding of my aunt’s feel-
‘She attended on Em’ly,’ said Mr. Peggotty, who had re- ings, but could not trust himself with any verbal reference
leased my hand, and put his own hand on his heaving chest; to the subject of her commendation. We all remained silent,
‘she attended to my Em’ly, lying wearied out, and wan- and occupied with our own reflections (my aunt drying her
dering betwixt whiles, till late next day. Then she went in eyes, and now sobbing convulsively, and now laughing and
search of me; then in search of you, Mas’r Davy. She didn’t calling herself a fool); until I spoke.
tell Em’ly what she come out fur, lest her ‘art should fail, ‘You have quite made up your mind,’ said I to Mr. Peggot-
and she should think of hiding of herself. How the cruel ty, ‘as to the future, good friend? I need scarcely ask you.’
lady know’d of her being theer, I can’t say. Whether him as ‘Quite, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned; ‘and told Em’ly. Theer’s
I have spoke so much of, chanced to see ‘em going theer, or mighty countries, fur from heer. Our future life lays over
whether (which is most like, to my thinking) he had heerd the sea.’
it from the woman, I doen’t greatly ask myself. My niece is ‘They will emigrate together, aunt,’ said I.
found. ‘Yes!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a hopeful smile. ‘No one
‘All night long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘we have been together, can’t reproach my darling in Australia. We will begin a new
Em’ly and me. ‘Tis little (considering the time) as she has life over theer!’
said, in wureds, through them broken-hearted tears; ‘tis I asked him if he yet proposed to himself any time for

going away. didn’t know the old ‘un, peevish-like. Now I DID know the
‘I was down at the Docks early this morning, sir,’ he re- old ‘un,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and I know’d his merits, so I
turned, ‘to get information concerning of them ships. In unnerstan’ her; but ‘tan’t entirely so, you see, with others
about six weeks or two months from now, there’ll be one - nat’rally can’t be!’
sailing - I see her this morning - went aboard - and we shall My aunt and I both acquiesced.
take our passage in her.’ ‘Wheerby,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘my sister might - I doen’t
‘Quite alone?’ I asked. say she would, but might - find Missis Gummidge give
‘Aye, Mas’r Davy!’ he returned. ‘My sister, you see, she’s her a leetle trouble now-and-again. Theerfur ‘tan’t my in-
that fond of you and yourn, and that accustomed to think tentions to moor Missis Gummidge ‘long with them, but
on’y of her own country, that it wouldn’t be hardly fair to let to find a Beein’ fur her wheer she can fisherate for herself.’
her go. Besides which, theer’s one she has in charge, Mas’r (A Beein’ signifies, in that dialect, a home, and to fisher-
Davy, as doen’t ought to be forgot.’ ate is to provide.) ‘Fur which purpose,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
‘Poor Ham!’ said I. ‘I means to make her a ‘lowance afore I go, as’ll leave her
‘My good sister takes care of his house, you see, ma’am, pretty comfort’ble. She’s the faithfullest of creeturs. ‘Tan’t
and he takes kindly to her,’ Mr. Peggotty explained for my to be expected, of course, at her time of life, and being lone
aunt’s better information. ‘He’ll set and talk to her, with a and lorn, as the good old Mawther is to be knocked about
calm spirit, wen it’s like he couldn’t bring himself to open aboardship, and in the woods and wilds of a new and fur-
his lips to another. Poor fellow!’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking away country. So that’s what I’m a-going to do with her.’
his head, ‘theer’s not so much left him, that he could spare He forgot nobody. He thought of everybody’s claims and
the little as he has!’ strivings, but his own.
‘And Mrs. Gummidge?’ said I. ‘Em’ly,’ he continued, ‘will keep along with me - poor
‘Well, I’ve had a mort of consideration, I do tell you,’ re- child, she’s sore in need of peace and rest! - until such time
turned Mr. Peggotty, with a perplexed look which gradually as we goes upon our voyage. She’ll work at them clothes, as
cleared as he went on, ‘concerning of Missis Gummidge. must be made; and I hope her troubles will begin to seem
You see, wen Missis Gummidge falls a-thinking of the old longer ago than they was, wen she finds herself once more
‘un, she an’t what you may call good company. Betwixt you by her rough but loving uncle.’
and me, Mas’r Davy - and you, ma’am - wen Mrs. Gum- MY aunt nodded confirmation of this hope, and impart-
midge takes to wimicking,’ - our old country word for ed great satisfaction to Mr. Peggotty.
crying, - ‘she’s liable to be considered to be, by them as ‘Theer’s one thing furder, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, putting

his hand in his breast-pocket, and gravely taking out the ‘And do you wish me to go with you?’ said I, seeing that
little paper bundle I had seen before, which he unrolled on he left something unsaid.
the table. ‘Theer’s these here banknotes - fifty pound, and ‘If you could do me that kind favour, Mas’r Davy,’ he re-
ten. To them I wish to add the money as she come away plied. ‘I know the sight on you would cheer ‘em up a bit.’
with. I’ve asked her about that (but not saying why), and My little Dora being in good spirits, and very desirous
have added of it up. I an’t a scholar. Would you be so kind that I should go - as I found on talking it over with her -
as see how ‘tis?’ I readily pledged myself to accompany him in accordance
He handed me, apologetically for his scholarship, a piece with his wish. Next morning, consequently, we were on the
of paper, and observed me while I looked it over. It was Yarmouth coach, and again travelling over the old ground.
quite right. As we passed along the familiar street at night - Mr. Peg-
‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, taking it back. ‘This money, if you gotty, in despite of all my remonstrances, carrying my bag
doen’t see objections, Mas’r Davy, I shall put up jest afore I - I glanced into Omer and Joram’s shop, and saw my old
go, in a cover directed to him; and put that up in another, friend Mr. Omer there, smoking his pipe. I felt reluctant to
directed to his mother. I shall tell her, in no more wureds be present, when Mr. Peggotty first met his sister and Ham;
than I speak to you, what it’s the price on; and that I’m gone, and made Mr. Omer my excuse for lingering behind.
and past receiving of it back.’ ‘How is Mr. Omer, after this long time?’ said I, going in.
I told him that I thought it would be right to do so - that He fanned away the smoke of his pipe, that he might get
I was thoroughly convinced it would be, since he felt it to a better view of me, and soon recognized me with great de-
be right. light.
‘I said that theer was on’y one thing furder,’ he proceeded ‘I should get up, sir, to acknowledge such an honour as
with a grave smile, when he had made up his little bundle this visit,’ said he, ‘only my limbs are rather out of sorts,
again, and put it in his pocket; ‘but theer was two. I warn’t and I am wheeled about. With the exception of my limbs
sure in my mind, wen I come out this morning, as I could and my breath, howsoever, I am as hearty as a man can be,
go and break to Ham, of my own self, what had so thank- I’m thankful to say.’
fully happened. So I writ a letter while I was out, and put it I congratulated him on his contented looks and his good
in the post-office, telling of ‘em how all was as ‘tis; and that spirits, and saw, now, that his easy-chair went on wheels.
I should come down tomorrow to unload my mind of what ‘It’s an ingenious thing, ain’t it?’ he inquired, following
little needs a-doing of down theer, and, most-like, take my the direction of my glance, and polishing the elbow with his
farewell leave of Yarmouth.’ arm. ‘It runs as light as a feather, and tracks as true as a mail-

coach. Bless you, my little Minnie - my grand-daughter you ‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said I.
know, Minnie’s child - puts her little strength against the ‘I knew you would be,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘And Joram and
back, gives it a shove, and away we go, as clever and merry Minnie are like Valentines. What more can a man expect?
as ever you see anything! And I tell you what - it’s a most What’s his limbs to that!’
uncommon chair to smoke a pipe in.’ His supreme contempt for his own limbs, as he sat
I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of smoking, was one of the pleasantest oddities I have ever en-
a thing, and find out the enjoyment of it, as Mr. Omer. He countered.
was as radiant, as if his chair, his asthma, and the failure of ‘And since I’ve took to general reading, you’ve took to
his limbs, were the various branches of a great invention for general writing, eh, sir?’ said Mr. Omer, surveying me
enhancing the luxury of a pipe. admiringly. ‘What a lovely work that was of yours! What
‘I see more of the world, I can assure you,’ said Mr. Omer, expressions in it! I read it every word - every word. And as
‘in this chair, than ever I see out of it. You’d be surprised at to feeling sleepy! Not at all!’
the number of people that looks in of a day to have a chat. I laughingly expressed my satisfaction, but I must con-
You really would! There’s twice as much in the newspa- fess that I thought this association of ideas significant.
per, since I’ve taken to this chair, as there used to be. As to ‘I give you my word and honour, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘that
general reading, dear me, what a lot of it I do get through! when I lay that book upon the table, and look at it outside;
That’s what I feel so strong, you know! If it had been my compact in three separate and indiwidual wollumes - one,
eyes, what should I have done? If it had been my ears, what two, three; I am as proud as Punch to think that I once had
should I have done? Being my limbs, what does it signify? the honour of being connected with your family. And dear
Why, my limbs only made my breath shorter when I used me, it’s a long time ago, now, ain’t it? Over at Blunderstone.
‘em. And now, if I want to go out into the street or down to With a pretty little party laid along with the other party.
the sands, I’ve only got to call Dick, Joram’s youngest ‘pren- And you quite a small party then, yourself. Dear, dear!’
tice, and away I go in my own carriage, like the Lord Mayor I changed the subject by referring to Emily. After assur-
of London.’ ing him that I did not forget how interested he had always
He half suffocated himself with laughing here. been in her, and how kindly he had always treated her, I
‘Lord bless you!’ said Mr. Omer, resuming his pipe, ‘a gave him a general account of her restoration to her uncle
man must take the fat with the lean; that’s what he must by the aid of Martha; which I knew would please the old
make up his mind to, in this life. Joram does a fine business. man. He listened with the utmost attention, and said, feel-
Ex-cellent business!’ ingly, when I had done:

‘I am rejoiced at it, sir! It’s the best news I have heard for single moment. So let us always do a kindness, and be over-
many a day. Dear, dear, dear! And what’s going to be under- rejoiced. To be sure!’
took for that unfortunate young woman, Martha, now?’ He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it on a
‘You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling ledge in the back of his chair, expressly made for its recep-
on since yesterday,’ said I, ‘but on which I can give you no tion.
information yet, Mr. Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to ‘There’s Em’ly’s cousin, him that she was to have been
it, and I have a delicacy in doing so. I am sure he has not for- married to,’ said Mr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, ‘as
gotten it. He forgets nothing that is disinterested and good.’ fine a fellow as there is in Yarmouth! He’ll come and talk or
‘Because you know,’ said Mr. Omer, taking himself up, read to me, in the evening, for an hour together sometimes.
where he had left off, ‘whatever is done, I should wish to That’s a kindness, I should call it! All his life’s a kindness.’
be a member of. Put me down for anything you may con- ‘I am going to see him now,’ said I.
sider right, and let me know. I never could think the girl ‘Are you?’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Tell him I was hearty, and sent
all bad, and I am glad to find she’s not. So will my daugh- my respects. Minnie and Joram’s at a ball. They would be as
ter Minnie be. Young women are contradictory creatures in proud to see you as I am, if they was at home. Minnie won’t
some things - her mother was just the same as her - but their hardly go out at all, you see, ‘on account of father’, as she
hearts are soft and kind. It’s all show with Minnie, about says. So I swore tonight, that if she didn’t go, I’d go to bed
Martha. Why she should consider it necessary to make any at six. In consequence of which,’ Mr. Omer shook himself
show, I don’t undertake to tell you. But it’s all show, bless and his chair with laughter at the success of his device, ‘she
you. She’d do her any kindness in private. So, put me down and Joram’s at a ball.’
for whatever you may consider right, will you be so good? I shook hands with him, and wished him good night.
and drop me a line where to forward it. Dear me!’ said Mr. ‘Half a minute, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘If you was to go with-
Omer, ‘when a man is drawing on to a time of life, where out seeing my little elephant, you’d lose the best of sights.
the two ends of life meet; when he finds himself, however You never see such a sight! Minnie!’ A musical little voice
hearty he is, being wheeled about for the second time, in a answered, from somewhere upstairs, ‘I am coming, grand-
speeches of go-cart; he should be over-rejoiced to do a kind- father!’ and a pretty little girl with long, flaxen, curling hair,
ness if he can. He wants plenty. And I don’t speak of myself, soon came running into the shop.
particular,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘because, sir, the way I look at it ‘This is my little elephant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, fondling
is, that we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill, what- the child. ‘Siamese breed, sir. Now, little elephant!’
ever age we are, on account of time never standing still for a The little elephant set the door of the parlour open, en-

abling me to see that, in these latter days, it was converted spoke, with some approach to cheerfulness, of Mr. Peggot-
into a bedroom for Mr. Omer who could not be easily ty’s growing rich in a new country, and of the wonders he
conveyed upstairs; and then hid her pretty forehead, and would describe in his letters. We said nothing of Emily by
tumbled her long hair, against the back of Mr. Omer’s name, but distantly referred to her more than once. Ham
chair. was the serenest of the party.
‘The elephant butts, you know, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, wink- But, Peggotty told me, when she lighted me to a little
ing, ‘when he goes at a object. Once, elephant. Twice. Three chamber where the Crocodile book was lying ready for me
times!’ on the table, that he always was the same. She believed (she
At this signal, the little elephant, with a dexterity that told me, crying) that he was broken-hearted; though he was
was next to marvellous in so small an animal, whisked the as full of courage as of sweetness, and worked harder and
chair round with Mr. Omer in it, and rattled it off, pell-mell, better than any boat-builder in any yard in all that part.
into the parlour, without touching the door-post: Mr. Omer There were times, she said, of an evening, when he talked of
indescribably enjoying the performance, and looking back their old life in the boat-house; and then he mentioned Em-
at me on the road as if it were the triumphant issue of his ily as a child. But, he never mentioned her as a woman.
life’s exertions. I thought I had read in his face that he would like to
After a stroll about the town I went to Ham’s house. Peg- speak to me alone. I therefore resolved to put myself in his
gotty had now removed here for good; and had let her own way next evening, as he came home from his work. Having
house to the successor of Mr. Barkis in the carrying busi- settled this with myself, I fell asleep. That night, for the first
ness, who had paid her very well for the good-will, cart, and time in all those many nights, the candle was taken out of
horse. I believe the very same slow horse that Mr. Barkis the window, Mr. Peggotty swung in his old hammock in
drove was still at work. the old boat, and the wind murmured with the old sound
I found them in the neat kitchen, accompanied by Mrs. round his head.
Gummidge, who had been fetched from the old boat by Mr. All next day, he was occupied in disposing of his fish-
Peggotty himself. I doubt if she could have been induced to ing-boat and tackle; in packing up, and sending to London
desert her post, by anyone else. He had evidently told them by waggon, such of his little domestic possessions as he
all. Both Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge had their aprons to thought would be useful to him; and in parting with the
their eyes, and Ham had just stepped out ‘to take a turn on rest, or bestowing them on Mrs. Gummidge. She was with
the beach’. He presently came home, very glad to see me; him all day. As I had a sorrowful wish to see the old place
and I hope they were all the better for my being there. We once more, before it was locked up, I engaged to meet them

there in the evening. But I so arranged it, as that I should her mind, and would have counselled with me, and I might
meet Ham first. have saved her.’
It was easy to come in his way, as I knew where he worked. I pressed his hand. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Theer’s yet a something
I met him at a retired part of the sands, which I knew he else,’ he returned, ‘if I can say it, Mas’r Davy.’
would cross, and turned back with him, that he might have We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he
leisure to speak to me if he really wished. I had not mistak- spoke again. He was not crying when he made the pauses I
en the expression of his face. We had walked but a little way shall express by lines. He was merely collecting himself to
together, when he said, without looking at me: speak very plainly.
‘Mas’r Davy, have you seen her?’ ‘I loved her - and I love the mem’ry of her - too deep - to
‘Only for a moment, when she was in a swoon,’ I softly be able to lead her to believe of my own self as I’m a hap-
answered. py man. I could only be happy - by forgetting of her - and
We walked a little farther, and he said: I’m afeerd I couldn’t hardly bear as she should be told I
‘Mas’r Davy, shall you see her, d’ye think?’ done that. But if you, being so full of learning, Mas’r Davy,
‘It would be too painful to her, perhaps,’ said I. could think of anything to say as might bring her to believe
‘I have thowt of that,’ he replied. ‘So ‘twould, sir, so I wasn’t greatly hurt: still loving of her, and mourning for
‘twould.’ her: anything as might bring her to believe as I was not tired
‘But, Ham,’ said I, gently, ‘if there is anything that I could of my life, and yet was hoping fur to see her without blame,
write to her, for you, in case I could not tell it; if there is any- wheer the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are
thing you would wish to make known to her through me; I at rest - anything as would ease her sorrowful mind, and
should consider it a sacred trust.’ yet not make her think as I could ever marry, or as ‘twas
‘I am sure on’t. I thankee, sir, most kind! I think theer is possible that anyone could ever be to me what she was - I
something I could wish said or wrote.’ should ask of you to say that - with my prayers for her - that
‘What is it?’ was so dear.’
We walked a little farther in silence, and then he spoke. I pressed his manly hand again, and told him I would
‘’Tan’t that I forgive her. ‘Tan’t that so much. ‘Tis more as charge myself to do this as well as I could.
I beg of her to forgive me, for having pressed my affections ‘I thankee, sir,’ he answered. ‘’Twas kind of you to meet
upon her. Odd times, I think that if I hadn’t had her prom- me. ‘Twas kind of you to bear him company down. Mas’r
ise fur to marry me, sir, she was that trustful of me, in a Davy, I unnerstan’ very well, though my aunt will come
friendly way, that she’d have told me what was struggling in to Lon’on afore they sail, and they’ll unite once more, that

I am not like to see him agen. I fare to feel sure on’t. We sufficiently approving simile.
doen’t say so, but so ‘twill be, and better so. The last you Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no obser-
see on him - the very last - will you give him the lovingest vation.
duty and thanks of the orphan, as he was ever more than a ‘Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ‘long with
father to?’ Em’ly!’ said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. ‘I’m a-going to carry
This I also promised, faithfully. it away with me, last of all. And heer’s your old little bed-
‘I thankee agen, sir,’ he said, heartily shaking hands. ‘I room, see, Mas’r Davy! A’most as bleak tonight, as ‘art could
know wheer you’re a-going. Good-bye!’ wish!’
With a slight wave of his hand, as though to explain to In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound,
me that he could not enter the old place, he turned away. As and crept around the deserted house with a whispered wail-
I looked after his figure, crossing the waste in the moon- ing that was very mournful. Everything was gone, down to
light, I saw him turn his face towards a strip of silvery light the little mirror with the oyster-shell frame. I thought of
upon the sea, and pass on, looking at it, until he was a shad- myself, lying here, when that first great change was being
ow in the distance. wrought at home. I thought of the blue-eyed child who had
The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and a foolish, fearful
and, on entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, sav- fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, and liable to
ing one of the old lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a be met at any turn.
basket on her knee, was seated, looking at Mr. Peggotty. He ‘’Tis like to be long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, in a low voice,
leaned his elbow on the rough chimney-piece, and gazed ‘afore the boat finds new tenants. They look upon ‘t, down
upon a few expiring embers in the grate; but he raised his beer, as being unfortunate now!’
head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spoke in a cheery ‘Does it belong to anybody in the neighbourhood?’ I
manner. asked.
‘Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ‘t, eh, ‘To a mast-maker up town,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I’m a-go-
Mas’r Davy?’ he said, taking up the candle. ‘Bare enough, ing to give the key to him tonight.’
now, an’t it?’ ‘Indeed you have made good use of the time,’ We looked into the other little room, and came back to
said I. Mrs. Gummidge, sitting on the locker, whom Mr. Peggotty,
‘Why, we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has putting the light on the chimney-piece, requested to rise,
worked like a - I doen’t know what Missis Gummidge an’t that he might carry it outside the door before extinguish-
worked like,’ said Mr. Peggotty, looking at her, at a loss for a ing the candle.

‘Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, suddenly deserting her lus! Dan’l, deary Dan’l, let me go ‘long with you!’
basket, and clinging to his arm ‘my dear Dan’l, the part- And Mrs. Gummidge took his hand, and kissed it with a
ing words I speak in this house is, I mustn’t be left behind. homely pathos and affection, in a homely rapture of devo-
Doen’t ye think of leaving me behind, Dan’l! Oh, doen’t ye tion and gratitude, that he well deserved.
ever do it!’ We brought the locker out, extinguished the candle, fas-
Mr. Peggotty, taken aback, looked from Mrs. Gummidge tened the door on the outside, and left the old boat close
to me, and from me to Mrs. Gummidge, as if he had been shut up, a dark speck in the cloudy night. Next day, when
awakened from a sleep. we were returning to London outside the coach, Mrs. Gum-
‘Doen’t ye, dearest Dan’l, doen’t ye!’ cried Mrs. Gum- midge and her basket were on the seat behind, and Mrs.
midge, fervently. ‘Take me ‘long with you, Dan’l, take me Gummidge was happy.
‘long with you and Em’ly! I’ll be your servant, constant and
trew. If there’s slaves in them parts where you’re a-going, I’ll
be bound to you for one, and happy, but doen’t ye leave me
behind, Dan’l, that’s a deary dear!’
‘My good soul,’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘you
doen’t know what a long voyage, and what a hard life ‘tis!’
‘Yes, I do, Dan’l! I can guess!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘But my
parting words under this roof is, I shall go into the house
and die, if I am not took. I can dig, Dan’l. I can work. I can
live hard. I can be loving and patient now - more than you
think, Dan’l, if you’ll on’y try me. I wouldn’t touch the ‘low-
ance, not if I was dying of want, Dan’l Peggotty; but I’ll go
with you and Em’ly, if you’ll on’y let me, to the world’s end!
I know how ‘tis; I know you think that I am lone and lorn;
but, deary love, ‘tan’t so no more! I ain’t sat here, so long, a-
watching, and a-thinking of your trials, without some good
being done me. Mas’r Davy, speak to him for me! I knows
his ways, and Em’ly’s, and I knows their sorrows, and can
be a comfort to ‘em, some odd times, and labour for ‘em al-

CHAPTER 52 er sit and tell me stories about Doady, when his shoes were
worn out, and he was covered with dust - oh, what a poor
little mite of a fellow! You never do anything at all to please
me, do you, dear?’ Dora made haste to kiss my aunt, and say,
I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION ‘Yes, you do! I’m only joking!’- lest my aunt should think she
really meant it.
‘But, aunt,’ said Dora, coaxingly, ‘now listen. You must
go. I shall tease you, ‘till you let me have my own way about
it. I shall lead my naughty boy such a life, if he don’t make
W hen the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mys-

teriously, was within four-and-twenty hours of being
come, my aunt and I consulted how we should proceed; for
you go. I shall make myself so disagreeable - and so will Jip!
You’ll wish you had gone, like a good thing, for ever and
ever so long, if you don’t go. Besides,’ said Dora, putting
my aunt was very unwilling to leave Dora. Ah! how easily I back her hair, and looking wonderingly at my aunt and me,
carried Dora up and down stairs, now! ‘why shouldn’t you both go? I am not very ill indeed. Am I?’
We were disposed, notwithstanding Mr. Micawber’s ‘Why, what a question!’ cried my aunt.
stipulation for my aunt’s attendance, to arrange that she ‘What a fancy!’ said I.
should stay at home, and be represented by Mr. Dick and ‘Yes! I know I am a silly little thing!’ said Dora, slowly
me. In short, we had resolved to take this course, when looking from one of us to the other, and then putting up
Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she never would her pretty lips to kiss us as she lay upon her couch. ‘Well,
forgive herself, and never would forgive her bad boy, if my then, you must both go, or I shall not believe you; and then
aunt remained behind, on any pretence. I shall cry!’
‘I won’t speak to you,’ said Dora, shaking her curls at my I saw, in my aunt’s face, that she began to give way now,
aunt. ‘I’ll be disagreeable! I’ll make Jip bark at you all day. and Dora brightened again, as she saw it too.
I shall be sure that you really are a cross old thing, if you ‘You’ll come back with so much to tell me, that it’ll take
don’t go!’ at least a week to make me understand!’ said Dora. ‘Because
‘Tut, Blossom!’ laughed my aunt. ‘You know you can’t do I know I shan’t understand, for a length of time, if there’s
without me!’ any business in it. And there’s sure to be some business in
‘Yes, I can,’ said Dora. ‘You are no use to me at all. You it! If there’s anything to add up, besides, I don’t know when
never run up and down stairs for me, all day long. You nev- I shall make it out; and my bad boy will look so miserable

all the time. There! Now you’ll go, won’t you? You’ll only youth; and of the many, never old, who had lived and loved
be gone one night, and Jip will take care of me while you and died, while the reverberations of the bells had hummed
are gone. Doady will carry me upstairs before you go, and through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hanging up
I won’t come down again till you come back; and you shall within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost them-
take Agnes a dreadfully scolding letter from me, because selves in air, as circles do in water.
she has never been to see us!’ I looked at the old house from the corner of the street,
We agreed, without any more consultation, that we but did not go nearer to it, lest, being observed, I might un-
would both go, and that Dora was a little Impostor, who wittingly do any harm to the design I had come to aid. The
feigned to be rather unwell, because she liked to be petted. early sun was striking edgewise on its gables and lattice-
She was greatly pleased, and very merry; and we four, that windows, touching them with gold; and some beams of its
is to say, my aunt, Mr. Dick, Traddles, and I, went down to old peace seemed to touch my heart.
Canterbury by the Dover mail that night. I strolled into the country for an hour or so, and then
At the hotel where Mr. Micawber had requested us to returned by the main street, which in the interval had shak-
await him, which we got into, with some trouble, in the mid- en off its last night’s sleep. Among those who were stirring
dle of the night, I found a letter, importing that he would in the shops, I saw my ancient enemy the butcher, now ad-
appear in the morning punctually at half past nine. After vanced to top-boots and a baby, and in business for himself.
which, we went shivering, at that uncomfortable hour, to He was nursing the baby, and appeared to be a benignant
our respective beds, through various close passages; which member of society.
smelt as if they had been steeped, for ages, in a solution of We all became very anxious and impatient, when we
soup and stables. sat down to breakfast. As it approached nearer and near-
Early in the morning, I sauntered through the dear old er to half past nine o’clock, our restless expectation of Mr.
tranquil streets, and again mingled with the shadows of Micawber increased. At last we made no more pretence of
the venerable gateways and churches. The rooks were sail- attending to the meal, which, except with Mr. Dick, had
ing about the cathedral towers; and the towers themselves, been a mere form from the first; but my aunt walked up and
overlooking many a long unaltered mile of the rich country down the room, Traddles sat upon the sofa affecting to read
and its pleasant streams, were cutting the bright morning the paper with his eyes on the ceiling; and I looked out of
air, as if there were no such thing as change on earth. Yet the the window to give early notice of Mr. Micawber’s coming.
bells, when they sounded, told me sorrowfully of change in Nor had I long to watch, for, at the first chime of the half
everything; told me of their own age, and my pretty Dora’s hour, he appeared in the street.

