Class__P'R_A5Jf 5 
 
 Book_, i__vv4 
 
 Copyright}!^ . 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
CHARACTER PORTRAITS 
 FROM DICKENS 
 
Charadier Portraits 
 from Dickens 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 CHARLES WELSH 
 
 Editor "Self Culture for Young People," "A Golden 
 
 Treasury of Irish Songs and Lyrics," 
 
 " Famous Battles'* 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1907 
 
Copyrighty igo"/ 
 
 By Smally Maynard & Company 
 
 Incorporated 
 
 -or:' 
 
 ^M 
 
 LIBRARY of CONSSESS: 
 
 Two Copies Receivea 
 
 DEC 26 1907 
 
 Copyrieni tntrv 
 OL/tSSA XXc. NO. 
 
 C0P1 
 
 Presswork by The Univtrsity Press, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 That Charles Dickens touched our varied 
 human nature at every point, and drew his 
 characters from every walk of life, is a mat- 
 ter of common knowledge to the lover and 
 student of his works. But the ordinary 
 reader, absorbed in the movement and in- 
 terest of the story, scarcely realizes with 
 what wonderful truthfulness as to exterior 
 and physical features,— and with what 
 powerful insight as to mental characteristics 
 his people are presented. They are intensely 
 human, every one; vital and palpitating; and 
 they endure as living personalities in the mind 
 of the reader when plot and story of the 
 novel in which they figure are often but dimly 
 remembered, or are wholly forgotten. 
 
 Those -^fe«K who have lived nearer to the 
 times and the places of which Dickens wrote 
 have met many of their prototypes and can 
 testify to the truthfulness of the portraiture; 
 but one great and wonderful power of his lies 
 in his being able to make strange characters, 
 living in a strange atmosphere, in a fast-grow- 
 ing far-off time, living and real to-day to those 
 who have never known their like in flesh and 
 blood. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 So sharp, and so vivid, so distinct, and so 
 clear, are his word paintings of the men and 
 women who live and move and have their 
 being in his pages that they suffer little, if 
 at "fell, in mental-picture-forming power, by 
 being taken out of their original setting and 
 disassociated from their action. 
 
 The one-hundred and fifty or more pen- 
 portraits from Dickens, which make up this 
 little book; selected from the 1,500 different 
 characters portrayed by him — types of busi- 
 ness men, professional men, tradesmen, and 
 women; and of men and women whose occu- 
 pations are now no more, are proof of the 
 foregoing statement and are offered as giving 
 a view of the genius and power of Dickens 
 as a portrait painter with the pen, which 
 has perhaps not hitherto been presented. 
 
 The material selected is arranged alpha- 
 betically according to the names of the char- 
 acters, and prefaced to each portrait is a 
 brief note indicating the place the individual 
 occupies in the story from which the portrait 
 is taken. At the end of each, references are 
 given to all the chapters in the story in which 
 the character appears. No liberty has been 
 taken with the text excepting omissions here 
 and there which are always indicated. 
 
 The main idea has been to present those 
 descriptions of individuals which are the 
 
PREFACE 
 
 most vivid and concise in direct description 
 rather than those which reveal their charac- 
 ters in conversation or in their actions only. 
 Many famous ones may therefore be missed 
 in this collection, but those which are given 
 will prove the truth of what has already been 
 said and the compiler of this little volume 
 will be happy if it leads the reader to a 
 better appreciation and understanding of 
 Dickens' inimitable power of pen-portraiture, 
 and a closer acquaintance with his works. 
 
 Charles Welsh. 
 Winthrop, Mass. 
 
CHARACTER PORTRAITS FROM 
 DICKENS 
 
 Benjamin Allen, Mr. Bob Sawyer's friend, 
 whose sister he purposes to marry. He was 
 foiled, however, by the girl herself, Mr. Pick- 
 wick and Mr. Winkle, who carried her off — 
 the latter marrying her without the leave of 
 any one. He was a medical student of some- 
 what dissipated character {see Bob Sawyer). 
 
 Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, 
 thick-set young man, with black hair cut rather 
 short, and a white face cut rather long. He 
 was embellished with spectacles, and wore a 
 white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted 
 black surtout, which was buttoned up to his 
 chin, appeared the usual number of pepper- 
 and-salt coloured legs, terminating in a pair 
 of imperfectly polished boots. Although his 
 coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no 
 vestige of a linen wristband; and although 
 there was quite enough of his face to admit of 
 the encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not 
 graced by the smallest approach to that ap- 
 pendage. He presented altogether rather a 
 mildewy appearance, and emitted a fragrant 
 odour of full-flavoured Cubas. 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xxx, xxxii, xxxviii, 
 
 xlviii, I, li, liii, Uv, Ivi, Ivii. 
 t 
 
MAJOR JOSEPH BAGSTOCK 
 
 Major Joseph Bagstock, a retired army 
 officer with an oriental servant. He is the p^o- 
 hetween in bringing about the marriage of Mr. 
 Dombey with Edith Granger, and he carried 
 on a kind of platonic flirtation with Miss Tox. 
 
 A wooden-featured, blue-eyed Major, with 
 his eyes starting out of his head. . . . Al- 
 though Major Bagstock had arrived at what is 
 called in polite literature, the grand meridian 
 of life, and was proceeding on his journey 
 downhill with hardly any throat, and a very 
 rigid pair of jaw-bones, and long-flapped ele- 
 phantine ears, and his eyes and complexion in 
 the state of artificial excitement already men- 
 tioned, he was mightily proud of awakening 
 an interest in Miss Tox, and tickled his vanity 
 with the fiction that she was a splendid woman 
 who had her eye on him. This he had several 
 times hinted at the club: in connexion with 
 little jocularities, of which old Joe Bagstock, 
 old Joey Bagstock, old J. Bagstock, old Josh 
 Bagstock, or so forth, was the perpetual 
 theme : it being, as it were, the Major's strong- 
 hold and donjon-keep of light humour, to be on 
 the most familiar terms with his own name. 
 
 " Joey B., Sir," the Major would say, with 
 a flourish of his walking-stick, "is worth a 
 dozen of you. If you had a few more of the 
 Bagstock breed among you. Sir, you'd be none 
 the worse for it. Old Joe, Sir, needn't look 
 
MRS. MARTHA BARDELL 
 
 far for a wife, even now, if he was on the 
 look-out; but he's hard-hearted. Sir, is Joe — 
 he's tough. Sir, tough, and de-viHsh sly ! " 
 After such a declaration, wheezing sounds 
 would be heard; and the Major's blue would 
 deepen into purple, while his eyes strained and 
 started convulsively. 
 
 Notwithstanding his very liberal laudation of 
 himself, however, the Major was selfish. It 
 may be doubted whether there ever was a more 
 entirely selfish person at heart; or at stomach 
 is perhaps a better expression, seeing that he 
 was more decidedly endowed with that latter 
 organ than with the former. He had no idea 
 of being overlooked or slighted by anybody. 
 Domhey and Son, ch. vii, x, xx, xxi, xxvi^ 
 
 xxvii, xxxi, xxxvi, xl, li, lix, Ix. 
 
 Mrs. Martha Barbell, Mr. Pickwick's land- 
 lady, gaining the notion that he had offered to 
 marry her, brings an action against him for 
 breach of promise. She is successful, Mr. 
 Pickwick refuses to pay the damages and is 
 imprisoned for the debt. Mrs. Bar dell, being 
 unable to pay the fees of the extortionate law- 
 yers, Dodson and Fogg, later on follows him 
 to prison, hearing of which Mr. Pickwick re- 
 lents, pays the damages, and sets Mrs. Bardell 
 free again. 
 
MR. BARKIS 
 
 Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix 
 of a deceased custom-house officer — was a 
 comely woman of bustling manners and agree- 
 able appearance, with a natural genius for 
 cooking, improved by study and long practice 
 into an exquisite talent. There were no chil- 
 dren, no servants, no fowls. The only other 
 inmates of the house were a large man, and a 
 small boy; the first a lodger, the second a pro- 
 duction of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man 
 was always home precisely at ten o'clock at 
 night, at which hour he regularly condensed 
 himself into the limits of a dwarfish French 
 bedstead in the back parlour ; and the infantine 
 sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bar- 
 dell were exclusively confined to the neigh- 
 bouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness 
 and quiet reigned throughout the house; and 
 in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xii, xxvi, xxxiv, xlvi. 
 
 Mr. Barkis, the carrier who takes David 
 Copperiield to Yarmouth, when he first goes to 
 school. On his way he entrusts David to tell 
 Peggotty that " Barkis is willin'." She proves 
 " willin' " also and after the queerest of court- 
 ships they are married. 
 
 Mr. Barkis appeared in an exceedingly va- 
 cant and awkward condition, and with a bundle 
 4 
 
MR. BARKIS 
 
 of oranges tied up in a handkerchief. As he 
 made no allusion of any kind to this property, 
 he was supposed to have left it behind him by 
 accident when he went away ; until Ham, run- 
 ning after him to restore it, came back with 
 the information that it was intended for Peg- 
 gotty. After that occasion he appeared every 
 evening at exactly the same hour, and always 
 with a little bundle, to which he never alluded, 
 and which he regularly put behind the door, 
 and left there. These offerings of affection 
 were of a most various and eccentric descrip- 
 tion. Among them I remember a double set of 
 pigs' trotters, a huge pincushion, half a bushel 
 or so of apples, a pair of jet earrings, some 
 Spanish onions, a box of dominoes, a canary 
 bird and cage, and a leg of pickled pork. 
 
 Mr. Barkis's wooing, as I remember it, was 
 altogether of a peculiar kind. He very seldom 
 said anything; but would sit by the fire in 
 much the same attitude as he sat in, in his 
 cart, and stare heavily at Peggotty, who was 
 opposite. One night, being, as I suppose, in- 
 spired by love, he made a dart at the bit of 
 wax-candle she kept for her thread, and put it 
 in his waistcoat-pocket and carried it off. 
 After that his great delight was to produce it 
 when it was wanted, sticking to the lining of 
 his pocket, in a partially melted state, and 
 pocket it again when it was done with. He 
 5 
 
JOHN BARSAD 
 
 seemed to enjoy himself very much, and not 
 to feel at all called upon to talk. Even when 
 he took Peggotty out for a walk on the flats, 
 he had no uneasiness on that head, I believe; 
 contenting himself with now and then asking 
 her if she was pretty comfortable; and I re- 
 member that sometimes, after he was gone, 
 Peggotty would throw her apron over her 
 face, and laugh for half-an-hour. Indeed, we 
 were all more or less amused, except that mis- 
 erable Mrs. Gummidge, whose courtship would 
 appear to have been of an exactly parallel na- 
 ture, she was so continually reminded by these 
 transactions of the old one. 
 David CopperHeld, ch: it, v, vii, viii, x, xxix, 
 xxxi. 
 
 John Barsad was really Solomon Pross, 
 the brother of Miss Pross — Lucie Manette's 
 maid. He robbed his sister of all she had, and 
 then abandoned her to poverty. He became a 
 spy and secret informer in the pay of the Eng- 
 lish Government and afterwards a turnkey in 
 the Conciergeric in Paris. 
 
 Age, about forty years; height, about five 
 feet nine; black hair; complexion dark; gen- 
 erally, rather handsome visage ; eyes dark, face 
 thin, long and sallow; nose aquiline, but not 
 straight, having a peculiar inclination towards 
 the left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister. 
 
JOHN BARSAD 
 
 Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Repub- 
 lican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, 
 always spy and Secret informer, so much the 
 more valuable here for being English that an 
 Englishman is less open to suspicion of subor- 
 dination in those characters than a French- 
 man, represents himself to his employers under 
 a false name. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ 
 of the republican French government, was 
 formerly in the employ of the aristocratic Eng- 
 lish government, the enemy of France and 
 freedom. Inference clear as day in this region 
 of suspicion, that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay 
 of the aristocratic English government. . . . 
 
 Thrown out of his honourable employment 
 in England, through too much unsuccessful 
 hard swearing there — not because he was not 
 wanted there; our English reasons for vaunt- 
 ing our superiority to secrecy and spies are of 
 very modern date — he knew that he had 
 crossed the Channel, and accepted service in 
 France : first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper 
 among his own countrymen there : gradually, 
 as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the 
 natives. He knew that under the overthrown 
 government he had been a spy upon Saint An- 
 toine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received 
 from the watchful police such heads of infor- 
 mation concerning Doctor Manette's im- 
 prisonment, release, and history as should 
 7 
 
JOHN BARSAD 
 
 serve him for an introduction to familiar con- 
 versation with the Defarges; and tried them 
 on Madame Defarge, and had broken down 
 with them signally. He always remembered 
 with fear and trembling, that that terrible 
 woman had knitted when he talked with her, 
 and had looked ominously at him as her fin- 
 gers moved. He had since seen her, in the 
 section of Saint Antoine; over and over again 
 produce her knitted registers, and denounce 
 people whose lives the guillotine then surely 
 swallowed up. He knew, as every one em- 
 ployed as he was did, that he was never safe; 
 that flight was impossible; that he was tied 
 fast under the shadow of the axe ; and that in 
 spite of his uttermost tergiversation and 
 treachery in furtherance of the reigning ter- 
 ror, a word might bring it down upon him. 
 Once denounced, and on such grave grounds 
 as had just now been suggested to his mind, 
 he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose 
 unrelenting character he had seen many 
 proofs, would produce against him that fatal 
 register, and would quash his last chance of 
 life. 
 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Bk. I, ch. Hi, vi, xiv, 
 xvi; Bk. Ill, ch. viii, ix, ix, xi, xiii, xv. 
 
HARRIET BEADLE 
 
 Harriet Beadle (called Tattycoram) 
 maid to Minnie Meagles. She was taken 
 from the Foundling Hospital by Mr. Meagles, 
 who always advised her to "count five and 
 twenty" when not in a good temper. She 
 is intractable, and insensible to all the kind- 
 ness shown her — runs away and lives with 
 Miss Wade. She is instrumental in return- 
 ing a certain box of papers which figures in 
 the story and in the end returns humble and 
 penitent to the home of her benefactors. 
 
 A handsome girl with lustrous dark hair 
 and eyes, and very neatly dressed, .... 
 a sullen, passionate girl. Her rich black hair 
 was all about her face, her face was flushed 
 and hot, and as she sobbed and raged, she 
 plucked at her lips with an unsparing hand. 
 
 The girl raged and battled with all the 
 force of her youth and fulness of life, until 
 by little and little her passionate exclama- 
 tions trailed off into broken murmurs as if 
 she were in pain. By corresponding degrees 
 she sank into a chair, then upon her knees, 
 then upon the ground beside the bed, draw- 
 ing the coverlet with her, half to hide her 
 shamed head and wet hair in it, and half, 
 as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have 
 nothing to take to her repentant breast. 
 
 " Go away from me, go away from me ! 
 9 
 
MR. BEVAN 
 
 When my temper comes upon me, I am mad. 
 I know I might keep it off if I only tried 
 hard enough, and sometimes I do try hard 
 enough, and at other times I don't and won't. 
 What have I said ! I knew when I said it, 
 it was all lies. They think I am being taken 
 care of somewhere, and have all I want. 
 They are nothing but good to me. I love 
 them dearly; no people could ever be kinder 
 to a thankless creature than they always are 
 to Yne. Do, do go away, for I am afraid of 
 you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my 
 temper coming, and I am as much afraid of 
 you. Go away from me, and let me pray and 
 cry myself better ! " 
 
 Little Dorrit, Bk. I, ch. it, xvi, xxvii, xviii; 
 Bk. ii, ch. ix, x, xx, xxxiii. 
 
 Mr. Bevan, a warm-hearted, level-headed 
 man from Massachusetts. Martin Chuzzlewit 
 met him at his New York hoarding house, and 
 he afterwards advanced him the money to 
 enable him and Mark Tapley to return to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Now, there had been at the dinner-table a 
 middle-aged man with a dark eye and a sun- 
 burnt face, who had attracted Martin's at- 
 tention by having something very engaging 
 and honest in the expression of his features; 
 but of whom he could learn nothing from 
 
 10 
 
MR. BEVAN 
 
 either of his neighbours, who seemed to con- 
 sider him quite beneath their notice. He had 
 taken no part in the conversation round the 
 stove, nor had he gone forth with the rest; 
 and now, when he heard Martin sigh for the 
 third or fourth time, he interposed with some 
 •casual remark, as if he desired, without ob- 
 truding himself upon a stranger's notice, to 
 engage him in cheerful conversation if he 
 could. His motive was so obvious, and yet so 
 delicately expressed, that Martin felt really 
 grateful to him, and showed him so, in the 
 manner of his reply. . . . 
 
 There was a cordial candour in his manner, 
 and an engaging confidence that it would not 
 be abused; a manly bearing on his own part, 
 and a simple reliance on the manly faith of 
 a stranger; which Martin had never seen 
 before. He linked his arm readily in that of 
 the American gentleman, and they walked out 
 together. 
 
 It was perhaps to men like this, his new 
 companion, that a traveller of honoured name, 
 who trod those shores now nearly forty years 
 ago, and woke upon that soil, as many have 
 done since, to blots and stains upon its high 
 pretensions, which in the brightness of his 
 distant dreams were lost to view; appealed 
 in these words — 
 
 II 
 
BITZER 
 
 Oh but for such, Columbia's days were done; 
 Rank without ripeness, quickened without 
 
 sun, 
 Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, 
 Her fruits would fall before her spring were 
 
 o'er! 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xv, xvii, xxi, xxxiii, 
 xxxiv, xliii. 
 
 BiTZER, a pupil of Mr. McChoakumchild in 
 Gradgrind's Model School, who as a result 
 of their methods grew up devoid of fancy, sen- 
 timent and affection. 
 
 His cold eyes would hardly have been 
 eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, 
 by bringing them into immediate contrast 
 with something paler than themselves, ex- 
 pressed their form. His short-cropped hair 
 might have been a mere continuation of the 
 sandy freckles on his forehead and face. 
 His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in 
 the natural tinge, that he looked as though, 
 if it were cut, he would bleed 'white. 
 
 " Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. " Your 
 definition of a horse." 
 
 " Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, 
 namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, 
 and twelve incisors. Sheds coat in the spring; 
 in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs 
 
 12 
 
BITZER 
 
 hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. 
 Age known by marks in mouth." Thus (and 
 much more) Bitzer. . . . 
 
 He held the respectable office of general 
 spy and informer in the establishment, for 
 which volunteer service he received a present 
 at Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. 
 He had grown into an extremely clear- 
 headed, cautious, prudent young man, who 
 was safe to rise in the world. His mind was 
 so exactly regulated, that he had no affections 
 or passions. All his proceedings were the re- 
 sult of the nicest and coldest calculation; and 
 it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit 
 habitually observed of him, that he was a 
 young man of the steadiest principle she had 
 ever known. Having satisfied himself, on his 
 father's death, 'that his mother had a right of 
 settlement in Coketown, this young economist 
 had asserted that right for her with such a 
 steadfast adherence to the principle of the 
 case, that she had been shut up in the work- 
 house ever since. It must be admitted that 
 he allowed her half a pound of tea a year, 
 which was weak in him: first, because all 
 gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise 
 the recipient, and secondly, because his only 
 reasonable transaction in that commodity 
 would have been to buy it for as little as he 
 could possibly give, and sell it for as much as 
 13 
 
DOCTOR BLIMBER 
 
 he could possibly get; it having been clearly 
 ascertained by philosophers that in this is 
 comprised the whole duty of man — not a 
 part of man's duty, but the whole. 
 " Hard Times," Book I, ch. ii; Book II, ch. i, 
 iv, vi, vii, ix, xi; Book III, ch. vn, ix. 
 
 Doctor Blimber, the proprietor of the ex- 
 clusive private school at Brighton, where Paul 
 Dombey was educated to death. 
 
 The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit 
 of black, with strings at his knees and stock- 
 ings below them. He had a bald head, highly 
 polished; a deep voice, and a chin so very 
 double that it was a wonder how he ever man- 
 aged to shave into the creases. He had like- 
 wise a pair of little eyes that were always half 
 shut up, and a mouth that was always ex- 
 panded into a grin as if he had, at that mo- 
 ment, posed a boy, and were waiting to con- 
 vict him from his own lips. Insomuch that 
 when the Doctor put his right hand into the 
 breast of his coat, and with his other hand 
 behind him, and a scarcely perceptible wag of 
 his head, made the commonest observation to 
 a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment 
 from the Sphinx, and settled his business. 
 
 Whenever a young gentleman was taken in 
 hand by Doctor Blimber, he might consider 
 himself sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The 
 14 
 
DOCTOR BLIMBER 
 
 Doctor only undertook the charge of ten 
 young gentlemen, but he had, always ready, 
 a supply of learning for a hundred, on the 
 lowest estimate; and it was at once the busi- 
 ness and delight of his life to gorge the un- 
 happy ten with it. 
 
 In fact, Doctor Bliraber's establishment was 
 a great hot-house, in which there was a forc- 
 ing apparatus incessantly at work. All the 
 boys blew before their time. Mental green- 
 peas were produced at Christmas, and intel- 
 lectual asparagus all the year round. Mathe- 
 matical gooseberries (very sour ones too) 
 were common at untimely seasons, and from 
 mere sprouts of bushes, under Doctor Blim- 
 ber's cultivation. Every description of Greek 
 and Latin vegetable was got off the dryest 
 twigs of boys, under the frostiest circum- 
 stances. Nature was of no consequence at 
 all No matter what a young gentleman was 
 intended to bear. Doctor Blimber made him 
 bear to pattern, somehow or other. 
 
 This was all very pleasant and ingenious 
 but the system of forcing was attended with 
 its usual disadvantages. There was no the 
 right taste about the premature productions, 
 and they didn't keep well. 
 Dombey and Son, ch. xi, xii. xix. xxw, xU, 
 
 Ix. 
 
 IS 
 
JOSIAH BOUNDERBY 
 
 JosiAH BouNDERBY^ Wealthy self-made man 
 
 and a vulgar braggart. He married the 
 
 daughter of Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 He was a rich man: banker, merchant, 
 manufacturer, and what not. A big loud 
 man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A 
 man made out of a coarse material, which 
 seemed to have been stretched to make so 
 much of him. A man with a great puffed 
 head and forehead, swelled veins in his tem- 
 ples, and such a strained skin to his face that 
 it seemed to hold his eyes open, and lift his 
 eyebrows up. A man with a pervading ap- 
 pearance on him of being inflated like a bal- 
 loon, and ready to start. A man who could 
 never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made 
 man. A man who was always proclaiming, 
 through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a 
 voice of his, his old ignorance and his old 
 poverty. A man who was the Bully of hu- 
 mility. . . . 
 
 His seven or eight and forty might have 
 had the seven or eight added to it again, 
 without surprising anybody. He had not 
 much hair. One might have fancied he had 
 talked it off; and that what was left, all 
 standing up in disorder, was in that condition 
 from being constantly blown about by his 
 windy boastfulness. . . . 
 
 " I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a 
 i6 
 
JOSIAH BOUNDERBY 
 
 stocking, I didn't know such a thing by name. 
 I passed the day in a ditch, and the night in 
 a pigsty. That's the way I spent my tenth 
 birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, 
 for I was born in a ditch." . . . 
 
 As soon as I was big enough to run away, 
 of course I ran away. Then I became a 
 young vagabond; and instead of one old 
 woman knocking me about and starving me, 
 everybody of all ages knocked me about and 
 starved me. They were right; they had no 
 business to do anything else. I was a nui- 
 sance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know 
 that very well." . . . 
 
 " I was to pull through it I suppose. 
 Whether I was to do it or not, ma'am, I did 
 it. I pulled through it, though nobody threw 
 me out a rope. Vagabond, errand-boy, vaga- 
 bond, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, 
 small partner, Josiah Bounderby of Coke- 
 town. These are the antecedents, and the 
 culmination. Josiah Bounderby of Coketown 
 learnt his letters from the outsides of the 
 shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, and was first able to 
 tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying 
 tl.e steeple clock of St. Giles's Church, London, 
 under the direction of a drunken cripple, who 
 was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible 
 vagrant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of Coke- 
 town, of your district schools, and your model 
 17 
 
LAWRENCE BOYTHORN 
 
 schools, and your training schools, and your 
 whole kettle-of-fish of schools; and Josiah 
 Bounderby of Coketown tells you plainly, all 
 right, all correct — he hadn't such advan- 
 tages — but let us have hard-headed, solid- 
 fisted people — the education that made him 
 won't do for everybody, he knows well — such 
 and such his education was, however and you 
 may force him to swallow boiling fat, but you 
 shall never force him to suppress the facts of 
 his life." 
 
 Hard Times, Book I, ch. iii-ix, xi, xiv-xvi; 
 Book II, ch. i-xii; Book III, ch. ii-ix. 
 
 Lawrence Boythorn — a friend of Mr, 
 
 Jarndyce. 
 
 " I went to school with this fellow, Law- 
 rence Boythorn," said Mr. Jarndyce, " more 
 than five-and-forty years ago. He was then 
 the most impetuous boy in the world, and he 
 is now the most impetuous man. He was 
 then the loudest boy in the world, and he is 
 now the loudest man. He was then the 
 heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and 
 he is now the heartiest and sturdiest man. 
 He is a tremendous fellow some ten years 
 older than I, and a couple of inches taller, 
 with his head thrown back like an old soldier, 
 his stalwart chest squared, his hands like a 
 i8 
 
LAWRENCE BOYTHORN 
 
 clean blacksmith's, and his lungs ! — there's 
 no simile for his lungs. Talking, laughing, 
 or snoring, they make the beams of the house 
 shake. . . . But it's the inside of the man, 
 the warm heart of the man, the passion of 
 the man, the fresh blood of the man, . . . 
 that I speak of; his language is as sounding 
 as his voice. He is always in extremes; per- 
 petually in the superlative degree. In his 
 condemnation he is all ferocity. You might 
 suppose him to be an Ogre, from what he says ; 
 and I believe he has the reputation of one 
 with some people. There ! I tell you no more 
 of him beforehand. You must not be sur- 
 prised to see him take me under his protec- 
 tion; for he has never forgotten that I was 
 a low boy at school, and that our friendship 
 began in his knocking two of my head ty- 
 rant's teeth out (he says six) before break- 
 fast.'* ... 
 
 We all conceived a prepossession in his 
 favour; for there was a sterling quality in 
 this laugh, and in his vigorous healthy voice, 
 and in the roundness and fulness with which 
 he uttered every word he spoke, and in the 
 very fury of his superlatives, which seemed 
 to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. 
 But we were hardly prepared to have it so 
 confirmed by his appearance, when Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce presented him. He was not only a very 
 19 
 
SALLY BRASS 
 
 handsome old gentleman — upright and stal- 
 wart as he had been described to us, with a 
 massive grey head, a fine composure of face 
 when silent, a figure that might have become 
 corpulent but for his being so continually in 
 earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin 
 that might have subsided into a double chin 
 but for the vehement emphasis in which it 
 was constantly required to assist; but he was 
 such a true gentleman in his manner, so chiv- 
 alrously polite, his face was lighted by a 
 smile of so much sweetness and tenderness, 
 and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to 
 hide, but showed himself exactly as he was 
 — incapable (as Richard said) of anything 
 on a limited scale, and firing away with those 
 blank great guns, because he carried no small 
 arms whatever — that really I could not help 
 looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat 
 at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed 
 with Ada and me, or was led by Mr. Jarndyce 
 into some great volley of superlatives, or 
 threw up his head like a bloodhound, and 
 gave out that tremendous Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Bleak House, ch. ix, xii, xiii, xv, xviii, xxiii, 
 xUii, Ixvi. 
 
 Sally Brass, sister of Sampson Brass. 
 Clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary, con- 
 fidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of 
 20 
 
SALLY BRASS 
 
 cost increaser, Miss Brass — a kind of ama- 
 zon at common law. . . . [she] was a 
 lady of thirty-five or thereabouts, of gaunt 
 and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which 
 if it repressed the softer emotions of love, 
 and kept admirers at a distance, certainly 
 inspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts 
 of those male strangers who had the hap- 
 piness to approach her. In face she bore a 
 striking resemblance to her brother, Samp- 
 son — so exact indeed, was the likeness be- 
 tween them, that had it consorted with Miss 
 Brass's maiden modesty and gentle woman- 
 hood to have assumed her brother's clothes 
 in a frolic and sat down beside him, it would 
 have been difficult for the oldest friend of the 
 family to determine which was Sampson and 
 which was Sally, especially as the lady 
 caM-ied upon her upper lip certain reddish 
 demonstrations, which, if the imagination had 
 been assisted by her attire, might have been 
 mistaken for a beard. These were, how- 
 ever, in all probability, nothing more than 
 eye-lashes in a wrong place, as the eyes of 
 Miss Brass were quite free from any such 
 natural impertinencies. In complexion Miss 
 Brass was sallow — rather a dirty sallow, so 
 to speak — but this hue was agreeably re- 
 lieved by the healthy glow which mantled in 
 the extreme tip of her laughing nose. Her 
 
 . 21 
 
SALLY BRASS 
 
 voice was exceedingly impressive — deep and 
 rich in quality, and once heard, not easily 
 forgotten. Her usual dress was a green 
 gown, in colour not unlike the curtain of the 
 office window, made tight to the figure, and 
 terminating at the throat, where it was fas- 
 tened behind by a peculiarly large and massive 
 button. 
 
 Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and plain- 
 ness are tiie soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore 
 no collar or kerchief except upon her head, 
 which was invariably ornamented with a 
 brown gauze scarf, like the wing of the fabled 
 vampire, and which, twisted into any form 
 that happened to suggest itself, formed an 
 easy and graceful head-dress. 
 
 Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, 
 she was of a strong and vigorous turn, having 
 from her earliest youth devoted herself with 
 uncommon ardour to the study of the law; 
 not wasting her speculations upon its eagle 
 flights, which are rare, but tracing it atten- 
 tively through all the slippery and eel-like 
 crawlings in which it commonly pursues its 
 way. Nor had she, like many persons of 
 great intellect, confined herself to theory, 
 or stopped short where practical usefulness 
 begins; inasmuch as she could ingross, fair- 
 copy, fill up printed forms with perfect ac- 
 curacy, and in short transact any ordinary 
 
 22 
 
SAMPSON BRASS 
 
 duty of the office down to pouncing a skin 
 of parchment or mending a pen. It is diffi- 
 cult to understand" how, possessed of these 
 combined attractions, she should remain Miss 
 Brass; but whether she had steeled her heart 
 against mankind, or whether those who might 
 have wooed and won her, were deterred by 
 fears that, being learned in the law, she might 
 have too near her fingers' ends those particu- 
 lar statutes which regulate what are famil- 
 iarly termed actions for breach, certain it is 
 that she was still in a state of celibacy, and 
 still in daily occupation of her old stool op- 
 posite to that of her brother Sampson. . . . 
 
 She was in a state of lawful innocence, so 
 to speak. The law had been her nurse, and, 
 as bandy-legs or some physical deformities in 
 children are held to be the consequence of bad 
 nursing, so, if in a mind so beautiful any 
 moral twist or bandiness could be found. Miss 
 Sally Brass's nurse was alone to blame. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. xxxiii-xxxviii, 
 
 xlix, li, Ivi-lx, Ixii-lxiv, Ixvi, Ixvii, Ixxxiii. 
 
 Sampson Brass, an attorney of no very 
 good repute of Bevis Marks, London — 
 Quilp's legal adviser. ' At the end of his ne- 
 farious career he fell into the clutches of the 
 lafw and was sent into penal servitude. 
 
 He was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like 
 a wen, a protruding forehead, retreating eyes, 
 23 
 
SAMPSON BRASS 
 
 and hair of a deep red. He wore a long 
 black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, 
 short black trousers, high shoes, and cotton 
 stockings of a bluish grey. He had a cring- 
 ing manner but a very harsh voice, and his 
 blandest smiles were so extremely forbidding, 
 that to have had his company under the least 
 repulsive circumstances, one would wished 
 him to be out of temper that he might only 
 scowl. 
 
 It was a maxim with Mr. Brass that the 
 habit of paying compliments kept a man's 
 tongue oiled without any expense; and, as 
 that useful member ought never to grow 
 rusty or creak in turning on its hinges in the 
 case of a practitioner of the law, in whom it 
 should be always glib and easy, he lost few op- 
 portunities of improving himself by the utter- 
 ance of handsome speeches and eulogistic ex- 
 pressions. And this had passed into such a 
 habit with him, that, if he could not be cor- 
 rectly said to have his tongue at his fingers' 
 ends, he might certainly be said to have it 
 anywhere but in his face: which being, as 
 we have already seen, of a harsh and repul- 
 sive character, was not oiled so easily, but 
 frowned above all the smooth speeches — one 
 of nature's beacons, warning off those who 
 navigated the shoals and breakers of the 
 World, or of that dangerous strait the Law, 
 24 
 
JEFFERSON BRICK 
 
 and admonishing them to seek less treacher- 
 ous harbours and try their fortune elsewhere. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. xxxiii-xxxviii, 
 li, Ivi, Iviii-lx, Ixiii-lxvii, Ixxiii. 
 
 Mr. Jefferson Brick, the war correspond- 
 ent of " The Rowdy Journal " introduced to 
 Martin Chuzzlewit by the Editor, Colonel 
 Driver, — a gentleman who " had reason to 
 know that the aristocratic circles of [^Eng- 
 land'] quail before the name of Jefferson 
 Brick." 
 
 A small young gentleman of very juvenile 
 appearance, and unwholesomely pale in the 
 face; partly, perhaps, from intense thought, 
 but partly, there is no doubt, from the exces- 
 sive use of tobacco, which he was at that 
 moment chewing vigorously. He wore his 
 shirt-collar turned down over a black ribbon, 
 and his lank hair — a fragile crop — was not 
 only smoothed and parted back from his brow, 
 that none of the Poetry of his aspect might 
 be lost, but had here and there been grubbed 
 up by the roots ; which accounted for his lofti- 
 est developments being somewhat pimply. 
 He had that order of nose on which the envy 
 of mankind has bestowed the appellation 
 " snub," and it was very much turned up at 
 the end, as with a lofty scorn. Upon the 
 upper lip of- this young gentleman, were tok- 
 25 
 
MR. INSPECTOR BUCKET 
 
 ens of a sandy down — so very, very smooth 
 and scant, that, though encouraged to the ut- 
 most, it looked more like a recent trace of 
 gingerbread, than the fair promise of a 
 moustache; and this conjecture, his appar- 
 ently tender age went far to strengthen. He 
 was intent upon his work; and every time he 
 snapped the great pair of scissors, he made a 
 corresponding motion with his jaws, which 
 gave him a very terrible appearance. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xvi. 
 
 Mr. Inspector Bucket, the detective oMcer 
 who brings to light the murderer of Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn, when Lady Dedlock was under 
 suspicion. 
 
 He is a sharp-eyed man — a quick keen 
 man — and he takes in everybody's look at 
 him, all at once, individually and collectively, 
 in a manner that stamps him a remarkable 
 man. . . . When Mr. Bucket has a mat- 
 ter of pressing interest under his considera- 
 tion, the fat forefinger seems to rise to the 
 dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to 
 his ears, and it whispers information; he puts 
 it to his lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy; 
 he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his 
 scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and 
 it charms him to his destruction. The Au- 
 26 
 
 m 
 
MR. INSPECTOR BUCKET 
 
 gurs of the Detective Temple invariably pre- 
 dict, that when Mr. Bucket and that finger 
 are much in conference, a terrible avenger 
 will be heard of before long. 
 
 Otherwise mildly studious in his observa- 
 tion of human nature, on the whole a be- 
 nignant philosopher not disposed to be severe 
 upon the follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket per- 
 vades a vast number of houses, and strolls 
 about an infinity of streets: to outward ap- 
 pearance rather languishing for want of an 
 object. He is in the friendliest condition to- 
 ward his species, and will drink with most of 
 them. He is free with his money, afifable in 
 his manners, innocent in his conversation — 
 but, through the placid stream of his life, 
 there glides an under-current of forefinger. 
 
 Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. 
 Like man in the abstract, he is here to-day 
 and gone to-morrow — but, very unlike man 
 indeed, he is here again the next day. . . . 
 He is no great scribe; rather handling his 
 pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with 
 him always convenient to his grasp; and dis- 
 courages correspondence with himself in oth- 
 ers, as being too artless and direct a way 
 of doing delicate business. Further, he often 
 sees damaging letters produced ii) evidence, 
 and has occasion to reflect that it was a green 
 thing to write them. For these reasons he 
 27 
 
MR. BUMBLE 
 
 has very little to do with letters, either as 
 sender or receiver. 
 
 Bleak- House, ch. xxii, xxiv, xxv, xlix, liii, 
 liv, hi, Ivii, lix, Ixi, IxU. 
 
 Mr. Bumble, a parish beadle puffed up with 
 the importance of his position — an insolent, 
 tyrannical, pompous, greedy, selfish scoundrel. 
 He marries the matron of the workhouse 
 where Oliver Twist was farmed — and in the 
 end loses his place on account of selling some 
 articles left by the mother of Oliver for the 
 purpose of the boy's identiiication. 
 
 Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from 
 the work-house gate; and walked, with port- 
 ly carriage and commanding steps, up the 
 High Street. He was in the full bloom and 
 pride of beadlehood ; his cocked hat and coat 
 were dazzling in the morning sun; and he 
 clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity 
 of health and power. Mr. Bumble always 
 carried his head high ; but this morning it was 
 higher than usual. There was an abstraction 
 in his eye, an elevation in his air, which 
 might have warned an observant stranger 
 that thoughts were passing in the beadle's 
 mind, too great for utterance. 
 
 Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with 
 the small shop-keepers and others who spoke 
 to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He 
 28 
 
MR. BUMBLE 
 
 merely returned their salutations with a wave 
 of his hand; and relaxed not in his dignified 
 pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. 
 Mann tended the infant paupers with pa- 
 rochial care. 
 
 Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a 
 choleric. He had a decided propensity for 
 bullying; derived no inconsiderable pleasure 
 from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, con- 
 sequently, was (it is needless to say) a cow- 
 ard. This is by no means a disparagement to 
 his character; for many official personages, 
 who are held in high respect and admiration, 
 are the victims of similar infirmities. The 
 remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour 
 than otherwise, and with a view of impressing 
 the reader with a just sense of his qualifica- 
 tions for office. . . . 
 
 Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, 
 with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless 
 grate, whence, as it was summer time, no 
 brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection 
 of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were 
 sent back from its cold and shining surface. 
 A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to 
 which he occasionally raised his eyes in 
 gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects 
 hovered round the gaudy network, Mr. Bum- 
 ble would heave a deep sigh, while a more 
 gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. 
 29 
 
MR. BUMBLE 
 
 Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that 
 the insects brought to mind, some painful 
 passage in his own past life. 
 
 Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the onlyrthing 
 calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy 
 in the bosom of a spectator.>^ There were not 
 wanting other appearances, and those closely 
 connected with his own person, which an- 
 nounced that a great change had taken place 
 in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, 
 and the cocked-hat; where were they? He 
 still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton 
 stockings on his nether limbs ; but they were 
 not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; 
 and in that respect like the coat, but, oh, how 
 different ! The mighty cocked-hat was re- 
 placed by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble 
 was no longer a beadle. 
 
 There are some promotions in life, which, 
 independent of the more substantial rewards 
 they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity 
 from the coats and waistcoats connected with 
 them. A field-marshal has his uniform ; a 
 bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk 
 gown; a beadle his cocked-hat. Strip the 
 bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his 
 hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere 
 men. Dignity, and even holiness too, some- 
 times, are more questions of coat and waist- 
 coat than some people imagine. 
 30 
 
CAPTAIN JACK BUNSBY 
 
 Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and 
 was master of the workhouse. Another 
 beadle had come into power; and on him the 
 cocked-hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all 
 three descended. 
 Oliver Twist, ch. i, iii-v, zni, xvii, xxiii, 
 
 xxxvii, xxxviii, U. 
 
 Captain Jack Bunsby, an oracular friend 
 of Captain Cuttle, who always looks to him 
 for advice. He is master of a vessel called 
 the "Cautious Clara" and is finally captured 
 and married by force to Mrs. MacStinger, 
 his landlady and formerly Captain Cuttle's — 
 who succeeded in escaping her clutches. 
 
 Immediately there appeared, coming slowly 
 up above the bulk-head of the cabin, another 
 bulk-head — human, and very large — with 
 one stationary eye in the mahogany face, and 
 one revolving one, on the principle of some 
 lighthouses. This head was "decorated with 
 shaggy hair, like oakum, which had no gov- 
 erning inclination towards the north, east, 
 west, or south, but inclined to all four quar- 
 ters of the compass, and to every point upon 
 it. The head was followed by a perfect 
 desert of chin, and by a shirt-collar and neck- 
 erchief, and by a dreadnought pilot-coat, and 
 b;- a pair of dreadnought pilot-trousers, 
 whereof the waistband was so very broad and 
 31 
 
SYDNEY CARTON 
 
 high, that it became a succedaneum for a 
 waistcoat : being ornamented near the wear- 
 er's breast-bone with some massive wooden 
 buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower 
 portions of these pantaloons became revealed, 
 Bunsby stood confessed ; his hands in their 
 pockets, which were of vast size ; and his gaze 
 directed, not to Captain Cuttle or the ladies, 
 but the mast-head. 
 Domhey and Son, ch. xxviii, xxxix, Ix. 
 
 Sydney Carton, a lawyer's "devil" and 
 drudge for Mr. Stryver, a man of good senti- 
 ment and great ability, hut dissipated and 
 reckless. He is in love with Lucie Manette, 
 but knowing his unworthiness, he declares his 
 love and leaves her forever. Her husband is 
 condemned to death during the Terror. Car- 
 ton rescues him by drugging him and chang- 
 ing clothes with him — the resemblance be- 
 tween them is *str iking — and he goes to the 
 scaffold in his place. " They said of him 
 " about the city that night that it was the 
 " peacefullest man's face they ever beheld 
 " there. Many added that he looked sublime 
 ''and prophetic." 
 
 Sydney Carton, idlest and most unprornis- 
 
 ing of men, was Stryver's great ally. What 
 
 the two drank together, between Hilary Term 
 
 and Michaelmas, might have floated a king's 
 
 32 
 
SYDNEY CARTON 
 
 ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, any- 
 where, but Carton was there, with his hands 
 in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the 
 court; they went the same Circuit, and even 
 there they prolonged their usual orgies late 
 into the night, and Carton was rumoured to 
 be seen at broad day, going home stealthily 
 and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissi- 
 pated cat. At last, it began to get about, 
 among such as were interested in the matter, 
 that although Sydney Carton would never be 
 a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and 
 that he rendered suit and service to Stryver 
 in that humble capacity. . . . Suddenly 
 enough the jackal loosened his dress, went 
 to an adjoining room, and came back with a 
 large jug of cold water, a basin and a towel 
 or two. Steeping the towels in the water, 
 and partially wringing them out, he folded 
 them on his head in a manner hideous to be- 
 hold, [and] sat down at the table. ... 
 
 The lion then composed himself on his back 
 on a sofa on one side of the drinking-table, 
 while the jackal sat at his own paper-be- 
 strewn table proper, on the other side of it, 
 with the bottles and glasses ready to his 
 hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table 
 without stint, but each in a different way; 
 the lion for the most part reclining with his 
 hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or 
 33 
 
SYDNEY CARTON 
 
 occasionally flirting with some lighter docu- 
 ment; the jackal, with knitted brows and in- 
 tent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes 
 did not even follow the hand he stretched out 
 for his glass — which often groped about, for 
 a minute or more, before it found the glass 
 for his lips. Two or three times, the matter 
 in hand became so knotty, that the jackal 
 found it imperative on him to get up, and 
 steep his towels anew. From these pilgrim- 
 ages to the jug and basin, he returned with 
 such eccentricities af damp head-gear as no 
 words can describe; which were made the 
 more ludicrous by his anxious gravity. 
 
 At length the jackal had got together a 
 compact repast for the lion and proceeded to 
 offer it to him. The lion took it with care 
 and caution, made his selections from it, and 
 his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted 
 both. When the repast was fully discussed, 
 the lion put his hands in his waistband again, 
 and lay down to meditate. The jackal then 
 invigorated himself with a bumper for his 
 throttle, and a fresh application to his head, 
 and applied himself to the collection of a sec- 
 ond meal ; this was administered to the lion 
 in the same manner, and was not disposed of 
 until the clocks struck three in the morning. 
 
 " And now we have done, Sydney, fill a 
 bumper of punch," said Mr. Stryver. 
 34 
 
CHRISTOPHER CASBY 
 
 The jackal removed the towels from his 
 head, which had been steaming again, shook 
 himself, yawned, shivered, and complied. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. ii-vi, xi, 
 
 xiii, XX, xxi; Book Hi, ch. viii, ix, xi, xH, 
 
 xiii, xvi. 
 
 Christopher Casby, landlord of Bleeding 
 Heart Yard, who grinds his tenants by 
 proxy. His collector, Mr. Pancks, exposes 
 the avaricious old sinner before all his tenants 
 and retires from his service. 
 
 A man advanced in life, whose smooth 
 grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking 
 as the fire-light flickered on them, sat in an 
 arm-chair, with his list shoes on the rug, and 
 his thumbs slowly revolving over one another. 
 This was old Christopher Casby — recognis- 
 able at a glance — as unchanged in twenty 
 years and upward, as his own solid furniture 
 — as little touched by the influence of the 
 varying seasons, as the old rose-leaves and 
 old lavender in his porcelain jars. 
 
 Perhaps there never was a man, in this 
 troublesome world, so troublesome for the im- 
 agination to picture as a boy. And yet he 
 had changed very little in his progress 
 through life. Confronting him, in the room 
 in which he sat, was a boy's portrait, which 
 anybody seeing him would have identified as 
 35 
 
CHRISTOPHER CASBY 
 
 Master Christopher Casby, aged ten: though 
 disguised with a haymaking rake, for which 
 he had had, at any time, as much taste or use 
 as for a diving-bell; and sitting (on one of 
 his own legs) upon a bank of violets, moved 
 to precocious contemplation by the spire of 
 a village church. There was the same 
 smooth face and forehead, the same calm blue 
 eye, the same placid air. The shining bald 
 head, which looked so very large because it 
 shone so much; and the long grey hair at its 
 sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, 
 which looked so very benevolent because it 
 was never cut; were not, of course, to be seen 
 in the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, 
 in the Seraphic creature with the hay-making 
 rake, were clearly to be discerned the rudi- 
 ments of the Patriarch with the list shoes. . 
 He had a long wide-skirted bottle-green 
 coat on, and a bottle-green pair of trousers, 
 and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs 
 were not dressed in bottle-green broadcloth, 
 and yet his clothes looked Patriarchal. . . . 
 Patriarch was the name which many people 
 delighted to give him. Various old ladies in 
 the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last 
 of the Patriarchs. So grey, so slow, so 
 quiet, so impassionate, so very bumpy in the 
 head, Patriarch was the word for him. He 
 had been accosted in the streets, and respect- 
 36 
 
CHRISTOPHER CASBY 
 
 fully solicited to become a Patriarch for 
 painters and for sculptors; with so much im- 
 portunity, in sooth, that it would appear to be 
 beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points 
 of a Patriarch, or to invent one. Philanthro- 
 pists of both sexes had asked who he was, and 
 on being informed, " Old Christopher Casby, 
 formerly Town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite 
 Barnacle," had cried in a rapture of disap- 
 pointment, " Oh ! why, with that head, is he 
 not a benefactor to his species ! Oh ! why, 
 with that head, is he not a father to the or- 
 phan and a friend to the friendless ! " With 
 that head, however, he remained old Christo- 
 pher Casby, proclaimed by common report 
 rich in house property. 
 
 His smooth face had a bloom upon it, like 
 ripe wall-fruit. What with his blooming 
 face, and that head, and his blue eyes, he 
 seemed to be delivering sentiments of rare 
 wisdom and virtue. In like manner, his 
 physiognomical expression seemed to teem 
 with benignity. Nobody could have said 
 where the wisdom was, or where the virtue 
 was, or where the benignity was; but they all 
 seemed to be somewhere about him. 
 Little Dorritt, Book I, ch. xii, xiii, xxiii, 
 
 xxxv; Book II, ch. ix, xxiii, xxxii. 
 
 37 
 
THE REVEREND MR. CHADBAND 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Chadband, a type of 
 canting parson of the predatory order. 
 
 Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man, with 
 a fat smile, and a general appearance of hav- 
 ing a good deal of train oil in his system. 
 Mrs. Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, si- 
 lent woman. Mr. Chadband moves softly 
 and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has 
 been taught to walk upright. He is very 
 much embarrassed about the arms, as if they 
 were inconvenient to him, and he wanted to 
 grovel; is very much in a perspiration about 
 the head; and never speaks without first put- 
 ting up his great hand, as delivering a token 
 to his hearers that he is going to edify them. 
 . . . From Mr. Chadband's being much 
 given to describe himself, both verbally and in 
 writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mis- 
 taken by strangers for a gentleman connected 
 with navigation; but, he is, as he expresses it, 
 " in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached 
 to no particular denomination ; and is con- 
 sidered by his persecutors to have nothing so 
 very remarkable to say on the greatest of sub- 
 jects as to render his volunteering, on his own 
 account, at all incumbent on his conscience; 
 but, he has his followers. . . . 
 
 " My friends," says he, " what is this which 
 we now behold as being spread before us? 
 Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, 
 38 
 
THE REVEREND MR. CHADBAND 
 
 my friends? We do. And why do we need 
 refreshment, my friends? Because we are 
 but mortal, because we are but sinful, because 
 we are but of the earth, because we are not 
 of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We 
 cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends? 
 . . . I say, my friends, . . . why can 
 we not fly? Is it because we are calculated 
 to walk? It is. Could we walk, my friends, 
 without strength? We could not. What 
 should we do without strength, my friends? 
 Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees 
 would double up, our ankles would turn over, 
 and we should come to the ground. Then 
 from whence, my friends, in a human point 
 of view, do we derive the strength that is 
 necessary to our limbs? Is it from bread in 
 various forms, from butter which is churned 
 from the milk which is yielded unto us by 
 the cow^ from the eggs which are laid by the 
 fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, 
 and from such like? It is. Then let us par- 
 take of the good things which are set before 
 us!" 
 
 The persecutors denied that there was any 
 particular gift in Mr. Chadband's piling ver- 
 bose flights of stairs, one upon another, after 
 this fashion. But this can only be received 
 as a proof of their determination to perse- 
 cute, since it must be within everybody's ex- 
 39 
 
EDWARD CHESTER 
 
 perience, that the Chadband style of oratory 
 is widely received and much admired. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. xix, xxiv, liy. 
 
 Edward Chester, tJw son of Sir John 
 Chester who married Miss Emma Haredale 
 in spite of the opposition of his heartless 
 father. 
 
 A young man of about eight-and-twenty, 
 rather above the midde height, and though of 
 a somewhat slight figure, gracefully and 
 strongly made. He wore his own dark hair, 
 and was accoutred in a riding-dress, which, 
 together with his large boots (resembling in 
 shape and fashion those worn by our Life 
 Guardsmen at the present day), showed in- 
 disputable traces of the bad condition of the 
 roads. But travel-stained though he was, he 
 was well and even richly attired, and without 
 being over-dressed looked a gallant gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Lying upon the table beside him, as he had 
 carelessly thrown them down, were a heavy 
 riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter 
 worn no doubt as being best suited to the in- 
 clemency of the weather. There, too, were a 
 pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short 
 riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, 
 except the long dark lashes which concealed 
 his downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease 
 40 
 
MR. CHESTER 
 
 and natural gracefulness of demeanor per- 
 vaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend 
 even these slight accessories, which were all 
 handsome, and in good keeping. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. i, ii, v, vi, xiv, xix, 
 xxix, xxxii, Ixvi, Ixxi, Ixxii, Ixxix, Ixxxii. 
 
 Mr. (afterwards Sir John) Chester, a 
 man without heart and without principle, but 
 of the most elegantly punctilious and polite 
 manners. He unsuccessfully attempted to 
 break off the marriage of his son with Emma 
 Haredale, because she is poor, and because he 
 has a match in view for him which will con- 
 fer more wealth and importance on himself. 
 He was killed in a duel by Mr. Geoffrey 
 Haredale. 
 
 He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, 
 something past the prime of life, yet upright 
 in his carriage, for all that, and slim as a 
 greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a 
 sturdy chestnut cob^ and had the graceful seat 
 of an experienced horseman; while his rid- 
 ing-gear, though free from such fopperies as 
 were then in vogue, was handsome and well 
 chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a some- 
 what brighter green than might have been ex- 
 pected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his 
 years, with a short black velvet cape, lace 
 pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fash- 
 41 
 
MR. CHESTER 
 
 ion; his linen, too, was of the finest kind, 
 worked in a rich pattern at the wrists and 
 throat, and scrupuously white. Although he 
 seemed, judging from the mud he had picked 
 up on the way, to have come from London, 
 his horse was as smooth and cool as his own 
 iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man 
 nor beast had turned a single hair; and, sav- 
 ing for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, 
 this gentleman, with his blooming face, white 
 teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect calm- 
 ness, might have come from making an elabo- 
 rate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an eques- 
 trian portrait. . . . 
 