‘Here he is,’ said I, ‘and not in his legal attire!’ ‘It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, to
My aunt tied the strings of her bonnet (she had come whom I looked in surprise. ‘Mr. Micawber has consulted
down to breakfast in it), and put on her shawl, as if she were me in reference to what he has in contemplation; and I have
ready for anything that was resolute and uncompromising. advised him to the best of my judgement.’
Traddles buttoned his coat with a determined air. Mr. Dick, ‘Unless I deceive myself, Mr. Traddles,’ pursued Mr. Mi-
disturbed by these formidable appearances, but feeling it cawber, ‘what I contemplate is a disclosure of an important
necessary to imitate them, pulled his hat, with both hands, nature.’
as firmly over his ears as he possibly could; and instantly ‘Highly so,’ said Traddles.
took it off again, to welcome Mr. Micawber. ‘Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gen-
‘Gentlemen, and madam,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘good tlemen,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘you will do me the favour to
morning! My dear sir,’ to Mr. Dick, who shook hands with submit yourselves, for the moment, to the direction of one
him violently, ‘you are extremely good.’ who, however unworthy to be regarded in any other light
‘Have you breakfasted?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Have a chop!’ but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore of human nature, is
‘Not for the world, my good sir!’ cried Mr. Micawber, still your fellow-man, though crushed out of his original
stopping him on his way to the bell; ‘appetite and myself, form by individual errors, and the accumulative force of a
Mr. Dixon, have long been strangers.’ combination of circumstances?’
Mr. Dixon was so well pleased with his new name, and ‘We have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Micawber,’ said
appeared to think it so obliging in Mr. Micawber to con- I, ‘and will do what you please.’
fer it upon him, that he shook hands with him again, and ‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘your confi-
laughed rather childishly. dence is not, at the existing juncture, ill-bestowed. I would
‘Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘attention!’ beg to be allowed a start of five minutes by the clock; and
Mr. Dick recovered himself, with a blush. then to receive the present company, inquiring for Miss
‘Now, sir,’ said my aunt to Mr. Micawber, as she put on Wickfield, at the office of Wickfield and Heep, whose Sti-
her gloves, ‘we are ready for Mount Vesuvius, or anything pendiary I am.’
else, as soon as YOU please.’ My aunt and I looked at Traddles, who nodded his ap-
‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I trust you will shortly proval.
witness an eruption. Mr. Traddles, I have your permission, I ‘I have no more,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘to say at pres-
believe, to mention here that we have been in communica- ent.’
tion together?’ With which, to my infinite surprise, he included us all in

a comprehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow.
extremely distant, and his face extremely pale. Our visit astonished him, evidently; not the less, I dare say,
Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair because it astonished ourselves. He did not gather his eye-
standing upright on the top of it), when I looked to him for brows together, for he had none worth mentioning; but he
an explanation; so I took out my watch, and, as a last re- frowned to that degree that he almost closed his small eyes,
source, counted off the five minutes. My aunt, with her own while the hurried raising of his grisly hand to his chin be-
watch in her hand, did the like. When the time was expired, trayed some trepidation or surprise. This was only when
Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out together to we were in the act of entering his room, and when I caught
the old house, without saying one word on the way. a glance at him over my aunt’s shoulder. A moment after-
We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office wards, he was as fawning and as humble as ever.
on the ground floor, either writing, or pretending to write, ‘Well, I am sure,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unexpected
hard. The large office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat, pleasure! To have, as I may say, all friends round St. Paul’s
and was not so well concealed but that a foot or more of at once, is a treat unlooked for! Mr. Copperfield, I hope I see
that instrument protruded from his bosom, like a new kind you well, and - if I may umbly express myself so - friendly
of shirt-frill. towards them as is ever your friends, whether or not. Mrs.
As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said Copperfield, sir, I hope she’s getting on. We have been made
aloud: quite uneasy by the poor accounts we have had of her state,
‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’ lately, I do assure you.’
‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, gravely, ‘I hope I I felt ashamed to let him take my hand, but I did not
see you well?’ know yet what else to do.
‘Is Miss Wickfield at home?’ said I. ‘Things are changed in this office, Miss Trotwood, since
‘Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, sir, of a rheumatic fever,’ I was an umble clerk, and held your pony; ain’t they?’ said
he returned; ‘but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be Uriah, with his sickliest smile. ‘But I am not changed, Miss
happy to see old friends. Will you walk in, sir?’ Trotwood.’
He preceded us to the dining-room - the first room I had ‘Well, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘to tell you the truth, I think
entered in that house - and flinging open the door of Mr. you are pretty constant to the promise of your youth; if
Wickfield’s former office, said, in a sonorous voice: that’s any satisfaction to you.’
‘Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas ‘Thank you, Miss Trotwood,’ said Uriah, writhing in his
Traddles, and Mr. Dixon!’ ungainly manner, ‘for your good opinion! Micawber, tell

‘em to let Miss Agnes know - and mother. Mother will be should refer you to Copperfield. The family is a subject he’s
quite in a state, when she sees the present company!’ said very strong upon, if you never heard him.’
Uriah, setting chairs. I was prevented from disclaiming the compliment (if I
‘You are not busy, Mr. Heep?’ said Traddles, whose eye should have done so, in any case), by the entrance of Agnes,
the cunning red eye accidentally caught, as it at once scru- now ushered in by Mr. Micawber. She was not quite so self-
tinized and evaded us. possessed as usual, I thought; and had evidently undergone
‘No, Mr. Traddles,’ replied Uriah, resuming his official anxiety and fatigue. But her earnest cordiality, and her qui-
seat, and squeezing his bony hands, laid palm to palm be- et beauty, shone with the gentler lustre for it.
tween his bony knees. ‘Not so much so as I could wish. But I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us; and he re-
lawyers, sharks, and leeches, are not easily satisfied, you minded me of an ugly and rebellious genie watching a good
know! Not but what myself and Micawber have our hands spirit. In the meanwhile, some slight sign passed between
pretty full, in general, on account of Mr. Wickfield’s being Mr. Micawber and Traddles; and Traddles, unobserved ex-
hardly fit for any occupation, sir. But it’s a pleasure as well cept by me, went out.
as a duty, I am sure, to work for him. You’ve not been inti- ‘Don’t wait, Micawber,’ said Uriah.
mate with Mr. Wickfield, I think, Mr. Traddles? I believe Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his breast,
I’ve only had the honour of seeing you once myself?’ stood erect before the door, most unmistakably contemplat-
‘No, I have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield,’ re- ing one of his fellow-men, and that man his employer.
turned Traddles; ‘or I might perhaps have waited on you ‘What are you waiting for?’ said Uriah. ‘Micawber! did
long ago, Mr. Heep.’ you hear me tell you not to wait?’
There was something in the tone of this reply, which ‘Yes!’ replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.
made Uriah look at the speaker again, with a very sinister ‘Then why DO you wait?’ said Uriah.
and suspicious expression. But, seeing only Traddles, with ‘Because I - in short, choose,’ replied Mr. Micawber, with
his good-natured face, simple manner, and hair on end, he a burst.
dismissed it as he replied, with a jerk of his whole body, but Uriah’s cheeks lost colour, and an unwholesome paleness,
especially his throat: still faintly tinged by his pervading red, overspread them.
‘I am sorry for that, Mr. Traddles. You would have ad- He looked at Mr. Micawber attentively, with his whole face
mired him as much as we all do. His little failings would breathing short and quick in every feature.
only have endeared him to you the more. But if you would ‘You are a dissipated fellow, as all the world knows,’ he
like to hear my fellow-partner eloquently spoken of, I said, with an effort at a smile, ‘and I am afraid you’ll oblige

me to get rid of you. Go along! I’ll talk to you presently.’ you have any love for your father, you had better not join
‘If there is a scoundrel on this earth,’ said Mr. Micawber, that gang. I’ll ruin him, if you do. Now, come! I have got
suddenly breaking out again with the utmost vehemence, some of you under the harrow. Think twice, before it goes
‘with whom I have already talked too much, that scoundrel’s over you. Think twice, you, Micawber, if you don’t want to
name is - HEEP!’ be crushed. I recommend you to take yourself off, and be
Uriah fell back, as if he had been struck or stung. Looking talked to presently, you fool! while there’s time to retreat.
slowly round upon us with the darkest and wickedest ex- Where’s mother?’ he said, suddenly appearing to notice,
pression that his face could wear, he said, in a lower voice: with alarm, the absence of Traddles, and pulling down the
‘Oho! This is a conspiracy! You have met here by ap- bell-rope. ‘Fine doings in a person’s own house!’
pointment! You are playing Booty with my clerk, are you, ‘Mrs. Heep is here, sir,’ said Traddles, returning with that
Copperfield? Now, take care. You’ll make nothing of this. worthy mother of a worthy son. ‘I have taken the liberty of
We understand each other, you and me. There’s no love be- making myself known to her.’
tween us. You were always a puppy with a proud stomach, ‘Who are you to make yourself known?’ retorted Uriah.
from your first coming here; and you envy me my rise, do ‘And what do you want here?’
you? None of your plots against me; I’ll counterplot you! ‘I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ said
Micawber, you be off. I’ll talk to you presently.’ Traddles, in a composed and business-like way. ‘And I have
‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘there is a sudden change in this a power of attorney from him in my pocket, to act for him
fellow. in more respects than the extraordinary one of his in all matters.’
speaking the truth in one particular, which assures me that ‘The old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage,’ said
he is brought to bay. Deal with him as he deserves!’ Uriah, turning uglier than before, ‘and it has been got from
‘You are a precious set of people, ain’t you?’ said Uriah, him by fraud!’
in the same low voice, and breaking out into a clammy heat, ‘Something has been got from him by fraud, I know,’ re-
which he wiped from his forehead, with his long lean hand, turned Traddles quietly; ‘and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will
‘to buy over my clerk, who is the very scum of society, - as refer that question, if you please, to Mr. Micawber.’
you yourself were, Copperfield, you know it, before anyone ‘Ury -!’ Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.
had charity on you, - to defame me with his lies? Miss Trot- ‘YOU hold your tongue, mother,’ he returned; ‘least said,
wood, you had better stop this; or I’ll stop your husband soonest mended.’
shorter than will be pleasant to you. I won’t know your sto- ‘But, my Ury -’
ry professionally, for nothing, old lady! Miss Wickfield, if ‘Will you hold your tongue, mother, and leave it to me?’

Though I had long known that his servility was false, had been ME, I shouldn’t have wondered; for I don’t make
and all his pretences knavish and hollow, I had had no ad- myself out a gentleman (though I never was in the streets
equate conception of the extent of his hypocrisy, until I now either, as you were, according to Micawber), but being you!
saw him with his mask off. The suddenness with which he - And you’re not afraid of doing this, either? You don’t think
dropped it, when he perceived that it was useless to him; at all of what I shall do, in return; or of getting yourself into
the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; the leer with trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very well. We shall see!
which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he had Mr. What’s-your-name, you were going to refer some ques-
done - all this time being desperate too, and at his wits’ end tion to Micawber. There’s your referee. Why don’t you make
for the means of getting the better of us - though perfectly him speak? He has learnt his lesson, I see.’
consistent with the experience I had of him, at first took Seeing that what he said had no effect on me or any of us,
even me by surprise, who had known him so long, and dis- he sat on the edge of his table with his hands in his pockets,
liked him so heartily. and one of his splay feet twisted round the other leg, wait-
I say nothing of the look he conferred on me, as he stood ing doggedly for what might follow.
eyeing us, one after another; for I had always understood Mr. Micawber, whose impetuosity I had restrained thus
that he hated me, and I remembered the marks of my hand far with the greatest difficulty, and who had repeatedly in-
upon his cheek. But when his eyes passed on to Agnes, and terposed with the first syllable Of SCOUN-drel! without
I saw the rage with which he felt his power over her slip- getting to the second, now burst forward, drew the ruler
ping away, and the exhibition, in their disappointment, of from his breast (apparently as a defensive weapon), and
the odious passions that had led him to aspire to one whose produced from his pocket a foolscap document, folded in
virtues he could never appreciate or care for, I was shocked the form of a large letter. Opening this packet, with his old
by the mere thought of her having lived, an hour, within flourish, and glancing at the contents, as if he cherished an
sight of such a man. artistic admiration of their style of composition, he began
After some rubbing of the lower part of his face, and to read as follows:
some looking at us with those bad eyes, over his grisly fin- ‘’Dear Miss Trotwood and gentlemen -‘‘
gers, he made one more address to me, half whining, and ‘Bless and save the man!’ exclaimed my aunt in a low
half abusive. voice. ‘He’d write letters by the ream, if it was a capital of-
‘You think it justifiable, do you, Copperfield, you who fence!’
pride yourself so much on your honour and all the rest of it, Mr. Micawber, without hearing her, went on.
to sneak about my place, eaves-dropping with my clerk? If it ‘’In appearing before you to denounce probably the most

consummate Villain that has ever existed,‘‘ Mr. Micawber, gasped Mr. Micawber, ‘and if your head is human, I’ll break
without looking off the letter, pointed the ruler, like a ghost- it. Come on, come on! ‘
ly truncheon, at Uriah Heep, ‘“I ask no consideration for I think I never saw anything more ridiculous - I was sen-
myself. The victim, from my cradle, of pecuniary liabilities sible of it, even at the time - than Mr. Micawber making
to which I have been unable to respond, I have ever been the broad-sword guards with the ruler, and crying, ‘Come on!’
sport and toy of debasing circumstances. Ignominy, Want, while Traddles and I pushed him back into a corner, from
Despair, and Madness, have, collectively or separately, been which, as often as we got him into it, he persisted in emerg-
the attendants of my career.‘‘ ing again.
The relish with which Mr. Micawber described himself His enemy, muttering to himself, after wringing his
as a prey to these dismal calamities, was only to be equalled wounded hand for sometime, slowly drew off his neck-ker-
by the emphasis with which he read his letter; and the kind chief and bound it up; then held it in his other hand, and sat
of homage he rendered to it with a roll of his head, when he upon his table with his sullen face looking down.
thought he had hit a sentence very hard indeed. Mr. Micawber, when he was sufficiently cool, proceeded
‘’In an accumulation of Ignominy, Want, Despair, and with his letter.
Madness, I entered the office - or, as our lively neighbour ‘’The stipendiary emoluments in consideration of which
the Gaul would term it, the Bureau - of the Firm, nominally I entered into the service of - HEEP,‘‘ always pausing before
conducted under the appellation of Wickfield and - HEEP, that word and uttering it with astonishing vigour, ‘“were
but in reality, wielded by - HEEP alone. HEEP, and only not defined, beyond the pittance of twenty-two shillings
HEEP, is the mainspring of that machine. HEEP, and only and six per week. The rest was left contingent on the value
HEEP, is the Forger and the Cheat.‘‘ of my professional exertions; in other and more expres-
Uriah, more blue than white at these words, made a dart sive words, on the baseness of my nature, the cupidity of
at the letter, as if to tear it in pieces. Mr. Micawber, with my motives, the poverty of my family, the general moral (or
a perfect miracle of dexterity or luck, caught his advanc- rather immoral) resemblance between myself and - HEEP.
ing knuckles with the ruler, and disabled his right hand. It Need I say, that it soon became necessary for me to solicit
dropped at the wrist, as if it were broken. The blow sounded from - HEEP - pecuniary advances towards the support of
as if it had fallen on wood. Mrs. Micawber, and our blighted but rising family? Need I
‘The Devil take you!’ said Uriah, writhing in a new way say that this necessity had been foreseen by - HEEP? That
with pain. ‘I’ll be even with you.’ those advances were secured by I.O.U.’s and other similar
‘Approach me again, you - you - you HEEP of infamy,’ acknowledgements, known to the legal institutions of this

country? And that I thus became immeshed in the web he consenting party. My object, when the contest within my-
had spun for my reception?‘‘ self between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker,
Mr. Micawber’s enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in existence and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage
describing this unfortunate state of things, really seemed of my opportunities to discover and expose the major mal-
to outweigh any pain or anxiety that the reality could have practices committed, to that gentleman’s grievous wrong
caused him. He read on: and injury, by - HEEP. Stimulated by the silent monitor
‘’Then it was that - HEEP - began to favour me with just within, and by a no less touching and appealing monitor
so much of his confidence, as was necessary to the discharge without - to whom I will briefly refer as Miss W. - I entered
of his infernal business. Then it was that I began, if I may so on a not unlaborious task of clandestine investigation, pro-
Shakespearianly express myself, to dwindle, peak, and pine. tracted - now, to the best of my knowledge, information, and
I found that my services were constantly called into requisi- belief, over a period exceeding twelve calendar months.‘‘
tion for the falsification of business, and the mystification of He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parlia-
an individual whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr. W. ment; and appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of
was imposed upon, kept in ignorance, and deluded, in ev- the words.
ery possible way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian - HEEP ‘’My charges against - HEEP,‘‘ he read on, glancing at
- was professing unbounded gratitude to, and unbounded him, and drawing the ruler into a convenient position un-
friendship for, that much-abused gentleman. This was bad der his left arm, in case of need, ‘“are as follows.‘‘
enough; but, as the philosophic Dane observes, with that We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his.
universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious ‘’First,‘‘ said Mr. Micawber, ‘“When Mr. W.’s faculties and
ornament of the Elizabethan Era, worse remains behind!‘‘ memory for business became, through causes into which it
Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy is not necessary or expedient for me to enter, weakened and
rounding off with a quotation, that he indulged himself, confused, - HEEP - designedly perplexed and complicat-
and us, with a second reading of the sentence, under pre- ed the whole of the official transactions. When Mr. W. was
tence of having lost his place. least fit to enter on business, - HEEP was always at hand
‘’It is not my intention,‘‘ he continued reading on, ‘“to to force him to enter on it. He obtained Mr. W.’s signature
enter on a detailed list, within the compass of the present under such circumstances to documents of importance,
epistle (though it is ready elsewhere), of the various mal- representing them to be other documents of no importance.
practices of a minor nature, affecting the individual whom He induced Mr. W. to empower him to draw out, thus, one
I have denominated Mr. W., to which I have been a tacitly particular sum of trust-money, amounting to twelve six

fourteen, two and nine, and employed it to meet pretended ‘em for a pretty long time back, umble as I was!’
business charges and deficiencies which were either already Mr. Micawber, genteelly adjusting his chin in his cravat,
provided for, or had never really existed. He gave this pro- presently proceeded with his composition.
ceeding, throughout, the appearance of having originated ‘’Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best of
in Mr. W.’s own dishonest intention, and of having been ac- my knowledge, information, and belief -‘‘
complished by Mr. W.’s own dishonest act; and has used it, ‘But that won’t do,’ muttered Uriah, relieved. ‘Mother,
ever since, to torture and constrain him.‘‘ you keep quiet.’
‘You shall prove this, you Copperfield!’ said Uriah, with a ‘We will endeavour to provide something that WILL do,
threatening shake of the head. ‘All in good time!’ and do for you finally, sir, very shortly,’ replied Mr. Micaw-
‘Ask - HEEP - Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after ber.
him,’ said Mr. Micawber, breaking off from the letter; ‘will ‘’Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best
you?’ of my knowledge, information, and belief, systematically
‘The fool himself- and lives there now,’ said Uriah, dis- forged, to various entries, books, and documents, the sig-
dainfully. nature of Mr. W.; and has distinctly done so in one instance,
‘Ask - HEEP - if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,’ capable of proof by me. To wit, in manner following, that
said Mr. Micawber; ‘will you?’ is to say:‘‘
I saw Uriah’s lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scrap- Again, Mr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling
ing of his chin. up of words, which, however ludicrously displayed in his
‘Or ask him,’ said Mr. Micawber,’if he ever burnt one case, was, I must say, not at all peculiar to him. I have ob-
there. If he says yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer served it, in the course of my life, in numbers of men. It
him to Wilkins Micawber, and he will hear of something seems to me to be a general rule. In the taking of legal oaths,
not at all to his advantage!’ for instance, deponents seem to enjoy themselves mightily
The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber de- when they come to several good words in succession, for the
livered himself of these words, had a powerful effect in expression of one idea; as, that they utterly detest, abomi-
alarming the mother; who cried out, in much agitation: nate, and abjure, or so forth; and the old anathemas were
‘Ury, Ury! Be umble, and make terms, my dear!’ made relishing on the same principle. We talk about the
‘Mother!’ he retorted, ‘will you keep quiet? You’re in a tyranny of words, but we like to tyrannize over them too;
fright, and don’t know what you say or mean. Umble!’ he we are fond of having a large superfluous establishment of
repeated, looking at me, with a snarl; ‘I’ve umbled some of words to wait upon us on great occasions; we think it looks

important, and sounds well. As we are not particular about I never attested any such document. And I have the doc-
the meaning of our liveries on state occasions, if they be but ument itself, in my possession.‘‘ Uriah Heep, with a start,
fine and numerous enough, so, the meaning or necessity of took out of his pocket a bunch of keys, and opened a certain
our words is a secondary consideration, if there be but a drawer; then, suddenly bethought himself of what he was
great parade of them. And as individuals get into trouble about, and turned again towards us, without looking in it.
by making too great a show of liveries, or as slaves when ‘’And I have the document,‘‘ Mr. Micawber read again,
they are too numerous rise against their masters, so I think looking about as if it were the text of a sermon, ‘“in my
I could mention a nation that has got into many great dif- possession, - that is to say, I had, early this morning, when
ficulties, and will get into many greater, from maintaining this was written, but have since relinquished it to Mr. Trad-
too large a retinue of words. dles.‘‘
Mr. Micawber read on, almost smacking his lips: ‘It is quite true,’ assented Traddles.
‘’To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. W. be- ‘Ury, Ury!’ cried the mother, ‘be umble and make terms.
ing infirm, and it being within the bounds of probability I know my son will be umble, gentlemen, if you’ll give him
that his decease might lead to some discoveries, and to the time to think. Mr. Copperfield, I’m sure you know that he
downfall of - HEEP’S - power over the W. family, - as I, was always very umble, sir!’
Wilkins Micawber, the undersigned, assume - unless the It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old
filial affection of his daughter could be secretly influenced trick, when the son had abandoned it as useless.
from allowing any investigation of the partnership affairs ‘Mother,’ he said, with an impatient bite at the handker-
to be ever made, the said - HEEP - deemed it expedient to chief in which his hand was wrapped, ‘you had better take
have a bond ready by him, as from Mr. W., for the before- and fire a loaded gun at me.’
mentioned sum of twelve six fourteen, two and nine, with ‘But I love you, Ury,’ cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no
interest, stated therein to have been advanced by - HEEP doubt she did; or that he loved her, however strange it may
- to Mr. W. to save Mr. W. from dishonour; though really appear; though, to be sure, they were a congenial couple.
the sum was never advanced by him, and has long been re- ‘And I can’t bear to hear you provoking the gentlemen, and
placed. The signatures to this instrument purporting to be endangering of yourself more. I told the gentleman at first,
executed by Mr. W. and attested by Wilkins Micawber, are when he told me upstairs it was come to light, that I would
forgeries by - HEEP. I have, in my possession, in his hand answer for your being umble, and making amends. Oh, see
and pocket-book, several similar imitations of Mr. W.’s sig- how umble I am, gentlemen, and don’t mind him!’
nature, here and there defaced by fire, but legible to anyone. ‘Why, there’s Copperfield, mother,’ he angrily retorted,

pointing his lean finger at me, against whom all his animos- in reference to the latter I say nothing) entirely to himself.
ity was levelled, as the prime mover in the discovery; and That his last act, completed but a few months since, was to
I did not undeceive him; ‘there’s Copperfield, would have induce Mr. W. to execute a relinquishment of his share in
given you a hundred pound to say less than you’ve blurted the partnership, and even a bill of sale on the very furni-
out!’ ture of his house, in consideration of a certain annuity, to
‘I can’t help it, Ury,’ cried his mother. ‘I can’t see you be well and truly paid by - HEEP - on the four common
running into danger, through carrying your head so high. quarter-days in each and every year. That these meshes; be-
Better be umble, as you always was.’ ginning with alarming and falsified accounts of the estate
He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and of which Mr. W. is the receiver, at a period when Mr. W. had
then said to me with a scowl: launched into imprudent and ill-judged speculations, and
‘What more have you got to bring forward? If anything, may not have had the money, for which he was morally and
go on with it. What do you look at me for?’ legally responsible, in hand; going on with pretended bor-
Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter, glad to revert rowings of money at enormous interest, really coming from
to a performance with which he was so highly satisfied. - HEEP - and by - HEEP - fraudulently obtained or with-
‘’Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by held from Mr. W. himself, on pretence of such speculations
- HEEP’S - false books, and - HEEP’S - real memoranda, be- or otherwise; perpetuated by a miscellaneous catalogue of
ginning with the partially destroyed pocket-book (which unscrupulous chicaneries - gradually thickened, until the
I was unable to comprehend, at the time of its accidental unhappy Mr. W. could see no world beyond. Bankrupt, as
discovery by Mrs. Micawber, on our taking possession of he believed, alike in circumstances, in all other hope, and in
our present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to the re- honour, his sole reliance was upon the monster in the garb
ception of the ashes calcined on our domestic hearth), that of man,‘‘ - Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as a new
the weaknesses, the faults, the very virtues, the parental af- turn of expression, - ‘“who, by making himself necessary to
fections, and the sense of honour, of the unhappy Mr. W. him, had achieved his destruction. All this I undertake to
have been for years acted on by, and warped to the base show. Probably much more!‘‘
purposes of - HEEP. That Mr. W. has been for years deluded I whispered a few words to Agnes, who was weeping, half
and plundered, in every conceivable manner, to the pecuni- joyfully, half sorrowfully, at my side; and there was a move-
ary aggrandisement of the avaricious, false, and grasping ment among us, as if Mr. Micawber had finished. He said,
- HEEP. That the engrossing object of- HEEP - was, next with exceeding gravity, ‘Pardon me,’ and proceeded, with
to gain, to subdue Mr. and Miss W. (of his ulterior views a mixture of the lowest spirits and the most intense enjoy-

ment, to the peroration of his letter. my aunt, as something she might like to keep.
‘’I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to sub- There was, as I had noticed on my first visit long ago, an
stantiate these accusations; and then, with my ill-starred iron safe in the room. The key was in it. A hasty suspicion
family, to disappear from the landscape on which we ap- seemed to strike Uriah; and, with a glance at Mr. Micawber,
pear to be an encumbrance. That is soon done. It may be he went to it, and threw the doors clanking open. It was
reasonably inferred that our baby will first expire of inani- empty.
tion, as being the frailest member of our circle; and that our ‘Where are the books?’ he cried, with a frightful face.
twins will follow next in order. So be it! For myself, my Can- ‘Some thief has stolen the books!’
terbury Pilgrimage has done much; imprisonment on civil Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. ‘I did, when
process, and want, will soon do more. I trust that the labour I got the key from you as usual - but a little earlier - and
and hazard of an investigation - of which the smallest re- opened it this morning.’
sults have been slowly pieced together, in the pressure of ‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Traddles. ‘They have come into my
arduous avocations, under grinding penurious apprehen- possession. I will take care of them, under the authority I
sions, at rise of morn, at dewy eve, in the shadows of night, mentioned.’
under the watchful eye of one whom it were superfluous to ‘You receive stolen goods, do you?’ cried Uriah.
call Demon - combined with the struggle of parental Pov- ‘Under such circumstances,’ answered Traddles, ‘yes.’
erty to turn it, when completed, to the right account, may What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who
be as the sprinkling of a few drops of sweet water on my fu- had been profoundly quiet and attentive, make a dart at
neral pyre. I ask no more. Let it be, in justice, merely said Uriah Heep, and seize him by the collar with both hands!
of me, as of a gallant and eminent naval Hero, with whom I ‘You know what I want?’ said my aunt.
have no pretensions to cope, that what I have done, I did, in ‘A strait-waistcoat,’ said he.
despite of mercenary and selfish objects, ‘No. My property!’ returned my aunt. ‘Agnes, my dear, as
long as I believed it had been really made away with by your
For England, home, and Beauty. father, I wouldn’t - and, my dear, I didn’t, even to Trot, as he
knows - breathe a syllable of its having been placed here for
‘“Remaining always, &c. &c., WILKINS MICAWBER.‘‘ investment. But, now I know this fellow’s answerable for it,
and I’ll have it! Trot, come and take it away from him!’
Much affected, but still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he
Micawber folded up his letter, and handed it with a bow to kept her property in his neck-kerchief, I am sure I don’t

know; but she certainly pulled at it as if she thought so. I to disgorge all that your rapacity has become possessed of,
hastened to put myself between them, and to assure her that and to make restoration to the last farthing. All the part-
we would all take care that he should make the utmost res- nership books and papers must remain in our possession;
titution of everything he had wrongly got. This, and a few all your books and papers; all money accounts and securi-
moments’ reflection, pacified her; but she was not at all dis- ties, of both kinds. In short, everything here.’
concerted by what she had done (though I cannot say as ‘Must it? I don’t know that,’ said Uriah. ‘I must have time
much for her bonnet) and resumed her seat composedly. to think about that.’
During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been ‘Certainly,’ replied Traddles; ‘but, in the meanwhile,
clamouring to her son to be ‘umble’; and had been going and until everything is done to our satisfaction, we shall
down on her knees to all of us in succession, and making maintain possession of these things; and beg you - in short,
the wildest promises. Her son sat her down in his chair; and, compel you - to keep to your own room, and hold no com-
standing sulkily by her, holding her arm with his hand, but munication with anyone.’
not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look: ‘I won’t do it!’ said Uriah, with an oath.
‘What do you want done?’ ‘Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,’ observed
‘I will tell you what must be done,’ said Traddles. Traddles; ‘and though the law may be longer in righting us,
‘Has that Copperfield no tongue?’ muttered Uriah, ‘I and may not be able to right us so completely as you can,
would do a good deal for you if you could tell me, without there is no doubt of its punishing YOU. Dear me, you know
lying, that somebody had cut it out.’ that quite as well as I! Copperfield, will you go round to the
‘My Uriah means to be umble!’ cried his mother. ‘Don’t Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers?’
mind what he says, good gentlemen!’ Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees
‘What must be done,’ said Traddles, ‘is this. First, the to Agnes to interfere in their behalf, exclaiming that he was
deed of relinquishment, that we have heard of, must be giv- very humble, and it was all true, and if he didn’t do what we
en over to me now - here.’ wanted, she would, and much more to the same purpose;
‘Suppose I haven’t got it,’ he interrupted. being half frantic with fears for her darling. To inquire what
‘But you have,’ said Traddles; ‘therefore, you know, we he might have done, if he had had any boldness, would be
won’t suppose so.’ And I cannot help avowing that this was like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it had the
the first occasion on which I really did justice to the clear spirit of a tiger. He was a coward, from head to foot; and
head, and the plain, patient, practical good sense, of my showed his dastardly nature through his sullenness and
old schoolfellow. ‘Then,’ said Traddles, ‘you must prepare mortification, as much as at any time of his mean life.

‘Stop!’ he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with en o’clock to one, that it was a blessing and a cheerfulness,
his hand. ‘Mother, hold your noise. Well! Let ‘em have that and a dignity, and I don’t know what all, eh?’ said he with
deed. Go and fetch it!’ a sneer. ‘You preach, about as consistent as they did. Won’t
‘Do you help her, Mr. Dick,’ said Traddles, ‘if you please.’ umbleness go down? I shouldn’t have got round my gentle-
Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr. man fellow-partner without it, I think. - Micawber, you old
Dick accompanied her as a shepherd’s dog might accom- bully, I’ll pay YOU!’
pany a sheep. But, Mrs. Heep gave him little trouble; for she Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extend-
not only returned with the deed, but with the box in which ed finger, and making a great deal of his chest until he had
it was, where we found a banker’s book and some other pa- slunk out at the door, then addressed himself to me, and
pers that were afterwards serviceable. proffered me the satisfaction of ‘witnessing the re-estab-
‘Good!’ said Traddles, when this was brought. ‘Now, Mr. lishment of mutual confidence between himself and Mrs.
Heep, you can retire to think: particularly observing, if you Micawber’. After which, he invited the company generally
please, that I declare to you, on the part of all present, that to the contemplation of that affecting spectacle.
there is only one thing to be done; that it is what I have ex- ‘The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Mi-
plained; and that it must be done without delay.’ cawber and myself, is now withdrawn,’ said Mr. Micawber;
Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled ‘and my children and the Author of their Being can once
across the room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at more come in contact on equal terms.’
the door, said: As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to
‘Copperfield, I have always hated you. You’ve always been show that we were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our
an upstart, and you’ve always been against me.’ spirits would permit, I dare say we should all have gone,
‘As I think I told you once before,’ said I, ‘it is you who but that it was necessary for Agnes to return to her father,
have been, in your greed and cunning, against all the world. as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of hope; and for
It may be profitable to you to reflect, in future, that there someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles
never were greed and cunning in the world yet, that did not remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by
do too much, and overreach themselves. It is as certain as Mr. Dick; and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with
death.’ Mr. Micawber. As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl to
‘Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same whom I owed so much, and thought from what she had
school where I picked up so much umbleness), from nine been saved, perhaps, that morning - her better resolution
o’clock to eleven, that labour was a curse; and from elev- notwithstanding - I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries

of my younger days which had brought me to the knowl- tions, fainted away, the first thing to be done, even before
edge of Mr. Micawber. the chorus could be considered complete, was to recover
His house was not far off; and as the street door opened her. This my aunt and Mr. Micawber did; and then my aunt
into the sitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.
quite his own, we found ourselves at once in the bosom ‘Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said the poor lady,
of the family. Mr. Micawber exclaiming, ‘Emma! my life!’ giving me her hand, ‘but I am not strong; and the removal
rushed into Mrs. Micawber’s arms. Mrs. Micawber shrieked, of the late misunderstanding between Mr. Micawber and
and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss Micawber, myself was at first too much for me.’
nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber’s last ‘Is this all your family, ma’am?’ said my aunt.
letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The ‘There are no more at present,’ returned Mrs. Micawber.
twins testified their joy by several inconvenient but inno- ‘Good gracious, I didn’t mean that, ma’am,’ said my aunt.
cent demonstrations. Master Micawber, whose disposition ‘I mean, are all these yours?’
appeared to have been soured by early disappointment, and ‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is a true bill.’
whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his better feel- ‘And that eldest young gentleman, now,’ said my aunt,
ings, and blubbered. musing, ‘what has he been brought up to?’
‘Emma!’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘The cloud is past from my ‘It was my hope when I came here,’ said Mr. Micawber,
mind. Mutual confidence, so long preserved between us ‘to have got Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall ex-
once, is restored, to know no further interruption. Now, press my meaning more strictly, if I say the Choir. But there
welcome poverty!’ cried Mr. Micawber, shedding tears. was no vacancy for a tenor in the venerable Pile for which
‘Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger, this city is so justly eminent; and he has - in short, he has
rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain contracted a habit of singing in public-houses, rather than
us to the end!’ in sacred edifices.’
With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Mi- ‘But he means well,’ said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.
cawber in a chair, and embraced the family all round; ‘I dare say, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘that he
welcoming a variety of bleak prospects, which appeared, to means particularly well; but I have not yet found that he
the best of my judgement, to be anything but welcome to carries out his meaning, in any given direction whatsoev-
them; and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury er.’
and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support. Master Micawber’s moroseness of aspect returned upon
But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emo- him again, and he demanded, with some temper, what he

was to do? Whether he had been born a carpenter, or a coach- for something to turn up -’
painter, any more than he had been born a bird? Whether ‘Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,’ re-
he could go into the next street, and open a chemist’s shop? turned my aunt, ‘if you say the word. Think of this now,
Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim both of you. Here are some people David knows, going out
himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at to Australia shortly. If you decide to go, why shouldn’t you
the opera, and succeed by violence? Whether he could do go in the same ship? You may help each other. Think of this
anything, without being brought up to something? now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh
My aunt mused a little while, and then said: it well.’
‘Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your ‘There is but one question, my dear ma’am, I could wish
thoughts to emigration.’ to ask,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘The climate, I believe, is
‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘it was the dream of healthy?’
my youth, and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.’ ‘Finest in the world!’ said my aunt.
I am thoroughly persuaded, by the by, that he had never ‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then my question
thought of it in his life. arises. Now, are the circumstances of the country such, that
‘Aye?’ said my aunt, with a glance at me. ‘Why, what a a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities would have a fair chance
thing it would be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and of rising in the social scale? I will not say, at present, might
Mrs. Micawber, if you were to emigrate now.’ he aspire to be Governor, or anything of that sort; but
‘Capital, madam, capital,’ urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily. would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to de-
‘That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my velop themselves - that would be amply sufficient - and find
dear Mr. Copperfield,’ assented his wife. their own expansion?’
‘Capital?’ cried my aunt. ‘But you are doing us a great ‘No better opening anywhere,’ said my aunt, ‘for a man
service - have done us a great service, I may say, for surely who conducts himself well, and is industrious.’
much will come out of the fire - and what could we do for ‘For a man who conducts himself well,’ repeated Mrs.
you, that would be half so good as to find the capital?’ Micawber, with her clearest business manner, ‘and is in-
‘I could not receive it as a gift,’ said Mr. Micawber, full dustrious. Precisely. It is evident to me that Australia is the
of fire and animation, ‘but if a sufficient sum could be ad- legitimate sphere of action for Mr. Micawber!’
vanced, say at five per cent interest, per annum, upon my ‘I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,’ said Mr.
personal liability - say my notes of hand, at twelve, eigh- Micawber, ‘that it is, under existing circumstances, the land,
teen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to allow time the only land, for myself and family; and that something

of an extraordinary nature will turn up on that shore. It is
no distance - comparatively speaking; and though consid- CHAPTER 53
eration is due to the kindness of your proposal, I assure you
that is a mere matter of form.’
Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most
sanguine of men, looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micaw- ANOTHER RETROSPECT
ber presently discoursed about the habits of the kangaroo!
Shall I ever recall that street of Canterbury on a market-day,
without recalling him, as he walked back with us; express-
ing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed, the unsettled
habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at
the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian
I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a
figure in the moving crowd before my memory, quiet and
still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to
farmer! think of me - turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flut-
ters to the ground!
I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with
Dora, in our cottage. I do not know how long she has been
ill. I am so used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time.
It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage
and experience, it is a weary, weary while.
They have left off telling me to ‘wait a few days more’. I
have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine,
when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with
her old friend Jip.
He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that
he misses in his mistress, something that enlivened him
and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak,
and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects
to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora’s bed
- she sitting at the bedside - and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no go and see those places where we were such a silly couple,
hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good shall we? And take some of the old walks? And not forget
to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she poor papa?’
knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, ac- ‘Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must
tive, and kind. Sometimes, the little bird-like ladies come make haste to get well, my dear.’
to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all ‘Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don’t
that happy time. know!’
What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed,
be - and in all life, within doors and without - when I sit in with the same face turned towards me. We have been silent,
the quiet, shaded, orderly room, with the blue eyes of my and there is a smile upon her face. I have ceased to carry
child-wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining my light burden up and down stairs now. She lies here all
round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of the day.
all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. ‘Doady!’
It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s ‘My dear Dora!’
hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pil- ‘You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable,
low yet, an how long and bright it is, and how she likes to after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wick-
have it loosely gathered in that net she wears. field’s not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want
‘Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,’ she says, to see her.’
when I smile; ‘but because you used to say you thought it ‘I will write to her, my dear.’
so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about ‘Will you?’
you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you ‘Directly.’
would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish ‘What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. In-
fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!’ deed, my dear, it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want,
‘That was on the day when you were painting the flow- very much indeed, to see her!’
ers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much ‘I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is
in love I was.’ sure to come.’
‘Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I ‘You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?’ Dora
had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! whispers, with her arm about my neck.
When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us ‘How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your

empty chair?’ wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have
‘My empty chair!’ She clings to me for a little while, in bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate histo-
silence. ‘And you really miss me, Doady?’ looking up, and ry. I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself; and
brightly smiling. ‘Even poor, giddy, stupid me?’ that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I can-
‘My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so not firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely
much?’ come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I
‘Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!’ creeping closer see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out
to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.
sobs, and then is quiet, and quite happy. ‘I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say
‘Quite!’ she says. ‘Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell something I have often thought of saying, lately. You won’t
her that I want very, very, much to see her; and I have noth- mind?’ with a gentle look.
ing left to wish for.’ ‘Mind, my darling?’
‘Except to get well again, Dora.’ ‘Because I don’t know what you will think, or what
‘Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think - you know I always was you may have thought sometimes. Perhaps you have of-
a silly little thing! - that that will never be!’ ten thought the same. Doady, dear, I am afraid I was too
‘Don’t say so, Dora! Dearest love, don’t think so!’ young.’
‘I won’t, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into
though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child- my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on,
wife’s empty chair!’ I feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself
It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; as past.
has been among us for a whole day and an evening. She, ‘I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don’t mean in years
my aunt, and I, have sat with Dora since the morning, all only, but in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was
together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been per- such a silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been
fectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone. better, if we had only loved each other as a boy and girl, and
Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? forgotten it. I have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.’
They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to I try to stay my tears, and to reply, ‘Oh, Dora, love, as fit
my thoughts- but I am far from sure that I have taken that as I to be a husband!’
truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by my- ‘I don’t know,’ with the old shake of her curls. ‘Perhaps!
self, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who But if I had been more fit to be married I might have made

you more so, too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never after more years, she would so have tried and disappointed
was.’ you, that you might not have been able to love her half so
‘We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.’ well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better
‘I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear as it is!’
boy would have wearied of his child-wife. She would have Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I
been less and less a companion for him. He would have been give her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with
more and more sensible of what was wanting in his home. Jip.
She wouldn’t have improved. It is better as it is.’ His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on
‘Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every his bed of flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright
word seems a reproach!’ moon is high and clear. As I look out on the night, my tears
‘No, not a syllable!’ she answers, kissing me. ‘Oh, my dear, fall fast, and my undisciplined heart is chastened heavily
you never deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a - heavily.
reproachful word to you, in earnest - it was all the merit I I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of
had, except being pretty - or you thought me so. Is it lonely, all those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage.
downstairs, Doady?’ I think of every little trifle between me and Dora, and feel
‘Very! Very!’ the truth, that trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from
‘Don’t cry! Is my chair there?’ the sea of my remembrance, is the image of the dear child as
‘In its old place.’ I knew her first, graced by my young love, and by her own,
‘Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would it,
me one promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy
downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me; and while and a girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!
I speak to her, let no one come - not even aunt. I want to How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by
speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite my child-wife’s old companion. More restless than he was,
alone.’ he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to
I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave the door, and whines to go upstairs.
her, for my grief. ‘Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!’
‘I said that it was better as it is!’ she whispers, as she holds He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and
me in her arms. ‘Oh, Doady, after more years, you never lifts his dim eyes to my face.
could have loved your child-wife better than you do; and, ‘Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!’

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to
sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead. CHAPTER 54
‘Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!’
- That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears,
that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised
towards Heaven! Mr. MICAWBER’S
‘Agnes?’
It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, TRANSACTIONS
all things are blotted out of my remembrance.
T his is not the time at which I am to enter on the state

of my mind beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think
that the Future was walled up before me, that the energy
and action of my life were at an end, that I never could find
any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I say, but not
in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that. If the
events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in
the beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my
affliction, it is possible (though I think not probable), that I
might have fallen at once into this condition. As it was, an
interval occurred before I fully knew my own distress; an
interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest pangs
were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting
on all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender
story that was closed for ever.
When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or
how it came to be agreed among us that I was to seek the
restoration of my peace in change and travel, I do not, even

now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all plosive meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come
we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that I in, in my black clothes, she was sensibly affected. There was
assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her in- a great deal of good in Mrs. Micawber’s heart, which had
fluence was so quiet that I know no more. not been dunned out of it in all those many years.
And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old asso- ‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,’ was my aunt’s first saluta-
ciation of her with the stained-glass window in the church, tion after we were seated. ‘Pray, have you thought about that
a prophetic foreshadowing of what she would be to me, in emigration proposal of mine?’
the calamity that was to happen in the fullness of time, had ‘My dear madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘perhaps I
found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from the mo- cannot better express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micaw-
ment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with ber, your humble servant, and I may add our children, have
her upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing the lan-
lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted there, my guage of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the
child-wife fell asleep - they told me so when I could bear to shore, and our Bark is on the sea.’
hear it - on her bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first ‘That’s right,’ said my aunt. ‘I augur all sort of good from
awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her your sensible decision.’
words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as ‘Madam, you do us a great deal of honour,’ he rejoined.
from a purer region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined He then referred to a memorandum. ‘With respect to the
heart, and softening its pain. pecuniary assistance enabling us to launch our frail canoe
Let me go on. on the ocean of enterprise, I have reconsidered that impor-
I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined tant business-point; and would beg to propose my notes of
among us from the first. The ground now covering all that hand - drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the
could perish of my departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. amounts respectively required by the various Acts of Parlia-
Micawber called the ‘final pulverization of Heep’; and for ment applying to such securities - at eighteen, twenty-four,
the departure of the emigrants. and thirty months. The proposition I originally submitted,
At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devot- was twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four; but I am apprehen-
ed of friends in my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I sive that such an arrangement might not allow sufficient
mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We proceeded by appoint- time for the requisite amount of - Something - to turn up.
ment straight to Mr. Micawber’s house; where, and at Mr. We might not,’ said Mr. Micawber, looking round the room
Wickfield’s, my friend had been labouring ever since our ex- as if it represented several hundred acres of highly culti-

vated land, ‘on the first responsibility becoming due, have cawber was of her opinion.
been successful in our harvest, or we might not have got our ‘In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,’ said
harvest in. Labour, I believe, is sometimes difficult to obtain Mr. Micawber, with some pride, ‘for meeting the destiny to
in that portion of our colonial possessions where it will be which we are now understood to be self-devoted, I beg to re-
our lot to combat with the teeming soil.’ port them. My eldest daughter attends at five every morning
‘Arrange it in any way you please, sir,’ said my aunt. in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire the process - if
‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘Mrs. Micawber and myself are process it may be called - of milking cows. My younger chil-
deeply sensible of the very considerate kindness of our dren are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances
friends and patrons. What I wish is, to be perfectly business- will permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in
like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over, as we are about the poorer parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have,
to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back, as we are on two occasions, been brought home, within an inch of be-
now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common ing run over. I have myself directed some attention, during
magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, be- the past week, to the art of baking; and my son Wilkins has
sides being an example to my son, that these arrangements issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when
should be concluded as between man and man.’ permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge,
I don’t know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to render any voluntary service in that direction - which I
to this last phrase; I don’t know that anybody ever does, or regret to say, for the credit of our nature, was not often; he
did; but he appeared to relish it uncommonly, and repeated, being generally warned, with imprecations, to desist.’
with an impressive cough, ‘as between man and man’. ‘All very right indeed,’ said my aunt, encouragingly. ‘Mrs.
‘I propose,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Bills - a convenience to Micawber has been busy, too, I have no doubt.’
the mercantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally ‘My dear madam,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, with her
indebted to the Jews, who appear to me to have had a devil- business-like air. ‘I am free to confess that I have not been
ish deal too much to do with them ever since - because they actively engaged in pursuits immediately connected with
are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other description of se- cultivation or with stock, though well aware that both will
curity, would be preferred, I should be happy to execute any claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such opportunities
such instrument. As between man and man.’ as I have been enabled to alienate from my domestic duties,
MY aunt observed, that in a case where both parties I have devoted to corresponding at some length with my
were willing to agree to anything, she took it for granted family. For I own it seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’
there would be no difficulty in settling this point. Mr. Mi- said Mrs. Micawber, who always fell back on me, I suppose

from old habit, to whomsoever else she might address her The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber an-
discourse at starting, ‘that the time is come when the past nounced this discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it
should be buried in oblivion; when my family should take before, seemed rather to astonish my aunt; who abruptly re-
Mr. Micawber by the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take plied, ‘Well, ma’am, upon the whole, I shouldn’t wonder if
my family by the hand; when the lion should lie down with you were right!’
the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr. Micawber.’ ‘Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the
I said I thought so too. pecuniary shackles that have so long enthralled him,’ said
‘This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pur- Mrs. Micawber, ‘and of commencing a new career in a coun-
sued Mrs. Micawber, ‘in which I view the subject. When I try where there is sufficient range for his abilities, - which,
lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was ac- in my opinion, is exceedingly important; Mr. Micawber’s
customed to ask, when any point was under discussion in abilities peculiarly requiring space, - it seems to me that my
our limited circle, ‘In what light does my Emma view the family should signalize the occasion by coming forward.
subject?’ That my papa was too partial, I know; still, on What I could wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr.
such a point as the frigid coldness which has ever subsisted Micawber and my family at a festive entertainment, to be
between Mr. Micawber and my family, I necessarily have given at my family’s expense; where Mr. Micawber’s health
formed an opinion, delusive though it may be.’ and prosperity being proposed, by some leading member
‘No doubt. Of course you have, ma’am,’ said my aunt. of my family, Mr. Micawber might have an opportunity of
‘Precisely so,’ assented Mrs. Micawber. ‘Now, I may be developing his views.’
wrong in my conclusions; it is very likely that I am, but my ‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, ‘it may be
individual impression is, that the gulf between my family better for me to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to
and Mr. Micawber may be traced to an apprehension, on develop my views to that assembled group, they would pos-
the part of my family, that Mr. Micawber would require sibly be found of an offensive nature: my impression being
pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help thinking,’ said that your family are, in the aggregate, impertinent Snobs;
Mrs. Micawber, with an air of deep sagacity, ‘that there are and, in detail, unmitigated Ruffians.’
members of my family who have been apprehensive that ‘Micawber,’ said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, ‘no!
Mr. Micawber would solicit them for their names. - I do not You have never understood them, and they have never un-
mean to be conferred in Baptism upon our children, but derstood you.’
to be inscribed on Bills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Mr. Micawber coughed.
Money Market.’ ‘They have never understood you, Micawber,’ said his

wife. ‘They may be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfor- ‘Surely, surely,’ answered Traddles. ‘Who can forget it!’
tune. I can pity their misfortune.’ ‘But even that is not all,’ said I. ‘During the last fortnight,
‘I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,’ said Mr. Micaw- some new trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and
ber, relenting, ‘to have been betrayed into any expressions out of London every day. Several times she has gone out ear-
that might, even remotely, have the appearance of being ly, and been absent until evening. Last night, Traddles, with
strong expressions. All I would say is, that I can go abroad this journey before her, it was almost midnight before she
without your family coming forward to favour me, - in came home. You know what her consideration for others is.
short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders; and that, She will not tell me what has happened to distress her.’
upon the whole, I would rather leave England with such im- My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat
petus as I possess, than derive any acceleration of it from immovable until I had finished; when some stray tears found
that quarter. At the same time, my dear, if they should con- their way to her cheeks, and she put her hand on mine.
descend to reply to your communications - which our joint ‘It’s nothing, Trot; it’s nothing. There will be no more of
experience renders most improbable - far be it from me to it. You shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us at-
be a barrier to your wishes.’ tend to these affairs.’
The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber ‘I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,’ Traddles be-
gave Mrs. Micawber his arm, and glancing at the heap of gan, ‘that although he would appear not to have worked to
books and papers lying before Traddles on the table, said any good account for himself, he is a most untiring man
they would leave us to ourselves; which they ceremoniously when he works for other people. I never saw such a fellow.
did. If he always goes on in the same way, he must be, virtu-
‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, leaning back in his ally, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into
chair when they were gone, and looking at me with an affec- which he has been continually putting himself; and the dis-
tion that made his eyes red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, tracted and impetuous manner in which he has been diving,
‘I don’t make any excuse for troubling you with business, day and night, among papers and books; to say nothing of
because I know you are deeply interested in it, and it may the immense number of letters he has written me between
divert your thoughts. My dear boy, I hope you are not worn this house and Mr. Wickfield’s, and often across the table
out?’ when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more
‘I am quite myself,’ said I, after a pause. ‘We have more easily have spoken; is quite extraordinary.’
cause to think of my aunt than of anyone. You know how ‘Letters!’ cried my aunt. ‘I believe he dreams in letters!’
much she has done.’ ‘There’s Mr. Dick, too,’ said Traddles, ‘has been doing

wonders! As soon as he was released from overlooking place, and of wilful confusion and falsification in the sec-
Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such charge as I never saw ex- ond, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfield might now
ceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr. Wickfield. And wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibit no
really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we have deficiency or defalcation whatever.’
been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and ‘Oh, thank Heaven!’ cried Agnes, fervently.
copying, and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stim- ‘But,’ said Traddles, ‘the surplus that would be left as
ulating to us.’ his means of support - and I suppose the house to be sold,
‘Dick is a very remarkable man,’ exclaimed my aunt; ‘and even in saying this - would be so small, not exceeding in all
I always said he was. Trot, you know it.’ probability some hundreds of pounds, that perhaps, Miss
‘I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,’ pursued Traddles, at Wickfield, it would be best to consider whether he might
once with great delicacy and with great earnestness, ‘that not retain his agency of the estate to which he has so long
in your absence Mr. Wickfield has considerably improved. been receiver. His friends might advise him, you know; now
Relieved of the incubus that had fastened upon him for so he is free. You yourself, Miss Wickfield - Copperfield - I -’
long a time, and of the dreadful apprehensions under which ‘I have considered it, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, looking to
he had lived, he is hardly the same person. At times, even me, ‘and I feel that it ought not to be, and must not be; even
his impaired power of concentrating his memory and at- on the recommendation of a friend to whom I am so grate-
tention on particular points of business, has recovered itself ful, and owe so much.’
very much; and he has been able to assist us in making some ‘I will not say that I recommend it,’ observed Traddles. ‘I
things clear, that we should have found very difficult indeed, think it right to suggest it. No more.’
if not hopeless, without him. But what I have to do is to ‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ answered Agnes, steadily,
come to results; which are short enough; not to gossip on all ‘for it gives me hope, almost assurance, that we think alike.
the hopeful circumstances I have observed, or I shall nev- Dear Mr. Traddles and dear Trotwood, papa once free with
er have done.’ His natural manner and agreeable simplicity honour, what could I wish for! I have always aspired, if I
made it transparent that he said this to put us in good heart, could have released him from the toils in which he was held,
and to enable Agnes to hear her father mentioned with to render back some little portion of the love and care I owe
greater confidence; but it was not the less pleasant for that. him, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years,
‘Now, let me see,’ said Traddles, looking among the pa- the utmost height of my hopes. To take our future on my-
pers on the table. ‘Having counted our funds, and reduced self, will be the next great happiness - the next to his release
to order a great mass of unintentional confusion in the first from all trust and responsibility - that I can know.’

‘Have you thought how, Agnes?’ the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly - persevering, self-
‘Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don’t speak to me, for I
success. So many people know me here, and think kindly of find my nerves a little shaken!’
me, that I am certain. Don’t mistrust me. Our wants are not Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright,
many. If I rent the dear old house, and keep a school, I shall with her arms folded; but she had wonderful self-com-
be useful and happy.’ mand.
The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so ‘Then I am delighted to say,’ cried Traddles, beaming
vividly, first the dear old house itself, and then my solitary with joy, ‘that we have recovered the whole money!’
home, that my heart was too full for speech. Traddles pre- ‘Don’t congratulate me, anybody!’ exclaimed my aunt.
tended for a little while to be busily looking among the ‘How so, sir?’
papers. ‘You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wick-
‘Next, Miss Trotwood,’ said Traddles, ‘that property of field?’ said Traddles.
yours.’ ‘Of course I did,’ said my aunt, ‘and was therefore easily
‘Well, sir,’ sighed my aunt. ‘All I have got to say about it is, silenced. Agnes, not a word!’
that if it’s gone, I can bear it; and if it’s not gone, I shall be ‘And indeed,’ said Traddles, ‘it was sold, by virtue of the
glad to get it back.’ power of management he held from you; but I needn’t say by
‘It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Con- whom sold, or on whose actual signature. It was afterwards
sols?’ said Traddles. pretended to Mr. Wickfield, by that rascal, - and proved, too,
‘Right!’ replied my aunt. by figures, - that he had possessed himself of the money (on
‘I can’t account for more than five,’ said Traddles, with an general instructions, he said) to keep other deficiencies and
air of perplexity. difficulties from the light. Mr. Wickfield, being so weak and
‘- thousand, do you mean?’ inquired my aunt, with un- helpless in his hands as to pay you, afterwards, several sums
common composure, ‘or pounds?’ of interest on a pretended principal which he knew did not
‘Five thousand pounds,’ said Traddles. exist, made himself, unhappily, a party to the fraud.’
‘It was all there was,’ returned my aunt. ‘I sold three, my- ‘And at last took the blame upon himself,’ added my aunt;
self. One, I paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the ‘and wrote me a mad letter, charging himself with robbery,
other two I have by me. When I lost the rest, I thought it and wrong unheard of. Upon which I paid him a visit early
wise to say nothing about that sum, but to keep it secretly one morning, called for a candle, burnt the letter, and told
for a rainy day. I wanted to see how you would come out of him if he ever could right me and himself, to do it; and if

he couldn’t, to keep his own counsel for his daughter’s sake. that money would never keep that man out of mischief. He
- If anybody speaks to me, I’ll leave the house!’ is such an incarnate hypocrite, that whatever object he pur-
We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face. sues, he must pursue crookedly. It’s his only compensation
‘Well, my dear friend,’ said my aunt, after a pause, ‘and for the outward restraints he puts upon himself. Always
you have really extorted the money back from him?’ creeping along the ground to some small end or other, he
‘Why, the fact is,’ returned Traddles, ‘Mr. Micawber had will always magnify every object in the way; and conse-
so completely hemmed him in, and was always ready with quently will hate and suspect everybody that comes, in the
so many new points if an old one failed, that he could not most innocent manner, between him and it. So the crooked
escape from us. A most remarkable circumstance is, that I courses will become crookeder, at any moment, for the least
really don’t think he grasped this sum even so much for the reason, or for none. It’s only necessary to consider his his-
gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in the tory here,’ said Traddles, ‘to know that.’
hatred he felt for Copperfield. He said so to me, plainly. He ‘He’s a monster of meanness!’ said my aunt.
said he would even have spent as much, to baulk or injure ‘Really I don’t know about that,’ observed Traddles
Copperfield.’ thoughtfully. ‘Many people can be very mean, when they
‘Ha!’ said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and give their minds to it.’
glancing at Agnes. ‘And what’s become of him?’ ‘And now, touching Mr. Micawber,’ said my aunt.
‘I don’t know. He left here,’ said Traddles, ‘with his ‘Well, really,’ said Traddles, cheerfully, ‘I must, once
mother, who had been clamouring, and beseeching, and more, give Mr. Micawber high praise. But for his having
disclosing, the whole time. They went away by one of the been so patient and persevering for so long a time, we never
London night coaches, and I know no more about him; ex- could have hoped to do anything worth speaking of. And
cept that his malevolence to me at parting was audacious. I think we ought to consider that Mr. Micawber did right,
He seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted to me, for right’s sake, when we reflect what terms he might have
than to Mr. Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite made with Uriah Heep himself, for his silence.’
a compliment.’ ‘I think so too,’ said I.
‘Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?’ I asked. ‘Now, what would you give him?’ inquired my aunt.
‘Oh dear, yes, I should think so,’ he replied, shaking his ‘Oh! Before you come to that,’ said Traddles, a little dis-
head, seriously. ‘I should say he must have pocketed a good concerted, ‘I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not
deal, in one way or other. But, I think you would find, Cop- being able to carry everything before me) two points, in
perfield, if you had an opportunity of observing his course, making this lawless adjustment - for it’s perfectly lawless

from beginning to end - of a difficult affair. Those I.O.U.’s, Peggotty, who I knew could be relied on; and that to Mr.
and so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for the advanc- Peggotty should be quietly entrusted the discretion of ad-
es he had -’ vancing another hundred. I further proposed to interest
‘Well! They must be paid,’ said my aunt. Mr. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty, by confiding so much of Mr.
‘Yes, but I don’t know when they may be proceeded on, Peggotty’s story to him as I might feel justified in relating,
or where they are,’ rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes; ‘and or might think expedient; and to endeavour to bring each
I anticipate, that, between this time and his departure, Mr. of them to bear upon the other, for the common advantage.
Micawber will be constantly arrested, or taken in execu- We all entered warmly into these views; and I may mention
tion.’ at once, that the principals themselves did so, shortly after-
‘Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken out wards, with perfect good will and harmony.
of execution,’ said my aunt. ‘What’s the amount altogeth- Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt
er?’ again, I reminded him of the second and last point to which
‘Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions - he he had adverted.
calls them transactions - with great form, in a book,’ re- ‘You and your aunt will excuse me, Copperfield, if I touch
joined Traddles, smiling; ‘and he makes the amount a upon a painful theme, as I greatly fear I shall,’ said Trad-
hundred and three pounds, five.’ dles, hesitating; ‘but I think it necessary to bring it to your
‘Now, what shall we give him, that sum included?’ said recollection. On the day of Mr. Micawber’s memorable de-
my aunt. ‘Agnes, my dear, you and I can talk about division nunciation a threatening allusion was made by Uriah Heep
of it afterwards. What should it be? Five hundred pounds?’ to your aunt’s - husband.’
Upon this, Traddles and I both struck in at once. We My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent com-
both recommended a small sum in money, and the pay- posure, assented with a nod.
ment, without stipulation to Mr. Micawber, of the Uriah ‘Perhaps,’ observed Traddles, ‘it was mere purposeless
claims as they came in. We proposed that the family should impertinence?’
have their passage and their outfit, and a hundred pounds; ‘No,’ returned my aunt.
and that Mr. Micawber’s arrangement for the repayment ‘There was - pardon me - really such a person, and at all
of the advances should be gravely entered into, as it might in his power?’ hinted Traddles.
be wholesome for him to suppose himself under that re- ‘Yes, my good friend,’ said my aunt.
sponsibility. To this, I added the suggestion, that I should Traddles, with a perceptible lengthening of his face, ex-
give some explanation of his character and history to Mr. plained that he had not been able to approach this subject;

that it had shared the fate of Mr. Micawber’s liabilities, in Heep’s, soon paid the money; and in five minutes more
not being comprehended in the terms he had made; that we Mr. Micawber was seated at the table, filling up the stamps
were no longer of any authority with Uriah Heep; and that with an expression of perfect joy, which only that conge-
if he could do us, or any of us, any injury or annoyance, no nial employment, or the making of punch, could impart in
doubt he would. full completeness to his shining face. To see him at work on
My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears the stamps, with the relish of an artist, touching them like
found their way to her cheeks. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. pictures, looking at them sideways, taking weighty notes of
‘It was very thoughtful to mention it.’ dates and amounts in his pocket-book, and contemplating
‘Can I - or Copperfield - do anything?’ asked Traddles, them when finished, with a high sense of their precious val-
gently. ue, was a sight indeed.
‘Nothing,’ said my aunt. ‘I thank you many times. Trot, ‘Now, the best thing you can do, sir, if you’ll allow me to
my dear, a vain threat! Let us have Mr. and Mrs. Micaw- advise you,’ said my aunt, after silently observing him, ‘is to
ber back. And don’t any of you speak to me!’ With that abjure that occupation for evermore.’
she smoothed her dress, and sat, with her upright carriage, ‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is my intention to
looking at the door. register such a vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs.
‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!’ said my aunt, when they Micawber will attest it. I trust,’ said Mr. Micawber, solemn-
entered. ‘We have been discussing your emigration, with ly, ‘that my son Wilkins will ever bear in mind, that he had
many apologies to you for keeping you out of the room so infinitely better put his fist in the fire, than use it to handle
long; and I’ll tell you what arrangements we propose.’ the serpents that have poisoned the life-blood of his unhap-
These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the py parent!’ Deeply affected, and changed in a moment to
family, - children and all being then present, - and so much the image of despair, Mr. Micawber regarded the serpents
to the awakening of Mr. Micawber’s punctual habits in with a look of gloomy abhorrence (in which his late admi-
the opening stage of all bill transactions, that he could not ration of them was not quite subdued), folded them up and
be dissuaded from immediately rushing out, in the high- put them in his pocket.
est spirits, to buy the stamps for his notes of hand. But, his This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were
joy received a sudden check; for within five minutes, he re- weary with sorrow and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to
turned in the custody of a sheriff ‘s officer, informing us, in return to London on the morrow. It was arranged that the
a flood of tears, that all was lost. We, being quite prepared Micawbers should follow us, after effecting a sale of their
for this event, which was of course a proceeding of Uriah goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield’s affairs should be

brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed, under ‘Did he die in the hospital?’
the direction of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come ‘Yes.’
to London, pending those arrangements. We passed the She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray
night at the old house, which, freed from the presence of tears on her face.
the Heeps, seemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my old ‘He was there once before,’ said my aunt presently. ‘He
room, like a shipwrecked wanderer come home. was ailing a long time - a shattered, broken man, these many
We went back next day to my aunt’s house - not to mine- years. When he knew his state in this last illness, he asked
and when she and I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, them to send for me. He was sorry then. Very sorry.’
she said: ‘You went, I know, aunt.’
‘Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon ‘I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.’
my mind lately?’ ‘He died the night before we went to Canterbury?’ said I.
‘Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt My aunt nodded. ‘No one can harm him now,’ she said. ‘It
unwilling that you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I was a vain threat.’
could not share, it is now.’ We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Horn-
‘You have had sorrow enough, child,’ said my aunt, affec- sey. ‘Better here than in the streets,’ said my aunt. ‘He was
tionately, ‘without the addition of my little miseries. I could born here.’
have no other motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.’ We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I
‘I know that well,’ said I. ‘But tell me now.’ remember well, where the service was read consigning it to
‘Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?’ the dust.
asked my aunt. ‘Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,’ said my
‘Of course.’ aunt, as we walked back to the chariot, ‘I was married. God
‘At nine,’ said she. ‘I’ll tell you then, my dear.’ forgive us all!’ We took our seats in silence; and so she sat
At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and beside me for a long time, holding my hand. At length she
drove to London. We drove a long way through the streets, suddenly burst into tears, and said:
until we came to one of the large hospitals. Standing hard ‘He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot -
by the building was a plain hearse. The driver recognized and he was sadly changed!’
my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand at the It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon be-
window, drove slowly off; we following. came composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little
‘You understand it now, Trot,’ said my aunt. ‘He is gone!’ shaken, she said, or she would not have given way to it. God

forgive us all! Some future traveller, visiting, from motives of curiosity,
So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where not unmingled, let us hope, with sympathy, the place of
we found the following short note, which had arrived by confinement allotted to debtors in this city, may, and I trust
that morning’s post from Mr. Micawber: will, Ponder, as he traces on its wall, inscribed with a rusty
nail,
‘Canterbury,
‘The obscure initials,
‘Friday.
‘W. M.
‘My dear Madam, and Copperfield,
‘P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friend, Mr. Thomas
‘The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon Traddles (who has not yet left us, and is looking extremely
is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever well), has paid the debt and costs, in the noble name of Miss
withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is Trotwood; and that myself and family are at the height of
sealed! earthly bliss.’
‘Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty’s High Court of
King’s Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V.
MICAWBER, and the defendant in that cause is the prey of
the sheriff having legal jurisdiction in this bailiwick.
‘Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,

See the front of battle lower,
See approach proud EDWARD’S power -
Chains and slavery!
‘Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental torture

is not supportable beyond a certain point, and that point I
feel I have attained), my course is run. Bless you, bless you!