 Mr. Chester reclined upon a sofa in his 
 dressing-room in the Temple, entertaining 
 himself with a book. 
 
 He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy 
 stages, and having performed half the jour- 
 ney was taking a long rest. Completely at- 
 tired as to his legs and feet in the trimmest 
 fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder 
 of his toilet to perform. The coat was 
 stretched, like a refined scare-crow, on its 
 separate horse; the waistcoat was displayed 
 to the best advantage; the various ornamen- 
 tal articles of dress were severally set out in 
 most alluring order; and yet he lay dangling 
 his legs between the sofa and the ground, as 
 intent upon his book as if there were nothing 
 but bed before him. 
 
 42 
 
MR. CHESTER 
 
 " Upon my honour," he said, at length rais- 
 ing his eyes to the ceiHng with the air of a 
 man who was reflecting seriously on what he 
 had read ; " upon my honour, the most mas- 
 terly composition, the most delicate thoughts, 
 the finest code of morality, and the most gen- 
 tlemanly sentiments in the universe ! . . . 
 
 " My Lord Chesterfield," he said, pressing 
 his hand tenderly upon the book as he laid it 
 down, "if I could but have profited by your 
 genius soon enough to have formed my son on 
 the model you have left to all wise fathers, 
 both he and I would have been rich men. 
 Shakspeare was undoubtedly very fine in his 
 way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Ba- 
 con deep, and decidedly knowing; but the 
 writer who should be his country's pride, is 
 my Lord Chesterfield. . . . 
 
 " I thought I was tolerably accomplished as 
 a man of the world, I flattered myself that I 
 was pretty well versed in all those little arts 
 and graces which distinguish men of the 
 world from boors and peasants, and separate 
 their character from those intensely vulgar 
 sentiments which are called the national char- 
 acter. Apart from any natural prepossession 
 in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in 
 every page of this enlightened writer, I find 
 some captivating hypocrisy which has never 
 occurred to me before, or some superlative 
 43 
 
JOHN CHIVERY 
 
 piece of selfishness to which I was utterly a 
 stranger. I should quite blush for myself be- 
 fore this stupendous creature, if, remember- 
 ing his precepts, one might blush at anything. 
 An amazing man ! a nobleman indeed ! any 
 King or Queen may make a Lord, but only 
 the Devil himself — and the Graces — can 
 make a Chesterfield." 
 
 Men who are thoroughly false and hollow, 
 seldom try to hide those vices from them- 
 selves; and yet in the very act of avowing 
 them, they lay claim to the virtues they feign 
 most to despise. " For," say they, " this is 
 honesty, this is truth. All mankind are like 
 us, but they have not the candour to avow 
 it." The more they affect to deny the exist- 
 ence of any sincerity in the world, the more 
 they would be thought to possess it in its bold- 
 est shape; and this is an unconscious compli- 
 ment to Truth on the part of these philoso- 
 phers, which will turn the laugh against them 
 to the Day of Judgment. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. x-xii, xiv, xv, xxii, xxiv, 
 
 xxvi-xxx, xxxii, xl, xliii, liii, Ixxv, Ixxxi. 
 
 John Chivery, son of the Turnkey of the 
 Marshalsea prison, a lover of little Dorritt, 
 who while admiring his faithful character 
 cannot return his affection. 
 
 Young John was small of stature, with 
 44 
 
JOHN CHIVERY 
 
 weak legs, and very weak light hair. One of 
 his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep 
 through the keyhole) was also weak, and 
 looked larger than the other, as if it couldn't 
 collect itself. Young John was gentle like- 
 wise. But he was great of soul. Poetical, 
 expansive, faithful. 
 
 Though too humble before the ruler of his 
 heart to be sanguine. Young John had con- 
 sidered the object of his attachment in all its 
 lights and shades. Following it out to bliss- 
 ful results, he had descried, without self-com- 
 mendation, a fitness in it. Say things pros- 
 pered, and they were united. She, the child 
 of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. 
 There was a fitness in that. Say he became 
 a resident turnkey. She would officially suc- 
 ceed to the chamber she had rented so long. 
 There was a beautiful propriety in that. It 
 looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; 
 and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and 
 a canary or so, would become a very Arbour. 
 There was a charming idea in that. Then, 
 being all in all to one another, there was even 
 an appropriate grace in the lock. With the 
 world shut out (except that part of It which 
 would be shut in) ; with its troubles and dis- 
 turbances only known to them by hearsay, as 
 they would be described by the pilgrims tarry- 
 ing with them on their way to the Insolvent 
 45 
 
JOHN CHIVERY 
 
 Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the 
 Lodge below; they would glide down the 
 stream of time, in pastoral domestic happi- 
 ness. Young John drew tears from his eyes 
 by finishing the picture with a tombstone in 
 the adjoining church-yard, close against the 
 prison wall, bearing the following touching 
 inscription : " Sacred to the Memory of 
 John Chivery, Sixty years Turnkey, and 
 fifty years Head Turkey, Of the neighbour- 
 ing Marshalsea, Who departed this life, uni- 
 versally respected, on the thirty-first of De- 
 cember, One thousand eight hundred and 
 eighty-six. Aged eighty-three years. Also of 
 his truly beloved and truly loving wife. Amy, 
 whose maiden name was Dorrit, Who sur- 
 vived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And 
 who breathed her last in the Marshalsea 
 aforesaid. There she was born, There she 
 lived. There she died." . . . 
 
 It was an affecting illustration of the fal- 
 lacy of human projects, to behold her lover 
 \/ith the great hat pulled over his eyes, the 
 velvet collar turned up as if it rained, 
 the plum-coloured coat buttoned to conceal 
 the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the 
 little direction-post pointing inexorably home, 
 creeping along by the worst back streets, and 
 composing, as he went, the following new in- 
 scription for a tombstone in St. George's 
 Churchyard : 
 
 46 
 
MAJOR HANNIBAL CHOLLOP 
 
 ** Here lie the mortal remains of John 
 Chivery, Never anything worth mentioning, 
 Who died about the end of the year one thou- 
 sand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a 
 broken heart, Requesting with his last breath 
 that the word Amy might be inscribed over 
 his ashes, Which was accordingly directed to 
 be done. By his afflicted Parents." 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. xviii, xix, xxii, 
 XXV, xxxi, XXXV, xxxvi; Bk. II, ch. xviii, 
 xix, xxvi, xxvii, xxix,xxxi, xxxiii, xxxiv. 
 
 Major Hannibal Chollop, one of the call- 
 ers on Martin Chuzslewit during his sojourn 
 in Eden. 
 
 Mr Chollop waSj of course, one of the most 
 remarkable men in the country; but he really 
 was a notorious person besides. He was usu- 
 ally described by his friends, in the South and 
 West, as " a splendid sample of our na-tive 
 raw material, Sir," and was much esteemed 
 for his devotion to rational Liberty; for the 
 better propagation whereof he usually carried 
 a brace of revolving-pistols in his coat pocket, 
 with seven barrels apiece. He also carried, 
 amongst other trinkets, a sword-stick, which 
 he called his " Tickler ; " and a great knife, 
 which (for he was a man of a pleasant turn 
 of humour) he called " Ripper," in allusion to 
 its usefulness as a means of ventilating the 
 47 
 
MAJOR HANNIBAL CHOLLOP 
 
 stomach of any adversary in a close contest. 
 He had used these weapons with distinguished 
 etfect in several instances, all duly chronicled 
 in the newspapers; and was greatly beloved 
 for the gallant manner in which he had 
 " jobbed out " the eye of one gentleman, as 
 he was in the act of knocking at his own 
 street-door. 
 
 Mr. Chollop was a man of a roving dispo- 
 sition; and, in any less advanced community, 
 might have been mistaken for a violent vaga- 
 bond. But his fine qualities being perfectly 
 understood and appreciated in those regions 
 where his lot was cast, and where he had 
 many kindred spirits to consort with, he may 
 be regarded as having been born under a for- 
 tunate star, which is not always the case 
 with a man so much before the age in which 
 he lives. Preferring, with a view to the 
 gratification of his tickling and ripping 
 fancies, to dwell upon the outskirts of so- 
 ciety, and in the more remote towns and ci- 
 ties, he was in the habit of emigrating from 
 place to place, and establishing in each some 
 business — usually a newspaper — which he 
 presently sold: for the most part closing the 
 bargain by challenging, stabbing, pistolling, or 
 gouging, the new editor, before he had quite 
 taken possession of the property. 
 
 He had come to Eden on a speculation of 
 48 
 
MR. CHUFFEY 
 
 this kind, but had abandoned it, and was 
 about to leave. He always introduced him- 
 self to strangers as a worshipper of Freedom; 
 was the consistent advocate of Lynch law, 
 and slavery; and invariably recommended, 
 both in print and speech, the " tarring and 
 feathering" of any unpopular person who 
 differed from himself. He called this " plant- 
 ing the standard of civilisation in the "wilder 
 gardens of My country." 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xxxiii, xxxiv. 
 
 Mr. Chuffey, Mr. Anthony Chuszlewit's 
 clerk. He understood no one hut his master, 
 to whom he was faithful as a dog and as a 
 dog he was treated by the scoundrel Jonas 
 Chuzslewit. He was a witness of the at- 
 tempted poisoning of his father by this pre- 
 cious son. 
 
 The door of a small glass office, which was 
 partitioned off from the rest of the room, was 
 slowly opened, and a little blear-eyed, weazen- 
 faced, ancient man came creeping out. He 
 was of a remote fashion, and dusty, like the 
 rest of the furniture; he was dressed in a 
 decayed suit of black; with breeches gar- 
 nished at the knees with rusty wisps of rib- 
 bon, the very paupers of shoe-strings; on the 
 lower portion of his spindle legs were dingy 
 worsted stockings of the same colour. He 
 49 
 
MR. CHUFFEY 
 
 looked as if he had been put away and for- 
 gotten half a century before, and somebody 
 had just found him in a lumber-closet. 
 
 Such as he was, he came slowly creeping 
 on towards the table, until at last he crept 
 into the vacant chair, from which, as his dim 
 taculties became conscious of the presence of 
 strangers, and those strangers ladies, he rose 
 again, apparently intending to make a bow. 
 But he sat down once more, without having 
 made it, and breathing on his shrivelled hands 
 to warm them, remained with his poor blue 
 nose immovable above his plate, looking at 
 nothing with eyes that saw nothing, and a 
 face that meant nothing. Take him in that 
 state, and he was an embodiment of noth- 
 ing. Nothing else. . . . 
 
 As matters stood, nobody thought or said 
 anything upon the subject; so Chuff ey fell 
 back into a dark corner on one side of the 
 fire-place, where he always spent his even- 
 ings, and was neither seen nor heard again 
 that night; save once, when a cup of tea was 
 given him, in which he was seen to soak his 
 bread mechanically. There was no reason to 
 suppose that he went to sleep at these seasons, 
 or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or thought. 
 He remained, as it were, frozen up — if any 
 term expressive of such vigorous process can 
 be applied to him — until he was again 
 SO 
 
JONAS CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 thawed for the moment by a word or touch 
 from Anthony. 
 
 Martin Chusdewit, ch. xi, xviii, xix, xxv, 
 xlvi, xlviii, xlix, U, liv. 
 
 Jonas Chuzzlewit, son of Anthony and 
 nephew of old Martin Chuszlewit. Sly, cun- 
 ning, ignorant and brutal. His motto is 
 "Do other men; for they would do you." 
 He attempts to poison his father and believes 
 he has done so. But Chuffey, his father's old 
 clerk, frustrated his plans. He married the 
 youngest daughter of Mr. Pecksniff, believ- 
 ing she would come into money and treats her 
 brutally. He becomes associated with Mon- 
 tague Tigg, the swindling^ director of the 
 Anglo-Bengalee Loan & Life Insurance Co., 
 and finally murders him, because of the se- 
 crets he believes him to possess. The crime 
 is traced to him, he is arrested, and poisons 
 himself on his way to prison. 
 
 The education of Mr. Jonas had been con- 
 ducted from his cradle on the strictest prin- 
 ciples of the main chance. The very first 
 word he learnt to spell was " gain," and the 
 second (when he got into two syllables), 
 "money." But for two results, which were 
 not clearly foreseen perhaps by his watchful 
 parent in the beginning, his training may be 
 51 
 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 said to have been unexceptionable. One of 
 these flaws was, that having been long taught 
 by his father to over-reach everybody, he had 
 imperceptibly acquired a love of over-reaching 
 that venerable monitor himself. The other, that 
 from his early habits of considering everything 
 as a question of property, he had gradually come 
 to look, with impatience, on his parent as a 
 certain amount of personal estate, which had 
 no right whatever to be going at large, but 
 ought to be secured in that particular descrip- 
 tion of iron safe which is commonly called a 
 coffin, and banked in the grave. 
 Martin Chusslewit, ch. iv, vUi, xi, xviii-xx, 
 
 xxiv, xxvi, xxvii, xxxviii, xl-xliii, xliv, 
 
 xlvi-xlviii, li. 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit (the elder), is the 
 brother of Anthony and the grandfather of 
 young Martin. He quarrelled with and 
 disowned him, the only one of all his fawning 
 relatives for whom he ever cared. For pur- 
 poses of his own he goes to live in Pecksniff's 
 house, pretending to be on friendly terms with 
 him. Young Martin returns from America 
 humble and penitent, but Pecksniff drives him 
 away. At last, however, when he finds his 
 grandson true and Pecksniff and all his cov- 
 etous relatives false, he makes ample amends. 
 
 52 
 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 " I am a rich man. Not so rich as some sup- 
 pose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a 
 miser. Sir, though even that charge is made 
 against me, as I hear, and currently believed. 
 I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no 
 pleasure in \he possession of money. The 
 devil that we call by that name can give me 
 nothing but unhappiness." . . . 
 
 " For the same reason that I am not a 
 hoarder of money I am not lavish of it. 
 Some people find their gratification in stor- 
 ing it up; and others theirs in parting with 
 it; but I have no gratification connected with 
 the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only 
 goods it ever could procure for me. I hate 
 it. It is a spectre walking before me through 
 the world, making every social pleasure hide- 
 ous." . . . 
 
 " You would advise me for my peace of 
 mind, to get rid of this source of misery, and 
 transfer it to some one who could bear it bet- 
 ter. Even you, perhaps, would rid me of 
 a burden under which I suffer so grievously. 
 But that is a main part of my trouble. In 
 other hands, I have known money do good; 
 in other hands I have known it triumphed in, 
 and boasted of with reason, as the master-key 
 to all the brazen gates that close upon the 
 paths to worldly honour, fortune, and enjoy- 
 ment. To what man or woman; to what 
 53 
 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 worthy, honest, incorruptible creature; shall 
 I confide such a talisman either now or when 
 I die? Do you know any such person? 
 Your virtues are of course inestimable, but 
 can you tell me of any other living creature 
 who will bear the test of contact with my- 
 self?" 
 
 " You have heard of him whose misery 
 (the gratification of his own foolish wish) 
 was, that he turned everything he touched to 
 gold. The curse of my existence, and the 
 realization of my own mad desire, is that by 
 the golden standard which I bear about me, I 
 am doomed to try the metal of all other men, 
 and find it false and hollow." 
 
 " I tell you, man, that I have gone, a rich 
 man, among people of all grades and kinds; 
 relatives, friends, and strangers; among peo- 
 ple in whom, when I was poor, I had confi- 
 dence, and justly, for they never once de- 
 ceived me then, or, to me, wronged each 
 other. But I have never found one nature, 
 no, not one, in which, being wealthy and 
 alone I was not forced to detect the latent 
 corruption that lay hid within it, waiting for 
 such as I to bring it forth. Treachery, de- 
 ceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, 
 real or fancied, for my favour; meanness, 
 falsehood, baseness, and serviHty; or," and 
 here he looked closely in his cousin's eyes, 
 54 
 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 " or an assumption of honest independence, 
 almost worse than all; these are the beauties 
 which my wealth has brought to light. 
 Brother against brother, child against par- 
 ent, friends treading on the faces of friends, 
 this is the social company by which my way 
 has been attended. There are stories told — 
 they may be true or false — of rich men, 
 who, in the garb of poverty, have found out 
 virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and 
 idiots for their pains. They should have 
 made the search in their own characters. 
 They should have shown themselves fit objects 
 to be robbed and preyed upon and plotted 
 against and adulated by any knaves, who, 
 but for joy, would have spat upon their coffins 
 when they died their dupes; and then their 
 search would have ended as mine has done, 
 and they would be what I am." 
 
 " Hear me to an end; judge what profit you 
 are like to gain from any repetition of this 
 visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted 
 and changed the nature of all those who 
 have ever attended on me, by breeding avari- 
 cious plots and hopes within them ; I have en- 
 gendered such domestic strife and discord, by 
 tarrying even with members of my own fam- 
 ily ; I have been such a lighted torch in peace- 
 ful homes, kindling up all the bad gases and 
 vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, 
 55 
 
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 
 
 but for me, might have proved harmless to 
 the end; that I have, I may say, fled from all 
 who knew me, and taking refuge in secret 
 places have lived, of late, the life of one who 
 is hunted. The young girl whom you just 
 now saw . . . is an orphan child, whom, 
 with one steady purpose, I have bred and 
 educated, or, if you prefer the word, adopted. 
 For a year or more she has been my con- 
 stant companion, and she is my only one. 
 I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath 
 never to leave her sixpence when I die, but 
 while I live, I make her an annual allow- 
 ance: not extravagant in its amount, and yet 
 not stinted. There is a compact between us 
 that no term of affectionate cajolery shall 
 ever be addressed by either to the other, but 
 that she call me always by my Christian 
 name, I her, by hers. She is bound to me in 
 life by ties of interest, and losing by my 
 death, and having no expectation disap- 
 pointed, will mourn it, perhaps: though for 
 that I care little. This is the only kind of 
 friend I have or will have. Judge from such 
 premises what a profitable hour you have 
 spent in coming here, and leave me; to re- 
 turn no more." 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. Hi, iv, x, xxiv, xxx, 
 xxxi, xliii, l-liv. 
 
 56 
 
MRS. CLENMAN 
 
 Mrs. Clenman is the supposed mother of 
 Arthur Clenman, who was, however, the 
 child of another woman by her husband 
 whom his father had known before marrying. 
 She keeps the secret as long as she can and 
 in spite of her professions of morality, sup- 
 presses a will by which little Dorrit was to 
 benefit on coming of age. But her guilt was 
 discovered and she throws herself on the 
 mercy of the girl, who freely forgives her. 
 
 On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, 
 propped up behind with one great angular 
 bolster, like the block at a state execution in 
 the good old times, sat his mother in a 
 widow's dress. 
 
 She and his father had been at variance 
 from his earliest remembrance. To sit 
 speechless himself in the midst of rigid si- 
 lence, glancing in dread from the one averted 
 face to the other, had been the peacefulest 
 occupation of his childhood. She gave him 
 one glassy kiss, and four stiff fingers muffled 
 in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat 
 down on the opposite side of her little table. 
 There was a fire in the grate, as there had 
 been night and day for fifteen years. There 
 was a kettle on the hob, as there had been 
 night and day for fifteen years. There was a 
 little mound of damped ashes on the top of 
 the fire, and another little mound swept to- 
 57 
 
MRS. CLENMAN 
 
 gether under the grate, as there had been 
 night and day for fifteen years. There was a 
 smell of black dye in the airless room, which 
 the fire had been drawing out of the crape and 
 stuff of the widow's dress for fifteen months, 
 and out of the bier-like sofa for fifteen years. 
 
 Stern of face and unrelenting of heart, she 
 would sit all day behind a bible — bound, like 
 her own construction of it, in the hardest, 
 barest, and straitest boards, with one dinted 
 ornament on the cover like the drag of a 
 chain, and a wrathful sprinkling of red upon 
 the edges of the leaves — as if it, of all books ! 
 were a fortification against sweetness of tem- 
 per, natural affection, and gentle intercourse. 
 
 She read certain passages aloud — sternly, 
 fiercely, wrathfully — praying that her ene- 
 mies (she made them by her tone and man- 
 ner expressly hers) might be put to the edge 
 of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by 
 plagues and leprosy, that their bones might 
 be ground to dust, and that they might be 
 utterly exterminated. . . . 
 
 Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there 
 were or ever had been, who had any conces- 
 sion to look for in the inexorable face at the 
 cabinet. Woe to the defaulter whose appeal 
 lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes 
 presided. Great need had the rigid woman 
 of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and 
 58 
 
COMPEYSON 
 
 darkness, with lightnings of cursing, ven- 
 geance, and destruction, flashing through the 
 sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as we for- 
 give our debtors, was a prayer too poor in 
 spirit for her. Smite Thou my debtors, Lord, 
 wither them, crush them; do Thou as I 
 would do, and Thou shalt have my worship: 
 this was the impious tower of stone she built 
 up to scale Heaven. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I , ch. lii-v, vUi, xv, 
 
 xxix, xxx; Book II, ch. x, xvii, xxiii, 
 
 xxviii, xxx, xxxi. 
 
 CoMPEYSON, the man who heartlessly de- 
 ceived and robbed Miss Havisham, sank 
 deeper and deeper into crime and became 
 " The worst of scoundrels/' a convict who 
 helped to convict his accomplice and tool, 
 Magwitch, and zvho betrayed him after his 
 escape from the hulks. 
 
 This man was dressed in coarse grey, too, 
 and had a great iron on his leg, and was lame, 
 and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that 
 the other man was ; except that he had not the 
 same face, and had a flat, broad-brimmed, 
 low-crowned felt hat one. All this I saw in a 
 moment, for I had only a moment to see it in : 
 he swore an oath at me, made a hit at me — 
 it was a round, weak blow that missed me 
 And almost knocked himself down, for it 
 59 
 
COMPEYSON 
 
 made him stumble— and then he ran into 
 the midst, stumbling twice as he went, and 
 I lost him. . . 
 
 A showy man, not to be, without ignorance 
 or prejudice, mistaken for a gentleman; be- 
 cause no man who was not a true gentle- 
 man at heart, ever was, since the world 
 began, a true gentleman in manner. No 
 varnish can hide the grain of the wood; the 
 more varnish you put on, the more the grain 
 will express itself. This man pursued Miss 
 Havisham closely, and professed to be de- 
 voted to her, and she passionately loved him. 
 There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized 
 him. He practised on her affection in that 
 systematic way, that he got great sums ^ of 
 money from her, and he induced her to buy 
 her brother out of a share in the brewery 
 (which had been weakly left him by his 
 father) at an immense price, on the plea that 
 when he was her husband he must hold and 
 manage it all. . . . The marriage day was 
 fixed, the wedding dresses were bought, the 
 wedding tour was planned out, the wedding 
 guests were invited. The day came, but not 
 the bridegroom. He wrote a letter which she 
 received when she was dressing for her mar- 
 riage. At twenty minutes to nine. At which 
 she afterwards stopped all the clocks. 
 Great Expectations, ch. Hi, v, xliii, xlv, xlvii, 
 
 I, liii-lvi. 
 
 60 
 
JERRY CRUNCHER 
 
 Jerry Cruncher, a body-snatcher and mes- 
 senger outside Tellson's Bank in London. 
 After his experiences during the reign of Ter- 
 ror in Paris he gives up the first named occu- 
 pation. 
 
 He was an odd-job-man, an occasional por- 
 ter and messenger, who served as the Hve sign 
 of the house. He was never absent during 
 business hours, unless upon an errand, and 
 then he was represented by his son: a grisly 
 urchin of twelve, who was his express image. 
 People understood that Tellson's, in a stately 
 way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house 
 had always tolerated some person in that ca- 
 pacity, and time and tide had drifted this 
 person to the post. His surname was 
 Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his 
 renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in 
 the easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he 
 had received the added appellation of Jerry. 
 
 He had eyes that assorted very well, being 
 of a surface black, with no depth in the colour 
 or form, and much too near together — as 
 if they were afraid of being found out in 
 something, singly, if they kept too far apart. 
 They had a sinister expression, under an old 
 cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and 
 over a great muffler for the chin and throat, 
 which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. 
 When he stopped for drink, he moved this 
 6i 
 
JERRY CRUNCHER 
 
 muffler with his left hand, only while he 
 poured his liquor in with his right; as soon 
 as that was done, he muffled again. . . . 
 Except on the crown, which was raggedly 
 bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing 
 jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill 
 almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so 
 like smith's work, so much more like the top 
 of a strongly spiked wall than a head of 
 hair, that the best of players at leap-frog 
 might have declined him, as the most danger- 
 ous man in the world to go over. . . . 
 
 Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he 
 had been up all night at a party which had 
 taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry 
 Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than 
 ate it, growling over it like any four-footed 
 inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine 
 o'clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, 
 presenting as respectable and business-like an 
 exterior as he could overlay his natural self 
 with, issued forth to the occupation of the 
 day. 
 
 It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite 
 of his favorite description of himself as " a 
 honest tradesman." His stock consisted of 
 a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed 
 chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, 
 walking at his father's side, carried every 
 morning to beneath the banking-house win- 
 63 
 
JAMES CARKER 
 
 dow that was nearest Temple Bar : where, 
 with the addition of the first handful of straw 
 that could be gleaned from any passing vehi- 
 cle to keep the cold and wet from the odd- 
 job-man's feet, it formed the encampment 
 for the day. On this post of his, Mr. 
 Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street 
 and the Temple, as the Bar itself, — and was 
 almost as ill-looking. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. ii, Hi; Book 
 
 II, ch. i-iii, vi, xiv, xxiv; Book III, ch, 
 
 vii-ix, xiv. 
 
 James Carker, the Managing Clerk of 
 Domhey and Son. Though he has an interest 
 in the business he speculates on his own ac- 
 count and makes a fortune. He does all he 
 can to widen the breach between Mr. Dom- 
 bey and his cold, proud wife, and to revenge 
 herself on both, she consents to elope with 
 him, leaving him, however, at the moment of 
 their meeting at Dijon, whither they had Ued 
 by separate routes. Dombey had followed 
 them, and in trying to avoid him Carker is run 
 over and killed by a train. 
 
 Mr. Carker was a gentleman thirty-eight 
 or forty years old, of a florid complexion, and 
 with two unbroken rows of glistening teeth, 
 whose regularity and whiteness were quite 
 distressing. It was impossible to escape the 
 63 
 
JAMES CARKER 
 
 observation of them, for he showed them 
 whenever he spoke; and bore so wide a smile 
 upon his countenance (a smile, however, very 
 rarely, indeed, extending beyond his mouth), 
 that there was something in it like the snarl 
 of a cat. He affected a stiff white cravat, 
 after the example of his principal, and was 
 always closely buttoned up and tightly 
 dressed. His manner towards Mr. Dombey 
 was deeply conceived and perfectly expressed. 
 He was familiar with him, in the very ex- 
 tremity of his sense of the distance between 
 them. " Mr. Dombey, to a man in your po- 
 sition from a man in mine, there is no show 
 of subservience compatible with the transac- 
 tion of business between us, that I should 
 think sufficient. I frankly tell you. Sir, I 
 give it up altogether. I feel that I could not 
 satisfy my own mind; and Heaven knows, 
 Mr. Dombey, you can afford to dispense with 
 the endeavour." li he had carried these 
 words about with him printed on a placard, 
 and had constantly offered it to Mr. Dom- 
 bey's perusal on the breast of his coat, he 
 could not have been more explicit than he 
 was. This was Mr. Carker the Manager. 
 . . . The Manager sat at his desk, smooth 
 and soft as usual, reading those letters which 
 were reserved for him to open, backing 
 them occasionally with such memoranda and 
 64 
 
JAMES CARKER 
 
 references as their business purport required, 
 and parcelling them out into little heaps for 
 distribution through the several departments 
 of the House. The post had come in heavy 
 that morning, and Mr. Carker the Manager 
 had a good deal to do. 
 
 The general action of a man so engaged — 
 pausing to look over a bundle of papers in 
 his hand, dealing them round in various por- 
 tions, taking up another bundle and examin- 
 ing its contents with knitted brows and 
 pursed-out lips — dealing, and sorting, and 
 pondering by turns — would easily suggest 
 some whimsical resemblance to a player at 
 cards. The face of Mr. Carker the Manager 
 was in good keeping with such a fancy. It 
 was the face of a man who studied his play, 
 warily: who made himself master of all the 
 strong and weak points of the game: who 
 registered the cards in his mind as they fell 
 about him^ knew exactly what was on them, 
 what they missed, and what they made: who 
 was crafty to find out what the other play- 
 ers held, and who never betrayed his own 
 hand. 
 
 The letters were in various languages, but 
 Mr. Carker the Manager read them all. If 
 there had been anything in the offices of 
 Dombey and Son that he could not read, there 
 would have been a card wanting in the pack. 
 65 
 
JAMES CARKER 
 
 He read almost at a glance, and made com- 
 binations of one letter with another and one 
 business with another as he went on, adding 
 new matter to the heaps — much as a man 
 would know the cards at sight, and work out 
 their combinations in his mind after they 
 were' turned. Something too deep for a part- 
 ner, and much too deep for an adversary, Mr. 
 Carker the Manager sat in the rays of the 
 sun that came down slaniing on him through 
 the skylight, playing his game alone. 
 
 And although it is not among the instincts 
 wild or domestic of the cat tribe to play at 
 cards, feline from sole to crown was Mr. 
 Carker the Manager, as he basked in the strip 
 of summer-light and warmth that shone upon 
 his table and the ground as if they were a 
 crooked dial-plate, and himself the only figure 
 on it. With hair and whiskers deficient in 
 colour at all times, but feebler than common 
 in the rich sunshine, and more like the coat 
 of a sandy tortoise-shell cat; with long nails, 
 nicely pared and sharpened; with a natural 
 antipathy to any speck of dirt, which made 
 him pause sometimes and watch the falling 
 motes of dust, and rub them off his smooth 
 white hand or glossy linen: Mr. Carker the 
 Manager, sly of manner, sharp of tooth, soft 
 of foot, watchful of eye, oily of tongue, cruel 
 of heart, nice of habit, sat with a dainty 
 66 
 
MR. JOHN CARKER 
 
 steadfastness and patience at his work, as if 
 
 he were waiting at a mouse's hole. 
 
 Dombey and Son, ch. xiii, xvii, xxii, xxiv, 
 
 xxvi, xxvii, xxxi, xxxiii, xxxvi, xxxvii, xl, 
 
 xlii, xlv, xlvii, liii-lv. 
 
 Mr. John Carker, brother of James and 
 Harriet. In his youth he had been led astray 
 and robbed his employers Dombey & Son. 
 The House, however, kept him on in a sub- 
 ordinate position and he expiated his fault 
 by long, faithful service and by the treatment, 
 of his younger brother — the manager. 
 When the latter meets with a violent death, 
 he comes into his fortune, but he secretly 
 makes over the interest of it to Mr. Dombey, 
 who has become a bankrupt in the meantime. 
 
 Mr. Carker, the Junior, was his brother, 
 two or three years older than he, but widely 
 removed in station. The younger brother's 
 post was on the top of the official ladder; 
 the elder brother's at the bottom. The elder 
 brother never gained a stave, or raised his 
 foot to mount one. Young men passed above 
 his head, and rose and rose; but he was al- 
 ways at the bottom. He was quite resigned 
 to occupy that low condition; never com- 
 plained of it; and certainly never hoped to 
 escape from it." ... He was not old, but 
 67 
 
MR. CHEERYBLE 
 
 his hair was white; his body was bent, or 
 bowed as if by the weight of some great trou- 
 ble; and there were deep lines in his worn 
 and melancholy face. The fire of his eyes, 
 the expression of his features, the very voice 
 in which he spoke, were all subdued and 
 quenched, as if the spirit within him lay in 
 ashes. He was respectably, though very 
 plainly dressed, in black; but his clothes, 
 moulded to the general character of his figure, 
 seemed to shrink and abase themselves upon 
 him, and to join in the sorrowful solicitation 
 which the whole man from head to foot ex- 
 pressed, to be left unnoticed, and alone in his 
 humility. 
 
 Domhey and Son, ch. vi, xix, xxii, xxxiii, 
 xxxiv, liii, Iviii, Ixii. 
 
 Mr. Cheeryble. The Cheeryble brothers 
 were partners and merchants : among the nu- 
 merous people they benefited was Nicholas 
 Nickleby — whom they took into their employ 
 and befriended in every way. 
 
 He was a sturdy old fellow in a broad- 
 skirted blue coat, made pretty large, to fit 
 easily, and with no particular waist; his bulky 
 legs clothed in drab breeches and high gaiters, 
 and his head protected by a low-crowned 
 broad-brimmed white hat^ such as a wealthy 
 grazier might wear. He wore his coat but- 
 68 
 
MR. CHEERYBLE 
 
 toned; and his dimpled double-chin rested in 
 the folds of a white neckerchief — not one of 
 your stiff-starched apoplectic cravats, but a 
 good easy old-fashioned white neckcloth that 
 a man might go to bed in and be none the 
 worse for it. But what principally attracted 
 the attention of Nicholas, was the old gentle- 
 man's eye, — never was such a clear, twink- 
 ling, honest, merry, happy eye, as that. And 
 there he stood, looking a little upward, with 
 one hand thrust into the breast of his coat, 
 and the other playing with his old-fashioned 
 gold watch-chain: his head thrown a little on 
 one side, and his hat a little more on one 
 side than his head (but that was evidently ac- 
 cident; not his ordinary way of wearing it), 
 with such a pleasant smile playing about his 
 mouth, and such a comical expression of 
 mingled slyness, simplicity, kind-heartedness, 
 and good-humour, lighting up his jolly old 
 face, that Nicholas would have been content 
 to have stood there and looked at him until 
 evening, and to have forgotten meanwhile that 
 there was such a thing as a soured mind or a 
 crabbed countenance to be met with in the 
 whole wide world. . . . 
 
 Everything [in the house of Cheeryble 
 Brothers] gave back some reflection of the 
 kindly spirit of the brothers. The ware- 
 housemen and porters were such sturdy jolly 
 69 
 
DR. CHILLIP 
 
 fellows that it was a treat to see them. 
 Among the shipping-announcements and 
 steam-packet lists which decorated the count- 
 ing-house wall, were designs for almshouses, 
 statements of charities, and plans for new 
 hospitals. A blunderbuss and two swords 
 hung above the chimney piece for the terror 
 of evil-doers, but the blunderbuss was rusty, 
 and shattered, and the swords were broken 
 and edgeless. Elsewhere their open display 
 in such a condition would have raised a smile, 
 but there it seemed as though even violent 
 and offensive weapons partook of the reigning 
 influence and became emblems of mercy and 
 forbearance. 
 
 Nicholas Nicklehy, ch. xxxv, xxxvii, xl, xUii, 
 xlvi, xlix, Iv, lix, Ix, Ixi, Ixiii, Ixv. 
 
 Dr. Chillip, the medical man who assisted 
 at David Copperiield's birth. He Hits across 
 the stage of the story more than once after- 
 wards. 
 
 He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest 
 of little men. He sidled in and out of a 
 room, to take up the less space. He walked 
 as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and more 
 slowly. He carried his head on one side, 
 partly in modest depreciation of himself, 
 partly in modest propitiation of everybody 
 else. It is nothing to say that he hadn't a 
 70 
 
TOBY CRACKIT 
 
 word to throw at a dog. He couldn't have 
 thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have 
 offered him one gently, or half a one, or a 
 fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as 
 he walked; but he wouldn't have been rude to 
 him, and he couldn't have been quick with 
 him, for any earthly consideration. 
 David CopperHeld, ch. i, ii, ix, x, xxii, xxx, 
 lix. 
 
 Toby Crackit, a housebreaker. 
 
 They entered a low dark room with a 
 smoky fire: two or three broken chairs, a 
 table, and a very old couch: on which, with 
 his legs much higher than his head, a man 
 was reposing at full length, smoking a long 
 clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut 
 snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; 
 and orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, 
 shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. 
 Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great 
 quantity of hair, either upon his head or face ; 
 but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and 
 tortured into long corkscrew curls, through 
 which he occasionally thrust some very dirty 
 fingers, ornamented with large common rings. 
 He was a trifle above the middle size, and 
 apparently rather weak in the legs; but this 
 circumstance by no means detracted from his 
 own admiration of his top-boots, which he 
 71 
 
MR. CREAKLE 
 
 contemplated, in their elevated situation, with 
 
 lively satisfaction. 
 
 Oliver Twist, cJi. xxiii, xxv, xxviii, xxxix, I. 
 
 Mr. Creakle^ master of Salem House 
 School, to which Copperfield was sent by the 
 Murdstones — an ignorant, and ferocious 
 " Tartar." He later becomes a Middlesex 
 Magistrate and puts into practice " the only 
 true system of prison discipline" — '^solitary 
 confinement" 
 
 Mr. Creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes 
 were small, and deep in his head; he had 
 thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and 
 a large chin. He was bald on the top of his 
 head; and had some thin wet-looking hair 
 that was just turning grey, brushed across 
 each temple^ so that the two sides interlaced 
 on his forehead. But the circumstance about 
 him which impressed me most, was, that he 
 had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The 
 exertion this cost him, or the consciousness 
 of talking in that feeble way, made his angry 
 face so much more angry, and his thick veins 
 so much thicker," when he spoke, that I am 
 not surprised, on looking back, at this pecul- 
 iarity striking me as his chief one. . . . 
 
 I should think there never can have been 
 a man who enjoyed his profession more than 
 Mr. Creakle did. He had a delight in cutting 
 
MR. CREAKLE 
 
 at the boys, which was like the satisfaction 
 of a craving appetite. I am confident that 
 he couldn't resist a chubby boy, especially; 
 that there was a fascination in such a sub- 
 ject, which made him restless in his mind, un- 
 til he had scored and marked him for the 
 day. I was chubby myself^ and ought to 
 know. I am sure when I think of the fellow 
 now, my blood rises against him with the dis- 
 interested indignation I should feel if I could 
 have known all about him without having 
 ever been in his power; but it rises hotly, be- 
 cause I know him to have been an incapable 
 brute, who had no more right to be pos- 
 sessed of the great trust he held, than to be 
 Lord High Admiral, or Commander-in-Chief: 
 in either of which capacities, it is probable 
 that he would have done infinitely less mis- 
 chief. ' 
 
 Miserable little propitiators of a remorse- 
 less Idol, how abject we were to him ! What 
 a launch in life I think it now, on looking 
 back, to be so mean and servile to a man of 
 such parts and pretensions ! . . . 
 
 [He] " was a great deal older and not im- 
 proved in appearance. His face was as fiery as 
 ever ; his eyes were as small and rather deeper 
 set. The scanty wet-looking gray hair was 
 almost gone; and the thick veins in his bald" 
 head were none the less agreeable to look at. 
 David Copperiield, ch. v-vii, ix, Ixi. 
 73 
 
CAPTAIN EDWARD CUTTLE 
 
 Captain Edward Cuttle, friend and part- 
 ner of Walter Gay's uncle Solomon Gills, 
 and the protector of Florence Dombey when 
 she fled from her father's house. Like the 
 play of Hamlet, he is " chock-full of quota- 
 tions " — very much mixed as to text and 
 sources, which latter he is very fertile in in- 
 venting. 
 
 A gentleman in a wide suit of blue, with a 
 hook instead of a hand attached to his right 
 wrist; very bushy black eyebrows; and a 
 thick stick in his left hand, covered all over 
 (like his nose) with knobs. He wore a loose 
 black silk handkerchief round his neck, and 
 such a very large coarse shirt collar, that it 
 looked like a small sail. He was evidently 
 the person for whom the spare wine-glass 
 was intended, and evidently knew it ; for hav- 
 ing taken off his rough outer coat, and hung 
 up, on a particular peg behind the door, such 
 a hard glazed hat as a sympathetic person's 
 head might ache at the sight of, and which 
 left a red rim round his own forehead as if 
 he had been wearing a tight basin, he brought 
 a chair to where the clean glass was, and sat 
 himself down behind it. He was usually ad- 
 dressed as Captain, this visitor; and had been 
 a pilot, or a skipper, or a privateer's-man, or 
 all three perhaps; and was a very salt-looking 
 man indeed. 
 
 74 
 
CAPTAIN EDWARD CUTTLE 
 
 His face, remarkable for a brown solidity, 
 brightened as he shook hands with uncle and 
 nephew; but he seemed to be of a laconic dis- 
 position, and merely said — 
 
 "How goes it?" 
 
 " All well," said Mr. Gills, pushing the bot- 
 tle towards him. 
 
 He took it up, and having surveyed and 
 smelt it, said with extraordinary expression: 
 
 "The?" 
 
 " The" returned the instrument-maker. 
 
 Upon that he whistled as he filled his glass, 
 and seemed to think they were making holi- 
 day indeed. 
 
 " Wal'r ! " he said, arranging his hair 
 (which was thin) with his hook, and then 
 pointing it at the instrument-maker, " Look 
 at him ! Love ! Honour ! And Obey ! 
 Overhaul your catchism till you find that 
 passage, and when found turn the leaf down. 
 Success, my boy ! " 
 
 He was so perfectly satisfied both with his 
 quotation and his reference to it, that he 
 could not help repeating the words again in a 
 low voice, and saying he had forgotten 'em 
 these forty year. 
 
 " But I never wanted two or three words in 
 my life that I didn't know where to lay my 
 hand upon 'em, Gills," he observed. " It 
 comes of not wasting language as some do." 
 75 
 
CHARLES DARNAY 
 
 Dombey and Son, ch. iv, ix, x, xv, xvii, xix, 
 xxiii, XXV, xxxii, xxxix, xlvUi-l, Ivi, Ivii, 
 Ix, Ixii. 
 
 Charles Darn ay (Charles St. Evre- 
 monde), a French emigre, the son of the 
 Marquis St. Evremonde. He was accused of 
 being a spy in England and acquitted, after- 
 wards marrying Lucie Manette. Returning 
 to France during the Reign of Terror he was 
 denounced as an aristocrat, thrown into prison 
 and condemned to die. The heroic devotion 
 of Sydney Carton, who dies in his place, saves 
 him, and he and his wife and her father all 
 return to England and pass the rest of their 
 days in peace. 
 
 A young man of about five-and-twenty, 
 well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt 
 cheek and a dark eye. His condition was that 
 of a young gentleman. He was plainly 
 dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his 
 hair, which was long and dark, was gathered 
 in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to 
 be out of his way than for ornament. As an 
 emotion of the mind will express itself 
 through any covering of the body, so the pale- 
 ness which his situation engendered came 
 through the brown upon his cheek, showing 
 the soul to be stronger than the sun. He 
 was otherwise quite self-possessed. . . . 
 76 
 
CHARLES DARNAY 
 
 [He was tried and acquitted] for that he was 
 a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, ex- 
 cellent, and so forth, prince, our Lord the 
 King, by reason of his having, on divers occa- 
 sions, and by divers means and ways, assisted 
 Lewis, the French King, in his wars against 
 our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so 
 forth ; that was to say, by coming and going, 
 between the dominions of our said serene, 
 illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those 
 of the said French Lewis, and wickedly, 
 falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-ad- 
 verbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis 
 what forces our said serene, illustrious, ex- 
 cellent, and so forth, had in preparation to 
 send to Canada and North America. . . . 
 
 More months, to the number of twelve, had 
 come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was 
 established in England as a higher teacher 
 of the French language who was conversant 
 with French literature. In this age, he would 
 have been a Professor; in that age, he was 
 a Tutor. He read with young men who could 
 find any leisure and interest for the study of 
 a living tongue spoken all over the world, 
 and he cultivated a ^ taste for its stores of 
 knowledge and fancy. He could write of 
 them, besides, in sound English, and render 
 them into sound English. Such masters were 
 not at that time easily found; Princes that 
 77 
 
CHARLES DARNAY 
 
 had been, and Kings that were to be, were not 
 yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined no- 
 bility had dropped out of Tellson's ledgers to 
 turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose 
 attainments made the student's way unusually 
 pleasant and profitable, and as an elegant 
 translator who brought something to his work 
 besides mere dictionary knowledge, young, Mr. 
 Darnay soon became known and encouraged. 
 He was well acquainted, moreover, with the 
 circumstances of his country, and those were 
 of ever-growing interest. So, with great per- 
 severance and untiring industry, he pros- 
 pered. 
 
 In London, he had expected neither to walk 
 on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of 
 roses; if he had had any such exalted expec- 
 tation, he would not have prospered. He had 
 expected labour, and he found it, and did it, 
 and made the best of it. In this, his prosper- 
 ity consisted. 
 
 A certain portion of his time was passed 
 at Cambridge, where he read with under- 
 graduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who 
 drove a contraband trade in European lan- 
 guages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin 
 through the Custom-house. The rest of his 
 time he passed in London. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book II, ch. ii-vi, ix, 
 
 X, xvi-xvm, XX, xxi, xxiv; Book III/ ch. 
 
 i-vii, ix-xv. 
 
 78 
 
ROSA DARTLE 
 
 Rosa Dartle, Mrs. Steerforth's companion; 
 in love with her son — who does not recipro- 
 cate her affection. 
 
 [She was] of slight short figure, dark, and 
 not agreeable to look at, but witfi some ap- 
 pearance of good looks too, who attracted 
 my attention : perhaps because I had not ex- 
 pected to see her; perhaps because I found 
 myself sitting opposite to her; perhaps be- 
 cause of something really remarkable in her. 
 She had black hair and eager black eyes, and 
 was thin, and had a scar upon her lip. It 
 was an old scar — I should rather call it, 
 seam, for it was not discoloured, and had 
 healed years ago — which had once cut 
 through her mouth, downward towards the 
 chin, but was now barely visible across the 
 table, except above and on her upper lip, the 
 shape of which it had altered. I concluded 
 in my own mind that she was about thirty 
 years of age, and that she wished to be mar- 
 ried. She was a little dilapidated — like a 
 house — with having been so long to let; yet 
 had, as I have said, an appearance of good 
 looks. Her thinness seemed to be the effect 
 of some wasting fire within her, which found 
 a vent in her gaunt eyes. 
 
 She was introduced as Miss Dartle and 
 both Steerforth and his mother called her 
 Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had 
 79 
 
ROSA DARTLE 
 
 been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's com- 
 panion. It appeared to me that she never 
 said anything she wanted to say, outright; 
 but hinted it, and made a great deal more of 
 it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. 
 Steerforth observed, more in jest than earn- 
 est, that she feared her son led but a wild life 
 at college, Miss Dartle put in thus: 
 
 " Oh, really ? You know how ignorant I 
 am, and that I only ask for information, but 
 isn't it always so? I thought that kind of 
 life was on all hands understood to be — eh ? " 
 . . . I could not help glancing at the scar 
 with a painful interest when we went in to tea. 
 It was not long before I observed that it was 
 the most susceptible part of her face, and that, 
 when she turned pale, that mark altered first, 
 and became a dull, lead-coloured streak, 
 lengthening out to its full extent, like a mark 
 in invisible ink brought to the fire. . . . 
 
 [Steerforth] asked me what I thought of 
 her. 
 
 " She is very clever, is she not ? " I asked. 
 
 " Clever ! She brings everything to a 
 grindstone," said Steerforth, " and sharpens 
 it, as she has sharpened her own face and fig- 
 ure these years past. She has worn herself 
 away by constant sharpening. She is all 
 edge." 
 
 " What a remarkable scar that is upon her 
 lip ! " I said. 
 
 80 
 
JOHN DAWKINS 
 
 Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 '' Why, the fact is," he returned, " — / did 
 that. ... I was a young boy, and she ex- 
 asperated me, and I threw a hammer at her. 
 A promising young angel I must have been ! 
 . . . She has borne the mark ever since, 
 as you see, and she'll bear it to her grave, if 
 she ever rests in one; though I can hardly be- 
 lieve she will ever rest anywhere. She was 
 the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my 
 father's. He died one day. My mother, who 
 was then a widow, brought her here to be 
 company to her. She has a couple of thou- 
 sand pounds of her own, and saves the inter- 
 est of it every year, to add to the principal. 
 There's the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for 
 you." 
 David Copperiield, ch. xx, xxi, xxiv, xxix, 
 
 xxxiii, xxxvi, xlvi, I, Ivi, Ixiv. 
 
 John Dawkins, alias " The Artful 
 Dodger" a pickpocket in the service of Fagin 
 the Jew. He encountered Oliver Twist and 
 took him to Fagin's den. Clever as he was 
 in thieving and knavery, he was caught at last 
 and sentenced to transportation for life. 
 
 He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common- 
 faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as 
 one would wish to see; but he had about him 
 8i 
 
JOHN DAWKINS 
 
 all the airs and manners of a man. He was 
 short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and 
 little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck 
 on the top of his head so lightly, that it 
 threatened to fall off every moment; and 
 would have done so, very often, if the wearer 
 had not had a knack of every now and then 
 giving his head a sudden twitch, which 
 brought it back to its old place again. He 
 wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to 
 his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half- 
 way up his arm, to get his hands out of the 
 sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view 
 of thrusting them into the pockets of his cor- 
 duroy trousers; for there he kept them. He 
 was, altogether, as roystering and swagger- 
 ing a young gentleman as ever stood four 
 feet six, or something less, in his bluchers. 
 . . . Oliver discovered that his friend's 
 name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a 
 peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentle- 
 man before mentioned (Fagin). 
 
 Mr. Dawkins's appearance did not say a 
 vast deal in favour of the comforts which his 
 patron's interest obtained for those whom he 
 took under his protection; but, as he had a 
 rather flightly and dissolute mode of convers- 
 ing, and furthermore avowed that among his 
 intimate friends he was better known by the 
 sobriquet of " The artful Dodger," Oliver 
 82 
 
LADY HONORIA DEDLOCK 
 
 I 
 
 concluded that, being of a dissipated and care- 
 less turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor 
 had hitherto been thrown away upon him. 
 Under this impression, he secretly resolved 
 to cultivate the good opinion of the old gen- 
 tleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found 
 the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half 
 expected he should, to decline the honour of 
 his farther acquaintance. 
 
 Oliver Twist, ch. viii-x, xii, xiii, xvi, xvii, 
 xix, XXV, xxxix, xliii. 
 
 Lady Honoria' Deblock, consort of Sir 
 Leicester Dedlock. She was the mother of 
 Esther Summerson by Capt. Hawdon, a gay 
 rake who abandoned her without marriage — 
 Sir Leicester knows nothing of this, but others 
 come into possession of the secret and her 
 efforts to prevent it from coming to light lead 
 to her flight from home and her miserable 
 death from shame, remorse and exposure at 
 the gate of the miserable churchyard in which 
 the father of her child was buried — where 
 also lies the unfortunate "Jo," to whom he 
 was " werry good, he wos." Proud, cold and 
 haughty as she was, she always had some af- 
 fection for her earlier lover — and for her 
 child. 
 
 [Lady Dedlock] had beauty, pride, ambi- 
 tion, insolent resolve, and sense enough to 
 
LADY HONORIA DEDLOCK 
 
 portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth 
 and station, added to these, soon floated her 
 upward; and for years, now, my Lady Ded- 
 lock has been at the centre of the fashionable 
 intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable 
 tree. 
 
 How Alexander wept when he had no more 
 worlds to conquer, everybody knows — or has 
 some reason to know by this time, the matter 
 having been rather frequently mentioned. 
 My Lady Dedlock, having conquered her 
 world, fell, not into the rnelting, but rather 
 into the freezing mood. An exhausted com- 
 posure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity 
 of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or sat- 
 isfaction, are the trophies of her victory. 
 She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be 
 translated to Heaven to-morrow, she might 
 be expected to ascend without any rapture. 
 
 She has beauty still, and, if it be not in its 
 heyday, it is not yet in its autumrt. She has 
 a fine face — originally of a character that 
 would be rather called very pretty than hand- 
 some, but improved into classicality by the 
 acquired expression of her fashionable state. 
 Her figure is elegant, and has the effect of 
 being tall. Not that she is so, but that " the 
 most is made," as the Honourable Bob Stables 
 has frequently asserted upon oath, " of all her 
 points." The same authority observes, that 
 84 
 
LADY HONORIA DEBLOCK 
 
 she is perfectly got up; and remarks, in com- 
 mendation of her hair especially, that she is the 
 best-groomed woman in the whole stud. . . 
 There is this remarkable circumstance to 
 be noted in everything associated with my 
 Lady Dedlock as one of class — as one of the 
 leaders and representatives of her little 
 world. She supposes herself to be an in- 
 scrutable Being, quite out of the reach and 
 ken of ordinary mortals — seeing herself in 
 her glass, where indeed she looks so. Yet, 
 every dim little star revolving about her, 
 from her maid to the manager of the Italian 
 Opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices, fol- 
 lies, haughtinesses, and caprices; and lives 
 upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a 
 measure of her moral nature, as her dress- 
 maker takes of her physical proportions. Is 
 a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a 
 new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new 
 dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, 
 to be set up? There are deferential people, 
 in a dozen callings, whom my Lady Dedlock 
 suspects of nothing but prostration before her, 
 who can tell you how to manage her as if she 
 were a baby; who do nothing but nurse her 
 all their lives; who, humbly affecting to fol- 
 low with profound subservience, lead her and 
 her whole troop after them; who, in hooking 
 one, hook all and bear them off, as Lemuel 
 
SIR LEICESTER DEBLOCK 
 
 Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the 
 
 majestic Lilliput. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. ii, vU, ix, xii, xv, xviii, 
 
 xxviii, xxix, xxxiii, xxxvi,xxxix-xli, xlviii, 
 
 Uii-lvUi. 
 