CHAPTER 55 One evening when the time was close at hand, I was alone
with Peggotty and her brother. Our conversation turned on
Ham. She described to us how tenderly he had taken leave
of her, and how manfully and quietly he had borne himself.
TEMPEST Most of all, of late, when she believed he was most tried. It
was a subject of which the affectionate creature never tired;
and our interest in hearing the many examples which she,
who was so much with him, had to relate, was equal to hers
in relating them.
I now approach an event in my life, so indelible, so awful, so

bound by an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded
it, in these pages, that, from the beginning of my narrative,
MY aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cot-
tages at Highgate; I intending to go abroad, and she to
return to her house at Dover. We had a temporary lodging
I have seen it growing larger and larger as I advanced, like in Covent Garden. As I walked home to it, after this eve-
a great tower in a plain, and throwing its fore-cast shadow ning’s conversation, reflecting on what had passed between
even on the incidents of my childish days. Ham and myself when I was last at Yarmouth, I wavered
For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often. I have in the original purpose I had formed, of leaving a letter for
started up so vividly impressed by it, that its fury has yet Emily when I should take leave of her uncle on board the
seemed raging in my quiet room, in the still night. I dream ship, and thought it would be better to write to her now. She
of it sometimes, though at lengthened and uncertain in- might desire, I thought, after receiving my communication,
tervals, to this hour. I have an association between it and to send some parting word by me to her unhappy lover. I
a stormy wind, or the lightest mention of a sea-shore, as ought to give her the opportunity.
strong as any of which my mind is conscious. As plainly as I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed,
I behold what happened, I will try to write it down. I do not and wrote to her. I told her that I had seen him, and that
recall it, but see it done; for it happens again before me. he had requested me to tell her what I have already written
The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emi- in its place in these sheets. I faithfully repeated it. I had no
grant-ship, my good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for need to enlarge upon it, if I had had the right. Its deep fidel-
me, when we first met) came up to London. I was constantly ity and goodness were not to be adorned by me or any man.
with her, and her brother, and the Micawbers (they being I left it out, to be sent round in the morning; with a line to
very much together); but Emily I never saw. Mr. Peggotty, requesting him to give it to her; and went to

bed at daybreak. gotty, when I had read it. ‘Unquestionably,’ said I - ‘but I am
I was weaker than I knew then; and, not falling asleep thinking -’
until the sun was up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I ‘Yes, Mas’r Davy?’
was roused by the silent presence of my aunt at my bedside. ‘I am thinking,’ said I, ‘that I’ll go down again to Yar-
I felt it in my sleep, as I suppose we all do feel such things. mouth. There’s time, and to spare, for me to go and come
‘Trot, my dear,’ she said, when I opened my eyes, ‘I back before the ship sails. My mind is constantly running
couldn’t make up my mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is on him, in his solitude; to put this letter of her writing in
here; shall he come up?’ his hand at this time, and to enable you to tell her, in the
I replied yes, and he soon appeared. moment of parting, that he has got it, will be a kindness
‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, when we had shaken hands, ‘I giv to both of them. I solemnly accepted his commission, dear
Em’ly your letter, sir, and she writ this heer; and begged of good fellow, and cannot discharge it too completely. The
me fur to ask you to read it, and if you see no hurt in’t, to be journey is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall be better
so kind as take charge on’t.’ in motion. I’ll go down tonight.’
‘Have you read it?’ said I. Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade me, I saw
He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and read as follows: that he was of my mind; and this, if I had required to be
‘I have got your message. Oh, what can I write, to thank confirmed in my intention, would have had the effect. He
you for your good and blessed kindness to me! went round to the coach office, at my request, and took the
‘I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them box-seat for me on the mail. In the evening I started, by that
till I die. They are sharp thorns, but they are such comfort. I conveyance, down the road I had traversed under so many
have prayed over them, oh, I have prayed so much. When I vicissitudes.
find what you are, and what uncle is, I think what God must ‘Don’t you think that,’ I asked the coachman, in the first
be, and can cry to him. stage out of London, ‘a very remarkable sky? I don’t remem-
‘Good-bye for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye ber to have seen one like it.’
for ever in this world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I ‘Nor I - not equal to it,’ he replied. ‘That’s wind, sir.
may wake a child and come to you. All thanks and blessings. There’ll be mischief done at sea, I expect, before long.’
Farewell, evermore.’ It was a murky confusion - here and there blotted with
This, blotted with tears, was the letter. a colour like the colour of the smoke from damp fuel - of
‘May I tell her as you doen’t see no hurt in’t, and as you’ll flying clouds, tossed up into most remarkable heaps, sug-
be so kind as take charge on’t, Mas’r Davy?’ said Mr. Peg- gesting greater heights in the clouds than there were depths

below them to the bottom of the deepest hollows in the by-street, which they then blocked up. Others had to tell
earth, through which the wild moon seemed to plunge of country people, coming in from neighbouring villages,
headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the laws of nature, who had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and
she had lost her way and were frightened. There had been a whole ricks scattered about the roads and fields. Still, there
wind all day; and it was rising then, with an extraordinary was no abatement in the storm, but it blew harder.
great sound. In another hour it had much increased, and As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from
the sky was more overcast, and blew hard. which this mighty wind was blowing dead on shore, its
But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and force became more and more terrific. Long before we saw
densely over-spreading the whole sky, then very dark, it the sea, its spray was on our lips, and showered salt rain
came on to blow, harder and harder. It still increased, until upon us. The water was out, over miles and miles of the flat
our horses could scarcely face the wind. Many times, in the country adjacent to Yarmouth; and every sheet and puddle
dark part of the night (it was then late in September, when lashed its banks, and had its stress of little breakers setting
the nights were not short), the leaders turned about, or heavily towards us. When we came within sight of the sea,
came to a dead stop; and we were often in serious apprehen- the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the roll-
sion that the coach would be blown over. Sweeping gusts of ing abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with towers
rain came up before this storm, like showers of steel; and, at and buildings. When at last we got into the town, the people
those times, when there was any shelter of trees or lee walls came out to their doors, all aslant, and with streaming hair,
to be got, we were fain to stop, in a sheer impossibility of making a wonder of the mail that had come through such
continuing the struggle. a night.
When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I had I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea;
been in Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew great guns, staggering along the street, which was strewn with sand
but I had never known the like of this, or anything ap- and seaweed, and with flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid
proaching to it. We came to Ipswich - very late, having had of falling slates and tiles; and holding by people I met, at
to fight every inch of ground since we were ten miles out of angry corners. Coming near the beach, I saw, not only the
London; and found a cluster of people in the market-place, boatmen, but half the people of the town, lurking behind
who had risen from their beds in the night, fearful of falling buildings; some, now and then braving the fury of the storm
chimneys. Some of these, congregating about the inn-yard to look away to sea, and blown sheer out of their course in
while we changed horses, told us of great sheets of lead hav- trying to get zigzag back.
ing been ripped off a high church-tower, and flung into a joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose

husbands were away in herring or oyster boats, which there see a rending and upheaving of all nature.
was too much reason to think might have foundered before Not finding Ham among the people whom this memo-
they could run in anywhere for safety. Grizzled old sailors rable wind - for it is still remembered down there, as the
were among the people, shaking their heads, as they looked greatest ever known to blow upon that coast - had brought
from water to sky, and muttering to one another; ship-own- together, I made my way to his house. It was shut; and as
ers, excited and uneasy; children, huddling together, and no one answered to my knocking, I went, by back ways and
peering into older faces; even stout mariners, disturbed and by-lanes, to the yard where he worked. I learned, there, that
anxious, levelling their glasses at the sea from behind plac- he had gone to Lowestoft, to meet some sudden exigency of
es of shelter, as if they were surveying an enemy. ship-repairing in which his skill was required; but that he
The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient would be back tomorrow morning, in good time.
pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and
the flying stones and sand, and the awful noise, confounded dressed, and tried to sleep, but in vain, it was five o’clock in
me. As the high watery walls came rolling in, and, at their the afternoon. I had not sat five minutes by the coffee-room
highest, tumbled into surf, they looked as if the least would fire, when the waiter, coming to stir it, as an excuse for talk-
engulf the town. As the receding wave swept back with a ing, told me that two colliers had gone down, with all hands,
hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deep caves in the beach, a few miles away; and that some other ships had been seen
as if its purpose were to undermine the earth. When some labouring hard in the Roads, and trying, in great distress,
white-headed billows thundered on, and dashed themselves to keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors,
to pieces before they reached the land, every fragment of the said he, if we had another night like the last!
late whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, I was very much depressed in spirits; very solitary; and
rushing to be gathered to the composition of another mon- felt an uneasiness in Ham’s not being there, dispropor-
ster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating tionate to the occasion. I was seriously affected, without
valleys (with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming knowing how much, by late events; and my long exposure
through them) were lifted up to hills; masses of water shiv- to the fierce wind had confused me. There was that jumble
ered and shook the beach with a booming sound; every in my thoughts and recollections, that I had lost the clear
shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made, to change arrangement of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out
its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away; into the town, I should not have been surprised, I think, to
the ideal shore on the horizon, with its towers and build- encounter someone who I knew must be then in London. So
ings, rose and fell; the clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed to to speak, there was in these respects a curious inattention

in my mind. Yet it was busy, too, with all the remembranc- I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue
es the place naturally awakened; and they were particularly steadfast to anything. Something within me, faintly an-
distinct and vivid. swering to the storm without, tossed up the depths of my
In this state, the waiter’s dismal intelligence about the memory and made a tumult in them. Yet, in all the hurry of
ships immediately connected itself, without any effort of my my thoughts, wild running with the thundering sea, - the
volition, with my uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded storm, and my uneasiness regarding Ham were always in
that I had an apprehension of his returning from Lowestoft the fore-ground.
by sea, and being lost. This grew so strong with me, that I My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to re-
resolved to go back to the yard before I took my dinner, and fresh myself with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into
ask the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return a dull slumber before the fire, without losing my conscious-
by sea at all likely? If he gave me the least reason to think ness, either of the uproar out of doors, or of the place in
so, I would go over to Lowestoft and prevent it by bringing which I was. Both became overshadowed by a new and in-
him with me. definable horror; and when I awoke - or rather when I shook
I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. off the lethargy that bound me in my chair- my whole frame
I was none too soon; for the boat-builder, with a lantern in thrilled with objectless and unintelligible fear.
his hand, was locking the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I walked to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, lis-
I asked him the question, and said there was no fear; no tened to the awful noises: looked at faces, scenes, and
man in his senses, or out of them, would put off in such a figures in the fire. At length, the steady ticking of the undis-
gale of wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born turbed clock on the wall tormented me to that degree that I
to seafaring. resolved to go to bed.
So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt It was reassuring, on such a night, to be told that some of
ashamed of doing what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I the inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morn-
went back to the inn. If such a wind could rise, I think it was ing. I went to bed, exceedingly weary and heavy; but, on
rising. The howl and roar, the rattling of the doors and win- my lying down, all such sensations vanished, as if by magic,
dows, the rumbling in the chimneys, the apparent rocking and I was broad awake, with every sense refined.
of the very house that sheltered me, and the prodigious tu- For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water;
mult of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning. But imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at sea; now, that I
there was now a great darkness besides; and that invested distinctly heard the firing of signal guns; and now, the fall
the storm with new terrors, real and fanciful. of houses in the town. I got up, several times, and looked

out; but could see nothing, except the reflection in the win- some town in a roar of cannonading.
dow-panes of the faint candle I had left burning, and of my The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant,
own haggard face looking in at me from the black void. that I could not hear something I much desired to hear,
At length, my restlessness attained to such a pitch, that until I made a great exertion and awoke. It was broad day
I hurried on my clothes, and went downstairs. In the large - eight or nine o’clock; the storm raging, in lieu of the batter-
kitchen, where I dimly saw bacon and ropes of onions hang- ies; and someone knocking and calling at my door.
ing from the beams, the watchers were clustered together, ‘What is the matter?’ I cried.
in various attitudes, about a table, purposely moved away ‘A wreck! Close by!’
from the great chimney, and brought near the door. A pret- I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck?
ty girl, who had her ears stopped with her apron, and her ‘A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and
eyes upon the door, screamed when I appeared, supposing wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see her! It’s thought,
me to be a spirit; but the others had more presence of mind, down on the beach, she’ll go to pieces every moment.’
and were glad of an addition to their company. One man, The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase;
referring to the topic they had been discussing, asked me and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I could,
whether I thought the souls of the collier-crews who had and ran into the street.
gone down, were out in the storm? Numbers of people were there before me, all running in
I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, I opened one direction, to the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping
the yard-gate, and looked into the empty street. The sand, a good many, and soon came facing the wild sea.
the sea-weed, and the flakes of foam, were driving by; and I The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though
was obliged to call for assistance before I could shut the gate not more sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed
again, and make it fast against the wind. of, had been diminished by the silencing of half-a-dozen
There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber, when guns out of hundreds. But the sea, having upon it the ad-
I at length returned to it; but I was tired now, and, getting ditional agitation of the whole night, was infinitely more
into bed again, fell - off a tower and down a precipice - into terrific than when I had seen it last. Every appearance it had
the depths of sleep. I have an impression that for a long then presented, bore the expression of being swelled; and
time, though I dreamed of being elsewhere and in a variety the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one
of scenes, it was always blowing in my dream. At length, I another, bore one another down, and rolled in, in intermi-
lost that feeble hold upon reality, and was engaged with two nable hosts, was most appalling. In the difficulty of hearing
dear friends, but who they were I don’t know, at the siege of anything but wind and waves, and in the crowd, and the

unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless efforts to spoke, there was another great cry of pity from the beach;
stand against the weather, I was so confused that I looked four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to
out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming the rigging of the remaining mast; uppermost, the active
heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman, stand- figure with the curling hair.
ing next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattoo’d arrow on There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and
it, pointing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, now show-
Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us! ing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned on her
One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but her keel,
the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sail as she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, the
and rigging; and all that ruin, as the ship rolled and beat bell rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men,
- which she did without a moment’s pause, and with a vio- was borne towards us on the wind. Again we lost her, and
lence quite inconceivable - beat the side as if it would stave it again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony on the shore
in. Some efforts were even then being made, to cut this por- increased. Men groaned, and clasped their hands; women
tion of the wreck away; for, as the ship, which was broadside shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up
on, turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her and down along the beach, crying for help where no help
people at work with axes, especially one active figure with could be. I found myself one of these, frantically imploring
long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lost crea-
cry, which was audible even above the wind and water, rose tures perish before our eyes.
from the shore at this moment; the sea, sweeping over the They were making out to me, in an agitated way - I don’t
rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, know how, for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed
casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boil- enough to understand - that the lifeboat had been bravely
ing surge. manned an hour ago, and could do nothing; and that as no
The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent man would be so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a
sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and rope, and establish a communication with the shore, there
fro. The ship had struck once, the same boatman hoarsely was nothing left to try; when I noticed that some new sen-
said in my ear, and then lifted in and struck again. I un- sation moved the people on the beach, and saw them part,
derstood him to add that she was parting amidships, and and Ham come breaking through them to the front.
I could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beating were I ran to him - as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for
too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. As he help. But, distracted though I was, by a sight so new to me

and terrible, the determination in his face, and his look out holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out
to sea - exactly the same look as I remembered in connex- himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet.
ion with the morning after Emily’s flight - awoke me to a The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up.
knowledge of his danger. I held him back with both arms; I saw that she was parting in the middle, and that the life of
and implored the men with whom I had been speaking, not the solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. Still, he
to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir from clung to it. He had a singular red cap on, - not like a sailor’s
off that sand! cap, but of a finer colour; and as the few yielding planks
Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck, we between him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his an-
saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of ticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave
the two men, and fly up in triumph round the active figure it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted,
left alone upon the mast. when his action brought an old remembrance to my mind
Against such a sight, and against such determina- of a once dear friend.
tion as that of the calmly desperate man who was already Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence
accustomed to lead half the people present, I might as hope- of suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, un-
fully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, cheerily til there was a great retiring wave, when, with a backward
grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time is come, ‘tis come. If glance at those who held the rope which was made fast
‘tan’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all! Mates, round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a moment was
make me ready! I’m a-going off!’ buffeting with the water; rising with the hills, falling with
I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then drawn again to land.
where the people around me made me stay; urging, as I They hauled in hastily.
confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, with help He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood;
or without, and that I should endanger the precautions for but he took no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give
his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I don’t them some directions for leaving him more free - or so I
know what I answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw hur- judged from the motion of his arm - and was gone as be-
ry on the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan fore.
that was there, and penetrating into a circle of figures that And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills,
hid him from me. Then, I saw him standing alone, in a sea- falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne
man’s frock and trousers: a rope in his hand, or slung to his in towards the shore, borne on towards the ship, striving
wrist: another round his body: and several of the best men hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing, but the power

of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length he she and I had looked for shells, two children - on that part
neared the wreck. He was so near, that with one more of his of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown
vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it, - when a high, down last night, had been scattered by the wind - among
green, vast hill-side of water, moving on shoreward, from the ruins of the home he had wronged - I saw him lying
beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at
bound, and the ship was gone! school.
Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere
cask had been broken, in running to the spot where they
were hauling in. Consternation was in every face. They
drew him to my very feet - insensible - dead. He was car-
ried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now,
I remained near him, busy, while every means of restora-
tion were tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great
wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever.
As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and
all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily
and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at
the door.
‘Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten
face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you
come over yonder?’
The old remembrance that had been recalled to me, was
in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm
he held out to support me:
‘Has a body come ashore?’
He said, ‘Yes.’
‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.
He answered nothing.
But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where

CHAPTER 56 ram, and begged him to provide me a conveyance in which
it could be got to London in the night. I knew that the care
of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to receive
it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge
THE NEW WOUND, that duty as faithfully as I could.
I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less
AND THE OLD curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly
midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed
by what I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At
intervals, along the town, and even a little way out upon the
road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak night and the
N o need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke

together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be
our parting-hour - no need to have said, ‘Think of me at my
open country were around me, and the ashes of my youth-
ful friendship.
Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the
best!’ I had done that ever; and could I change now, looking ground was perfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in
on this sight! beautiful tints of yellow, red, and brown, yet hung upon the
They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered trees, through which the sun was shining, I arrived at High-
him with a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards gate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of what
the houses. All the men who carried him had known him, I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all
and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and bold. through the night, awaiting orders to advance.
They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the midst The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same.
of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death Not a blind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved
was already. court, with its covered way leading to the disused door. The
But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they wind had quite gone down, and nothing moved.
looked at one another, and at me, and whispered. I knew I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and
why. They felt as if it were not right to lay him down in the when I did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in
same quiet room. the very sound of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out,
We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. with the key in her hand; and looking earnestly at me as she
So soon as I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Jo- unlocked the gate, said:

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?’ as he had left them, for the same reason. She murmured,
‘I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.’ however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her
‘Is anything the matter, sir? - Mr. James? -’ ‘Hush!’ said I. own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infir-
‘Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. mity; and with her stately look repelled the least suspicion
Steerforth. She is at home?’ of the truth.
The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very sel- At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first
dom out now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; moment of her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I
that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress was the bearer of evil tidings. The scar sprung into view
was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What mes- that instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair,
sage should she take upstairs? to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth’s observation;
Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never faltered,
and only to carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down never shrunk.
in the drawing-room (which we had now reached) until she ‘I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,’ said Mrs.
should come back. Its former pleasant air of occupation was Steerforth.
gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not ‘I am unhappily a widower,’ said I.
been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, ‘You are very young to know so great a loss,’ she returned.
was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his let- ‘I am grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time
ters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now; if she will be good to you.’
would ever read them more! ‘I hope Time,’ said I, looking at her, ‘will be good to all
The house was so still that I heard the girl’s light step of us. Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our
upstairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the ef- heaviest misfortunes.’
fect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes,
down; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, alarmed her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to
she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood be- stop, and change.
fore her. I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name,
She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, but it trembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times,
that she had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; in a low tone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced
and that the many tokens of his old sports and accomplish- calmness:
ments, by which she was surrounded, remained there, just ‘My son is ill.’

‘Very ill.’ hear? - His life!’
‘You have seen him?’ Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and mak-
‘I have.’ ing no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide
‘Are you reconciled?’ stare.
I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly ‘Aye!’ cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the
turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had breast, ‘look at me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look
been standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by here!’ striking the scar, ‘at your dead child’s handiwork!’
the motion of my lips, to Rosa, ‘Dead!’ The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to
That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look be- My heart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled.
hind her, and read, plainly written, what she was not yet Always accompanied with an incapable motion of the head,
prepared to know, I met her look quickly; but I had seen but with no change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid
Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with vehemence mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were locked and the
of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face. face frozen up in pain.
The handsome lady - so like, oh so like! - regarded me ‘Do you remember when he did this?’ she proceeded. ‘Do
with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I be- you remember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and
sought her to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I in your pampering of his pride and passion, he did this, and
had to tell; but I should rather have entreated her to weep, disfigured me for life? Look at me, marked until I die with
for she sat like a stone figure. his high displeasure; and moan and groan for what you
‘When I was last here,’ I faltered, ‘Miss Dartle told me made him!’
he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a ‘Miss Dartle,’ I entreated her. ‘For Heaven’s sake -’
dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a ‘I WILL speak!’ she said, turning on me with her light-
dangerous coast, as it is said he was; and if the vessel that ning eyes. ‘Be silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of
was seen should really be the ship which -’ a proud, false son! Moan for your nurture of him, moan for
‘Rosa!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘come to me!’ your corruption of him, moan for your loss of him, moan
She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes for mine!’
gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare,
into a frightful laugh. worn figure, as if her passion were killing her by inches.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘is your pride appeased, you madwoman? ‘You, resent his self-will!’ she exclaimed. ‘You, injured by
Now has he made atonement to you - with his life! Do you his haughty temper! You, who opposed to both, when your

hair was grey, the qualities which made both when you gave kindled for the moment.
him birth! YOU, who from his cradle reared him to be what ‘I descended - as I might have known I should, but that
he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you re- he fascinated me with his boyish courtship - into a doll, a
warded, now, for your years of trouble?’ trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and
‘Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!’ taken up, and trifled with, as the inconstant humour took
‘I tell you,’ she returned, ‘I WILL speak to her. No power him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his fancy died
on earth should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I
been silent all these years, and shall I not speak now? I loved had, than I would have married him on his being forced to
him better than you ever loved him!’ turning on her fiercely. take me for his wife. We fell away from one another without
‘I could have loved him, and asked no return. If I had been a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then,
his wife, I could have been the slave of his caprices for a I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between
word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it better you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remem-
than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My brances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your
love would have been devoted - would have trod your paltry love. I tell you that the time was, when I loved him better
whimpering under foot!’ than you ever did!’
With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the
she actually did it. wide stare, and the set face; and softened no more, when the
‘Look here!’ she said, striking the scar again, with a re- moaning was repeated, than if the face had been a picture.
lentless hand. ‘When he grew into the better understanding ‘Miss Dartle,’ said I, ‘if you can be so obdurate as not to
of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it! I could feel for this afflicted mother -’
sing to him, and talk to him, and show the ardour that I ‘Who feels for me?’ she sharply retorted. ‘She has sown
felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowledge this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!’
as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was ‘And if his faults -’ I began.
freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, ‘Faults!’ she cried, bursting into passionate tears. ‘Who
when you were put off with a slight word, he has taken Me dares malign him? He had a soul worth millions of the
to his heart!’ friends to whom he stooped!’
She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her fren- ‘No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him
zy - for it was little less - yet with an eager remembrance in dearer remembrance than I,’ I replied. ‘I meant to say, if
of it, in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling you have no compassion for his mother; or if his faults - you

have been bitter on them -’ last. I lifted up the leaden hand, and held it to my heart; and
‘It’s false,’ she cried, tearing her black hair; ‘I loved him!’ all the world seemed death and silence, broken only by his
‘- if his faults cannot,’ I went on, ‘be banished from your mother’s moaning.
remembrance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as
one you have never seen before, and render it some help!’
All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked
unchangeable. Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the
same dumb way from time to time, with the same helpless
motion of the head; but giving no other sign of life. Miss
Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it, and began to loos-
en the dress.
‘A curse upon you!’ she said, looking round at me, with a
mingled expression of rage and grief. ‘It was in an evil hour
that you ever came here! A curse upon you! Go!’
After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the
bell, the sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken
the impassive figure in her arms, and, still upon her knees,
was weeping over it, kissing it, calling to it, rocking it to
and fro upon her bosom like a child, and trying every ten-
der means to rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid of
leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed
the house as I went out.
Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his moth-
er’s room. She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle
never left her; doctors were in attendance, many things had
been tried; but she lay like a statue, except for the low sound
now and then.
I went through the dreary house, and darkened the win-
dows. The windows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened

CHAPTER 57 crown, pitched or caulked on the outside. In this rough
clothing, with a common mariner’s telescope under his
arm, and a shrewd trick of casting up his eye at the sky as
looking out for dirty weather, he was far more nautical, af-
THE EMIGRANTS ter his manner, than Mr. Peggotty. His whole family, if I
may so express it, were cleared for action. I found Mrs. Mi-
cawber in the closest and most uncompromising of bonnets,
made fast under the chin; and in a shawl which tied her up
(as I had been tied up, when my aunt first received me) like
O ne thing more, I had to do, before yielding myself to

the shock of these emotions. It was, to conceal what
had occurred, from those who were going away; and to dis-
a bundle, and was secured behind at the waist, in a strong
knot. Miss Micawber I found made snug for stormy weath-
er, in the same manner; with nothing superfluous about her.
miss them on their voyage in happy ignorance. In this, no Master Micawber was hardly visible in a Guernsey shirt,
time was to be lost. and the shaggiest suit of slops I ever saw; and the children
I took Mr. Micawber aside that same night, and confided were done up, like preserved meats, in impervious cases.
to him the task of standing between Mr. Peggotty and in- Both Mr. Micawber and his eldest son wore their sleeves
telligence of the late catastrophe. He zealously undertook loosely turned back at the wrists, as being ready to lend a
to do so, and to intercept any newspaper through which it hand in any direction, and to ‘tumble up’, or sing out, ‘Yeo
might, without such precautions, reach him. - Heave - Yeo!’ on the shortest notice.
‘If it penetrates to him, sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, striking Thus Traddles and I found them at nightfall, assembled
himself on the breast, ‘it shall first pass through this body!’ on the wooden steps, at that time known as Hungerford
Mr. Micawber, I must observe, in his adaptation of Stairs, watching the departure of a boat with some of their
himself to a new state of society, had acquired a bold bucca- property on board. I had told Traddles of the terrible event,
neering air, not absolutely lawless, but defensive and prompt. and it had greatly shocked him; but there could be no doubt
One might have supposed him a child of the wilderness, of the kindness of keeping it a secret, and he had come to
long accustomed to live out of the confines of civilization, help me in this last service. It was here that I took Mr. Mi-
and about to return to his native wilds. cawber aside, and received his promise.
He had provided himself, among other things, with a The Micawber family were lodged in a little, dirty, tum-
complete suit of oilskin, and a straw hat with a very low ble-down public-house, which in those days was close to the

stairs, and whose protruding wooden rooms overhung the last on us.’
river. The family, as emigrants, being objects of some inter- ‘And that we shall do,’ said I, ‘be sure!’
est in and about Hungerford, attracted so many beholders, ‘Until then, and until we are at sea,’ observed Mr. Micaw-
that we were glad to take refuge in their room. It was one ber, with a glance of intelligence at me, ‘Mr. Peggotty and
of the wooden chambers upstairs, with the tide flowing un- myself will constantly keep a double look-out together, on
derneath. My aunt and Agnes were there, busily making our goods and chattels. Emma, my love,’ said Mr. Micaw-
some little extra comforts, in the way of dress, for the chil- ber, clearing his throat in his magnificent way, ‘my friend
dren. Peggotty was quietly assisting, with the old insensible Mr. Thomas Traddles is so obliging as to solicit, in my ear,
work-box, yard-measure, and bit of wax-candle before her, that he should have the privilege of ordering the ingredients
that had now outlived so much. necessary to the composition of a moderate portion of that
It was not easy to answer her inquiries; still less to whis- Beverage which is peculiarly associated, in our minds, with
per Mr. Peggotty, when Mr. Micawber brought him in, that the Roast Beef of Old England. I allude to - in short, Punch.
I had given the letter, and all was well. But I did both, and Under ordinary circumstances, I should scruple to entreat
made them happy. If I showed any trace of what I felt, my the indulgence of Miss Trotwood and Miss Wickfield, but-’
own sorrows were sufficient to account for it. ‘I can only say for myself,’ said my aunt, ‘that I will drink
‘And when does the ship sail, Mr. Micawber?’ asked my all happiness and success to you, Mr. Micawber, with the
aunt. utmost pleasure.’
Mr. Micawber considered it necessary to prepare either ‘And I too!’ said Agnes, with a smile.
my aunt or his wife, by degrees, and said, sooner than he Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the bar, where
had expected yesterday. he appeared to be quite at home; and in due time returned
‘The boat brought you word, I suppose?’ said my aunt. with a steaming jug. I could not but observe that he had
‘It did, ma’am,’ he returned. been peeling the lemons with his own clasp-knife, which,
‘Well?’ said my aunt. ‘And she sails -’ as became the knife of a practical settler, was about a foot
‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘I am informed that we must posi- long; and which he wiped, not wholly without ostentation,
tively be on board before seven tomorrow morning.’ on the sleeve of his coat. Mrs. Micawber and the two el-
‘Heyday!’ said my aunt, ‘that’s soon. Is it a sea-going fact, der members of the family I now found to be provided with
Mr. Peggotty?’ ‘’Tis so, ma’am. She’ll drop down the riv- similar formidable instruments, while every child had its
er with that theer tide. If Mas’r Davy and my sister comes own wooden spoon attached to its body by a strong line. In
aboard at Gravesen’, arternoon o’ next day, they’ll see the a similar anticipation of life afloat, and in the Bush, Mr. Mi-

cawber, instead of helping Mrs. Micawber and his eldest son ship, let it not be repulsed.’
and daughter to punch, in wine-glasses, which he might eas- ‘My dear,’ he returned, ‘so be it!’
ily have done, for there was a shelf-full in the room, served ‘If not for their sakes; for mine, Micawber,’ said his wife.
it out to them in a series of villainous little tin pots; and I ‘Emma,’ he returned, ‘that view of the question is, at such
never saw him enjoy anything so much as drinking out of a moment, irresistible. I cannot, even now, distinctly pledge
his own particular pint pot, and putting it in his pocket at myself to fall upon your family’s neck; but the member of
the close of the evening. your family, who is now in attendance, shall have no genial
‘The luxuries of the old country,’ said Mr. Micawber, with warmth frozen by me.’
an intense satisfaction in their renouncement, ‘we abandon. Mr. Micawber withdrew, and was absent some little
The denizens of the forest cannot, of course, expect to par- time; in the course of which Mrs. Micawber was not whol-
ticipate in the refinements of the land of the Free.’ ly free from an apprehension that words might have arisen
Here, a boy came in to say that Mr. Micawber was want- between him and the Member. At length the same boy reap-
ed downstairs. peared, and presented me with a note written in pencil, and
‘I have a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, setting down headed, in a legal manner, ‘Heep v. Micawber’. From this
her tin pot, ‘that it is a member of my family!’ document, I learned that Mr. Micawber being again arrest-
‘If so, my dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber, with his usual ed, ‘Was in a final paroxysm of despair; and that he begged
suddenness of warmth on that subject, ‘as the member of me to send him his knife and pint pot, by bearer, as they
your family - whoever he, she, or it, may be - has kept us might prove serviceable during the brief remainder of his
waiting for a considerable period, perhaps the Member may existence, in jail. He also requested, as a last act of friend-
now wait MY convenience.’ ship, that I would see his family to the Parish Workhouse,
‘Micawber,’ said his wife, in a low tone, ‘at such a time and forget that such a Being ever lived.
as this -’ Of course I answered this note by going down with the
‘’It is not meet,‘‘ said Mr. Micawber, rising, ‘“that every boy to pay the money, where I found Mr. Micawber sitting
nice offence should bear its comment!’ Emma, I stand rein a corner, looking darkly at the Sheriff ‘s Officer who had
proved.’ effected the capture. On his release, he embraced me with
‘The loss, Micawber,’ observed his wife, ‘has been my the utmost fervour; and made an entry of the transaction in
family’s, not yours. If my family are at length sensible of his pocket-book - being very particular, I recollect, about
the deprivation to which their own conduct has, in the past, a halfpenny I inadvertently omitted from my statement of
exposed them, and now desire to extend the hand of fellow- the total.

This momentous pocket-book was a timely reminder to not fail to correspond. Mr. Copperfield, I trust, as an old
him of another transaction. On our return to the room up- and familiar friend, will not object to receive occasional in-
stairs (where he accounted for his absence by saying that it telligence, himself, from one who knew him when the twins
had been occasioned by circumstances over which he had were yet unconscious?’
no control), he took out of it a large sheet of paper, folded I said that I should hope to hear, whenever she had an
small, and quite covered with long sums, carefully worked. opportunity of writing.
From the glimpse I had of them, I should say that I nev- ‘Please Heaven, there will be many such opportunities,’
er saw such sums out of a school ciphering-book. These, it said Mr. Micawber. ‘The ocean, in these times, is a perfect
seemed, were calculations of compound interest on what fleet of ships; and we can hardly fail to encounter many, in
he called ‘the principal amount of forty-one, ten, eleven running over. It is merely crossing,’ said Mr. Micawber, tri-
and a half’, for various periods. After a careful consider- fling with his eye-glass, ‘merely crossing. The distance is
ation of these, and an elaborate estimate of his resources, he quite imaginary.’
had come to the conclusion to select that sum which rep- I think, now, how odd it was, but how wonderfully like
resented the amount with compound interest to two years, Mr. Micawber, that, when he went from London to Can-
fifteen calendar months, and fourteen days, from that date. terbury, he should have talked as if he were going to the
For this he had drawn a note-of-hand with great neatness, farthest limits of the earth; and, when he went from Eng-
which he handed over to Traddles on the spot, a discharge land to Australia, as if he were going for a little trip across
of his debt in full (as between man and man), with many the channel.
acknowledgements. ‘On the voyage, I shall endeavour,’ said Mr. Micawber,
‘I have still a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, pensive- ‘occasionally to spin them a yarn; and the melody of my son
ly shaking her head, ‘that my family will appear on board, Wilkins will, I trust, be acceptable at the galley-fire. When
before we finally depart.’ Mrs. Micawber has her sea-legs on - an expression in which
Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the I hope there is no conventional impropriety - she will give
subject too, but he put it in his tin pot and swallowed it. them, I dare say, ‘Little Tafflin”. Porpoises and dolphins, I
‘If you have any opportunity of sending letters home, on believe, will be frequently observed athwart our Bows; and,
your passage, Mrs. Micawber,’ said my aunt, ‘you must let either on the starboard or the larboard quarter, objects of
us hear from you, you know.’ interest will be continually descried. In short,’ said Mr. Mi-
‘My dear Miss Trotwood,’ she replied, ‘I shall only be too cawber, with the old genteel air, ‘the probability is, all will
happy to think that anyone expects to hear from us. I shall be found so exciting, alow and aloft, that when the lookout,

stationed in the main-top, cries Land-oh! we shall be very raised; half receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber’s
considerably astonished!’ views as they were stated, but very sensible of their fore-
With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin sight.
pot, as if he had made the voyage, and had passed a first- ‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I wish
class examination before the highest naval authorities. Mr. Micawber to feel his position. It appears to me highly
‘ What I chiefly hope, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. important that Mr. Micawber should, from the hour of his
Micawber, ‘is, that in some branches of our family we may embarkation, feel his position. Your old knowledge of me,
live again in the old country. Do not frown, Micawber! I do my dear Mr. Copperfield, will have told you that I have not
not now refer to my own family, but to our children’s chil- the sanguine disposition of Mr. Micawber. My disposition
dren. However vigorous the sapling,’ said Mrs. Micawber, is, if I may say so, eminently practical. I know that this is a
shaking her head, ‘I cannot forget the parent-tree; and when long voyage. I know that it will involve many privations and
our race attains to eminence and fortune, I own I should inconveniences. I cannot shut my eyes to those facts. But I
wish that fortune to flow into the coffers of Britannia.’ also know what Mr. Micawber is. I know the latent power of
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Britannia must take her Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it vitally important
chance. I am bound to say that she has never done much for that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.’
me, and that I have no particular wish upon the subject.’ ‘My love,’ he observed, ‘perhaps you will allow me to re-
‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, ‘there, you are mark that it is barely possible that I DO feel my position at
wrong. You are going out, Micawber, to this distant clime, the present moment.’
to strengthen, not to weaken, the connexion between your- ‘I think not, Micawber,’ she rejoined. ‘Not fully. My dear
self and Albion.’ Mr. Copperfield, Mr. Micawber’s is not a common case. Mr.
‘The connexion in question, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Mi- Micawber is going to a distant country expressly in order
cawber, ‘has not laid me, I repeat, under that load of personal that he may be fully understood and appreciated for the
obligation, that I am at all sensitive as to the formation of first time. I wish Mr. Micawber to take his stand upon that
another connexion.’ vessel’s prow, and firmly say, ‘This country I am come to
‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘There, I again say, conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches? Have you
you are wrong. You do not know your power, Micawber. It posts of profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be
is that which will strengthen, even in this step you are about brought forward. They are mine!‘‘
to take, the connexion between yourself and Albion.’ Mr. Micawber, glancing at us all, seemed to think there
Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chair, with his eyebrows was a good deal in this idea.

‘I wish Mr. Micawber, if I make myself understood,’ said employment!’
Mrs. Micawber, in her argumentative tone, ‘to be the Caesar ‘My love,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘it is impossible for me
of his own fortunes. That, my dear Mr. Copperfield, appears not to be touched by your affection. I am always willing to
to me to be his true position. From the first moment of this defer to your good sense. What will be - will be. Heaven for-
voyage, I wish Mr. Micawber to stand upon that vessel’s bid that I should grudge my native country any portion of
prow and say, ‘Enough of delay: enough of disappointment: the wealth that may be accumulated by our descendants!’
enough of limited means. That was in the old country. This ‘That’s well,’ said my aunt, nodding towards Mr. Peggotty,
is the new. Produce your reparation. Bring it forward!‘‘ ‘and I drink my love to you all, and every blessing and suc-
Mr. Micawber folded his arms in a resolute manner, as if cess attend you!’
he were then stationed on the figure-head. Mr. Peggotty put down the two children he had been
‘And doing that,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘- feeling his po- nursing, one on each knee, to join Mr. and Mrs. Micawber
sition - am I not right in saying that Mr. Micawber will in drinking to all of us in return; and when he and the Mi-
strengthen, and not weaken, his connexion with Britain? cawbers cordially shook hands as comrades, and his brown
An important public character arising in that hemisphere, face brightened with a smile, I felt that he would make his
shall I be told that its influence will not be felt at home? Can way, establish a good name, and be beloved, go where he
I be so weak as to imagine that Mr. Micawber, wielding the would.
rod of talent and of power in Australia, will be nothing in Even the children were instructed, each to dip a wooden
England? I am but a woman; but I should be unworthy of spoon into Mr. Micawber’s pot, and pledge us in its contents.
myself and of my papa, if I were guilty of such absurd weak- When this was done, my aunt and Agnes rose, and parted
ness.’ from the emigrants. It was a sorrowful farewell. They were
Mrs. Micawber’s conviction that her arguments were all crying; the children hung about Agnes to the last; and
unanswerable, gave a moral elevation to her tone which I we left poor Mrs. Micawber in a very distressed condition,
think I had never heard in it before. sobbing and weeping by a dim candle, that must have made
‘And therefore it is,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that I the the room look, from the river, like a miserable light-house.
more wish, that, at a future period, we may live again on I went down again next morning to see that they were
the parent soil. Mr. Micawber may be - I cannot disguise away. They had departed, in a boat, as early as five o’clock.
from myself that the probability is, Mr. Micawber will be It was a wonderful instance to me of the gap such partings
- a page of History; and he ought then to be represented in make, that although my association of them with the tum-
the country which gave him birth, and did NOT give him ble-down public-house and the wooden stairs dated only

from last night, both seemed dreary and deserted, now that crowded groups of people, making new friendships, tak-
they were gone. ing leave of one another, talking, laughing, crying, eating
In the afternoon of the next day, my old nurse and I went and drinking; some, already settled down into the posses-
down to Gravesend. We found the ship in the river, sur- sion of their few feet of space, with their little households
rounded by a crowd of boats; a favourable wind blowing; arranged, and tiny children established on stools, or in
the signal for sailing at her mast-head. I hired a boat di- dwarf elbow-chairs; others, despairing of a resting-place,
rectly, and we put off to her; and getting through the little and wandering disconsolately. From babies who had but a
vortex of confusion of which she was the centre, went on week or two of life behind them, to crooked old men and
board. women who seemed to have but a week or two of life be-
Mr. Peggotty was waiting for us on deck. He told me that fore them; and from ploughmen bodily carrying out soil of
Mr. Micawber had just now been arrested again (and for England on their boots, to smiths taking away samples of
the last time) at the suit of Heep, and that, in compliance its soot and smoke upon their skins; every age and occupa-
with a request I had made to him, he had paid the money, tion appeared to be crammed into the narrow compass of
which I repaid him. He then took us down between decks; the ‘tween decks.
and there, any lingering fears I had of his having heard any As my eye glanced round this place, I thought I saw sit-
rumours of what had happened, were dispelled by Mr. Mi- ting, by an open port, with one of the Micawber children
cawber’s coming out of the gloom, taking his arm with an near her, a figure like Emily’s; it first attracted my atten-
air of friendship and protection, and telling me that they tion, by another figure parting from it with a kiss; and as
had scarcely been asunder for a moment, since the night it glided calmly away through the disorder, reminding me
before last. of - Agnes! But in the rapid motion and confusion, and in
It was such a strange scene to me, and so confined and the unsettlement of my own thoughts, I lost it again; and
dark, that, at first, I could make out hardly anything; but, by only knew that the time was come when all visitors were
degrees, it cleared, as my eyes became more accustomed to being warned to leave the ship; that my nurse was crying
the gloom, and I seemed to stand in a picture by OSTADE. on a chest beside me; and that Mrs. Gummidge, assisted by
Among the great beams, bulks, and ringbolts of the ship, some younger stooping woman in black, was busily arrang-
and the emigrant-berths, and chests, and bundles, and bar- ing Mr. Peggotty’s goods.
rels, and heaps of miscellaneous baggage -’lighted up, here ‘Is there any last wured, Mas’r Davy?’ said he. ‘Is there
and there, by dangling lanterns; and elsewhere by the yel- any one forgotten thing afore we parts?’
low daylight straying down a windsail or a hatchway - were ‘One thing!’ said I. ‘Martha!’

He touched the younger woman I have mentioned on the and the ship began to move, there broke from all the boats
shoulder, and Martha stood before me. three resounding cheers, which those on board took up,
‘Heaven bless you, you good man!’ cried I. ‘You take her and echoed back, and which were echoed and re-echoed.
with you!’ My heart burst out when I heard the sound, and beheld the
She answered for him, with a burst of tears. I could speak waving of the hats and handkerchiefs - and then I saw her!
no more at that time, but I wrung his hand; and if ever I Then I saw her, at her uncle’s side, and trembling on his
have loved and honoured any man, I loved and honoured shoulder. He pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw
that man in my soul. us, and waved her last good-bye to me. Aye, Emily, beauti-
The ship was clearing fast of strangers. The greatest trial ful and drooping, cling to him with the utmost trust of thy
that I had, remained. I told him what the noble spirit that bruised heart; for he has clung to thee, with all the might of
was gone, had given me in charge to say at parting. It moved his great love!
him deeply. But when he charged me, in return, with many Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon
messages of affection and regret for those deaf ears, he the deck, apart together, she clinging to him, and he hold-
moved me more. ing her, they solemnly passed away. The night had fallen on
The time was come. I embraced him, took my weeping the Kentish hills when we were rowed ashore - and fallen
nurse upon my arm, and hurried away. On deck, I took darkly upon me.
leave of poor Mrs. Micawber. She was looking distractedly
about for her family, even then; and her last words to me
were, that she never would desert Mr. Micawber.
We went over the side into our boat, and lay at a little
distance, to see the ship wafted on her course. It was then
calm, radiant sunset. She lay between us, and the red light;
and every taper line and spar was visible against the glow. A
sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and so hopeful, as
the glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushed water, with all
the life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there
clustering, for a moment, bare-headed and silent, I never
saw.
Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind,

CHAPTER 58 unbroken, to the dark horizon.
If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I
mourned for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world,
so young. I mourned for him who might have won the love
ABSENCE and admiration of thousands, as he had won mine long ago.
I mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the
stormy sea; and for the wandering remnants of the simple
home, where I had heard the night-wind blowing, when I
was a child.
I t was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me,

haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear re-
membrances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and
From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at
length no hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place
to place, carrying my burden with me everywhere. I felt its
regrets. whole weight now; and I drooped beneath it, and I said in
I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how my heart that it could never be lightened.
great the shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that
dear to me, and went away; and believed that I had borne it, I should die. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die
and it was past. As a man upon a field of battle will receive a at home; and actually turned back on my road, that I might
mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when get there soon. At other times, I passed on farther away, -
I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no con- from city to city, seeking I know not what, and trying to
ception of the wound with which it had to strive. leave I know not what behind.
The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary
little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which phases of distress of mind through which I passed. There
I went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it are some dreams that can only be imperfectly and vaguely
was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could dis- described; and when I oblige myself to look back on this
tinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream. I see
hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost - love, friend- myself passing on among the novelties of foreign towns,
ship, interest; of all that had been shattered - my first trust, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fan-
my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that tastic streets - the old abiding places of History and Fancy
remained - a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, - as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load through all,

and hardly conscious of the objects as they fade before me. I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining
Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the on the remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eter-
night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up nal clouds. The bases of the mountains forming the gorge
from it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, in which the little village lay, were richly green; and high
sad, wretched dream, to dawn. above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleav-
For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening ing the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the
cloud upon my mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy
returning home - reasons then struggling within me, vainly, steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks
for more distinct expression - kept me on my pilgrimage. of pasture, all gradually blending with the crowning snow.
Sometimes, I had proceeded restlessly from place to place, Dotted here and there on the mountain’s-side, each tiny dot
stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lingered long in one a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the
spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So
anywhere. did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden
I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled over
the great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with broken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet
a guide among the by-ways of the mountains. If those aw- air, there was a sound of distant singing - shepherd voices;
ful solitudes had spoken to my heart, I did not know it. I but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the
had found sublimity and wonder in the dread heights and mountain’s-side, I could almost have believed it came from
precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice and there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this seren-
snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else. ity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down
I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept
where I was to rest. In the course of my descent to it, by yet, since Dora died!
the winding track along the mountain-side, from which I I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few
saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense minutes before, and had strolled out of the village to read
of beauty and tranquillity, some softening influence awak- them while my supper was making ready. Other packets
ened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember had missed me, and I had received none for a long time. Be-
pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppres- yond a line or two, to say that I was well, and had arrived at
sive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping that such a place, I had not had fortitude or constancy to write a
some better change was possible within me. letter since I left home.

The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the ing, there was no name for the love I bore her, dearer to me,
writing of Agnes. henceforward, than ever until then.
She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept.
hoped. That was all she told me of herself. The rest referred I told her that I had been in sore need of her help; that with-
to me. out her I was not, and I never had been, what she thought
She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she me; but that she inspired me to be that, and I would try.
only told me, in her own fervent manner, what her trust I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed
in me was. She knew (she said) how such a nature as mine since the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no
would turn affliction to good. She knew how trial and emo- resolutions until the expiration of those three months, but
tion would exalt and strengthen it. She was sure that in my to try. I lived in that valley, and its neighbourhood, all the
every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher tendency, time.
through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried in The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from
my fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well home for some time longer; to settle myself for the present
knew that I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow in Switzerland, which was growing dear to me in the re-
could not be weakness, but must be strength. As the en- membrance of that evening; to resume my pen; to work.
durance of my childish days had done its part to make me I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I
what I was, so greater calamities would nerve me on, to be sought out Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to
yet better than I was; and so, as they had taught me, would my breast the human interest I had lately shrunk from. It
I teach others. She commended me to God, who had taken was not long, before I had almost as many friends in the val-
my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affection ley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the winter set
cherished me always, and was always at my side go where I in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial
would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were
of what I was reserved to do. not conveyed in English words.
I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a
an hour ago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the Story, with a purpose growing, not remotely, out of my ex-
quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the perience, and sent it to Traddles, and he arranged for its
valley fade, and the golden snow upon the mountain-tops publication very advantageously for me; and the tidings of
become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt that the my growing reputation began to reach me from travellers
night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clear- whom I encountered by chance. After some rest and change,

I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which weakness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what
took strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execu- I remotely dreaded when I was first impelled to stay away
tion of this task, I felt it more and more, and roused my from England. I could not have borne to lose the small-
utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of fic- est portion of her sisterly affection; yet, in that betrayal, I
tion. It was not half written, when, in an interval of rest, I should have set a constraint between us hitherto unknown.
thought of returning home. I could not forget that the feeling with which she now re-
For a long time, though studying and working patiently, garded me had grown up in my own free choice and course.
I had accustomed myself to robust exercise. My health, se- That if she had ever loved me with another love - and I some-
verely impaired when I left England, was quite restored. I times thought the time was when she might have done so - I
had seen much. I had been in many countries, and I hope I had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had accustomed
had improved my store of knowledge. myself to think of her, when we were both mere children, as
I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had be-
here, of this term of absence - with one reservation. I have stowed my passionate tenderness upon another object; and
made it, thus far, with no purpose of suppressing any of my what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agnes
thoughts; for, as I have elsewhere said, this narrative is my was to me, I and her own noble heart had made her.
written memory. I have desired to keep the most secret cur- In the beginning of the change that gradually worked
rent of my mind apart, and to the last. I enter on it now. in me, when I tried to get a better understanding of myself
I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of my own and be a better man, I did glance, through some indefinite
heart, as to know when I began to think that I might have probation, to a period when I might possibly hope to can-
set its earliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot say at cel the mistaken past, and to be so blessed as to marry her.
what stage of my grief it first became associated with the re- But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded, and de-
flection, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away parted from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should
the treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some hold her the more sacred; remembering the confidences I
whisper of that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss or had reposed in her, her knowledge of my errant heart, the
want of something never to be realized, of which I had been sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sister, and
sensible. But the thought came into my mind as a new re- the victory she had won. If she had never loved me, could I
proach and new regret, when I was left so sad and lonely in believe that she would love me now?
the world. I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her
If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the constancy and fortitude; and now I felt it more and more.

Whatever I might have been to her, or she to me, if I had These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were
been more worthy of her long ago, I was not now, and she the shifting quicksands of my mind, from the time of my
was not. The time was past. I had let it go by, and had de- departure to the time of my return home, three years af-
servedly lost her. terwards. Three years had elapsed since the sailing of the
That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled emigrant ship; when, at that same hour of sunset, and in
me with unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sus- the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel that
taining sense that it was required of me, in right and honour, brought me home, looking on the rosy water where I had
to keep away from myself, with shame, the thought of turn- seen the image of that ship reflected.
ing to the dear girl in the withering of my hopes, from Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they
whom I had frivolously turned when they were bright and went by. And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too -
fresh - which consideration was at the root of every thought but she was not mine - she was never to be mine. She might
I had concerning her - is all equally true. I made no effort to have been, but that was past!
conceal from myself, now, that I loved her, that I was devot-
ed to her; but I brought the assurance home to myself, that it
was now too late, and that our long-subsisting relation must
be undisturbed.
I had thought, much and often, of my Dora’s shadowing
out to me what might have happened, in those years that
were destined not to try us; I had considered how the things
that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their
effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she
spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would
have been, one day, a little later perhaps, though we had
parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert what
might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means
of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more con-
scious of myself, and my defects and errors. Thus, through
the reflection that it might have been, I arrived at the con-
viction that it could never be.

CHAPTER 59 chambers in Gray’s Inn, now; and had told me, in his last
letters, that he was not without hopes of being soon united
to the dearest girl in the world.
They expected me home before Christmas; but had no
RETURN idea of my returning so soon. I had purposely misled them,
that I might have the pleasure of taking them by surprise.
And yet, I was perverse enough to feel a chill and disap-
pointment in receiving no welcome, and rattling, alone and
silent, through the misty streets.
I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was

dark and raining, and I saw more fog and mud in a minute
than I had seen in a year. I walked from the Custom House
The well-known shops, however, with their cheerful
lights, did something for me; and when I alighted at the
door of the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house, I had recovered my
to the Monument before I found a coach; and although the spirits. It recalled, at first, that so-different time when I had
very house-fronts, looking on the swollen gutters, were like put up at the Golden Cross, and reminded me of the chang-
old friends to me, I could not but admit that they were very es that had come to pass since then; but that was natural.
dingy friends. ‘Do you know where Mr. Traddles lives in the Inn?’ I
I have often remarked - I suppose everybody has - that asked the waiter, as I warmed myself by the coffee-room
one’s going away from a familiar place, would seem to be fire.
the signal for change in it. As I looked out of the coach win- ‘Holborn Court, sir. Number two.’
dow, and observed that an old house on Fish-street Hill, ‘Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyers,
which had stood untouched by painter, carpenter, or brick- I believe?’ said I.
layer, for a century, had been pulled down in my absence; ‘Well, sir,’ returned the waiter, ‘probably he has, sir; but I
and that a neighbouring street, of time-honoured insalu- am not aware of it myself.’
brity and inconvenience, was being drained and widened; I This waiter, who was middle-aged and spare, looked for
half expected to find St. Paul’s Cathedral looking older. help to a waiter of more authority - a stout, potential old
For some changes in the fortunes of my friends, I was man, with a double chin, in black breeches and stockings,
prepared. My aunt had long been re-established at Dover, who came out of a place like a churchwarden’s pew, at the
and Traddles had begun to get into some little practice at end of the coffee-room, where he kept company with a cash-
the Bar, in the very first term after my departure. He had box, a Directory, a Law-list, and other books and papers.