 Sir Leicester Deblock, a typical represent- 
 ative of one of the great county families of 
 England. (See Lady Dedlock.) 
 
 Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but 
 there is no mightier baronet than he. His 
 family is as old as the hills, and infinitely 
 more respectable. He has a general opinion 
 that the world might get on without hills, but 
 would be done up without Dedlocks. He 
 would on the whole admit Nature to be a 
 good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not en- 
 closed with a park- fence), but an idea de- 
 pendent for its execution on your great county 
 families. He is a gentleman of strict con- 
 science, disdainful of all littleness and mean- 
 ness, and ready, on the shortest notice, to die 
 any death you may please to mention rather 
 than give occasion for the least impeachment 
 of his integrity. He is an honourable, obsti- 
 nate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely preju- 
 diced, perfectly unreasonable man. 
 
 Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, 
 older than my Lady. He will never see sixty- 
 five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet 
 86 
 
MONSIEUR ERNEST DEFARGE 
 
 sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now 
 and then, and walks a little stiffly. He is of 
 a worthy presence, with his light grey hair 
 and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure 
 white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright 
 buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, 
 stately, most polite on every occasion to my 
 Lady, and holds her personal attractions in 
 the highest estimation. His gallantry to my 
 Lady, which has never changed since he 
 courted her, is the one little touch of romantic 
 fancy in him. 
 
 Indeed, he married her for love. 
 Bleak House, ch. ii, vii, ix, xii, xvi, xviii, 
 
 xxviii, xxix, xl, xliii, xlviU, liii-lvi, IvUi, 
 
 Ixiii, Ixvi. 
 
 Monsieur Ernest Defarge, the ringleader 
 of the revolutionists in the suburb of St. An- 
 toine in Paris and keeper of a wine shop 
 there. To his house Dr. Manette was taken 
 when he was released from the Bastille and it 
 was he who found the records in that prison 
 afterwards used against Darnay. His house 
 was the headquarters of the Jacquerie and 
 he was known as Jacques No. 4. 
 
 A bull-necked, martial-looking man of 
 thirty, and he should have been of a hot tem- 
 perament, for, although it was a bitter day, 
 he wore no coat, but carried one slung over 
 87 
 
MADAME THERESE DEFARGE 
 
 his shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were rolled 
 up, too, and his brown arms were bare to the 
 elbows. Neither did he wear anything more 
 on his head than his own crisply-curling short 
 dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, 
 with good eyes and a good bold breadth be- 
 tween them. Good-humoured looking on the 
 whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently 
 a man of a strong resolution and a set pur- 
 pose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing 
 down a narrow pass with a gulf on either 
 side, for nothing would turn the man. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. v, vi; 
 Book II, ch. vii, XV, xvi, xxi, xxii; Book 
 III, ch. i, Hi, vi, ix, x, xH, xiv, xv. 
 
 Madame Therese Defarge, the leader of 
 the Saint Antoine women revolutionaries, 
 who Urst befriends and then helps betray Dr. 
 Manette. She is killed in an encounter with 
 Miss Pross, Lucy Manette' s maid — who in 
 order to give her mistress time for Hight, re- 
 fuses to admit her to a room where she was 
 supposed to be in hiding. 
 
 She was a stout woman of about [her hus- 
 band's] age, with a watchful eye that seldom 
 seemed to look at anything, a large hand heav- 
 ily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and 
 great composure of manner. There was a 
 character about Madame Defarge from which 
 88 
 
MADAME THERESE DEFARGE 
 
 « — ■ — ■ — ■ — ' 
 
 one might have predicated that she did not 
 often make mistakes against herself in any of 
 the reckonings over which she presided. 
 Madame Defarge being sensitive to cold, was 
 wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright 
 shawl twined about her head, though not to 
 the concealment of her large ear-rings. Her 
 knitting was before her, but she had laid it 
 down to pick her teeth with a toothpick. 
 Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported 
 by her left hand, Madame Defarge said noth- 
 ing when her lord came in, but coughed just 
 one grain of cough. This, in combination 
 with the lifting of her darkly defined eye- 
 brows over her toothpick by the breadth of 
 a line, suggested to her husband that he would 
 do well to look round the shop among the 
 customers, for any new customer who had 
 dropped in while he stepped over the way. 
 . . . Of a strong and fearless character, of 
 shrewd sense and readiness, of great deter- 
 mination, of that kind of beauty which not 
 only seems to impart to its possessor firmness 
 and animosity, but to strike into others an 
 instinctive recognition of those qualities; the 
 troubled time would have heaved her up, un- 
 der any circumstances. But, imbued from 
 her childhood with a brooding sense of wrong, 
 and an inveterate hatred of a class, oppor- 
 tunity had developed her into a tigress. She 
 89 
 
MADAME THERESE DEFARGE 
 
 was absolutely without pity. If she had ever 
 had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out 
 of her. ... To appeal to her, was made 
 hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even 
 for herself. If she had been laid low in the 
 streets, in any of the many encounters in 
 which she had been engaged, she would not 
 have pitied herself; nor, if she had been or- 
 dered to the axe to-morrow, would she have 
 gone to it with any softer feeling than a fierce 
 desire to change places with the man who 
 sent her there. 
 
 Such a heart Madame Defarge carried un- 
 der her rough robe. Carelessly worn, it was 
 a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird 
 way, and her dark hair looked rich under her 
 coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her bosom, 
 was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her 
 waist, was a sharpened dagger. Thus ac- 
 coutred, and walking with the confident tread 
 of such a character, and with the supple free- 
 dom of a woman who had habitually walked 
 in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on 
 the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge took 
 her way along the streets. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. v, vi, Book 
 
 II, ch. vii, XV, xvi, xxi, xxii; Book III, ch. 
 
 Hi, V, vi, viii-x, xii, xiv, xv 
 
 90 
 
NED DENNIS 
 
 Ned Dennis, the hangman, was one of the 
 ring-leaders of the Gordon rioters; — with the 
 instinct of his profession strong within him 
 he wished to ''work oif" every one who stood 
 in their way and was disgusted when not al- 
 lowed to do so. He aided in the burning and 
 destruction of Newgate jail, but protested 
 against setting free the prisoners condemned 
 to death as robbing the hangman of his 
 rights! When the riots were over he was 
 arrested and condemned to death. He could 
 not, however, believe that he would suffer the 
 extreme penalty, and was confident that the 
 government would pardon him, on account of 
 his past services. When he finds there is no 
 hope, his fear renders him abject, and he finds 
 that the satisfaction he had in " working peo- 
 ple off " is not shared by those who are to be 
 "worked off." 
 
 A squat, thickset personage, with a low re- 
 treating forehead, a coarse shock head of 
 hair, and eyes so small and near together, 
 that his broken nose alone seemed to prevent 
 their meeting and fusing into one of the usual 
 size. A dingy handkerchief twisted like a 
 cord about his neck, left its great veins ex- 
 posed to view, and they were swollen and start- 
 ing, as though with gulping down strong 
 passions, malice, and ill-will. His dress was 
 of threadbare velveteen — a faded, rusty, 
 91 
 
NED DENNIS 
 
 whitened black, like the ashes of a pipe or a 
 coal fire after a day's extinction; discoloured 
 with the soils of many a stale debauch, and 
 reeking yet with pot-house odours. In lieu 
 of buckles at his knees, he wore unequal loops 
 of packthread; and in his grimy hands he 
 held a knotted stick, the knob of which was 
 carved into a rough likeness of his* own vile 
 face. 
 
 " I'm of as gen-teel a calling, brother, as 
 any man in England — as light a business as 
 any gentleman could desire. . . . No 
 'prenticing. It comes by natur. . . . 
 Look at that hand of mine — many and many 
 a job that hand has done, with a neatness and 
 dex-terity, never known afore. When I look 
 at that hand," said Mr. Dennis, shaking it in 
 the air, " and remember the helegant bits of 
 work it has turned off, I feel quite mollon- 
 choly to think it should ever grow old and 
 feeble. But sich is life ! " 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in 
 these reflections, and putting his fingers with 
 an absent air on Hugh's throat, and particu- 
 larly under his left ear, as if he were studying 
 the anatomical development of that part of 
 his frame, shook his head in a despondent 
 manner and actually shed tears. ... I 
 may call myself a artist — a fancy workman 
 — art improves natur' — that's my motto. 
 92 
 
NED DENNIS 
 
 That [stick] was carved by a friend of mine, 
 as is now no more. The very day afore he 
 died, he cut that with his pocket-knife from 
 memory ! ' I'll die game,' says my friend, 
 * and my last moments shall be dewoted to 
 making Dennis's picter.' That's it. . . . 
 He was a queer subject altogether — a kind 
 of gipsy — one of the finest, stand-up men, 
 you ever see. Ah ! He told me some things 
 that would startle you a bit, did that friend 
 of mine, on the morning when he died. 
 . . . He would not have gone off half as 
 comfortable without me. I had been with 
 three or four of his family under the same 
 circumstances. They were all fine fellows. 
 . . . They all had me near 'em when they 
 departed. I come in for their wardrobes too. 
 This very handkecher that you see round my 
 neck, belonged to him that I've been speaking 
 of — him as did that likeness. . . . These 
 smalls," said Dennis, rubbing his legs ; " these 
 very smalls — they belonged to a friend of 
 mine that's left off sich incumbrances for 
 ever: this coat too — I've often walked be- 
 hind this coat, in the streets, and wondered 
 whether it would ever come to me: this pair 
 of shoes have danced a hornpipe for ^another 
 man, afore my eyes, full half-a-dozen times 
 at least: and as to my hat," he said, taking 
 it off, and twirling it round upon his fist — 
 93 
 
MR. DICK 
 
 " Lord ! I've seen this hat go up Holborn on 
 the box of a hackney-coach — ah, many and 
 many a day ! " 
 
 " You don't mean, to say their old wearers 
 are all dead, I hope ? " said Mr. Tappertit, 
 falling a little distance from him as he spoke. 
 
 " Every one of 'em," replied Dennis. 
 " Every man Jack ! " 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. xxxv-xl, xliv, xlix, I, liii- 
 
 liv, Ux, Ix, Ixii-lxv, Ixix-lxxi, Ixxiv-lxxvii. 
 
 Mr. Dick (Richard Babley), a protege of 
 Miss Betsey Trotwood, who professed to 
 have a great opinion of his intelligence and 
 the wisdom of his judgments, although he was 
 a lunatic. of a mild type. 
 
 Mr. Dick v^as grey-headed and florid: I 
 should have said all about him, in saying so, 
 had not his head been curiously bowed — not 
 by age . . . and his grey eyes prominent 
 and large, with a strange kind of watery 
 brightness in them that made me, in com- 
 bination with his vacant manner, his submis- 
 mission to my aunt, and his childish delight 
 when she praised him, suspect him of being 
 a little mad; though, if he were mad, how he 
 came to. be there puzzled me extremely. He 
 was dressed like any other ordinary gentle- 
 man, in a loose grey morning coat and waist- 
 coat and white trousers; and had his watch 
 94 
 
MR. DICK 
 
 in his fob, and his money in his pockets: 
 which he rattled as if he were very proud 
 of it. . . . " Did he say anything about 
 King Charles the First? . . . He is mem- 
 orialising the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord 
 Somebody or other — one of those people, 
 at all events, who are paid to he memorial- 
 ized — about his affairs. I suppose it will go 
 in, one of these days. He hasn't been able to 
 draw it up yet, without introducing that mode 
 of expressing himself; but it don't signify; it 
 keeps him employed." 
 
 In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. 
 Dick had been for upwards of ten years en- 
 deavouring to keep King Charles the First out 
 of the Memorial; but he had been constantly 
 getting into it, and was there now. 
 
 " I say again," said my aunt, " nobody 
 knows what that man's mind is except myself; 
 and he's the most amenable and friendly crea- 
 ture in existence. If he likes to fly a kite 
 sometimes, what of that? Franklin used to 
 fly a kite. He was a Quaker, or something 
 of that sort, if I am not mistaken. And a 
 Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous 
 object than anybody else." . . . 
 
 Mr. 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 sit- 
 
 95 
 
MR. DICK 
 
 ting 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 dis- 
 appointments, 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 impression upon 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 ques- 
 tions, for if anything were certain under the 
 sun, it was certain that the Memorial never 
 would be finished. 
 
 It was quite an affecting sight, I used to 
 think, to see him with the kite when it was 
 up to a great height in the air. What he had 
 told me, in his room, about his belief in its 
 disseminating the statements pasted on it, 
 which were nothing but old leaves of abortive 
 Memorials, might have been a fancy with him 
 sometimes ; but not when he was out, looking 
 up at the kite in the sky, and feeling it pull 
 96 
 
MR. DICK 
 
 and tug at his hands. He never looked so 
 serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I 
 sat by him of an evening, on a green slope, 
 and saw him watch the kite high in the quiet 
 air, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion, 
 and bore it (such was my boyish thought) into 
 the skys. As he wound the string in, and it 
 came lower and lower down out of the beau- 
 tiful light, until it fluttered to the ground, and 
 lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to 
 wake gradually out of a dream; and I remem- 
 ber to have seen him take it up, and look about 
 him in a lost way, as if they had both come 
 down together, so that I pitied him with all 
 my heart. ... He soon became known 
 to every boy in the school; and though he 
 never took an active part in any game but 
 kite-flying, was as deeply interested in all our 
 sports as any one among us. How often have 
 I seen him, intent upon a match at marbles 
 or pegtop, looking on with a face of unut- 
 terable interest, and hardly breathing at the 
 critical times. How often, at Ijare and hounds, 
 have I seen him mounted on a little knoll, 
 cheering the whole field on to action, and 
 waving his hat above his grey head, oblivious 
 of King Charles the Martyr's head, and all be- 
 longing to it ! How many a summer-hour 
 have I known to be but blissful minutes to 
 him in the cricket-field ! How many winter 
 97 
 
COLONEL DIVER 
 
 days have I seen him, standing blue-nosed, in 
 the snow and east wind, looking at the boys 
 going down the long slide, and clapping his 
 worsted gloves in rapture ! 
 
 He was a universal favourite, and his in- 
 genuity in little things was transcendent. He 
 could cut oranges into such devices as none 
 of us had an idea of. He could make a boat 
 out of anything, from a skewer upwards. He 
 could turn crampbones into chessmen; fashion 
 Roman chariots from old court cards; make 
 spoked wheels out of cotton reels, and bird- 
 cages of old wire. But he was greatest of all, 
 perhaps, in the articles of string and straw; 
 with which we were all persuaded he could 
 do anything that could be done by hands. 
 David Copperiield, ch. xiii-xv, xvii, xix, 
 
 xxxiv, xxxvi, xxxviii, xlii, xliii, xlv, xlix. 
 
 Hi, liv, Ixii, Ixiv. 
 
 Colonel Diver, editor of " The Rozvdy 
 Journal." 
 
 A sallow gentleman, with sunken cheeks, 
 black hair, small twinkling eyes, and a singu- 
 lar expression hovering about that region of 
 his face, which was not a frown, nor a leer, 
 and yet might have been mistaken at the first 
 glance for either. Indeed it would have been 
 difficult, on a much closer acquaintance, to de- 
 scribe it in any more satisfactory terms than 
 
COLONEL DIVER 
 
 as a mixed expression of vulgar cunning and 
 conceit. This gentlemen wore a rather broad- 
 brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his 
 appearance; and had his arms folded for the 
 greater impressiveness of his attitude. He 
 was somewhat shabbily dressed in a blue sur- 
 tout reaching nearly to his ankles, short loose 
 trousers of the same colour, and a faded buff 
 waistcoat, through which a discoloured shirt- 
 frill struggled to force itself into notice, as 
 asserting an equality of civil rights with the 
 other portions of his dress, and maintaining 
 a Declaration of Independence on its own ac- 
 count. His feet, which were of unusually 
 large proportions, were leisurely crossed be- 
 fore him as he half leaned against, half sat 
 upon, the steamboat's side; and his thick cane, 
 shod with a mighty ferrule at one end and 
 armed with a great metal knob at the other, 
 depended from a line-and-tassel on his wrist. 
 Thus attired, and thus composed into an as- 
 pect of great profundity, the gentleman 
 twitched up the right-hand corner of his 
 mouth and his right eye, simultaneously, and 
 said, once more: 
 
 " It is in such enlightened means, that the 
 bubbling passions of my country find a vent." 
 
 "You allude to—" 
 
 " To the Palladium of rational Liberty at 
 home, Sir, and the dread of Foreign oppres- 
 99 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 sion abroad," returned the gentleman, as he 
 pointed with his cane to an uncommonly dirty- 
 newsboy with one eye. " To the Envy of the 
 world. Sir, and the leaders of Human Civiliza- 
 tion. Let me ask you, Sir," he added, bring- 
 ing the ferrule of his stick heavily upon the 
 [deck 'with the air of a man who must not be 
 equivocated with, " how do you like my Coun- 
 try ? " 
 
 " I'm hardly prepared to answer that ques- 
 tion yet/' said Martin, " seeing that I have not 
 been ashore." 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xxxiv. 
 
 DoMBEY AND SoN. Mr. Dombcy was a 
 wealthy, stiff, and pompous London merchant 
 possessed with the idea that the universe was 
 pivoted on his House.. .He ignored his daugh- 
 ter Florence, and centred all his hopes and 
 what affection he had on his son Paul, whose 
 mother died in giving him birth. The son 
 lived but a few years, and his death hardens 
 the heart of the father still more. Later he 
 married a proud and haughty beauty, Edith 
 Granger: — who had no love for him. The 
 two natures clash. His manager, Mr. Carker, 
 helps to widen the breach — and Unally they 
 elope — she with the sole idea of being re- 
 venged on her husband. Dombcy drives his 
 daughter from his home, believing her to have 
 been his wife's accomplice. 
 
 100 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 His troubles prey on his mind, his business 
 faculties are lost and his business is ruined 
 and he is bankrupt. Finally his pride is 
 broken, his obstinacy melted, and he repents of 
 his injustice chiefly through the influence of 
 his daughter, with whom and her husband and 
 children he passes his declining years. 
 
 Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened 
 room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, 
 and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket 
 bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee 
 immediately in front of the fire and close to it, 
 as if his constitution were analogous to that 
 of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him 
 brown while he was very new. 
 
 Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of 
 age. Son about eight-and-forty minutes. 
 Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and 
 though a handsome, well-made man, too stern 
 and pompous in appearance, to be preposses- 
 sing: one of those close-shaved, close-cut 
 moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and crisp 
 like new bank-notes, and who seem to be arti- 
 ficially braced and tightened as by the stimu- 
 lating action of golden shower-baths. Son 
 was very bald, and very red, and though (of 
 course) an undeniably fine infant, somewhat 
 crushed and spotty in his general effect, as 
 yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his 
 brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree 
 
 lOI 
 
DOMBEY AND SON 
 
 that was to come down in good time — re- 
 morseless twins they are for striding through 
 their human forests, notching as they go — 
 while the 'countenance of Son was crossed 
 and recrossed with a thousand little creases, 
 which the same deceitful Time would take 
 delight in smoothing out and wearing away 
 with the flat part of his scythe, as a prepara- 
 tion of the surface for his deeper operations. 
 
 Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for 
 event, jingled and jingled the heavy gold 
 watch-chain that depended from below his trim 
 blue coat, whereof the buttons sparkled phos- 
 phorescently in the feeble rays of the distant 
 fire. Son, with his little fists curled up and 
 clenched, seemed in his feeble way, to be 
 squaring at existence for having come upon 
 him so unexpectedly. 
 
 " Dombey and Son." Those three words 
 conveyed the one idea of Mr. Dombey's life. 
 The earth was made for Dombey and Son to 
 trade in, and the sun and moon were made 
 to give them light. Rivers and seas were 
 formed to float their ships ; rainbows gave 
 them promise of fair weather; winds blew 
 for or against their enterprises; stars and 
 planets circled in their orbits, to preserve in- 
 violate a system of which they were the cen- 
 tre. Common abbreviations took new mean- 
 ings in his eyes, and had sole reference to 
 
 I02 
 
MRS. EDITH DOMBEY 
 
 them. A. D. had no concern with anno 
 Domini, but stood for anno Dombei — and Son. 
 Donibey and Son. For references see Flor- 
 ence Dombey. 
 
 Mrs. Edith Dombey, widow of Colonel 
 Granger. (See Dombey and Son and Car- 
 ker.) 
 
 Very handsome, very haughty, very wilful, 
 who tossed her head and drooped her eyelids, 
 as though, if there were anything in all the 
 world worth looking into, save a mirror, it 
 certainly was not the earth or sky. . . . 
 It was a remarkable characteristic of this 
 lady's beauty that it appeared to vaunt and 
 assert itself without her aid, and against her 
 will. She knew that she was beautiful: it 
 was impossible that it could be otherwise: but 
 she seemed with her own pride to defy her 
 very self. 
 
 Whether she held cheap, attractions that 
 could only call forth admiration that was 
 worthless to her, or- whether she designed to 
 render them more precious to admirers by this 
 usage of them, those to whom they were pre- 
 cious seldom paused to consider. . . . 
 
 " I was a woman — artful, designing, mer- 
 cenary, laying snares for men — before I knew 
 myself, or even understood the base and 
 wretched aim of every new display I learnt. . 
 103 
 
MRS. EDITH DOMBEY 
 
 " Look at me, who have never known what 
 it is to have an honest heart, and love. Look 
 at me, taught to scheme and plot when chil- 
 dren play ; and married in my youth — an old 
 age of design — to one for whom I had no 
 feeling but indifference. Look at me, whom 
 he left a widow, dying before his inheritance 
 descended to him — and tell me what has been 
 my life for ten years since." 
 
 " There is no slave in a market : there is no 
 horse in a fair: so shown and offered and 
 examined and paraded, as I have been, for ten 
 shameful years. Is it not so? Have I been 
 made the byword of all kinds of men? Have 
 fools, have profligates, have boys, have 
 dotards, dangled after me, and one by one re- 
 jected me, and fallen off, because you were too 
 plain with all your cunning: yes, and too true, 
 with all those false pretences: until we have 
 almost come to be notorious? The license of 
 look and touch, have I submitted to it, in half 
 the places of resort upon the map of Eng- 
 land? Have I been hawked and vended here 
 and there, until the last grain of self-respect is 
 dead within me, and I loathe myself?" . . . 
 
 " Who takes me, refuse that I am, and as 
 I well deserve to be, shall take me, as this 
 man does, with no art of mine put forth to 
 lure him. He sees me at the auction, and he 
 thinks it well to buy me. Let him ! When 
 104 
 
FLORENCE DOMBEY 
 
 he came to view me — perhaps to bid — he 
 required to see the roll of my accomplish- 
 ments. I gave it to him. When he would 
 have me show one of them, to justify his pur- 
 chase to his men, I require of him to say 
 which he demands, and I exhibit it. I will 
 do no more. He makes the purchase of his 
 own will, and with his own sense of its worth, 
 and the power of his money; and I hope it 
 may never disappoint him. I have not vaunted 
 and pressed the bargain." 
 Dombeyand Son {for references see Flor- 
 ence Dombey, Paul Dombey, and James 
 Carker). 
 
 Florence Dombey, the despised and neg- 
 lected but loving and lovable daughter of Mr. 
 Dombey. The indifference of her father to- 
 wards her grows to hatred and at last he 
 drives her out of his house. She marries 
 Walter Gay, once a junior in Mr. Dombey's 
 bank, who found her when she was lost in 
 London as a little child. Subsequently her 
 father becomes reconciled to her when he is 
 stripped of all else and he passes his declining 
 days with her and her children. 
 
 So Florence lived in her wilderness of a 
 home, within the circle of her innocent pur- 
 suits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. 
 She could go down to her father's rooms now, 
 105 
 
PAUL DOMBEY 
 
 and think of him, and suffer her loving heart 
 humbly to approach him, without fear of re- 
 pulse. She could look upon the objects that 
 had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could 
 nestle near his chair, and not dread the glance 
 that she so well remembered. She could ren- 
 der him such little tokens of her duty and 
 service, as putting everything in order for him 
 with her own hands, binding little nosegays 
 for his table, changing them as one by one 
 they withered and he did not come back, pre- 
 paring something for him every day, and leav- 
 ing some timid mark of her presence near his 
 usual seat. To-day, it was a little painted 
 stand for his watch; to-morrow, she would 
 be afraid to leave it, and would substitute 
 some other trifle of her making not so likely 
 to attract his eye. Waking in the night, per- 
 haps, she would tremble at the thought of his 
 coming home and angrily rejecting it, and 
 would hurry down with slippered feet and 
 quickly beating heart, and bring it away. At 
 another time, she would only lay her face upon 
 his desk, and leave a kiss there, and a tear. 
 Dombey and Son, ch. i, in, v, vi, vUi-xii, xiv, 
 xvi, xviii, xix, xxii-xxiv, xxvii, xxx, 
 xxxv-xxxvii, xl, xli, xliii-xlv, xlvii-l, Ivi, 
 Ivii, lix, Ixi, Ixii. 
 
 Paul Dombey, 'the son and heir of Mr. 
 Dombey, on zvhom all his father's hopes are 
 io6 
 
PAUL DOMBEY 
 
 centred. His mother dies in giving him birth: 
 the child is a weakling and is sent to Brighton 
 in the care of Mrs. Pipchin. He then goes to 
 Dr. Blimher"s School, where the forcing pro- 
 cess of education only hastens the end and the 
 lad is taken home to die. 
 
 He was a pretty little fellow; though there 
 was something wan and wistful in his small 
 face, that gave occasion to many significant 
 shakes of Mrs. Wickam's head, and many 
 long-drawn inspirations of Mrs. Wickam's 
 breath. His temper gave abundant promise 
 of being imperious in after-life; and he had 
 as hopeful an apprehension of his own im- 
 portance, and the rightful subservience of all 
 other things and persons to it, as heart could 
 desire. He was childish and sportive enough 
 at times, and not of a sullen disposition; but 
 he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful 
 way, at other times, of sitting brooding in his 
 miniature arm-chair, when he looked (and 
 talked) like one of those terrible little beings 
 in the fairy tales, who, at a hundred and fifty 
 or two hundred years of age, fantastically rep- 
 resent the children for whom they have been 
 substituted. He would frequently be stricken 
 with this precocious mood upstairs in the 
 nursery; and would sometimes lapse into it 
 suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired: even 
 while playing with Florence, or driving Miss 
 
 I07 
 
AMY DORRIT 
 
 Tox in single harness. But at no time did he 
 fall into it so surely, as when, his little chair 
 being carried down into his father's room, he 
 sat there with him after dinner, by the fire. 
 They were the strangest pair at such a time 
 that ever firelight shone upon. Mr. Dombey 
 so erect and solemn, gazing at the blaze; his 
 little image, with an old, old face, peering into 
 the red perspective with the fixed and rapt at- 
 tention of a sage. Mr. Dombey entertaining 
 complicated worldly schemes and plans; the 
 little image entertaining Heaven knows what 
 wild fancies, half-formed thoughts, and wan- 
 dering speculations. Mr. Dombey stiff with 
 starch and arrogance; the little image by in- 
 heritance, and in unconscious imitation. The 
 two so very much alike, and yet so monstrously 
 contrasted. 
 Dombey and Son, ch. i-iii, v-viii, xiv, xvi. 
 
 Amy Dorrit (Little Dorrit), daughter of 
 William Dorrit, who becomes the wife of Ar- 
 thur Clennam. She devoted herself to the 
 support and protection of her father in his 
 misfortune, bearing in her own heart his anx- 
 ieties and the shame. She was called " the 
 child of the Marshalsea," having been born in 
 the prison, and was christened and married in 
 the same church hard by. When fortune 
 smiled upon the family her faithfulness was 
 io8 
 
AMY DORRIT 
 
 forgotten and she suffered much in conse- 
 quence, but silently and bravely : — throughout 
 her life like one of old she " went about doing 
 good.'' 
 
 Little Dorrit let herself out to do needle- 
 work. At so much a day — or at so little — 
 from eight to eight. Little Dorrit was to be 
 hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit 
 appeared; punctual to the moment. Little Dor- 
 rit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit 
 between the two eights, was a mystery. 
 
 Another of the moral phenomena of Little 
 Dorrit. Besides her consideration money, her 
 daily contract included meals. She had an 
 extraordinary repugnance to dining in com- 
 pany; would never do so, if it were possible 
 to escape. Would always plead that she had 
 this bit of work to begin first, or that bit of 
 work to finish first; and would, of a certainty, 
 scheme and plan — not very cunningly, it 
 would seem, for she deceived no one — to dine 
 alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying 
 off her plate anywhere, to make a table of 
 her lap, or a box, or the ground, or even as 
 was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining mod- 
 erately at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of 
 Little Dorrit's day was set at rest. 
 
 It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit's 
 face; she was so retiring, plied her needle in 
 such removed corners, and started away so 
 109 
 
AMY DORRIT 
 
 scared if encountered on the stairs. But it 
 seemed to be a pale transparent face, quick in 
 expression, though not beautiful in feature, its 
 soft hazel eyes excepted. A delicately bent 
 head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy 
 hands, and a shabby dress — it must needs 
 have been very shabby to look at all so, being 
 so neat — were Little Dorrit as she sat at 
 work. . . . 
 
 With no earthly friend to help her, or so 
 much as to see her, but the one so strangely 
 assorted; with no knowledge even of the 
 common daily tone and habits of the common 
 members of the free community who are not 
 shut up in prisons; born and bred, in a social 
 condition, false even with a reference to the 
 falsest condition outside the walls; drinking 
 from infancy of a well whose waters had their 
 own peculiar stain, their own unwholesome 
 and unnatural taste ; the Child of the Marshal- 
 sea began her womanly life. 
 
 No matter through what mistakes and dis- 
 couragements, what ridicule (not unkindly 
 meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little 
 figure, what humble consciousness of her own 
 babyhood and want of strength, even in the 
 matter of lifting and carrying; through how 
 much weariness and hopelessness, and how 
 many secret tears ; she trudged on, until recog- 
 nised as useful, even indispensable. That time 
 no 
 
AMY DORRIT 
 
 came. She took the place of eldest of the 
 three, in all things but precedence; was the 
 head of the fallen family; and bore, in her 
 own heart, its anxieties and shames. 
 
 At thirteen, she could read and keep ac- 
 counts — that is, could put down in words and 
 figures how much the bare necessaries that 
 they wanted would cost, and how much less 
 they had to buy them with. She had been, by 
 snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an even- 
 ing school outside, and got her sister and 
 brother sent to day-schools by desultory 
 starts, during three or four years. There 
 was no instruction for any of them at 
 home ; but she knew well — no one better — 
 that a man so broken as to be the Father of 
 the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own 
 children. ... At twenty-two, with a still 
 surviving attachment to the one miserable yard 
 and block of houses as her birthplace and 
 home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly 
 now, with a womanly consciousness that she 
 was pointed out to every one. Since she had 
 begun to work beyond the walls, she had found 
 it necessary to conceal where she lived, and 
 to come and go as secretly as she could, be- 
 tween the free city and the iron gates, outside 
 of which she had never slept in her life. Her 
 original timidity had grown with this conceal- 
 ment, and her light step and her little figure 
 
MR. FREDERICK DORRIT 
 
 shunned the thronged streets while they passed 
 along them. 
 
 Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, 
 she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, 
 in the mist through which she saw her father, 
 and the prison, and the turbid living river 
 that flowed through it and flowed on. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. Hi, v-ix, xii-xvi, xviii- 
 
 XXV, xxvii, xxix,xxxi, xxxii, xxxv, xxxvi; 
 
 Book II, ch. i-viii, xi, xiv, xv, xix, xxiv, 
 
 xxvi, xxvii, xxix-xxxi, xxxiii, xxxiv. 
 
 Mr. Frederick Dorrit, brother to Mr. Wil- 
 liam Dorrit, Little Dorrit's uncle. 
 
 There was a ruined uncle in the family 
 group — ruined by his brother, the Father of 
 the Marshalsea. . . . Naturally a retired 
 and simple man, he had shown no particular 
 sense of being ruined, at the time when that 
 calamity fell upon him, further than that he 
 left off washing himself when the shock was 
 announced, and never took to that luxury any 
 more. He had been a very indifferent musical 
 amateur in his better days; and when he fell 
 with his brother, resorted for support to play- 
 ing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small 
 Theatre Orchestra. It was the theatre in 
 which his niece became a dancer; he had been 
 a fixture there a long time when she took her 
 poor station in it ; and he accepted the task of 
 serving as her escort and guardian, just as he 
 
 112 
 
MR. FREDERICK DORRIT 
 
 would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a 
 feast, starvation — anything but soap. 
 
 He stooped a good deal, and plodded along 
 in a slow preoccupied manner, which made the 
 bustling London thoroughfares no very safe 
 resort for him. He was dirtily and meanly 
 dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue, reach- 
 ing to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, 
 where it vanished in the pale ghost of a vel- 
 vet collar. A piece of red cloth with which 
 that phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime 
 was now laid bare, and poked itself up, at the 
 back of the old man's neck, into a confusion 
 of grey hair and rusty stock and buckle which 
 altogether nearly poked his hat off. A greasy 
 hat it was, and a napless; impending over his 
 eyes, cracked and crumpled at the brim, and 
 with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief dangling 
 out below it. His trousers were so long and 
 loose, and his shoes so clumsy and large, that 
 he shuffled like an elephant; though how 
 much of this was gait and how much trailing 
 cloth and leather, no one could have told. 
 Under one arm he carried a limp and worn- 
 out case, containing some wind instrument; 
 in the same hand he had a pennyworth of 
 snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, 
 from which he slowly comforted his poor old 
 blue nose with a lengthened-out pinch. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. vii-ix, xix, xx, xxvi; 
 
 Book II, ch. i, iv, V, xix. 
 113 
 
WILLIAM DORRIT 
 
 William Dorrit, the Father of the Mar- 
 shalsea, a prisoner for debt. After twenty- 
 five years in prison he proves to he heir to a 
 great fortune that has been unclaimed and ac- 
 cumulating. He leaves the Marshalsea in 
 great state, a rich man, hut he takes with him 
 a failing intellect, developes a ridiculous 
 pride and puts on lofty airs, allowing no one 
 to recall the days of his poverty and disgrace. 
 He declines slowly and dies in a palace in 
 Rome, where he fancies he is again in the 
 Marshalsea. 
 
 He was, at that time, a very amiable and 
 very helpless middle-aged gentleman, who was 
 going out again directly. Necessarily, he was 
 gomg out again directly, because the Marshal- 
 sea lock never turned upon a debtor who was 
 not. He brought in a portmanteau with him, 
 which he doubted its being worth while to 
 unpack; he was so perfectly clear — like all 
 the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said 
 — that he was going out again directly. 
 
 He was a shy, retiring man; well-looking, 
 though in an effeminate style; with a mild 
 voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands — 
 rings upon the fingers in those days — which 
 nervously wandered to his trembling lip a hun- 
 dred times, in the first half-hour of his ac- 
 quaintance with the jail. His principal anx- 
 iety was about his wife. . . . 
 114 
 
 « 
 
WILLIAM DORRIT 
 
 The affairs of this debtor were perplexed 
 by a partnership, of which he knew no more 
 than that he had invested money in it; by 
 legal matters of assignment and settlement, 
 conveyance here and conveyance there, sus- 
 picion of unlawful preference of creditors in 
 this direction, and of mysterious spiriting away 
 of property in that ; and as nobody on the face 
 of the earth could be more incapable of ex- 
 plaining any single item in the heap of con- 
 fusion than the debtor himself, nothing com- 
 prehensible could be made of his case. To 
 question him in detail, and endeavour to recon- 
 cile his answers; to closet him with account- 
 ants and sharp practitioners, learned in the 
 wiles of insolvency and bankruptcy; was only 
 to put the case out at compound interest of in- 
 comprehensibility. The irresolute fingers flut- 
 tered more and more ineffectually about the 
 trembling lip on every such occasion, aiid the 
 sharpest practitioners gave him up as a hope- 
 less job. . . . Crushed at first by his im- 
 prisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in 
 it. He was under lock and key; but the lock 
 and key that kept him in, kept numbers of his 
 troubles out. If he had been a man with 
 strength of purpose to face those troubles and 
 fight them, he might have broken the net that 
 held him, or broken his heart; but being what 
 he was, he languidly slipped into this smooth 
 115 
 
WILLIAM DORRIT 
 
 descent, and never more took one step up- 
 ward. 
 
 When he was relieved of the perplexed af- 
 fairs that nothing would make plain, through 
 having them returned upon his hands by a 
 dozen agents in succession who could make 
 neither beginning,, middle, nor end of them, 
 or him, he found his miserable place of refuge 
 a quieter refuge than it had been before. 
 . . . Tradition afterwards handed down 
 from generation to generation — a Marshalsea 
 generation might be calculated as about three 
 months — that the shabby old debtor with the 
 soft manner and the white hair, was the 
 Father of the Marshalsea. 
 
 And he grew to be proud of the title. If 
 any impostor had arisen to claim it, he would 
 have shed tears in resentment of the attempt 
 to deprive him of his rights. A disposition 
 began to be perceived in him, to exaggerate 
 the number of years he had been there; it 
 was generally understood that you must de- 
 duct a few from his account ; he was vain, the 
 fleeting generations of debtors said. 
 
 All newcomers were presented to him. He 
 was punctilious in the exaction of this cere- 
 mony. The wits would perform the office of 
 introduction with overcharged pomp and po- 
 liteness, but they could not easily overstep his 
 sense of its gravity. He received them in his 
 Ii6 
 
DANIEL DOYCE 
 
 poor room (he disliked an introduction in the 
 mere yard, as informal — a thing that might 
 happen to anybody), with a kind of bowed- 
 down beneficence. They were welcome to 
 the Marshalsea, he would tell them. Yes, 
 he was Father of the place. So the world 
 was kind enough to call him; and so he was, 
 if more than twenty years of residence gave 
 him a claim to the title. It looked small at 
 first, but there was very good company there 
 
 — among a mixture — necessarily a mixture 
 
 — and very good air. 
 
 Little Dorrit, Book I ch. vi-ix, xviii, xix, xxii, 
 xxiii, xxxi, xxxii, xxxv, xxxvi; Book II, 
 ch. i-iii, v-vii, xii, xiii, xv-xix. 
 
 Daniel Doyce, partner of Arthur Clennam. 
 They lose their fortune in the great Merdle 
 crash, but Doyce re-establishes himself. 
 
 He was not much to look at, either in point 
 of size or in point of dress; being merely a 
 short, square, practical looking man, whose 
 hair had turned grey, and in whose face and 
 forehead there were deep lines of cogitation, 
 which looked as though they were carved in 
 hard wood. He was dressed in decent black, 
 a little rusty, and had the appearance of a sa- 
 gacious master in some handicraft. He had 
 a spectacle-case in his hand, which he turned 
 over and over while he were thus in question, 
 117 
 
 b 
 
DANIEL DOYCE 
 
 with a certain free use of the thumb that is 
 never seen but in a hand accustomed to tools. 
 
 He is a public offender. What has he been 
 guilty of? Murder, manslaughter, arson, for- 
 gery, swindling, house-breaking, highway rob- 
 bery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? 
 
 Not one of them. 
 
 But he has been ingenious and he has been 
 trying to turn his ingenuity to his country's 
 service. That makes him a public offender 
 directly, sir. 
 
 This Doyce is a smith and engineer. He 
 is not in a large way, but he is well known 
 as a very ingenious man. A dozen years 
 ago, he perfects an invention (involving a 
 very curious secret process) of great impor- 
 tance to his country and his fellow-creatures. 
 I won't say how much money it cost him, or 
 how many years of his life he had been about 
 it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen 
 years ago. He is the most exasperating man 
 in the world ; he never complains ! 
 
 He addresses himself to the Government. 
 The moment he addresses himself to the Gov- 
 ernment, he becomes a public offender ! He 
 ceases to be an innocent citizen, and becomes 
 a culprit. He is treated from that instant as 
 a man who has done some infernal action. 
 He is a man to be shirked, put off, brow- 
 beaten, sneered at, handed over by this highly- 
 ii8 
 
DANIEL DOYCE 
 
 connected young or old gentleman, to that 
 highly-connected young or old gentleman, and 
 dodged back again ; he is a man with no rights 
 in his own time, or his own property; a mere 
 outlaw, whom it is justifiable to get rid of 
 anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible 
 means. . . . 
 
 He was the son of a north-country black- 
 smith, and had originally been apprenticed by 
 his widowed mother to a. lock-maker; he 
 had " struck out a few little things " at the 
 lock-maker's, which had led to his being re- 
 leased from his indentures with a present, 
 which present had enabled him to gratify his 
 ardent wish to bind himself to a working en- 
 gineer, under whom he had laboured hard, 
 His time being out, he had " worked in the 
 shop '" at weekly wages seven or eight years 
 more; and had then betaken himself to the 
 banks of the Clyde, where he had studied, and 
 filed and hammered, and improved his knowl- 
 edge, theoretical and practical, for six or 
 seven years more. There he had had an offer 
 to go to Lyons, which he had accepted; 
 and from Lyons had been engaged to 
 go to Germany, and in Germany had 
 had an offer to go to St. Petersburg, and 
 there had done very well indeed — never bet- 
 ter. However, he had naturally felt a prefer- 
 ence for his own country, and a wish to gain 
 119 
 
LITTLE EM'LY 
 
 distinction there, and to do whatever service 
 he could do, there rather than elsewhere. 
 And so he had come home. And so at home 
 he had established himself in business, and 
 had invented and executed, and worked his 
 way on, until, after a dozen years of constant 
 suit and service, he had been enrolled in the 
 Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion 
 of the Rebuffed of the Circumlocution Office, 
 and had been decorated with the Great British 
 Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of 
 the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings. . . . 
 
 A composed and unobtrusive self-sustain 
 ment was noticeable in Daniel Doyce — a calm 
 knowledge that what was true must remain 
 true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the 
 family ocean, and would be just the truth, and 
 neither more nor less, when even that sea had 
 run dry — which had a kind of greatness in 
 it, though not of the official quality. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. x, xii, xvi, xvii, 
 
 xxiii, xxvi, xxviii, xxxiv,; Book II, ch, viii, 
 
 xiii, xxii, xxvi, xxxiv. 
 
 Little Em'ly, Mr. Peggotty's niece, and 
 adopted daughter, and David Copperiield's first 
 love. She was afterzvard engaged to her 
 cousin Ham, hut Steerforth seduced, and took 
 her abroad, zuhere he cast her off — offering 
 her the hand of his rascally servant, Littimer. 
 1 20 
 
LITTLE EM'LY 
 
 She runs away from him, goes to England 
 is found wandering in London, i'^f^'^J" 
 her uncle and emigrates with hm to AustraUa 
 Zere the rest of her Ufe is spent .« feace 
 and good works. 
 
 She was a little creature still in stature, 
 though she was grown. But when she drew 
 nearer and I saw her blue eyes looking bluer, 
 and her dimpled face looking brighter, and her , 
 whole self prettier and gayer, a cunous feeing 
 Tame over me that made me pretend not to 
 know her, and pass by as if I were looking 
 at something a long way off. I have done 
 such a thing since in later life, or I am mis 
 
 t3.kcri 
 
 Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me 
 well enough; but instead of turning round and 
 calling after me, ran away laughing. This 
 obliged me to run after her, and she ran so 
 fast that we were very near the cottage before 
 I caught her ... I was going to kiss 
 her but she covered her cherry lips with her 
 hands, and said she wasn't a baby now, and 
 ran away, laughing more than ever, mto the 
 house. She seemed to delight in teasing me, 
 which was a change in her I wondered at very 
 
 ™ Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; 
 and by no one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, 
 whom she could have coaxed into anything, by 
 
 121 
 
LITTLE EM'LY 
 
 only going and laying her cheek against his 
 rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least, 
 when I saw her do it ; and I held Mr. Peggotty 
 to be thoroughly in the right. But she was 
 so affectionate and sweet-natured, and had 
 such a pleasant manner of being both sly and 
 shy at once, that she captivated me more than 
 ever. . . . 
 
 Wild and full of childish whims as Em'ly 
 was, she was more of a little woman than I 
 had supposed. She seemed to have got a great 
 distance away from me, in little more than a 
 year. She liked me, but she laughed at me, 
 and tormented me; and when I went to meet 
 her, stole home another way, and was laugh- 
 ing at the door when I came back disap- 
 pointed. The best times were when she sat 
 quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat on 
 the wooden step at her feet, reading to her. 
 It seems to me, at this hour, that I have never 
 seen such sunlight as on those bright April 
 afternoons; that I have never seen such a 
 sunny little figure as I used to see, sitting in 
 the doorway of the old boat ; that I have never 
 beheld such sky, such water, such glorified 
 ships sailing away into golden air. 
 David CopperReld, ch. Hi, vii, x, xvii, xxiii, 
 
 XXX, I, Ivii, Ixiii.. 
 
 122 
 
MR. FS AUNT 
 
 Mr F's Aunt, an old lady who is a leg- 
 acy left to Mrs. Flora Pinching by her deceased 
 husband. 
 
 An amazing little old woman, with a face 
 like a staring wooden doll too cheap for ex- 
 pression, and a stiff yellow wig perched un- 
 evenly on the top of her head, as if the child 
 who owned the doll had driven a tack through 
 it anywhere, so that it only got fastened on 
 Another remarkable thing in this little old 
 woman was, that the same child seemed to 
 have damaged her face in two or three places 
 ^With some blunt instrument in the nature ot 
 a spoon; her countenance, and particularly 
 the tip of her nose, presented the phenomena 
 of several dints, generally answering to the 
 bowl of that article. A further remarkable 
 thing in this little old woman was, that she 
 had no name but Mr. F's Aunt. • • • 
 
 The major characteristics discoverable by 
 the stranger in Mr. F's Aunt were extreme 
 severity and grim taciturnity; sometimes in- 
 terrupted by a propensity to offer remarks in 
 a deep warning voice, which, being totally 
 uncalled for by anything said by anybody, and 
 traceable to no association of ideas con- 
 founded and terrrified the mind. Mr. 1^ s 
 Aunt may have thrown in these observations 
 on some system of her own, and it may have 
 been ingenious, or even subtle; but the key 
 to it was wanted. . . • 
 123 
 
FAGIN 
 
 " There's mile-stones on the Dover road ! " 
 With such mortal hostility towards the hu- 
 man race did she discharge this missile, that 
 Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend 
 himself. . . . He could not but look at her 
 with disconcertment, as she sat breathing bit- 
 terness and scorn, and staring leagues away. 
 Flora, however, received the remark as if it 
 had been of a most apposite and agreeable na- 
 ture; approvingly observing aloud that Mr. 
 F's Aunt had a great deal of spirit. Stimu- 
 lated either by this compliment, or by her 
 burning indignation, that illustrious woman 
 then added, " Let him meet it if he can ! " 
 And, with a rigid movement of her stony 
 reticule (an appendage of great size, and of a 
 fossil appearance), indicated that Clennam 
 was the unfortunate person at whom the chal- 
 lenge was hurled. 
 
 Little Dorrit, Bk. I, ch. xiii, xxiii, xxiv, xxxv. 
 Book II, ch. ix, xxxiv. 
 
 Fagin, a receiver of stolen goods and a 
 trainer of thieves and pickpockets, whom he 
 called his " apprentices." After a long career 
 of crime he was sentenced to death for being 
 concerned in a murder. 
 
 A very old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous- 
 looking and repulsive face was obscured by a 
 quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed 
 124 
 
FAGIN 
 
 in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare ; 
 and seemed to be dividing his attention be- 
 tween a frying-pan and a clothes-horse, over 
 which a great number of silk handkerchiefs 
 were hanging. Several rough beds made of 
 old sacks, were huddled side by side on the 
 floor; and seated round the table were four or 
 five boys^ none older than the Dodger, smoking 
 long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the 
 air of middle aged men. These all crowded 
 about their associate as he whispered a few 
 words to the Jew; and then turned round and 
 grinned at Oliver; as did the Jew himself, 
 toasting-fork in hand. 
 
 " This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins ; 
 " my friend Oliver Twist." 
 
 The Jew grinned; and, making a low obei- 
 sance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and 
 hoped he should have the honour of his inti- 
 mate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gen- 
 tlemen with the pipes came round him, and 
 shook both his hands very hard — especially 
 the one in which he held his little bundle. 
 One young gentleman was very anxious to 
 hang up his cap for him; and another was so 
 obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in 
 order that, as he was very tired, he might not 
 have the trouble of emptying them, himself, 
 when he went to bed. . . . 
 
 It was late next morning when Oliver 
 125 
 
FAGIN 
 
 awoke, from a sound, long sleep. There was 
 no other person in the room but the old Jew, 
 who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan 
 for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself 
 as he stirred it round and round, with an iron 
 spoon. He would stop every now and then to 
 listen when there was the least noise below : 
 and when he had satisfied himself, he would go 
 on, whistling and stirring again as before. 
 . . . When the breakfast was cleared away, 
 the merry old gentleman and the two boys 
 played at a very curious and uncommon game, 
 which was performed in this way. The merry 
 old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one 
 pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, 
 and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a 
 guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a 
 mock diamond pin in his shirt: buttoned his 
 coat tight round him, and putting his spec- 
 tacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, 
 trotted up and down the room with a stick, in 
 imitation of the manner in which old gentle- 
 men walk about the streets any hour in the 
 day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, 
 and sometimes at the door, making believe 
 that he was staring with all his might into 
 shop-windows. At such times, he would look 
 constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and 
 keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see 
 that he hadn't lost anything, in such a funny 
 126 
 
MR. FEEDER, B. A. 
 
 and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till 
 the tears ran down his face. All this time, 
 the two boys followed him closely about: get- 
 ting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he 
 turned round, that it was impossible to follow 
 their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon 
 his toes, or ran upon his boot accidentally, 
 while Charley Bates stumbled up against him 
 behind; and in that one moment they took 
 from him, with the most extraordinary rapid- 
 ity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, 
 shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the spec- 
 tacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand 
 in any one of his pockets, he cried out where 
 it was; and then the game began all over 
 again. 
 Oliver Twist, ch. viii, ix, xii, xiii, xv, xvi, xix, 
 
 XX, xxv,xxxvi, xxxiv, xxxix, xlii-xlv, xlvii, 
 
 Hi. 
 
 Mr. Feeder, B. A., assistant to Dr. Blimher 
 in his school at Brighton: he subsequently 
 married his daughter Cornelia — and suc- 
 ceeded to his ''high class expensive school.'* 
 
 He was a kind of human barrel-organ, 
 with a little list of tunes at which he was con- 
 tinually working, over and over again, without 
 any variation. He might have been fitted up 
 with a change of barrels, perhaps, in early 
 life, if his destiny had been favourable; but 
 127 
 
MR. FEEDER, B. A. 
 
 it had not been; and he had only one, with 
 which, in a monotonous round, it was his occu- 
 pation to bewilder the young ideas of Dr. 
 Blimber's young gentlemen. The young gen- 
 tlemen were prematurely full of carking anx- 
 ieties. They knew no rest from the pursuit 
 of stony-hearted verbs, savage noun-substan- 
 tives, inflexible syntactic passages, and ghosts 
 of exercises that appeared to them in their 
 dreams. Under the forcing system, a young 
 gentleman usually took leave of his spirits in 
 three weeks. He had all the cares of the 
 world on his head in three months. He con- 
 ceived bitter sentiments against his parents 
 or guardians in four; he was an old misan- 
 thrope, in five; envied Quintius Curtius that 
 blessed refuge in the earth, in six; and at the 
 end of the first twelvemonth had arrived at 
 the conclusion, from which he never after- 
 wards departed, that all the fancies of the 
 poets, and lessons of the sages, were a mere 
 collection of words and grammar, and had no 
 other meaning in the world. 
 
 But he went on, blow, blow, blowing, in the 
 Doctor's hothouse, all the time; and the Doc- 
 tor's glory and reputation were great, when he 
 took his wintry growth home to his relations 
 and friends. 
 Dombcy and Son, ch. Ix: 
 
 128 
 
FLORA PINCHING 
 
 Flora Finching, a good-hearted sentimen- 
 tal widow of about forty. Daughter of Chris- 
 topher Casby, formerly engaged to Arthur 
 Clennam. The engagement was broken off 
 and Arthur went to China. She talks dis- 
 jointedly, and with the utmost volubility — 
 using nothing but commas and very few of 
 those, producing an effect on the listener which 
 nearly takes away the breath. 
 