‘Mr. Traddles,’ said the spare waiter. ‘Number two in the boy, which appeared improbable; and at the shining tables,
Court.’ where I saw myself reflected, in unruffled depths of old ma-
The potential waiter waved him away, and turned, grave- hogany; and at the lamps, without a flaw in their trimming
ly, to me. or cleaning; and at the comfortable green curtains, with
‘I was inquiring,’ said I, ‘whether Mr. Traddles, at num- their pure brass rods, snugly enclosing the boxes; and at
ber two in the Court, has not a rising reputation among the the two large coal fires, brightly burning; and at the rows
lawyers?’ of decanters, burly as if with the consciousness of pipes of
‘Never heard his name,’ said the waiter, in a rich husky expensive old port wine below; and both England, and the
voice. law, appeared to me to be very difficult indeed to be tak-
I felt quite apologetic for Traddles. en by storm. I went up to my bedroom to change my wet
‘He’s a young man, sure?’ said the portentous waiter, fix- clothes; and the vast extent of that old wainscoted apart-
ing his eyes severely on me. ‘How long has he been in the ment (which was over the archway leading to the Inn, I
Inn?’ remember), and the sedate immensity of the four-post bed-
‘Not above three years,’ said I. stead, and the indomitable gravity of the chests of drawers,
The waiter, who I supposed had lived in his church- all seemed to unite in sternly frowning on the fortunes of
warden’s pew for forty years, could not pursue such an Traddles, or on any such daring youth. I came down again
insignificant subject. He asked me what I would have for to my dinner; and even the slow comfort of the meal, and
dinner? the orderly silence of the place - which was bare of guests,
I felt I was in England again, and really was quite cast the Long Vacation not yet being over - were eloquent on the
down on Traddles’s account. There seemed to be no hope audacity of Traddles, and his small hopes of a livelihood for
for him. I meekly ordered a bit of fish and a steak, and stood twenty years to come.
before the fire musing on his obscurity. I had seen nothing like this since I went away, and it quite
As I followed the chief waiter with my eyes, I could not dashed my hopes for my friend. The chief waiter had had
help thinking that the garden in which he had gradually enough of me. He came near me no more; but devoted him-
blown to be the flower he was, was an arduous place to rise self to an old gentleman in long gaiters, to meet whom a pint
in. It had such a prescriptive, stiff-necked, long-established, of special port seemed to come out of the cellar of its own
solemn, elderly air. I glanced about the room, which had accord, for he gave no order. The second waiter informed
had its sanded floor sanded, no doubt, in exactly the same me, in a whisper, that this old gentleman was a retired con-
manner when the chief waiter was a boy - if he ever was a veyancer living in the Square, and worth a mint of money,

which it was expected he would leave to his laundress’s A small sharp-looking lad, half-footboy and half-clerk,
daughter; likewise that it was rumoured that he had a ser- who was very much out of breath, but who looked at me as
vice of plate in a bureau, all tarnished with lying by, though if he defied me to prove it legally, presented himself.
more than one spoon and a fork had never yet been beheld ‘Is Mr. Traddles within?’ I said.
in his chambers by mortal vision. By this time, I quite gave ‘Yes, sir, but he’s engaged.’
Traddles up for lost; and settled in my own mind that there ‘I want to see him.’
was no hope for him. After a moment’s survey of me, the sharp-looking lad
Being very anxious to see the dear old fellow, neverthe- decided to let me in; and opening the door wider for that
less, I dispatched my dinner, in a manner not at all calculated purpose, admitted me, first, into a little closet of a hall, and
to raise me in the opinion of the chief waiter, and hurried next into a little sitting-room; where I came into the pres-
out by the back way. Number two in the Court was soon ence of my old friend (also out of breath), seated at a table,
reached; and an inscription on the door-post informing me and bending over papers.
that Mr. Traddles occupied a set of chambers on the top sto- ‘Good God!’ cried Traddles, looking up. ‘It’s Copperfield!’
rey, I ascended the staircase. A crazy old staircase I found it and rushed into my arms, where I held him tight.
to be, feebly lighted on each landing by a club- headed little ‘All well, my dear Traddles?’
oil wick, dying away in a little dungeon of dirty glass. ‘All well, my dear, dear Copperfield, and nothing but
In the course of my stumbling upstairs, I fancied I heard good news!’
a pleasant sound of laughter; and not the laughter of an at- We cried with pleasure, both of us.
torney or barrister, or attorney’s clerk or barrister’s clerk, ‘My dear fellow,’ said Traddles, rumpling his hair in his
but of two or three merry girls. Happening, however, as I excitement, which was a most unnecessary operation, ‘my
stopped to listen, to put my foot in a hole where the Hon- dearest Copperfield, my long-lost and most welcome friend,
ourable Society of Gray’s Inn had left a plank deficient, I fell how glad I am to see you! How brown you are! How glad I
down with some noise, and when I recovered my footing am! Upon my life and honour, I never was so rejoiced, my
all was silent. beloved Copperfield, never!’
Groping my way more carefully, for the rest of the jour- I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite
ney, my heart beat high when I found the outer door, which unable to speak, at first.
had Mr. TRADDLES painted on it, open. I knocked. A ‘My dear fellow!’ said Traddles. ‘And grown so famous!
considerable scuffling within ensued, but nothing else. I My glorious Copperfield! Good gracious me, WHEN did
therefore knocked again. you come, WHERE have you come from, WHAT have you

been doing?’ of heart.
Never pausing for an answer to anything he said, Trad- ‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, ‘what a delightful re-union this
dles, who had clapped me into an easy-chair by the fire, all is! You are so extremely brown, my dear Copperfield! God
this time impetuously stirred the fire with one hand, and bless my soul, how happy I am!’
pulled at my neck-kerchief with the other, under some wild ‘And so am I,’ said I.
delusion that it was a great-coat. Without putting down the ‘And I am sure I am!’ said the blushing and laughing So-
poker, he now hugged me again; and I hugged him; and, phy.
both laughing, and both wiping our eyes, we both sat down, ‘We are all as happy as possible!’ said Traddles. ‘Even the
and shook hands across the hearth. girls are happy. Dear me, I declare I forgot them!’
‘To think,’ said Traddles, ‘that you should have been so ‘Forgot?’ said I.
nearly coming home as you must have been, my dear old ‘The girls,’ said Traddles. ‘Sophy’s sisters. They are stay-
boy, and not at the ceremony!’ ing with us. They have come to have a peep at London. The
‘What ceremony, my dear Traddles?’ fact is, when - was it you that tumbled upstairs, Copper-
‘Good gracious me!’ cried Traddles, opening his eyes in field?’
his old way. ‘Didn’t you get my last letter?’ ‘It was,’ said I, laughing.
‘Certainly not, if it referred to any ceremony.’ ‘Well then, when you tumbled upstairs,’ said Traddles, ‘I
‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, sticking his was romping with the girls. In point of fact, we were playing
hair upright with both hands, and then putting his hands at Puss in the Corner. But as that wouldn’t do in Westmin-
on my knees, ‘I am married!’ ster Hall, and as it wouldn’t look quite professional if they
‘Married!’ I cried joyfully. were seen by a client, they decamped. And they are now -
‘Lord bless me, yes,!’ said Traddles - ‘by the Reverend listening, I have no doubt,’ said Traddles, glancing at the
Horace - to Sophy - down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy, door of another room.
she’s behind the window curtain! Look here!’ ‘I am sorry,’ said I, laughing afresh, ‘to have occasioned
To my amazement, the dearest girl in the world came at such a dispersion.’
that same instant, laughing and blushing, from her place of ‘Upon my word,’ rejoined Traddles, greatly delighted,
concealment. And a more cheerful, amiable, honest, happy, ‘if you had seen them running away, and running back
bright-looking bride, I believe (as I could not help saying again, after you had knocked, to pick up the combs they
on the spot) the world never saw. I kissed her as an old ac- had dropped out of their hair, and going on in the maddest
quaintance should, and wished them joy with all my might manner, you wouldn’t have said so. My love, will you fetch

the girls?’ mentioned to you as having something the matter with her
Sophy tripped away, and we heard her received in the ad- spine, you know. Immensely better! And the two youngest
joining room with a peal of laughter. that Sophy educated are with us. And Louisa’s here.’
‘Really musical, isn’t it, my dear Copperfield?’ said Trad- ‘Indeed!’ cried I.
dles. ‘It’s very agreeable to hear. It quite lights up these old ‘Yes,’ said Traddles. ‘Now the whole set - I mean the
rooms. To an unfortunate bachelor of a fellow who has chambers - is only three rooms; but Sophy arranges for the
lived alone all his life, you know, it’s positively delicious. girls in the most wonderful way, and they sleep as comfort-
It’s charming. Poor things, they have had a great loss in So- ably as possible. Three in that room,’ said Traddles, pointing.
phy - who, I do assure you, Copperfield is, and ever was, the ‘Two in that.’
dearest girl! - and it gratifies me beyond expression to find I could not help glancing round, in search of the accom-
them in such good spirits. The society of girls is a very de- modation remaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles
lightful thing, Copperfield. It’s not professional, but it’s very understood me.
delightful.’ ‘Well!’ said Traddles, ‘we are prepared to rough it, as I
Observing that he slightly faltered, and comprehending said just now, and we did improvise a bed last week, upon
that in the goodness of his heart he was fearful of giving the floor here. But there’s a little room in the roof - a very
me some pain by what he had said, I expressed my concur- nice room, when you’re up there - which Sophy papered
rence with a heartiness that evidently relieved and pleased herself, to surprise me; and that’s our room at present. It’s
him greatly. a capital little gipsy sort of place. There’s quite a view from
‘But then,’ said Traddles, ‘our domestic arrangements are, it.’
to say the truth, quite unprofessional altogether, my dear ‘And you are happily married at last, my dear Traddles!’
Copperfield. Even Sophy’s being here, is unprofessional. said I. ‘How rejoiced I am!’
And we have no other place of abode. We have put to sea ‘Thank you, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, as we
in a cockboat, but we are quite prepared to rough it. And shook hands once more. ‘Yes, I am as happy as it’s possible
Sophy’s an extraordinary manager! You’ll be surprised how to be. There’s your old friend, you see,’ said Traddles, nod-
those girls are stowed away. I am sure I hardly know how ding triumphantly at the flower-pot and stand; ‘and there’s
it’s done!’ the table with the marble top! All the other furniture is
‘Are many of the young ladies with you?’ I inquired. plain and serviceable, you perceive. And as to plate, Lord
‘The eldest, the Beauty is here,’ said Traddles, in a low bless you, we haven’t so much as a tea-spoon.’
confidential voice, ‘Caroline. And Sarah’s here - the one I ‘All to be earned?’ said I, cheerfully.

‘Exactly so,’ replied Traddles, ‘all to be earned. Of course I should be united. I took the liberty of representing that we
we have something in the shape of tea-spoons, because we had been patient for a good many years; and that the cir-
stir our tea. But they’re Britannia metal.’ cumstance of Sophy’s being extraordinarily useful at home,
‘The silver will be the brighter when it comes,’ said I. ought not to operate with her affectionate parents, against
‘The very thing we say!’ cried Traddles. ‘You see, my her establishment in life - don’t you see?’
dear Copperfield,’ falling again into the low confidential ‘Certainly it ought not,’ said I.
tone, ‘after I had delivered my argument in DOE dem. JI- ‘I am glad you think so, Copperfield,’ rejoined Traddles,
PES versus WIGZIELL, which did me great service with the ‘because, without any imputation on the Reverend Horace, I
profession, I went down into Devonshire, and had some se- do think parents, and brothers, and so forth, are sometimes
rious conversation in private with the Reverend Horace. I rather selfish in such cases. Well! I also pointed out, that my
dwelt upon the fact that Sophy - who I do assure you, Cop- most earnest desire was, to be useful to the family; and that
perfield, is the dearest girl! -’ if I got on in the world, and anything should happen to him
‘I am certain she is!’ said I. - I refer to the Reverend Horace -’
‘She is, indeed!’ rejoined Traddles. ‘But I am afraid I am ‘I understand,’ said I.
wandering from the subject. Did I mention the Reverend ‘- Or to Mrs. Crewler - it would be the utmost gratifica-
Horace?’ tion of my wishes, to be a parent to the girls. He replied in a
‘You said that you dwelt upon the fact -’ most admirable manner, exceedingly flattering to my feel-
‘True! Upon the fact that Sophy and I had been engaged ings, and undertook to obtain the consent of Mrs. Crewler
for a long period, and that Sophy, with the permission of to this arrangement. They had a dreadful time of it with
her parents, was more than content to take me - in short,’ her. It mounted from her legs into her chest, and then into
said Traddles, with his old frank smile, ‘on our present her head -’
Britannia-metal footing. Very well. I then proposed to the ‘What mounted?’ I asked.
Reverend Horace - who is a most excellent clergyman, Cop- ‘Her grief,’ replied Traddles, with a serious look. ‘Her
perfield, and ought to be a Bishop; or at least ought to have feelings generally. As I mentioned on a former occasion, she
enough to live upon, without pinching himself - that if I is a very superior woman, but has lost the use of her limbs.
could turn the corner, say of two hundred and fifty pounds, Whatever occurs to harass her, usually settles in her legs;
in one year; and could see my way pretty clearly to that, or but on this occasion it mounted to the chest, and then to the
something better, next year; and could plainly furnish a lit- head, and, in short, pervaded the whole system in a most
tle place like this, besides; then, and in that case, Sophy and alarming manner. However, they brought her through it by

unremitting and affectionate attention; and we were mar- posure beaming from her household eyes, having made the
ried yesterday six weeks. You have no idea what a Monster tea, then quietly made the toast as she sat in a corner by the
I felt, Copperfield, when I saw the whole family crying and fire.
fainting away in every direction! Mrs. Crewler couldn’t see She had seen Agnes, she told me while she was toasting.
me before we left - couldn’t forgive me, then, for depriving ‘Tom’ had taken her down into Kent for a wedding trip, and
her of her child - but she is a good creature, and has done so there she had seen my aunt, too; and both my aunt and Ag-
since. I had a delightful letter from her, only this morning.’ nes were well, and they had all talked of nothing but me.
‘And in short, my dear friend,’ said I, ‘you feel as blest as ‘Tom’ had never had me out of his thoughts, she really be-
you deserve to feel!’ lieved, all the time I had been away. ‘Tom’ was the authority
‘Oh! That’s your partiality!’ laughed Traddles. ‘But, infor everything. ‘Tom’ was evidently the idol of her life; nev-
deed, I am in a most enviable state. I work hard, and read er to be shaken on his pedestal by any commotion; always
Law insatiably. I get up at five every morning, and don’t to be believed in, and done homage to with the whole faith
mind it at all. I hide the girls in the daytime, and make of her heart, come what might.
merry with them in the evening. And I assure you I am The deference which both she and Traddles showed to-
quite sorry that they are going home on Tuesday, which is wards the Beauty, pleased me very much. I don’t know that
the day before the first day of Michaelmas Term. But here,’ I thought it very reasonable; but I thought it very delightful,
said Traddles, breaking off in his confidence, and speaking and essentially a part of their character. If Traddles ever for
aloud, ‘ARE the girls! Mr. Copperfield, Miss Crewler - Miss an instant missed the tea-spoons that were still to be won, I
Sarah - Miss Louisa - Margaret and Lucy!’ have no doubt it was when he handed the Beauty her tea. If
They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so whole- his sweet-tempered wife could have got up any self-asser-
some and fresh. They were all pretty, and Miss Caroline tion against anyone, I am satisfied it could only have been
was very handsome; but there was a loving, cheerful, fire- because she was the Beauty’s sister. A few slight indications
side quality in Sophy’s bright looks, which was better than of a rather petted and capricious manner, which I observed
that, and which assured me that my friend had chosen well. in the Beauty, were manifestly considered, by Traddles and
We all sat round the fire; while the sharp boy, who I now di- his wife, as her birthright and natural endowment. If she
vined had lost his breath in putting the papers out, cleared had been born a Queen Bee, and they labouring Bees, they
them away again, and produced the tea-things. After that, could not have been more satisfied of that.
he retired for the night, shutting the outer door upon us But their self-forgetfulness charmed me. Their pride in
with a bang. Mrs. Traddles, with perfect pleasure and com- these girls, and their submission of themselves to all their

whims, was the pleasantest little testimony to their own never seen an obstinate head of hair, or any other head of
worth I could have desired to see. If Traddles were ad- hair, rolling about in such a shower of kisses.
dressed as ‘a darling’, once in the course of that evening; Altogether, it was a scene I could not help dwelling on
and besought to bring something here, or carry something with pleasure, for a long time after I got back and had wished
there, or take something up, or put something down, or find Traddles good night. If I had beheld a thousand roses blow-
something, or fetch something, he was so addressed, by one ing in a top set of chambers, in that withered Gray’s Inn,
or other of his sisters-in-law, at least twelve times in an hour. they could not have brightened it half so much. The idea of
Neither could they do anything without Sophy. Somebody’s those Devonshire girls, among the dry law-stationers and
hair fell down, and nobody but Sophy could put it up. Some- the attorneys’ offices; and of the tea and toast, and children’s
body forgot how a particular tune went, and nobody but songs, in that grim atmosphere of pounce and parchment,
Sophy could hum that tune right. Somebody wanted to red-tape, dusty wafers, ink-jars, brief and draft paper, law re-
recall the name of a place in Devonshire, and only Sophy ports, writs, declarations, and bills of costs; seemed almost
knew it. Something was wanted to be written home, and So- as pleasantly fanciful as if I had dreamed that the Sultan’s
phy alone could be trusted to write before breakfast in the famous family had been admitted on the roll of attorneys,
morning. Somebody broke down in a piece of knitting, and and had brought the talking bird, the singing tree, and the
no one but Sophy was able to put the defaulter in the right golden water into Gray’s Inn Hall. Somehow, I found that I
direction. They were entire mistresses of the place, and had taken leave of Traddles for the night, and come back to
Sophy and Traddles waited on them. How many children the coffee-house, with a great change in my despondency
Sophy could have taken care of in her time, I can’t imagine; about him. I began to think he would get on, in spite of all
but she seemed to be famous for knowing every sort of song the many orders of chief waiters in England.
that ever was addressed to a child in the English tongue; Drawing a chair before one of the coffee-room fires to
and she sang dozens to order with the clearest little voice think about him at my leisure, I gradually fell from the
in the world, one after another (every sister issuing direc- consideration of his happiness to tracing prospects in the
tions for a different tune, and the Beauty generally striking live-coals, and to thinking, as they broke and changed, of
in last), so that I was quite fascinated. The best of all was, the principal vicissitudes and separations that had marked
that, in the midst of their exactions, all the sisters had a my life. I had not seen a coal fire, since I had left England
great tenderness and respect both for Sophy and Traddles. three years ago: though many a wood fire had I watched, as
I am sure, when I took my leave, and Traddles was coming it crumbled into hoary ashes, and mingled with the feath-
out to walk with me to the coffee-house, I thought I had ery heap upon the hearth, which not inaptly figured to me,

in my despondency, my own dead hopes. you do, Mr. Chillip?’
I could think of the past now, gravely, but not bitterly; He was greatly fluttered by this unexpected address from
and could contemplate the future in a brave spirit. Home, a stranger, and replied, in his slow way, ‘I thank you, sir, you
in its best sense, was for me no more. She in whom I might are very good. Thank you, sir. I hope YOU are well.’
have inspired a dearer love, I had taught to be my sister. She ‘You don’t remember me?’ said I.
would marry, and would have new claimants on her tender- ‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, smiling very meekly, and
ness; and in doing it, would never know the love for her that shaking his head as he surveyed me, ‘I have a kind of an im-
had grown up in my heart. It was right that I should pay the pression that something in your countenance is familiar to
forfeit of my headlong passion. What I reaped, I had sown. me, sir; but I couldn’t lay my hand upon your name, really.’
I was thinking. And had I truly disciplined my heart to ‘And yet you knew it, long before I knew it myself,’ I re-
this, and could I resolutely bear it, and calmly hold the place turned.
in her home which she had calmly held in mine, - when I ‘Did I indeed, sir?’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Is it possible that I
found my eyes resting on a countenance that might have had the honour, sir, of officiating when -?’
arisen out of the fire, in its association with my early re- ‘Yes,’ said I.
membrances. ‘Dear me!’ cried Mr. Chillip. ‘But no doubt you are a good
Little Mr. Chillip the Doctor, to whose good offices I was deal changed since then, sir?’
indebted in the very first chapter of this history, sat reading ‘Probably,’ said I.
a newspaper in the shadow of an opposite corner. He was ‘Well, sir,’ observed Mr. Chillip, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me,
tolerably stricken in years by this time; but, being a mild, if I am compelled to ask the favour of your name?’
meek, calm little man, had worn so easily, that I thought he On my telling him my name, he was really moved. He
looked at that moment just as he might have looked when quite shook hands with me - which was a violent proceed-
he sat in our parlour, waiting for me to be born. ing for him, his usual course being to slide a tepid little
Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years ago, fish-slice, an inch or two in advance of his hip, and evince
and I had never seen him since. He sat placidly perusing the the greatest discomposure when anybody grappled with it.
newspaper, with his little head on one side, and a glass of Even now, he put his hand in his coat-pocket as soon as he
warm sherry negus at his elbow. He was so extremely con- could disengage it, and seemed relieved when he had got it
ciliatory in his manner that he seemed to apologize to the safe back.
very newspaper for taking the liberty of reading it. ‘Dear me, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip, surveying me with his
I walked up to where he was sitting, and said, ‘How do head on one side. ‘And it’s Mr. Copperfield, is it? Well, sir, I

think I should have known you, if I had taken the liberty of charmingly, sir!’
looking more closely at you. There’s a strong resemblance I acknowledged this compliment, and ordered the negus,
between you and your poor father, sir.’ which was soon produced. ‘Quite an uncommon dissi-
‘I never had the happiness of seeing my father,’ I ob- pation!’ said Mr. Chillip, stirring it, ‘but I can’t resist so
served. extraordinary an occasion. You have no family, sir?’
‘Very true, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, in a soothing tone. ‘And I shook my head.
very much to be deplored it was, on all accounts! We are not ‘I was aware that you sustained a bereavement, sir, some
ignorant, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, slowly shaking his little head time ago,’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘I heard it from your father-in-
again, ‘down in our part of the country, of your fame. There law’s sister. Very decided character there, sir?’
must be great excitement here, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, tapping ‘Why, yes,’ said I, ‘decided enough. Where did you see
himself on the forehead with his forefinger. ‘You must find her, Mr. Chillip?’
it a trying occupation, sir!’ ‘Are you not aware, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, with his
‘What is your part of the country now?’ I asked, seating placidest smile, ‘that your father-in-law is again a neigh-
myself near him. bour of mine?’
‘I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Ed- ‘No,’ said I.
mund’s, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Mrs. Chillip, coming into a ‘He is indeed, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Married a young lady
little property in that neighbourhood, under her father’s of that part, with a very good little property, poor thing.
will, I bought a practice down there, in which you will be - And this action of the brain now, sir? Don’t you find it fa-
glad to hear I am doing well. My daughter is growing quite tigue you?’ said Mr. Chillip, looking at me like an admiring
a tall lass now, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, giving his little head Robin.
another little shake. ‘Her mother let down two tucks in her I waived that question, and returned to the Murdstones.
frocks only last week. Such is time, you see, sir!’ ‘I was aware of his being married again. Do you attend the
As the little man put his now empty glass to his lips, family?’ I asked.
when he made this reflection, I proposed to him to have it ‘Not regularly. I have been called in,’ he replied. ‘Strong
refilled, and I would keep him company with another. ‘Well, phrenological developments of the organ of firmness, in Mr.
sir,’ he returned, in his slow way, ‘it’s more than I am ac- Murdstone and his sister, sir.’
customed to; but I can’t deny myself the pleasure of your I replied with such an expressive look, that Mr. Chillip
conversation. It seems but yesterday that I had the honour was emboldened by that, and the negus together, to give his
of attending you in the measles. You came through them head several short shakes, and thoughtfully exclaim, ‘Ah,

dear me! We remember old times, Mr. Copperfield!’ I told him I could easily believe it.
‘And the brother and sister are pursuing their old course, ‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ said Mr. Chillip, fortify-
are they?’ said I. ing himself with another sip of negus, ‘between you and me,
‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Chillip, ‘a medical man, being so sir, that her mother died of it - or that tyranny, gloom, and
much in families, ought to have neither eyes nor ears for worry have made Mrs. Murdstone nearly imbecile. She was
anything but his profession. Still, I must say, they are very a lively young woman, sir, before marriage, and their gloom
severe, sir: both as to this life and the next.’ and austerity destroyed her. They go about with her, now,
‘The next will be regulated without much reference to more like her keepers than her husband and sister-in-law.
them, I dare say,’ I returned: ‘what are they doing as to That was Mrs. Chillip’s remark to me, only last week. And I
this?’ assure you, sir, the ladies are great observers. Mrs. Chillip
Mr. Chillip shook his head, stirred his negus, and sipped herself is a great observer!’
it. ‘Does he gloomily profess to be (I am ashamed to use the
‘She was a charming woman, sir!’ he observed in a plain- word in such association) religious still?’ I inquired.
tive manner. ‘You anticipate, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, his eyelids getting
‘The present Mrs. Murdstone?’ quite red with the unwonted stimulus in which he was in-
A charming woman indeed, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip; ‘as dulging. ‘One of Mrs. Chillip’s most impressive remarks.
amiable, I am sure, as it was possible to be! Mrs. Chillip’s Mrs. Chillip,’ he proceeded, in the calmest and slow-
opinion is, that her spirit has been entirely broken since her est manner, ‘quite electrified me, by pointing out that Mr.
marriage, and that she is all but melancholy mad. And the Murdstone sets up an image of himself, and calls it the Di-
ladies,’ observed Mr. Chillip, timorously, ‘are great observ- vine Nature. You might have knocked me down on the flat
ers, sir.’ of my back, sir, with the feather of a pen, I assure you, when
‘I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their de- Mrs. Chillip said so. The ladies are great observers, sir?’
testable mould, Heaven help her!’ said I. ‘And she has been.’ ‘Intuitively,’ said I, to his extreme delight.
‘Well, sir, there were violent quarrels at first, I assure you,’ ‘I am very happy to receive such support in my opin-
said Mr. Chillip; ‘but she is quite a shadow now. Would it ion, sir,’ he rejoined. ‘It is not often that I venture to give a
be considered forward if I was to say to you, sir, in confi- non-medical opinion, I assure you. Mr. Murdstone delivers
dence, that since the sister came to help, the brother and public addresses sometimes, and it is said, - in short, sir, it
sister between them have nearly reduced her to a state of is said by Mrs. Chillip, - that the darker tyrant he has lately
imbecility?’ been, the more ferocious is his doctrine.’

‘I believe Mrs. Chillip to be perfectly right,’ said I. me. Do you know it was some time before I recovered the
‘Mrs. Chillip does go so far as to say,’ pursued the meek- conduct of that alarming lady, on the night of your birth,
est of little men, much encouraged, ‘that what such people Mr. Copperfield?’
miscall their religion, is a vent for their bad humours and I told him that I was going down to my aunt, the Dragon
arrogance. And do you know I must say, sir,’ he contin- of that night, early in the morning; and that she was one
ued, mildly laying his head on one side, ‘that I DON’T find of the most tender-hearted and excellent of women, as he
authority for Mr. and Miss Murdstone in the New Testa- would know full well if he knew her better. The mere no-
ment?’ tion of the possibility of his ever seeing her again, appeared
‘I never found it either!’ said I. to terrify him. He replied with a small pale smile, ‘Is she
‘In the meantime, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, ‘they are much so, indeed, sir? Really?’ and almost immediately called for
disliked; and as they are very free in consigning everybody a candle, and went to bed, as if he were not quite safe any-
who dislikes them to perdition, we really have a good deal of where else. He did not actually stagger under the negus; but
perdition going on in our neighbourhood! However, as Mrs. I should think his placid little pulse must have made two
Chillip says, sir, they undergo a continual punishment; for or three more beats in a minute, than it had done since the
they are turned inward, to feed upon their own hearts, and great night of my aunt’s disappointment, when she struck at
their own hearts are very bad feeding. Now, sir, about that him with her bonnet.
brain of yours, if you’ll excuse my returning to it. Don’t you Thoroughly tired, I went to bed too, at midnight; passed
expose it to a good deal of excitement, sir?’ the next day on the Dover coach; burst safe and sound into
I found it not difficult, in the excitement of Mr. Chill- my aunt’s old parlour while she was at tea (she wore spec-
ip’s own brain, under his potations of negus, to divert his tacles now); and was received by her, and Mr. Dick, and
attention from this topic to his own affairs, on which, for dear old Peggotty, who acted as housekeeper, with open
the next half-hour, he was quite loquacious; giving me to arms and tears of joy. My aunt was mightily amused, when
understand, among other pieces of information, that he we began to talk composedly, by my account of my meet-
was then at the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house to lay his profes- ing with Mr. Chillip, and of his holding her in such dread
sional evidence before a Commission of Lunacy, touching remembrance; and both she and Peggotty had a great deal
the state of mind of a patient who had become deranged to say about my poor mother’s second husband, and ‘that
from excessive drinking. ‘And I assure you, sir,’ he said, ‘I murdering woman of a sister’, - on whom I think no pain or
am extremely nervous on such occasions. I could not sup- penalty would have induced my aunt to bestow any Chris-
port being what is called Bullied, sir. It would quite unman tian or Proper Name, or any other designation.