 Clennam's eyes no sooner fell upon the sub- 
 ject of his old passion, than it shivered and 
 broke to pieces. 
 
 Most men will be found sufficiently true to 
 themselves to be true to an old idea. It is no 
 proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the 
 opposite, when the ideal will not bear close 
 comparison with the reality, and the contrast is 
 a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam's case. 
 In his youth he had ardently loved this woman, 
 and had heaped upon her all the locked-up 
 wealth of his affection and imagination. That 
 wealth had been, in his desert home, like Rob- 
 inson Crusoe's money; exchangeable with no 
 one, lying idle in the dark to rust; until he 
 poured it out for her. Ever since that mem- 
 orable time, though he had, until the night of 
 his arrival, as completely dismissed her from 
 any association with his Present or Future 
 as if she had been dead (which she might 
 easily have been for anything he knew), he 
 129 
 
FLORA PINCHING 
 
 had kept the old fancy of the Past unchanged, 
 in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the 
 last of the Patriarchs coolly walked into the 
 parlour, saying in effect, " Be good enough to 
 throw it down and dance upon it. This is 
 Flora." 
 
 Flora, always tall, had grown to be very 
 broad too, and short of breath; but that was 
 not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had 
 become a peony; but that was not much. 
 Flora who had seemed enchanting in all she 
 said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That 
 was much. Flora, who had been spoiled and 
 artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled 
 and artless now. That was a fatal blow. . . 
 
 Meanwhile Flora was murmuring in rapid 
 snatches for his ear, that there was a time and 
 that the past was yawning gulf however and 
 that a golden chain no longer bound him and 
 that she revered the memory of the late Mr. 
 F and that she should be at home to-morrow 
 at half-past one and that the decrees of Fate 
 were beyond recall and that she considered 
 nothing so improbable as that he ever walked 
 on the north-west side of Gray's-Inn Gardens 
 at exactly four o'clock in the afternoon. He 
 tried at parting to give his hand in frankness 
 to the existing Flora — not the vanished Flora, 
 or the Mermaid — but Flora wouldn't have 
 it, couldn't have it, was wholly destitute of the 
 130 
 
JEREMIAH FLINTWINCH 
 
 power of separating herself and him from their 
 bygone characters. 
 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. xiii, xxiii, xxiv, 
 XXXV ; Book II, ch. ix, xvii, xxiii, xxxiv. 
 
 Jeremiah Flintwinch, Mrs. Clennam's 
 servant and afterwards partner. An unscru- 
 pulous man, and a domestic tyrant, — His 
 brother Ephraim was his ''double" and his 
 confederate. 
 
 An old man: bent and dried but with keen 
 eyes. ... A short, bald old man, in a 
 high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab 
 breeches, and long drab gaiters. He might, 
 from his dress, have been either clerk or servr 
 ant, and in fact had long been both. There 
 was nothing about him in the way of decora- 
 tion but a watch, which was lowered into the 
 depths of its proper pocket by an old black 
 ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key moored 
 above it, to show where it was sunk. His head 
 was awry, and he had a one-sided, crab-like 
 way with him, as if his foundations had yielded 
 at about the same time as those of the house, 
 and he ought to have been propped up in a sim- 
 ilar manner. . . . 
 
 His neck was so twisted, that the knotted 
 ends of his white cravat usually dangled under 
 one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, al- 
 ways contending with a second nature of ha- 
 131 
 
MISS FLITE 
 
 bitual repression, gave his features a swollen 
 and suffused look; and altogether, he had a 
 weird appearance of having hanged himself 
 at one time or other, and of having gone 
 about ever since, halter and all, exactly as 
 some timely hand had cut him down. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. iii-v, xv, xxix, xxx; 
 Book ch. X, xvii, xxiii, xxvni, xxx, xxxi. 
 
 Miss Flite, one of the suitors in the famous 
 case of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce and one of its 
 victims. 
 
 A little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, 
 who is always in court, from its sitting to its 
 rising, and always expecting some incompre- 
 hensible judgment to be given in her favour. 
 Some say she really is, or was, a party to a 
 suit; but no one knows for certain, because no 
 one cares. She carries some small litter in a 
 reticule which she calls her documents ; princi- 
 pally consisting of paper matches and dry lav- 
 ender. . . . 
 
 She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty 
 large room, from which she had a glimpse of 
 the roof of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed 
 to have been her principal inducement, origi- 
 nally, for taking up her residence there. She 
 could look at it, she said, in the night: espe- 
 cially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, 
 but very, very bare. I noticed the scantiest 
 132 
 
MISS FLITE 
 
 necessaries in the way of furniture ; a few old 
 prints from books, of Chancellors and barris- 
 ters, waf ered against the wall ; and some half- 
 dozen reticules and work-bags, "containing 
 documents," as she informed us. There were 
 neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and I 
 saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any 
 kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cup- 
 board were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so 
 forth; but all dry and empty. There was a 
 more affecting meaning in her pinched appear- 
 ance, I thought as I looked round, than I had 
 understood before. 
 
 " Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our 
 poor hostess, with the greatest suavity, "by 
 this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And 
 very much indebted for the omen. It is a 
 retired situation. Considering. I am limited 
 as to situation. In consequence of the neces- 
 sity of attending on the Chancellor. I have 
 lived here many years. I pass my days m 
 court; my evenings and my nights here. I 
 find the nights long, for I sleep but little, and 
 think much. That is, of course, unavoid- 
 able ; being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot 
 offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly, 
 and shall then place my establishment on a su- 
 perior footing. At present, I don't mind con- 
 fessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict 
 confidence), that I sometimes find it difficult 
 133 
 
SAIRY GAMP 
 
 to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt 
 the cold here. I have felt something sharper 
 than cold. It matters very little. Pray ex- 
 cuse the introduction of such mean topics." 
 
 She partly drew aside the curtain of the 
 long low garret-window, and called our atten- 
 tion to a number of bird-cages hanging there : 
 some, containing several birds. There were 
 larks, linnets, and goldfinches — I should think 
 at least twenty. 
 
 " I began to keep the little creatures," she 
 said, " with an object that the wards will 
 readily comprehend. With the intention of 
 restoring them to liberty. When my judgment 
 should be given. Ye-es ! They die in prison, 
 though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so 
 short in comparison with Chancery proceed- 
 ings, that, one by one, the whole collection 
 has died over and over again. I doubt, do you 
 know, whether one of these, though they are 
 all young, will live to be free ! Ve-ry morti- 
 fying, is it not?" 
 Bleak House, ch. Hi, v, xi, xiv, xxxiii, xxxv, 
 
 xlvi, xlvii, I, Ix, Ixv. 
 
 Sairy Gamp, a professional nurse, who 
 constantly quotes or refers to a purely ficti- 
 tious person, Mrs. Harris, as an authority for 
 her own fancies and fabrications. ''Mrs. 
 Harris," I says, "leave the bottle on the chim- 
 134 
 
t 
 
 SAIRY GAMP 
 
 ley-piece, and don't ask me to take none, but 
 let me put my lips to it when I am so dis- 
 poged, and then I will do what I am engaged 
 to do, according to the best of my ability " — 
 was her way of intimating how she wished to 
 be treated by her patrons with regard to her 
 supply of spirituous liquor. 
 
 She was a fat old woman, this. Mrs. Gamp, 
 with a husky voice and a moist eye, which she 
 had a remarkable power of turning up, and 
 only showing the white of. Having very little 
 neck, it cost her some trouble to look over 
 herself, if one may say so, at those to whom 
 she talked. She -wore a very rusty black 
 gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl 
 and bonnet to correspond. In these dilapi- 
 dated articles of dress she had, on principle, 
 arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such 
 occasions as the present; for this at once ex- 
 pressed a decent amount of veneration for the 
 deceased, and invited the next of kin to pre- 
 sent her with a fresher suit of weeds: an 
 appeal so frequently successful, that the very 
 fetch and ghost of Mrs. Gamp, bonnet and all, 
 might be seen hanging up, any hour in the 
 day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand 
 clothes shops about Holborn. The face of 
 Mrs. Gamp — the nose in particular — was 
 somewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult 
 to enjoy her society without becoming con- 
 135 
 
JOE GARGERY 
 
 scious of a smell of spirits. Like most per- 
 sons who have attained to great eminence in 
 their profession, she took to hers very kindly; 
 insomuch, that setting aside her natural pre- 
 dilections as a woman, she went to a lying-in 
 or a laying-out with equal zest and relish. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xix, xxv, xxvi, xxix, 
 xl, xlvi, xlix, li, liii. 
 
 Joe Gargery, the blacksmith who married 
 Pip's sister. She harshly treated the boy and 
 Joe did as much as he dared to shield and be- 
 friend him, making him quite a companion. 
 After his wife dies he marries Biddy, a strong 
 contrast to his termagant of a first wife: she 
 makes his life happy and Joe lives for many 
 years, " doing his duty with a strong hand, a 
 quiet tongue and a gentle heart." 
 
 Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen 
 hair on each side of his smooth face, and with 
 eyes of such a very undecided blue that they 
 seemed to have somehow got mixed with their 
 own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, 
 sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fel- 
 low — a sort of Hercules in strength, and also 
 in weakness. . . . 
 
 His character is well portrayed in his own 
 ivords : 
 
 Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so 
 many partings welded together, as I may say, 
 136 
 
JOE GARGERY 
 
 and one man's a blacksmith, and one's a white- 
 smith, and one's a goldsmith, and one s a cop- 
 persmith. Diwisions among such must come, 
 and must be met as they come. If there s 
 been any fault at all to-day, it's mme You 
 and me is not two figures to be together m 
 London; nor yet anywheres else but what is 
 private, and beknown, and understood among 
 friends. It ain't that I am proud, but that 1 
 want to be right, as you shall never see me no 
 more in these clothes. I'm wrong m these 
 clothes. I'm wrong out of the forge the 
 kitchen, or off th' meshes You wont find 
 half so much fault in me if you think of me 
 in my forge dress, with my hammer in my 
 hand, or even my pipe. You wont find hal 
 so much fault in me if, supposing as you 
 should ever wish to see me, you come and put 
 vour head in at the forge window and see Joe 
 Ihe blacksmith, there, at the old anvil m the 
 old burnt apron, sticking to the old work. 
 I'm awful dull, but I hope I've beat out some- 
 thing nigh the rights of this at ast. And so 
 God blefs you, dear old Pip, old chap, God 
 bless you!" 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. U-mi, «>, *, xh-xx, 
 xvii, XXXV, hiii-lix. 
 
 137 
 
MRS. JOE GARGERY 
 
 Mrs. Joe Gargery — the shrewish zvife of 
 Joe Gargery — Pip's sister. 
 
 My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than 
 twenty years older than I, and had established 
 a great reputation with herself and the neigh- 
 bours because she had brought me up " by 
 hand." Having at that time to find out for 
 myself what the expression meant, and know- 
 ing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to 
 be much in the habit of laying it upon her 
 husband as well as upon me, I supposed that 
 Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by 
 hand. 
 
 She was not a good-looking woman, my sis- 
 ter; and I had a general impression that she 
 must have made Joe Gargery marry her "by 
 hand." . . . 
 
 My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and 
 eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin, 
 that I sometimes used to wonder whether it 
 was possible she washed herself with a nut- 
 meg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and 
 bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, 
 fastened over her figure behind with two 
 loops, and having a square impregnable bib 
 in front that was stuck full of pins and 
 needles. She made it a powerful merit in 
 herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, 
 that she wore this apron so much. Though I 
 really see no reason why she should have 
 138 
 
GASHFORD 
 
 worn it at all; or why, if she did wear it at 
 all, she should not have taken it off every 
 day of her life. . . . 
 
 She had been in one of her bad states — 
 though they had got better of late, rather 
 than worse — for four days, when she came 
 out of it in the evening, just at tea-time, 
 and said quite plainly, ' Joe.' As she had 
 never said any word for a long while, I ran 
 and fetched in Mr. Gargery from the forge. 
 She made signs to me that she wanted him to 
 sit down close to her, and wanted me to put 
 her arms round his neck. So I put them 
 round his neck, and she laid her head down 
 on his shoulder quite content and satisfied. 
 And so she presently said ' Joe * again, and 
 once ' Pardon,* and once ' Pip.* And so she 
 never lifted her head up any more, and it was 
 just an hour later when we laid it down on 
 her own bed, because we found she was gone. 
 Great Expectations, ch. ii, iv-vii, ix, x, xii- 
 ^ xviii, xxiv, xxv. 
 
 Gashford^ the fawning unprincipled sec- 
 retary of Lord George Gordon, whom he of 
 course deserted in his misfortune. He sold 
 his master's secrets as long as he could, be- 
 came a government spy — and poisoned him- 
 self in the end, dying obscurely and unknown, 
 save for the entries in the pocketbook found 
 upon him. 
 
 139 
 
GASHFORD 
 
 Gashford, the secretary, was tall, angularly 
 made, high-shouldered, bony, and ungraceful. 
 His dress, in imitation of his superior, was 
 demure and staid in the extreme; his manner, 
 formal and constrained. This gentleman had 
 an overhanging brow, great hands and feet 
 and ears, and a pair of eyes that seemed to 
 have made an unnatural retreat into his head, 
 and to have dug themselves a cave to hide in. 
 His manner was smooth and humble, but very 
 sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a 
 man who was always lying in wait for some- 
 thing that wouldn't come to pass; but he 
 looked patient — very patient — and fawned 
 like a spaniel dog. Even now, while he 
 warmed and rubbed his hands before the 
 blaze, he had the air of one who only pre- 
 sumed to enjoy it in his degree as a com- 
 moner; and though he knew his lord was not 
 regarding him, he looked into his face from 
 time to time, and, with a meek and deferen- 
 tial manner, smiled as if for practice. . . . 
 
 This man, who in his boyhood was a thief, 
 and has been from that time to this, a servile, 
 false, and truckling knave: this man, who has 
 crawled and crept through life, wounding the 
 hands he licked, and biting those he fawned 
 upon: this sycophant, who' never knew what 
 honour, truth, or courage meant; who robbed 
 his benefactor's daughter of her virtue, and 
 140 
 
MRS. GENERAL 
 
 married her to break her heart, and did it, 
 with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who 
 has whined at kitchen windows for the broken 
 food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel 
 doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender 
 conscience cannot bear the altars where his 
 vicious life was publicly denounced ! 
 Barnahy Rudge, ch. xxxv-xxxviii, xliii, xliv, 
 xlviii-l, Hi, Hit, Ixxi, Ixxii. 
 
 Mrs. General, the daughter of a clerical 
 dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had 
 led the fashion until near forty-five — when 
 she married a staff commissariat officer of 
 sixty. On his death she was engaged by Mr. 
 Dorrit to "form the mind and manners" of 
 his daughters. 
 
 In person, Mrs. General, including her 
 skirts which had much to do with it, was of 
 a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, 
 rustling, gravely voluminous; always upright 
 behind the proprieties. She might have been 
 taken — had been taken — to the top of the 
 Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum, without 
 disarranging a fold of her dress, or displacing 
 a pin. If her countenance and hair had 
 rather a floury appearance, as though from 
 living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it 
 was rather because she was a chalky creation 
 altogether, than because she mended her com- 
 141 
 
MRS. GENERAL 
 
 plexion with violet powder, or had turned 
 grey. If her eyes had no expression, it was 
 probably because they had nothing to express. 
 If she had few wrinkles, it was because her 
 mind had never traced its name or any other 
 inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown- 
 out woman, who had never lighted well. 
 
 Mrs. General had no opinions. Her way 
 of forming a mind was to prevent it from 
 forming opinions. She had a little circular 
 set of mental grooves or rails, on which she 
 started little trains of other people's opinons, 
 which never overtook one another, and never 
 got anywhere. Even her propriety could not 
 dispute that there was impropriety in the 
 world; but Mrs. General's way of getting rid 
 of it was to put it out of sight, and make be- 
 lieve that there was no such thing. This was 
 another of her ways of forming a mind — to 
 cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, 
 lock them up, and say they had no existence. 
 It was the easiest way, and, beyond all com- 
 parison, the properest. 
 
 Mrs. General was not to be told of anything 
 shocking. Accidents, miseries, and offences, 
 were never to be mentioned before her. Pas- 
 sion was to go to sleep in the presence of 
 Mrs. General, and blood was to change to 
 milk and water. The little that was left in 
 the world, when all these deductions were 
 142 
 
SOLOMON GILLS 
 
 made, it was Mrs. General's province to var- 
 nish . In that formation process of hers, she 
 dipped the smallest brushes into the largest 
 of pots, and varnished the surface of every 
 object that came under consideraton. The 
 more cracked it was, the more Mrs. General 
 varnished it. 
 Little Dorrit, Book II, ch. i-v, vii, xi, xv, xix. 
 
 Solomon Gills, a seller of nautical instru- 
 ments, the uncle of Walter Gay and friend 
 of Captain Cuttle, whom he leaves in charge 
 when he goes abroad to find his nephew, 
 whose ship is reported to have been lost at 
 sea. 
 
 To say nothing of his Welsh wig, which 
 was as plain and stubborn a Welsh wig as 
 ever was worn, and in which he looked like 
 anything but a Rover, he was a slow, quiet- 
 spoken, thoughtful old fellow, with eyes as 
 red as if they had been small suns looking at 
 you through a fog; and a newly-awakened 
 manner, such as he might have acquired by 
 having stared for three or four days succes- 
 sively through every optical instrument in his 
 shop, and suddenly come back to the world 
 again, to find it green. The only change ever 
 known in his outward man, was from a com- 
 plete suit of coffee-colour cut very square, 
 and ornamented with glaring buttons, to the 
 143 
 
LORD GEORGE GORDON 
 
 same suit of coffee-colour minus the inexpres- 
 sibles, which were then of a pale nankeen. 
 He wore a very precise shirt-frill, and carried 
 a pair of first-rate spectacles on his forehead, 
 and a tremendous chronometer in his fob, 
 rather than doubt which precious possession, 
 he would have believed in a conspiracy 
 against it on the part of all the clocks and 
 watches in the City, and even of the very sun 
 itself. Such as he was, such he had been 
 in the shop and parlour behind the little mid- 
 shipman, for years upon years: going regu- 
 larly aloft to bed every night in a howling 
 garret remote from the lodgers, where, when 
 gentlemen of England who lived below at ease 
 had little or no idea of the state of the 
 weather, it often blew great guns. 
 Dombey and Son, ch. iv, vi, ix, x, xv, xvii, 
 xix, xxii, xxiii, xxv, Ivi, Ivii, Ixiii. 
 
 Lord George Gordon, the leader of the " no 
 popery riots in 1780 — the result of a bill in 
 Parliament relieving Roman Catholics of 
 certain disabilities. Many Roman Catholic 
 Churches, Newgate Prison, the house of Lord 
 Chief Justice MansHeld and a number of pri- 
 vate dwellings were destroyed. He was ar- 
 rested, charged with high treason and com- 
 mitted to the tower but was acquitted. After 
 committing various political offences in Eng- 
 144 
 
LORD GEORGE GORDON 
 
 land and abroad he was imprisoned in Newgate 
 for nearly six yearrs. He then embraced the 
 Jewish faith — devoted himself to that, and 
 to painting, and died in prison in 1793, zvhen 
 only 43 years old. Dickens's descriptions of 
 the man and of the riots are generally re- 
 garded as historically accurate. 
 
 He was about the middle height, of a 
 slender make, and sallow complexion, with an 
 aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish 
 brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth 
 about his ears, and slightly powdered, but 
 without the faintest vestige of a curl. He 
 was attired, under his great coat, in a full 
 suit of black, quite free from any ornament, 
 and of the most precise and sober cut. The 
 gravity of his dress, together with a certam 
 lankness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, 
 added nearly ten years to his age, but his fig- 
 ure was that of one not yet past thirty. . . 
 His very bright large eye betrayed a rest- 
 lessness of thought and purpose, singularly at 
 varience with the studied composure and so- 
 briety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad 
 apparel. It had nothing harsh or crude in its 
 expression; neither had his face, which was 
 thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; 
 but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasi- 
 ness, which infected those who looked upon 
 him,' and filled them with a kind of pity for 
 145 
 
LORD GEORGE GORDON 
 
 the man: though why it did so, they would 
 have had some trouble to explain. . . . 
 
 Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, 
 with his long, straight hair dangling about his 
 face and fluttering in the wind; his limbs 
 all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck out on 
 either side ungracefully, and his whole frame 
 j(>ggecl and shaken at every motion of his 
 horse's feet; a more grotesque or more un- 
 gainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu 
 of whip, he carried in his hand a great gold- 
 headed cane, as large as any footman carries 
 in these days; and his various modes of hold- 
 ing this unwieldy weapon — now upright be- 
 fore his face like the sabre of a horse-soldier, 
 now over his shoulder like a musket, now be- 
 tween his finger and thumb, but always in 
 some uncouth and awkward fashion — con- 
 tributed in no small degree to the absurdity of 
 his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, 
 dressed in an unusual manner, and ostenta- 
 tiously exhibiting — whether by design or ac- 
 cident — all his peculiarities of carriage, ges- 
 ture, and conduct ; all the qualities, natural and 
 artificial, in which he differed from other men ; 
 he might have moved the sternest looker-on to 
 laughter, and fully provoked the smiles and 
 whispered jests that greeted his departure. . . 
 
 This lord was sincere in his violence and in 
 his wavering. A nature prone to false en- 
 146 
 
THOMAS GRADGRIND 
 
 thusiasm, and the vanity of being a leader, 
 were the worst qualities apparrent in his com- 
 position. All the rest was weakness — sheer 
 weakness; and it is the unhappy lot of 
 thoroughly weak men, that their very sympa- 
 thies, affections, confidences — all the qual- 
 ities which in better constituted minds are 
 virtues — dwindle into foibles or turn into 
 downright vices. 
 
 Barnahy Rudge, ch. xxxv-xxxvii, xliii, xlviii-l, 
 Iviij Ixxiii, Ixxxii. 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind, a retired wholesale 
 hardware merchant. The wasted lives of his 
 own children showed the error of his views. 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind, sir. A man of realities. 
 A man of facts and calculations. A man who 
 proceeds upon the principle that two and two 
 are four, and nothing over, and who is not to 
 be talked into allowing for anything over. 
 Thomas Gradgind, sir — peremptorily Thomas 
 — Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a 
 pair of scales, and the multiplication table 
 always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and 
 measure any parcel of human nature, and tell 
 you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere 
 question of figures, a case of simple arith- 
 metic. You might hope to get some other 
 nonsensical belief into the head of George 
 Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John 
 147 
 
THOMAS GRADGRIND 
 
 Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all suppo- 
 sitious, non-existent persons), but into the 
 head of Thomas Gradgrind — no, sir ! 
 
 " Now what I want is Facts ! Teach these 
 boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone 
 are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and 
 root out everything else. You can only form 
 the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: 
 nothing else will ever be of service to them. 
 This is the principle on which I bring up my 
 own children, and this is the principle on 
 which I bring up these children. Stick to 
 Facts, sir ! " . . . 
 
 The emphasis was helped by the speaker's 
 square wall of a forehead, which had his eye- 
 brows for its base, while his eyes found com- 
 modious cellarage in two dark caves, over- 
 shadowed by the wall. The emphasis was 
 helped by the speaker's mouth, which was 
 wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was 
 helped by the speaker's voice, which was in- 
 flexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis 
 was helped by the speaker's hair, which bris- 
 tled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation 
 of firs to keep the wind from its shining sur- 
 face, all covered with knobs, like the crust 
 of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely 
 warehouse-room for the hard facts stored 
 inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, 
 square coat, square legs, square shoulders, — 
 148 
 
MARY GRAHAM 
 
 nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him 
 by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, 
 Hke a stubborn fact, as it was, — all helped 
 the emphasis. . . . 
 
 He was an affectionate father, after his 
 manner; but he would probably have de- 
 scribed himself as " an eminently practical " 
 father. He had a particular pride in the 
 phrase eminently practical, which was con- 
 sidered to have a special application to him. 
 Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coke- 
 town, and whatsoever the subject of such 
 meeting, some Coketowner was sure to seize 
 the occasion of alluding to his eminently 
 practical friend Gradgrind. 
 Hard Times, Book I, ch. iv, xiv-xvi; Book 
 
 II, ch. i-iii, vii, ix, xi, xU; Book III, ch. 
 
 i-ix. 
 
 Mary Graham, old Martin Chuzzlewit's 
 companion, betrothed to young Martin, 
 against the old man's wishes.. .But they are 
 finally married. 
 
 She was very young; apparently not more 
 than seventeen ; timid and shrinking in her 
 manner, and yet with a greater share of self- 
 possession and control over her emotions than 
 usually belongs to a far more advanced period 
 of female life. She was short in stature; and 
 her figure was slight as became her years; 
 149 
 
MARY GRAHAM 
 
 but all the charm of youth and womanhood 
 set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. 
 . . , Her attire was that of a lady, but ex- 
 tremely plain; and in her manner there was 
 an indefinable something which appeared to 
 be in kindred with her scrupulously unpre- 
 tending dress. . . . 
 
 Had she been of the common metal of love- 
 worn young ladies, she would have told him 
 that she knew she had become a perfect 
 fright; or that she had wasted away with 
 weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwin- 
 dling gently into an early grave; or that her 
 mental sufferings were unspeakable; or 
 would either by tears or words, or a mixture 
 of both, have furnished him with some other 
 information to that effect, and made him as 
 miserable as possible. But she had been 
 reared up in a sterner school than the minds 
 of most young girls are formed in; she had 
 had her nature strengthened by the hands of 
 hard endurance and necessity; had come out 
 from her young trials constant, self-denying, 
 earnest, and devoted; had acquired in her 
 maidenhood — whether happily in the end, for 
 herself or him, is foreign to our present pur- 
 pose to inquire — something of that nobler 
 quality of gentle hearts which is developed 
 often by the sorrows and struggles of ma- 
 tronly years, but often by their lessons only. 
 150 
 
ARTHUR GRIDE 
 
 Unspoiled, unpampered in her joys or griefs; 
 with frank, and full, and deep affection for 
 the object of her early love; she saw in him 
 one who for her sake was an outcast from his 
 home and fortune^ and she had no more idea 
 of bestowing that love upon him in other than 
 cheerful and sustaining words, full of high 
 hope and grateful trustfulness, than she had 
 of being unworthy of it, in her lightest 
 thought or deed, for any base temptation that 
 the world could offer. 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. Hi, v, vi, xxiv, xxx, 
 xxxi, xxxiii, xliii. Hi, liii. 
 
 Arthur Gride, the old miser who was as- 
 sociated with Ralph Nickleby in his business 
 of extortion, and who was on the point of 
 marrying Madeline Bray, when her father 
 died, and Nicholas took her away and placed 
 her in charge of the Cheeryble Brothers. 
 
 He was a little old man, of about seventy 
 or seventy-five years of age, of a very lean 
 figure, much bent, and slightly twisted. He 
 wore a grey coat with a very narrow collar, 
 an old-fashioned waistcoat of ribbed black 
 silk, and such scanty trousers as displayed 
 his shrunken spindle-shanks in their full ugli- 
 ness. The only articles of display or orna- 
 ment in his dress, were a steel watch-chain to 
 which were attached some large gold seals ; 
 151 
 
ARTHUR GRIDE 
 
 and a black ribbon into which, in compliance 
 with an old fashion scarcely ever observed in 
 these days, his grey hair was gathered behind. 
 His nose and chin were sharp and prominent, 
 his jaws had fallen inwards from loss of teeth, 
 his face was shrivelled and yellow, save where 
 the cheeks were streaked with the colour of 
 a dry winter apple ; and where his beard had 
 been, there lingered yet a few grey tufts" which 
 seemed, like the ragged eyebrows, to denote 
 the badness of the soil from which they 
 sprang. The whole air and attitude of the 
 form, was one of stealthy cat-like obsequious- 
 ness ; the whole expression of the face was 
 concentrated in a wrinkled leer, compounded 
 of cunning, lecherousness, slyness, and ava- 
 rice. 
 
 Such was old Arthur Gride, in whose face 
 there was not a wrinkle, in whose dress there 
 was not one spare fold or plait, but expressed 
 the most covetous and griping penury, and 
 sufficiently indicated his belonging to that 
 class of which Ralph Nickleby was a member. 
 Such was old Arthur Gride, as he sat in a 
 low chair looking up into the face of Ralph 
 Nickleby, who, lounging upon the tall office 
 stool with his arms upon his knees, looked 
 down into his. 
 Nicholas Nickleby, ch. xlvii, li, liii, liv, Ivi, 
 
 lix, Ixv. 
 
MR. GRIMWIG 
 
 Mr. Grimvvig, a friend of Mr. Brownlow, 
 the gentleman who befriended and adopted 
 Oliver Twist — irrascihle, hut warm-hearted, 
 who would not he convinced of the innocence 
 of Oliver Twist. He afterwards hecame his 
 friend, though he contended always he was 
 right hecause " Oliver did not come hack after 
 all." 
 
 A stout old gentleman, rather lame in one 
 leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped 
 waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and 
 a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides 
 tinned up with green. A very small-plaited 
 shirt frill stuck out from his waist-coat; and 
 a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing 
 but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. 
 The ends of his white neckerchief were 
 twisted into a ball about the size of an or- 
 ange ; the variety of shapes into which his 
 countenance was twisted defy description. 
 He had a manner of screwing hii head on 
 one side when he spoke: and of looking out 
 of the corners of his eyes at the same time: 
 which irresistibly reminded the beholder of 
 a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, 
 the moment he made his appearance; and, 
 holding out a piece of orange-peel at arm's 
 length, exclaimed in a growling, discontented 
 voice, 
 
 " Look here ! do you see this ? Isn't it a 
 153 
 
MRS. GUMMIDGE 
 
 most wonderful and extraordinary thing that 
 I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece 
 of this poor surgeon's-friend on the staircase? 
 I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I 
 know orange-peel will be my death at last. 
 It will^ Sir; orange-peel will be my death or 
 I'll be content to eat my own head, Sir ! " 
 
 This was the handsome offer with which 
 Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly 
 every assertion that he made; and it was the 
 more singular in his case, because, even ad- 
 mitting for the sake of argument, the possi- 
 bility of scientific improvements being ever 
 brought to that pass which will enable a 
 gentleman to eat his own head in the event of 
 his being so disposed; Mr. Grimwig's head 
 was such a particularly large one, that the 
 most sanguine man alive could hardly enter- 
 tain a hope of being able to get through it 
 at a sitting — to put entirely out of the ques- 
 tion, a very thick coating of powder. 
 
 Oliver Twist, ch. xiv, xvii, xli, U, liii. 
 
 Mrs. Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty's partner's 
 widow. He gives her a home ,and though she 
 does not brighten his fireside when all goes 
 well, she is a great help in time of trouble. 
 She finally emigrates with Mr. Peggotty and 
 Little Em'ly. 
 
 154 
 
MRS. GUMMIDGE 
 
 Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself 
 so agreeable as she might have been expected 
 to do under the circumstances of her resi- 
 dence with Mr, Peggotty. Mrs Gummidge's 
 was rather a fretful disposition and she whim- 
 pered more sometimes than was comfortable 
 for other parties in so small an establishment. 
 I was very sorry for her; but there were mo- 
 ments when it would have been more agree- 
 able, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a 
 convenient apartment of her own to retire to, 
 and had stopped there until her spirits re- 
 vived. 
 
 Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public- 
 house called The Willing Mind. I discovered 
 this, by his being out on the second or third 
 evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge's 
 looking up at the Dutch clock, between eight 
 and nine, and saying he was there, and that, 
 what was more, she had known in the morn- 
 ing he would go there. 
 
 Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all 
 day, and had burst into tears in the forenoon, 
 when the fire smoked. "I am a lone lorn 
 creeturV' were Mrs. Gummidge's words, 
 when that unpleasant occurrence took place,' 
 " and everythink goes contrairy with me." . . 
 
 It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts 
 of wind. Mrs. Gummidge's peculiar corner 
 of the fireside seemed to me to be the warm- 
 155 
 
MISS HAVISHAM 
 
 est and snuggest in the place, as her chair 
 was certainly the easiest, but it didn't suit her 
 that day at all. She was constantly complain- 
 ing of the cold, and of its occasioning a visi- 
 tation in her back which she called " the 
 creeps." At last she shed tears on that sub- 
 ject, and said again that she was " a lone lorn 
 creetur' and everythink went contrairy with 
 her." 
 
 " It is certainly very cold," said Peggotty. 
 " Everybody must feel it so." 
 
 " I feel it more than other people," said 
 Mrs. Gummidge. 
 David Copperiield, ch. Hi, vii, xxi, xxii, xxxi, 
 
 xxxH, xl, li, Ivii, Ixiii. 
 
 Miss Havisham, the beautiful heiress who 
 was heartlessly robbed and deceived by the 
 convict Compeyson. She adopted a beautiful 
 orphan girl, Estella, educating her to steel her 
 heart against all tenderness but to lead men 
 on to love her and break their hearts. Estella 
 suffered deeply but in the end allows her af- 
 fections to have proper play. 
 
 In an arm chair, with an elbow resting on 
 the table and her head leaning on that hand, 
 sat the -strangest lady I have ever seen, or 
 shall ever see. 
 
 She was dressed in rich materials — satins, 
 and lace, and silks — all of white. Her shoes 
 156 
 
MISS HAVISHAM 
 
 were white. And she had a long white veil 
 dependent from her hair, and she had bridal 
 flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. 
 Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and 
 on her hands, and some other jewels lay 
 sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid 
 than the dress she wore, and half-packed 
 trunks, were scattered about. She had not 
 quite finished dressing, for she had but one 
 shoe on — the other was on the table near her 
 hand — her veil was but half-arranged, her 
 watch and chain were not put on, and some 
 lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets 
 and with her handkerchief and gloves, and 
 some flowers, and a Prayer-book, all con- 
 fusedly heaped about the looking-glass. 
 
 It was not in the first few moments that I 
 saw all these things, though I saw more of 
 them in the first moments than might be sup- 
 posed. But, I saw that everything within my 
 view which ought to be white, had been white 
 long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was 
 faded and yellow. I saw that the bride with- 
 in the bridal dress had withered like the dress, 
 and like the flowers, and had no brightness 
 left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I 
 saw that the dress had been put upon the 
 rounded figure of a young woman, and that 
 the figure upon which it now hung loose, had 
 shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been 
 157 
 
URIAH KEEP 
 
 taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the 
 Fair, representing I know not what impossible 
 personage lying in state. Once, I had been 
 taken to one of our old marsh churches to see 
 a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that 
 had been dug out of a vault under the church 
 pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton 
 seemed to have dark eyes that moved and 
 looked at me. 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. viii, ix, xi-xiv, xix, 
 xxii, xxix, xxxviii, xliv, xlix, IvU. 
 
 Uriah Heep, a lawyer's clerk in the office 
 of Mr. WicMeld. By a series of fraudulent 
 machinations, he becomes Mr. Wickfield's 
 partner, robbing him and his clients, until ex- 
 posed by Mr. Micawber. He is last seen in 
 solitary confinement in Mr. Creakle's Model 
 Prison, where he is under sentence for life 
 for robbing the Bank of England. 
 
 I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small 
 window on the ground floor (in a little round 
 tower that formed one side of the house), 
 and quickly disappear. The low arched door 
 then opened and the face came out. It was 
 quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the 
 window, though in the grain of it there was 
 that tinge of red which is sometimes to be ob- 
 served in the skins of red-haired people. It 
 belonged to a red-haired person — a youth 
 158 
 
URIAH HEEP 
 
 of fifteen, as I take it now, but looking much 
 older — whose hair was cropped as close as 
 the closest stubble; who had hardily any eye- 
 brows, and no eyelashes', and eyes of a* red- 
 brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I 
 remember wondering how he went to sleep. 
 He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in 
 decent black, with a white wisp of a neck- 
 cloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a 
 long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly 
 attracted my attention, as he stood at the 
 pony's head, rubbing his chin with it, and 
 looking up at us in the chaise. . . . 
 
 Uriah, having taken the pony to a neigh- 
 bouring stable, was at work at a desk in this 
 room, which had a brass frame on the top to 
 hang papers upon, and on which the writing 
 he was making a copy of was then hanging. 
 Though his face was towards me, I thought, 
 for some time, the writing being between us, 
 that he could not see me; but looking that 
 way more attentively, it made me uncomfort- 
 able to observe that, every now and then, his 
 sleepless eyes would come below the writing, 
 like two red suns, and stealthily stare at me 
 for I dare say a whole minute at a time, dur- 
 ing which his pen went, or pretended to go, 
 as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts 
 to get out of their way — such as standing 
 on a chair to look at a map on the other 
 
HUGH 
 
 side of the room, and poring over the col- 
 umns of a Kentish newspaper — but they 
 always attracted me back again: and when- 
 ever I looked toward those two red suns, I 
 was sure to find them, either just rising or 
 just setting. . . . 
 
 I saw Heep shutting up the office ; and, feel- 
 ing 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. Leaning out of win- 
 dqw, and seeing one of the faces on the 
 beam-ends looking at me sideways, I fancied 
 it was Uriah Heep got up there somehow, 
 and shut him out in a hurry. 
 David Copperfield, ch. xv-xvii, xix, xxv, 
 
 XXXV, xxxvi, xxxix, xlii, xlix, Hi, liv, Ixi. 
 
 Hugh, the natural son of Sir John Chester, 
 who from hostler at the Maypole Inn became 
 a leader in the Gordon riots. He was cap- 
 tured, tried and executed and although Sir 
 John is made aware of his relationship to 
 him, he is deaf to all appeals on his behalf 
 and allows him to go to the gallows zvithout 
 lifting a finger in his behalf. 
 i6o 
 
HUGH 
 
 A young man, of a hale, athletic figure, and 
 a giant's strength, whose sunburnt face and 
 swarthy throat, overgrown with jet-black hair, 
 might have served a painter for a model. 
 Loosely attired, in the coarsest and roughest 
 garb, with scraps of straw and hay — his 
 usual bed — clinging here and there, and 
 mingling with his uncombed locks, he had 
 fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his 
 dress. The negligence and disorder of the 
 whole man, with something fierce and sullen 
 in his features, gave him a picturesque ap- 
 pearance, that attracted the regards even of 
 the Maypole customers who knew him well, 
 and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh 
 looked more like a poaching rascal to-night 
 than ever he had seen him yet. , . . 
 
 " That chap, whose mother was hung when 
 he- was a little boy, along with six others, for 
 passing bad notes — and it's a blessed thing 
 to think how many people are hung in batches 
 every six weeks for that, and such like of- 
 fences, as showing how wide awake our gov- 
 ernment is — that chap that was then turned 
 loose, and had to mind cows, and frighten 
 birds away, and what not, for a few pence to 
 live on, and so got on by degrees to mind 
 horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts 
 and litter, instead of under haystacks and 
 hedges, till at last he come to be hostler at 
 i6i 
 
MR. JAGGERS 
 
 the Maypole for his board and lodging and 
 a annual trifle — that chap that can't read 
 nor write, and has never had much to do with 
 anything but animals, and has never lived in 
 any way but like the animals he has lived 
 among, is a animal. And," said Mr. Willet, 
 arriving at his logical conclusion, " is to be 
 treated accordingly." 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. x-xii, xx, xxii, xxiii, 
 xxxviii, xxix, xxxiv-xxxv, xxxvii-xl, xliv, 
 xlviii-l, liii-liv, lix, Ix, Ixiii-lxv, Ixvii-lxix, 
 Ixxiv, Ixxvi-lxxviii. 
 
 Mr. Jaggers, the criminal lawyer of Little 
 Britain, London, employed by Magwitch 
 (Provis) to inform Pip of his ''great expecta- 
 tions " and to supply him with money -while 
 waiting. He zvas also Trustee for Miss 
 Havisham. 
 
 He was a burly man of an exceedingly dark 
 complexion, with an exceedingly large head 
 and a corresponding large hand. He took 
 my chin in his large hand and turned up 
 my face to have a look at me by the light of 
 the candle. He was prematurely bald on the 
 top of his head, and had bushy black eye- 
 brows that wouldn't lie down, but stood up 
 bristling. His eyes were set very deep in his 
 head, and were disagreeably sharp and sus- 
 picious. He had a large watch-chain, and 
 162 
 
MR. JAGGERS 
 
 strong black dots where his beard and whisk- 
 ers would have been if he had let them. 
 . . . Mr. Jaggers never laughed; but he 
 wore great bright creaking boots; and, in 
 poising himself on those boots, with his large 
 head bent down and his eyebrows joined to- 
 gether, awaiting an answer, he sometimes 
 caused the boots to creak, as if they laughed 
 in a dry and suspicious way. ... If any- 
 body, of whatsoever degree, said a word that 
 he didn't approve of, he instantly required 
 to have it "taken down." If anybody 
 wouldn't make an admission, he said, " I'll 
 have it out of you ! " and if anybody made 
 an admission, he said, " Now I have got 
 you ! " The magistrates shivered under a sin- 
 gle bite of his finger. Thieves and thieftakers 
 hung in dread rapture on his words, and shrank 
 when a hair of his eyebrows turned in their 
 direction. . . . 
 
 He always carried a pocket-handkerchief of 
 rich silk and of imposing proportions, which 
 was of great value to him in his profession. 
 I have seen him so terrify a client or a wit- 
 ness by ceremoniously unfolding his pocket- 
 handkerchief as if he were immediately going 
 to blow his nose, and then pausing, as if he 
 knew he should not have time to do it, be- 
 fore such client or witness committed himself, 
 that the self-committal has followed directly, 
 quite as a matter of course. 
 163 
 
MRS. JARLEY 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. xi, xviii, xx, xxi, 
 xxiv, xxvi, xxix, xl, xUx, li, Ivi. 
 
 Mrs. Jarley, Wax Work Show Proprietor 
 who engaged Little Nell as demonstrator of 
 her collection. 
 
 At the open door [of the caravan] graced 
 with a bright brass knocker, sat a Christian 
 lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who 
 wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. 
 And that it was not an unprovided or desti- 
 tute caravan was clear from this lady's occu- 
 pation, which was the very pleasant and re- 
 freshing one of taking tea. The tea-things, 
 including a bottle of rather suspicious charac- 
 ter and a cold knuckle of ham, were set forth 
 upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; 
 and there, as if at the most convenient round- 
 table in all the world, sat this roving lady, 
 taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. . . 
 
 [She] unfolded [a] scroll, whereon was the 
 inscription, " One hundred figures the full size 
 of life," and then another scroll, on which was 
 written, " The only stupendous collection of 
 real wax-work in the world," and then sev- 
 eral smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as 
 " Now exhibiting within " — " The genuine 
 and only Jarley " — " Jarley's unrivalled col- 
 lection " — " Jarley is the delight of the Nobil- 
 ity and Gentry " — " The Royal Family are the 
 164 
 
MRS. JARLEY 
 
 patrons of Jarley." When she had exhibited 
 these leviathans of public announcement to 
 the astonished child, she brought forth speci- 
 mens of the lesser fry in the shape of hand- 
 bills, some of which were couched in the form 
 of parodies on popular melodies, as " Believe 
 me if all Jarley's wax-work so rare " — " I saw 
 thy show in youthful prime " — " Over the 
 water to Jarley;" while, to consult all tastes, 
 others were composed with a view to the 
 lighter and more facetious spirits, as a parody 
 on the favourite air of " If I had a donkey," 
 beginning 
 
 If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go 
 To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show. 
 Do you think I'd acknowledge him 
 Oh no no! 
 
 Then run to Jarley's — 
 
 — besides several compositions in prose, pur- 
 porting to be dialogues between the Emperor 
 of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury and a Dissenter on the subject 
 of church-rates, but all having the same moral, 
 namely, that the reader must make haste to 
 Jarley's, and that children and servants were 
 admitted at half-price. When she had 
 brought all these testimonials of her important 
 position in society to bear, Mrs. Jarley rolled 
 them up, and put them carefully away. . . . 
 165 
 
MRS. JARLEY 
 
 It's calm and — what's that word again — 
 critical ? — no — classical, that's it — it's calm 
 and classical. No low beatings and knocks* 
 ings about, no jokings and squeakings like 
 your precious Punches, but always the same, 
 with a constantly unchanging air of coldness 
 and gentility; and so like life, that if wax- 
 work only spoke and walked about, you'd 
 hardly know the difference. I won't go so 
 far as to say, that, as it is, I've seen wax- 
 work quite like life, but I've certainly seen 
 some life that was exactly like wax-work." 
 . . . It's Jarley's wax-work, remember. 
 The duty's very light and genteel, the com- 
 pany particular select, the exhibition takes 
 place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large 
 rooms at inns, or auction galleries. There is 
 none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, 
 recollect; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust 
 at Jarley's, remember. Every expectation 
 held out in the handbills is realised to the ut- 
 most, and the whole forms an effect of impos- 
 ing brilliancy hitherto unrivalled in this king- 
 dom. Remember that the price of admission 
 is only sixpence, and that this is an oppor- 
 tunity which may never occur again ! " 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. xxvi-xxix, xxxi, 
 
 xxxii, xlvii, Ixxiii. 
 
 i66 
 
JOHN JARNDYCE 
 
 John Jarndyce, one of the parties in 
 the famous Chancery Suit of Jarndyce v. 
 Jarndyce — the guardian of Richard Carstone 
 and Ada Clare, and the protector of Esther 
 Summerson. He was an old bachelor of sixty 
 — and when displeased, disappointed or de- 
 ceived in any one, the wind was always " in 
 the East" — as he said, and then he took 
 refuge in his Library which he called " The 
 Growlery." He will have nothing to do with 
 the case which has been the despair and ruin 
 of so much hope and of so many lives — and 
 which only came to an end when the whole 
 estate had been eaten up in costs. 
 
 It was a handsome, lively, quick face, full 
 of change and motion; and his hair was a 
 silvered iron-grey. I took him to be nearer 
 sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, 
 and robust. 
 
 He thus describes the famous case: — 
 
 " It's aboijt a Will, and the trusts under a 
 Will — or it was, once. It's about nothing 
 but Costs, now. We are always appearing, and 
 disappearing, and swearing, and interrogat- 
 ing, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, 
 and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and 
 reporting, and revolving about the Lord Chan- 
 cellor and all his satellites, and equitably 
 waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about 
 Costs. That's the great question. All the 
 167 
 
JOHN JARNDYCE 
 
 rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted 
 away. . . . 
 
 " A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made 
 a great fortune, and made a great Will. In 
 the question how the trusts under that Will 
 are to be administered, the fortune left by the 
 Will is squandered away; the legatees under 
 the Will are reduced to such a miserable con- 
 dition that they would be sufficiently pun- 
 ished, if they had committed an enormous 
 crime in having money left them; and the 
 Will itself is made a dead letter. All through 
 the deplorable cause, everything that every- 
 body in it, except one man, knows already, is 
 referred to that only one man who don't know 
 it, to find out — all through the deplorable 
 cause, everybody must have copies, over and 
 over again, of everything that has accumu- 
 lated about it in the way of cartloads of pa- 
 pers (or must pay for them without having 
 them, which is the usual course, for nobody 
 wants them) ; and must go down the middle 
 and up again, through such an infernal coun- 
 try-dance of costs and fees and nonsense suit 
 on any terms, for we are made parties to it, 
 and must he parties to it, whether we like it 
 or not. But it won't do to think of it ! When 
 my great uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce began to 
 think of it, it was the beginning of the end ! " 
 Bleak House, ch. i, Hi, vi, viii, ix, xni-xv, 
 i68 
 
MRS. JELLYBY 
 
 xvii, xviii, xxiii, xxiv, xxx, xxxi, xxxv- 
 xxxvii, xxxix, xliii-xlv, xlvi, l-lUi, Ivi, Ix- 
 Ixii, Ixiv, Ixv, Ixvii. 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby, a " blue stocking," so ah- 
 sorhed in her self-imposed tasks that she neg- 
 lects her family, and drives her husband to 
 dejection and bankruptcy. 
 
 A lady of very remarkable strength of char- 
 acter, who devotes herself entirely to the pub- 
 lic. She has devoted herself to an extensive 
 variety of public subjects, at various times, 
 and is at present (until something else at- 
 tracts her) devoted to the subject of Africa; 
 with a view to the general cultivation of the 
 coffee berry — and the natives — and the 
 happy settlement, on the banks of the African 
 rivers, of our super-abundant home popula- 
 tion. . . . She was a pretty, plump di- 
 minutive woman of from forty to fifty, with 
 handsome eyes, though they had a curious 
 habit of seeming to look a long way off. . . . 
 Mrs. Jellyby had very good hair, but was too 
 much occupied with her African duties to 
 brush it. The shawl in which she had been 
 loosely muffled, dropped on to her chair when 
 she advanced to us; and as she turned to re- 
 sume her seat, we could not help noticing that 
 her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and 
 that the open space was railed across with a 
 169 
 
MRS. JELLYBY 
 
 lattice-work of stay-lace — like a summer- 
 house. 
 
 The room, which was strewn with papers 
 and nearly filled by a great writing-table cov- 
 ered with similar litter, was, I must say, not 
 only very untidy, but very dirty. . . . 
 
 " You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, 
 snuffing the two great office candles in tin 
 candlesticks which made the room taste 
 strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, 
 and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, 
 a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find 
 me, my dears, as usual, vefy busy; but that 
 you will excuse. The African project at pres- 
 ent employs my whole time. It involves me 
 in correspondence with public bodies, and with 
 private individuals anxious for the welfare 
 of their species all over the country. I am 
 happy to say it is advancing. We hope by 
 this time next year to have from a hundred 
 and fifty to two hundred healthy families culti- 
 vating coffee and educating the natives of 
 Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the 
 Niger." . . . 
 
 All through dinner ; which was long, in con- 
 sequence of such accidents as the dish of pota- 
 toes being mislaid in the coal scuttle, and the 
 handle of the cork-screw coming off,' and strik- 
 ing the young woman in the chin; Mrs. 
 Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposi- 
 170 
 
ALFRED JINGLE 
 
 tion. She told us a great deal that was in- 
 teresting about Borrioboola-Gha and the na- 
 tives; and received so many letters that 
 Richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes 
 in the gravy at once. Some of the letters 
 were proceedings of ladies' committees, or 
 resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read 
 to us; others were applications from people 
 excited in various ways about the cultivation 
 of coffee, and natives; others required an- 
 swers, and these she sent her eldest daughter 
 from the table three or four times to write. 
 She was full of business, and undoubtedly was, 
 as she had told us, devoted to the cause. 
 . . . sitting in quite a nest of waste paper 
 [she] drank coffee all the evening, and dic- 
 tated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She 
 also held a discussion with Mr. Quale: of 
 which the subject seemed to be — the Brother- 
 hood of Humanity, and gave utterance to some 
 beautiful sentiments. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. iv, v, xix, xxiii, xxx, 
 xxxviii, I, Ixvi. 
 
 Alfred Jingle, a man of much verbiage hut 
 few verbs. His talk is a series of discon- 
 nected phrases, but he makes himself well 
 understood. As D' Israeli said of a famous 
 statesman, he is " intoxicated with the exuber- 
 ance of his own verbosity." He was a stroll- 
 171 
 
ALFRED JINGLE 
 
 ing actor, and a sad scamp, passing himself 
 off as a person of importance and sponging 
 his way through life. He finally lands in the 
 Fleet prison, and is in great destitution and 
 distress. Mr. Pickwick releases him on evi- 
 dence of his penitence and on his promises to 
 reform, which were faithfully kept. 
 
 He was about the middle height, but the 
 thinness of his body, and the length of his 
 l^g's, gave him the appearance of being much 
 taller. The green coat had been a smart dress 
 garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had 
 evidently in those times adorned a much 
 shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled 
 and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his 
 wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, 
 at the imminent hazard of splitting the back ; 
 and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt 
 collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black 
 trousers displayed here and there those shiny 
 patches which bespeak long service, and were 
 strapped very tightly over a pair of patched 
 and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty 
 white stockings, which were nevertheless dis- 
 tinctly visible. His long black hair escaped 
 in negligent waves from beneath each side of 
 his old pinched up hat; and glimpses of his 
 bare wrist might be observed, between the 
 tops of his gloves, and the cuffs of his coat 
 sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but 
 172 
 
JO 
 
 an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and 
 perfect self-possession pervaded the whole 
 man. 
 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. ii. Hi, vH-x, xv, xxv, 
 xlii, xlv, xlvii, Hi. 
 
 To alias '' Tougheyr a street crossing 
 sweeper. He was befriended by the unfortu- 
 nate Captain Hawdon, and as he was seen 
 speaking to him before his sudden death, he 
 was brought before the Coroner's jury, but 
 his evidence was set aside. He becomes pos- 
 sessed of information in connection with the 
 secret of Lady Dedlock, and is constantly be- 
 ing told to " move on " by the police. He is 
 anally found by Dr. Alan Woodcourt, who 
 takes care of him, in the illness which ter- 
 minated in his death, and who saw that he 
 zvas buried according to his wish m the stran- 
 gers' burying ground near his unknown friend. 
 Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very 
 razeed. Now, boy! -But stop a mmute. 
 Caution. This boy must be put through a 
 few preliminary paces. 
 
 Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. 
 Don't know that everybody has two names. 
 Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that 
 To is short for a longer name. Thmks it 
 long enough for him. He don't find no fault 
 with it. Spell it? No. He can't spell it. 
 173 
 
JO 
 
 No father, no mother, no friends. Never 
 been to school. What's home? Knows a 
 broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to 
 tell a lie. Don't recollect who told him about 
 the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. 
 Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter 
 he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen 
 here, but believes it'll be something wery bad 
 to punish him, and serve him right — and so 
 he'll tell the truth. . . . 
 
 While the Coroner buttons his great-coat, 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give private audience 
 to the rejected witness in a corner. 
 
 That graceless creature only knows that the 
 dead man (whom he recognised just now by 
 his yellow face and black hair) was some- 
 times hooted and pursued about the streets. 
 That one cold winter night, when he, the boy, 
 was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, 
 the man turned to look at him, and came 
 back, and, having questioned him and found 
 that he had not a friend in the world, said, 
 " Neither have I. Not one ! " and gave him 
 the price of a supper and a night's lodging. 
 That the man had often spoken to him since; 
 and asked him whether he slept sound at 
 night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and 
 whether he ever wished to die; and similar 
 strange questions. That when the man had 
 no money, he would say in passing, " I am as 
 174 
 
JO 
 
 poor as you to-day, Jo ; " but that when he 
 had any, he had always (as the boy most 
 heartily believes) been glad to give him some. 
 
 " He was wery good to me," says the boy, 
 wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve. 
 " Wen I see him a layin' so stritched out just 
 now, I wished he could have heerd me tell 
 him so. He wos wery good to me, he wos ! " 
 
 With the night, comes a slouching figure 
 through the tunnel-court, to the outside of the 
 iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands, 
 and looks in between the bars; stands looking 
 in, for a little while. 
 
 It then, with an old broom it carries, softly 
 sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean. 
 It does so, very busily and trimly; looks in 
 again, a little while ; and so departs. 
 
 Jo, is it thou ? Well, well ! Though a re- 
 jected witness, who " can't exactly say " what 
 will be done to him in greater hands than 
 men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. 
 There is something like a distant ray of light 
 in thy muttered reason for this : 
 
 " He wos wery good to me, he wos ! " . . . 
 
 Jo moves on, through the long vacation, 
 down to Blackfriars Bridge, where he finds a 
 baking stony corner wherein to settle to his 
 repast. 
 
 And there he sits, munching and gnawing, 
 and looking up at the great Cross on the sum- 
 175 
 
MR. JORKINS 
 
 mit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above 
 a red and violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From 
 the boy's face one might suppose that sacred 
 emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning con- 
 fusion of the great, confused city; so golden, 
 so high up, so far out of his reach. There 
 he sits, the sun going down, the river running 
 fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams 
 — everything moving on to some purpose and 
 to one end — until he is stirred up, and told to 
 " move on " too. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. xi, xvi, xix, xx, xxv, xxix, 
 xxxii, xlvi, xlii. 
 
 Mr. Jorkins, one of the Firm of Spenlow 
 and Jorkins, to which Copperfield was arti- 
 cled. 
 
 He was a mild man oi a heavy tempera- 
 ment, whose place in the business was to 
 keep himself in the background, and be con- 
 stantly exhibited by name as the most ob- 
 durate and ruthless of men. If a clerk wanted 
 his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn't listen 
 to such a proposition. If a client were slow 
 to settle his bill of costs, Mr. Jorkins was re- 
 solved to have it paid; and however painful 
 these things might be (and always were) to 
 the feelings of Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins 
 would have his bond. The heart and hand 
 of the good angel Spenlow would have been 
 176 
 
MISS LA CREEVY 
 
 always open, but for the restraining demon 
 Jorkins. As I have grown older, I think I 
 have had experience of some other houses do- 
 ing business on the principle of Spenlow and 
 Jorkins ! 
 
 David Copperiield, ch. xxiii, xxix, xxxv, 
 xxxviii, xxxix. 
 
 Miss La Creevy^ a miniature painter — a 
 young lady of fifty — who was a warm friend 
 of the Nicklebys. She finally married Tom 
 Linkinwater, the head clerk of Cheeryble 
 Brothers. 
 
 The little bustling, active, cheerful creature, 
 existed entirely within herself, talked to her- 
 self, made a confidant of herself, was as sar- 
 castic as she could be, on people who of- 
 fended her, by herself; pleased herself, and 
 did no harm. If she indulged in scandal, no- 
 body's reputation suffered; and if she enjoyed 
 a little bit of revenge, no living soul was one 
 atom the worse. One of the many to whom, 
 from straitened circumstances, a consequent 
 inability to form the associations they would 
 wish, and a disinclination to mix with the so- 
 ciety they could obtain, London is as complete 
 a solitude as the plains of Syria, the humble 
 artist had pursued her lonely, but contented 
 way for many years ; and, until the peculiar 
 misfortunes of the Nickleby family attracted 
 177 
 
TIM LINKINWATER 
 
 her attention, had made no friends, though 
 brimful of the friendhest feeHngs to all man- 
 kind. There are many warm hearts in the 
 same solitary guise as poor Miss La Creevy's. 
 Nicholas Nicklehy, ch. Hi, v, x, xi, xx, xxxi, 
 xxxiii, XXXV, xxxviii, xlix, Ixi, Ixiii, Ixv. 
 
 Tim Linkinwater, Cheeryble Brothers' 
 head clerk to whose work Nicholas Nicklehy 
 in part succeeded. He married Miss La 
 Creevy, the miniature painter. 
 
 Punctual as the counting-house dial, which 
 he maintained to be the best time-keeper in 
 London next after the clock of some old, hid- 
 den, unknown church hard by (for Tim held 
 the fabled goodness of that at the Horse 
 Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented by 
 jealous Westenders), the old clerk performed 
 the minutest actions of the day, and arranged 
 the minutest articles in the little room, in a 
 precise and regular order, which could not 
 have been exceeded if it had actually been a 
 real glass case fitted with the choicest curios- 
 ities. Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, 
 wafers, pounce-box, string-box, fire-box, Tim's 
 hat, Tim's scrupulously folded gloves, Tim's 
 other coat — looking precisely like a back 
 view of himself as it hung against the wall — 
 all had their accustomed inches of space. Ex- 
 cept the clock, there was not such an accurate 
 178 
 
LITTIMER 
 
 and unimpeachable instrument in existence 
 as the little thermometer which hung behind 
 the door. . . . 
 
 It was a sight to behold Tim Linkinwater 
 slowly bring out a massive ledger and day 
 book, and, after turning them over and over 
 and affectionately dusting their backs and 
 sides, open the leaves here and there, and cast 
 his eyes half-mournfully, half-proudly, upon 
 the fair and unblotted entries. . . . 
 
 " It's forty-four year," said Tim, making a 
 calculation in the air with his pen, and draw- 
 ing an imaginary line before he cast it up, 
 " forty- four year, next May, since I first kept 
 the books of Cheeryble Brothers. I've opened 
 the safe every morning all that time (Sun- 
 days excepted) as the clock struck nine, and 
 gone over the house every night at half-past 
 ten (except on Foreign Post nights, and then 
 twenty minutes before twelve) to see the 
 doors fastened and the fires out. I've never 
 slept out of the back attic one single night. 
 Nicholas Nicklehy, ch. xxxv, xxxvii, xl, xliii, 
 xlix, Iv, lix-lxi, Ixiii, Ixv. 
 
 LiTTiMER, Steerforth's conMential serving 
 man, — and a thorough rascal. He aided 
 Steerforth in running azvay with little Emily 
 — and stood ready to marry her when Steer- 
 forth wished to cast her oif. He ends his 
 179 
 
LITTIMER 
 
 days in Mr. Creakle's model prison, where he 
 is one of the model prisoners, on show to 
 visitors as a pious example of the effects of 
 the treatment given there. 
 
 I believe there never existed in his station 
 a more respectable-looking man. He was 
 taciturn, soft-footed, very quiet in his man- 
 ner, deferential, observant, always at hand 
 when wanted, and never near when not 
 wanted; but his great claim to consideration 
 was his respectability. He had not a pliant 
 face, he had rather a stiff neck, rather a tight 
 smooth head with short hair clinging to it at 
 the sides, a soft way of speaking, with a pe- 
 culiar habit of whispering the letter S so dis- 
 tinctly, that he seemed to use it oftener than 
 any other man; but every peculiarity that he 
 had he made respectable. If his nose had 
 been upside-down, he would have made that 
 respectable. He surrounded himself with an 
 atmosphere of respectability, and walked se- 
 cure in it. It would have been next to im- 
 possible 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 a wanton insult on the feelings 
 of a most respectable man. And of this, I 
 noticed the women-servants in the household 
 i8o 
 
MR. JARVIS LORRY 
 
 were so intuitively conscious, that they always 
 did such work themselves, and generally while 
 he read the paper by the pantry fire. 
 
 Such a self-contained man I never saw. 
 But in that quahty, as in every other he pos- 
 sessed, he only seemed to be the more re- 
 spectable. Even the fact that no one knew 
 his Christian name, seemed to form a part of 
 his respectability. Nothing could be objected 
 against his surname Littimer, by which he 
 was known. Peter might have been hanged, 
 or Tom transported; but Littimer was per- 
 fectly respectable. ... 
 David Copperileld, cK xxi-xxiii, xxvin, xxix, 
 xxxi, xxxii, xliv, Ixi. 
 
 Mr. Jarvis Lorry, Tellson and Co.'s confi- 
 dential clerk. He was charged with the task 
 of taking Miss Manette to her father who 
 had been released from the Bastille and bring- 
 ing them back to England. During the awfu[ 
 scenes of the Revolution in Paris he was their 
 companion and friend and it is he who finally 
 brings them back to England after their sec- 
 ond visit to Paris. 
 
 Very orderly and methodical he looked, with 
 a hand on each knee, and a loud watch tick- 
 ing a sonorous sermon under his flapped 
 waistcoat, as though it pitted its gravity and 
 longevity against the levity and evanescence 
 i8i 
 
MR. JARVIS LORRY 
 
 of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was 
 a little vain of it, for his brown stockings 
 fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine tex- 
 ture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, 
 were trim. He wore an odd little sleek crisp 
 flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: 
 which wig, it is to be presumed, was made 
 of hair, but which looked far more as though 
 it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. 
 His linen, though not of a fineness in accord- 
 ance with his stockings, was as white as the 
 tops of the waves that broke upon the neigh- 
 bouring beach, or the specks of sail that 
 glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face 
 habitually suppressed and quieted, was still 
 lighted up under the quaint wig by a pair of 
 moist bright eyes that it must have cost their 
 owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill 
 to the composed and reserved expression of 
 Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in 
 his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore 
 few traces of anxiety. But, perhaps, the con- 
 fidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank 
 were principally occupied with the cares of 
 other people; and perhaps second-hand cares, 
 like second-hand clothes, come easily off and 
 on. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. ii-vi; Book 
 
 II, ch. ii-iv, vi, xii, xvi-xxi, xxiv; Book III, 
 
 ch. ii-vi, viii, ix, xi-xiii, xv. 
 182 
 
MRS. LUPIN 
 
 Mrs. Lupin, the landlady of the Blue 
 Dragon Inn, the friend of Tom Pinch. After 
 Mark Tapley's "jolly" career in America he 
 returned and married her. 
 
 The mistress of the Blue Dragon was in 
 outward appearance just what a landlady 
 should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and 
 good-looking, with a face of clear red and 
 white, which, by its jovial aspect, at once 
 bore testimony to her hearty participation in 
 the good things of the larder and the cellar, 
 and to their thriving and healthful influences. 
 She was a widow, but years ago had passed 
 through her state of weeds, and burst into 
 flower again; and in full bloom she had con- 
 tinued ever since; and in full bloom she was 
 now; with roses on her ample skirts, and 
 roses on her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in 
 her cheeks,— ay, and roses, worth the gath- 
 ering too, on her. lips, for that matter. She 
 had still a bright black eye, and jet black hair; 
 was comely, dimpled, plump, and tight as a 
 gooseberry; and though she was not exactly 
 what the world calls young, you may make an 
 affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or magis- 
 trate in Christendom, that there are a great 
 many young ladies in the world (blessings on 
 them, one and all!) whom you wouldn't like 
 half as well, or admire half as much, as the 
 beaming hostess of the Blue Dragon. 
 183 
 
MR. McCHOAKUMCHILD 
 
 Martin Chuzslewit, ch. Hi, iv, vii, xxxi, xxxvi, 
 xxxvii, xlii, xliv, liii. 
 
 Mr. McChoakumchild, the Teacher in Mr. 
 Gradgrind's Model School. 
 
 He and some one hundred and forty other 
 schoolmasters had been lately turned at the 
 same time, in the same factory, on the same 
 principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He 
 had been put through an immense variety of 
 paces, and had answered volumes of head- 
 breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, 
 syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, 
 geography, and general cosmography, the sci- 
 ences of compound proportion, algebra, land- 
 surveying and levelling, vocal music, and 
 drawing from models, were all at the ends of 
 his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his 
 stony way into Her Majesty's most Honour- 
 able Privy Council's Schedule B, and had taken 
 the bloom off the higher branches of mathe- 
 matics and physical science, French, German, 
 Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the 
 Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they 
 are), and all the histories of all the peoples, 
 and all the names of all the rivers and moun- 
 tains, and all the productions, manners, and 
 customs of all the countries, and all their 
 boundaries and bearings on the two and thirty 
 points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, 
 184 
 
MAGGY 
 
 McChoakumchild. If he had only learnt a lit- 
 tle less, how infinitely better he might have 
 .taught much more! 
 
 He went to work in this preparatory lesson, 
 not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: 
 looking into all the vessels ranged before him, 
 one after another, to see what they contained. 
 Say, good McChoakumchild. When from thy 
 boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim 
 full by-and-bye, dost thou think that thou 
 wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy 
 lurking within — or sometimes only maim him 
 and distort him ! 
 Hard Times, Book I, ch. i-iii, ix, xiv. 
 
 Maggy, a protegee of Little Dorrit, after- 
 wards assistant to Mrs. Plornish. She was a 
 grand-daughter of Mrs. Bangham — and a 
 faithful creature who followed little Dorrit 
 everywhere and obeyed her implicitly. 
 
 She was about eight-and-twenty, with large 
 bones, large features, large feet and hands, 
 large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were 
 limpid and almost colourless; they seemed to 
 be very little affected by light, and to stand 
 unnaturally still. There was also that atten- 
 tive listening expression in her face, which 
 is seen in the faces of the blind; but she was 
 not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. 
 Her face was not exceedingly ugly, though 
 185 
 
MAGGY 
 
 it was only redeemed from being so by a 
 smile; a good-humoured smile, and pleasant 
 in itself, but rendered pitiable by being con- 
 stantly there. A great white cap, with a 
 quantity of opaque frilling that was always 
 flapping about, apologised for Maggy's bald- 
 ness, and made it so very difficult for her old 
 black bonnet to retain its place upon her head, 
 that it held on round her neck like a gipsy's 
 baby. A commission of haberdashers could 
 alone have reported what the rest of her poor 
 dress was made of; but it had a strong gen- 
 eral semblance to seaweed, with here and 
 there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her shawl looked 
 particularly like a tea-leaf, after long infu- 
 sion. . . . 
 
 Nothing would serve Maggy but that they 
 must stop at a grocer's window, short of their 
 destination, for her to show her learning. 
 She could read after a sort; and picked out 
 the fat figures in the tickets of prices, for the 
 most part correctly. She also stumbled, with 
 a large balance of success against her fail- 
 ures, through various philanthropic recom- 
 mendations to Try oiir Mixture, Try our Fam- 
 ily Black, Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, 
 challenging competition at the head of Flow- 
 ery Teas; and various cautions to the public 
 against spurious establishments and adulter- 
 ated articles. 
 
 i86 
 
ABEL MAGWITCH 
 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. ix, xiv, xx, xxii, 
 xxiv, xxxi, xxxii, xxxv, xxxvi; Book II, 
 ch. in, iv, xiii, xxix, xxxiii, xxxiv. 
 
 Abel Magwitch {alias Provis), the es- 
 caped convict who was supplied with a Hie 
 and food by the hoy Pip. Recaptured and 
 transported to New South Wales, he escapes 
 again, goes up country and becomes rich by 
 sheep farming. In gratitude to Pip he sets 
 him up as a gentleman through Mr. Jaggers, 
 who was his hanker and guardian. Pip all 
 the while was under the impression that Miss 
 Havisham was befriending him. Under the 
 name of Provis, Magwitch returns to England 
 and makes himself known to Pip. But he is 
 betrayed and recaptured, losing the whole of 
 his money in endeavouring to escape, Unally 
 dying in prison. 
 
 A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a 
 great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, 
 and with broken shoes, and with an old rag 
 tied round his head. A man who had been 
 soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and 
 lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung 
 by nettles, and torn by briars ; who limped, 
 and shivered, and glared and growled; and 
 whose teeth chattered in his head. ... I 
 had often watched a large dog of ours eating 
 his food; and I now noticed a decided simi- 
 187 
 
DR. ALEXANDER MANETTE 
 
 larity between the dog's way of eating, and the 
 man's. The man took strong sharp sudden 
 bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or 
 rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon 
 and too fast; and he looked sideways here and 
 there while he ate, as if he thought there was 
 danger in every direction of somebody's com- 
 ing to take the pie away. He was altogether 
 too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate 
 it comfortably, I thought, or to have anybody 
 to dine with him, without making a chop with 
 his jaws at the visitor. In all of which par- 
 ticulars he was very like the dog. 
 Great Expectations, ch, i. Hi, v, xixix-xlii, xlvi, 
 liv-lvi. 
 
 Dr. Alexander Manette, a Paris Physi- 
 cian confined in solitude for i8 years in the 
 Bastille to hide the crime of a noble family 
 of which he had become cognisant. Here his 
 only occupation was that of shoe-making. 
 Released he goes to England and lives with 
 his daughter who marries Charles Darnay (St. 
 Evremonde). The latter was called back to 
 Paris to help an old and faithful servant and 
 was at once imprisoned as a proscribed emi- 
 grant. Dr. Manette and his daughter follow 
 him and the former secures his acquittal. But 
 he is again denounced as an aristocrat through 
 some papers written by Dr. Manette when a 
 i88 
 
DR. ALEXA NDER MANETTE 
 
 prisoner in the Bastille and secreted there 
 Darnay is condemned to death, rescued by 
 Sydney Carton, who dies in h.s stead, and the 
 Doctor and his family return to England for 
 the rest of their days. 
 
 A white head bent low over the shoe mak- . 
 in„ . . . a broad ray of light . . • 
 showed the workman with an unfinished shoe 
 upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few 
 common tools and various scraps of leather 
 were at his feet and on his bench. He had a 
 white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long 
 a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes_ 
 The hoUowness and thinness of his face would 
 have caused them to look large, ""der ^is yet 
 dark eyebrows and his confused white ha.r 
 though they had been really otherwise, but, 
 hey were naturally large, and looked unnatu- 
 raUy so. His yellow rags of shirt lay open at 
 the throat, and showed his body to be with- 
 ered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, 
 and his loose stockings, and all his poor tat- 
 ters of clothes, had, in a long secl"-°" ^'f" 
 direct light and air, faded down to such a dull 
 unfformfty of parchment-yellow, that it would 
 have been hard to say which was which 
 
 He had put up a hand between ^'^ eyes and 
 
 the light, and the very bones of it seemed 
 
 „* <;n he sat with a steadfastly va- 
 
 transparent. bo he sat, wui' * 
 
 cant gaze, pausing in his work. He never 
 
DR. ALEXANDER MANETTE 
 
 looked at the figure before him, without first 
 looking down on this side of himself, then on 
 that, as if he had lost the habit of associating 
 place with sound ; he never spoke, without first 
 wandering in this manner, and forgetting to 
 speak. 
 
 He laid the knuckles of the right hand 
 in the hollow of the left, and then the 
 knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the 
 right, and then passed a hand across the 
 bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, 
 without a moment's intermission. The task 
 of recalling him from the vagrancy into which 
 he always sank when he had spoken, was like 
 recalling some very weak person from a 
 swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some 
 disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying 
 man. . . . 
 
 The faintness of the voice was pitiable and 
 dreadful. It was not the faintness of phys- 
 ical weakness, though confinement and hard 
 fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplor- 
 able peculiarity was, that it was the faint- 
 ness of solitude and disuse. It was like the 
 last feeble echo of a sound made long and long 
 ago. So entirely had it lost the life and reso- 
 nance of the human voice, that it affected the 
 senses like a once beautiful colour faded away 
 into a poor weak stain. So sunken and sup- 
 pressed it was, that it was like a voice under- 
 190 
 
DR. ALEXANDER MANETTE 
 
 ground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless 
 and lost creature, that a famished traveller, 
 wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilder- 
 ness, would have remembered home and 
 friends in such a tone before lying down to 
 die. . . . 
 
 As the captive of many years sat looking 
 fixedly, by turns, at Mr. Lorry and at De- 
 farge, some long obliterated marks of an ac- 
 tively intent intelligence in the middle of the 
 forehead, gradually forced themselves through 
 the black mist that had fallen on him. They 
 were overclouded again, they were fainter, 
 they were gone ; but they had been there. . . 
 
 It would have been difficult by a far 
 brighter light, to recognize in Doctor Manette, 
 intellectual of face and upright of bearing, 
 the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, 
 no one could have looked at him twice, without 
 looking again: even though the opportunity 
 of observation had not extended to the mourn- 
 ful cadence of his low grave voice, and to 
 the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, 
 without any apparent reason. While one ex- 
 ternal cause, and that a reference to his 
 long lingering agony, would always — as on 
 the trial — evoke this condition from the 
 depths of his soul, it was also in its nature 
 to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over 
 him, as incomprehensible to those unac- 
 191 
 
MINNIE MEAGLES 
 
 quainted with his story as if they had seen 
 the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown 
 upon him by a summer sun, when the sub- 
 stance was three hundred miles away. 
 
 Only his daughter had the power of charm- 
 ing this black brooding from his mind. She 
 was the golden thread that united him to a 
 Past beyond his misery, and to a Present 
 beyond his misery: and the sound of her 
 voice, the light of her face, the touch of her 
 hand, had a strong beneficial influence with 
 him almost always. Not absolutely always, 
 for she could recall some occasions on which 
 her power had failed; but they were few and 
 slight, and she believed them over. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. ii-vi; Book 
 II, ch. ii-iv, vi, ix, x, xii, xiii, xvi-xxi, 
 xxiv; Book III, ch, ii-vii, ix-xii, xiv, xv. 
 
 Minnie Meagles (Pet). The daughter of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Meagles — afterwards the wife 
 of Henry Gowan. 
 
 Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with 
 rich brown hair hanging free in natural ring- 
 lets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and 
 wonderful eyes; so large, so soft, so bright, 
 set to such perfection in her kind good head. 
 She was round and fresh and dimpled and 
 spoilt, and there was in Pet an air of timidity 
 and dependence which was the best weakness 
 192 
 
MINNIE MEAGLES 
 
 in the world, and gave her the only crowning 
 charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have 
 been without. ... ,. . u 
 
 Pet had a twin sister who died when we 
 could just see her eyes -exactly like Pets 
 -above the table, as she *stood on tiptoe 
 holding by it. . . . Pet and her baby sis- 
 ter were so exactly alike, and so completely 
 one, that in our thoughts we have never been 
 able to separate them since. It would be of no 
 use to tell us that our dead child was a mere 
 infant. We have changed that child accord- 
 ing to the changes in the child spared to us 
 and always with us. As Pet has grown, that 
 child has grown; as Pet has become more 
 sensible and womanly, her sister ^f^^^'^^l 
 more sensible and womanly, by just the same 
 degrees. It would be as hard to convince me 
 that if I was to pass into the other world to- 
 morrow, I should not, th^«^g^;^%^^^!'y. f, 
 God, be received there by a daughter, just 
 like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself 
 is not a reality at my side. • • ; . , 
 
 As to her, the sudden loss of her little 
 picture and playfellow, and her early asso- 
 ciation with that mystery m which we all 
 have our equal share, but which is not often 
 so forcibly presented to a child, has neces- 
 sarily had some influence on her character 
 Then her mother and I were not young when 
 
 193 
 
WILKINS MICAWBER 
 
 we married, and Pet has always had a sort 
 of grown-up life with us, though we have 
 tried to adapt ourselves to her. We have been 
 advised more than once when she has been a 
 little ailing, to change climate and air for her 
 as often as we* could — especially at about 
 this time of her life — and to keep her amused. 
 So, as I have no need to stick at a bank- 
 desk now (though I have been poor enough 
 in my time I assure you, or I should have 
 married Mrs. Meagles long before), we go 
 trotting about the world. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. it, xvi, xvii, xxviii, 
 
 xxxiii, xxxiv; Book II, ch. vUi, ix, xxxiii, 
 
 xxxiv, 
 
 Mr. Wilkins Micawber, a recklessly im- 
 provident man of variable spirits — fond of 
 conviviality and inveterahly addicted to writ- 
 ing grandiloquent letters — which resembled 
 his manner of speech. Shabby, shifting, and 
 full of devices to earn a living in a way be- 
 coming a gentleman and always waiting for 
 "something to turn up." Copperfield lodged 
 in his house when he iirst went to London. 
 He tries occupations too numerous to men- 
 tion and at length becomes clerk to Uriah 
 Heep in Mr. WickHeld's oiHce. After expos- 
 ing the frauds of the former, he, aided by 
 Miss Betsey Trotwood and her friends, emi- 
 194 
 
WILKINS MICAWBER 
 
 grates to Australia where he becomes Dis- 
 trict Magistrate of Port Middlehay. 
 
 He was a stoutish, middle-aged person, in 
 a brown surtout and black tights and shoes, 
 with no more hair upon his head (which was 
 a large one, and very shining) than there is 
 upon an tgg, and with a very extensive face, 
 which he turned full upon me. His clothes 
 were shabby, but he had an imposing shirt- 
 collar on. He carried a jaunty sort of a 
 stick, with a large pair of rusty tassels to 
 it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his 
 coat, — for ornament, I afterwards found, as 
 he very seldom looked through it, and couldn't 
 see anything when he did. . . . 
 
 " I have received," said the stranger, " a 
 letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he men- 
 tions that he would desire me to receive into 
 an apartment in the rear of my house, which 
 is at present unoccupied — and is, in 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 beginner whom 
 
 I have now the pleasure to " and the 
 
 stranger waved his hand, and settled his chin 
 in his shirt-collar. 
 
 " This is Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion 
 to me. 
 
 " Ahem ! " said the stranger, " that is my 
 name." 
 
 195 
 
WILKINS MICAWBER 
 
 " Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion, " is 
 known to Mr. Murdstone. He takes orders 
 for us on commission, when he can get any. 
 He has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, 
 on the subject of your lodgings, and he will 
 receive you as a lodger." . . . 
 
 Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. 
 I never saw him such good company. He 
 made his face shine with the punch, so that 
 it looked as if it had been varnished all 
 over. He got cheerfully sentimental about the 
 town, and proposed success to it; observing 
 that Mrs. Micawber and himself had been 
 made extremely snug and comfortable there, 
 and that he never should forget the agreeable 
 hours they had passed in Canterbury. He 
 proposed me afterwards; and he, and Mrs. 
 Micawber, and I, took a review of our past 
 acquaintance, in the course of which, we sold 
 the property all over again. Then I proposed 
 Mrs. Micawber; or, at least, said, modestly, 
 " if you'll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall 
 now have the pleasure of drinking your 
 health, ma'am." On which Mr, Micawber 
 delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber's 
 character, and said she had ever been his 
 guide, philosopher, and friend, and that he 
 would recommend me, when I came to a 
 marrying-time of life, to marry such another 
 woman, if such another woman could be 
 found. 
 
 196 
 
WILKINS MICAWBER 
 
 As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber 
 became still more friendly and convivial. 
 Mrs. Micawber's spirits becoming elevated, 
 too, we sang " Auld Lang Syne." When we 
 came to " Here's a hand, my trusty frere," 
 we all joined hands round the table; and 
 when we declared we would " take a right 
 gude willie-waught," and hadn't the least idea 
 what it meant, we were really affected. 
 
 In a word, I never saw anybody so thor- 
 oughly jovial as Mr. Micawber was, down 
 to the very last moment of the evening, when 
 I took a hearty farewell of himself and his 
 amiable wife. Consequently, I was not pre- 
 pared, at seven o'clock next morning, to re- 
 ceive the following communication, dated half- 
 past nine in the evening; a quarter of an 
 hour after I had left him. 
 
 " My dear Young Friend, 
 
 " The die is cast — all is over. Hiding the 
 ravages of care with a sickly mask of mirth, 
 I have not informed you, this evening, that 
 there is no hope of the remittance! Under 
 these circumstances, alike humiliating to en- 
 dure, humiliating to contemplate, and humili- 
 ating to relate, I have discharged the pecun- 
 iary liability contracted at this establishment, 
 by giving a note of hand, made payable four- 
 teen days after date, at my residence, Penton- 
 197 
 
WILKINS MICAWBER 
 
 ville, Loridon. When it becomes due, it will 
 not be taken up. The result is destruction. 
 The bolt is 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, penetrate into the cheerless dun- 
 geon of his remaining existence — though his 
 longevity is, at present (to say the least of 
 it), extremely problematical. 
 
 " This is the last communication, my dear 
 Copperfield, you will ever receive 
 " From 
 "The 
 " Beggared Outcast, 
 
 " WiLKINS MiCAWBER." 
 
 I was so shocked by the contents of this 
 heartrending letter, that I ran off directly 
 towards the little hotel with the intention of 
 taking it on my way to Doctor Strong's, and 
 trying to soothe Mr. Micawber with a word 
 of comfort. But, half-way there, I met the 
 London coach with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber 
 up behind; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of 
 tranquil enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micaw- 
 ber's conversation, eating walnuts out of a 
 198 
 
MISS MIGGS 
 
 paper bag, with a bottle sticking out of his 
 
 breast-pocket. 
 
 David Copperiield, ch. xi, xU, xvii, xxii, 
 
 xxviiij xxxvij xxxix, xliii, xlix. Hi, liv, Ivii, 
 
 Ixiii. 
 
 Miss Miggs, the domestic servant of Mrs. 
 Varden, "her chief aider and abettor, 
 and at the same time the principal object of 
 her wrath" She loved, unrequited, the 
 'prentice Sim, Tappertit and follows and 
 watches over him during the Gordon riots. 
 On returning to Mrs. Varden she is ordered 
 out of the* house and finally becomes female 
 turnkey for the County Bridewell, " which she 
 held till her decease more than thirty years 
 afterwards, remaining single all the time." 
 
 Miggs was a tall young lady, very much 
 addicted to pattens in private life ; slender and 
 shrewish, of a rather uncomfortable figure, 
 and though not absolutely ill-looking, of a 
 sharp and acid visage. As a general prin- 
 ciple and abstract proposition, Miggs held 
 the male sex to be utterly contemptible and 
 unworthy of notice; to be fickle, false, base, 
 sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly un- 
 deserving. When particularly exasperated 
 against them (which, scandal said, was when 
 Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was 
 accustomed to wish with great emphasis that 
 199 
 
MOLLY 
 
 the whole race of women could but die off, 
 in order that the men might be brought to 
 know the real value of the blessings by which 
 they set so little store; nay, her feeling for 
 her order ran so high, that she sometimes 
 declared, if she could only have good security 
 for a fair, round number — say ten thousand 
 — of young virgins following her example, 
 she would, to spite mankind, hang, drown, 
 stab, or poison herself, with a joy past all 
 expression. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. vii, ix, xiii, xviii, xix, 
 
 xxii, xxvii, xxxi, xxxvi, xxxix, xli, U, 
 
 Ixiii, Ixx, Ixxi, Ixxx, Ixxxii. 
 
 Molly, the housekeeper for Mr. Jaggers, 
 a former mistress of Abel Magwitch — the 
 mother of Estella adopted by Miss Havi- 
 sham. She had been accused of the mur- 
 der of a rival and was acquitted owing to 
 the ingenuity of Mr. Jaggers, who was re- 
 tained for her defence. 
 
 She was rather tall, of a lithe nimble 
 figure, extremely pale, with large faded eyes, 
 and a quantity of streaming hair. I cannot 
 say whether any diseased affection of the 
 heart caused her lips to be parted as if she 
 were panting, and her face to bear a curious 
 expression of suddenness and flutter; but I 
 know that I had been to see Macbeth at the 
 
MOLLY 
 
 theatre, a night or two before, and that her 
 face looked to me as if it were all disturbed 
 by fiery air, like the faces I had seen rise out 
 of the Witches' caldron. . . . Years af- 
 terwards, I made a dreadful likeness of that 
 woman, by causing a face that had no other 
 natural resemblance to it than it derived from 
 flowing hair, to pass behind a bowl of flam- 
 ing spirits in a dark room. . . . 
 
 I observed that whenever she was in the 
 room, she kept her eyes attentively on my 
 guardian, and that she would remove her 
 hands from any dish she put before him, 
 hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her 
 back, and wanted him to speak when she was 
 nigh, if he had anything to say. I fancied 
 that I could detect in his manner a con- 
 sciousness of this, and a purpose of always 
 holding her in suspense. 
 
 During the dinner Mr. Jaggers took his 
 hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on 
 the table. She brought her other hand from 
 behind her, and held the two out side by 
 side. The last wrist was much disfigured — 
 deeply scarred and scarred across and across. 
 When she held her hands out, she took her 
 eyes from M'r. Jaggers, and turned them 
 watchfully on every one of the rest of us in 
 succession. 
 
 " There's power here," said Mr. Jaggers, 
 
 20I 
 
MISS MOWCHER 
 
 coolly tracing out the sinews with his fore- 
 finger. " Very few men have the power of 
 wrist that this woman has. It's remarkable 
 what mere force of grip there is in these 
 hands. I have had occasion to notice many 
 hands; but I never saw stronger in that re- 
 spect, man's or woman's, than these." . . . 
 Great Expectations, ch. xxiv, xkvi. 
 
 Miss Mowcher, an exceedingly " volatile " 
 person, who deals in cosmetics, and mani- 
 cures and pedicures a variety of people in 
 all stations of life. She is a great talker, and 
 carries about a great deal of gossip, hut she 
 is kind-hearted, honest, and true. She aided 
 in the capture of Mr. Littimer when in dis- 
 guise he was about to leave the country with 
 the proceeds of his thefts. 
 
 There came waddling round a sofa which 
 stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of 
 about forty or forty-five, with a very large 
 head and face, a pair of roguish grey eyes, 
 and such extremely little arms, that, to enable 
 herself to lay a finger archly against her 
 snub nose as she ogled Steerforth, she was 
 obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay 
 her nose against it. Her chin, which was 
 what is called a double chin, was so fat that 
 it entirely swallowed up the strings of her 
 bonnet, bow and all. Throat she had none; 
 202 
 
MISS MOWCHER 
 
 waist she had none; legs she had none, worth 
 mentioning; for though she was more than 
 full-sized down to where her wa.st would 
 have been, if she had had any, and though 
 she terminated, as human bemgs g^^<^l^^Y^ 
 in a pair of feet, she as so short that she stood 
 at a common-sized chair as at a taWe, restmg 
 a bag she carried on the seat This lady 
 dressfd in an off-hand, easy style; brmg ng 
 her nose and her forefinger together, with the 
 difficulty I have described; standmg with her 
 head necessarily on one side, arjd, with one 
 of her sharp eyes shut up making an un- 
 commonly knowing face; after oghng Steer- 
 forth for a few moments, broke into a tor- 
 rent of words. ... . ■ t„ 
 I never beheld anything approaching to 
 Miss Mowcher's wink, except Miss Mow- 
 Sier's self-possession. She had a wonderful 
 way too, when listening to what was said to 
 her or when waiting for an answer to what 
 she had said herself, of pausing with her 
 head cunningly on one ^'df./""). °"". ^^^ 
 turned up like a magpie's. Altogether I was 
 lost in amazement, and sat staring at her 
 quite oblivious, I am afraid, of the laws of 
 politeness. . . • . 
 
 Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive con- 
 nexion, and made herself useful to a variety 
 of people in a variety of ways. Some people 
 
MR. EDWARD MURDSTONE 
 
 trifled with her as a mere oddity, he said; 
 but she was as shrewdly and sharply observ- 
 ant as anyone he knew, and as long-headed as 
 she was short-armed. He told me that what 
 she had said of being here, and there, and 
 everywhere, was true enough; for she made 
 little darts into the provinces, and seemed to 
 pick up customers everywhere, and to know 
 everybody. I asked him what her disposition 
 was: whether it was at all mischievous, and 
 if her sympathies were generally on the right 
 side of things : but, not succeeding in attract- 
 ing his attention to these questions after two 
 or three attempts, I forebore or forgot to 
 repeat them. He told me instead, with much 
 rapidity, a good deal about her skill, and her 
 profits; and about her being a scientific cup- 
 per, if I should ever have occasion for her 
 service in that capacity. 
 David Copperiield, ch. xxii, xxxii, Ixi. 
 
 Mr. Edward Murdstone married David 
 Copper-field's mother, subdued her gentle 
 spirit and broke her heart. After her death he 
 married a bright young woman, and by his 
 dour treatment practically sent her out of her 
 mind. 
 
 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 into — which, 
 204 
 
MR. EDWARD MURDSTONE 
 
 when it is abstracted, seems, from some pe- 
 culiarity of light, to be disfigured for a 
 moment, at a time, by a cast. Several times 
 when I glanced at him, I observed that ap- 
 pearance with a sort of awe, and wondered 
 what he as thinking about so closely. His 
 hair and whiskers were blacker and thicker, 
 looked at so near, than even I had given 
 them credit for being. A squareness about 
 the lower part of his face, and dotted indi- 
 cation of the strong black beard he shaved 
 close every day, reminded me of the wax- 
 work that had travelled into our neighbor- 
 hood some half-a-year before. This, his 
 regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and 
 black, and brown, of his complexion — con- 
 found his complexion, and his memory ! — 
 made me think him, in spite of my misgivings, 
 a very handsome man. . . . 
 
 The gloomy taint that was in the Murd- 
 stone blood, darkened the Murdstone religion, 
 which was austere and wrathful. I have 
 thought, since, that its assuming that char- 
 acter was a necessary consequence of Mr. 
 Murdstone's firmness, which wouldn't allow 
 him to let anybody off from the utmost weight 
 of the severest penalties he could find any 
 excuse for. 
 David Copperiield, ch. ii-iv, viii-x, xiv, xxxiii, 
 
 lix. 
 
 20S 
 
MISS JANE MURDSTONE 
 
 Miss Jane Murdstone, Edward Murd- 
 stone's sister, harder and more severe in her 
 treatment of young Copperiield, — "firm, they 
 called it," — than her brother. Subsequently 
 she became an inmate of Mr. Spenlow's house 
 as a sort of duenna to Dora Spenlow. 
 
 A gloomy-looking lady; dark, like her 
 brother, whom she greatly resembled in face 
 and voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, 
 nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, 
 being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from 
 wearing whiskers, she had carried them to 
 that account. She brought with her two un- 
 compromising hard black boxes, with her in- 
 itials on the lids in hard brass nails. When 
 she paid the coachman she took her money 
 out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the 
 purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon 
 her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like 
 a bite. I had never, at that time, seen such 
 a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone 
 was. . . . 
 
 Almost the first remarkable thing I ob- 
 served in Miss Murdstone was, her being 
 constantly haunted by a suspicion that the 
 servants had a man secreted somewhere on 
 the premises. Under the influence of this 
 delusion, she dived into the coal-cellar at the 
 most untimely hours and scarcely ever opened 
 the door of a dark cupboard without clapping 
 206 
 
MISS JANE MURDSTONE 
 
 it to again in the belief that she had got 
 him. . . . 
 
 Firmness was the grand quality on which 
 both Mr. and Miss Murdstone took their stand. 
 However I might have expressed my com- 
 prehension of it at that time, if I had been 
 called upon, I nevertheless did clearly com- 
 prehend in my own way, that it was another 
 name for tyranny; and for a certain gloomy, 
 arrogant, devil's humour, that was in them 
 both. The creed, as I should state it now, 
 was this. Mr. Murdstone was firm; nobody 
 in his world was to be so firm as Mr. Murd- 
 stone; nobody else in his world was to be 
 firm at all, for everybody was to be bent to 
 his firmness. Miss Murdstone was an excep- 
 tion. She might be firm, but only by relation- 
 ship, and in an inferior and tributary de- 
 gree. My mother was another exception. 
 She might be firm, and must be; but only in 
 bearing their firmness, and firmly believing 
 there was no other firmness upon earth, . . . 
 
 I do not doubt that she had a choice pleas- 
 ure in exhibiting what she called for self- 
 command, and her firmness, and her strength 
 of mind, and her common sense, and the whole 
 diabolical catalogue of her unamiable quali- 
 ties. She was particularly proud of her turn 
 for business; and she showed it now in re- 
 ducing everything to pen and ink, and being 
 207 
 
MR. NADGETT 
 
 moved by nothing. All the rest of that day, 
 and from morning to night afterwards, she 
 sat at that desk; scratching composedly with 
 a hard pen, speaking in the same imperturb- 
 able whisper to everybody; never relaxing a 
 muscle of her face, or softening a tone of 
 her voice, or appearing with an atom of her 
 dress astray. 
 
 David CopperHeld, ch. iv, viii-x, xii, xiv, 
 xxvi, XXX, xxxviij Ux. 
 
 Mr. Nadgett, a private detective in the 
 employ of The Anglo-Bengalee Insurance 
 Co. He tracked the murderer of Montague 
 Tegg by whom he was retained to shadow 
 Jonas Chuzzlewit, among other duties. 
 
 It was no virtue or merit in Nadgett that 
 he transacted all his business secretly and in 
 the closest confidence; for he was born to be 
 a secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered, 
 old man, who seemed to have secreted his very 
 blood; for nobody would have given him 
 credit for the possession of six ounces of it 
 in his whole body. How he lived was a se- 
 cret; where he lived was a secret; and even 
 what he was, was a secret. In his musty old 
 pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in 
 some of which he called himself a coal-mer- 
 chant, in others a wine-merchant, in others 
 a commission-agent, in others a collector, in 
 208 
 
MR. NADGETT 
 
 others an accountant: as if he really didn't 
 know the secret himself. He was always 
 keeping appointments in the City, and the 
 other man never seemed to come. He would 
 sit on 'Change for hours, looking at everybody 
 who walked- in and out, and would do the 
 like at Garraway's, and in other business cof- 
 fee-rooms, in some of which he would be oc- 
 casionally seen drying a very damp pocket- 
 handkerchief before the fire, and still look- 
 ing over his shoulder for the man who never 
 appeared. He was mildewed, threadbare, 
 shabby; always had flue upon his legs and 
 back; and kept his linen so secret by button- 
 ing up and wrapping over, that he might have 
 had none — perhaps he hadn't. He carried 
 one stained beaver glove, which he dangled 
 before him by the forefinger as he walked or 
 sat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some 
 people said he had been a bankrupt, others 
 that he had gone an infant into an ancient 
 Chancery suit which was still depending, but 
 it was all a secret. He carried bits of seal- 
 ing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal 
 in his pocket, and often secretly indited let- 
 ters in corner boxes of the trysting-places 
 before mentioned; but they never appeared to 
 go to anybody, for he would put them into a 
 secret place in his coat, and deliver them to 
 himself weeks afterwards, very much to his 
 209 
 
RALPH NICKLEBY 
 
 own surprise, quite yellow. He was that sort 
 of man that if he had died worth a million 
 of money, or had died worth twopence half- 
 penny, everybody would have been perfectly 
 satisfied, and would have said it was just as 
 they expected. 
 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xxvii, xxviii, xxxviii, 
 xl, xli, xlvii, li. 
 
 Ralph Nickleby, uncle to young Nicholas, 
 a heartless usurer and miser. He ignores his 
 family but when appealed to, after the death 
 of his brother by his widow he set their chil- 
 dren to work for their bread in the most 
 menial way. He exposed his niece Kate, to 
 the wiles and debauchery of his friends for 
 his own gain, and tries in every way to hum- 
 ble and ruin his nephew. But his cheating 
 and illegal operations are found out in the end 
 and at last he hangs himself in a Ht of frenzy, 
 hatred and despair. The unfortunate Smike 
 turns out to he his son. 
 
 On the death of his father, Ralph Nickleby, 
 who had been some time before placed in a 
 mercantile house in London, applied himself 
 passionately to his old pursuit of money-get- 
 ting, in which he speedily became buried and 
 absorbed. . . . 
 
 He was not, strictly speaking, what you 
 would call a merchant: neither was he a 
 
 2IO 
 
RALPH NICKLEBY 
 
 banker, nor an attorney, nor a special pleader, 
 nor a notary. He was certainly not a trades- 
 man, and still less could he lay any claim to 
 the title of a professional gentleman; for it 
 would have been impossible to mention any 
 recognised profession to which he belonged. . 
 
 He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue 
 coat; a white waistcoat, grey mixture panta- 
 loons, and Wellington boots drawn over them ; 
 the corner of a small-plaited shirt frill strug- 
 gled out, as if insisting to show itself, from 
 between his chin and the top button of his 
 spencer, and the garment was not made low 
 enough to conceal a long gold watch-chain, 
 composed of a series of plain rings, which 
 had its beginning at the handle of a gold re- 
 peater in Mr. Nickleby's pocket, and its ter- 
 mination in two little keys, one belonging to 
 the watch itself, and the other to some patent 
 padlock. He wore a sprinkling of powder 
 upon his head, as if to make himself look 
 benevolent; but if that were his purpose, he 
 would perhaps have done better to powder his 
 countenance also, for there was something in 
 its very wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye, 
 which seemed to tell of cunning that would 
 announce itself in spite of him. . . . 
 
 Stern, unyielding, dogged, and impenetrable, 
 Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it, 
 save the gratification of two passions, avarice, 
 
 211 
 
NEWMAN NOGGS 
 
 the first and predominant appetite of his na- 
 ture, and hatred, the second. Affecting to 
 consider himself but a type of all humanity, 
 he was at little pains to conceal his true 
 character from the world in general, and in 
 his own heart he exulted over and cherished 
 every bad design as it had birth. The only 
 scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby 
 heeded, in the letter, was "know thyself." 
 He knew himself well, and choosing to imagine 
 that all mankind were cast in the same mould, 
 hated them; for, though no man hates him- 
 self, the coldest among us having too much 
 self-love for that, yet most men unconsciously 
 judge the world from themselves, and it will 
 be very generally found that those who sneer 
 habitually at human nature, and affect to de- 
 spise it, are among its worst and least pleas- 
 ant samples. 
 Nicholas Nickleby, ch. i-iv, x, xix, xx, xxviii, 
 
 xxxi, xxxiii, xxxv, xliv, xlv, xlvii, li, liv, 
 
 Ivi, lix, Ix, Ixii. 
 
 Newman Noggs, the clerk and drudge of 
 Ralph Nickleby, who after having ruined him 
 takes him into his employ. There no one can 
 witness his degradation, and there he begins 
 his work of finding out Nickleby's secrets. 
 He at last has the satisfaction of unravelling 
 his plots, and of telling him of his misdeeds 
 
NEWMAN NOGGS 
 
 - face to face, man to man and like a man- 
 He Js i g^eat friend to Nicholas and h^s 
 
 famih' . , , 
 
 He was a tall man of middle-age with two 
 goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a rubi- 
 cund nose, a cadaverous faee, and a rusty 
 brown suit of elothes (if the term be aUow^ . 
 able when they suited him not at all) much 
 the worse for wear, very much too smal , and 
 placed upon such a short allowance of but- 
 tons that it was quite marvellous how he con- 
 trived to keep them on. . . • 
 
 He rarely spoke to anybody unless some- 
 body spoke to him. ... and rubbed his hands 
 slowly over each other, cracking the joints 
 of his fingers, and squeezing them into all 
 possible distortions. The incessant perform- 
 ance of this routine on every occasion, and 
 the communication of a fixed and pgid look 
 to his unaffected eye, so as to make it um- 
 form with the other, and to render it im- 
 possible for anybody to determine where or 
 at what he was looking, were two among he 
 numerous peculiarities of Mr. Noggs, which 
 struck an inexperienced observer at hrst 
 
 "He s'at'u^on an uncommonly hard stc,ol 
 (to which he had communicated a high polish 
 by countless gettings off and on) in a species 
 of butlers' pantry at the end of the passage 
 
NEWMAN NOGGS 
 
 and always had a pen behind his ear when 
 
 he answered the door. 
 
 Ralph Nickleby gives this account of him: 
 
 " Newman Noggs kept his horses and 
 hounds once, and not many years ago either; 
 but he squandered his money, invested it any- 
 how, borrowed at interest, and in short made 
 first a thorough fool of himself, and then a 
 beggar. He took to drinking, and had a 
 touch of paralysis, and then came here to 
 borrow a pound, as in his better days I 
 had done business with him. 
 
 But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open 
 the door and so forth, I took him out of 
 charity, and he has remained with me ever 
 since. He is a little mad, I think, but he 
 is useful enough, poor creature — useful 
 enough." 
 
 The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add 
 that Newman Noggs, being utterly destitute, 
 served him for rather less than the usual 
 wages of a boy of thirteen ; and likewise failed 
 to mention in his hasty chronicle, that his 
 eccentric taciturnity rendered him an es- 
 pecially valuable person in a place where 
 much business was done, of which it was 
 desirable no mention should be made out of 
 doors. 
 Nicholas Nickleby, ch. ii-vi, xi, xiv-xvi, xxii, 
 
 xxviii, xxxi, xxxiii, xxxiv, xl, xliv, xlvii, 
 
 U, Hi, Ivii, lix, Ixiii, Ixv. 
 214 
 
CHRISTOPHER NUBBLES 
 
 Christopher Nubbles {called Kit), errand 
 boy to little Nell's grandfather, much at- 
 tached to little Nell. The old man sends him 
 away because he thinks he has told of his 
 gambling habits. He then secures employ- 
 ment in the family of a Mr. Garland. 
 Falsely accused of larceny by Sampson and 
 Sally Brass, instigated by Quilp, he is ar- 
 rested. His innocence is proved and he is set 
 at liberty. He afterwards marries Barbara, 
 the housemaid at Mr. Garland's. 
 
 A shock-headed shambling awkward lad 
 with an uncommonly wide mouth, very red 
 cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the 
 most comical expression of face I ever saw. 
 He stopped short at the door on seeing a 
 stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round 
 old hat without any vestige of a brim, and 
 resting himself now on one leg and now on 
 the other and changing them constantly, stood 
 in the doorway, looking into the parlour with 
 the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld. . . 
 
 He had a remarkable manner of standing 
 sideways as he spoke, and thrusting his head 
 forward over his shoulder, as if he could not 
 get at his voice without that accompanying 
 action. . . . 
 
 It must be specially observed in justice to 
 poor Kit that he was by no means of a senti- 
 mental turn, and perhaps had never heard that 
 215 
 
MR. SETH PECKSNIFF 
 
 adjective in all his life. He was only a soft- 
 hearted grateful fellow, and had nothing gen- 
 teel or polite about him; consequently in- 
 stead of going home again in his grief to 
 kick the children and abuse his mother (for 
 when your finely strung people are out of 
 sorts they must have everybody else unhappy 
 likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vul- 
 gar expedient of making them more comfort- 
 able if he could. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. i, Hi, vi, ix, xi, 
 
 xiii, xiv, XX, xxii, xxxviii-xli, xlviii, Ivi- 
 
 Ixi, Ixiii, Ixiv, IxvUi-lxxii. 
 
 Mr. Seth Pecksniff, a cousin of old 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ostensibly an architect and 
 land-surveyor. A thorough paced hypocrite 
 liar, and secret drunkard. He takes young 
 Martin Chuzzlewit into his house as a student, 
 hut turns him away in contumely on a word 
 from the elder Martin who had gone to live 
 with him in order to test the man. John 
 Westlock was another of his apprentices, 
 Tom Pinch another, and to their work in his 
 office he affixed his name and received both 
 the pay and the honor, though he knew little 
 or nothing of the profession. Just when he 
 thought himself in full favor with old Martin 
 Chuzzlewit his duplicity is fathomed to the 
 very bottom, and his character completely re- 
 216 
 
MR. SETH PECKSNIFF 
 
 vealed. In shame, in drunkenness and misery 
 he ended his days, remaining to the last the 
 same canting hypocrite. 
 
 Mr. Pecksniff was a moral man; a grave 
 man, a man of noble sentiments, and speech: 
 and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy ! 
 oh, what a charming name for such a pure- 
 souled being as the youngest Miss Pecksniff ! 
 Her sister's name was Charity. There was a 
 good thing ! Mercy and Charity ! And Charity, 
 with her fine strong sense, and her mild, yet 
 not reproachful gravity,' was so well named, 
 and did so well set off and illustrate her sis- 
 ter ! What a pleasant sight was that, the 
 contrast the> presented: to see each loved 
 and loving one sympathising with, and de- 
 voted to, and leaning on, and yet correcting 
 and counter-checking, and, as it were, anti- 
 doting, the other ! To behold each damsel, 
 in her very admiration of her sister, setting 
 up in business for herself on an entirely dif- 
 ferent principle, and announcing no connex- 
 ion with over-the-way, and if the quality of 
 goods at that establishment don't please you, 
 you are respectfully invited to favour me 
 with a call ! And the crowning circumstance 
 of the whole delightful catalogue was, that 
 both the fair creatures were so utterly un- 
 conscious of all this ! They had no idea of 
 it. They no more thought or dreamed of it, 
 217 
 
MR. SETH PECKSNIFF 
 
 than Mr. Pecksniff did. Nature played them 
 off against each other: they had no hand in 
 it, the two Miss Pecksniffs. 
 
 It has been remarked that Mr. Pecksniff 
 was a moral man. So he was. Perhaps there 
 never was a more moral man than Mr. Peck- 
 sniff: especially in his conversation and cor- 
 respondence. It as once said of him by a 
 homely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus's 
 purse of good sentiments in his inside. In 
 this particular he was like the girl in the 
 fairy tale, except that if they were not actual 
 diamonds which fell from his lips, they were 
 the very brightest paste, and shone prodi- 
 giously. He was a most exemplary man : fuller 
 of virtuous precept than a copy-book. Some 
 people likened him to a direction-post, which 
 is always telling the way to a place, and never 
 goes there: but these were his enemies; the 
 shadows cast by his brightness; that was all. 
 His very throat was moral. You saw a good 
 deal of it. You looked over a very low fence 
 of white cravat (whereof no man had ever be- 
 held the tie, for he fastened it behind), and 
 there it lay, a valley between two jutting 
 heights of collar, serene and whiskerless be- 
 fore you. It seemed to say, on the part of 
 Mr. Pecksniff, " There is no deception, ladies 
 and gentlemen, all is peace: a holy calm per- 
 vades me." So did his hair, just grizzled with 
 218 
 
MR. SETH PECKSNIFF 
 
 an iron-gray, which was all brushed off his 
 forehead, and stood bolt upright, or slightly- 
 drooped in kindred action with his heavy 
 eyelids. So did his person, which was sleek 
 though free from, corpulency. So did his 
 manner, which was soft and oily. In a 
 word, even his plain black suit, and state 
 of widower, and dangling double eyeglass, all 
 tended to the same purpose, and cried aloud, 
 " Behold the moral Pecksniff ! " 
 
 The brazen plate upon the door (which 
 being Mr. Pecksniff's, could not lie) bore this 
 inscription, " Pecksniff, Architect," to 
 which Mr. Pecksniff, on his cards of busi- 
 ness, added, " and Land Surveyor." In one 
 sense, and only one, he may be said to have 
 been a Land Surveyor on a pretty large 
 scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched 
 out before the windows of his house. Of his 
 architectural doings, . nothing was clearly 
 known, except that he had never designed or 
 built anything ; but it was generally understood 
 that his knowledge of the science was almost 
 awful in its profundity. 
 
 Mr. Pecksniff's professional engagements, 
 indeed, were almost, if not entirely, confined 
 to the reception of pupils; for the collection 
 of rents, with which pursuit he occasionally 
 varied and relieved his graver toils, can hardly 
 be said to be a strictly architectural employ- 
 219 
 
HAM PEGGOTTY 
 
 ment. His genius lay in ensnaring parents 
 and guardians, and pocketing premiums. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. ii-vi, vUi-xii, xviii-xx, 
 
 xxiv, XXX, xxxi, xxxv, xliii, xliv, xlvii, liii, 
 
 liv. 
 
 Ham Peggotty, Little Emily's cousin 
 and engaged to her, when Steerforth eloped 
 with her. ' Years after in attempting to rescue 
 some passengers from a wreck — among 
 whom was Steerforth, he and Steerforth both 
 were drowned and washed ashore together on 
 the very scene of the hopes of the one and the 
 devilish machinations of the other. 
 
 He was a huge, strong fellow of six feet 
 high, broad in proportion, and round-shoul- 
 dered; but with a simpering boy's face and 
 curly light hair that gave him quite a sheep- 
 ish look. He was dressed in a canvas jacket, 
 and a pair of such very stiff trousers that 
 they would have stood quite as well alone, 
 without any legs in them. And you couldn't 
 so properly have said he wore a hat, as that 
 he was covered in atop, like an old building, 
 with something pitchy. 
 
 David CopperReld, ch. ii, Hi, vii, x, xxi, xxii, 
 xxx-xxxiii, xl, xlv, li, Iv. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Te^l, an attorney in the In- 
 solvent Court, to iuhpm the Welters went to 
 
 '^20 
 
SAMUEL PICKWICK 
 
 carry out their plan of getting Sam Weller 
 sent to the debtors' prison in order to con- 
 tinue his services to Mr, Pickwick. He sub- 
 sequently assists in giving legal effect to the 
 testamentary dispositions of Mrs. Weller, the 
 elder. 
 
 Mr. Solomon Pell was a fat flabby pale 
 man, in a surtout which looked green one 
 minute, and brown the next, with a velvet 
 collar of the same chameleon tints. His fore- 
 head was narrow, his face wide, his head 
 large, and his nose all on one side, as if Na- 
 ture, indignant with the propensities she ob- 
 served in him in his birth, had given it an 
 angry tweak which it had never recovered. 
 Being short-necked and asthmatic, however, 
 he respired principally through this feature; 
 so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament it 
 made up in usefulness. 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xliii, Iv. 
 
 Samuel Pickwick, the founder of the 
 Pickwick Club, and the leading character in 
 The Pickwick Papers, After many vicissi- 
 tudes, including his prosecution for breach of 
 promise of marriage by Mrs. Bardell and his 
 imprisonment for refusing to pay the dam- 
 ages, Mr. Pickwick withdraws from the Club, 
 zuhich is consequently dissolved, and settles 
 down at Dulwich,— after seeing all his 
 
 221 
 
SAMUEL PICKWICK 
 
 friends happily married, — with his devoted 
 servant, Sam Weller, whose wife becomes 
 Mr. Pickwick's Housekeeper. 
 
 A casual observer might possibly have re- 
 marked nothing extraordinary in the bald 
 head, and circular spectacles, which were in- 
 tently turned towards his (the secretary's) 
 face, during the reading of the above resolu- 
 tions. To those who knew that the gigantic 
 brain of Pickwick was working beneath that 
 forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pick- 
 wick were twinkling behind those glasses, the 
 sight was indeed an interesting one. There 
 sat the man who had traced to their source 
 the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated 
 the scientific world with his Theory of Tittle- 
 bats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters 
 of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary 
 specimen of the other in the inmost recesses 
 of an earthen jar. And how much more in- 
 teresting did the spectacle become, when, 
 starting into full life and animation, as a 
 simultaneous call for " Pickwick " burst from 
 his followers, that illustrious man slowly 
 mounted into the Windsor chair, on which he 
 had been previously seated, and addressed the 
 club himself had founded. What a study for 
 an artist did that exciting scene present! 
 The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand grace- 
 fully concealed behind his coat tails, and the 
 
 222 
 
RUTH PINCH 
 
 other waving in air to assist his glowing 
 declamation: his elevated position revealing 
 those tights and gaiters, which had they 
 clothed an ordinary man, might have passed 
 without observation, but which, when Pick- 
 wick clothed them — if we may use the ex- 
 pression — inspired involuntary awe and re- 
 spect; surrounded by the men who had 
 volunteered to share the perils of his travels, 
 and who were destined to participate in the 
 glories of his discoveries. 
 
 The Pickwick Papers, ch. i-xxviii, xxx-xxxii, 
 xxxiv-xxxvii, xxxix-xlviii, l-lvi. 
 
 Ruth Pinch, Tom Pinch's sister, governess 
 in a wealthy and vulgar brass and copper 
 founder's family in Clerkenwell, where she 
 suffered ignominious treatment. When her 
 brother goes to London he takes her away 
 and they set up housekeeping together. She 
 afterwards becomes the izvdfe of Tom's old 
 friend John Westlock. 
 
 She had a good face; a very mild and pre- 
 possessing face; and a pretty little figure — 
 slight and short, but remarkable for its neat- 
 ness. There was something of her brother, 
 much of him indeed, in a certain gentleness 
 of manner, and in her look of timid trustful- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 Pleasant Httle Ruth! Cheerful, tidy, bust- 
 223 
 
RUTH PINCH 
 
 ling, quiet little Ruth ! No doll's house 
 ever yielded greater delight to its young mis- 
 tress, than little Ruth derived from her glo- 
 rious dominion over the triangular parlour and 
 the two small bed-rooms. 
 
 To be Tom's housekeeper. What dignity! 
 Housekeeping, upon the commonest terms, as- 
 sociated itself with elevated responsibilities of 
 all sorts and kinds; but housekeeping for 
 Tom, implied the utmost complication of 
 grave trusts and mighty charges. Well might 
 she take the keys out of the little chiffonier 
 which held the tea and sugar; and out of the 
 two little damp cupboards down by the fire- 
 place, where the very black beetles got 
 mouldy, and had the shine taken out of their 
 backs by envious mildew; and jingle them 
 upon a ring before Tom's eyes when he came 
 down to breakfast ! Well might she, laugh- 
 ing musically, put them up in that blessed 
 little pocket of hers with a merry pride ! For 
 it was such a grand novelty to be mistress 
 of anything, that if she had been the most re- 
 lentless 'and despotic of all little housekeepers, 
 she might have pleaded just that much for 
 her excuse, and have been honourably ac- 
 quitted. 
 
 So far from being despotic, however, there 
 was a coyness about her very way of pour- 
 ing out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. 
 224 
 
TOM PINCH 
 
 And when she asked him what he would hke 
 to have for dinner, and faltered out " chops " 
 as a reasonably good suggestion after their 
 last night's successful supper, Tom grew 
 quite facetious and rallied her desperately. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. ix, xxxvi, xxxvii, 
 xxxix, xl, xlvi, xlviii, I, liii-liv, 
 Tom Pinch, assistant to Pecksniff, in 
 whom he had unbounded faith and trust. But 
 his eyes are open at last to see him as the 
 consummate hypocrite he is. He befriends 
 Mary Graham, whom he secretly loves. 
 Pecksniff, his villainy found out by Tom, dis- 
 charges him. He makes his way to London 
 and finds his friend John Westlock. Old Mar- 
 tin Chuszlewit finds him out and secretly be- 
 friends him, revealing the identity of his 
 benefactor later. Tom rescues his sister from 
 her position as governess, where she is cru- 
 elly and tyrannically treated, and they keep 
 house together — very happily. 
 
 An ungainly, awkward-looking man, ex- 
 tremely short-sighted, and prematurely bald 
 availed himself of this permission; [he] stood 
 hesitating, with the door in his hand He 
 was far from handsome certamly; and was 
 drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth 
 make at the best, which, being shrunken with 
 long wear, was twisted and tortured into all 
 225 
 
MRS. PIPCHIN 
 
 kinds of odd shapes; but notwithstanding his 
 attire, and his clumsy figure, which a great 
 stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous habit 
 he had of thrusting his head forward, by no 
 means redeemed, one would not have been 
 disposed to consider him a bad fellow by any 
 means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he 
 might have been almost any age between six- 
 teen and sixty: being one of those strange 
 creatures who never decline into an ancient 
 appearance, but look their oldest when they 
 are very young, and get it over at once. 
 Martin Chuzzlennt, ch. ii, v-vU, ix, xii, xiv, xx, 
 
 xxiv, XXX, xxxi, xxxvi-xl, xlv, xlvi, xlviii, 
 
 I, Hi, liii-Hv. 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin lived at Brighton, and Paul 
 Dombey with his sister and nurse zvas sent to 
 board in her house. Afterwards she became 
 housekeeper to Mr. Dombey. 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured, 
 ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, 
 with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hook 
 nose, and a hard grey eye, that looked as if 
 it might have been hammered at on an anvil 
 without sustaining any injury. Forty years 
 at least had elapsed since the Peruvian mines 
 had been the death of Mr. Pipchin; but his 
 relict still wore black bombazeen, of such a 
 lustreless, deep, dead, sombre shade, that gas 
 226 
 
MRS. PIPCHIN 
 
 itself couldn't light her up after dark, and hei? 
 presence was a quencher to any number of 
 candles. She was generally spoken of as " a 
 great manager " of children ; and the secret 
 of her management was, to give them every- 
 thing that they didn't like, and nothing that 
 they did — which was found to sweeten their 
 dispositions very much. She was such a h^i- 
 ter old lady, that one was tempted to believe 
 there had been some mistake in the applica- 
 tion of the Peruvian machinery, and that all 
 her waters of gladness and milk of human 
 kindness had been pumped out dry, instead of 
 the mines. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have something 
 of the same odd kind of attraction towards 
 Paul, as Paul had towards her. She would 
 make him move his chair to her side of the 
 fire, instead of sitting opposite; and there he 
 would remain in a nook between Mrs. Pip- 
 chin and the fender, with all the light of his 
 little face absorbed into the black bombazeen 
 drapery, studying every line and wrinkle of 
 her countenance, and peering at the hard grey 
 eye, until Mrs. Pipchin was sometimes fain to 
 shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs. Pipchin 
 had an old black cat, who generally lay coiled 
 upon the centre foot of the fender, purring 
 egotistically, and winking at the fire until the 
 contracted pupils of his eyes were like two 
 227 
 
PHILIP PIRRIP 
 
 notes of admiration. The good old lady 
 might have been — not to record it disrespect- 
 fully — a witch, and Paul and the cat her two 
 familiars, as they all sat by the fire together. 
 It would have been quite in keeping with the 
 appearance of the party if they had all sprung 
 up the chimney in a high wind one night, and 
 never been heard of any more. 
 Dombey and Son, ch. viii, xi, xii, xlv, xvi, 
 xlii-xliv, xlvii, li, lix. 
 
 Philip Pirrip {called Pip) was "brought 
 up by hand'' by his sister Mrs. Joe Gargery, 
 who does not treat him over kindly. He is 
 apprenticed to his brother-in-law Joe the 
 blacksmith — and they become " ever the best 
 of friends." Before he is out of his time 
 Mr. Jaggers comes to tell him of his good 
 fortune and his ''great expectations." He 
 goes to London and looks down upon his hum- 
 ble friends of his early days. When Pip's 
 fortune vanishes into thin air he has a long 
 illness and his old friend Joe comes to nurse 
 him. He recovers, compounds with his cred- 
 itors, becomes a clerk, and later a partner, in 
 a merchant's establishment and at last mar- 
 ries Estella {the protegee of Hiss Havisham), 
 who is now a widow. (See Magwitch.) 
 
 My father's family name being Pirrip, and 
 my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue 
 228 
 
PHILIP PIRRIP 
 
 could make of both names nothing longer or 
 more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself 
 Pip, and came to be called Pip. 
 
 I give Pirrip as my father's family name, 
 on the authority of his tombstone and my sis- 
 ter — Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the 
 blacksmith. As I never saw my father or 
 my mother, and never saw any likeness of 
 either of them (for their days were long be- 
 fore the days of photographs), my first fan- 
 cies regarding what they were like were un- 
 reasonably derived from their tombstones. 
 The shape of the letters on my father's gave 
 me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, 
 dark man, with curly black hair. From the 
 character and turn of the inscription, ''Also 
 Georgiana Wife of the Above" I drew a 
 childish conclusion that my mother was 
 freckled and sickly. To five little stone loz- 
 enges, each about a foot and a half long, 
 which were arranged in a neat row beside 
 their grave, and were sacred to the memory 
 of five little brothers of mine — who gave up 
 trying to get a living exceedingly early in 
 that universal struggle — I am indebted for 
 a belief I religiously entertained that they had 
 all been born on their backs with their hands 
 in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken 
 them out in this state of existence. . . . 
 
 [Pip grew up to be] a good fellow, with im- 
 229 
 
PHILIP PIRRIP 
 
 petuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffi- 
 dence, action and dreaming curiously mixed 
 in him." ... 
 
 I went out and joined Herbert. Within a 
 month, I had quitted England, and within 
 two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., 
 and within four months I assumed my first 
 undivided responsibility. [For] Herbert had 
 gone away to marry Clara, and I was left in 
 sole charge of the Eastern Branch until he 
 brought her back. 
 
 Many a year went round, before I was a 
 partner in the House; but, I lived happily 
 with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, 
 and paid my debts, and maintained a con- 
 stant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. . . 
 I must not leave it to be supposed that we 
 were ever a great House, or that we made 
 mints of money. We were not in a grand 
 way of business, but we had a good name, and 
 worked for our profits, and did very well. 
 We owed so much to Herbert's ever cheer- 
 ful industry and readiness, that I often won- 
 dered how I had conceived that old idea of 
 his inaptitude, until I was one day enlightened 
 by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude 
 had never been in him at all, but had been 
 in me. 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. i to end \_as the hero 
 is the relator of the story the reference can 
 only he to the whole volume'], 
 230 
 
HERBERT POCKET 
 
 Herbert Pocket, a warm friend of Pip, 
 son of Matthew Pocket, also a young man of 
 "great expectations" of becoming wealthy. 
 Whew Pip comes into his good fortune he 
 secretly helps Herbert to a position in the 
 house of Clarriker and Co., in which he sub- 
 sequently becomes partner. The secret is not 
 discovered for many years, but Pip has his 
 reward, for when later on he was in need, 
 Clarriker & Co. gave him a position and he 
 also rose to be a partner. Herbert married 
 Clara Barley, the pretty daughter of old Bill 
 Barley, a drunken, bed-ridden, gouty old 
 purser whom she tended with the greatest 
 care. 
 
 Herbert Pocket had a frank and easy way 
 with him that was very taking. I had never 
 seen any one then, and I have never seen any 
 one since, who more strongly expressed to 
 me, in every look and tone, a natural inca- 
 pacity to do anything secret and mean. 
 There was something wonderfully hopeful 
 about his general air, and something that at 
 the same time whispered to me he would 
 never be very successful or rich. I don't 
 know how this was. . . . 
 
 A pale young gentleman, and had a cer- 
 tain conquered languor about him in the 
 midst of his spirits and briskness, that did not 
 seem indicative of natural strength. He had 
 231 
 
HERBERT POCKET 
 
 not a handsome face, but it was better than 
 handsome: being extremely amiable and 
 cheerful. His figure was a little ungainly. 
 . . . I asked him^ in the course of conver- 
 sation, what he was ? He replied, " A cap- 
 italist — an Insurer of Ships." I suppose he 
 saw me glancing about the room in search of 
 some tokens of Shipping, or capital, for he 
 added, " In the City." . . . 
 
 " I shall not rest satisfied with merely em; 
 ploying my capital in insuring ships. I shall 
 buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and 
 cut into the Direction. I shall also do a lit- 
 tle in the mining way. None of these things 
 will interfere with my chartering a few thou- 
 sand tons on my own account. I think I 
 shall trade," said he, leaning back in his chair, 
 " to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, 
 dyes, drugs, and precious woods. It's an in- 
 teresting trade. I think I shall trade, also," 
 said he, putting his thumbs in his waistcoat 
 pockets, " to the West Indies, for sugar, to- 
 bacco, and rum. Also to Ceylon, especially 
 for elephants' tusks." Quite overpowered by 
 the magnificence of these transactions, I asked 
 him where the ships he insured mostly traded 
 to at present? 
 
 " I haven't begun insuring yet," he re- 
 plied. " I am looking about me. Yes. I am 
 in a counting-house, and looking about me; 
 232 
 
HERBERT POCKET 
 
 it doesn't pay me anything and I have to 
 keep myself." 
 
 This certainly had not a profitable appear- 
 ance, and I shook my head as if I would im- 
 ply that it would be difficult to lay by much 
 accumulative capital from such a source of 
 income. 
 
 " But the thing is," said Herbert Pocket, 
 " that you look about you. That's the grand 
 thing. You are in a counting-house, you 
 know, and you look about you." 
 
 Every morning, with an air ever new, Her- 
 bert went into the City to look about him. 
 I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room 
 in which he consorted with an ink- jar, a hat- 
 peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an almanack, 
 a desk and stool, and a ruler; and I do not 
 remember that I ever saw him do anything 
 else but look about him. If we all did what 
 we undertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert 
 did, we might live in a Republic of the Vir- 
 tues. He had nothing else to do, poor fellow, 
 except at a certain hour of every afternoon 
 to " go to Lloyd's " — in observance of a cere- 
 mony of seeing his principal, I think. He 
 never did anything else in connection with 
 Lloyd's that I could find out, except come 
 back again. When he felt his case unusually 
 serious, and that he positively must find an 
 opening, he would go on 'Change at a busy 
 
MATTHEW POCKET 
 
 time, and walk in and out, in a kind of 
 gloomy country dance figure, among the as- 
 sembled magnates. " For," says Herbert to 
 me, coming home to dinner on one of those 
 special occasions, " I find the truth to be, 
 Handel, that an opening won't come to one, 
 
 but one must go to it so I have been." 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. xi, xxi-xxviii, xxx, 
 
 xxxi, xxxiv, xxxvi-xliii, xlv-xlvii, xlix, I, 
 
 liii-lv, Iviii. 
 
 Matthew Pocket, the father of Herbert 
 Pocket, with whom Pip studied for some 
 time; a relative of Miss Havisham. 
 
 He had rather a perplexed expression of 
 face, with his hair disordered on his head 
 as if he didn't quite see his way to putting 
 anything straight. . . . 
 
 He had been educated at Harrow and at 
 Cambridge, where he had distinguished him- 
 self; but when he had had the happiness 
 of marrying Mrs. Pocket very early in life, 
 he had impaired his prospects and taken up 
 the calling of a Grinder. After grinding a 
 number of dull blades — of whom it was re- 
 markable -that their fathers, when influential, 
 were always going to help him to preferment, 
 but always forgot to do it when the blades 
 had left the Grindstone — he had wearied of 
 that poor work and had come to London. 
 234 
 
THE HON. ELIJAH POGRAM 
 
 Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, 
 he had " read " with divers who had lacked 
 opportunities or neglected them, and had re- 
 furbished divers others for special occasions, 
 and had turned his acquirements to the ac- 
 count of literary compilation and correction, 
 and on such means, added to some very mod- 
 erate private resources, still maintained the 
 house I saw. . . . 
 
 Mr. Pocket was a most delightful lecturer 
 on domestic economy, and his treatises on the 
 management of children and servants were 
 considered the very best text-books on those 
 themes. . . . 
 
 Mr. Pocket being justly celebrated for giv- 
 ing most excellent practical advice, and for 
 having a clear and sound perception of things 
 and a highly judicious mind, I had some no- 
 tion in rhy heart-ache of begging him to ac- 
 cept my confidence. But happening to look 
 up at Mrs. Pocket as she sat reading her book 
 of dignities after prescribing Bed as a sov- 
 ereign remedy for baby, I thought — Well, — 
 No, I wouldn't. 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. xxii-xxiv, xxxiU, 
 xxxix. 
 
 The Honorable Elijah Pogram, the au- 
 thor of " The Pogram Defiance '' " which rose 
 so much con-test and preju-dice in Europe" 
 235 
 
MR. POTT 
 
 — " one of the master minds of the country " 
 whose acquaintance Martin Chuzzlewit made 
 in America. He was a Member of Congress. 
 He had straight black hair, parted up the 
 middle of his head, and hanging down upon 
 his coat; a little fringe of hair upon his chin; 
 wore no neckcloth; a white hat; a suit of 
 black, long in the sleeves, and short in the 
 legs; soiled brown stockings, and laced shoes. 
 His complexion, naturally muddy, was ren- 
 (dered muddier by too strict an economy of 
 soap and water; and the same observation 
 will apply to the washable part of his attire, 
 which he might have changed with comfort 
 to himself, and gratification to his friends. 
 He was about five-and-thirty ; was crushed 
 and jammed up in a heap, under the shade of 
 a large green cotton umbrella; and ruminated 
 over his tobacco-plug like a cow. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. xxxiv. 
 
 Mr. Pott, editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. 
 
 A tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured 
 head inclined to baldness, and a face in which 
 solemn importance was blended with a look 
 of unfathomable profundity. He was dressed 
 in a long brown surtout, with a black cloth 
 waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eye- 
 glass dangled at his waistcoat: and on his 
 head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a 
 236 
 
MISS PROSS 
 
 broad brim. The new comer was introduced 
 to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott, the editor of 
 the Eatanswill Gazette. After a few pre- 
 liminary remarks, Mr. Pott turned round to 
 Mr. Pickwick, and said with solemnity — 
 
 " This contest excites great interest in the 
 metropolis, Sir?" 
 
 "I believe it does," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 "To which I have reason to know," said 
 Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker for cor- 
 roboration,— " to which I have reason to 
 know my article of last Saturday in some de- 
 gree contributed." 
 
 " Not the least doubt of that," said the little 
 man. . ^^ 
 
 "The press is a mighty engine, Sir,' said 
 
 Pott. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to 
 the proposition. 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xiii, xv, xviii. 
 
 Miss Pross, sister of Solomon Pross (John 
 Bar sad), Lucie Manette's maid, a tough, 
 loyal, and faithful creature. In concealing 
 the last night of the Manettes to England 
 she is involved in a struggle with Madame 
 Defarge — who attacks her with a pistol. 
 Miss Pross strikes it at the moment of Uring 
 and the charge kills the would-be murderess. 
 Miss Pross closely veiled succeeds in escap- 
 ing to England in safet'^. 
 
 2-i7 
 
MISS PROSS 
 
 A wild-looking woman, whom even in his 
 agitation, Mr, Lorry observed to be all of a 
 red colour, and to have red hair, and to be 
 dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting 
 fashion, and to have on her head a most won- 
 derful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden meas- 
 ure, and good measure too, — or a great Stil- 
 ton cheese. . . . 
 
 Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit 
 wild, and red, and grim, taking off her dar- 
 ling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and 
 touching it up with the ends of her handker- 
 chief, and blowing the dust off it, and fold- 
 ing her mantle ready for laying by, and 
 smoothing her rich hair with as much pride 
 as she could possibly have taken in her own 
 hair if she had been the vainest and hand- 
 somest of women. Her darling was a pleasant 
 sight too^ embracing her and thanking her, 
 and protesting against her taking so much 
 trouble for her — which last she only dared 
 to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, 
 would have retired to her own chamber and 
 cried. . . . 
 
 Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very 
 jealous, but he also knew her by this time to 
 be, beneath the surface of her eccentricity, 
 one of those unselfish creatures — found only 
 among women — who will, for pure love and 
 admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to 
 238 
 
UNCLE PUMBLECHOOK 
 
 youth when they have lost it, to beauty that 
 they never had, to accompHshments that they 
 were never fortunate enough to gain, to 
 bright hopes that never shone upon their own 
 sombre lives. He knew enough of the world 
 to know that there is nothing in it better 
 than the faithful service of the heart; so 
 rendered and and so free from any mercenary 
 taint, he had such an exalted respect for it, 
 that in the retributive arrangements made by 
 his own mind — we will make such arrange- 
 ments, more or less — he stationed Miss 
 Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than 
 many ladies immeasurably better got up both 
 by Nature and Art, who had balances- at Tell- 
 son's. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. iv; Book 
 
 II, ch. vi, X, xvii-xix, xxi; Book III, ch. 
 
 a, Hi, vii, via, xiv. 
 
 Uncle Pumblechook, uncle to Joe Gar- 
 gery — a well-to-do cornchandler and seeds- 
 man. He is the torment of Pip's life, dis- 
 cussing his character and prospects in the 
 boy's presence, posing always as the architect 
 of the lad's fortunes, and when Pip lat'^r on is 
 reduced to poverty becomes as ostentatiously 
 compassionate and forgiving as he had been 
 servile formerly. 
 
 A large, hard-breathing, middle-aged, slow 
 239 
 
UNCLE PUMBLECHOOK 
 
 man, with a mouth like a fish; dull star- 
 ing eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on 
 his head, so that he looked as if he had just 
 been all but choked, and had that moment 
 come to. . . . Mr. Pumblechook wore 
 corduroys, and so did his shopman; and some- 
 how, there was a-general air and flavour about 
 the corduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, 
 and a general air and flavour about the seeds, 
 so much in the nature of corduroys, that I 
 hardly knew which was which. The same op- 
 portunity served me for noticing that Mr. 
 Pumblechook appeared to conduct his busi- 
 ness by looking across the street at the sad- 
 dler, who appeared to transact his business 
 by keeping his eye on the coach-maker, who 
 appeared to get on in life by putting his hands 
 in his pockets and contemplating the baker, 
 who in his turn folded his arms and stared at 
 the grocer, who stood at his door and yawned 
 at the chemist. . . . 
 
 Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight 
 o'clock in the parlour behind the shop, while 
 the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch 
 of bread-and-butter on a sack of peas in the 
 front premises. I considered Mr. Pumble- 
 chook wretched company. Besides being pos- 
 sessed by my sister's idea that a mortifying 
 and penitential character ought to be imparted 
 to my diet — besides giving me as much 
 240 
 
DANIEL QUILP 
 
 crumb as possible in combination with as little 
 butter, and putting such a quantity of warm 
 water into my milk that it would have been 
 more candid to have left the milk out alto- 
 gether — his conversation consisted of noth- 
 ing but arithmetic. On my politely bidding 
 him Good morning, he said, pompously, 
 *' Seven times nine, boy ? " And how should 
 / be able to answer, dodged in that way, in 
 a strange place, on an empty stomach ! I was 
 hungry, but before I had swallowed a mor- 
 sel, he began a running sum that lasted all 
 through the breakfast. " Seven ? " " And 
 four ? " " And eight ? " " And six ? " " And 
 two ? " " And ten ? " And so on. And after 
 each figure was disposed of, it was as much 
 as I could do to get a bite or a sup, before the 
 next came ; while he sat at his ease guessing 
 nothing, and eating bacon and hot roll, in (if 
 I may be allowed the expression) a gorging 
 and gormandising manner. 
 Great Expectations, ch. iv-ix, xiii, xv, xix, 
 XXXV, Iviii. 
 
 Daniel Quilp, a repulsive character, the in- 
 carnation of deviltry and wickedness. He 
 treats his wife, a pretty little, mild-spoken, 
 blue-eyed woman, with fiendish cruelty and is 
 ready for any criminal enterprise. At length, 
 when pursued by the police for his various 
 241 
 
DANIEL QUILP 
 
 crimes, he falls into the Thames and is 
 drowned. His wife comes into his ill-gotten 
 gains and marries again, this time happily. 
 An elderly man of remarkably hard features 
 and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature 
 as to be quite a dwarf, though his head and 
 face were large enough for the body of a 
 giant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and 
 cunning; his mouth and chin, bristly with the 
 stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his com- 
 plexion was one of that kirld which never 
 looks clean or wholesome. But what added 
 most to the grotesque expression of his face, 
 was a ghastly smile, which, appearing to be 
 the mere result of habit and to have no con- 
 nexion with any mirthful or complacent feel- 
 ing, -constantly revealed the few discoloured 
 fangs that were yet scattered in his mouth, 
 and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. 
 His dress consisted of a large high-crowned 
 hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious 
 shoes, and a dirty white neckerchief suffi- 
 ciently limp and crumpled to disclose the 
 greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair 
 as he had, was of a grizzled black, cut short 
 and straight upon his temples, and hanging in 
 a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands, 
 which weie of a rough coarse grain, were very 
 dirty; his finger-nails were crooked, long, and 
 yellow. . . . 
 
 242 
 
DANIEL QUILP 
 
 The creature appeared quite horrible with 
 his monstrous head and little body, as he 
 rubbed his hands slowly round and round, and 
 round again — with something fantastic even 
 in his manner of performing this slight ac- 
 tion — and, dropping his shaggy brows and 
 cocking his chin in the air, glanced upwards 
 with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp 
 might have copied and appropriated to him- 
 self. . . . 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Quilp resided on Tower Hill; 
 and in her bower on Tower Hill Mrs. Quilp 
 was left to pine the absence of her lord, when 
 he quitted her. 
 
 Mr. Quilp could scarcely be said to be of 
 any particular trade or calling, though his 
 pursuits were diversified and his occupations 
 numerous. He collected the rents of whole 
 colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the 
 waterside, advanced money to the seamen and 
 petty officers of merchant vessels, had a share 
 in the ventures of divers mates of East In- 
 diamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the 
 very nose of the Custom House, and made 
 appointments on 'Change with men in glazed 
 hats and round jackets pretty well every day. 
 On the Surrey side of the river was a small 
 rat-infested dreary yard called " Quilp's 
 Wharf," in which were a little wooden count- 
 ing-house burrowing all awry in the dust as 
 243 
 
RIGAUD 
 
 if it had fallen from the clouds and ploughed 
 into the ground; a few fragments of rusty 
 anchors; several large iron rings; some piles 
 of rotten wood ; and two or three heaps of old 
 sheet copper, crumpled, cracked, and battered. 
 On Quilp's Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a ship- 
 breaker, yet to judge from these appearances 
 he must either have been a ship-breaker on 
 a very small scale, or have broken his ships 
 up very small indeed. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. iii-vi, ix, xi-xiii, 
 
 xxiii, xxvii, xxx, xli, xlviii-U, Ix, Ixii, IxiVy 
 
 Ixvii, Ixxiii. 
 
 RiGAUD, alias Blandois, alias Lagnier, a 
 scoundrel with a certain polish of manners, a 
 true chevalier d'industrie. He murdered his 
 wife — was put in jail, and escaped to Eng- 
 land. He gained a knowledge of Mrs. Clen- 
 man's frauds and tried to extort a large sum 
 of hush money. While waiting in her house 
 for her return he is suddenly killed by the col- 
 lapse of the building. 
 
 He was waiting to be fed; looking side- 
 ways through the bars, that he might see the 
 further down the stairs, with much of the ex- 
 pression of a wild beast in similar expecta- 
 tion. But his eyes, too close together, were 
 not so nobly set in his head as those of the 
 king of beasts are in his, and they were sharp 
 244 
 
RIGAUD 
 
 rather than bright' — pointed weapons with 
 little surface to betray them. They had no 
 depth or change; they glittered, and they 
 opened and shut. So far, and waiving their 
 use to himself, a clockmaker could have made 
 a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome 
 after its kind, but too high between the eyes, 
 by probably just as much as his eyes were 
 too near to one another. For the rest, he was 
 large and tall in frame, had thin lips, where 
 his thick moustache showed them at all, and 
 a quantity of dry hair, of no definable col- 
 our, in its shaggy state, but shot with red. 
 The hand with which he held the grating 
 (seamed all over the back with ugly scratches 
 newly healed), was unusually small and 
 plump; would have been unusually white, but 
 for the prison grime. ... 
 
 "I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own 
 no particular country. My father was Swiss 
 — Canton de Vaud. My mother was French 
 by blood, English by birth. I myself was 
 born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the 
 world." . . . 
 
 " Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I 
 have seen the world. I have lived here, and 
 lived there, and lived like a gentleman every- 
 where. I have been treated and respected as 
 a gentleman universally. If you try to preju- 
 dice me, by making out that I have lived by 
 245 
 
RIGAUD 
 
 my wits — how do your lawyers live — your 
 politicians — your intriguers — your men of 
 the Exchange ? " 
 
 In dry clothes and scented linen, with 
 sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger, 
 and a massive show of watch-chain, Mr. Blan- 
 dois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a win- 
 dow-seat with his knees drawn up, looked 
 (for all the difference in the setting of the 
 jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a cer- 
 tain Monsieur Rigaud who had once so waited 
 for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of 
 the iron grating of a cell in a villanous dun- 
 geon at Marseilles. 
 
 His greed at dinner, too, was closely in 
 keeping with the greed of Monsieur Rigaud 
 at breakfast. His avaricious manner of col- 
 lecting all the eatables about him, and devour- 
 ing some with his eyes, while devouring oth- 
 ers with his jaws, was the same manner. His 
 utter disregard of other people, as shown in his 
 way of tossing the little womanly toys of furni- 
 ture about, flinging favourite cushions under 
 his boots for a softer rest, and crushing delicate 
 coverings with his big body and his great 
 black head, had the same brute selfishness at 
 the bottom of it. The softly moving hands 
 that were so busy among the dishes had the 
 old wicked facility of the hands that had 
 clung to the bars. And when he could eat 
 246 
 
BARNABY RUDGE 
 
 no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers 
 one by one and wiping them on a cloth, there 
 wanted nothing but the substitution of vine- 
 leaves to finish the picture. 
 
 On this man, with his moustache going up 
 and his nose coming down in that most evil 
 of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking 
 as if they belonged to his dyed hair, and had 
 had their natural power of reflecting light 
 stopped by some similar process, Nature, al- 
 ways true, and never working in vain, had 
 set the mark, Beware ! It was not her fault, 
 if the warning were fruitless. She is never 
 to blame in any such instance. 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. i, xi, xxix, xxx; 
 Book II, ch. i, Hi, vi, vii, ix, x, xvii, xx, 
 xxii, xxiii, xxviii, xxx, xxxi, xxxiii. 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, a wild waif who picked 
 up a living anyhow and wandered anywhere 
 with a raven — " Grip " — for constant com- 
 panion. His father was the murderer of 
 Reuben Haredale, and although the hoy was 
 horn with a horror of the sight of hlood, when 
 he was overtaken hy a moh of the Gordon 
 rioters he eagerly joined in their work of pil- 
 lage and destruction. His strength and agil- 
 ity made him a valuable accession and he 
 fought until he was overpowered, taken pris- 
 oner and condemned to death. On the eve of 
 247 
 
BARNABY RUDGE 
 
 his execution a pardon was secured for him. 
 He is one of the most powerful and vivid 
 characters ever portrayed in fiction. 
 
 He was about three-and-twenty years old, 
 and though rather spare^ of a fair height and 
 strong make. His hair, of which he had a 
 great profusion, was red, and hanging in dis- 
 order about his face and shoulders, gave to 
 his restless looks an expression quite un- 
 earthly — enhanced by the paleness of his 
 complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large 
 protruding eyes. Startling as his aspect was, 
 the features were good, and there was some- 
 thing even plaintive in his wan and haggard 
 aspect. But" the absence of the soul is far 
 more terrible in a living man than in a dead 
 one; and in this unfortunate being its noblest 
 powers were wanting. 
 
 His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed 
 here and there — apparently by his own hands 
 — with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth 
 was most worn and soiled, and poorest where 
 it was at the best. A pair of tawdry ruffles 
 dangled at his wrists, while his throat was 
 nearly bare. He had ornamented his hat with 
 a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were 
 limp and broken, and now trailed negligently 
 down his back. Girded to his side was the 
 steel hilt of an old sword without blade or 
 scabbard; and some parti-coloured ends of 
 248 
 
BARNABY RUDGE 
 
 ribands and poor glass toys completed the 
 ornamental portion of his attire. The flut- 
 tered and confused disposition of all the mot- 
 ley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in 
 a scarcely less degree than his eager and un- 
 settled manner, the disorder of his mind, and 
 by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened 
 the more impressive wildness of his face. . . 
 
 Some time elapsed before Barnaby got the 
 better of the shock, he had sustained, or re- 
 gained his old health and gaiety. But he re- 
 covered by degrees: and although he could 
 never separate his condemnation and escape 
 from the idea of a terrific dream, he became, 
 in other respects, more rational. Dating 
 from the time of his recovery, he had a bet- 
 ter memory and greater steadiness of purpose ; 
 but a dark cloud overhung his whole previous 
 existence, and never cleared away. 
 
 He was not the less happy for this ; for his 
 love of freedom and interest in all that moved 
 or grew, or had its being in the elements, re- 
 mained to him unimpaired. He lived with 
 his mother on the Maypole farm, tending the 
 poultry and the cattle, working in a garden 
 of his own, and helping everywhere. He was 
 known to every bird and beast about the place, 
 and had a name for every one. Never was 
 there a lighter-hearted husbandman, a crea- 
 ture more popular with young and old, a 
 249 
 
MR. RUDGE 
 
 blither or more happy soul than Barnaby : and 
 though he was free to ramble where he would, 
 he never quitted Her, but was for evermore 
 her stay and comfort. 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. iii-vi, x-xii, xvii, xxv, 
 xxvi, xlv-l, Hi, liii, Ivii, Iviii, Ix, Ixii, Ixv, 
 Ixviii, Ixix, Ixxii, Ixxv-lxxvii, Ixxix, 
 Ixxxii. 
 
 Mr. Rudge, Barnahy's father, and steward 
 to Mr. Reuben Haredale, whom he murdered. 
 After wandering about for years, shunned by 
 and shunning his fellow men, and keeping his 
 unfortunate wife in terror, by appearing from 
 time to time to demand money, he was finally 
 captured and executed. 
 
 A man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with 
 huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver 
 lace and large metal buttons, who sat apart 
 from the regular frequenters of the house, 
 and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which 
 was still further shaded by the hand on which 
 his forehead rested. . . . 
 
 The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed 
 the hard features of a man of sixty or there- 
 abouts, much weather-beaten and worn by 
 time, and the naturally harsh expression of 
 which was not improved by a dark handker- 
 chief which was bound tightly round his head, 
 and, while it served the purpose of a wig, 
 250 
 
 ( 
 
MR. RUDGE 
 
 shaded his forehead, and almost hid his eye- 
 brows. If it were intended to conceal or di- 
 vert attention from a deep gash, now healed 
 into an ugly seam, which when it was first 
 inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, 
 the object was but indifferently attained, for it 
 could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. 
 His complexion was of a cadaverous hue, and 
 he had a grizzly jagged beard of some three 
 week's date. . . . 
 
 Among all the dangerous characters who 
 prowled and skulked in the metropolis at 
 night, there was one man from whom many 
 as uncouth and fierce as he shrank with an 
 involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence 
 he came, was a question often asked, but 
 which none could answer. His name was un- 
 known, he had never been seen until within 
 eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a 
 stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose 
 haunts he ventured fearlessly, as to the young. 
 He could be no spy^ for he never removed his 
 slouched hat to look about him, entered into 
 conversation with no man, heeded nothing 
 that passed^ listened to no discourse, regarded 
 nobody that came or went. But so ^surely as 
 the dead of night set in, so surely this man 
 was in the midst of the loose concourse in 
 the night-cellar where outcasts of every grade 
 resorted; and there he sat till morning. 
 251 
 
MR. RUDGE 
 
 He was not only a spectre at their licentious 
 feasts; a something in the midst of their rev- 
 elry and riot that chilled and haunted them; 
 but out of doors he was the same. Directly 
 it was dark, he was abroad — never in com- 
 pany with any one, but always alone; never 
 lingering or loitering but always walking 
 swiftly; and looking (so they said who had 
 seen him) over his shoulder from time to 
 time, and as he did so quickening his pace. 
 In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quar- 
 ters of the town — east, west, north, and south 
 — that man was seen gliding on, like a 
 shadow. He was always hurrying away. 
 Those who encountered him, saw him steal 
 past, caught sight of the backward glance, and 
 so lost him in the darkness. 
 
 This constant restlessness, and flitting to 
 and fro, gave rise to strange stories. He was 
 seen in such distant and remote places, at 
 times so nearly tallying with each other, that 
 some doubted whether there were not two of 
 them, or more — some, whether he had not 
 unearthly means of travelling from spot to 
 spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had 
 marked him passing like a ghost along its 
 brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark 
 high-road; the beggar had seen him pause 
 upon the bridge to look down at the water, 
 and then sweep on again; they who dealt in 
 252 
 
MRS. RUDGE 
 
 bodies with the surgeons could swear he slept 
 in churchyards, and that they had beheld him 
 glide away among the tombs on their ap- 
 proach. And as they told these stories to 
 each other, one who had looked about him 
 would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and 
 there he would be among them. 
 Barnahy Rudge, ch. i-iii, v, vi, xvi-xviii, 
 
 xxxiii, xlv, xlvi, Iv, Ivi, Ixi, Ixii, Ixv, Ixviii, 
 
 Ixix, Ixxiii, Ixxxvi. 
 
 Mrs. Rudge, the mother of Barnahy Rudge. 
 
 She was about forty — perhaps two or three 
 years older — with a cheerful aspect, and a 
 face that had once been pretty. It bore traces 
 of affliction and care, but they were of an old 
 date, and Time had smootTied them. Any one 
 who had bestowed but a casual glance on 
 Barnaby might have known that this was his 
 mother, from the strong resemblance between 
 them; but where in his face there was wild- 
 ness and vacancy, in hers there was the pa- 
 tient composure of long effort and quiet resig- 
 nation. 
 
 One thing about this face was very strange 
 and startling. You could not look upon it in 
 its most cheerful mood without feeling that 
 it had some extraordinary capacity of ex- 
 pressing terror. It was not on the surface. 
 It was in no one feature that it lingered. You 
 253 
 
MRS. RUDGE 
 
 could not take the eyes, or mouth, or lines 
 upon the cheek, and say, if this or that were 
 otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it 
 always lurked — something for ever dimly 
 seen, but ever there, and never absent for a 
 moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow 
 of some look, to which an instant of intense 
 and most unutterable horror only could have 
 given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it 
 was, it did suggest what that look must have 
 been, and fixed it in the mind as if it had had 
 existence in a dream. 
 
 More faintly imaged, and wanting force and 
 purpose, as it were, because of his darkened 
 intellect, there was this same stamp upon the 
 son. Seen in a picture, it must have had 
 some legend with it] and would have haunted 
 those who looked upon the canvas. They 
 who knew the Maypole story, and could re- 
 member what the widow was, before her hus- 
 band's and his master's murder, understood 
 it well. They recollected how the change had 
 come, and could call to mind that when her 
 son, was born, upon the very day the deed 
 was known, he bore upon his wrist what 
 seemed a smear of blood but half washed 
 out. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. iv-vi, xvi, xvii, xxv, xxvi, 
 
 xliii, xlv-l, Ivii, Ixii, Ixix, Ixxiii, Ixxvi, 
 
 Ixxix, Ixxxiii. 
 
 254 
 
MR. BOB SAWYER 
 
 Mr. Bob Sawyer, a crony of Mr. Ben 
 Allen (q. v.), and a fellow medical student 
 whose acquaintance Mr. Pickwick makes at 
 Mr. Wardle's. He afterwards sets up as a 
 medical practitioner at Bristol, where Mr. 
 Winkle meets him, as ''Sawyer late Nocke- 
 morf" — hut the practice is pretty much of a 
 sham, and he passed through the Gazette 
 afterwards "passing over to Bengal with Mr. 
 Benjamin Allen, having received appoint- 
 ments from the East India Company where 
 they had yellow fever fourteen times. They 
 then resolved to try a little abstinence, since 
 which period they have been doing well." 
 
 Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a 
 coarse blouse coat, which, without being 
 either greatcoat or surtout, partook of the 
 nature and quaHties of both, had about him 
 that sort of slovenly smartness, and swag- 
 gering gait, which is peculiar to young gen- 
 tlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout 
 and scream in the same by night, call waiters 
 by their christian names, and do various other 
 acts and deeds of an equally facetious de- 
 scription. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, 
 and a large rough double-breasted waistcoat; 
 and out of doors, carried a thick stick with 
 a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, 
 upon the whole, something like a dissipated 
 Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 255 
 
BILL SIKES 
 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xxx, xxxi, xxxviii, 
 xlviii, l-lii, Ivii. 
 
 Bill Sikes^, a black-hearted and brutal 
 thief and housebreaker, who had for his mis- 
 tress the faithful and devoted Nancy. She 
 defends Oliver from his brutality, and im- 
 parts to his friends a plot against him. She 
 is watched and Fagin tells Sikes that she has 
 informed against them. Thereupon he bru- 
 tally murders the girl and Uees into the coun- 
 try. He returns to London thinking to es- 
 cape to France, he is tracked to his hiding 
 place and in endeavoring to escape from the 
 roof by means of a rope he is caught in it 
 by the neck and strangled to death. 
 
 A stoutly-built fellow of about five-and- 
 thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled 
 drab breeches, laced-up half boots^ and grey 
 cotton stockings, which inclosed a very bulky 
 pair of legs, with' large swelling calves; the 
 kind of legs, that in such costume, always look 
 in an unfinished and incomplete state with- 
 out a set of fetters to garnish them. He 
 had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty 
 Belcher handkerchief round his neck: with 
 the long frayed ends of which he smeared 
 the beer from his face as he spoke; disclos- 
 ing, when he had done so, a broad heavy 
 countenance with a beard of three days' 
 256 
 
BILL SIKES 
 
 growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which 
 displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of 
 having been recently damaged by a blow. . . 
 In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, 
 situate in the filthiest part of Little Saffron 
 Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring 
 gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time: 
 and where no ray of sun ever shone in the 
 summer ; there sat, brooding over a little pew- 
 ter measure and a small glass, strongly 
 impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man 
 in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half boots, 
 and stockings, whom, even by that dim light, 
 no experienced agent of police would have 
 hesitated for one instant to recognize as Mr. 
 William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white- 
 coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, 
 alternately, in winking at his master with 
 both eyes at the same time; and in licking 
 a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, 
 which appeared to be the result of some 
 recent conflict. 
 
 " Keep quiet, you warmint ! Keep quiet ! " 
 said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. 
 Whether his meditations were so intense as to 
 be disturbed by the dog's winking, or whether 
 his feelings were so wrought upon by his 
 reflections that they required all the reHef 
 derivable from kicking an unoffending animal 
 to allay them, is matter for argument and 
 257 
 
BILL SIKES 
 
 consideration. Whatever was the cause, the 
 effect was a kick and a curse bestowed upon 
 the dob simultaneously. 
 
 Dogs are not generally apt to revenge in- 
 juries inflicted upon them by their masters; 
 but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper 
 in common with his owner: and labouring, 
 perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful 
 sense of injury: made no more ado but at 
 once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. 
 Having given it a hearty shake, he retired, 
 growling, under a form; thereby just es- 
 caping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes 
 levelled at his head. 
 
 " You would, would you ? " said Sikes, seiz- 
 ing the poker in one hand, and deliberately 
 opening with the other a large clasp-knife, 
 which he drew from his pocket. " Come 
 here, you born devil ! Come here ! D'ye 
 hear?" 
 
 The dog no doubt heard ; because Mr. Sikes 
 spoke in the very harshest key of a very 
 harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some 
 unaccountable objection to having his throat 
 cut, he remained where he was, and growled 
 more fiercely than before: at the same time 
 grasping the end of the poker between his 
 teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast. 
 
 This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes 
 the more; who, dropping on his knees, began 
 258 
 
SIR BARNET SKETTLES 
 
 to assail the animal most furiously. The dog 
 jumped from right to left, and from left to 
 right: snapping, growling, and barking; the 
 iman thrust and swore, and struck and blas- 
 phemed; and the struggle was reaching a 
 most critical point for one or other; when, 
 the door suddenly opening, the dog darted 
 out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and 
 the clasp-knife in his hands. 
 Oliver Twist, ch. xiii, xv, xvi, xix-xxH, xxviii, 
 xxxix, xliv, xlvii, xlviii, I. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles was a member of 
 the House of Commons and lived in a pretty 
 villa at Fulham, where Florence Dombey 
 went on a visit. 
 
 Sir Barnet Skettles expressed his personal 
 consequence chiefly through * an antique gold 
 snuff-box, and a ponderous silk pocket- 
 handkerchief, which he had an imposing man- 
 ner of drawing out of his pocket like a ban- 
 ner, and using with both hands at once. Sir 
 Barnet's object in life was constantly to ex- 
 tend the range of his acquaintance. Like 
 a heavy body dropped into water — not to dis- 
 parage so worthy a gentleman by the com- 
 parison—it was in the nature of things that 
 Sir Barnet must spread an ever-widening 
 circle about him, until there was no room 
 let. Or, like a sound in air, the vibration 
 259 
 
SIR BARNET SKETTLES 
 
 of which, according to the speculation of 
 an ingenious modern philosopher, may go on 
 travelling for ever through the interminable 
 fields of space, nothing but coming to the end 
 of his moral tether could stop Sir Barnet 
 Skettles in his voyage of discovery through 
 the social system. 
 