CHAPTER 60 novel general conclusion) nobody but she could ever fully
know what he was.
‘And when, Trot,’ said my aunt, patting the back of my
hand, as we sat in our old way before the fire, ‘when are you
AGNES going over to Canterbury?’
‘I shall get a horse, and ride over tomorrow morning,
aunt, unless you will go with me?’
‘No!’ said my aunt, in her short abrupt way. ‘I mean to
stay where I am.’
M y aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into

the night. How the emigrants never wrote home, oth-
erwise than cheerfully and hopefully; how Mr. Micawber
Then, I should ride, I said. I could not have come through
Canterbury today without stopping, if I had been coming to
anyone but her.
had actually remitted divers small sums of money, on ac- She was pleased, but answered, ‘Tut, Trot; MY old bones
count of those ‘pecuniary liabilities’, in reference to which would have kept till tomorrow!’ and softly patted my hand
he had been so business-like as between man and man; again, as I sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.
how Janet, returning into my aunt’s service when she came Thoughtfully, for I could not be here once more, and so
back to Dover, had finally carried out her renunciation of near Agnes, without the revival of those regrets with which
mankind by entering into wedlock with a thriving tavern- I had so long been occupied. Softened regrets they might
keeper; and how my aunt had finally set her seal on the be, teaching me what I had failed to learn when my younger
same great principle, by aiding and abetting the bride, and life was all before me, but not the less regrets. ‘Oh, Trot,’ I
crowning the marriage-ceremony with her presence; were seemed to hear my aunt say once more; and I understood
among our topics - already more or less familiar to me her better now - ‘Blind, blind, blind!’
through the letters I had had. Mr. Dick, as usual, was not We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised
forgotten. My aunt informed me how he incessantly occu- my eyes, I found that she was steadily observant of me. Per-
pied himself in copying everything he could lay his hands haps she had followed the current of my mind; for it seemed
on, and kept King Charles the First at a respectful distance to me an easy one to track now, wilful as it had been once.
by that semblance of employment; how it was one of the ‘You will find her father a white-haired old man,’ said my
main joys and rewards of her life that he was free and happy, aunt, ‘though a better man in all other respects - a reclaimed
instead of pining in monotonous restraint; and how (as a man. Neither will you find him measuring all human inter-

ests, and joys, and sorrows, with his one poor little inch-rule me, but I suspect it.’
now. Trust me, child, such things must shrink very much, She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw
before they can be measured off in that way.’ her tremble), that I felt now, more than ever, that she had
‘Indeed they must,’ said I. followed my late thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I
‘You will find her,’ pursued my aunt, ‘as good, as beauti- had made, in all those many days and nights, and all those
ful, as earnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I many conflicts of my heart.
knew higher praise, Trot, I would bestow it on her.’ ‘If it should be so,’ I began, ‘and I hope it is-’
There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach ‘I don’t know that it is,’ said my aunt curtly. ‘You must not
for me. Oh, how had I strayed so far away! be ruled by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They
‘If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to are very slight, perhaps. I have no right to speak.’
be like herself,’ said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of ‘If it should be so,’ I repeated, ‘Agnes will tell me at her
her eyes with tears, ‘Heaven knows, her life will be well em- own good time. A sister to whom I have confided so much,
ployed! Useful and happy, as she said that day! How could aunt, will not be reluctant to confide in me.’
she be otherwise than useful and happy!’ My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she
‘Has Agnes any -’ I was thinking aloud, rather than had turned them upon me; and covered them thoughtfully
speaking. with her hand. By and by she put her other hand on my
‘Well? Hey? Any what?’ said my aunt, sharply. shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the past, without
‘Any lover,’ said I. saying another word, until we parted for the night.
‘A score,’ cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old
‘She might have married twenty times, my dear, since you school-days. I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the
have been gone!’ hope that I was gaining a victory over myself; even in the
‘No doubt,’ said I. ‘No doubt. But has she any lover who is prospect of so soon looking on her face again.
worthy of her? Agnes could care for no other.’ The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I
My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon came into the quiet streets, where every stone was a boy’s
her hand. Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said: book to me. I went on foot to the old house, and went away
‘I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.’ with a heart too full to enter. I returned; and looking, as I
‘A prosperous one?’ said I. passed, through the low window of the turret-room where
‘Trot,’ returned my aunt gravely, ‘I can’t say. I have no first Uriah Heep, and afterwards Mr. Micawber, had been
right to tell you even so much. She has never confided it to wont to sit, saw that it was a little parlour now, and that

there was no office. Otherwise the staid old house was, as to she came towards me. She stopped and laid her hand upon
its cleanliness and order, still just as it had been when I first her bosom, and I caught her in my arms.
saw it. I requested the new maid who admitted me, to tell ‘Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon
Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on her from a you.’
friend abroad, was there; and I was shown up the grave old ‘No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!’
staircase (cautioned of the steps I knew so well), into the ‘Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once
unchanged drawing-room. The books that Agnes and I had again!’
read together, were on their shelves; and the desk where I I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were
had laboured at my lessons, many a night, stood yet at the both silent. Presently we sat down, side by side; and her
same old corner of the table. All the little changes that had angel-face was turned upon me with the welcome I had
crept in when the Heeps were there, were changed again. dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole years.
Everything was as it used to be, in the happy time. She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,
I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street - I owed her so much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that
at the opposite houses, recalling how I had watched them I could find no utterance for what I felt. I tried to bless her,
on wet afternoons, when I first came there; and how I had tried to thank her, tried to tell her (as I had often done in let-
used to speculate about the people who appeared at any of ters) what an influence she had upon me; but all my efforts
the windows, and had followed them with my eyes up and were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.
down stairs, while women went clicking along the pave- With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agita-
ment in pattens, and the dull rain fell in slanting lines, and tion; led me back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of
poured out of the water-spout yonder, and flowed into the Emily, whom she had visited, in secret, many times; spoke
road. The feeling with which I used to watch the tramps, as to me tenderly of Dora’s grave. With the unerring instinct
they came into the town on those wet evenings, at dusk, and of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my memory
limped past, with their bundles drooping over their shoul- so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me;
ders at the ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught, I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to
as then, with the smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and shrink from nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended
briar, and the sensation of the very airs that blew upon me with it all, was her dear self, the better angel of my life?
in my own toilsome journey. ‘And you, Agnes,’ I said, by and by. ‘Tell me of yourself.
The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made You have hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this
me start and turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as lapse of time!’

‘What should I tell?’ she answered, with her radiant smile. ‘I must be a prisoner for a little while,’ said Agnes, ‘but
‘Papa is well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our here are the old books, Trotwood, and the old music.’
anxieties set at rest, our home restored to us; and knowing ‘Even the old flowers are here,’ said I, looking round; ‘or
that, dear Trotwood, you know all.’ the old kinds.’
‘All, Agnes?’ said I. ‘I have found a pleasure,’ returned Agnes, smiling, ‘while
She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her you have been absent, in keeping everything as it used to
face. be when we were children. For we were very happy then, I
‘Is there nothing else, Sister?’ I said. think.’
Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and fad- ‘Heaven knows we were!’ said I.
ed again. She smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and ‘And every little thing that has reminded me of my broth-
shook her head. er,’ said Agnes, with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon
I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; me, ‘has been a welcome companion. Even this,’ showing
for, sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confi- me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still hanging at her side,
dence, I was to discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I ‘seems to jingle a kind of old tune!’
saw, however, that she was uneasy, and I let it pass. She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she
‘You have much to do, dear Agnes?’ had come.
‘With my school?’ said she, looking up again, in all her It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with re-
bright composure. ligious care. It was all that I had left myself, and it was a
‘Yes. It is laborious, is it not?’ treasure. If I once shook the foundations of the sacred con-
‘The labour is so pleasant,’ she returned, ‘that it is scarce- fidence and usage, in virtue of which it was given to me, it
ly grateful in me to call it by that name.’ was lost, and could never be recovered. I set this steadily be-
‘Nothing good is difficult to you,’ said I. fore myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved me
Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as never to forget it.
she bent her head, I saw the same sad smile. I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my
‘You will wait and see papa,’ said Agnes, cheerfully, ‘and old adversary the butcher - now a constable, with his staff
pass the day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own hanging up in the shop - went down to look at the place
room? We always call it yours.’ where I had fought him; and there meditated on Miss Shep-
I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my herd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves
aunt’s at night; but I would pass the day there, joyfully. and likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed

to have survived that time but Agnes; and she, ever a star him; and was very, very pale.
above me, was brighter and higher. ‘Well, well!’ he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw,
When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a some trial she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion
garden he had, a couple of miles or so out of town, where he with what my aunt had told me. ‘Well! I have never told you,
now employed himself almost every day. I found him as my Trotwood, of her mother. Has anyone?’
aunt had described him. We sat down to dinner, with some ‘Never, sir.’
half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow of his ‘It’s not much - though it was much to suffer. She married
handsome picture on the wall. me in opposition to her father’s wish, and he renounced her.
The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that qui- She prayed him to forgive her, before my Agnes came into
et ground in my memory, pervaded it again. When dinner this world. He was a very hard man, and her mother had
was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no wine, and I desiring long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her heart.’
none, we went up-stairs; where Agnes and her little charges Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about
sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; his neck.
and we three sat together, talking of the bygone days. ‘She had an affectionate and gentle heart,’ he said; ‘and
‘My part in them,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white it was broken. I knew its tender nature very well. No one
head, ‘has much matter for regret - for deep regret, and could, if I did not. She loved me dearly, but was never happy.
deep contrition, Trotwood, you well know. But I would not She was always labouring, in secret, under this distress; and
cancel it, if it were in my power.’ being delicate and downcast at the time of his last repulse
I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside - for it was not the first, by many - pined away and died. She
him. left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hair that you
‘I should cancel with it,’ he pursued, ‘such patience and recollect me with, when you first came.’ He kissed Agnes
devotion, such fidelity, such a child’s love, as I must not for- on her cheek.
get, no! even to forget myself.’ ‘My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my
‘I understand you, sir,’ I softly said. ‘I hold it - I have al- mind was all unhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not
ways held it - in veneration.’ speaking of myself, Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her.
‘But no one knows, not even you,’ he returned, ‘how much If I give you any clue to what I am, or to what I have been,
she has done, how much she has undergone, how hard she you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes is, I need not say. I
has striven. Dear Agnes!’ have always read something of her poor mother’s story, in
She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are

again together, after such great changes. I have told it all.’ ever leading me to something better; ever directing me to
His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, de- higher things!’
rived a more pathetic meaning from it than they had had She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the
before. If I had wanted anything by which to mark this same sad quiet smile.
night of our re-union, I should have found it in this. ‘And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to
Agnes rose up from her father’s side, before long; and go- you, that there is no name for the affection of my heart. I
ing softly to her piano, played some of the old airs to which want you to know, yet don’t know how to tell you, that all
we had often listened in that place. my life long I shall look up to you, and be guided by you, as
‘Have you any intention of going away again?’ Agnes I have been through the darkness that is past. Whatever be-
asked me, as I was standing by. tides, whatever new ties you may form, whatever changes
‘What does my sister say to that?’ may come between us, I shall always look to you, and love
‘I hope not.’ you, as I do now, and have always done. You will always be
‘Then I have no such intention, Agnes.’ my solace and resource, as you have always been. Until I die,
‘I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,’ she my dearest sister, I shall see you always before me, pointing
said, mildly. ‘Your growing reputation and success enlarge upward!’
your power of doing good; and if I could spare my brother,’ She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud
with her eyes upon me, ‘perhaps the time could not.’ of me, and of what I said; although I praised her very far
‘What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know beyond her worth. Then she went on softly playing, but
best.’ without removing her eyes from me. ‘Do you know, what
‘I made you, Trotwood?’ I have heard tonight, Agnes,’ said I, strangely seems to be
‘Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!’ I said, bending over her. ‘I a part of the feeling with which I regarded you when I saw
tried to tell you, when we met today, something that has you first - with which I sat beside you in my rough school-
been in my thoughts since Dora died. You remember, when days?’
you came down to me in our little room - pointing upward, ‘You knew I had no mother,’ she replied with a smile, ‘and
Agnes?’ felt kindly towards me.’
‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she returned, her eyes filled with tears. ‘More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known
‘So loving, so confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?’ this story, that there was something inexplicably gentle
‘As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, and softened, surrounding you; something that might have
you have ever been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; been sorrowful in someone else (as I can now understand it

was), but was not so in you.’
She softly played on, looking at me still. CHAPTER 61
‘Will you laugh at my cherishing such fancies, Agnes?’
‘No!’
‘Or at my saying that I really believe I felt, even then, that
you could be faithfully affectionate against all discourage- I AM SHOWN TWO
ment, and never cease to be so, until you ceased to live?
- Will you laugh at such a dream?’ INTERESTING PENITENTS
‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’
For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face; but,
even in the start it gave me, it was gone; and she was playing
on, and looking at me with her own calm smile.
As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me
like a restless memory, I thought of this, and feared she was
F or a time - at all events until my book should be com-
pleted, which would be the work of several months - I
took up my abode in my aunt’s house at Dover; and there,
not happy. I was not happy; but, thus far, I had faithfully sitting in the window from which I had looked out at the
set the seal upon the Past, and, thinking of her, pointing moon upon the sea, when that roof first gave me shelter, I
upward, thought of her as pointing to that sky above me, quietly pursued my task.
where, in the mystery to come, I might yet love her with In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fic-
a love unknown on earth, and tell her what the strife had tions only when their course should incidentally connect
been within me when I loved her here. itself with the progress of my story, I do not enter on the
aspirations, the delights, anxieties, and triumphs of my art.
That I truly devoted myself to it with my strongest earnest-
ness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul, I have
already said. If the books I have written be of any worth,
they will supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to
poor purpose, and the rest will be of interest to no one.
Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the
swarm of life there, or to consult with Traddles on some
business point. He had managed for me, in my absence,

with the soundest judgement; and my worldly affairs were appeared, and hurried it into the table-drawer. But the se-
prospering. As my notoriety began to bring upon me an cret soon came out. One day, Traddles (who had just come
enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had no home through the drizzling sleet from Court) took a paper
knowledge - chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult out of his desk, and asked me what I thought of that hand-
to answer - I agreed with Traddles to have my name paint- writing?
ed up on his door. There, the devoted postman on that beat ‘Oh, DON’T, Tom!’ cried Sophy, who was warming his
delivered bushels of letters for me; and there, at intervals, slippers before the fire.
I laboured through them, like a Home Secretary of State ‘My dear,’ returned Tom, in a delighted state, ‘why not?
without the salary. What do you say to that writing, Copperfield?’
Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every ‘It’s extraordinarily legal and formal,’ said I. ‘I don’t think
now and then, an obliging proposal from one of the nu- I ever saw such a stiff hand.’
merous outsiders always lurking about the Commons, to ‘Not like a lady’s hand, is it?’ said Traddles.
practise under cover of my name (if I would take the neces- ‘A lady’s!’ I repeated. ‘Bricks and mortar are more like a
sary steps remaining to make a proctor of myself), and pay lady’s hand!’
me a percentage on the profits. But I declined these offers; Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me
being already aware that there were plenty of such covert that it was Sophy’s writing; that Sophy had vowed and de-
practitioners in existence, and considering the Commons clared he would need a copying-clerk soon, and she would
quite bad enough, without my doing anything to make it be that clerk; that she had acquired this hand from a pat-
worse. tern; and that she could throw off - I forget how many folios
The girls had gone home, when my name burst into an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told
bloom on Traddles’s door; and the sharp boy looked, all all this, and said that when ‘Tom’ was made a judge he
day, as if he had never heard of Sophy, shut up in a back wouldn’t be so ready to proclaim it. Which ‘Tom’ denied;
room, glancing down from her work into a sooty little strip averring that he should always be equally proud of it, under
of garden with a pump in it. But there I always found her, all circumstances.
the same bright housewife; often humming her Devonshire ‘What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my
ballads when no strange foot was coming up the stairs, and dear Traddles!’ said I, when she had gone away, laughing.
blunting the sharp boy in his official closet with melody. ‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, ‘she is, without
I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writ- any exception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this
ing in a copy-book; and why she always shut it up when I place; her punctuality, domestic knowledge, economy, and

order; her cheerfulness, Copperfield!’ jewelled and engine-turned, and possessed of the hori-
‘Indeed, you have reason to commend her!’ I returned. zontal lever- escape-movement, and all sorts of things, she
‘You are a happy fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and would buy for me if she could afford it; and we pick out
each other, two of the happiest people in the world.’ the spoons and forks, fish-slices, butter-knives, and sugar-
‘I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people,’ returned tongs, we should both prefer if we could both afford it; and
Traddles. ‘I admit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when really we go away as if we had got them! Then, when we
I see her getting up by candle-light on these dark morn- stroll into the squares, and great streets, and see a house to
ings, busying herself in the day’s arrangements, going out let, sometimes we look up at it, and say, how would THAT
to market before the clerks come into the Inn, caring for do, if I was made a judge? And we parcel it out - such a room
no weather, devising the most capital little dinners out of for us, such rooms for the girls, and so forth; until we settle
the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keeping to our satisfaction that it would do, or it wouldn’t do, as the
everything in its right place, always so neat and ornamen- case may be. Sometimes, we go at half-price to the pit of the
tal herself, sitting up at night with me if it’s ever so late, theatre - the very smell of which is cheap, in my opinion, at
sweet-tempered and encouraging always, and all for me, I the money - and there we thoroughly enjoy the play: which
positively sometimes can’t believe it, Copperfield!’ Sophy believes every word of, and so do I. In walking home,
He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, perhaps we buy a little bit of something at a cook’s-shop,
as he put them on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon or a little lobster at the fishmongers, and bring it here, and
the fender. make a splendid supper, chatting about what we have seen.
‘I positively sometimes can’t believe it,’ said Traddles. Now, you know, Copperfield, if I was Lord Chancellor, we
‘Then our pleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but couldn’t do this!’
they are quite wonderful! When we are at home here, of an ‘You would do something, whatever you were, my dear
evening, and shut the outer door, and draw those curtains Traddles,’ thought I, ‘that would be pleasant and amiable.
- which she made - where could we be more snug? When And by the way,’ I said aloud, ‘I suppose you never draw any
it’s fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening, the streets skeletons now?’
abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glittering ‘Really,’ replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, ‘I
windows of the jewellers’ shops; and I show Sophy which can’t wholly deny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being
of the diamond-eyed serpents, coiled up on white satin ris- in one of the back rows of the King’s Bench the other day,
ing grounds, I would give her if I could afford it; and Sophy with a pen in my hand, the fancy came into my head to try
shows me which of the gold watches that are capped and how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am afraid

there’s a skeleton - in a wig - on the ledge of the desk.’ and penitents - which, you know, is by solitary confinement.
After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up What do you say?’
by looking with a smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiv- ‘To the system?’ inquired Traddles, looking grave.
ing way, ‘Old Creakle!’ ‘No. To my accepting the offer, and your going with me?’
‘I have a letter from that old - Rascal here,’ said I. For I ‘I don’t object,’ said Traddles.
never was less disposed to forgive him the way he used to ‘Then I’ll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing
batter Traddles, than when I saw Traddles so ready to for- of our treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of
give him himself. doors, I suppose, and the life he used to lead his wife and
‘From Creakle the schoolmaster?’ exclaimed Traddles. daughter?’
‘No!’ ‘Perfectly,’ said Traddles.
‘Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising ‘Yet, if you’ll read his letter, you’ll find he is the tenderest
fame and fortune,’ said I, looking over my letters, ‘and who of men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felo-
discover that they were always much attached to me, is the nies,’ said I; ‘though I can’t find that his tenderness extends
self-same Creakle. He is not a schoolmaster now, Traddles. to any other class of created beings.’
He is retired. He is a Middlesex Magistrate.’ Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all sur-
I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear it, but he prised. I had not expected him to be, and was not surprised
was not so at all. myself; or my observation of similar practical satires would
‘How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Mag- have been but scanty. We arranged the time of our visit, and
istrate?’ said I. I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening.
‘Oh dear me!’ replied Traddles, ‘it would be very difficult On the appointed day - I think it was the next day, but
to answer that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or no matter - Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr.
lent money to somebody, or bought something of somebody, Creakle was powerful. It was an immense and solid build-
or otherwise obliged somebody, or jobbed for somebody, ing, erected at a vast expense. I could not help thinking, as
who knew somebody who got the lieutenant of the county we approached the gate, what an uproar would have been
to nominate him for the commission.’ made in the country, if any deluded man had proposed to
‘On the commission he is, at any rate,’ said I. ‘And he spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an
writes to me here, that he will be glad to show me, in op- industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the
eration, the only true system of prison discipline; the only deserving old.
unchallengeable way of making sincere and lasting converts In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of

the Tower of Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were that the ‘system’ required high living; and, in short, to dis-
presented to our old schoolmaster; who was one of a group, pose of the system, once for all, I found that on that head
composed of two or three of the busier sort of magistrates, and on all others, ‘the system’ put an end to all doubts, and
and some visitors they had brought. He received me, like a disposed of all anomalies. Nobody appeared to have the
man who had formed my mind in bygone years, and had least idea that there was any other system, but THE system,
always loved me tenderly. On my introducing Traddles, Mr. to be considered.
Creakle expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior degree, As we were going through some of the magnificent pas-
that he had always been Traddles’s guide, philosopher, and sages, I inquired of Mr. Creakle and his friends what were
friend. Our venerable instructor was a great deal older, and supposed to be the main advantages of this all-governing
not improved in appearance. His face was as fiery as ever; and universally over-riding system? I found them to be
his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The scanty, the perfect isolation of prisoners - so that no one man in
wet-looking grey hair, by which I remembered him, was al- confinement there, knew anything about another; and the
most gone; and the thick veins in his bald head were none reduction of prisoners to a wholesome state of mind, lead-
the more agreeable to look at. ing to sincere contrition and repentance.
After some conversation among these gentlemen, from Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in
which I might have supposed that there was nothing in the their cells, and to traverse the passages in which those cells
world to be legitimately taken into account but the supreme were, and to have the manner of the going to chapel and so
comfort of prisoners, at any expense, and nothing on the forth, explained to us, that there was a strong probability of
wide earth to be done outside prison-doors, we began our the prisoners knowing a good deal about each other, and of
inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse.
into the great kitchen, where every prisoner’s dinner was in This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the
course of being set out separately (to be handed to him in case; but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the
his cell), with the regularity and precision of clock-work. I system to have hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for
said aside, to Traddles, that I wondered whether it occurred the penitence as diligently as I could.
to anybody, that there was a striking contrast between these And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prev-
plentiful repasts of choice quality, and the dinners, not to alent a fashion in the form of the penitence, as I had left
say of paupers, but of soldiers, sailors, labourers, the great outside in the forms of the coats and waistcoats in the
bulk of the honest, working community; of whom not one windows of the tailors’ shops. I found a vast amount of pro-
man in five hundred ever dined half so well. But I learned fession, varying very little in character: varying very little

(which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. ber Twenty Seven reading his Hymn Book, that the little
I found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards hole was blocked up, six or seven heads deep. To remedy
of inaccessible grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of convers-
would have trusted within reach of a bunch. Above all, I ing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed
found that the most professing men were the greatest ob- the door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to
jects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity, their be invited out into the passage. This was done; and whom
want of excitement, and their love of deception (which should Traddles and I then behold, to our amazement, in
many of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!
their histories showed), all prompted to these professions, He knew us directly; and said, as he came out - with the
and were all gratified by them. old writhe, -
However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our go- ‘How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr.
ings to and fro, of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who Traddles?’
was the Favourite, and who really appeared to be a Model This recognition caused a general admiration in the
Prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement until I party. I rather thought that everyone was struck by his not
should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was being proud, and taking notice of us.
also a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to ‘Well, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, mournfully ad-
have his glory a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre miring him. ‘How do you find yourself today?’
of Twenty Seven. I heard so much of Twenty Seven, of his ‘I am very umble, sir!’ replied Uriah Heep.
pious admonitions to everybody around him, and of the ‘You are always so, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle.
beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety:
he seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became ‘Are you quite comfortable?’
quite impatient to see him. ‘Yes, I thank you, sir!’ said Uriah Heep, looking in that di-
I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on ac- rection. ‘Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside.
count of Twenty Seven being reserved for a concluding I see my follies, now, sir. That’s what makes me comfort-
effect. But, at last, we came to the door of his cell; and Mr. able.’
Creakle, looking through a little hole in it, reported to us, Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third ques-
in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was reading a tioner, forcing himself to the front, inquired with extreme
Hymn Book. feeling: ‘How do you find the beef?’
There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Num- ‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Uriah, glancing in the new di-

rection of this voice, ‘it was tougher yesterday than I could tioner in spectacles.
wish; but it’s my duty to bear. I have committed follies, ‘I thank you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer; ‘I see my follies
gentlemen,’ said Uriah, looking round with a meek smile, now, sir. I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins
‘and I ought to bear the consequences without repining.’ A of my former companions, sir; but I trust they may find for-
murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven’s celestial giveness.’
state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Con- ‘You are quite happy yourself?’ said the questioner, nod-
tractor who had given him any cause of complaint (a note ding encouragement.
of which was immediately made by Mr. Creakle), having ‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer.
subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of us, as if he felt ‘Perfectly so.’
himself the principal object of merit in a highly meritori- ‘Is there anything at all on your mind now?’ said the
ous museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess questioner. ‘If so, mention it, Twenty Eight.’
of light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, ‘if my eyes
out Twenty Eight. have not deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was
I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a acquainted with me in my former life. It may be profitable
kind of resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, to that gentleman to know, sir, that I attribute my past fol-
reading a good book! lies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless life in the service
‘Twenty Eight,’ said a gentleman in spectacles, who had of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led by
not yet spoken, ‘you complained last week, my good fellow, them into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist.
of the cocoa. How has it been since?’ I hope that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be
‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, ‘it has been better offended at my freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of
made. If I might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don’t my own past follies. I hope he may repent of all the wicked-
think the milk which is boiled with it is quite genuine; but ness and sin to which he has been a party.’
I am aware, sir, that there is a great adulteration of milk, in I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes,
London, and that the article in a pure state is difficult to be each with one hand, as if they had just come into church.
obtained.’ ‘This does you credit, Twenty Eight,’ returned the ques-
It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed tioner. ‘I should have expected it of you. Is there anything
his Twenty Eight against Mr. Creakle’s Twenty Seven, for else?’
each of them took his own man in hand. ‘Sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eye-
‘What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?’ said the ques- brows, but not his eyes, ‘there was a young woman who fell

into dissolute courses, that I endeavoured to save, sir, but rection of the voice. ‘I should wish mother to be got into my
could not rescue. I beg that gentleman, if he has it in his state. I never should have been got into my present state if I
power, to inform that young woman from me that I forgive hadn’t come here. I wish mother had come here. It would be
her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call her to better for everybody, if they got took up, and was brought
repentance - if he will be so good.’ here.’
‘I have no doubt, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner, This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction - greater
‘that the gentleman you refer to feels very strongly - as we satisfaction, I think, than anything that had passed yet.
all must - what you have so properly said. We will not de- ‘Before I come here,’ said Uriah, stealing a look at us,
tain you.’ as if he would have blighted the outer world to which we
‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer. ‘Gentlemen, I wish belonged, if he could, ‘I was given to follies; but now I am
you a good day, and hoping you and your families will also sensible of my follies. There’s a deal of sin outside. There’s
see your wickedness, and amend!’ a deal of sin in mother. There’s nothing but sin everywhere
With this, Number Twenty Eight retired, after a glance - except here.’
between him and Uriah; as if they were not altogether ‘You are quite changed?’ said Mr. Creakle.
unknown to each other, through some medium of commu- ‘Oh dear, yes, sir!’ cried this hopeful penitent.
nication; and a murmur went round the group, as his door ‘You wouldn’t relapse, if you were going out?’ asked
shut upon him, that he was a most respectable man, and a somebody else.
beautiful case. ‘Oh de-ar no, sir!’
‘Now, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, entering on a ‘Well!’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘this is very gratifying. You have
clear stage with his man, ‘is there anything that anyone can addressed Mr. Copperfield, Twenty Seven. Do you wish to
do for you? If so, mention it.’ say anything further to him?’
‘I would umbly ask, sir,’ returned Uriah, with a jerk of his ‘You knew me, a long time before I came here and was
malevolent head, ‘for leave to write again to mother.’ changed, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, looking at me; and
‘It shall certainly be granted,’ said Mr. Creakle. a more villainous look I never saw, even on his visage. ‘You
‘Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid knew me when, in spite of my follies, I was umble among
she ain’t safe.’ them that was proud, and meek among them that was vio-
Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was lent - you was violent to me yourself, Mr. Copperfield. Once,
a scandalized whisper of ‘Hush!’ you struck me a blow in the face, you know.’
‘Immortally safe, sir,’ returned Uriah, writhing in the di- General commiseration. Several indignant glances di-

rected at me. transportation for life. Twenty Seven was the knowingest
‘But I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, making bird of the lot, and had very nearly kept himself safe; but
his forgiving nature the subject of a most impious and aw- not quite. The Bank was just able to put salt upon his tail
ful parallel, which I shall not record. ‘I forgive everybody. - and only just.’
It would ill become me to bear malice. I freely forgive you, ‘Do you know Twenty Eight’s offence?’
and I hope you’ll curb your passions in future. I hope Mr. ‘Twenty Eight,’ returned my informant, speaking
W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of that sinful lot. You’ve throughout in a low tone, and looking over his shoulder
been visited with affliction, and I hope it may do you good; as we walked along the passage, to guard himself from
but you’d better have come here. Mr. W. had better have being overheard, in such an unlawful reference to these
come here, and Miss W. too. The best wish I could give you, Immaculates, by Creakle and the rest; ‘Twenty Eight (also
Mr. Copperfield, and give all of you gentlemen, is, that you transportation) got a place, and robbed a young master of
could be took up and brought here. When I think of my past a matter of two hundred and fifty pounds in money and
follies, and my present state, I am sure it would be best for valuables, the night before they were going abroad. I partic-
you. I pity all who ain’t brought here!’ ularly recollect his case, from his being took by a dwarf.’
He sneaked back into his cell, amidst a little chorus of ‘A what?’
approbation; and both Traddles and I experienced a great ‘A little woman. I have forgot her name?’
relief when he was locked in. ‘Not Mowcher?’
It was a characteristic feature in this repentance, that I ‘That’s it! He had eluded pursuit, and was going to Amer-
was fain to ask what these two men had done, to be there at ica in a flaxen wig, and whiskers, and such a complete
all. That appeared to be the last thing about which they had disguise as never you see in all your born days; when the lit-
anything to say. I addressed myself to one of the two ward- tle woman, being in Southampton, met him walking along
ers, who, I suspected from certain latent indications in their the street - picked him out with her sharp eye in a moment
faces, knew pretty well what all this stir was worth. - ran betwixt his legs to upset him - and held on to him like
‘Do you know,’ said I, as we walked along the passage, grim Death.’
‘what felony was Number Twenty Seven’s last ‘folly’?’ ‘Excellent Miss Mowcher!’ cried I.
The answer was that it was a Bank case. ‘You’d have said so, if you had seen her, standing on a
‘A fraud on the Bank of England?’ I asked. ‘Yes, sir. chair in the witness-box at the trial, as I did,’ said my friend.
Fraud, forgery, and conspiracy. He and some others. He set ‘He cut her face right open, and pounded her in the most
the others on. It was a deep plot for a large sum. Sentence, brutal manner, when she took him; but she never loosed