 Sir Barnet was proud of making people 
 acquainted with people. He liked the thing 
 for its own sake, and it advanced his favourite 
 object too. For example, if Sir Barnet had 
 the good fortune to get hold of a raw recruit, 
 or a country gentleman, and ensnared him to 
 his hospitable villa. Sir Barnet would say to 
 him, on the morning after his arrival, " Now, 
 my dear Sir, is there anybody you would like 
 to know? Who is there you would wish to 
 meet? Do you take any interest in writing 
 people, or in painting, or sculpturing people, 
 or in acting people, or in anything of that 
 sort?" Possibly the patient answered yes, 
 and mentioned somebody, of whom Sir Barnet 
 had no more personal knowledge than of 
 Ptolemy the Great. Sir Barnet replied, that 
 nothing on earth was easier, as he knew him 
 very well: immediately called on the afore- 
 said somebody, left his card, wrote a short 
 note, " My dear Sir — penalty of your emi- 
 nent position — friend at my house naturally 
 desirous — Lady Skettles and myself partici- 
 260 
 
HAROLD SKIMPOLE 
 
 pate — trust that genius being superior to 
 ceremonies, you will do us the distinguished 
 favour of giving us the pleasure," &c., &c. — 
 and so killed a brace of birds v^ith one stone, 
 dead as door-nails. 
 
 Danbey and Son, ch. xiv, xxiii, xxiv, xxviii, 
 Ix, 
 
 Harold Skimpole, a protege of Mr. John 
 Jarndyce — brilliant, clever and attractive, 
 but sentimental, selfish and unprincipled, with 
 no- idea of the value of money and content 
 to live upon his friends, constantly being ar- 
 rested for debt, and as constantly having his 
 debts discharged for him. 
 
 He was a little bright creature, with a 
 rather large head; but a delicate face, and a 
 sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm 
 in him. All he said was so free from effort 
 and spontaneous, and was said with such a 
 captivating gaiety, that it was fascinating 
 to hear him talk. Being of a more slender 
 figure than Mr. Jarndyce, and having a richer 
 complexion, with browner hair, he looked 
 younger. Indeed, he had more the appear- 
 ance, in all respects, of a damaged young man, 
 than a well-preserved elderly one. There was 
 an easy negligence in his manner, and even in 
 his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and 
 his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as I 
 261 
 
HAROLD SKIMPOLE 
 
 have seen artists paint their own portraits), 
 which I could not separate from the idea 
 of a romantic youth who had undergone some 
 unique process of depreciation. It struck me 
 as being not at all like the manner or ap- 
 pearance of a man who had advanced in life, 
 by the usual road of years, cares, and ex- 
 periences. . . . 
 
 He was so full of feeling, and had such 
 a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful 
 or tender, that he could have won a heart by 
 that alone. . . . 
 
 Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano, and 
 the violoncello; and he was a composer — 
 had composed half an opera once, but got 
 tired of it — and played what he composed, 
 with taste. . . . 
 
 I gathered from the conversation, that Mr. 
 Skimpole had been educated for the medical 
 profession, and had once lived, in his profes- 
 sional capacity, in the household of a Ger- 
 man prince. He told us, however, that as 
 he had always been a mere child in point of 
 weights and measures, and had never known 
 anything about them (except that they dis- 
 gusted him), he had never been able to pre- 
 scribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. 
 In fact, he said, he had no head for detail. 
 Bleak House, ch. iv, viii, ix, xv, xviii, xxxi, 
 
 xxxvii, xliii, xlvi, Ivii, Ixi, 
 262 
 
DOCTOR SLAMMER 
 
 Doctor Slammer. Jingle having borrowed 
 a dress suit from Mr. Winkle goes to the 
 Charity Ball at the Bull Inn Rochester, and 
 pays too much attention to the widow lady 
 who is the object of Dr. Slammer's choice. 
 The', Pickwickian buttons on the coat cause 
 Mr. Winkle to be taken for the offender and 
 Dr, Slammer challenges him to a duel. On 
 the Held, Dr. Slammer discovers he is not the 
 man and they become fast friends. 
 
 One of the most popular personages, in his 
 own circle, present, was a little fat man, with 
 a ring of upright black hair round his head, 
 and an extensive bald plain on the top of 
 it — Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. 
 The Doctor took snuff with every body, chat- 
 ted with every body, laughed, danced, made 
 jokes, played whist, did everything, and was 
 everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious 
 as they were, the little Doctor added a more 
 important one than any — he was indefati- 
 gable in paying the most unremitting and de- 
 voted atttention to a little old widow, whose 
 rich dress and profusion of ornament be- 
 spoke her a most desirable addition to a 
 limited income. 
 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. ii. Hi. 
 
 263 
 
MR. SLUM 
 
 Mr. Slum, a writer of poetical advertise- 
 ments. 
 
 A tallish gentleman with a hook nose and 
 black hair, dressed in a military surtout very- 
 short and tight in the sleeves, and which 
 had once been frogged and braided all over, 
 but was now sadly shorn of its garniture 
 and quite threadbare — dressed too in ancient 
 grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and 
 a pair of pumps in the winter of their ex- 
 istence. 
 
 " Will you beHeve me," said Mr. Slum; 
 " when I say it's the delight of my life to have 
 dabbled in poetry, when I think I've exer- 
 cised my pen upon this charming theme? 
 By the way — any orders? Is there any lit- 
 tle thing I can do for you ? " . . . 
 
 " Ask the perfumers, ask the blacking mak- 
 ers, ask the hatters, ask the old lottery-office- 
 keepers — ask any man among 'em what my 
 poetry has done for him, and mark my words, 
 he blesses the name of Slum. If he's an 
 honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and 
 blesses the name of Slum — mark that ! . . . 
 
 "You'll find in a certain angle of that 
 dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a few smaller 
 names than Slum," retorted that gentleman, 
 tapping himself expressively on the forehead 
 to imply that there was some slight quantity 
 of brains behind it. "I've got a little trifle 
 264 
 
MR. SLURK 
 
 here now," said Mr. Slum, taking off his hat 
 which was full of scraps of paper, " a little 
 trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the mo- 
 ment, which I should say was exactly the 
 thing you wanted to set this place on fire 
 with. It's an acrostic — the name at this mo- 
 ment is Warren, but the idea's a convertible 
 one, and a positive inspiration for Jarley. 
 Have the acrostic. . . . 
 
 Mr. Slum entered the order in a small note- 
 book as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr. 
 Slum then withdrew to alter the acrostic, 
 after taking a most affectionate leave of his 
 patroness, and promising to return, as soon 
 as he possibly could, with a fair copy for the 
 printer. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. xxviii. 
 
 Mr. Slurk, Editor of the " Eatanswill In- 
 dependent." 
 
 He was a shortish gentleman, with very 
 stiff black hair, cut in the porcupine or black- 
 ing-brush style, and standing stiff and straight 
 all over his head ; his aspect was pompous and 
 threatening; his manner was peremptory; his 
 eyes sharp and restless; and his whole bear- 
 ing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in 
 himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable 
 superiority over all other people. 
 
 This gentleman was shown into the room 
 265 
 
MR. SLURK 
 
 originally assigned to the patriotic Mr. Pott; 
 and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonish- 
 ment at the singular coincidence, that he had 
 no sooner lighted the candles than the gentle- 
 man, diving into his hat, drew forth a news- 
 paper, and began to read it with the very same 
 expression of indignant scorn which upon 
 the majestic features of Pott had paralysed 
 his energies an hour before. The man ob- 
 served too, that whereas Mr. Pott's scorn had 
 been roused by a newspaper headed The Eat- 
 answill Independent, this gentleman's wither- 
 ing contempt was awakened by a newspaper 
 entitled the Eatanswill Gazette. . . . 
 
 "Are you the landlord?" enquired the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " I am, Sir," replied the landlord. 
 
 " Do you know me ? " demanded the gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " I have not that pleasure, Sir," rejoined 
 the landlord. 
 
 " My name is Slurk," said the gentleman. 
 
 " Well, Sir, I do not know you." 
 
 " Good God ! " said the stranger, dashing 
 his clenched fist upon the table. " And this 
 is popularity ! " 
 
 The landlord took a step or two towards 
 
 the door, and the stranger fixing his eyes upon 
 
 him, resumed. "This," said the stranger, 
 
 " this is gratitude for years of labour and 
 
 266 
 
CHEVY SLYME 
 
 study in behalf of the masses. I alight wet 
 and weary; no enthusiastic crowds press for- 
 ward to greet their champion, the church- 
 bells are silent; the very name elicits no 
 responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It 
 is enough/' said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pac- 
 ing to and fro, "to curdle the ink in one's 
 pen, and induce one to abandon their cause 
 for ever." 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. li. (See also Mr. Pott.) 
 
 Chevy Slyme, a friend of Mr. Montague 
 Tigg, and one of the many relatives of old 
 Martin Chusslewit who were on the look-out 
 for a share of his property. 
 
 Wretched and forlorn as he looked, Mr. 
 Slyme had once been, in his way, the choicest 
 of swaggerers: putting forth his pretensions, 
 boldly, as a man of infinite taste and most 
 undoubted promise. The stock-in-trade req- 
 uisite to set up an amateur in this depart- 
 ment of business is very slight, and easily 
 got together; a trick of the nose and a curl 
 of the lip sufficient to compound a tolerable 
 sneer, being ample provision for any exigency. 
 But, in an evil hour, this off-shot of the 
 Chuzzlewit trunk, being lazy, and ill qualified 
 for any regular pursuit, and having dissipated 
 such means as he ever possessed, had form- 
 ally established himself as a professor of 
 267 
 
SMIKE 
 
 Taste for a livelihood; and finding, too late, 
 that something more than his old amount of 
 qualifications was necessary to sustain him 
 in this calling, had quickly fallen to his present 
 level, where he retained nothing of his old 
 self but his boastfulness and his bile, and 
 seemed to have no existence separate or apart 
 from his friend Tigg. And now so abject 
 and so pitiful was he — at once so maudlin, 
 insolent, beggarly, and proud — that even his 
 friend and parasite, standing erect beside him, 
 swelled into a Man by contrast. . . . 
 
 Mr. Slyme — of too haughty a stomach to 
 work, to beg, to borrow, or to steal ; yet mean 
 enough to be worked or borrowed, begged or 
 stolen for, by any catspaw that would serve 
 his turn ; too insolent to lick the hand that fed 
 him in his need, yet cur enough to bite and 
 tear it in the dark — fell forward with his 
 head uj^on the table, and so declined into a 
 sodden sleep. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. iv, vii, li. 
 
 Smike, the son of Ralph Nickleby; who 
 abandoned him; he was left with S queers 
 at Dothehoy's Hall when a small hoy. 
 Nicholas Nickleby rescues him, and they 
 wander about together with a company of 
 strolling players. He is captured by Squeers, 
 set free by John Browdie and finally finds a 
 268 
 
SMIKE 
 
 home with the Nicklebys. He cherishes a 
 hopeless love for Nicholas' sister, Kate, and 
 anally droops and dies from the effects of the 
 hardships of his early life. 
 
 Although he could not have been less than 
 eighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall 
 for that age, he wore a skeleton suit, such as 
 is usually put upon very little boys, and which, 
 though most absurdly short in the arms and 
 legs, was quite wide enough for his attenuated 
 frame. In order that the lower part of his 
 legs might be in perfect keeping with his 
 singular dress, he had a very large pair of 
 boots originally made for tops, which might 
 have been once worn by some stout farmer, 
 but were now too patched and tattered for a 
 beggar. God knows how long he had been 
 there, but he still wore the same linen which 
 he had first taken down; for round his neck, 
 was a tattered child's frill, only half con- 
 cealed by a coarse man's neckerchief. He 
 was lame. ... 
 
 The wretched creature, Smike, since the 
 night Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in 
 the school-room, had followed him to and fro 
 with an ever restless desire to serve or help 
 him, anticipating such little wants as his hum- 
 ble ability could supply, and content only to 
 be near him. He would sit beside him for 
 hours looking patiently into his face, and a 
 269 
 
SMIKE 
 
 word would brighten up his care-worn visage, 
 and call into it a passing gleam even of hap- 
 piness. He was an altered being; he had an 
 object now, and that object was to show his 
 attachment to the only person — that person 
 a stranger — who had treated him, not to say 
 with kindness, but like a human creature. 
 
 Upon this poor being all the spleen and ill- 
 humour that could not be vented on Nicholas 
 were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would 
 have been nothing — he was well used to that. 
 Buffetings inflicted without cause would have 
 been equally a matter of course, for to them 
 also he had served a long and weary ap- 
 prenticeship; but it was no sooner observed 
 that he had become attached to Nicholas, 
 than stripes and blows, stripes and blows, 
 morning, noon, and night, were his only por- 
 tion. Squeers was jealous of the influence 
 which his man had so soon acquired, and his 
 family hated him, and Smike paid for both. 
 Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth at every 
 repetition of the savage and cowardly at- 
 tack. . . . 
 
 He had arranged a few regular lessons for 
 the boys, and one night as he paced up and 
 down the dismal school-room, his swollen 
 heart almost bursting to think that his pro- 
 tection and countenance should have increased 
 the misery of the wretched being whose pe- 
 270 
 
SERGEANT SNUBBIN 
 
 culiar destitution had awakened his pity, he 
 paused mechanically in a dark corner where 
 sat the object of his thoughts. 
 
 The poor soul was poring hard over a tat- 
 tered book with the traces of recent tears 
 still upon his face, vainly endeavouring to 
 master some task which a child of nine years 
 old, possessed of ordinary powers, could have 
 conquered with ease, but which to the addled 
 brain of the crushed boy of nineteen was a 
 sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he 
 sat, patiently conning the page again and 
 again, stimulated by no boyish ambition, for 
 he was the common jest and scoff even of 
 the uncouth objects thi^t congregated about 
 him, but inspired by the one eager desire to 
 please his solitary friend. 
 Nicholas Nicklehy, ch. vii, viii, xii, xiii, xv, 
 
 XX, xxii, xxiii, xxv, xxix, xxx, xxxii, 
 
 XXXV, xxvii-xl, xlv, xlix, Iv, Ivii. 
 
 Sergeant Snubbin, the senior counsel 
 for Mr. Pickwick in Mrs. Bar dell's suit against 
 him for Breach of Promise. 
 
 Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced 
 sallow-complexioned man, of about five-and- 
 forty, or — as the novels say — he might be 
 fifty. He had that dull-looking boiled eye 
 v^hich is so often to be seen in the heads of 
 people who have applied themselves during 
 271 
 
SERGEANT SNUBBIN 
 
 many years to a weary and laborious course 
 of study; and which would have been suffi- 
 cient, without the additional eyeglass which 
 dangled from a broad black riband round 
 his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very 
 near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, 
 which was partly attributable to his having 
 never devoted much time to its arrangement, 
 and partly to his having worn for five-and- 
 twenty years the forensic wig which hung on 
 a block beside him. The marks of hair- 
 powder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed 
 and worse tied white neckerchief round his 
 throat, showed that he had not found leisure 
 since he left the court to make any alteration 
 in his dress; while the slovenly style of the 
 remainder of his costume warranted the in- 
 ference that his personal appearance would 
 not have been very much improved if he had. 
 Books of practice, heaps of papers, and 
 opened letters, were scattered over the table 
 without any attempt at order or arrange- 
 ment; the furniture of the room was old and 
 ricketty; the doors of the book-case were rot- 
 ting in their hinges; the dust flew out from 
 the carpet in little clouds at every step; 
 the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; 
 and the state of everything in the room 
 showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, 
 that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much 
 272 
 
MR. FRANCIS SPENLOW 
 
 occupied with his professional pursuits to 
 
 take any great heed or regard of his personal 
 
 comforts. 
 
 Pickwick Papers, xxxi, xxxiv. 
 
 Mr. Francis Spenlow, the father of 
 Dora, who became David Copperfield's first 
 wife. He was partner in the Urm of Spenlow 
 & Jorkins (proctors in Doctors Common) 
 to which Copper-Held was articled. In spite of 
 his assertions that his affairs were all in order 
 and Dora well provided for, it came out after 
 his sudden death, that he had made no will, 
 and had been living beyond his means, leaving 
 his daughter without resources. 
 
 Mr. Spenlow, in a black gown trimmed with 
 white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his 
 hat as he came. He was a little light-haired 
 gentleman, with undeniable boots, and the 
 stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He 
 was buttoned up mighty trim and tight, and 
 must have taken a great deal of pains with 
 his whiskers, which were accurately curled. 
 His gold watch-chain was so massive, that 
 a fancy came across me, that he ought to have 
 a sinewy golden arm, to draw it out with, 
 like those which are put up over the gold- 
 beaters' shops. He was got up with such 
 care, and was so stiff, that he could hardly 
 bend himself; being obliged, when he glanced 
 273 
 
WACKFORD SQUEERS 
 
 at some papers on his desk, after sitting down 
 in his chair, to move his whole body,, from the 
 bottom of his spine, like Punch. 
 David Copperfield, ch. xxiii, xxvi, xxix, 
 xxxiii, XXXV, xxxviii. 
 
 Wackford S queers, the Yorkshire school 
 master who ran Dotheboys Hall, by whom 
 Nicholas Nickleby was engaged. He was 
 brutal, rapacious and ignorant. After a long 
 career he receives his just deserts for he was 
 transported for seven years for stealing a 
 will and Dotheboys Hall was broken up. 
 
 Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepos- 
 sessing. He had but one eye and the popu- 
 lar prejudice runs in favour of two. The eye 
 he had was unquestionably useful, but de- 
 cidedly not ornamental, being of a greenish 
 grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light 
 of a street door. The blank side of his face 
 was much wrinkled and puckered up, which 
 gave him a very sinister appearance, especially 
 when he smiled, at which time his expression 
 bordered closely on the villanous. His hair 
 was very flat and shiny, save at the ends, 
 where it was brushed stiffly up from a low 
 protruding forehead, which assorted well with 
 his harsh voice and coarse manner. He was 
 about two or three and fifty, and a trifle be- 
 low the middle size; he wore a white necker- 
 274 
 
MR. JUSTICE STARELEIGH 
 
 chief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic 
 black, but his coat sleeves being a great deal 
 too long, and his trousers a great deal too 
 short, he appeared ill at ease in his clothes, 
 and as if he were in a perpetual state of 
 astonishment at finding himself so respect- 
 able. 
 Nicholas Nickleby, ch. iv-ix, xiii, xxxiv, 
 
 xxxviii, xxxix, xUi, xlv, Ivi, Ivii, lix, Ix, 
 
 Ixv. 
 
 Mr. Justice Stareleigh, the judge who 
 presided at the trial of Bardell vs. Pickwick. 
 
 Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the ab- 
 sence of the Chief Justice, occasioned by in- 
 disposition), was a most particularly short 
 man, and so fat that he seemed all face and 
 waistcoat. He rolled in upon two little turned 
 legs, and having bobbed gravely to the bar, 
 who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs 
 underneath his table, and his little three- 
 cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice 
 Stareleigh had done this, all you could see 
 of him was two queer little eyes, one broad 
 pink face, and somewhere about half of a big 
 and very comical-looking wig. ... 
 
 Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the 
 
 old-established and most approved form. He 
 
 read as much of his notes to the jury as he 
 
 could decipher on so short a notice, and made 
 
 275 
 
THE REV. MR. STIGGINS 
 
 running comments on the evidence as he went 
 along. If Mrs. Bardell was right, it was 
 perfectly clear Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and 
 if they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins 
 worthy of credence they would believe it, and, 
 if they didn't, why they wouldn't. If they 
 were satified that a breach of promise of 
 marriage had been committed, they would 
 find for the plaintiff with such damages as 
 they thought proper; and if, on the other 
 hand, it appears to them that no promise of 
 marriage had ever been given, they would 
 find for the defendant with no damages at all. 
 The jury then retired to their private room to 
 talk the matter over, and the Judge retired 
 to his private room, to refresh himself with 
 a mutton chop and a glass of sherry. 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xxxiv. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Stiggins, alias " The 
 Shepherd," a hypocritical, drunken, canting 
 parson who ministers to a fanatical Hock of 
 women of which Mrs. Weller the elder is 
 one. His career comes to an ignominious 
 end after her death and Mr. Weller is avenged. 
 
 He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with 
 a long thin countenance and a semi-rattle- 
 snake sort of eye — rather sharp, but de- 
 cidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, 
 and black-cotton stockings, which, like the 
 276 
 
THE REV. MR. STIGGINS 
 
 rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. 
 His looks were starched, but his white necker- 
 chief was not; and its long limp ends strag- 
 gled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a 
 very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A 
 pair of old, worn, beaver gloves, a broad- 
 brimmed hat, and a faded green umbrella, 
 with plenty of whalebone sticking through the 
 bottom as if to counterbalance the want of 
 a handle at the top, lay on a chair beside 
 him; and being disposed in a very tidy and 
 careful manner seemed to imply that the red- 
 nosed man whoever he was, had no intention 
 of going away in a hurry. 
 
 To do the red-nosed man justice, he would 
 have been very far from wise if he had en- 
 tertained any such intention, for, to judge 
 from all appearances, he must have been pos- 
 sessed of a most desirable circle of acquaint- 
 ance, if he could have reasonably expected to 
 be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire 
 was blazing brightly, under the influence of 
 the bellows, and the "kettle was singing gaily, 
 under the influence of both. A small tray 
 of tea-things was arranged on the table; a 
 plate of hot buttered toast was gently sim- 
 mering before the fire ; and the red-nosed man 
 himself was busily engaged in converting a 
 large slice of bread, into the same agreeable 
 edible, through the instrumentality of a long 
 2T7 
 
DR. STRONG 
 
 brass toasting-fork. Besides him, stood a 
 glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum and wa- 
 ter, with a slice of lemon in it: and every 
 time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the 
 round of bread to his eye, with the view of 
 ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop 
 or two of the hot pine-apple rum and water, 
 and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as 
 she blew the fire. 
 Pickzvick Papers, ch. xxvii, xxxiii, xlv, Hi. 
 
 Dr. Strong, a charming and amiable 
 school master in Canterbury at whose school 
 David Copperiield was educated. He was ab- 
 sorbed in the making of a new Dictionary, in 
 which Copperiield helped him later. He zvas 
 married to a wife much younger than himself, 
 who, though strongly tempted from her al- 
 legiance to him by an early affection for a 
 young cousin, remained loyal and true. 
 
 My new master. Doctor Strong, looked al- 
 most as rusty, to my thinking, as the tall 
 iron rails and gates outside the house; and 
 almost as stiff and heavy as the great stone 
 urns that flanked them, and were set up, on 
 the top of the red-brick wall, at regular dis- 
 tances all round the court, like sublimated 
 skittles, for Time to play at. He was in his 
 library (I mean Doctor Strong was), with his 
 clothes not particularly well brushed, and his 
 278 
 
DR. STRONG 
 
 hair not particularly well combed; his knee- 
 smalls unbraced; his long back gaiters un- 
 buttoned; and his shoes yawning like two 
 caverns on the hearth-rug. Turning upon 
 me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of a 
 long-forgotten 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. . . . 
 
 The Doctor was the idol of the whole 
 school: and it must have been a badly-com- 
 posed school if he had been anything else, 
 for he was the kindest of men; with a sim- 
 ple faith in him that might have touched 
 thfe stone hearts of the very urns upon the 
 wall. As he walked up and down that part 
 of the courtyard which was at the side of 
 the house, with the stray rooks and jackdaws 
 looking after him with their heads cocked 
 slyly, as if they knew how much more know- 
 ing they were in worldly affairs than he, if 
 any sort of vagabond could only get near 
 enough to his creaking shoes to attract his 
 attention to one sentence of a tale of dis- 
 tress, that vagabond was made for the next 
 two days. It was so notorious in the house, 
 that the masters and head-boys took pains 
 to cut these marauders off at angles, and to 
 279 
 
DR. STRONG 
 
 get out of windows, and turn them out of 
 the courtyard,- before they could make the 
 Doctor aware of their presence; which was 
 sometimes happily effected within a few 
 yards of him, without his knowing anything 
 of the matter, as he jogged to and fro. Out- 
 side his own domain, and unprotected, he was 
 a very sheep for the shearers. He would 
 have taken his gaiters off his legs, to give 
 away. In fact, there was a story current 
 among us (I have no idea, and never had, on 
 what authority, but I have believed it for 
 so many years that I feel quite certain it is 
 true), that on a frosty day, one winter-time, 
 he actually did bestow his gaiters on a beggar- 
 woman, who occasioned some scandal in the 
 neighborhood by exhibiting a fine infant from 
 door to door, wrapped in those garments, 
 which were universally recognised, being as 
 well known in the vicinity as the Cathedral. 
 The legend added that the only person who 
 did not identify them was the Doctor himself, 
 who, when they were shortly afterwards dis- 
 played at the door of a little second-hand 
 shop of no very good repute, where such 
 things were taken in exchange for gin, was 
 more than once observed to handle them ap- 
 provingly, as if admiring some curious novelty 
 in the pattern, and considering them an im- 
 provement on his own. 
 280 
 
MR. STRYVER 
 
 David Copperfield, ch. xvi, xvii, xix, xxxvi, 
 xxxix, xlii, xlv, Ixii, Ixiv. 
 
 Mr. STi^YVER '("Bully Stryver"), the 
 London Barrister who was counsel for Charles 
 Darnay in his trial when accused of being a 
 spy — the patron of Sydney Carton. 
 
 A man of little more than thirty, but looking 
 twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, 
 red, bluff, and free from any drawback of 
 delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering 
 himself (morally and physically) in companies 
 and conversations, that argued well for his 
 shouldering his way up in life. . . . 
 
 A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at 
 the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun cau- 
 tiously to hew away the lower staves of the 
 ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and 
 Old Bailey had now to summon their favour- 
 ite, specially to their longing arms; and 
 shouldering itself towards the visage of the 
 Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's 
 Bench, the florid countenance of Mr. Stryer 
 might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed 
 of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its 
 way at the sun from among a rank garden-full 
 of flaring companions. . . . 
 
 Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the 
 Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vaca- 
 tion's infancy was still upon it. Anybody 
 281 
 
MR. STRYVER 
 
 who had seen him projecting himself into 
 Soho, while he was yet on Saint Dunstan's 
 side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full- 
 blown way along the pavement, to the jostle- 
 ment of all weaker people, might have seen 
 how safe and strong he was. . . . 
 
 It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he 
 always seemed too big for any place, or 
 space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, 
 that old clerks in distant corners looked up 
 with looks of remonstrance, as though he 
 squeezed them against the wall. The House 
 itself, magnificently reading the paper quite 
 in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, 
 as if the Stryver head had been butted into 
 its responsible waistcoat. . . . 
 
 [Stryver] had his slippers on and a loose 
 bed-gown, and his throat was bare for greater 
 ease. He had that rather cold, strained, 
 seared marking about the eyes which may be 
 observed in all free livers of his class from 
 the portrait of Jeffries downward, and which 
 can be traced under various disguises of art, 
 through the portraits of every Drinking 
 Age. 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book II, ch. ii-v, xi, xxi, 
 
 xxiv. 
 
 282 
 
DICK SWIVELLER 
 
 Dick Swiveller, a roystcrer, hut a good- 
 hearted fellow. He was clerk to Sampson 
 Brass and a friend of Fred Trent. He aspires 
 to the hand of Little Nell in the hope of get- 
 ting the fortune it is supposed her grandfather 
 is hoarding up. After a severe illness, dur- 
 ing which he is nursed by the " Marchioness, " 
 the small servant in the house of Sampson 
 Brass, he falls into an annuity of one hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year and marries the 
 Marchioness. 
 
 He took occasion to apologize for any neg- 
 ligence that might be perceptible in his dress 
 on the ground that last night he had had " the 
 Sun very strong in his eyes," by which ex- 
 pression he was understood to convey in the 
 most delicate manner possible the informa- 
 tion that he had been extremely drunk. . . . 
 
 It was perhaps not very unreasonable to 
 suspect from what had already passed, that 
 Mr. Swiveller was not quite recovered from 
 the effects of the powerful sunlight to which 
 he had made allusion; but if no such sus- 
 picion had been awakened by his speech, his 
 wiry hair, dull eyes, and sallow face, would 
 still have been strong witnesses against him. 
 His attire was not as he had himself hinted, 
 remarkable for the nicest arrangement, but 
 was in a state of disorder which strongly in- 
 duced the idea that he had gone to bed in 
 283 
 
DICK SWIVELLER 
 
 it. It consisted of a brown body-coat with 
 a great many brass buttons up the front and 
 only one behind, a bright check neckerchief, 
 a plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and 
 a very limp hat, worn with the wrong side 
 foremost, to hide a hole in the brim. The 
 breast of his coat was ornamented with an 
 outside pocket from which there peeped forth 
 the cleanest end of a very large and very ill- 
 favoured handkerchief; his dirty wristbands 
 were pulled down as far as possible and os- 
 tentatiously folded back over his cuffs ; he dis- 
 played no gloves, and carried a yellow cane 
 having at the top a bone hand with the sem- 
 blance of a ring on its little finger and a black 
 ball in its grasp. With all these personal 
 advantages (to which may be added a strong 
 savour of tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing 
 greasiness of appearance) Mr. Swiveller leant 
 back in his chair with his eyes fixed on the 
 ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice 
 to the needful key, obliged the company with 
 a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and 
 then, in the middle of a note, relapsed into 
 his former silence. . . . 
 
 " I enter in this little book the names of 
 the streets that I can't go down while the 
 shops are open. This dinner to-day closes 
 Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great 
 Queen Street l^st week, and made that no 
 284 
 
MARK TAPLEY 
 
 thoroughfare too. There's only one avenue 
 to the Strand left open now, and I shall have 
 to stop up that to-night v^^ith a pair of gloves. 
 The roads are closing so fast in every direc- 
 tion, that in about a month's time unless my 
 aunt sends me a remittance, I shall have to 
 go three or four miles out of town to get 
 over the way." 
 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. ii, Hi, vii, vHi, 
 xiii, xxi, xxiii, xxxiv-xxxviii, xlviii-l, Ivi- 
 Ixvi, Ixxiii. 
 
 Mark Tapley, hostler at Mrs. Lupin's Blue 
 Dragon Inn, strong in the belief that he could 
 *' come out strong" in circumstances that 
 would make other men miserable. Life at 
 the Blue Dragon is too cheerful, so he goes 
 to^ London, meets Martin Chuzslewit and with 
 him goes to America. They invest all their 
 money in a iifty-acre lot in the city of Eden, 
 and -find it a dismal fever-stricken swamp. 
 Martin succumbs to fever. Mark nurses him, 
 always "jolly," and when he in turn is down 
 with it and can no longer speak he writes 
 "jolly" on a slate. 
 
 When both are recovered they return to 
 England, and Mark marries Mrs. Lupin, 
 changing the sign of the Inn to "The Jolly 
 Tapley." 
 
 A young fellow, of some five or six-and- 
 285 
 
MARK TAPLEY 
 
 twenty perhaps, dressed in such a free and 
 fly-away fashion, that the long ends of his 
 loose red neckcloth were streaming out be- 
 hind him quite as often as before; and the 
 bunch of bright winter berries in the button- 
 hole of his velveteen coat, was as visible to 
 Mr. Pinch's rearward observation, as if he had 
 worn that garment wrong side foremost. . . 
 
 Resolved in his usual phrase, to " come 
 out strong" under disadvantageous circum- 
 stances, he was the life and soul of the 
 steerage, and made no more of stopping 
 in the middle of a facetious conversation to 
 go away and be excessively ill by himself, 
 and afterwards come back in the very best 
 and gayest of tempers to resume it, than if 
 such a course of proceeding had been the 
 commonest in the world. . . . 
 
 It cannot be said that as his illness wore 
 off, his cheerfulness and good nature in- 
 creased, because they would hardly admit of 
 augmentation; but his usefulness among the 
 weaker members of the party was much en- 
 larged; and at all times and seasons there he 
 was exerting it. If a gleam of sun shone out 
 of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the 
 cabin, and presently up he came again with 
 a woman in his arms, or half-a-dozen chil- 
 dren, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or 
 a basket, or something animate or inanimate, 
 286 
 
MARK TAPLEY 
 
 that he thought would be the better for the 
 air. If an hour or two of fine weather in 
 the middle of the day, tempted those who 
 seldom or never came on deck at other times, 
 to crawl into the long-boat, or lie down upon 
 the spare spars, and try to eat, there in the 
 centre of the group was Mr. Tapley, handing 
 about salt beef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes 
 of grog, or cutting up the children's provisions 
 with his pocket-knife, for their greater ease 
 and comfort, or reading aloud from a ven- 
 erable newspaper, or singing some roaring old 
 song to a select party, or writing the begin- 
 nings of letters to their friends at home for 
 people who couldn't write, or cracking jokes 
 with the crew, or nearly getting blown over 
 the side, or emerging, half-drowned, from a 
 shower of spray, or lending a hand some- 
 where or other: but always doing something 
 for the general entertainment. At night, 
 when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, 
 and the driving sparks that flew among the 
 rigging, and the cloud of sails, seemed to 
 menace the ship with certain annihilation by 
 fire, in case the elements of air and water 
 failed to compass her destruction; there again 
 was Mr. Tapley, with his coat off and his shirt- 
 sleeves turned up to his elbows, doing all 
 kinds of culinary offices; compounding the 
 strangest dishes ; recognised by every one as 
 287 
 
SIM TAPPERTIT 
 
 an established authority; and helping all par- 
 ties to achieve something, which, left to them- 
 selves, they never could have done, and never 
 would have dreamed of. In short, there never 
 was a more popular character than Mark Tap- 
 ley became on board that noble and fast-sail- 
 ing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he 
 attained at last to such a pitch of universal 
 admiration, that he began to have grave doubts 
 within himself whether a man might reason- 
 ably claim any credit for being jolly under 
 such exciting circumstances. 
 Martin Chuzdewit, ch. v, vii, vii-xv, xvii, 
 xxi-xxiii, xxxiii-xxxv, xliii, xlviii, U, liii. 
 
 Sim Tappertit is a full length picture of 
 the London 'prentice hoy of the time. He 
 was Gabriel Varden's apprentice, in love with 
 his daughter Dolly, and the sworn enemy of 
 his rival young Joe Willet. He was captain 
 of the 'Prentice Knights, who vowed ven^ 
 geance on their tyrant masters, and whose 
 object was the restoration of their ancient 
 rights and holidays. He took a leading part 
 in the Gordon riots, in which his legs were 
 crushed and he was otherwise wounded. He 
 was imprisoned and released on two wooden 
 legs, becomes a hoot black and takes to wife 
 the widow of a collector of rags and hones, 
 having cast off Miss Miggs for ever. 
 288 
 
SIM TAPPERTIT 
 
 [He] was * an old-fashioned, thin-faced, 
 sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fel- 
 low, very little more than five feet high, and 
 thoroughly convinced in his own mind that he 
 was above the middle size; rather tall, in 
 fact, than otherwise. Of his figure, which 
 was well enough formed, though somewhat 
 of the leanest, he entertained the highest ad- 
 miration; and with his legs, which in knee- 
 breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, 
 he was enraptured to a degree amounting to 
 enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, 
 shadowy ideas, which had never been quite 
 fathomed by his most intimate friends, con- 
 cerning the power of his eye. Indeed he 
 had been known to go so far as to boast that 
 he could utterly quell and subdue the haugh- 
 tiest beauty by a simple process, which he 
 termed " eyeing her over ; " but it must be 
 added, that neither of this faculty, nor of 
 the power he claimed to have, through the 
 same gift, of vanquishing and heaving down 
 dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he 
 ever furnished evidence which could be 
 deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive. . . 
 
 In respect of dress and personal decoration, 
 he had been seen, beyond dispute, to pull 
 off ruffles of the finest quality at the corner 
 of the street on Sunday nights, and to put 
 them carefully in his pocket before return- 
 
TELLSON & CO. 
 
 ing home; and it was quite notorious that on 
 all great holiday occasions it was his habit; 
 to exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for a 
 pair of glittering paste, under cover of a 
 friendly post, planted most conveniently in 
 that same spot. Add to this that he was in 
 years just twenty, in his looks much older, 
 and in conceit at least two hundred; that 
 he had no objection to be jested with, touch- 
 ing his admiration of his master's daughter; 
 and had even, when called upon at a certain 
 obscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he 
 honoured with this love, toasted, with many 
 winks and leers, a fair creature whose Chris- 
 tian name, he said, began with a D — ; — 
 and as much is known of Sim Tappertit, as is 
 necessary. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. iv, vii-ix, xviii, xix, xxii, 
 
 xxiv, xxvii, xxxi, xxxvi, xxxix, xlviii-Ui, 
 
 lix, Ix, Ixii, Ixx, Ixxi, Ixxxii. 
 
 Tellson & Co., an old and eminent firm 
 of London Bankers. 
 
 Tellson's bank by Temple Bar was an old- 
 fashioned place even in the year seventeen 
 hundred and eighty. It was very small, very 
 dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was 
 an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral 
 attribute that the partners in the house were 
 proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, 
 290 
 
TELLSON & CO. 
 
 proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommo- 
 diousness. They were even boastful of its 
 eminence in those particulars, and were fired 
 by an express conviction that, if it were less 
 objectionable, it would be less respectable. 
 This was no passive belief, but an active 
 weapon which they flashed at more convenient 
 places of business. Tellson's (they said) 
 wanted no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no 
 Hght, Tellson's wanted no embellishment. 
 Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers* 
 might ; but Tellson's, thank Heaven ! 
 
 Any one of these partners would have dis- 
 inherited his son on the question of rebuilding 
 Tellson's. In this respect the House was 
 made on a par with the Country; which did 
 very often disinherit its sons for suggesting 
 improvements in laws and customs that had 
 long been highly objectionable, but were only 
 the more respectable. 
 
 Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was 
 the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. 
 After bursting open a door of idiotic ob- 
 stinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you 
 fell into Tellson's down two steps, and came 
 to your senses in a miserable little shop, with 
 two little counters, where the oldest of men 
 made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled 
 it, while they examined the signature by the 
 dingiest of windows, which were always under 
 291 
 
TELLSON & CO. 
 
 a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and 
 which were made the dingier by their own 
 iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of 
 Temple Bar. If your business necessitated 
 your seeing " the House," you were put into 
 a species of Condemned Hold at the back, 
 where you meditated on a misspent life, until 
 the House came with its hands in its pockets, 
 and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal 
 twilight. Your money came out of or went 
 into wormy old wooden drawers, particles of 
 which flew up your nose and down your 
 throat when they were opened and shut. 
 Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if 
 they were fast decomposing into rags again. 
 Your plate was stowed away among the 
 neighbouring cesspools, and evil communica- 
 tions corrupted its good polish in a day or 
 two. Your deeds got into extemporised 
 strong rooms, made of kitchens and sculleries, 
 and fretted all the fat out of their parch- 
 ments into the banking-house air. Your 
 lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs 
 into a Barmecide room, that always had a 
 great dining-table in it and never had a 
 dinner. 
 
 A Tale of Two Cities, Book I, ch. Hi, iv; 
 Book II, ch. i. Hi, vH, ix. 
 
 292 
 
MONTAGUE TIGG 
 
 Montague Tigg, a sharper, sponger, and 
 adventurer, friend of Chevy Slyme, and sharer 
 of his miserable neediness. Later he forms 
 a swindling concern, with the high sounding 
 title of The Anglo -Bengalee Disinterested 
 Loan and Life Insurance Company, changing 
 his name to Tigg Montague, Esq. Thieving 
 on a grander scale than ever he becomes a 
 man of showy importance in the city. 
 
 He becomes acquainted with the attempt of 
 Jonas Chuszlewit to poison his father and 
 uses his knowledge to induce him to invest 
 his own and his father-in-law's money in the 
 concern. Jonas, however, kills him on the 
 way, and the company goes to smash. 
 
 Something which smelt like several damp 
 umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm 
 brandy-and-water, and a small parlour-full of 
 stale tobacco smoke, mixed. . . . 
 
 The gentleman was of that order of ap- 
 pearance, which is currently termed shabby- 
 genteel, though in respect of his dress he can 
 hardly be said to have been in any extremi- 
 ties, as his fingers were a long way out of 
 his gloves, and the soles of his feet were at 
 an inconvenient distance from the upper 
 leather of his boots. His nether garments 
 were of a bluish gray — violent in its colours 
 once, but sobered now by age and dinginess 
 — and were so stretched and strained in a 
 293 
 
MONTAGUE TIGG 
 
 tough conflict between his braces and his 
 straps, that they appeared every moment in 
 danger of flying asunder at the knees. His 
 coat, in colour blue and of a military cut, was 
 buttoned and frogged, up to his chin. His 
 cravat was, in hue and pattern, like one of 
 those mantles which hair-dressers are accus- 
 tomed to wrap about their clients, during the 
 progress of the professional mysteries. His 
 hat had arrived at such a pass that it would 
 have been hard to determine whether it was 
 originally white or black. But he wore a 
 moustache — a shaggy moustache too: noth- 
 ing in the meek and merciful way, but quite 
 in the fierce and scornful style: the regular 
 Satanic sort of thing — and he wore, besides, 
 a vast quantity of unbrushed hair. He was 
 very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and 
 very mean; very swaggering and very slink- 
 ing; very much like a man who might have 
 been something better, and unspeakably like 
 a man who deserved to be something worse. 
 
 He had a world of jet-black shining hair 
 upon his head, upon his cheeks, upon his chin, 
 upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetric- 
 ally made, were of the newest fashion and 
 the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and 
 blue, and green and blushing red, were on his 
 waistcoat; precious chains and jewels sparkled 
 294 
 
MISS LUCRETIA TOX 
 
 on his breast; his fingers, clogged with bril- 
 liant rings, were as unwieldy as summer 
 flies but newly rescued from a honey-pot. 
 The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and 
 boots as in a polished glass. And yet, though 
 changed his name, and changed his outward 
 surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and 
 twisted upside down, and inside out, as great 
 men have been sometimes known to be; 
 though no longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg 
 Montague; still it was Tigg: the same Sa- 
 tanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was 
 burnished, lacquered, newly-stamped; yet it 
 was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding. 
 Martin Chuzzlewit, ch. iv, vii, xii, xiii, xxii, 
 xxviii, xxxviii, xl-xliii, xliv, xlvii. 
 
 Miss Lucretia Tox, a friend of Mrs. 
 Chick, the sister of Mr. Domhey — for whom 
 Major Joey Bagstock professed a great ad- 
 miration, but her hopes, it is strongly sus- 
 pected, were centred on Mr. Domhey himself. 
 
 [She] was a long lean figure, wearing such 
 a faded air that she seemed not to have been 
 made in what linen-drapers call " fast col- 
 ours " originally, and to have, by little and 
 little, washed out. But for this she might 
 have been described as the very pink of gen- 
 eral propitiation and politeness. From a 
 long habit of listening admiringly to every- 
 295 
 
MISS LUCRETIA TOX 
 
 thing that was said in her presence, and look- 
 ing at the speakers as if she were mentally 
 engaged in taking off impressions of their 
 images upon her soul, never to part with the 
 same but with life, her head had quite set- 
 tled on one side. Her hands had contracted 
 a spasmodic habit of raising themselves of 
 their own accord as in involuntary admiration. 
 Her eyes were liable to a similar affection. 
 She had the softest voice that ever was heard ; 
 and the nose, stupendously aquiline, had a 
 little knob in the very centre or key-stone of 
 the bridge, whence it tended downwards to- 
 wards her face, as in an invincible determina- 
 tion never to turn up at anything. 
 
 Miss Tox's dress, though perfectly genteel 
 and good, had a certain character of angular- 
 ity and scantiness. She was accustomed to 
 wear odd weedy little flowers in her bonnets 
 and caps. Strange grasses were sometimes 
 perceived in her hair; and it was observed by 
 the curious, of all her collars, frills, tuckers, 
 wristbands, and other gossamer articles — in- 
 deed of everything she wore which had two 
 ends to it intended to unite — that the two 
 ends were never on good terms, and wouldn't 
 quite meet without a struggle. She had furry 
 articles for winter wear, as tippets, boas, and 
 muffs, which stood up on end in a rampant 
 manner, and were not at all sleek. She was 
 296 
 
MR. TRABB 
 
 much given to the carrying about of small 
 bags with snaps to them, that went off like 
 little pistols when they were shut up; and 
 when full-dressed, she wore round her neck 
 the barrenest of lockets, representing a fishy 
 old eye, with no approach to speculation in 
 it. These and other appearances of a similar 
 nature, had served to propagate the opinion, 
 that Miss Tox was a lady of what is called a 
 limited independence, which she turned to the 
 best account. Possibly her mincing gait en- 
 couraged the belief, and suggested that her 
 clipping a step of ordinary compass into two 
 or three, originated in her habit of making 
 the most of everything. 
 
 Domhey and Son, ch. i, it, v-viii, x, xviii, xx, 
 xxix, xxxi, xxxvi, xxxvii, li, lix, Ixii. 
 
 Mr. Trabb, the undertaker who had charge 
 of the funeral of Mrs. Joe Gargery. 
 
 Trabb and Co. had put in a funeral execu- 
 tion and taken possession. Two dismally ab- 
 surd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting 
 a crutch done up in a black bandage — as if 
 that instrument could possibly communicate 
 any comfort to anybody — were posted at the 
 front door; and in one of them I recognised 
 a postboy discharged from the Boar for turn- 
 ing a young couple into a sawpit on their 
 bridal morning, in consequence of intoxica- 
 297 
 
MR. TRABB 
 
 tion rendering it necessary for him to ride 
 his horse clasped round the neck with both 
 arms. All the children of the village, and 
 most of the women^ were admiring these sable 
 warders and the closed windows of the house 
 and forge; and as I came up, one of the two 
 warders (the postboy) knocked at the door — 
 implying that I was far too much exhausted 
 by grief, to have strength remaining to knock 
 for myself. 
 
 Another sable warder (a carpenter, who 
 had once eaten two geese for a wager) opened 
 the door, and showed me into the best par- 
 lour. Here, Mr. Trabb had taken unto him- 
 self the best table, and had got all the leaves 
 up, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, 
 with the aid of a quantity of black pins. At 
 the moment of my arrival, he had just finished 
 putting somebody's hat into black long- 
 clothes, like an African baby; so he held out 
 his hand for mine. But I, misled by the ac- 
 tion, and confused by the occasion, shook 
 hands with him with every testimony of warm 
 affection. . . . 
 
 " Pocket-handkerchiefs out, all ! " cried Mr. 
 Trabb in a depressed-business-like voice — 
 " Pocket-handkerchiefs out ! We are ready ! " 
 
 So we all put our pocket-handkerchiefs to 
 our faces, as if our noses were bleeding and 
 filed out two and two. . . . 
 298 
 
THOMAS TRADDLES 
 
 The remains of my poor sister had been 
 brought round by the kitchen door, and, it be- 
 ing a point of Undertaking ceremony that the 
 six bearers must be stifled and blinded under 
 a horrible black velvet housing with a white 
 border, the whole looked like a blind monster 
 with twelve human legs, shuffling and blunder- 
 ing along under the guidance of two keepers 
 — the postboy and his comrade. 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. xix, xxx, xxxv. 
 
 Thomas Traddles, one of Copperileld's 
 schoolmates at Salem House. He fought his 
 way through the world against great difficul- 
 ties, hut was always cheerful. He was vic- 
 timized by Micawher, whom he afterwards 
 helped to expose Uriah Heep. After a long 
 courtship he married " the dearest girl in the 
 world" — taking the burden of her family on 
 his shoulders, succeeds in his profession, and 
 becomes a judge of high honor, and esteem. 
 
 Poor Traddles! In a tight sky-blue suit 
 that made his arms and legs like German sau- 
 sages, or roly-poly puddings, he was the 
 merriest and most miserable of all the boys. 
 He was always being caned — I think he was 
 caned every day that half-year, except one 
 holiday Monday when he was only ruler'd on 
 both hands — and was always going to write 
 to his uncle about it, and never did. After 
 299 
 
THOMAS TRADDLES 
 
 laying his head on the desk for a little while, 
 he would cheer up^ somehow, begin to laugh 
 again, and draw skeletons all over his slate, 
 before his eyes were dry, I used at first to 
 wonder what comfort Traddles found in draw- 
 ing skeletons; and for some time looked upon 
 him as a sort of hermit, who reminded him- 
 self by those symbols of mortality that can- 
 ing couldn't last for ever. But I believe he 
 only did it because they were easy, and didn't 
 want any features. 
 
 He was very honourable, Traddles was, and 
 held it as a solemn duty in the boys to stand 
 by one another. He suffered for this on 
 several occasions ; and particularly once, when 
 Steerforth laughed in church, and the beadle 
 thought it was Traddles, and took him out. 
 I see him now, going away in custody, de- 
 spised by the congregation. He never said 
 who was the real offender, though he smarted 
 for it next day, and was imprisoned so many 
 hours that he came forth with a whole church- 
 yard-full of skeletons swarming all over his 
 Latin Dictionary. But he had his reward. 
 Steerforth said there was nothing of the 
 sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that to be 
 the highest praise. For my part, I could have 
 gone through a good deal (though I was much 
 less brave than Traddles, and nothing like 
 so old) to have won such a recompense. 
 300 
 
MR. — - TRENT 
 
 David Copperiield, ch. vi. vii, ix, xxv, xxvii, 
 ^ xxviii, xxxiv, xxxvi, xxxviii, xli, xliii, 
 xliv, xlviii, xlxix, li, liv, Ivii-Hx, Ixi, Ixii, 
 Ixiv. 
 
 Mr- Trent, Little NelVs Grand- 
 father, owner of the old Curiosity Shop. 
 Full of the desire to provide for his grand- 
 daughter he becomes a confirmed gambler, 
 borrows money from Quilp the dwarf, pledg- 
 ing his stock for the loans. Reduced to his 
 last penny he is sold up and turned out of 
 doors, weak in mind and body. With his 
 daughter he wanders about the country un- 
 til at last they find an asylum through the 
 goodness of the schoolmaster, Mr. Marton. 
 Here Little Nell dies worn out with exposure 
 and privation and the old man soon after fol- 
 lows her. 
 
 A little old man with long grey hair, whose 
 face and figure as he held the light above his 
 head and looked before him as he approached, 
 I could plainly see. Though much altered 
 by age, I fancied I could recognise in his 
 spare and slender form something of that 
 delicate mould which I had noticed in the 
 child [little Nell]. Their bright blue eyes. 
 were certainly alike, but his face was so 
 deeply furrowed and so very full of care, that 
 here all resemblance ceased. . . . Coupled 
 301 
 
MR. TRENT. 
 
 with something feeble and wandering in his 
 manner, there were in his face marks of deep 
 and anxious thought which convinced me that 
 he could not be, 'as I had been at first in- 
 clined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbe- 
 cility. . . . 
 
 His brother, the single gentleman, thus tells 
 the tale of his life before the opening of the 
 story; — 
 
 " There were once two brothers, who loved 
 each other dearly. There was a disparity in 
 their ages — some twelve years. . . . 
 Wide as the interval between them was, how- 
 ever, they became rivals too soon. The deep- 
 est and strongest affection of both their hearts 
 settled upon one object. 
 
 " The youngest — there were reasons for 
 his being sensitive and watchful — was the 
 first to find this out. I will not tell you what 
 misery he underwent, what agony of soul he 
 knew, how great his mental struggle was. 
 He had been a sickly child. His brother, pa- 
 tient and considerate in the midst of his own 
 high health and strength, had many and many 
 a day denied himself the sports he loved, to 
 sit beside his couch, telling him old stories 
 till his pale face lighted up with an unwonted 
 glow; to carry him in his arms to some 
 green spot, where he could tend the poor pen- 
 302 
 
MR. TRENT. 
 
 sive boy as he looked upon the bright sum- 
 mer day, and saw all nature healthy but him- 
 self; to be in any way his fond and faithful 
 tiurse. I may not dwell on all he did, to make 
 the poor, weak creature love him, or my tale 
 would have no end. But when the time of 
 trial came, the younger brother's heart was 
 full of those old days. Heaven strengthened 
 it to repay the sacrifices of inconsiderate 
 youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left 
 his brother to be happy. The truth never 
 passed his lips, and he quitted the country, 
 hoping to die abroad. 
 
 " The elder brother married her. She was 
 in Heaven before long, and left him with an 
 infant daughter. . . . 
 
 "In this daughter the mother lived again. 
 You may judge with what devotion he who 
 lost that mother almost in the winning, clung 
 to this girl, her breathing image. She grew 
 to womanhood, and gave her heart to one 
 who could not know its worth. Well ! Her 
 fond father could not see her pine and droop. 
 He might be more deserving than he thought 
 him. He surely might become so with a wife 
 like her. He joined their hands, and they 
 were married. 
 
 " Through all the misery that followed this 
 union; through all the cold neglect and un- 
 deserved reproach; through all the poverty 
 303 
 
MR. TRENT. 
 
 he brought upon her; through all the strug- 
 gles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful 
 to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, 
 in the deep devotion of her spirit, and in her 
 better nature, as only women can. Her 
 means and substance wasted ; her father nearly 
 beggared by her husband's hand, and the 
 hourly witness (for they lived now under one 
 roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness, — she 
 never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Pa- 
 tient, and upheld by strong affection to the 
 last, she died a widow of some three weeks' 
 date, leaving to her father's care two orphans ; 
 one a son of ten or twelve years old ; the other 
 a girl — such another infant child — the same 
 in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature — 
 as she had been herself when her young 
 mother died. 
 