her hold till he was locked up. She held so tight to him, in
fact, that the officers were obliged to take ‘em both together. CHAPTER 62
She gave her evidence in the gamest way, and was highly
complimented by the Bench, and cheered right home to her
lodgings. She said in Court that she’d have took him single-
handed (on account of what she knew concerning him), if A LIGHT SHINES
he had been Samson. And it’s my belief she would!’
It was mine too, and I highly respected Miss Mowcher ON MY WAY
for it.
We had now seen all there was to see. It would have been
in vain to represent to such a man as the Worshipful Mr.
Creakle, that Twenty Seven and Twenty Eight were perfectly
consistent and unchanged; that exactly what they were then,
they had always been; that the hypocritical knaves were just
T he year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been
at home above two months. I had seen Agnes frequent-
ly. However loud the general voice might be in giving me
the subjects to make that sort of profession in such a place; encouragement, and however fervent the emotions and en-
that they knew its market-value at least as well as we did, in deavours to which it roused me, I heard her lightest word of
the immediate service it would do them when they were ex- praise as I heard nothing else.
patriated; in a word, that it was a rotten, hollow, painfully At least once a week, and sometimes oftener, I rode over
suggestive piece of business altogether. We left them to their there, and passed the evening. I usually rode back at night;
system and themselves, and went home wondering. for the old unhappy sense was always hovering about me
‘Perhaps it’s a good thing, Traddles,’ said I, ‘to have an now - most sorrowfully when I left her - and I was glad to
unsound Hobby ridden hard; for it’s the sooner ridden to be up and out, rather than wandering over the past in weary
death.’ wakefulness or miserable dreams. I wore away the longest
‘I hope so,’ replied Traddles. part of many wild sad nights, in those rides; reviving, as
I went, the thoughts that had occupied me in my long ab-
sence.
Or, if I were to say rather that I listened to the echoes
of those thoughts, I should better express the truth. They
spoke to me from afar off. I had put them at a distance, and

accepted my inevitable place. When I read to Agnes what I partly read, my thoughts that night; and that she fully com-
wrote; when I saw her listening face; moved her to smiles or prehended why I gave mine no more distinct expression.
tears; and heard her cordial voice so earnest on the shadowy This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having re-
events of that imaginative world in which I lived; I thought posed no new confidence in me, a doubt that had several
what a fate mine might have been - but only thought so, as I times arisen in my mind - whether she could have that per-
had thought after I was married to Dora, what I could have ception of the true state of my breast, which restrained her
wished my wife to be. with the apprehension of giving me pain - began to oppress
My duty to Agnes, who loved me with a love, which, me heavily. If that were so, my sacrifice was nothing; my
if I disquieted, I wronged most selfishly and poorly, and plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every poor action
could never restore; my matured assurance that I, who had I had shrunk from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to set this
worked out my own destiny, and won what I had impetu- right beyond all doubt; - if such a barrier were between us,
ously set my heart on, had no right to murmur, and must to break it down at once with a determined hand.
bear; comprised what I felt and what I had learned. But I It was - what lasting reason have I to remember it! - a cold,
loved her: and now it even became some consolation to me, harsh, winter day. There had been snow, some hours before;
vaguely to conceive a distant day when I might blamelessly and it lay, not deep, but hard-frozen on the ground. Out at
avow it; when all this should be over; when I could say ‘Ag- sea, beyond my window, the wind blew ruggedly from the
nes, so it was when I came home; and now I am old, and I north. I had been thinking of it, sweeping over those moun-
never have loved since!’ tain wastes of snow in Switzerland, then inaccessible to any
She did not once show me any change in herself. What human foot; and had been speculating which was the lone-
she always had been to me, she still was; wholly unaltered. lier, those solitary regions, or a deserted ocean.
Between my aunt and me there had been something, in ‘Riding today, Trot?’ said my aunt, putting her head in
this connexion, since the night of my return, which I can- at the door.
not call a restraint, or an avoidance of the subject, so much ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am going over to Canterbury. It’s a good
as an implied understanding that we thought of it together, day for a ride.’
but did not shape our thoughts into words. When, accord- ‘I hope your horse may think so too,’ said my aunt; ‘but at
ing to our old custom, we sat before the fire at night, we present he is holding down his head and his ears, standing
often fell into this train; as naturally, and as consciously to before the door there, as if he thought his stable preferable.’
each other, as if we had unreservedly said so. But we pre- My aunt, I may observe, allowed my horse on the for-
served an unbroken silence. I believed that she had read, or bidden ground, but had not at all relented towards the

donkeys. than before to do what I had resolved to do.
‘He will be fresh enough, presently!’ said I. How well I recollect the wintry ride! The frozen parti-
‘The ride will do his master good, at all events,’ observed cles of ice, brushed from the blades of grass by the wind,
my aunt, glancing at the papers on my table. ‘Ah, child, you and borne across my face; the hard clatter of the horse’s
pass a good many hours here! I never thought, when I used hoofs, beating a tune upon the ground; the stiff-tilled soil;
to read books, what work it was to write them.’ the snowdrift, lightly eddying in the chalk-pit as the breeze
‘It’s work enough to read them, sometimes,’ I returned. ruffled it; the smoking team with the waggon of old hay,
‘As to the writing, it has its own charms, aunt.’ stopping to breathe on the hill-top, and shaking their bells
‘Ah! I see!’ said my aunt. ‘Ambition, love of approbation, musically; the whitened slopes and sweeps of Down-land
sympathy, and much more, I suppose? Well: go along with lying against the dark sky, as if they were drawn on a huge
you!’ slate!
‘Do you know anything more,’ said I, standing compos- I found Agnes alone. The little girls had gone to their
edly before her - she had patted me on the shoulder, and sat own homes now, and she was alone by the fire, reading. She
down in my chair - ‘of that attachment of Agnes?’ put down her book on seeing me come in; and having wel-
She looked up in my face a little while, before replying: comed me as usual, took her work-basket and sat in one of
‘I think I do, Trot.’ the old-fashioned windows.
‘Are you confirmed in your impression?’ I inquired. I sat beside her on the window-seat, and we talked of what
‘I think I am, Trot.’ I was doing, and when it would be done, and of the progress
She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubt, I had made since my last visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and
or pity, or suspense in her affection: that I summoned the laughingly predicted that I should soon become too famous
stronger determination to show her a perfectly cheerful to be talked to, on such subjects.
face. ‘So I make the most of the present time, you see,’ said Ag-
‘And what is more, Trot -’ said my aunt. nes, ‘and talk to you while I may.’
‘Yes!’ As I looked at her beautiful face, observant of her work,
‘I think Agnes is going to be married.’ she raised her mild clear eyes, and saw that I was looking
‘God bless her!’ said I, cheerfully. at her.
‘God bless her!’ said my aunt, ‘and her husband too!’ ‘You are thoughtful today, Trotwood!’
I echoed it, parted from my aunt, and went lightly down- ‘Agnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.’
stairs, mounted, and rode away. There was greater reason She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we

were seriously discussing anything; and gave me her whole ‘Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not my-
attention. self. I will speak to you by and by - another time. I will write
‘My dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?’ to you. Don’t speak to me now. Don’t! don’t!’
‘No!’ she answered, with a look of astonishment. I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spo-
‘Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?’ ken to her on that former night, of her affection needing no
‘No!’ she answered, as before. return. It seemed a very world that I must search through
‘Do you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came in a moment. ‘Agnes, I cannot bear to see you so, and think
home, what a debt of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, that I have been the cause. My dearest girl, dearer to me
and how fervently I felt towards you?’ than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share your
‘I remember it,’ she said, gently, ‘very well.’ unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try
‘You have a secret,’ said I. ‘Let me share it, Agnes.’ to give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart,
She cast down her eyes, and trembled. let me try to lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it
‘I could hardly fail to know, even if I had not heard - but is not for you!’
from other lips than yours, Agnes, which seems strange - ‘Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!’ was all I
that there is someone upon whom you have bestowed the could distinguish.
treasure of your love. Do not shut me out of what concerns Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, hav-
your happiness so nearly! If you can trust me, as you say ing once a clue to hope, was there something opening to me
you can, and as I know you may, let me be your friend, your that I had not dared to think of?
brother, in this matter, of all others!’ ‘I must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heav-
With an appealing, almost a reproachful, glance, she en’s sake, Agnes, let us not mistake each other after all these
rose from the window; and hurrying across the room as if years, and all that has come and gone with them! I must
without knowing where, put her hands before her face, and speak plainly. If you have any lingering thought that I could
burst into such tears as smote me to the heart. envy the happiness you will confer; that I could not resign
And yet they awakened something in me, bringing prom- you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; that I could
ise to my heart. Without my knowing why, these tears allied not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of your
themselves with the quietly sad smile which was so fixed in joy; dismiss it, for I don’t deserve it! I have not suffered quite
my remembrance, and shook me more with hope than fear in vain. You have not taught me quite in vain. There is no
or sorrow. alloy of self in what I feel for you.’
‘Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?’ She was quiet now. In a little time, she turned her pale

face towards me, and said in a low voice, broken here and necessary to me in every boyish hope and disappointment,
there, but very clear: that to have you to confide in, and rely upon in everything,
‘I owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood - became a second nature, supplanting for the time the first
which, indeed, I do not doubt - to tell you, you are mistaken. and greater one of loving you as I do!’
I can do no more. If I have sometimes, in the course of years, Still weeping, but not sadly - joyfully! And clasped in
wanted help and counsel, they have come to me. If I have my arms as she had never been, as I had thought she never
sometimes been unhappy, the feeling has passed away. If I was to be!
have ever had a burden on my heart, it has been lightened ‘When I loved Dora - fondly, Agnes, as you know -’
for me. If I have any secret, it is - no new one; and is - not ‘Yes!’ she cried, earnestly. ‘I am glad to know it!’
what you suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. It has long ‘When I loved her - even then, my love would have been
been mine, and must remain mine.’ incomplete, without your sympathy. I had it, and it was per-
‘Agnes! Stay! A moment!’ fected. And when I lost her, Agnes, what should I have been
She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm without you, still!’
about her waist. ‘In the course of years!’ ‘It is not a new one!’ Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling
New thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mind, hand upon my shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her
and all the colours of my life were changing. tears, on mine!
‘Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour - whom ‘I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, lov-
I so devotedly love! When I came here today, I thought ing you. I returned home, loving you!’
that nothing could have wrested this confession from me. And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and
I thought I could have kept it in my bosom all our lives, till the conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before
we were old. But, Agnes, if I have indeed any new-born hope her, truly, and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped
that I may ever call you something more than Sister, widely I had come into the better knowledge of myself and of her;
different from Sister! -’ how I had resigned myself to what that better knowledge
Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my
lately shed, and I saw my hope brighten in them. fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could
‘Agnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving
more mindful of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up of mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the
here together, I think my heedless fancy never would have trouble in which it had ripened to be what it was; and hence
wandered from you. But you were so much better than I, so it was that I revealed it. And O, Agnes, even out of thy true

eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife looked fore my aunt. She was up in my study, Peggotty said: which
upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, it was her pride to keep in readiness and order for me. We
to tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered found her, in her spectacles, sitting by the fire.
in its bloom! ‘Goodness me!’ said my aunt, peering through the dusk,
‘I am so blest, Trotwood - my heart is so overcharged - ‘who’s this you’re bringing home?’
but there is one thing I must say.’ ‘Agnes,’ said I.
‘Dearest, what?’ As we had arranged to say nothing at first, my aunt was
She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked not a little discomfited. She darted a hopeful glance at me,
calmly in my face. when I said ‘Agnes’; but seeing that I looked as usual, she
‘Do you know, yet, what it is?’ took off her spectacles in despair, and rubbed her nose with
‘I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.’ them.
‘I have loved you all my life!’ She greeted Agnes heartily, nevertheless; and we were
O, we were happy, we were happy! Our tears were not for soon in the lighted parlour downstairs, at dinner. My aunt
the trials (hers so much the greater) through which we had put on her spectacles twice or thrice, to take another look
come to be thus, but for the rapture of being thus, never to at me, but as often took them off again, disappointed, and
be divided more! rubbed her nose with them. Much to the discomfiture of
We walked, that winter evening, in the fields together; Mr. Dick, who knew this to be a bad symptom.
and the blessed calm within us seemed to be partaken by ‘By the by, aunt,’ said I, after dinner; ‘I have been speak-
the frosty air. The early stars began to shine while we were ing to Agnes about what you told me.’
lingering on, and looking up to them, we thanked our GOD ‘Then, Trot,’ said my aunt, turning scarlet, ‘you did wrong,
for having guided us to this tranquillity. and broke your promise.’
We stood together in the same old-fashioned window at ‘You are not angry, aunt, I trust? I am sure you won’t be,
night, when the moon was shining; Agnes with her quiet when you learn that Agnes is not unhappy in any attach-
eyes raised up to it; I following her glance. Long miles of ment.’
road then opened out before my mind; and, toiling on, I ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said my aunt.
saw a ragged way-worn boy, forsaken and neglected, who As my aunt appeared to be annoyed, I thought the best
should come to call even the heart now beating against way was to cut her annoyance short. I took Agnes in my
mine, his own. arm to the back of her chair, and we both leaned over her.
It was nearly dinner-time next day when we appeared be- My aunt, with one clap of her hands, and one look through

her spectacles, immediately went into hysterics, for the first I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved
and only time in all my knowledge of her. me, closer to my side.
The hysterics called up Peggotty. The moment my aunt ‘She told me that she made a last request to me, and left
was restored, she flew at Peggotty, and calling her a silly me a last charge.’
old creature, hugged her with all her might. After that, she ‘And it was -’
hugged Mr. Dick (who was highly honoured, but a good ‘That only I would occupy this vacant place.’
deal surprised); and after that, told them why. Then, we And Agnes laid her head upon my breast, and wept; and
were all happy together. I wept with her, though we were so happy.
I could not discover whether my aunt, in her last short
conversation with me, had fallen on a pious fraud, or had
really mistaken the state of my mind. It was quite enough,
she said, that she had told me Agnes was going to be mar-
ried; and that I now knew better than anyone how true it
was.
We were married within a fortnight. Traddles and So-
phy, and Doctor and Mrs. Strong, were the only guests at
our quiet wedding. We left them full of joy; and drove away
together. Clasped in my embrace, I held the source of every
worthy aspiration I had ever had; the centre of myself, the
circle of my life, my own, my wife; my love of whom was
founded on a rock!
‘Dearest husband!’ said Agnes. ‘Now that I may call you
by that name, I have one thing more to tell you.’
‘Let me hear it, love.’
‘It grows out of the night when Dora died. She sent you
for me.’
‘She did.’
‘She told me that she left me something. Can you think
what it was?’

CHAPTER 63 of golden curls from between the window-curtains, to see
what happened next.
‘Let him come in here!’ said I.
There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as he
A VISITOR entered, a hale, grey-haired old man. Little Agnes, attract-
ed by his looks, had run to bring him in, and I had not yet
clearly seen his face, when my wife, starting up, cried out
to me, in a pleased and agitated voice, that it was Mr. Peg-
gotty!
W hat I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but

there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory,
on which it often rests with delight, and without which one
It WAS Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a ruddy,
hearty, strong old age. When our first emotion was over,
and he sat before the fire with the children on his knees,
thread in the web I have spun would have a ravelled end. and the blaze shining on his face, he looked, to me, as vig-
I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy orous and robust, withal as handsome, an old man, as ever
was perfect, I had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I had seen.
I were sitting by the fire, in our house in London, one night ‘Mas’r Davy,’ said he. And the old name in the old tone
in spring, and three of our children were playing in the fell so naturally on my ear! ‘Mas’r Davy, ‘tis a joyful hour as
room, when I was told that a stranger wished to see me. I see you, once more, ‘long with your own trew wife!’
He had been asked if he came on business, and had an- ‘A joyful hour indeed, old friend!’ cried I.
swered No; he had come for the pleasure of seeing me, and ‘And these heer pretty ones,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘To look
had come a long way. He was an old man, my servant said, at these heer flowers! Why, Mas’r Davy, you was but the
and looked like a farmer. heighth of the littlest of these, when I first see you! When
As this sounded mysterious to the children, and more- Em’ly warn’t no bigger, and our poor lad were BUT a lad!’
over was like the beginning of a favourite story Agnes used ‘Time has changed me more than it has changed you since
to tell them, introductory to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy then,’ said I. ‘But let these dear rogues go to bed; and as no
in a cloak who hated everybody, it produced some commo- house in England but this must hold you, tell me where to
tion. One of our boys laid his head in his mother’s lap to be send for your luggage (is the old black bag among it, that
out of harm’s way, and little Agnes (our eldest child) left her went so far, I wonder!), and then, over a glass of Yarmouth
doll in a chair to represent her, and thrust out her little heap grog, we will have the tidings of ten years!’

‘Are you alone?’ asked Agnes. with sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, and
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, kissing her hand, ‘quite alone.’ what with one thing and what with t’other, we are as well
We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him to do, as well could be. Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell
welcome enough; and as I began to listen to his old famil- upon us,’ said Mr. Peggotty, reverentially inclining his head,
iar voice, I could have fancied he was still pursuing his long ‘and we’ve done nowt but prosper. That is, in the long run.
journey in search of his darling niece. If not yesterday, why then today. If not today, why then to-
‘It’s a mort of water,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘fur to come across, morrow.’
and on’y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water (’specially ‘And Emily?’ said Agnes and I, both together.
when ‘tis salt) comes nat’ral to me; and friends is dear, and ‘Em’ly,’ said he, ‘arter you left her, ma’am - and I nev-
I am heer. - Which is verse,’ said Mr. Peggotty, surprised to er heerd her saying of her prayers at night, t’other side the
find it out, ‘though I hadn’t such intentions.’ canvas screen, when we was settled in the Bush, but what I
‘Are you going back those many thousand miles, so soon?’ heerd your name - and arter she and me lost sight of Mas’r
asked Agnes. Davy, that theer shining sundown - was that low, at first,
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he returned. ‘I giv the promise to Em’ly, that, if she had know’d then what Mas’r Davy kep from us
afore I come away. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the so kind and thowtful, ‘tis my opinion she’d have drooped
years comes round, and if I hadn’t sailed as ‘twas, most like away. But theer was some poor folks aboard as had illness
I shouldn’t never have done ‘t. And it’s allus been on my among ‘em, and she took care of them; and theer was the
mind, as I must come and see Mas’r Davy and your own children in our company, and she took care of them; and
sweet blooming self, in your wedded happiness, afore I got so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped
to be too old.’ her.’
He looked at us, as if he could never feast his eyes on us ‘When did she first hear of it?’ I asked.
sufficiently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks ‘I kep it from her arter I heerd on ‘t,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
of his grey hair, that he might see us better. ‘going on nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary place,
‘And now tell us,’ said I, ‘everything relating to your for- but among the beautifullest trees, and with the roses a-cov-
tunes.’ ering our Beein to the roof. Theer come along one day, when
‘Our fortuns, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined, ‘is soon told. I was out a-working on the land, a traveller from our own
We haven’t fared nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus Norfolk or Suffolk in England (I doen’t rightly mind which),
thrived. We’ve worked as we ought to ‘t, and maybe we lived and of course we took him in, and giv him to eat and drink,
a leetle hard at first or so, but we have allus thrived. What and made him welcome. We all do that, all the colony over.

He’d got an old newspaper with him, and some other ac- sowt out by all that has any trouble. That’s Em’ly!’
count in print of the storm. That’s how she know’d it. When He drew his hand across his face, and with a half-sup-
I came home at night, I found she know’d it.’ pressed sigh looked up from the fire.
He dropped his voice as he said these words, and the ‘Is Martha with you yet?’ I asked.
gravity I so well remembered overspread his face. ‘Martha,’ he replied, ‘got married, Mas’r Davy, in the sec-
‘Did it change her much?’ we asked. ond year. A young man, a farm-labourer, as come by us on
‘Aye, for a good long time,’ he said, shaking his head; ‘if his way to market with his mas’r’s drays - a journey of over
not to this present hour. But I think the solitoode done her five hundred mile, theer and back - made offers fur to take
good. And she had a deal to mind in the way of poultry her fur his wife (wives is very scarce theer), and then to set
and the like, and minded of it, and come through. I wonder,’ up fur their two selves in the Bush. She spoke to me fur to
he said thoughtfully, ‘if you could see my Em’ly now, Mas’r tell him her trew story. I did. They was married, and they
Davy, whether you’d know her!’ live fower hundred mile away from any voices but their own
‘Is she so altered?’ I inquired. and the singing birds.’
‘I doen’t know. I see her ev’ry day, and doen’t know; But, ‘Mrs. Gummidge?’ I suggested.
odd-times, I have thowt so. A slight figure,’ said Mr. Peggot- It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty suddenly
ty, looking at the fire, ‘kiender worn; soft, sorrowful, blue burst into a roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and
eyes; a delicate face; a pritty head, leaning a little down; a down his legs, as he had been accustomed to do when he en-
quiet voice and way - timid a’most. That’s Em’ly!’ joyed himself in the long-shipwrecked boat.
We silently observed him as he sat, still looking at the ‘Would you believe it!’ he said. ‘Why, someun even made
fire. offer fur to marry her! If a ship’s cook that was turning
‘Some thinks,’ he said, ‘as her affection was ill-be- settler, Mas’r Davy, didn’t make offers fur to marry Mis-
stowed; some, as her marriage was broken off by death. No sis Gummidge, I’m Gormed - and I can’t say no fairer than
one knows how ‘tis. She might have married well, a mort that!’
of times, ‘but, uncle,’ she says to me, ‘that’s gone for ever.’ I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on the
Cheerful along with me; retired when others is by; fond of part of Mr. Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could
going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick not leave off laughing; and the more she laughed the more
person, or fur to do some kindness tow’rds a young girl’s she made me laugh, and the greater Mr. Peggotty’s ecstasy
wedding (and she’s done a many, but has never seen one); became, and the more he rubbed his legs.
fondly loving of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old; ‘And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?’ I asked, when I was

grave enough. away round to Port Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer’s what
‘If you’ll believe me,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘Missis we call a town.’
Gummidge, ‘stead of saying ‘thank you, I’m much obleeged ‘Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?’ said I.
to you, I ain’t a-going fur to change my condition at my ‘Bless you, yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and turned to with a
time of life,’ up’d with a bucket as was standing by, and laid will. I never wish to meet a better gen’l’man for turning to
it over that theer ship’s cook’s head ‘till he sung out fur help, with a will. I’ve seen that theer bald head of his a perspir-
and I went in and reskied of him.’ ing in the sun, Mas’r Davy, till I a’most thowt it would have
Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Ag- melted away. And now he’s a Magistrate.’
nes and I both kept him company. ‘A Magistrate, eh?’ said I.
‘But I must say this, for the good creetur,’ he resumed, Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the
wiping his face, when we were quite exhausted; ‘she has been newspaper, where I read aloud as follows, from the Port
all she said she’d be to us, and more. She’s the willingest, Middlebay Times:
the trewest, the honestest-helping woman, Mas’r Davy, as ‘The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist
ever draw’d the breath of life. I have never know’d her to be and townsman, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port
lone and lorn, for a single minute, not even when the colony Middlebay District Magistrate, came off yesterday in the
was all afore us, and we was new to it. And thinking of the large room of the Hotel, which was crowded to suffoca-
old ‘un is a thing she never done, I do assure you, since she tion. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven persons
left England!’ must have been accommodated with dinner at one time,
‘Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,’ said I. ‘He has paid exclusive of the company in the passage and on the stairs.
off every obligation he incurred here - even to Traddles’s The beauty, fashion, and exclusiveness of Port Middle-
bill, you remember my dear Agnes - and therefore we may bay, flocked to do honour to one so deservedly esteemed,
take it for granted that he is doing well. But what is the lat- so highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor Mell
est news of him?’ (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middle-
Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast- bay) presided, and on his right sat the distinguished guest.
pocket, and produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from After the removal of the cloth, and the singing of Non
which he took out, with much care, a little odd-looking Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which we were at no
newspaper. loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted ama-
‘You are to understan’, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, ‘as we have teur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the
left the Bush now, being so well to do; and have gone right usual loyal and patriotic toasts were severally given and

rapturously received. Doctor Mell, in a speech replete with the conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as
feeling, then proposed ‘Our distinguished Guest, the or- if by art-magic for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSI-
nament of our town. May he never leave us but to better CHORE, who disported themselves until Sol gave warning
himself, and may his success among us be such as to ren- for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior, and the
der his bettering himself impossible!’ The cheering with lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of
which the toast was received defies description. Again and Doctor Mell, were particularly remarkable.’
again it rose and fell, like the waves of ocean. At length all I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to
was hushed, and WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, pre- have discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell,
sented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the formerly poor pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate,
present comparatively imperfect state of the resources when Mr. Peggotty pointing to another part of the paper,
of our establishment, to endeavour to follow our distin- my eyes rested on my own name, and I read thus:
guished townsman through the smoothly-flowing periods
of his polished and highly-ornate address! Suffice it to ob- ‘ TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,
serve, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that those
passages in which he more particularly traced his own suc- ‘THE EMINENT AUTHOR.
cessful career to its source, and warned the younger portion
of his auditory from the shoals of ever incurring pecuni- ‘My Dear Sir,
ary liabilities which they were unable to liquidate, brought
a tear into the manliest eye present. The remaining toasts ‘Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly
were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who graceful- perusing the lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of
ly bowed her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a considerable portion of the civilized world.
a galaxy of beauty was elevated on chairs, at once to wit-
ness and adorn the gratifying scene), Mrs. RIDGER BEGS ‘But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of
(late Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER, circumstances over which I have had no control) from the
ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly by hu- personal society of the friend and companion of my youth, I
morously remarking that he found himself unable to return have not been unmindful of his soaring flight. Nor have I been
thanks in a speech, but would do so, with their permission, debarred,
in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER’S FAMILY (well known, it is
needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At Though seas between us braid ha’ roared,

newspaper, that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed
(BURNS) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has correspondent of that journal. There was another letter
spread before us. from him in the same paper, touching a bridge; there was
an advertisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to
‘I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of be shortly republished, in a neat volume, ‘with considerable
an individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, additions’; and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Lead-
my dear Sir, taking this public opportunity of thanking you, ing Article was his also.
on my own behalf, and, I may undertake to add, on that We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other eve-
of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port Middlebay, for the nings while Mr. Peggotty remained with us. He lived with
gratification of which you are the ministering agent. us during the whole term of his stay, - which, I think, was
something less than a month, - and his sister and my aunt
‘Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not came to London to see him. Agnes and I parted from him
unappreciated. Though ‘remote’, we are neither ‘unfriended’, aboard-ship, when he sailed; and we shall never part from
‘melancholy’, nor (I may add) ‘slow”. Go on, my dear Sir, in him more, on earth.
your Eagle course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a
at least aspire to watch it, with delight, with entertainment, little tablet I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of
with instruction! Ham. While I was copying the plain inscription for him at
his request, I saw him stoop, and gather a tuft of grass from
‘Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the the grave and a little earth.
globe, will ever be found, while it has light and life, ‘For Em’ly,’ he said, as he put it in his breast. ‘I promised,
Mas’r Davy.’
‘The
‘Eye
‘Appertaining to
‘WILKINS MICAWBER,
‘Magistrate.’
I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the

CHAPTER 64 that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face,
are fainter (though they glitter still); but her rough forefin-
ger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg-grater,
is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at
A LAST RETROSPECT it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little par-
lour at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt’s old
disappointment is set right, now. She is godmother to a real
living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says
she spoils her.
A nd now my written story ends. I look back, once more

- for the last time - before I close these leaves.
I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the
There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is noth-
ing smaller than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a
dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves
road of life. I see our children and our friends around us; torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to
and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see
I travel on. my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile
What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance
crowd? Lo, these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the Brooks of Sheffield.
question! Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old
Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with
of four-score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady a delight for which there are no words. He greets me raptur-
walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather. ously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, ‘Trotwood,
Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial
nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the
at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!’
without a bit of wax candle, a yard-measure in a little house, Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and
and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul’s upon the lid. showing me a countenance in which there are some traces
The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous,
childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn’t peck imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden;
her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a

white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say. Sahara.
‘Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.’ Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia
Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, ‘Mr. Copperfield.’ has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous
‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in dinners every day, I see no green growth near her; nothing
mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.’ that can ever come to fruit or flower. What Julia calls ‘soci-
Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in ety’, I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent Place,
mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her. sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me of
‘You have seen my son, sir,’ says the elder lady. ‘Are you the Doctor as ‘so charmingly antique’. But when society is
reconciled?’ the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and
Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, when its breeding is professed indifference to everything
and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, ‘Rosa, that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must
come to me. He is dead!’ Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had
caresses her, and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, better find the way out.
‘I loved him better than you ever did!’- now soothing her to And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at
sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus his Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy
I always find them; thus they wear their time away, from in his home and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a consider-
year to year. ably reduced footing, and by no means so influential as in
What ship comes sailing home from India, and what days of yore!
English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Croe- Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy
sus with great flaps of ears? Can this be Julia Mills? aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebel-
Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black lious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyer’s-wig,
man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden sal- I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His ta-
ver, and a copper-coloured woman in linen, with a bright ble is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look
handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her around me:
dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; nev- ‘If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have
er sings Affection’s Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old enough to do!’
Scotch Croesus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned ‘You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were
hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?’
thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of ‘When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not

the town talk then!’ rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the
‘At all events,’ says Traddles, ‘if I ever am one -’ ‘Why, you girls. There is no room to spare in the house; for more of
know you will be.’ ‘the girls’ are here, and always are here, by some accident
‘Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell or other, than I know how to count. Here, when we go in,
the story, as I said I would.’ is a crowd of them, running down to the door, and hand-
We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family ing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath.
dinner with Traddles. It is Sophy’s birthday; and, on our Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow
road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy’s birthday, are the
enjoyed. three married girls with their three husbands, and one of
‘I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all the husband’s brothers, and another husband’s cousin, and
that I had most at heart. There’s the Reverend Horace pro- another husband’s sister, who appears to me to be engaged
moted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the same simple, unaffect-
there are our two boys receiving the very best education, ed fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the large table
and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head,
fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfort- across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with
ably; there are three more living with us; there are three Britannia metal.
more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger
Crewler’s decease; and all of them happy.’ yet, these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like
‘Except -’ I suggest. a Heavenly light by which I see all other objects, is above
‘Except the Beauty,’ says Traddles. ‘Yes. It was very un- them and beyond them all. And that remains.
fortunate that she should marry such a vagabond. But there I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, be-
was a certain dash and glare about him that caught her. side me.
However, now we have got her safe at our house, and got rid My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night;
of him, we must cheer her up again.’ but the dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears
Traddles’s house is one of the very houses - or it easily me company.
may have been - which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I
their evening walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting
his papers in his dressing-room and his boots with his from me, like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find
papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into upper thee near me, pointing upward!

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I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this

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I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I

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W hether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life,

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T he first objects that assume a distinct presence before

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T he carrier’s horse was the laziest horse in the world, I

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