 " The elder brother, grandfather to these 
 two children, was now a broken man; crushed 
 and borne down, less by the weight of years 
 than by the heavy hand of sorrow. With the 
 wreck of his possessions, he began to trade 
 — in pictures first, and then in curious an- 
 cient things. He had entertained a fondness 
 for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he 
 had cultivated were now to yield him an anx- 
 ious and precarious subsistence. 
 
 " The boy grew like his father in mind 
 and person; the girl so like her mother, that 
 304 
 
MR. TRENT. 
 
 when the old man had her on his knee, and 
 looked into her mild blue eyes, he felt as if 
 awakening from a wretched dream, and his 
 daughter were a little child again. The way- 
 ward boy soon spurned the shelter of his roof, 
 and sought associates more congenial to his 
 taste. The old man and the child dwelt alone 
 together. 
 
 " It was then, when the love of two dead 
 people who had been nearest and dearest to 
 his heart, was all transferred to this slight 
 creature; when her face, constantly before 
 him, reminded him from hour to hour of the 
 too early change he had seen in such another 
 — of all the suffering he had watched and 
 known, and all his child had undergone; 
 when the young man's profligate and hardened 
 course drained him of money as his father's 
 had, and even sometimes occasioned them 
 temporary privation and distress ; it was then 
 that there began to beset him, and to be ever 
 in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and 
 want. He had no thought for himself in this. 
 His fear was for the child. It was a spectre 
 in'his house, and haunted him night and day." 
 
 At length they found one day that he had 
 risen early, and, with his knapsack on his 
 back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, 
 and little basket full of such things as she 
 had been used to carry, was gone. As they 
 305 
 
MR. TRENT. 
 
 were making ready to pursue him, far and 
 wide, a frightened schoolboy came who had 
 seen him but a moment before, sitting in the 
 church — upon her grave, he said. 
 
 They hastened there, and going softly to 
 the door, espied him in the attitude of one 
 who waited patiently. They did not disturb 
 him then, but kept a watch upon him all that 
 day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and 
 returned home, and went to bed, murmuring 
 to himself, " She will come to-morrow ! " 
 
 Upon the morrow he was there again from 
 sunrise until night; and still at night he laid 
 him down to rest, and muttered, " She will 
 come to-morrow ! " 
 
 And thenceforth, every day, and all day 
 long, he waited at her grave for her. How 
 many pictures of new journeys over pleasant 
 country, of resting-places under the free broad 
 sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and 
 paths not often trodden — how many tones 
 of that one well-remembered voice — how 
 many glimpses of the form, the fluttering 
 dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the 
 wind — how many visions of what had been, 
 and what he hoped was yet to be — rose up 
 before him, in the old, dull, silent church ! 
 He never told them what he thought, or where 
 he went. He would sit with them at night, 
 pondering with a secret satisfaction, they 
 306 
 
LITTLE NELL TRENT 
 
 could see, upon the flight that he and she 
 would take before night came again; and 
 still they would hear him whisper in his 
 prayers, " Oh ! Let her come to-morrow ! " 
 
 The last time was on a genial day in 
 spring. He did not return at the usual hour, 
 and they went to seek him. He was lying 
 dead upon the stone. 
 
 They laid him by the side of her whom he 
 had loved so well; and, in the church where 
 they had often prayed, and mused, and lin- 
 gered hand in hand, the child and the old man 
 slept together. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. i-iii, ix, xi, xii, 
 
 xv-xix, xxiv-xxxii, xlii-xlvi. Hi, liv, Iv, 
 
 Ixxi, Ixxii. 
 
 Little Nell Trent lived alone with her 
 Grandfather, a confirmed gambler. When 
 turned into the streets a beggar and an imbe- 
 cile she accompanies him in his wanderings, 
 caring tenderly for him and ever on the watch 
 to prevent him from succumbing to his ruling 
 passion. They fall into the hands of various 
 people, among them the Jarleys and their wax- 
 works, by whom Little Nell is engaged to 
 point out the -figures, but always temptation, 
 or the danger of being taken up as vagrants 
 and of separation from her grandfather, keeps 
 them moving on. At last they meet Mr. Mar- 
 307 
 
LITTLE NELL TRENT 
 
 ton, a schoolmaster, to whom Nell confides 
 her story, and he provides them with a pleas- 
 ant home and light employment, which brings 
 them a simple living. But the exposure and 
 privation she has gone through have been too 
 much for the delicate child and she slowly 
 sinks and dies. 
 
 A pretty little girl who begged to be di- 
 rected to a certain street at a considerable 
 distance. . . . 
 
 She put her hand in mine as confidingly as 
 if she had known me from her cradle, and we 
 trudged away together: the little creature ac- 
 commodating her pace to mine, and rather 
 seeming to lead and take care of me than I 
 to be protecting her. I observed that every 
 now and then she stole a curious look at my 
 face as if to make quite sure that I was not 
 deceiving her, and that these glances (very 
 sharp and keen they were too) seemed to in- 
 crease her confidence at every repetition. 
 
 For my part, my curiosity and interest were 
 at least equal to the child's, for child she cer- 
 tainly was, although I thought it probable 
 from what I could make out, that her very 
 small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar 
 youthfulness to her appearance. Though 
 more scantily attired than she might have 
 been she was dressed with perfect neatness, 
 and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect. 
 
 308 
 
LITTLE NELL TRENT 
 
 For she was dead. There, upon her Httle 
 bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was 
 no marvel now. 
 
 She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and 
 calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to 
 look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from 
 the hand of God, and waiting for the breath 
 of life; not one who had lived and suffered 
 death. 
 
 Her couch was dressed with here and there 
 some winter berries and green leaves, gath- 
 ered in a spot she had been used to favour. 
 " When I die, put near me something that has 
 loved the light, and had the sky above it al- 
 ways." Those were her words. 
 
 She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble 
 Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight 
 thing the pressure of a finger would have 
 crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage; 
 and the strong heart of its child-mistress was 
 mute and motionless for ever. 
 
 Where were the traces of her early cares, 
 her sufferings, and fatigues ? All gone. Sor- 
 row was dead indeed in her, but peace and 
 perfect happiness were born ; imagined in her 
 tranquil beauty and profound repose. 
 
 And still her former self lay there, unal- 
 tered in this change. Yes. The old fireside 
 had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had 
 passed like a dream through haunts of misery 
 309 
 
LITTLE NELL TRENT 
 
 and care ; at the door of the poor schoohnaster 
 on the summer evening before the furnace 
 fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bed- 
 side of the dying boy, there had been the 
 same mild loving look. So shall we know the 
 angels in their majesty, after death. . . . 
 She was dead and past all help, or need of 
 it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill 
 with life, even while her own was waning 
 fast — the garden she had tended — the eyes 
 she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of 
 many a thoughtful hour — the paths she had 
 trodden as it were but yesterday — could 
 know her no more. 
 
 She had been dead two days. They were 
 all about her at the time, knowing that the 
 end was drawing on. She died soon after 
 daybreak. They had read and talked to her 
 in the earlier portion of the night, but as the 
 hours crept on, she sank to sleep. They could 
 tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, 
 that they were of her journey ings with the 
 old man; they were of no painful scenes, but 
 of those who had helped and used them kindly, 
 for she often said " God bless you ! " with 
 great fervour. Waking, she never wandered 
 in her mind but once, and that was of beauti- 
 ful music which she said was in the air. God 
 knows. It may have been. 
 
 Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet 
 310 
 
LITTLE NELL TRENT 
 
 sleep, she begged that they would kiss her 
 once again. That done, she turned to the old 
 man with a lovely smile upon her face — such, 
 they said, as they had never seen, and never 
 could forget — and clung with both her arms 
 about his neck. They did not know that she 
 was dead, at first. 
 
 She had spoken very often of the two sis- 
 ters, who, she said, were like dear friends to 
 her. She wished they could be told how much 
 she thought about them, and how she had 
 watched them as they walked together, by the 
 river side at night. She would like to see 
 poor Kit, she had often said of late. She 
 wished there was somebody to take her love 
 to Kit. And even then, she never thought or 
 spoke about him, but with something of her 
 old, clear, merry laugh. 
 
 For the rest, she had never murmured or 
 complained; but, with a quiet mind, and man- 
 ner quite unaltered — save that she every day 
 became more earnest and more grateful to 
 them — faded like the light upon a summer's 
 evening. . . . 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the lesson 
 that such deaths will teach, but let no man 
 reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and 
 is a mighty, universal Truth. When Death 
 strikes down the innocent and young, for 
 every fragile form from which he lets the 
 311 
 
MISS BETSEY TROTWOOD 
 
 panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in 
 shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk 
 the world, and bless it. Of every tear that 
 sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, 
 some good is born, some gentler nature comes. 
 In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright 
 creations that defy his power, and his dark 
 path becomes a way of light to Heaven. 
 The Old Curiosity Shop, ch. i-vi, ix-xii, xiv- 
 xix, xxiv-xxxii, xlii-xlvi, liii-lv„ Ixxi, Ixii. 
 
 Miss Betsey Trotwood, David Copperfield's 
 Great-Aunt. Disappointed that he was not 
 horn a girl, she for years ignored him and his 
 family. David runs away from his uncongen- 
 ial employment in London and iinds her at 
 Dover. She adopts him, calls him Trotwood 
 Copperiield, educates him and articles him to 
 Spenlow & Jorkins. Her dissolute husband 
 returns and blackmails her, her fortune is lost 
 in the wreck of Mr. WickHeld's affairs, but 
 recovered later by Mr. Micawber's exposure 
 of Uriah Heep. Through all this she keeps 
 a stout heart and a stern exterior. Although 
 eccentric in many ways, as shown in her aver- 
 sion to donkeys on the green in front of her 
 house, she is a character of solid worth and 
 sterling goodness, and as years go on she be- 
 comes softer in manner and allows her heart 
 to speak more freely. 
 
 212 
 
MISS BETSEY TROTWOOD 
 
 Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor 
 mother always called her, when she suffi- 
 ciently overcame her dread of this formid- 
 able personage to mention her at all (which 
 was seldom), had been married to a husband 
 younger than herself, who was very hand- 
 some, except in the sense of the homely adage, 
 "handsome is, that handsome does "— for he 
 was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss 
 Betsey, and even of having once, on a dis- 
 puted question of supplies, made some hasty 
 but determined arrangements to throw her out 
 of a two pair of stairs' window. These evi- 
 dences of an incompatibility of temper in- 
 duced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect 
 a separation by mutual consent. He went to 
 India with his capital, and there, according to 
 a wild legend in our family, he was once 
 seen riding an elephant, in company with a 
 Baboon; but I think it must have been a 
 Baboo — or a Begum. Anyhow, from India 
 tidings of his death reached home, within ten 
 years. How they affected my aunt, nobody 
 knew; for immediately upon the separation 
 she took her maiden name again, bought a 
 cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long 
 way off, established herself there as a single 
 woman with one servant, and was understood 
 to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an in- 
 flexible retirement. 
 
 313 
 
MISS BETSEY TROTWOOD 
 
 My father had once been a favourite of 
 hers, I believe ; but she was mortally affronted 
 by his marriage, on the ground that my 
 mother was " a wax doll." She had never 
 seen my mother, but she knew her to be not 
 yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never 
 met again. He was double my mother's age 
 when he married, and of but a delicate con- 
 stitution. He died a year afterwards, and, 
 as I have said, six months before I came into 
 the world. . . . 
 
 My aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but 
 by no means ill-looking. There was an in- 
 flexibility in her face, in her voice, in her 
 gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account 
 for the effect she had made upon a gentle 
 creature like my mother; but her features 
 were rather handsome than otherwise, though 
 unbending and austere. I particularly noticed 
 that she had a very quick, bright eye.. Her 
 hair, which was grey, was arranged in two 
 plain divisions, under what I believe would 
 be called a mob-cap : I mean a cap, much more 
 common then than now, with side-pieces fas- 
 tening under the chin. Her dress was of a 
 lavender colour, and perfectly neat; but scan- 
 tily made, as if she desired to be as little en- 
 cumbered as possible. I remember that I 
 thought it, in form, more like a riding-habit 
 with the superfluous skirt cut off, than any- 
 314 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN 
 
 thing else. She wore at her side a gentle- 
 man's gold watch, if I might judge from its 
 size and make, with an appropriate chain and 
 seals; she had some linen at her throat not 
 unlike a shirt collar and things at her wrists 
 like shirt wrist-bands. 
 David CopperReld, ch. ii, xUi-xv, xvii, xix, 
 
 xxiii-xxv, xxxvii-xl, xliii-xh, xlvi-xlix, 
 
 li-lv, Ivii, lix, Ix, Ixiv. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn, the legal adviser of Sir 
 Leicester Dedlock. He learns the secret of 
 Lady Dedlock and on his informing her of 
 the fact and of his intention to reveal it to 
 Sir Leicester she ilees from her home and 
 dies. Immediately after he is murdered in his 
 own house by Mademoiselle Hortense, who 
 had been in his employ in unearthing Lady 
 Dedlock's past. 
 
 An old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney- 
 at-law, and eke solicitor of the High Court 
 of Chancery, who has the honour of acting 
 as legal adviser of the Dedlocks, and has as 
 many cast-iron boxes in his office with that 
 name outside, as if the present baronet were 
 the coin of the conjuror's trick, and were 
 constantly being juggled through the whole 
 set. . . . 
 
 The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but 
 is reputed to have made good thrift out of 
 315 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN 
 
 aristocratic marriage settlements and aristo- 
 cratic wills, and to be very rich. He is sur- 
 rounded by a mysterious halo of family confi- 
 dences; of which he is known to be the silent 
 depositary. There are noble Mausoleums 
 rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, 
 among the growing timber and the fern, which 
 perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk 
 abroad among men, shut up in the breast of 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called 
 the old school — a phrase generally meaning 
 any school that seems never to have been 
 young — and wears knee breeches tied with 
 ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One pe- 
 culiarity of his black clothes, and of his black 
 stockings, be they silk or worsted, is, that they 
 never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive to any 
 glancing light, his dress is like himself. He 
 never converses, when not professionally con- 
 sulted. He is found sometimes, speechless 
 but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables 
 in great country houses, and near doors of 
 drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashion- 
 able intelligence is eloquent: where everybody 
 knows him, and where half the Peerage stops 
 to say " How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " 
 He receives these salutations with gravity, 
 and buries them along with the rest of his 
 knowledge. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. ii, vii, x-xii, xv, xvi, xxii, 
 316 
 
MR. TURVEYDROP 
 
 xxiv, xxvii, xxix, xxxiii, xxxiv, xxxvi, xl- 
 xliii, xliv, xlvii, xlviii. 
 
 Mr. Turveydrop, the father of Prince Tur- 
 veydrop, who married Caddy Jellyby. He 
 was a very gentlemanly man celebrated almost 
 everywhere for his " deportment " and a great 
 admirer of " The first gentleman in Europe," 
 King George IV. He was a very model of 
 a gentlemanly " do-nothing " — and was al- 
 ways content to live upon his family rather 
 than work himself. 
 
 He was a fat old gentleman with a false 
 complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, and a 
 wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a 
 padded breast to his coat, which only wanted 
 a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. 
 He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got 
 up, and strapped down, as much as he could 
 possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on 
 (puffing his very eyes out o£ their natural 
 shape), and his chin and even his ears so 
 sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must 
 inevitably double up, if it were cast loose. 
 He had, under his arm, a hat of great size and 
 weight, shelving downward from the crown to 
 the brim; and in his hand a pair of white 
 gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood 
 poised on one leg, in a high shouldered, round- 
 elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. 
 317 
 
MR. TURVEYDROP 
 
 He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a 
 snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, 
 he had everything but any touch of nature; 
 he was not like youth, he was not like age, he 
 was like nothing in the world but a model of 
 Deportment. . . . 
 
 He had married a meek little dancing-mis- 
 tress, with a tolerable connection (having 
 never in his life before done anything but de- 
 port himself), and had worked her to death, 
 or had, at the best, suffered her to work her- 
 self to death, to maintain him in thos,e ex- 
 penses which were indispensable to his posi- 
 tion. At once to exhibit his Deportment to 
 the best models, and to keep the best models 
 constantly before himself, he had found it 
 necessary to frequent all public places of fash- 
 ionable and lounging resort; to be seen at 
 Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times ; 
 and to lead an idle life in the very best 
 clothes. To enable him to do this, the affec- 
 tionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and 
 laboured, and would have toiled and laboured 
 to that hour, if her strength had lasted so 
 long. For, the mainspring of the story was, 
 that, in spite of the man's absorbing selfish- 
 ness, his wife (overpowered by his Deport- 
 ment) had, to the last, believed in him, and 
 had, on her death-bed, in the most moving 
 terms, confided him to their son as one who had 
 318 
 
DOLLY VARDEN 
 
 an inextinguishable claim upon him, and 
 whom he could never regard with too much 
 pride and deference. The son, inheriting his 
 mother's belief, and having the Deportment 
 always before him, had lived and grown in 
 the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, 
 worked for his father twelve hours a day, and 
 looked up to him with veneration on the old 
 imaginary pinnacle. 
 
 Bleak House, ch. xiv, xxiii, xxx, xxxviii, I, 
 Ivii. 
 
 Dolly Varden, daughter of Gabriel Far- 
 den, the locksmith, adored by Sim Tapper- 
 tit, and beloved by Joe Willet, who, she finally 
 marries after, by her coquetry, and his fath- 
 er's treatment he had been driven abroad, 
 where he lost an arm "at the defence of the 
 Salwanners in America, where the war is," 
 to the never-dying wonder of his unimagi- 
 native parent. 
 
 As to Dolly, there she was again, the very 
 pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart 
 little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of 
 the same drawn over her head, and upon the 
 top of that hood, a little straw hat trimmed 
 with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the 
 merest trifle on one side — just enough in 
 short to make it the wickedest and most pro- 
 voking head-dress that ever malicious mil- 
 319 
 
DOLLY VARDEN 
 
 liner devised. And not to speak of the man- 
 ner in which these cherry-coloured decora- 
 tions brightened her eyes, or vied with her 
 lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she 
 wore such a cruel little muff, and such a heart- 
 rending pair of shoes, and was surrounded and 
 hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations. . . . 
 When and where was there ever such a 
 plump, roguish, comely, bright-eyed, entic- 
 ing, bewitching, captivating, maddening little 
 puss in all this world, as Dolly ! What was 
 the Dolly of five years ago, to the Dolly of 
 that day ! How many coach-makers, saddlers, 
 cabinet-makers, and professors of other useful 
 arts, had deserted their fathers, mothers, sis- 
 ters, brothers, and, most of all, their cousins, 
 for the love of her ! How many unknown 
 gentlemen — supposed to be of mighty for- 
 tunes, if not titles — had waited round the 
 corner after dark, and tempted Miggs the in- 
 corruptible, with golden guineas, to deliver 
 offers of marriage folded up in love-letters ! 
 How many disconsolate fathers and substan- 
 tial tradesmen had waited on the locksmith 
 for the same purpose, with dismal tales of 
 how their sons had lost their appetites, and 
 taken to shut themselves up in dark bedrooms, 
 and wandering in desolate suburbs with pale 
 faces, and all because of Dolly Varden's love- 
 liness and cruelty ! How many young men, 
 320 
 
DOLLY VARDEN 
 
 in all previous times of unprecedented steadi- 
 ness, had turned suddenly wild and wicked 
 for the same reason, and, in an ecstasy of 
 unrequited love, taken to wrench off door- 
 knockers, and invert the boxes of rheumatic 
 watchmen ! How had she recruited the king's 
 service, both by sea and land, through ren- 
 dering desperate his loving subjects between 
 the ages of eighteen and twenty-five! How 
 many young ladies had publicly professed, 
 with tears in their eyes, that for their tastes 
 she was much too short, too tall, too bold, too 
 cold, too stout, too thin, too fair, too dark — 
 too everything but handsome ! How many old 
 ladies, taking counsel together, had thanked 
 Heaven their daughters were not like her, and 
 had hoped she might come to no harm, 
 and had thought she would come to no good, 
 and had wondered what people saw in her, 
 and had arrived at the conclusion that she 
 was " going off " in her looks, or had never 
 come on in them, and that she was a thorough 
 imposition and a popular mistake ! 
 
 And yet here was this same Dolly Varden, 
 so whimsical and hard to please that she was 
 Dolly Varden still, a.l smiles and dimples 
 and pleasant looks, and caring no more for 
 the fifty or sixty young fellows who at that 
 very moment were breaking their hearts to 
 marry her, than if so many oysters had been 
 crossed in love and opened afterwards. 
 321 
 
GABRIEL VARDEN 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. iv, xiii, xix-xxii, xxvii, 
 xxxi, lix, Ixx, Ixxi. 
 
 Gabriel Varden, Dolly Varden*s father, a 
 frank, honest, hearty locksmith in charity 
 with all mankind. 
 
 A round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a 
 double chin, and a voice husky with good liv- 
 ing, good sleeping, good humour, and good 
 health. He was past the prime of life, but 
 Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, 
 though he tarries for none of his children, 
 often lays his hand lightly upon those who 
 have used him well; making them old men 
 and women inexorably enough, but leaving 
 their hearts and spirits young and in full 
 vigour. With such people the grey head is 
 but the impression of the old fellow's hand in 
 giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle 
 but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well- 
 spent life. [He was] bluff, hale, hearty, and 
 in a green old age : at peace with himself, and 
 evidently disposed to be so with all the world. 
 Although muffled up in divers coats and hand- 
 kerchiefs — one of which, passed over his 
 crown and tied in a convenient crease of his 
 double chin, secured his three-cornered hat 
 and bob-wig from blowing off his head — 
 there was no disguising his plump and com- 
 fortable figure; neither did certain dirty fin- 
 322 
 
MRS. VARDEN 
 
 ger-marks upon his face give it any other than 
 an odd and comical expression, through which 
 its natural good humour shone with undimin- 
 ished lustre. 
 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. ii-vii, xiii, xiv, xix, xxi, 
 xxii, xxvi, xxvii, xli, xliii, U, Ixiii, Ixiv, 
 Ixxi, Ixxii, Ixxiv, Ixxvi, Ixxix, Ixxx, Ixxxii. 
 
 Mrs. Varden, wife of Gabriel Varden and 
 mother of Dolly, 
 
 Mrs. Varden was a lady of what is com- 
 monly called an uncertain temper — a phrase 
 which being interpreted signifies a temper tol- 
 erably certain to make everybody more or less 
 uncomfortable. Thus it generally happened, 
 that when other people were merry, Mrs. Var- 
 den was dull ; and that when other people were 
 dull, Miss Warden was disposed to be amaz- 
 ingly cheerful. Indeed the worthy house-wife 
 was of such a capricious nature, that she not 
 only attained a higher pitch of genius than 
 Macbeth, in respect of her ability to be wise, 
 amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neu- 
 tral in an instant, but would sometimes ring the 
 changes backwards and forwards on all possible 
 moods and flights in one short quarter of an 
 hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple 
 bob major on the peal of instruments in the fe- 
 male belfry, with a skilfulness and rapidity of 
 execution that astonished all who heard her. 
 32Z 
 
MR. VHOLES 
 
 It had been observed in this good lady (who 
 did not want for personal attractions, being 
 plump and buxom to look at, though like her 
 fair daughter, somewhat short in stature) 
 that this uncertainty of disposition strength- 
 ened and increased with her temporal pros- 
 perity; and divers wise men and matrons, on 
 friendly terms with the locksmith and his fam- 
 ily, even went so far as to assert, that a 
 tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the 
 world's ladder — such as the breaking of the 
 bank in which her husband kept his money, 
 or some little fall of that kind — would be 
 the making of her, and could hardly fail to 
 render her one of the most agreeable com- 
 panions in existence. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. iv, vii, xiii, xix, xxi, xxii, 
 
 xxvii, xxxvi, xli, xlii, H, Ixxi, Ixxii, Ixxx, 
 
 Ixxxii. 
 
 Mr. Vholes, the solicitor chosen by Rich- 
 ard Carstone to represent his cause in the case 
 of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce, a man who is al- 
 ways '' putting his shoulder to the wheel " with 
 but little result — except that of pocketing his 
 fees. He has "an inward manner of speech 
 and a bloodless quietude.'* 
 
 A sallow man with pinched lips that looked 
 as if they were cold, a red eruption here and 
 there upon his face, tall and thin, about fifty 
 324 
 
MR. VHOLES 
 
 years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. 
 Dressed in black, black-gloved, and buttoned 
 to the chin, there was nothing so remarkable 
 in him as a lifeless manner, and a slow fixed 
 way he had of looking. . . . 
 
 Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man 
 of so much respectability ought to be, takes 
 off his close black gloves as if he were skin- 
 ning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if 
 he were scalping himself, and sits down at his 
 desk. The client throws his hat and gloves 
 upon the ground — tosses them anywhere, 
 without looking after them or caring where 
 they go ; flings himself into a chair, half sigh- 
 ing and half groaning; rests his aching head 
 upon his hand, and looks the portrait of 
 Young Despair. . . . 
 
 Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He 
 has not a large business, but he is a very 
 respectable man. He is allowed by the 
 greater attorneys who have made good for- 
 tunes, or are making them, to be a most re- 
 spectable man. He never misses a chance in 
 his practice; which is a mark of respectabil- 
 ity. He never takes any pleasure; which is 
 another mark of respectability. He is re- 
 served and serious; which is another mark of 
 respectability. His digestion is impaired, 
 which is highly respectable. And he is mak- 
 ing hay of the grass which is flesh, for his 
 325 
 
MISS WADE 
 
 three daughters. And his father is dependent 
 on him in the Vale of Taunton. . . . 
 Bleak House, ch. xxxvii, xxxix, xlv, li, Ixi, 
 Ixii, Ixv. 
 
 Miss Wade, a woman of a sullen and un- 
 governable temper, full of fancied wrongs, 
 and a confirmed self-tormentor. Deceived by 
 the man she loved, she became incurably 
 soured. Rigand employed her in some of his 
 rascally schemes and she induced Tatty- 
 coram to leave her friends — the M eagles' s. 
 But she repented and returned to them. 
 
 The shadow in which she sat, falling like 
 a gloomy veil across her forehead, accorded 
 very well with the character of her beauty. 
 One could hardly see the face, so still and 
 scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows, 
 and the folds of dark hair, without wonder- 
 ing what its expression would be if a change 
 came over it. That it could soften or re- 
 lent, appeared next to impossible. That it 
 could deepen into anger or any extreme of 
 defiance, and that it must change in that di- 
 rection when it changed at all, would have 
 been its peculiar impression upon most ob- 
 servers. It was dressed and trimmed into no 
 ceremony of expression. Although not an 
 open face, there was no pretence in it. I 
 am self-contained and self-reliant; your opin- 
 326 
 
TONY WELLER 
 
 ion is nothing to me; I have no interest in 
 you, care nothing for you, and see and hear 
 you with indifference. This it said plainly. 
 It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted nos- 
 tril, in the handsome, but compressed and 
 even cruel mouth. Cover either two of those 
 channels of expression, and the third would 
 have said so still. Mask them all, and the 
 mere turn of the head would have shown an 
 unsubduable nature. 
 
 Little Dorrit, Book I, ch. ii, xvi, xxvii, xxviii; 
 Book II, ch. ix, X, XX, xxi, xxxiii. 
 
 Tony Weller, father of Samuel Weller, 
 who was inveigled into marriage by a buxom 
 widow who keeps the Marquis of Granby pub- 
 lic house. Hence his advice to his son to 
 " beware of vidders." He was a true type of 
 the stage coachman that nourished in England 
 in pre-railway days. 
 
 In a small room in the vicinity of the stable- 
 yard ... sat Mr. Weller senior, prepar- 
 ing himself for his journey to London. He 
 was sitting in an excellent attitude for having 
 his portrait taken; and here it is. 
 
 It is very possible that at some earlier 
 period of his career, Mr. Weller's profile might 
 have presented a bold, and determined outline. 
 His face, however, had expanded under the 
 influence of good living, and a disposition re- 
 Z^7 
 
TONY WELL^iR 
 
 markable for resignation; aid its bold fleshy 
 curves had so far extended beyond the limits 
 originally assigned them, that unless you took 
 a full view of his countenance in front, it 
 was difficult to distinguish more than the ex- 
 treme tip of a very rubicund nose. His chin, 
 from the same cause, had acquired the grave 
 and imposing form which is generally de- 
 scribed by prefixing the word " double " to that 
 expressive feature, and his complexion ex- 
 hibited that peculiarly mottled combination of 
 colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen 
 of his profession, and underdone roast beef. 
 Round his neck he wore a crimson travelling 
 shawl, which merged into his chin by such 
 imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult 
 to distinguish the folds of the one, from the 
 folds of the other. Over this, he mounted 
 a long waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pat- 
 tern, and over that again, a wide-skirted green 
 coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, 
 whereof the two which garnished the waist, 
 were so far apart, that no man had ever be- 
 held them both, at the same time. His hair, 
 which was short, sleek, and black, was just 
 visible beneath the capacious brim of a low- 
 crowned brown hat. His legs were encased 
 in knee-cord breeches, and painted top-boots: 
 and a copper watch-chain terminating in one 
 seal, and a key of the same material, dangled 
 loosely from his capacious waist-band. 
 328 
 
MR. JOHN WEMMICK 
 
 Pickwick Papers, ch. xx, xxii, xxiii, xxvi, 
 xxxiii, xxxiv, xliii, xlv, Hi, Iv, Ivi. 
 
 Mr. John Wemmick, the conMential clerk 
 of the criminal lawyer Mr. Jaggers. His 
 main idea is the securing and taking care of 
 ''portable property/* Beneath a hard and 
 ainty exterior he is the kindest of men at 
 heart, devoting himself to the comfort of his 
 venerable father, and indulging in many pleas- 
 antries and playful ways of which his ap- 
 parently improptu marriage with Miss Skif- 
 Uns may be cited as an example. He helped 
 and befriended Pip in many ways. 
 
 A dry man, rather short in stature, with a 
 square wooden face, whose expression seemed 
 to have been imperfectly chipped out with a 
 dull-edged chisel. There were some marks in 
 it that might have been dimples, if the ma- 
 trial had been softer and the instrument finer, 
 but which, as it was, were only dints. The 
 chisel had made three or four of these at- 
 tempts at embellishment over his nose, but 
 had given them up without an effort to smooth 
 them off. I judged him to be a bachelor from 
 the frayed condition of his linen, and he ap- 
 peared to have sustained a good many bereave- 
 ments; for he wore at least four mourning 
 rings, besides a brooch representing a lady and 
 a weeping willow at a tomb with an urn on 
 329 
 
AGNES WICKFIELD 
 
 it. I noticed, too, that several rings and seals 
 hung at his watch chain, as if he were quite 
 laden with remembrances of departed friends. 
 He had glittering eyes — small, keen, and 
 black — and thin wide mottled lips. He had 
 had them, to the best of my belief, from forty 
 to fifty years. 
 
 Great Expectations, ch. xx, xxi, xxiv-xxvi, 
 xxxii, xxxvi, xxxvU, xlv, xlviii, U, Iv. 
 
 Agnes Wickfield, Mr. WickReld's daughter 
 and housekeeper. The lifelong friend and 
 faithful advisor of Copperiield, whose second 
 wife she becomes after the death of Dora. 
 
 Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner 
 of the panelled wall, and a girl of about my 
 own age came quickly out and kissed him. 
 On her face, I saw immediately the placid and 
 sweet expression of the lady whose picture 
 had looked at me down-stairs. It seemed to 
 my imagination as if the portrait had grown 
 womanly, and the original remained a child. 
 Although her face was quite bright and happy, 
 there was a tranquillity about it, and about 
 her — a quiet, good, calm spirit — that I never 
 have forgotten; that I never shall forget. 
 
 This was his little housekeeper, his daughter 
 Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said. When I heard 
 how he said it, and saw how he held her hand, 
 330 
 
AGNES WICKFIELD 
 
 I guessed what the one motive of his life 
 was. 
 
 She had a Httle basket-trifle hanging at her 
 side, with keys in it; and looked as staid and 
 as discreet a housekeeper as the old house 
 could have. She listened to her father as he 
 told her about me, with a pleasant face; and 
 when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt 
 that we should go up-stairs and see my room. 
 We all went together, she before us: and a 
 glorious old room it was, with more oak 
 beams, and diamond panes; and the broad 
 balustrade going all the way up to it. 
 
 I cannot call to mind where or when, in my 
 childhood, I had seen a stained-glass window 
 in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. 
 But I know that when I saw her turn round, 
 in the grave light of the old staircase, and 
 wait for us, above, I thought of that window; 
 and that I associated something of its tran- 
 quil brightness with Agnes Wickfield ever 
 afterwards. . . . 
 
 We stood together in the same old-fashioned 
 window at night, when the moon was shin- 
 ing; Agnes with her quiet eyes raised up to 
 it ; I followed her glance. Long miles of road 
 then opened out before my mind; and, toiling 
 on, I saw a ragged wayworn boy forsaken and 
 neglected, who should come to call even the 
 heart now beating against mine, his own. 
 331 
 
MR. WICKFIELD 
 
 David Copperfield, ch. xv-xix, xxiv, xxxiv, 
 XXXV, xxxix, xlii, xliii, Uii-liv, Ivii, Iviii, Ix, 
 Ixii-lxiv. 
 
 , Mr. Wickfield, a Canterbury lawyer, Miss 
 Trotwood's agent and friend. The father of 
 Agnes — David Copperdeld's second wife. 
 His clerk and partner, Uriah Heep, nearly 
 ruined him, taking advantage of his absorp- 
 tion in grief for the loss of his wife, and 
 his over-addiction to the wine-bottle, but 
 Micawber, whom he tried to make his ac- 
 complice, exposed Heep, and saved the repu- 
 tation and the life of Mr. WickHeld. 
 
 His hair was quite white, though his eye- 
 brows were still black. He had a very agree- 
 able face, and, I thought, was handsome. 
 There was a certain richness in his complex- 
 ion, which I had been long accustomed, under 
 Peggotty's tuition, to connect with port wine; 
 and I fancied it was in his voice too, and 
 referred his growing corpulency to the same 
 cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue 
 coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen trousers ; 
 and his fine frilled shirt and cambric neck- 
 cloth looked unusually soft and white, remind- 
 ing my strolling fancy (I call to mind) of the 
 plumage on the breast of a swan. . . . 
 
 I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. 
 I was prepared for a great change in him, 
 332 
 
JOHN WILLET 
 
 after what I had heard from Agnes, but his 
 appearance shocked me. 
 
 It was not that he looked many years older, 
 though still dressed with the old scrupulous 
 cleanliness ; or that there was an unwholesome 
 ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were 
 full and bloodshot; or that there was a nerv- 
 ous trembling in his hand, the cause of which 
 I knew, and had for some years seen at work. 
 It was not that he had lost his good looks, 
 or his old bearing of a gentleman — for that 
 he had not — but the thing that struck me 
 most was, that with the evidences of his na- 
 tive superiority still upon him, he should sub- 
 mit himself to that crawling impersonation 
 of meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of 
 the two natures, in their relative positions, 
 Uriah's of power, and Mr. Wickfield's of 
 dependence, was a sight more painful to me 
 than I can express. If I had seen an Ape 
 taking command of a Man, I should hardly 
 have thought it a more degrading spectacle. 
 He appeared to be only too conscious of him- 
 self. When he came in, he stood still; and 
 with his head bowed, as if he felt it. 
 David Copperiield, ch. xv, xvii, xix, xxxv, 
 
 xxxix, xlii, liii, liv, Ix. 
 
 John Willet, landlord of the Maypole Inn 
 at Chigwell, father of Joe, whom he treated as 
 333 
 
JOHN WILLET 
 
 a boy when he grew up to he a young man. 
 Bullied, badgered, worried, fretted and brow- 
 beaten and with no encouragement from Dolly 
 Varden he runs away and joins the army los- 
 ing an arm at the siege of Savannah. John 
 welcomes his son back again and never speaks 
 of him without a proud allusion to his lost 
 arm. 
 
 A burly, large-headed man with a fat face, 
 which betokened profound obstinacy and slow- 
 ness of apprehension, combined with a very 
 strong reliance upon his own merits. It was 
 John Willet's ordinary boast in his more placid 
 moods that if he were slow he was sure; 
 which assertion could in one sense at least be 
 by no means gainsaid, seeing that he was in 
 everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, 
 and withal one of the most dogged and posi- 
 tive fellows in existence — always sure that 
 what he thought or said or did was right, and 
 holding it as a thing quite settled and or- 
 dained by the laws of nature and Providence, 
 that anybody who said or did or thought other- 
 wise must be inevitably and of necessity 
 wrong. 
 Barnaby Rudge, ch. i-iii, x-xiv, xix, xx, xxiv, 
 
 xxix, xxxiii-xxxv, liv-lvi, Ixxii, Ixxviii, 
 
 Ixxxii. 
 
 334 
 
MR. WOPSLE'S GREAT AUNT 
 
 Mr. Wopsle, parish clerk, a friend of Mrs. 
 Joe Gargery. He afterwards became an actor 
 under the name of Mr. Waldengarver. 
 
 Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and 
 a large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice 
 which he was uncommonly proud of, indeed 
 it was understood among his acquaintance that 
 if you could only give him his head, he would 
 read the clergyman into fits; he himself con- 
 fessed that if the Church was " thrown open," 
 meaning to competition, he would not despair 
 of making his mark in it. The Church not 
 being " thrown open," he was, as I have said, 
 our clerk. But he punished the Amens tre- 
 mendously; and when he gave out the psalm 
 — always giving the whole verse — he looked 
 all around the congregation first, as much as 
 to say, " You have heard our friend overhead ; 
 oblige me with your opinion of this style ! " 
 . . . Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical 
 declamation — as it now appears to me, some- 
 thing like a religious cross of th^ Ghost in 
 Hamlet with Richard the Third — and ended 
 with the very proper aspiration that we might 
 be truly grateful. 
 Great Expectations, ch. iv-vii, x, xiii, xv, xxxi, 
 
 xlviU. 
 
 Mr. Wopsle's Great Aunt, kept a dame's 
 school at which Pip received his first rudi 
 ments of education. 
 
 335 
 
MR. WOPSLE'S GREAT AUNT 
 
 She was a ridiculous old woman of limited 
 means and unlimited infirmity, who used to 
 go to sleep from six to seven every evening, 
 in the society of youth who paid twopence per 
 week each, for the improving opportunity of 
 seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage, 
 and Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs^ where 
 we students used to overhear him reading 
 aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, 
 and occasionally bumping on the ceiling. 
 There was a fiction that Mr. Wopsle " exam- 
 ined" the scholars once a quarter. What he 
 did on those occasions was to turn up his 
 cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark 
 Antony's oration over the body of Caesar. 
 This was always followed by Collins's Ode 
 on the Passions, wherein I particularly ven- 
 erated Mr. Wopsle as Revenge, throwing his 
 blood-stained sword in thunder down, and tak- 
 ing the War-denouncing trumpet with a with- 
 ering look. It was not with me then, as it 
 was in later life, when I fell into the society of 
 the Passions, and compared them with Collins 
 and Wopsle, rather to the disadvantage of 
 both gentlemen. 
 
 Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt, besides keeping 
 this Educational Institution, kept in the same 
 room — a little general shop. She had no 
 idea what stock she had, or what the price of 
 anything in it was; but there was a little 
 336 
 
MR. WOPSLE'S GREAT AUNT 
 
 greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer, 
 which served as a Catalogue of Prices, and by 
 this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop trans- 
 actions. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's 
 granddaughter. . . . 
 
 Much of my unassisted self, and more by the 
 help of Biddy than of Mr. Wopsle's great- 
 aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if 
 it had been a bramble-bush; getting consider- 
 ably worried and scratched by every letter. 
 After that, I fell among those thieves, the 
 nine figures, who seemed every evening to do 
 something new to disguise themselves and 
 baffle recognition. But, at last I began, in 
 a purblind groping way, to read, write, and 
 cipher, on the very smallest scale. . . . 
 
 The Educational scheme or Course estab- 
 lished by Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt may be 
 resolved into the following synopsis. The 
 pupils ate apples and put straws down one 
 another's backs, until Mr. Wopsle's great- 
 aunt collected her energies, and made an in- 
 discriminate totter at them with a birch-rod. 
 After receiving the charge with every mark 
 of derision, the pupils formed in line and buz- 
 zingly passed a ragged book from hand to 
 hand. The book had an alphabet in it, some 
 figures and tables, and a little spelling — 
 that is to say, it had had once. As soon as 
 this volume began to circulate, Mr. Wopsle's 
 
MR. WOPSLE'S GREAT AUNT 
 
 great-aunt fell into a state of coma; arising 
 either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. 
 The pupils then entered among themselves 
 upon a competitive examination on the sub- 
 ject of Boots, with the view of ascertaining 
 who could tread the hardest upon whose toes. 
 This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made 
 a rush at them and distributed three' defaced 
 Bibles (shaped as if they had been unskil- 
 fully cut off the chump-end of something), 
 more illegibly printed at the best than any 
 curiosities of literature I have since met with, 
 speckled all over with ironmould, and having 
 various specimens of the insect world smashed 
 between their leaves. This part of the Course 
 was usually lightened by several single com- 
 bats between Biddy and refractory students. 
 When the fights were over, Biddy gave out the 
 number of a page, and then we all read aloud 
 what we could — or what we couldn't — in a 
 frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high 
 shrill monotonous voice, and none of us hav- 
 ing the least notion of, or reverence for, what 
 we were reading abotu. When this horrible 
 din had lasted a certain time, it mechanically 
 awoke Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt, who staggered 
 at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. 
 This was understood to terminate the Course 
 for the evening, and we emerged into the air 
 with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair 
 338 
 
MR. WOPSLE'S GREAT AUNT 
 
 to remark that there was no prohibition 
 against any pupil's entertaining himself with 
 a slate or even with the ink (when there was 
 any), but that it was not easy to pursue that 
 branch of study in the winter season, on ac- 
 count of the little general shop in which the 
 classes were holden — and which was also Mr. 
 Wopsle's great-aunt's sitting-room and bed- 
 chamber — being but faintly illuminated 
 through the agency of one low-spirited dip- 
 candle and no snuffers. 
 Great Expectations, ch. vii. 
 
 339 
 
OCCUPATIONS AND CONDITION OF LIFE 
 OF THE CHARACTERS PORTRAYED. 
 
 Note. This can only he considered an at- 
 tempted classification; for the subjects often play 
 so many parts, and appear in so many different 
 roles ^ as to defy complete treatment of this kind: 
 — others again are so nondescript that they can 
 only find a place in "Miscellaneous" or as '" Odd 
 Characters and Queer Folk." Enough however 
 will he found here to indicate the marvellous va- 
 riety and distinctiveness of the personages who 
 crowd the pages of the works of Dickens. 
 
 Actor PAGE 
 
 WopsLE, Mr 335 
 
 Adventurers 
 
 Chollop, Major H -47 
 
 Jingle, A 171 
 
 TiGG, Montague 293 
 
 Advertisement Writer 
 
 Slum, Mr 264 
 
 Apprentice 
 
 Tappertit, Sim 288 
 
 Architects and Surveyors 
 
 Pecksniff, Seth 216 
 
 Pinch, Tom 225 
 
 Aristocracy, The 
 
 Chester, Edward 40 
 
 Chester, Mr. (Sir John) 41 
 
 Darnay, Charles (St. Evremonde) . 76 
 341 
 
OCCUPATIONS OF 
 
 Aristocracy — Continued. page 
 
 Dedlock, Lady Honoria 83 
 
 Dedlock, Sir Leicester 86 
 
 Gordon, Lord George 144 
 
 Skettles, Sir Barnet 259 
 
 Artist 
 
 La Creevy, Miss 177 
 
 Bankers 
 
 Tellson & Co 290 
 
 Bankrupts 
 
 Dorrit, F 112 
 
 DoRRiT, W. , 114 
 
 Beadle, parish 
 
 Bumble, Mr 28 
 
 Blacksmith 
 
 Gargery, Joe 136 
 
 Blue-stocking 
 
 Jellyby, Mrs 169 
 
 Body Snatcher 
 
 Cruncher, Jerry 61 
 
 Carrier (Expressman) 
 
 Barkis, Mr . 4 
 
 Children and Child Life 
 
 Dombey, Florence 105 
 
 DoMBEY, Paul . 106 
 
 Dorrit, Little ... 108 
 
 Emily, Little 120 
 
 Clerical Profession, The 
 
 Chadband, The Rev, Mr. . . .' . . 38 
 
 Stiggins, The Rev. Mr. . . . . 276 
 
 Clerks 
 
 Chuffey, Mr 49 
 
 Carker, James 63 
 
 Carker, John 67 
 
 Heep, Uriah 158 
 
 342 
 
THE CHARACTERS 
 
 Clerks — Continued page 
 
 LiNKINWATER, TiM I78 
 
 Lorry, Mr. Jarvis i8i 
 
 MiCAWBER, W 194 
 
 NoGGS, Newman 212 
 
 PiRSip, Philip . . 228 
 
 Pocket, Herbert 231 
 
 SwiVELLER, Dick 283 
 
 Wemmick, Mr. John 329 
 
 Clerk, Parish 
 
 WopsLE, Mr 335 
 
 Coachman 
 
 Weller, Tony 327 
 
 Companions 
 
 Dartle, Rosa 79 
 
 General, Mrs 141 
 
 Graham, Mary 149 
 
 Murdstone, Miss 206 
 
 Pross, Miss 237 
 
 Cornchandlers 
 
 MiCAWBER, WiLKINS 194 
 
 PUMBLECHOOK, UnCLE 239 
 
 Criminals 
 
 Barsad, John 6 
 
 Chuzzlewit, Jonas 51 
 
 CoMPEYsoN 59 
 
 Crackit, Toby 71 
 
 Dawkins, John 81 
 
 Fagin 124 
 
 Heep, Uriah 158 
 
 LiTTiMER 179 
 
 Magwitch, a. 187 
 
 ^ — 'QuiLP, Daniel 241 
 
 RiGAUD, alias Blandois 244 
 
 RuDGE, Senior 250 
 
 SiKES, Bill 256 
 
 •343 
 
 \ 
 
OCCUPATIONS OF 
 
 Detectives page 
 
 Bucket, Mr. Inspector 26 
 
 Nadgett, Mr 208 
 
 Domestic Servants 
 
 MiGGS, Miss 199 
 
 Molly 200 
 
 PiPCHiN, Mrs , . . 226 
 
 Engineer 
 
 DoYCE, Daniel 17 
 
 Gambler 
 
 Mr. Trent {Little Nell's Grandfather) . 301 
 
 Gentleman's Servant 
 
 LiTTiMER 179 
 
 Governesses 
 
 General, Mrs 141 
 
 Pinch, Ruth 223 
 
 Hangman 
 
 Dennis, Ned 91 
 
 Hostlers 
 
 Hugh {Natural son of Sir John Chester) 160 
 
 Tapley, Mark 285 
 
 Housekeepers 
 
 Molly 200 
 
 PiPCHiN, Mrs 226 
 
 Pross, Miss 237 
 
 WiCKFiELD, Agnes 330 
 
 Inn-Keepers 
 
 Lupin, Mrs 183 
 
 WiLLET, John 3:^3 
 
 Inventor 
 
 DoYCE, Daniel 117 
 
 Journalists 
 
 Brick, Mr. Jefferson 25 
 
 Diver, Colonel 98 
 
 PoTT, Mr 236 
 
 Slurk, Mr 265 
 
 344 
 
THE CHARACTERS 
 
 Landlady page 
 
 Bardell, Mrs. Martha 3 
 
 Landlord 
 
 Casby, Christopher 35 
 
 Legal Profession 
 
 .--^rass, Sally {Lawyer's Clerk) ... 20 
 
 ^--/ Brass, Sampson {Attorney) . . . . 23 
 
 'Carton, Sydney {Lawyer's Devil) . . 32 
 
 Jaggers, Mr. {Criminal Lawyer) . . . 162 
 
 JoRKiNS, Mr. {Proctor) 176 
 
 Pell, Mr. Solomon {Attorney) . . . 220 
 Snubbin, Sergeant {Counsel) . . . 271 
 Spenlow, Mr. F. {Proctor) . . . .273 
 
 Stareleigh, Mr. Justice 275 
 
 Stryver, Mr. {Barrister) 281 
 
 Traddles, Thomas {Judge) .... 299 
 Tulkinghorn, Mr. {Lawyer) . . . 315 
 
 Vholes, Mr. {Solicitor) 324 
 
 WiCKFiELD, Mr. {Country Lawyer) . . 332 
 
 Locksmiths 
 
 DoYCE, Daniel 117 
 
 Varden, Gabriel 322 
 
 Lunatics 
 
 i^ABLEY, Richard " Mr. Dick "... 94 
 
 Havisham, Miss 156 
 
 Rudge, Barnaby 247 
 
 Manicurist 
 
 MowcHER, Miss 202 
 
 Manufacturer 
 
 Bounderby, Josiah 16 
 
 Medical Profession, The 
 
 Allen, Benjamin i 
 
 Chillip, Dr 70 
 
 Manette, Dr. A . . 188 
 
 Sawyer, Bob 255 
 
 Slammer, Dr 263 
 
 345 
 
OCCUPATIONS OF 
 
 Member of Congress page 
 
 PoGRAM, The Hon. Elijah . . . . 235 
 
 Member of Parliament 
 
 Skettles, Sir Barnet 259 
 
 Merchants 
 
 Cheeryble Bros 68 
 
 DoMBEv & Son 100 
 
 Flintwinch, Jeremiah , . 131 
 
 Gradgrind, Thomas 147 
 
 MuRDSTONE, Mr 204 
 
 Pocket, Herbert 231 
 
 Messenger 
 
 Cruncher, Jerry 61 
 
 Military Profession 
 
 Bagstock, Major J 2 
 
 Chollop, Major Hannibal .... 47 
 
 Miscellaneous Characters 
 
 Beadle, Harriet 9 
 
 Bevan, Mr 10 
 
 Boythorn, Lawrence 18 
 
 Chivery, John 44 
 
 Chollop, Major H 47 
 
 Chuzzlewit, M. {the Elder) .... 52 
 
 Clenman, Mrs 57 
 
 Defarge, E 87 
 
 Defarge, T 88 
 
 Dombey, Mrs. E 103 
 
 Gargery, Mrs. Jo 138 
 
 Gum midge, Mrs 154 
 
 Havisham, Miss 156 
 
 Jarndyce, John 167 
 
 Little Emily 120 
 
 Meagles, Minnie 192 
 
 Nubbles, Chustopher 215 
 
 Rudge, Mrs 253 
 
 "Tattycoram" (See Beadle, H.) . . 9 
 
 Tox, Miss Lucretia 295 
 
 346 
 
THE CHARACTERS 
 
 Miscellaneous Characters — Continued. page 
 
 Trent, Little Nell 307 
 
 Varden, Dolly 319 
 
 Varden, Mrs 323 
 
 WiCKFiELD, Agnes 330 
 
 Musician 
 
 DORRIT, F 112 
 
 Nautical Instrument Seller 
 
 Gills, Solomon 143 
 
 Nurse 
 
 Gamp, Sairey 134 
 
 Odd Characters and Queer Folk 
 
 Babley, Richard (Mr. Dick) ... 94 
 
 Jingle, Alfred 171 
 
 FiNCHiNG Flora 129 
 
 Flite Miss 132 
 
 Grimwig, Mr 153 
 
 Maggy 185 
 
 Micawber, W 194 
 
 Mowcher, Miss 202 
 
 Mr. F's Aunt 123 
 
 Pickwick, Samuel 221 v 
 
 RuDGE, Barnaby 247 X^ 
 
 Skimpole, Harold 261 
 
 Slyme, Chevy 267 
 
 Smike 268 
 
 Trotwood, Miss Betsey 312 
 
 Turveydrop, Mr 317 
 
 Wade, Miss 326 
 
 Sailors, etc. 
 
 BuNSBY, Capt. Jack 31 
 
 Cuttle, Capt. Edward 74 
 
 Peggotty Ham 220 
 
 Schools, Scholars, Schoolmasters, etc., etc. 
 
 Bitzer 12 
 
 Blimber, Dr 14 
 
 347 
 
OCCUPATIONS 
 
 Schools, etc. — Continued. page 
 
 Creakle, Mr 72 
 
 Darnay, Charles 76 
 
 Feeder, Mr., B. A 127 
 
 McChoakumchild, Mr 184 
 
 Pocket, M 234 
 
 Squeers, Wackford 274 
 
 Strong, Dr 278 
 
 Wopsle, Mr.'s Great Aunt .... 335 
 
 Secretary 
 
 Gashford 139 
 
 Spy 
 
 Barsad, John 6 
 
 Street-crossing Sweeper 
 
 Jo, alias " Toughey " 173 
 
 Theatrical Professsion, Shows, etc. 
 
 Jarley, Mrs 164 
 
 Wopsle, Mr. . 335 
 
 Undertaker 
 
 Trabb, Mr 297 
 
 Usurers 
 
 Gride, Arthur 151 
 
 NiCKLEBY, R. . 210 
 
otc ae^^so"?